“I just wanted you to know I’m taking a vacation and won’t be able to do any typing for about ten days. Do you want me to find a substitute?”
“No need. If there’s anything urgent, I’ll handle it myself. Everything else can wait till you get back. Where are you going?”
“I’m flying Down Below so the baby can meet his two sets of grandparents.
They’ve never seen him. Nick will drive down later to pick us up, and we’ll do some camping on the way home.”
“Isn’t the baby rather young for tents and ants and canned beans?”
Lori laughed. “We have an RV-not a big one-just enough for camping in comfort.
You can borrow it if you ever want to go camping with Koko and Yum Yum.”
“I appreciate the offer, and I’ll mention it to them, but I don’t think they’d care for roughing it.” Koko knew he was being discussed and started pushing the receiver away from Qwilleran’s ear. “Have a good trip, Lori, and let me speak to Nick again.”
Koko lost interest when Lori’s husband came on the line.
Qwilleran said, “You’ve heard-the news about Clem Cot-tie?”
“I couldn’t believe it!” said Nick. “What do you think happened?’”
“Nobody knows. He built my steps to the beach, and I was grateful to you for recommending him. Then he started on my new addition. Did he play ball on the Fourth of July?”
“No, now that you mention it. The Roosters lost to us, twelve to three. He’s their best pitcher.”
“It appears that he hasn’t been seen since he left my place Thursday night. Of course, we don’t know what the police have found, if anything. Let me know if you hear.” Nick’s status at the state prison made him a good source of scuttlebutt. “And thank you again, Nick, for telling me about the tree.”
Qwilleran lost no time in calling Glinko. “Please dispatch a crew to remove a fallen tree,” he requested. “It’s a big one, blocking my driveway.”
“Ha ha ha! That’ll keep you home tonight,” said the cheerful Mrs. Glinko. “What d’you want “em to do with it? Chop it up for firewood? That’ll cost extra.”
“Tell them to take it away,” Qwilleran said. “Immediately.”
Fallen trees, vanishing builders, raccoons in the chimney, leaking sinks, birds”
nests in the vents, spider bites on the seat! He was beginning to yearn for his dull apartment in Pickax.
The next morning he walked down the long drive to the highway and was pleased to see that the Glinko crew had spirited away the fallen tree. He drove into town for breakfast and bought a large letter K at the hardware store.
The hardware merchant said, “I read in the paper about Clem Cottle. They said he was last seen building something for you.”
“That’s true. You can’t believe everything you read in the paper, but they get some of it right.”
“He was engaged to marry one of the Wimsey girls, you know. I can’t imagine what happened.”
“The police are investigating, Cecil. They probably know more than they’re telling.”
The hardware man frowned. “It makes me wonder if it’s connected with that big fire on Doug Cottle’s farm.”
“In what way?”
“I haven’t figured it out yet, but it bothers me. The chicken operation was fully insured, I happen to know. Clem and his father weren’t getting along together. My wife got that from her sister; it’s her daughter that was going to marry Clem … I don’t know. I keep trying to put two and two together, and I come up with six-and-a-half. Do you have any theories?”
“Not a one,” said Qwilleran. “I leave police work to the police.”
After nailing the new letter K to the cedar post-with eight hammer strokes for each nail instead of three-he settled down to wait apprehensively for Iggy. Was the man on a binge? Had he found another job that was more congenial? And then the crucial question: Had he suffered the fate of five other carpenters?
Iggy, he reflected, was not a bad fellow. He was skilled in his craft when he chose to work, and he was neither sulky nor fractious nor dishonest-simply lazy and short on common sense, and his personal habits were annoying.
Briefly, Qwilleran considered notifying the sheriffs department about the missing carpenter. They would listen politely, but considering the reputation of underground builders how could they take the report seriously? And how could he identify Iggy? A skinny guy with prominent teeth and a truck that backfired a lot? What was the license number? What, for that matter, was Iggy’s last name?
He had no idea.
Instead, Qwilleran telephoned the Black Bear Cafe” in Brrr and asked Gary Pratt if Iggy had been around.
“Not since I sent him to your place last week,” the barkeeper said. “How’s he doing?”
“When and if he works, he does a good job, but he needs constant prodding and supervision, and I never wanted to be a construction boss. By the way, do you know his last name?”
“Never heard it. And he doesn’t use a credit card,” said Gary with a laugh.
“I don’t suppose you know where he’s living.”
“Sleeps in his truck, the chances are, on some back road.”
“If you see him, Gary, tell him my driveway is clear now. It was blocked by a large tree as a result of the storm, but it’s been trucked away.”
“Sure thing,” said Gary. “When are you coming in? Today’s special is barbecued ribs and pecan pie-my grandma’s recipe.”
“I’ll catch it the next time around,” Qwilleran said.
On a wild hunch he jumped on his trail bike and explored the dirt roads surrounding Mooseville, where Iggy might park his truck and pass out for a couple of days. He even tried the Old Brrr Road where he had spotted Clem’s abandoned pickup. The vehicle with the frantic chicken had been removed, and he saw no sign of Iggy’s truck.
On another wild hunch he stopped at the lumberyard and asked if Iggy had charged any building materials to the Klingenschoen office since Thursday.
Three good-natured brothers ran the lumber business. “Hey, Joe,” said brother Jim, “has old horse-face been in here the last coupla days?”
“Ain’t seen him,” said Joe. “Couldn’t hardly miss that set of teeth.”
“Ain’t heard him either,” said Jack. “Every time his jalopy pulls into the yard, I think we’re being attacked by some nut with an Uzi.”
When Qwilleran arrived at the cabin, there was a car parked in the clearing-a familiar tan four-door-and Roger was prowling around the building site.
“Trespassers will be prosecuted!” Qwilleran called out.
“Hey!” Roger greeted him. “This is the first I’ve seen of your building project.
It’s neat! And you’ve got a new K on the signpost.”
“The old one blew away. I lost a big tree, too.”
“Lucky you’ve got five thousand others.”
“Wait till I put my horse in the stable.”
Qwilleran wheeled his bike into the toolshed and hung it on padded hooks, then conducted Roger through the framework of future rooms. “And this one, with south and west windows, is the cats” apartment. There are times when we all need our privacy. Will you come in for a drink?’”
“I don’t think I should,” Roger said. “I’m on my way to Lockmaster to pick up Mrs. Ascott, and she doesn’t approve of anything stronger than hot water with lemon. She’s got bad eyes but a very good nose, and Mildred doesn’t want us to offend her. You’re attending the meeting tonight, aren’t you?”
“In a weak moment I said I would,” said Qwilleran with a lack of animation.
“How would you like to come along for the ride? It’s an hour’s drive to Lockmaster, and we can stop for dinner on the way down. I know a good place.
Coming back, she’ll sit in the backseat and not say a word. Frankly, she gives me the creeps. So I’d be glad of the company.”