Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

"Yes, Sally," Qwilleran said. "The lady will have Irish whiskey neat, and I'll have Squunk water with a dash of bitters and a slice of lemon."

"S-s-quunk water with... what?"

"A dash of bitters and a slice of lemon."

Alacoque was eager to talk about the theater - the two graceful stairways in the lobby, the rake of the amphitheater, the versatility of the staging area. "How good is your theater group?" she asked.

"A cut above most amateur companies," he said. "It was founded a hundred years ago and named the Pickax Thespians, but the present generation thought it sounded like deviant sex, so it was changed to the Theatre Club. The young man who was killed Tuesday was one of our best actors."

"What were the circumstances?"

"He and his wife were gunned down in their home - the stone house where we encountered the police cars."

"Were they into drugs?"

Qwilleran gave her a frigid glance. "No one is into drugs up here, Alacoque."

"That's what you think. Do they know who killed them?"

"They've been questioning suspects. Robbery was the obvious motive. They say the house is crammed with valuable collectibles, accumulated a couple of generations back. The family has old money, and they're very well liked. Harley and his brother have always been known as cooperative, outgoing guys with a lot of class."

"How about Harley's wife?"

"They'd been married only a short time. I never met her."

"I don't know whether I should repeat this, but... the construction gang said she was a tramp."

"Did they offer any corroborative detail?"

"No, but they all nodded and leered. Why would a man like Harley marry a girl with that reputation?"

"Pertinent question. I've been wondering about that myself."

Her attention was wandering. She said, "There's a woman over there who keeps looking at us. She's with another woman."

"Describe her."

"Middle-aged, intelligent looking, neat hair, pleasant face. Hair slightly gray. Plain gray suit, plain white blouse."

"Size 16? Walking shoes? That's my librarian," he said. "I told her I was having dinner with an architect from out of town, and she assumed you wore a beard and smoked a pipe. I didn't correct her. Now I'm in the doghouse for keeps."

"If you need consoling," Alacoque said, "young, talented, friendly female architect wishes to apply."

Suddenly there was a change of mood in the restaurant. The pleasant hum of diners' voices was interrupted by an excited hubbub in the rear of the room. The doors to and from the kitchen were rapidly swinging in and out. Waitresses were whispering to their customers, who responded with little cries of emotion and shocked exclamations. One waitress dropped a tray on the hardwood floor. It was Sally, who fell to her knees, frantically scooping up cheesecake.

Qwilleran flagged down the busboy. "What's happening here?"

"Sally heard the news and got all shook up, I guess. Lucky it was cheesecake and not soup or something."

"What news?" Qwilleran demanded. "Did you know Harley's mother was in the hospital?"

"Of course I knew that," Qwilleran snapped impatiently.

Derek glanced toward the kitchen. "Our salad girl's mother is a nurse at the hospital. She just phoned and said Mrs. Fitch died."

"Oh, my God," Qwilleran moaned. To Alacoque he explained, "Mrs. Fitch had a massive stroke after her son was murdered."

"Yeah," said Derek. "Her husband was there at the hospital when she died, and he went out to the parking lot and sat in his car and shot himself."

-Scene Twelve-

Place: Editorial offices of The Moose

County Something

Time: Saturday evening

THE READERS had given their mandate. With the publication of the weekend issue, The Moose County Something became the official name of the newspaper, although the decision grated on Arch Riker's better judgment and caused him acute embarrassment. He said, "I always wanted to be an editor in chief, but I never wanted to be editor in chief of something called The Moose County Something! Already I'm getting the raspberry - by mail, phone, and carrier pigeon - from the guys Down Below, and I'm afraid it's only the beginning."

Nevertheless he hosted the victory celebration on Saturday night with gracious hospitality. Desks in the city room were pushed together to serve as a bar and a buffet, and the former was dispensing everything from beer to champagne. Milling around the open bar were editors, reporters, columnists, one part-time photographer drinking enough for three, stringers from outlying towns, office personnel, adpersons, and the circulation crew.

Although exhausted after putting together the first forty-eight-page Something, the staff had managed to produce a weekend issue of thirty-six pages. It had gone to press too soon, however, to cover the deaths of Margaret and Nigel Fitch, and the banner headline on page one read: WILD TURKEYS RETURN TO MOOSE COUNTY.

Kevin Doone, who had been a pallbearer at the funeral of Harley and Belle, was doing justice to the open bar. "I need this," he said to Qwilleran, raising his martini glass. "Carrying that casket was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Harley was my cousin, you know, and a super guy! When Brodie started playing the bagpipe as we were coming down the church steps, I really fell apart! David wanted a piper at the church and the cemetery because Harley always liked that kind of music. God! It sounded mournful! And now Aunt Margaret's gone. And Nigel!... I've got to get a refill."

Kevin dashed away to the bar, and the writer of social news, Susan Exbridge, caught Qwilleran's eye. "Darling, why are we here?" she cried, waving her arms and spilling her drink. Since getting a divorce and joining the Theatre Club she had become overly dramatic. "We should all be at home, privately mourning for Nigel - that beautiful man!"

Qwilleran agreed that the bank president was distinguished looking: tall, straight, perpetually tanned, with polished manners and affable personality. "How could he do it?" he asked Susan.

"He couldn't face life without Margaret," she said. "They were devoted! And, of course, everyone knows that she made him a success. He was a sweet man, but he would have been nothing without Margaret's push. She directed the whole show."

Qwilleran, carrying his glass of ginger ale on the rocks, moved amiably among the convivial drinkers, all complimenting each other on their contributions to the new paper. One of them was Mildred Hanstable, the buxom teacher from the Pickax high school, where she taught art and home economics, directed the senior play, and coached girls' volleyball. Now she was writing the food pages for the Something.

Qwilleran said, "Mildred, I read every word of your cooking columns, even though cubing and dicing and mincing are Greek to me. Everything sounded great, especially the Chinese chrysanthemum soup."

"When are you going to learn to cook, Qwill?"

"Sorry, but I'll never have the aptitude to boil an egg, understand an insurance policy, or file my own tax return."

"I could teach you to boil eggs," she said with her hearty laugh. "I give private lessons!"

Qwilleran's expression changed from genial to doleful. "This was the night there was supposed to be a housewarming party for Harvey and Belle. Tell me something, Mildred. Teachers and cops in small towns know everything about everybody. What do you know about Belle Urkle?"

"Well, I'm sorry to say she dropped out of school. She said she wanted to work for rich people and live in a big house. You could hardly blame her, if you'd seen how people live in Chipmunk. She was a maid in the Fitch house, but I can't understand what motivated Harley to marry her."

"Love? Lust? Biological entrapment?" "But he didn't have to marry her and embarrass the family, did he? As soon as I heard about the murders, I got out the tarot cards and did a couple of readings. There's a deceitful woman involved!"