“And, by the way, there’s a curious sidelight to this domestic drama,” Bart said. “I’m a greenhorn from Down Below, and it amazes me how the locals descend on their relatives without warning and stay overnight. The element of surprise appears to be part of the fun. They may bring their sleeping bags and bed down on the living room carpet; the sleeping bags are another part of the fun. . . . Well, Mrs. Carroll tells us that her granddaughter always drops in without warning. Suppose the girl turns up on the holiday weekend and finds herself locked out of Mount Vernon, and Ittibittiwassee Estates takes a dim view of unwedded couples camping on the living-room carpet; and every tourist accommodation is booked solid. The two letters sent to Alicia each contained a list of accommodations with a sold-out notice. But what if the young couple come right here from wherever they are without touching base in Milwaukee! Then what?”
“Don’t look at me,” Qwilleran said. “My guest room is not available. And I think the cats don’t care for Alicia; they’ve never met her, but Koko snarls every time she talks on the phone.” He refrained from mentioning the nature of the assignment he had given her. Qwilleran himself was beginning to consider the research a lost cause.
A moment later, an ear-shattering, bloodcurdling howl came from the corner of the gazebo.
The attorney jumped to his feet. “What the devil was that?”
Qwilleran said, “Just something that Siamese males do to attract attention.”
“Sounds to me as if he has a bellyache. Better give him a pill! . . . Well, since I’m on my feet, I might as well go home.”
Bart left, and Qwilleran gave Koko a searching look. That unsettling howl had nothing to do with indigestion. It meant that someone, somewhere, had been murdered, and there was significance to the crime. As for Qwilleran, he was still experiencing the goose bumps caused by Koko’s howl, and he rubbed both arms to restore the circulation.
Qwilleran treated himself to a solitary dinner at the Black Bear Café before the technical rehearsal with Maxine. By sitting at the bar, he could exchange a few words with Gary, as he shuffled back and forth, filling drink orders.
On this occasion the barkeeper was acting in a most unusual way: saying nothing, glancing about as if he expected to be raided, and altogether exuding an air of mystery.
Finally, Qwilleran said, “Is there something you want to tell me, Gary? Don’t tell me the Pratts are pregnant!”
Ignoring the quip, Gary wiped the top of the bar at length before confiding in a low voice, “Just heard the most spectacular rumor.”
“Are you keeping it to yourself, or do you want to tell me?”
“Promise you won’t tell a soul!”
“Promise!” As a journalist, Qwilleran could never tolerate not knowing.
Gary gave two swift looks up and down the bar. “Brrr is getting Mount Vernon, complete with antiques, as a museum!”
“No kidding! Where did you hear it?”
“I’ve sworn not to tell. But it’ll be front-page news in the
“It would be interesting to know who engineered the deal, wouldn’t it, Gary?”
“Yeah . . . well . . . we’ll never know. What I’d like to know is how it’ll affect Lish and Lush; they’ve been campin’ out at the house, y’know.” Then he was called away to pour a tray full of drinks for a waitress, and that was the end of grand intrigue for that evening.
Qwilleran was still enjoying a private chuckle when he met Maxine in a small room off the foyer. She was much too businesslike to have heard the rumor. “Okay! How do we do this?” she asked, clapping her hands together. “I’m all excited!”
“You at your recorder, Maxine, and I at my mike will both be facing the audience. First, I’d like to hear your introduction to them. You’ll walk to the front of the platform and face the crowd to make your speech, then immediately return to your machine and press the first button. You sit down and stay seated until we take our bow at the end.”
“Is there an intermission?”
“Not for the audience and not for you, but I leave the stage to denote the passage of time—during which your recorder is playing
“What kind of expression should I wear?”
“Alert. Concerned. No reaction to the news, though.”
“And what should I wear?”
“Something ageless and timeless, like a blouse and skirt, so long as the blouse has a high neck and the skirt isn’t too much above the ankles. You should wear it a week from tonight, for our dress rehearsal.”
Maxine was so efficient, so agreeable, that Qwilleran contemplated doing more than the scheduled seven performances.
The Siamese were nervous that evening, frequently jumping to the kitchen counter and peering out the window into the darkness of the woods.
“Expecting someone?” Qwilleran asked archly.
Eventually a vehicle came swooping through the trees and stopped at the kitchen door with the assurance of a frequent visitor. The cats started frisking around—their body language for
“What brings you here in such a cloud of dust?” Qwilleran asked.
