"I wish you'd help me out, Qwill. Would you drive to Rattlesnake Lake to act as one of the judges in a contest?"
"Bathing beauties?"
"No. Cake-baking. It's the statewide thing sponsored by the John Stuart Flour Mills. They do a lot of advertising, and we promised we'd send one of the judges."
"Why can't the food editor do it?" Qwilleran snapped.
"She's in the hospital."
"Been eating her own cooking?"
"Qwill, you're crabby today. What's wrong with you?"
"To tell you the truth, Arch, I'd like to stick around here this weekend — to see what I can dig up. Joy's husband invited me in for a drink tonight. I don't want to talk about it on the phone, but you know what we discussed in the coffee shop."
"I know, Qwill, but we're in a jam. You can take some time off next week."
"Can't the women's department handle this contest?"
"They've got a lot of spring weddings to cover. You could make a nice weekend of it, take a company car and drive up this afternoon. You could have a nice dinner at the Rattlesnake Inn — they're famous for their food — and come back tomorrow night."
"They're famous for their bad food, not famous for their good food," Qwilleran objected. "Besides, how can I enjoy a dinner anywhere and stay on my diet? How can I judge a cake contest and lose any weight?"
"You'll figure something out. You're an old pro," said Riker.
"I'll make a deal with you," Qwilleran said after a moment's hesitation. "I'll go to Rattlesnake Lake if you'll send me Odd Bunsen on Monday to shoot pictures in the pottery."
"You think it's a story? We've done potteries before. They all look alike."
"It may not make a story, but I want an excuse to get in there and prowl around." The newsman smoothed his mustache with his knuckles. "We've had another mysterious disappearance, Arch. This time it's the houseboy."
There was silence from Riker as he weighed the lunch, he asked if anyone had seen William.
Hixie, who was busy chewing, shook her head. Dan said, "Nope."
Rosemary remarked that it was unusual for William to miss market day.
Mrs. Marron said, "He was supposed to wax the floors today."
Charlotte Roop was engrossed in her crossword puzzle and said nothing.
Mrs. Marron was serving home-baked beans with brown bread and leftover ham, and Dan looked at the fare with distaste. "What's for dinner?" he demanded.
"Some nice roast chicken and wild rice."
"Chicken again? We just had it on Monday."
"And a nice coconut custard pie."
"I don't like coconut. It gets in my teeth," he said, making a sandwich of brown bread and ham.
"And tomorrow a nice rabbit stew," the housekeeper added.
"Ecch!"
"Mrs. Marron," Qwilleran interrupted, "these baked beans are delicious."
She gave him a grateful glance. "It's because I use an old bean pot. Forty years old, Mr. Maus says. It was made right here in the pottery, and it's signed on the bottom — H.M.H."
"That must have been about the time the sculptor was murdered," Qwilleran remarked.
"It was an accidental drowning," Miss Roop corrected him, looking up briefly from her puzzle.
"Nobody really believes that," said Hixie, and then she recited in a singsong voice:
"A potty young sculptor, Mort Mellon,
Fell in love with a pottress named Helen,
But the pottery gods frowned
And he promptly got drowned.
Who pushed him the potters ain't tellin'."
Miss Roop lifted her chin. "That's very disrespectful, Miss Rice."
"Who cares?" Hixie retorted. "They're all dead."
"Mr. Maus would not like it, if he were here."
"But he's not here. By now he's halfway to Miami."
"Miami?" Qwilleran echoed.
Mrs. Marron brought him some more ham, which he regretfully declined, although he accepted some scraps for his roommates. "By the way," he said to her, "I'm going to be out of town overnight. Would you be good enough to feed my cats tomorrow morning?"
"I don't know much about cats," she said. "Is there anything special I have to do?"
"Just dice some meat for them and give them fresh water. And be absolutely sure they don't get out of the apartment." To the others at the table he said, "I have an assignment at Rattlesnake Lake. Dan, I'll have to take a rain check on your invitation, but we might be lucky enough to get a photographer here on Monday."
Dan grunted and nodded. Qwilleran went on: "I hate the thought of the long drive up to the lake in a company car. The Fluxion seems to have bought a whole fleet of lemons."
