They sat around the big square cocktail table, and Qwilleran gave him a book. “Take this home. It’s a collection of legends that has just been published—all about pirates, ghosts, and other wholesome subjects. You can read it to your grandchildren. Do you read to them?”
“Yes, but the eight-year-old reads to me! Do you still read to your cats?”
“I do, and if Koko starts
Simmons asked, “What’s that book on the floor?”
“Koko keeps pushing it off the shelf, expecting me to read it aloud. It’s
“What’s a snark? Sounds like something spelled backward.”
“It’s a cross between a snake and a shark—just nonsense verses. Koko seems to sense it’s by the author of
Koko knew he was being talked about, and he made his presence known.
Simmons said, “Friendly cuss, isn’t he?”
“He knows you’re a cop. He likes cops.”
“Which reminds me,” Simmons said, “on the phone you mentioned an incident that happened on your property. What was that all about?”
“I have a hundred acres of beach frontage, and a well-dressed male was killed execution-style in a wooded area there. No ID or valuables on the body. The SBI is handling the case. Meanwhile, our police chief tells me there’s been a similar incident in northern Michigan.”
Simmons nodded. “I remember an identical case out west. A guy hung around a sportsmen’s bar, talking about hunting and fishing and saying he knew a great spot for a hunting lodge. He showed snapshots of a lake with ducks flying and a trout stream with a waterfall. The property belonged to a friend who had to sell it to pay a child-support judgment or go to prison. He would sell it for a tenth of its value. He found a sucker who drove up into the hills with him and his friend, both crooks. They had a fake surveyor’s map and a fake title—and a gun. The sucker had the cash. And that was the end of him and his great deal!”
“Did they ever solve the case?”
“Not until it happened in a nearby state, and the investigators were able to trace a pattern. That’s the pity of it; there’s always some sucker looking for a fantastic deal.”
Qwilleran said, “I hear that land fraud goes on all the time without the homicide—because people are ignorant or greedy.”
Koko looked up briefly from his empty plate and said, “Yow!”
“Why is he staring at me?” Simmons asked.
“Look at your watch.”
“It’s eleven o’clock.”
“He wants his bedtime snack. Would you like to feed him?”
“Me? How do I do it?”
“See that glass jar on the kitchen counter? It’s full of homemade crunchies. Just put half a cupful on one plate and a little less on the other. Then put them on the floor under the kitchen table. Koko’s goes on the right.”
Simmons followed instructions, at the same time saying, “Look, Ma! I’m feeding a cat.”
For the Sunday matinee there was another full house at the Hotel Booze, and a greater air of excitement prevailed; show-goers had heard from friends and relatives how the imaginary broadcast was a retelling of family history. During the performance an occasional whimpering in the audience came, perhaps from the granddaughter of the farmer who had been buried under an avalanche of snow in his own barn, or a descendant of a lifesaving crewman who had participated in a heroic rescue. When it was over, the listeners swarmed to the platform with compliments and handshakes.
One of them was Thornton Haggis, who had been given credit in the printed program for his historical research. He said, “Qwill, you slick operator! You really brought my dead notes to life!”
“Come to the barn for a celebration one day this week,” Qwilleran said.
As he was packing his gear, Gary rushed into the so-called dressing room with a cordless phone. “A call for you, Qwill. She says it’s urgent.”
Susan Exbridge was on the line, without her usual flip manner. “Qwill! Could you come to the dedication at Mount Vernon as soon as possible? Something awful has happened! I need to talk to you.”
“Where’ll I find you? Is there a large crowd?”
“Not too many. I’ll watch for you driving down the Parkway and be out in front. You can pick me up. Then we can talk in private.”
Mystified by the call, he asked Maxine to finish packing the gear, and he left the hotel by a back door.
FIFTEEN
The dedication of the Carroll Memorial Museum had not been planned as a public spectacle; it was more of a symbolic ceremony and news event. When Qwilleran arrived in answer to Susan Exbridge’s urgent call, he found cars parked on both sides of the Parkway, including photographers’ vans and the airport limousine rented by the TV crew from Down Below, but there were few persons in sight. They were indoors, as he later learned. But Susan was on the sidewalk in front of the building, ready to flag down Qwilleran’s SUV.
When he pulled up, she opened the door and jumped in. “Park over there,” she said.
“Where’s Edythe? Is she all right?”
