"I don't mind telling you," Mitch said, "it's good to get away from the celebrating crowd - or what's left of it. A lot of them went home early because of the . . . incident. Did you meet the two young fellows who went rabbit hunting, Qwill? I still can't believe what happened."
"Who were the two rabbit hunters? Where were they from?"
"Well, it's quite a story. They're cousins, Max and Theo. Both living in Texas. They have a rich uncle, who has named them his sole heirs because other branches of the family have all the money they need."
"Did the rich uncle come to the reunion?"
"No. Uncle Morry is an invalid and never travels. . . . Now Theo is dead, and Max is suspected. The police say it was homicide - not an accident - and they must have reasons."
Qwilleran asked, "Were they both good hunters?"
"Well, I don't know. It was Max's idea, and Theo seemed to go along."
"How much do you know for a fact?"
"Well, Max says they decided to split up in the woods, one on each side of the creek. They invented a code for keeping in touch. Two whistles meant got-a-rabbit. Three whistles quitting-returning-to-farm. Max never heard any signals from Theo, although he heard a lot of shotgun fire on the other side of the creek."
Qwilleran asked, "Is one side of the creek better hunting than the other?"
"The west bank," Mitch said, "and Max gave that side to Theo, who's a less experienced hunter. When he came back alone I was ready to lead a search party, but Kristi said Theo might be hurt, and there was no time to waste, so we called the sheriff. After all, it was Saturday, and the locals would be out to bag their Sunday dinner."
Qwilleran asked, "How are the members of the family reacting?"
"They're not talking, but they all have guarded expressions, as if they know something. Kristi says Max and Theo have always been at loggerheads."
"Do you have an opinion, Mitch - off the record?"
"Well, you can't help thinking that the surviving heir will double his inheritance."
At that moment Koko, who had been on the balcony and listening - fell or jumped onto one of the sofa cushions next to the visitor. He landed close enough to make Mitch yelp!
"Bad cat!" Qwilleran scolded, and Koko left the scene in a guilty scramble.
"Sorry!" Qwilleran said. "That's the second time he's done that."
"That's all right," Mitch said. "He just wants to be included in the conversation. Or it's time for his lunch. . . . I'm leaving, anyway. Errands to do."
"Give Kristi my best wishes. She's looking wonderful, and the twins are a credit to you both."
He walked with his guest to the barnyard and then returned to face an impudent-looking Koko on the bar top with legs splayed, eyes like a pair of daggers, and tail lashing! What was he saying?
In mid-afternoon Qwilleran's reading was interrupted by a phone call from Clarissa: "Qwill, do you have time to see me? I could drive over after work."
"Of course."
"See you at five-thirty."
The car that drove into the barnyard was a green almost-new two-door sedan.
"From Gippel's showroom!" she announced. "Scott Gippel himself waited on me and gave me a fantastic deal when I mentioned the
"What did you think of Scott Gippel?"
"He's immense! He looks like Henry the Eighth!"
"But he's a good citizen, involved in everything, and always speaks his mind. It's not always printable, but it's honest."
He said, "What would you like to drink? How about a glass of Moose County Madness?"
"What is it?" she asked warily.
"Squunk water with a jigger of cranberry juice and a sprinkle of grated lemon peel."
"Okay. I'm feeling reckless. . . . Where are the cats?"
"In the gazebo. Go out and talk to them, and I'll take the tray out there."
A few moments later, when he arrived with a tray, both cats were on Clarissa's lap.
"They're more gregarious than Jerome," she said.
Qwilleran raised his glass. "Here's to a happy career 400 miles north of everywhere! . . . Now don't keep me in suspense; what was your first assignment?"
"I am thrilled! I'm to research and write a four-part series on the Heirloom Auction!"
"Congratulations! That calls for dinner at the Old Grist Mill."
"I'd love it! Will I be welcome in my work clothes?"
"The press is always welcome, Clarissa - anywhere, at any time. It makes up for being underpaid. I'll go in and phone for a table. You put the cats in that canvas totebag and bring them indoors."
As they drove to the restaurant in his SUV, he said, "Being from Indiana, no doubt you know what a grist mill is."
"A flour mill?" she asked hesitantly.
"Yes - a big stone building with a mill wheel that used to be powered by a rushing stream, long since dried up. Now it's owned by a young woman from Chicago; the interior design is tasteful; the menu is sophisticated; the maître d' is six-feet-eight. His name is Derek Cuttlebrink; he's from the town of Wildcat, and I've known him ever since he was a six-foot-two busboy."