A soft voice at his left said, "Would you like company? I'd be happy to go along for the ride. You could drive my car." The newsman turned and looked into the eyes of Rosemary Whiting — the quiet one, the thoughtful one who had brought the cats a ball of yarn. Her brown eyes were filled with an expression he could not immediately identify. He had not realized she was so attractive — her eyes dancing with health, her skin like whipped cream, her dark hair glossy.
Having hesitated too long, he said hurriedly, "Sure! Sure! I'd be grateful for your company. If we leave right after lunch, we'll have time for a leisurely drive and a good dinner at the inn. I have to judge a contest, but it doesn't take place until tomorrow afternoon, so we can sleep late tomorrow and stop somewhere for a bite to eat on the way home."
Miss Roop went on working her crossword puzzle with her lips frozen in a thin, straight line.
11
Haus in her dark blue compact. "As soon as I got out my luggage, he started to scold."
He glanced at his passenger. At Maus Haus he had guessed her age to be about thirty, but seeing her in daylight he increased his estimate to forty-a young forty.
"You look wonderful," he said. "That wheat germ you sprinkle on everything must agree with you. How long have you had your health food shop?"
"Two years," she said. "After my husband died, I sold the house and moved downtown and invested the money in the business."
"Any children?"
"Two sons. They're both doctors."
Qwilleran sneaked another look at his passenger and did some simple arithmetic. Forty-five? Fifty?
"Tell me," Rosemary said. "What brought you to Maus Haus?"
He told her about his new assignment, the invitation to attend a gourmet dinner given by Robert Maus, and his unexpected reunion with Joy Graham, an old friend.
She said, "I guessed it was more than a casual acquaintance."
"You're very discerning. Joy and I were planning to marry at one time, many years ago." He jammed on the brakes. "Sorry," he apologized. "Did you see that stupid cat? It strolled casually across the highway, and as soon as it reached safety, it ran like the devil."
"I hope you didn't think I was awfully bold to invite myself on this trip, Mr. Qwilleran."
"Not at all. I'm delighted. I wish I'd thought of it first. And please call me Qwill. I'm certainly not going to call you Mrs. Whiting all weekend."
"I had a reason for wanting to come. There's something I want to discuss with you, but not right now. I'd like to enjoy the scenery."
As they drove through the countryside, Rosemary observed and remarked about every cider mill, gravel pit, corn crib, herd of cattle, stone barn, and split-rail fence. She had a pleasant voice, and Qwilleran found her company relaxing. By the time they reached Rattlesnake Inn, he was experiencing a comfortable contentment. She remarked that it would be nice if they could have adjoining rooms. It was going to be a good weekend, he told himself.
The inn was a rickety frame structure that should have burned down half a century before. Weeping willows drooped over the edge of the lake, and canoes glided over its glassy surface. Before dinner Qwilleran rented a flat-bottomed boat and rowed Rosemary across the lake and back. During the cocktail hour they danced — Qwilleran's nameless, formless, ageless dance step that he had inv
ented twenty-five years before and had not bothered to update.
"I think I'll celebrate," he said. "I'm going off my diet tonight."
Although Rattlesnake Inn was not celebrated for the quality of its food, it was unsurpassed in terms of quantity. The hors d'oeuvre table presented thirty different appetizers, all of them mashed up and flavored with the same pickle juice. The menu offered a choice of ten steaks, all uniformly tender, expensive, and flavorless. The shrimp cocktails were huge and leathery. An impressive assortment of rolls, biscuits, and muffins came to the table in bun-warmers that were ice cold. The baked potatoes wore foil jackets firmly glued to the skin, except for minute fragments of foil mashed into the interior. The Rattlesnake Inn served asparagus that tasted like Brussels sprouts and spinach that tasted like old dishrags. Individual wooden salad bowls, twelve inches in diameter and rancid with age, were heaped with anemic lettuce and wedges of synthetic tomato. But the specialty of the house was the dessert buffet with twenty-seven cream pies made from instant vanilla pudding.
Yet, such was the magic of the occasion that neither Qwilleran nor Rosemary thought to complain about the food.
