few days."
"That's what my wife told me. She's postmistress in Mooseville."
"Lori? I've met her. Charming young lady." Qwilleran relaxed a little. "And your name?"
"Dominic. Nick for short. What seems to be the trouble?" After the situation was explained he said: "No problem at all. I'll bring some equipment tomorrow and take care of it."
"Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but a man at Top o' the Dunes was murdered. It's been a great shock."
"Yes, it's too bad. Everyone is wondering what effect it will have on the community."
"You mean people know about it already? They didn't find the body until a couple of hours ago."
"My wife heard the news in the choir loft," Nick said. "She sings at the Old Log Church. I heard it from one of the ushers during the offering."
"Murder is not what I'd expect in Mooseville. Who would do such a thing? Some camper from Down Below?”
"Well-l-l," replied the engineer. "I could make a guess."
Qwilleran's moustache bristled. He sensed a source of information. "May I offer you a drink, Nick?"
"No, thank you. I'll get back to my wife and my dessert. We like the deep-dish apple pie at the hotel."
Qwilleran walked with him to the car. "So you're an engineer. What kind of work do you do?"
"I'm employed at the prison," Nick said. "See you tomorrow. "
Qwilleran went back to his housecleaning-in the desultory manner that was his specialty. He was shaking the Indian rugs in the parking lot when he heard a sound that made his heart leap: a car with a faulty muffler. Rosemary had never found time to have it replaced. He caught a glimpse of her little car between the trees and gasped. She had a passenger! If she had brought Max Sorrel—that pushy opportunist, that viper with a shaved head and facile smile—there might be another murder in Mooseville. The car disappeared in a gully, then rumbled back into view. Seated next to the driver, mouth agape and eyes staring, was the polar bear rug from the apartment at Maus Haus.
Rosemary tumbled out of the car, laughing at Qwilleran's spluttering amazement. "How—what—how—?"
"The former tenant offered to sell it for fifty dollars, and I thought you could afford that much," she said. "I had fun driving up here with the bear in the front seat, but the state troopers stopped me and said it was a motoring hazard. I pushed the head down under the dashboard, but it kept popping up. . . . What's the matter, dearest?
You're rather subdued."
"There's been a shocking incident here," Qwilleran told her, "and if you want to turn around and go home, I won't blame you."
"What on earth—?"
A murder, half a mile down the beach."
"Someone you know?"
He nodded sadly.
Rosemary raised her chin in the determined way she had. "Of course I'm not going home.
I'm going to stay here and cheer you up. You've been too solitary, and you've probably been eating all the wrong food, and you've been spending too much time at the typewriter instead of getting exercise."
That was his Rosemary—not as young as some of the women he had been seeing; in fact, she was a grandmother. But she was an attractive brunette with a youthful figure, and she was comfortable to have around. Once, when he had made some foolish attempt at rigorous exercise, she had given him a remarkably skillful massage.
"Please bring in my luggage, dearest, and show me where I'm going to sleep. I'd love to have a shower and a change of clothes. Where are the beautiful cats? I've brought them some catnip."
Koko and Yum Yum remembered her from Maus Haus and reacted to her presence without feline warine_ss but also without overt friendliness. Occasionally, when she had visited Qwilleran's apartment, they had been locked in the bathroom.
Rosemary's vitality and dewy complexion and bright eyes were the result, she claimed, of eating the Right Food, some of which she had brought along in a cooler. With the Right Food warming in the oven and the bearskin rug grinning on the hearth, the cabin felt homey and
"That's what my wife told me. She's postmistress in Mooseville."
"Lori? I've met her. Charming young lady." Qwilleran relaxed a little. "And your name?"
"Dominic. Nick for short. What seems to be the trouble?" After the situation was explained he said: "No problem at all. I'll bring some equipment tomorrow and take care of it."
"Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but a man at Top o' the Dunes was murdered. It's been a great shock."
"Yes, it's too bad. Everyone is wondering what effect it will have on the community."
"You mean people know about it already? They didn't find the body until a couple of hours ago."
"My wife heard the news in the choir loft," Nick said. "She sings at the Old Log Church. I heard it from one of the ushers during the offering."
"Murder is not what I'd expect in Mooseville. Who would do such a thing? Some camper from Down Below?”
"Well-l-l," replied the engineer. "I could make a guess."
Qwilleran's moustache bristled. He sensed a source of information. "May I offer you a drink, Nick?"
"No, thank you. I'll get back to my wife and my dessert. We like the deep-dish apple pie at the hotel."
Qwilleran walked with him to the car. "So you're an engineer. What kind of work do you do?"
"I'm employed at the prison," Nick said. "See you tomorrow. "
Qwilleran went back to his housecleaning-in the desultory manner that was his specialty. He was shaking the Indian rugs in the parking lot when he heard a sound that made his heart leap: a car with a faulty muffler. Rosemary had never found time to have it replaced. He caught a glimpse of her little car between the trees and gasped. She had a passenger! If she had brought Max Sorrel—that pushy opportunist, that viper with a shaved head and facile smile—there might be another murder in Mooseville. The car disappeared in a gully, then rumbled back into view. Seated next to the driver, mouth agape and eyes staring, was the polar bear rug from the apartment at Maus Haus.
Rosemary tumbled out of the car, laughing at Qwilleran's spluttering amazement. "How—what—how—?"
"The former tenant offered to sell it for fifty dollars, and I thought you could afford that much," she said. "I had fun driving up here with the bear in the front seat, but the state troopers stopped me and said it was a motoring hazard. I pushed the head down under the dashboard, but it kept popping up. . . . What's the matter, dearest?
You're rather subdued."
"There's been a shocking incident here," Qwilleran told her, "and if you want to turn around and go home, I won't blame you."
"What on earth—?"
A murder, half a mile down the beach."
"Someone you know?"
He nodded sadly.
Rosemary raised her chin in the determined way she had. "Of course I'm not going home.
I'm going to stay here and cheer you up. You've been too solitary, and you've probably been eating all the wrong food, and you've been spending too much time at the typewriter instead of getting exercise."
That was his Rosemary—not as young as some of the women he had been seeing; in fact, she was a grandmother. But she was an attractive brunette with a youthful figure, and she was comfortable to have around. Once, when he had made some foolish attempt at rigorous exercise, she had given him a remarkably skillful massage.
"Please bring in my luggage, dearest, and show me where I'm going to sleep. I'd love to have a shower and a change of clothes. Where are the beautiful cats? I've brought them some catnip."
Koko and Yum Yum remembered her from Maus Haus and reacted to her presence without feline warine_ss but also without overt friendliness. Occasionally, when she had visited Qwilleran's apartment, they had been locked in the bathroom.
Rosemary's vitality and dewy complexion and bright eyes were the result, she claimed, of eating the Right Food, some of which she had brought along in a cooler. With the Right Food warming in the oven and the bearskin rug grinning on the hearth, the cabin felt homey and
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