"I think he'd rather have the city named after him," she said in a burst of candor brought on by the second man-hattan.
"Did you have a good father-daughter relationship?" he asked innocently.
"Well, to tell the truth, Qwill, I was one of those early mistakes that happen to young couples. My parents were still in college when I was born, and my father was not too happy about it. Besides, he preferred sons to daughters. But in recent years we developed a real friendship. That happens when you get older, I guess."
Or when the prospect of an inheritance looms on the horizon, Qwilleran thought.
"We'd reached the point," she continued, "where he'd confide in me and I felt free to discuss my problems with him. So his death was a terrible loss to me ... What's that?" She stiffened with fright and looked toward the foyer, where sounds of thumping and muttering and whimpering could be heard.
Qwilleran said, "The cat's talking to himself. He's faced with some kind of problem. Excuse me a moment."
Koko was on the floor, writhing and biting his paw, and Qwilleran released him from the entanglement of a long hair, thinking as he did so, This is the second time! Most unusual!
"He had something caught in his toes," he explained to his guest when he returned.
She had been sitting on the sofa with her back to one of the folding screens, but now she was walking around to inspect the rented furnishings. It appeared to Qwilleran that she kept glancing at the secretary desk at the far end of the room.
He said, "How do you like Sabrina's idea for foreshortening the room with folding screens?"
"Neat," she said without enthusiasm. She sat down again and helped herself to cashews.
"Gray was apparently your mother's favorite color. Sa-brina said she had beautiful gray eyes."
"Yes, she liked gray. She always wore it."
"You have your mother's eyes, Sherry."
"I guess I do," she replied vaguely as if preoccupied.
"Sorry to hear about her illness." Sherry was fidgeting, and Qwilleran was working hard to engage her attention. "I haven't been able to find Lake Batata. Is it a myth?"
"No, it's there. That's where my brothers used to go fishing."
"I assume that you don't care for fishing." "I was never invited," she said with a half-hearted shrug.
"Do you remember when Lake Batata was a waterfall?" "Uh . . . yes, I remember. In winter it was one big icicle as high as a ten-story building . . . Excuse me, Qwill, but I think I could use that nap now. The accident, you know . . . and the drinks ..." "Yes, of course. I understand." "Uh . . . are they still out there?" she asked timidly. "If you're apprehensive, I'll run interference for you," Qwilleran offered, "but the cats won't bother you."
Koko and Yum Yum were still in the foyer, listening, and he shooed them into the kitchen. Locking them up there might be the courteous thing to do, he was aware, but he was disinclined to do so. A hunch was making itself felt on his upper lip.
Sherry went upstairs, holding on to the handrail, and as soon as she was out of sight, he inspected the secretary desk in the living room. The obliging Mr. Beechum had replaced it as requested but without entirely covering the door to Hawkinfield's office. An inch of the door frame was visible on one side. If Sherry had noticed it—and he was sure she had—what thoughts would cross her mind? If he now positioned it properly, would she notice the change? He was sure she would. Her gray eyes always appeared to be observing, intently.
As he wrestled with this decision, an unusual noise in the foyer alarmed him. It was a soft thud accompanied by a gentle clatter and the tinkling of a bell. "Now what the devil is that?" he muttered.
It was the telephone, lying on the carpeted floor alongside the huntboard, and Koko was sitting there looking proud of his accomplishment.
"Bad cat!" Qwilleran scolded as he picked up the instrument and checked the dial tone.
Koko expressed his nonchalance by rolling on his back at the base of the cabinet, squirming and stretching as he had done many times before, but this time, one long elegant foreleg was stretched halfway under the piece of furniture. The pose, combined with the importunate telephone maneuver, was sufficient to arouse Qwilleran's curiosity. The cat was trying to communicate!
There was a flashlight in the drawer, and he beamed it under the chest, but all he could see was a collection of dustballs wafted in by drafts from the French doors. It was clear why Mrs. Hawkinfield disliked it; not only was it an ugly piece of furniture, but it was built too low for a vacuum cleaner, and to use the attachments would mean lying flat on one's face.
"Forget it," Qwilleran said to Koko.
"Yow!" the cat replied in a scolding tone, and he toppled over on his back and extended his forepaw under the huntboard again.
