her eyes with a tissue.
Qwilleran went out to meet her. "Mildred! What's wrong?"
"Oh, God!" she wailed. "It's Buck Dunfield."
"What's happened?"
"He's dead!"
"Mildred, I can't believe it! He was here yesterday and healthy as an ox." She all but collapsed in his arms, and he took her indoors and seated her on a sofa. "Can I get you something? Tea? A shot of whiskey?"
She shook her head and controlled herself with effort. Koko watched, his eyes wide with alarm. "Sarah and Betty got home—from Canada—a little while ago and—and found him in the basement—workshop." She put her hands over her face. "Blood allover. He'd been killed—beaten—with one of the—one of the big—candlesticks." Her words drowned in her tears, and Qwilleran held her hand and let her cry it out, while he coped with his own shock and outrage.
When she was calm she said, between fits of sniffling: "Sarah passed out—and Betty came screaming over to my house—and we called the police. I told them I hadn't heard anything—not even the machinery. The storm drowned everything out."
"Do you know if the motive was burglary?"
"Betty says nothing was touched. I'm shattered. I don't know what I'm doing. I'd better go home. Sharon and Roger are coming over as soon as they can."
"Let me walk you home."
"No, I want to walk alone-and straighten myself out. Thanks, though."
Qwilleran tried to straighten out his own thinking. First he had to deal with the bitter realization that violence like this could take place in Mooseville. Could it be someone from Down Below? The area was being inundated by outsiders. . . . Then there was genuine grief. He liked Buck Dunfield and had looked forward to a summer of good talk and shared adventures. . . . And there was anger at the senseless killing. Buck had been so glad to be alive and to be doing something useful. . . . After that came uneasiness. No matter what the local custom, locks on doors were now an imperative. He hurried to the phone and called Pickax.
"Aunt Fanny! This is Jim calling from Mooseville. I want you to listen carefully. This is important. I need to find a locksmith immediately. I must have locks on these doors, or keys for the existing locks. Someone entered my neighbor's house and killed him.
Someone has also been using this cabin for some shady purpose. I know this is Sunday, but I want to be able to call a locksmith early tomorrow. The whole idea of leaving doors open to strangers is unsafe, absurd, and medieval!”
There was a long pause before the scratchy baritone response: "Bless my soul! My dear boy, I didn't realize a journalist could get so upset. You are always so contained. Never mind! Hang up, and I'll make some arrangements. How is the weather on the shore? Did you have thunder and lightning last night?"
Qwilleran replaced the receiver and groaned. "What do you bet," he asked Koko, "that she'll send Tom, the resident genius?" To Yum Yum, who came struggling out from under the sofa, he said: "Sorry, sweetheart, I didn't know I was shouting." To himself he said:
Fanny didn't even ask who had been murdered.
Barely ten minutes elapsed before a car could be heard winding its careful way among the trees and over the rolling dunes. Koko rushed to his checkpoint on the porch. The visitor was a young man with curly black hair, dressed in Mooseville's idea of Sunday Best: a string tie with his plaid shirt and jeans, and no cap.
With deference in his tone and courteous manner he said: "Good afternoon, Mr.
Qwilleran. I hear you have a problem."
"Are you the locksmith?"
"No, sir. Mooseville doesn't have a locksmith, but I know something about locks. I'm an engineer. My wife :~ and I were having our usual Sunday dinner at the hotel, and Miss Klingenschoen tracked us down. She's a very persuasive woman. I came as soon as I finished my prime rib. Very good prime rib at the hotel. Have you tried it?"
"Not yet," Qwilleran said, trying to conceal his impatience. "We've been here just a
Qwilleran went out to meet her. "Mildred! What's wrong?"
"Oh, God!" she wailed. "It's Buck Dunfield."
"What's happened?"
"He's dead!"
"Mildred, I can't believe it! He was here yesterday and healthy as an ox." She all but collapsed in his arms, and he took her indoors and seated her on a sofa. "Can I get you something? Tea? A shot of whiskey?"
She shook her head and controlled herself with effort. Koko watched, his eyes wide with alarm. "Sarah and Betty got home—from Canada—a little while ago and—and found him in the basement—workshop." She put her hands over her face. "Blood allover. He'd been killed—beaten—with one of the—one of the big—candlesticks." Her words drowned in her tears, and Qwilleran held her hand and let her cry it out, while he coped with his own shock and outrage.
When she was calm she said, between fits of sniffling: "Sarah passed out—and Betty came screaming over to my house—and we called the police. I told them I hadn't heard anything—not even the machinery. The storm drowned everything out."
"Do you know if the motive was burglary?"
"Betty says nothing was touched. I'm shattered. I don't know what I'm doing. I'd better go home. Sharon and Roger are coming over as soon as they can."
"Let me walk you home."
"No, I want to walk alone-and straighten myself out. Thanks, though."
Qwilleran tried to straighten out his own thinking. First he had to deal with the bitter realization that violence like this could take place in Mooseville. Could it be someone from Down Below? The area was being inundated by outsiders. . . . Then there was genuine grief. He liked Buck Dunfield and had looked forward to a summer of good talk and shared adventures. . . . And there was anger at the senseless killing. Buck had been so glad to be alive and to be doing something useful. . . . After that came uneasiness. No matter what the local custom, locks on doors were now an imperative. He hurried to the phone and called Pickax.
"Aunt Fanny! This is Jim calling from Mooseville. I want you to listen carefully. This is important. I need to find a locksmith immediately. I must have locks on these doors, or keys for the existing locks. Someone entered my neighbor's house and killed him.
Someone has also been using this cabin for some shady purpose. I know this is Sunday, but I want to be able to call a locksmith early tomorrow. The whole idea of leaving doors open to strangers is unsafe, absurd, and medieval!”
There was a long pause before the scratchy baritone response: "Bless my soul! My dear boy, I didn't realize a journalist could get so upset. You are always so contained. Never mind! Hang up, and I'll make some arrangements. How is the weather on the shore? Did you have thunder and lightning last night?"
Qwilleran replaced the receiver and groaned. "What do you bet," he asked Koko, "that she'll send Tom, the resident genius?" To Yum Yum, who came struggling out from under the sofa, he said: "Sorry, sweetheart, I didn't know I was shouting." To himself he said:
Fanny didn't even ask who had been murdered.
Barely ten minutes elapsed before a car could be heard winding its careful way among the trees and over the rolling dunes. Koko rushed to his checkpoint on the porch. The visitor was a young man with curly black hair, dressed in Mooseville's idea of Sunday Best: a string tie with his plaid shirt and jeans, and no cap.
With deference in his tone and courteous manner he said: "Good afternoon, Mr.
Qwilleran. I hear you have a problem."
"Are you the locksmith?"
"No, sir. Mooseville doesn't have a locksmith, but I know something about locks. I'm an engineer. My wife :~ and I were having our usual Sunday dinner at the hotel, and Miss Klingenschoen tracked us down. She's a very persuasive woman. I came as soon as I finished my prime rib. Very good prime rib at the hotel. Have you tried it?"
"Not yet," Qwilleran said, trying to conceal his impatience. "We've been here just a
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