Braun, Lilian Jackson - The Cat Who 009

They walked along the shore to the Madleys” contemporary beach house, where a flight of weathered steps led up the side of the dune to a redwood deck. Guests were gathering there, all wearing dark glasses, which gave them a certain anonymity. They were a colorful crew-in beach dresses, sailing stripes, clamdiggers and halters, raw-hued espa-drilles, sandals, Indian prints, Hawaiian shirts, and peasant blouses. Even Lyle Compton, the superintendent of schools, was wearing a daring pair of plaid trousers. There was one simple white dress, and that was on a painfully thin young woman with dark hair clipped close to her head. She was introduced as Russell Simms.

The hostess said to Qwilleran, “You’re both newcomers. Russell has just arrived up here, too.”

“Are you from Down Below?” he asked.

Russell nodded and gazed at the lake through her sunglasses.

“Russell is renting the Dunfield house,” Dottie Madley mentioned as she moved away to greet another arrival.

“Beautiful view,” Qwilleran remarked.

Russell ventured a timid yes and continued to look at the water.

“And constantly changing,” he went on. “It can be calm today and wildly stormy tomorrow, with raging surf. Is this your first visit to Moose County?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you plan to stay for the summer?”

“I think so.” Her dark glasses never met his dark glasses.

“Russell … that’s an unusual name for a woman.”

“Family name,” she murmured as if apologizing.

“What do you plan to do during the summer?”

“I like to … read … and walk on the beach.”

“‘There’s a remarkably good museum in town, if you’re interested in shipwrecks, and a remarkably bad antique shop. How did you happen to choose the Dunfield cottage?”

“It was advertised.”

“In the Daily Fluxion! I used to write for that lively and controversial newspaper.”

“No. In the Morning Rampage.”

Qwilleran’s attempts at conversation were foundering, and he was grateful when Dottie introduced another couple and steered Russell away to meet the newly divorced attorney.

Everyone at the party recognized Qwilleran-or, at least, his moustache. When he was living Down Below and writing for the Fluxion, his photograph with mournful eyes and drooping moustache appeared at the top of his column regularly. When he suddenly arrived in Pickax as the heir to the Klingenschoen fortune, he was an instant celebrity. When he established the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund to distribute his wealth for the benefit of the community, he became a local hero.

On the Madleys” redwood deck he circulated freely, clinking ice cubes in a glass of ginger ale, teasing Dottie, flattering the chemist’s wife, asking Bushy about the fishing, listening sympathetically as a widower described how a helicopter had scattered his wife’s ashes over Three Tree Island.

Leo Urbank, the chemist, flaunted his academic degrees, professional connections, and club affiliations like a verbal resume and asked. Qwilleran if he played golf. Upon receiving a negative reply he wandered away.

Bushy, the photographer, invited Qwilleran to go fishing some evening. He was younger than the other men, although losing his hair. Qwilleran had always enjoyed the company of news photographers, and Bushy seemed to fit the pattern: outgoing, likable, self-assured.

The superintendent of schools said to Qwilleran, “‘Have you heard from Polly Duncan since she escaped from Moose County?”

Qwilleran knew Lyle Compton well-a tall, thin, saturnine man with a perverse sense of humor and blunt speech. “I received a postcard, Lyle,” he replied. “She was met at the airport by the local bigwigs, and they gave her a bunch of flowers.”

“That’s more than we did for the unfortunate woman who came here. I think Polly’s getting the better part of the deal. Since she’s so gung ho on Shakespeare, she may decide to stay in England.”

Qwilleran’s moustache bristled at the suggestion, although he knew that Compton was baiting him. “No chance,” he said. “When Polly airs her theory that Shakespeare was really a woman, she’ll be deported … By the way, do you know anything about that young man who was drowned?”

As superintendent of schools Compton knew everyone in the county, and was always willing to share his information, though taking care to point out that he was not a gossip, just a born educator. “Buddy Yarrow? Yes, he was well-liked at school. Had to struggle to keep his grades up, though. Married the Tobin girl, and they had too many kids too fast. He had a tough time supporting them.”

Mildred overheard them. “I’m applying to the Klingenschoen Fund for financial aid for the Yarrows,” she said. “I hope you’ll put in a good word, Qwill.”

Dottie Madley said, “Buddy built our steps down to the beach, and he was very considerate-didn’t leave any sawdust or nails lying around. Glinko sent him to us.”

“Did someone mention Glinko?” asked Urbank. “We had some plumbing done this week, and Glinko sent us a lady plumber!”

“I suppose she fixes everything with a hairpin,” said Doc.