Now, consulting his watch, he was inclined to wait until the maximum discount rates went into effect. Despite his net worth and his extravagance in feeding the Siamese, be was thrifty about long-distance calls, and phone service was not included in the rent. He invited the Siamese into bis bedroom for a read.
"Book!" he announced loudly, and they came running. They always listened raptly as if they comprehended the meaning of his words, although more likely they were mesmerized by his melodious reading voice. Being unable to find an ottoman anywhere in the house (that woman, be was sure, had taken the ottomans, too), he pulled up a second lounge chair and propped his feet on it. Then, with Yum Yum on his lap and Koko on the arm of his chair, he read about a fellow who went to the mountains for a few weeks and stayed seven years.
He read until eleven o'clock, at which time he telephoned Polly Duncan at her apartment in Pickax City. It was a carriage house apartment, and he had spent many contented hours there—contented, that is, until the unfortunate advent of Bootsie.
"Qwill, I'm so glad to hear your voice," she said in the pleasing, well-modulated tones that made his skin tingle. "I wondered when you were going to call, dear. How was the trip?"
"Uneventful, for the most part. We had a little difficulty in finding the top of the mountain, but we're here with our sanity intact."
"What is your house like?"
"It's an architectural style called Musty Rustic. I'll be able to appraise it more objectively when I've had a good night's sleep. How's everything in Pickax?" he asked.
"Dr. Goodwinter's wife finally died. She was buried today."
"How long had she been ill?"
"Fifteen years, ten of them bedridden. Just about everyone in the county attended the funeral—as a tribute to Dr. Hal. He's dearly loved—the last of the old-fashioned country doctors. We're all wondering if he'll retire now."
Qwilleran's mind leaped to Melinda Goodwinter, the young doctor with green eyes and long lashes, who had cured him of pipe smoking. Had she returned to Pickax for her mother's funeral? He hesitated to inquire. She had been Polly's predecessor in his affections, and Polly was inordinately jealous. Approaching the question obliquely he remarked, "I never knew if the Goodwinters had many children."
"Only Melinda. She came from Boston for the funeral. There's speculation that she might stay and take over her father's practice."
Qwilleran recognized the possibility as a hot potato and changed the subject. "How's Bootsie?"
"You'll be glad to know I've thought of a new name for him. What do you think of Bucephalus?"
"It sounds like a disease."
"Bucephalus," Polly said indignantly, "was the favorite horse of Alexander the Great. He was a noble beast."
"You don't need to tell me that. The name still sounds like a disease, although I agree that Bootsie eats like a horse. Back to the drawing board, Polly."
"Oh, Qwill! You're so hard to please," she protested. "How do the cats like the mountains? Does the altitude affect them?"
"They seem happy. We're reading The Magic Mountain."
"Do you have a good view? Don't forget to send me some snapshots."
"We have a spectacular view. The place is called Tiptop, but if I owned it, I'd name it Hawk's Nest."
"You're not thinking of buying, are you?" she asked with concern.
"I make quick decisions, but not that quick, Polly! I arrived only a couple of hours ago. First I have to get some sleep, and then go into Spudsboro tomorrow to do some errands. Also I've got to learn how to drive in these rnountains. One drives south in order to go north, and down in order to go up."
The two of them chattered on with companionable familiarity until Qwilleran started worrying about his phone bill. They ended their visit with the usual murmur: "A bientot."
"That was Polly," he said to Koko, who was sitting next to the telephone. "Bootsie sends his regards."
"Yow," said Koko, batting an ear with his paw.
Qwilleran went outdoors and paced the veranda that circled the entire house, wondering why he was here alone when he had been so comfortable in Moose County among friends. From the front veranda he could see across the dark treetops to the valley, where pinpoints of light traced the city of Spudsboro. Directly below him the mountainside was dotted with the high-powered yardlights of the bouses on Hawk's Nest Drive. One bank of lights flooded a swimming pool like a baseball diamond illuminated for a night game.
Elsewhere, the view was one of total darkness, except for a circle of light toward the south. It appeared to be on a nearby mountain, and the circle appeared to be revolving. Qwilleran went indoors for his binoculars and trained them on the circle. It was definitely moving—a phenomenon that would bear investigation.
A chill wind was stirring, and he retired for his first overnight on Big Potato.
CHAPTER 4