While they were lingering over cups of what the Rattlesnake Inn called coffee, Rosemary came to the point. "I want to talk to you about William," she said. "We've become good friends. A young man needs an older woman for a confidante — not his mother. Don't you agree?"
Qwilleran nodded.
"William has some good qualities. He lacks direction, but I have always been confident that he will find himself eventually. I know he thinks highly of you, and that's why I'm telling you this. . . I'm worried about him. I'm alarmed at his absence."
Qwilleran stroked his mustache. "What's the reason for your alarm?"
"He came home about eleven o'clock last night, after going to see his mother, and he stopped in my apartment and told me a few things."
"What kind of things?"
"Well, he's a very inquisitive person. . ."
"That I know."
"And he's been questioning some of the recent incidents at Maus Haus. He thinks there is more to them than meets the eye."
"Did he mention anything specifically?"
"He told me he thought he 'had something' on Dan Graham and he was going to investigate. He fancies himself a detective, you know, and he reads all those crime stories. I told him not to meddle."
"You have no idea what sort of malfeasance he suspected?"
"No, he just said he was going to visit Dan last night and sponge a nightcap; he thought he might come up with some evidence."
"Did he go?"
"As far as I know; And this morning. . ."
"No William," said Qwilleran. "I went looking for him, and his bed hadn't been slept in, I'm sure of that."
"And yet his car is in the carport. . . I don't know. . . No one else seems to be concerned. Mr. Maus says he's impetuous. Mrs. Marron says he's unreliable. What do you think, Qwill?"
"If he isn't there when we get home tomorrow night, we'll make some inquiries. Do you know how to get in touch with his mother?"
"She's in the phone book, I suppose. William also has a fiancee — or whatever."
"Do you think he might have gone off somewhere with her? Do we know who she is or where to reach her?"
Rosemary shook her head, and they both fell silent. After a while Qwilleran said, "I've been doing a little worrying myself. About Joy Graham. Was she interested in that food buyer? Would she go to Miami to be with him?"
"Mr. Hamilton? I don't think so. She has an exhibition coming up, and she's terribly dedicated to her art."
"Dan said he got a postcard, and she's on her way to Miami; she wants her summer clothes shipped down there. She happened to tell me she hates Florida, so I don't know what to believe. How do you size up her husband, Rosemary?"
"I'm sorry, but I've never liked that man, and I'm sure the others feel the same way. Haven't you noticed the chill that falls on the conversation whenever Dan opens his mouth?"
"You know about the nasty situation at the Golden Lamb Chop," Qwilleran said. "Did that start after the Grahams arrived at Maus Haus?"
"I believe it did."
"Do you suppose Dan could be responsible? He's the jealous type."
"I really don't think there's anything going on between Joy and Max. They're too friendly in public. If they were having an affair, they'd be carefully ignoring each other at the dinner table. Besides, I think Max is too fastidious to have affairs. He never even shakes hands with anyone, male or female." She stopped to giggle. "William says Max is the kind who dries his toothbrush with a hair blower."
Qwilleran pulled on his pipe, and Rosemary sipped the stuff in her coffee cup. After a while she said, "Did it ever occur to you that Mr. Maus is a lonely and unhappy man?"
"I don't know why he should be," said Qwilleran. "He has his French knives and his eight-burner stove."
"You're not being serious," she chided. "His wife is dead, you know, and his heart isn't in the law business; he should be running a fine restaurant. On Tuesday night, after I'd had dinner at my son's house, I came home after midnight and saw a light in the kitchen, so I went in to investigate. There was Mr. Maus sitting at the table with his head in his hands. He was holding a piece of raw meat on his eye."
"Filet mignon, of course."
"All right. I won't tell you the rest of it."
"Please. I'm sorry."
"Well, he told me he'd been sitting on the bench down by the river and tripped on the boardwalk when he started to leave. Don't you think that's rather sad — sitting down by the river all alone?"
"He had a different explanation for me," Qwilleran said. "Would you like to dance? I'm a sad, lonely, unhappy man, too."
