That was all Qwilleran needed to hear: Stop for dinner at a good place.
“I’ll have to shower and feed the cats,” he said. “How much time do we have?”
“We ought to leave by six o’clock.”
“Then would you be good enough to give mem their food?”
“Me! I’ve never fed a cat in my life!” Roger professed to a fear of felines, and he looked about apprehensively as he entered the cabin. “Where are they?”
Qwilleran pointed to Koko on the moosehead and Yum Yum on a crossbeam spanning the dining table.
“I’d feel more comfortable, Qwill, if they were down on the floor. Isn’t that where cats are supposed to hang out?”
“Not Siamese! But I’ll get them down in a hurry. Watch this! … CEREAL!”
Koko thumped from the moosehead to the mantel to the woodbox to the floor, and Yum Yum swooped through the air from the beam to the top of the bar, causing Roger to duck and retreat toward the exit. For their prompt response they were rewarded with a few of Mildred’s tasty crumbles.
“Now here’s a can of salmon,” Qwilleran explained, “and here’s the can opener and a spoon. Just spread it on this plate, mashed up, with the dark skin removed. They don’t like the dark skin.”
“At our house we eat the dark skin-if we’re lucky enough to have canned salmon,”
said Roger. “Hey, it’s red salmon! Mostly we buy tuna, when it’s on sale.”
Qwilleran said, “I notice you’re wearing a coat and tie.”
“Mrs. Ascott doesn’t approve of casual.”
“Okay, I’ll be ready before six. If you want music, put a cassette on the stereo. Koko likes Brahms.”
In the allotted time he emerged-coated, cravatted, and spiffily groomed except for his flamboyant moustache which always looked wayward. “I’ll be glad to drive my car,” he offered.
“Thanks, but Mrs. Ascott will fit better in the backseat of my four-door. She’s rather large.”
“How will she get home?”
“She’ll stay over, and Mildred and Sharon will drive her back in the morning.”
The route to Lockmaster was sixty miles straight down the main highway, and as soon as Roger went into overdrive, Qwilleran asked, “Have the police any leads on Clem Cot-tie’s disappearance?”
“Not that they’re telling.”
“Do you know his father?”
“I’ve met Doug Cottle, but I don’t know him very well.”
“What is he like? He sounded curt when I talked to him on the phone.”
“Oh, he’s curt, all right. Curt is something he does very well. So different from Clem. I guess Clem takes after his mother. She’s nice.”
“Do father and son get along together?”
“Not too good, I hear. He blamed Clem for the fire-something he said Clem did, or didn’t do, in connection with the electrical system.”
“Did the state fire marshal investigate?”
“He didn’t have to. No one was killed, and the fire chief didn’t report any evidence of arson.”
After crossing the Moose County line, the road led into hunting country with its rolling hills, opulent horse farms, and miles of fences dipping and curving across the green terrain. In the landscape and the dwellings there was an air of sophistication that Moose County lacked, and the restaurants were said to be better. Roger pulled into the parking lot of a place called the Palomino Paddock.
When Qwilleran noted the hostess in a long dress and several diners in dinner jackets and a wine steward wearing heavy chains, he began to think he should pick up the check for this meal. When they were seated (with pomp) and the menus were presented (with a flourish), he knew the Palomino Paddock was not for a young man on a tuna-fish budget. “Since you’re driving tonight, Roger, dinner is my treat,” he said.
They started with vichyssoise, and Qwilleran said, “What do you know about Mrs. Ascott?”
“Not much. She and my motherin-law have been good friends for years. Mildred reads the tarot cards, you know, and I guess they have something in common. Did she ever read the cards for you?”
“Once, a couple of years ago. I hate to admit it, but she was right about everything-although I didn’t think so at the time. You said Mrs. Ascott is a big woman?”
“She’s huge! Not fat, just monumental, as Sharon says. There’s something about a huge old woman that’s more formidable than a huge young woman. Her eyes are always half closed, but they’re long! Sharon thinks she uses eye makeup to make her eyes seem longer, like they do in India. She doesn’t talk much in company, just monosyllables in a tiny voice. But when she goes into action and starts predicting the future, she’s frightening. She sounds like a drill sergeant. I wouldn’t mention this to Sharon or Mildred, but sometimes I think she’s really a man.”
Both men had ordered the prime rib, and Qwilleran declared it to be real beef without the hypodermic needle or irradiation or blood transfusion.
“Speaking of Mrs. Ascott,” Roger said, “do you want to hear something weird? ..
. When the baby was born, we asked her to be godmother. She came up here for the christening, and Mildred had a get-together for some friends, with Mrs. Ascott delivering spirit messages. It was spooky. She had a message for Sharon and me from a spirit named Harriet. This Harriet said we should move the baby’s crib to another room. That’s all-just move it to another room.”
“How did you react?”
“I felt like a fool, but Sharon insisted, so we moved the crib from the nursery to our own bedroom, which was pretty crowded. Two nights later … the whole plaster ceiling of the nursery fell down!”
“Did you ever know anyone named Harriet?”
“Sharon never did,” said Roger, “but that was the name of my great-great-grandmother.”
Qwilleran threw a quick, incredulous glance across the dinner table. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“It’s true! Ask Sharon. Ask Mildred.”
Lockmaster had been the home of wealthy lumber barons in the nineteenth century, and their mansions were fanciful examples of Victorian architecture. At one of these, which appeared to be an exclusive boarding house, Qwilleran and Roger picked up Mrs. Ascott. In her long black dress, with black crepe draped over her dyed black hair, she moved slowly and majestically to the waiting car with Roger at her elbow. They wedged her into the backseat with some embarrassment on the part of the men, and a few artfully controlled giggles from Roger. She sat in the center of the seat, staring straight ahead through eyes long and slitted.
“Are you comfortable, Mrs. Ascott?” Qwilleran asked.
“Mmmmm,” she replied.
In the front seat, during the ride back to Mooseville, there were animated discussions about baseball, politics, and the prevalence of violent crime Down Below. Arriving at Mildred’s cottage, the two men eased Mrs. Ascott out of the car and guided her indoors like two harbor tugs maneuvering an ocean-going liner into its berth. There she was greeted with adulation by Mildred and Sharon and ushered to a seat of honor in the middle of the living room sofa-the flowered sofa that Mildred had recently reupholstered with hours of sweat and tears.
Qwilleran thought, I hope she reinforced the springs.
Seated in a half circle, facing the sofa, were the guests, speaking in hushed tones: John and Vicki Bushland, Sue Ur-bank without her husband, the Comptons, and others Qwilleran had not met. It was still daylight, but the traverse draperies had been drawn across the window-wall, and lamps were lighted. A hint of incense gave the assembly a mystical aura.
Mildred welcomed the group, saying, “We’re privileged to have Mrs. Ascott with us this evening. She has so much to tell us about matters beyond our perception that I’ll waste no time in introducing this renowned woman whose revelations speak for themselves.”