Qwilleran was sure that Sherry Hawkinfield would not return his call until morning. It was her place of business that he had phoned. He sat on a kitchen chair trying to eat soup with a bandaged hand that could hardly hold a spoon, while his left leg was propped on another chair with a cold compress wrapped around the ankle. Watching him from a respectful distance were two Siamese with anxious eyes, and their solicitude did nothing but make him jittery.
"I appreciate your concern," he said, "but there are times when I wish you would go away." They edged closer, looking doubly worried. Then suddenly they became agitated, running to and from the back door, Koko with his ears swept back and Yum Yum with her tail bushed. A moment later there was snuffling on the veranda and the click of claws.
"It's Lucy," Qwilleran said morosely. "Keep quiet and she'll go away." But the cats only increased their frenzy, and Lucy started to whine.
In no mood for domestic drama and muttering under his breath, Qwilleran kicked off the compress and limped to the refrigerator, where he found the four hot dogs he had bought for himself. He threw them to the overfed Doberman, and soon the commotion subsided, indoors and out.
His irritability was a delayed reaction to the unnerving experience at the waterfall. Why did I come to these damned mountains? he asked himself. Polly would blame it on his impulsiveness; she often questioned his precipitate actions, doing so with a polite sideways glance of mild reproach. So did Arch Riker but with blunt disapproval. How could they understand the messages telegraphed to Qwilleran through his sensitive moustache? How could he understand them himself?
He would have paced the floor if he had two good ankles. He would have enjoyed a pipeful of Scottish tobacco if he had not given it up. His books and radio were upstairs; so was his ottoman; so was his bed. Sooner or later he would have to tackle the ascent.
To reach the top he sat down on the second stair and went up backward, dragging his hand-carved walking staff and accompanied by the Siamese, who were always entertained by the eccentric behavior of humans and who had determined not to leave him alone in his travail.
As soon as he had sunk into his lounge chair and cushioned his left foot on the ottoman, the telephone rang.
"Yow!" Koko yowled in his ear.
"I'm not deaf!" he yelled back.
There was a slim chance that it might be the call from Maryland, so he hoisted himself out of the chair and— groaning and muttering—bumped down the stairs on his posterior. He reached the foyer and grabbed the handset after the ninth ring.
Qwilleran was taking a moment to adjust his attitude when a woman said impatiently, "Hello? Hello?"
"Good evening," he said with the silky charm and mellifluous voice that had thrilled women for three decades.
Then, rather pleasantly she said, "Are you the one who called me and left a message? I'm Sherry Hawkinfield." She had a young voice, a cultivated voice. She had gone to a good school.
"Yes, I'm the one," he replied. "My name is Jim Qwilleran."
"You sound . . . nice," she said archly. "Who are you? I don't recognize the name."
"I'm renting Tiptop for the summer. Dolly Lessmore made the arrangements."
"Oh . . . yes ... of course. I just happened to come back to my shop after dinner, and I found your message."
"All work and no play makes . . . money," Qwilleran said.
"You're so right! What did you want to know about the painting?"
"It's a fantastic interpretation of mountains, and I understand it's quite valuable. Is it possibly for sale? If so, what are you asking for it? Also there's an antique English huntboard in the foyer that has a great deal of primitive appeal. Ms. Lessmore tells me you're disposing of some of the furnishings. Is that correct?" In the astonished pause that ensued he could visualize dollar signs dancing in her eyes.
"The whole house is for sale," she said eagerly, "completely furnished. It would make a neat country inn. Dolly says you're a prospect."
"I'm giving it some thought. There are certain details that should be discussed."
"Well, I might fly out there for the weekend to see some friends in the valley. We could talk about it then," she said with growing enthusiasm.
"I'd appreciate that. When would you arrive?"
"If I got a Friday morning flight, I'd rent a car at the airport and drive up to see you in the afternoon."
"Perhaps we could have lunch while you're here," he suggested cordially. "Or dinner."
"I'd love to."
"It would be my pleasure, I assure you, Ms. Hawkinfield."
"Then I'll see you Friday afternoon. What's your name again?"
"Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW."
"I'm glad you called, Mr. Qwilleran."
"Please call me Qwill."
"Oh, that's neat!"
"May I call you Sherry?"
"I wish you would. Where are you from?" She was beginning to sound chummy.
"Another planet, but a friendly one. The Beverly Hills of outer space."
This brought a giddy laugh. "Ill look forward to meeting you. Want me to call you from the airport and set a rime?"