They danced slowly and thoughtfully, and Qwilleran was thinking of suggesting a walk in the moonlight when he was suddenly overcome by complete exhaustion. His shoulders sagged; his face felt drawn. He had been up since dawn, tramping around the farmers' market, and then there had been the long drive, followed by boating (he hadn't rowed a boat for fifteen years) and then dancing and a large meal . . .
"Are you tired?" Rosemary asked. "You've had a long day. Why don't we go upstairs?"
Qwilleran agreed gratefully.
"Would you like me to massage your neck and shoulders?" she asked. "It will relax you, and you'll sleep beautifully. But first a hot bath, so you won't have sore muscles after all that rowing."
She drew the bath for him, coloring the water lettuce green with mineral salts, and after he had soaked the prescribed twenty minutes, she produced a bottle of lotion that smelled faintly of cucumber. The soothing massage, the aromatic lotion, and Rosemary's murmured phrases that he only half heard made him drowsy. He felt — he wondered — he wanted to say — but he was so relaxed. . . so sleepy. . . perhaps tomorrow. . .
It was noon when Qwilleran awoke on Sunday and learned that Rosemary had been up since seven and had hiked around the lake. They lunched hurriedly and reported to the ballroom for the cake-judging, only to discover that the plans had been changed. The judging had taken place before noon to accommodate the television crews. However, Qwilleran was towed around the ballroom by a public relations person to meet the beaming winners.
He congratulated the grandmotherly creator of the inside-out marble mocha whipped cream cake, the vivacious young matron with her brazil nut caramel angel cake, the delicate young man who was so proud of his sour cream chocolate velvet icebox cake, and finally the winner in the teenage class. She was a tiny girl with long straight hair and a wistful smile, and she had concocted a psychedelic cake. Qwilleran stared at the conglomeration of chocolate, nuts, marshmallows, strawberries, and coconut — the banana split cake of twenty-five years ago. He looked at the girl and saw Joy.
"Let's get out of here," he whispered to Rosemary. "I'm seeing ghosts."
They drove home in the late evening — both of them relaxed and content to talk or not to talk as the mood prevailed — and it was
midnight when they walked into the Great Hall at Maus Haus.
"When can I take you out to dinner again?" he asked Rosemary. "How about Tuesday evening?"
"I'd love to," she said, "but I have to attend a recital. One of my grandsons is playing the violin."
"You have a grandson?"
"I have three grandchildren."
"I can't believe you're a grandmother! This violinist must be an infant prodigy."
"He's twelve," said Rosemary as they started to climb the stairs. "He's the youngest. The other two are in college."
Qwilleran gazed at the grandmother-of-three with admiration. "You'd better get me some of that wheat germ," he said. She smiled sweetly and triumphantly, and Qwilleran dropped the suitcases and kissed her.
At that moment they heard an outcry. Mrs. Marron came running from the kitchen corridor. She burst into tears."
Rosemary ran downstairs and put an arm around the housekeeper. "What is it, Mrs. Marron? What's wrong?"
"Something — something terrible," the woman wailed. "I don't know how to tell you."
Qwilleran hurried down the stairs. "Is it William? What's happened?"
Mrs. Marron gave him a terrified glance and launched another torrent of tears. "It's the cats!" she wailed. "They took sick."
"What!" Qwilleran started to bolt up the stairs three at a time but suddenly stopped. "Where are they?"
Mrs. Marron groaned. "They were — they were taken away."
"Where?" he demanded. "To the vet? Which one? To the hospital?"
She shook her head and covered her face with her hands. "I called. . . I called the. . . Sanitation Department. They're dead!"
"Dead! They can't be! Both of them? They were perfectly all right. What happened?"
The housekeeper was too shaken to answer. She could only moan.
"Were they poisoned? They must have been poisoned! Who went near them?" He took Mrs. Marron by the shoulders and shook her. "Who got into my apartment? What did you feed them?"
She moved her head miserably from side to side. "By God!" Qwilleran said, "If it was poison, I'll kill the one who did it!"
12
Qwilleran paced the floor of his apartment. Rosemary had offered to sit with him, but he had sent her away.
The Cat Who Saw Red Page 11