His ruminations were interrupted by the sound of a vehicle in the service drive. Dropping the gold bracelet into his pocket, he stuffed the rest of Daisy's belongings back into the sad excuse for a suitcase — broken handle, tom lining, scuffed comers. Then he went outdoors to greet Mrs. Cobb. Her van was filled to the roof with boxes of books, which he began to carry into the house.

She was happy to the point of tears. "I'm so thrilled, I don't know where to begin." "Get yourself settled comfortably," he said. "Then make a list of what you need for the refrigerator and pantry. The cats are looking forward to your Swedish meatballs and deviled crab." "What do you like to eat, Mr. Qwilleran?" "I eat everything — except parsnips and turnips. I'll take you out to lunch this noon, and then I have an appointment at my attorney's office." The meeting that Penelope had scheduled included Mr. Fitch from the bank and Mr. Cooper, accountant for the estate. The banker was well tanned; Mr. Cooper was ghastly pale in spite of the sunshine that was parching Moose County. Mr. Fitch graciously congratulated Qwilleran on his proposal to start an eleemosynary foundation. He also inquired if Qwilleran golfed.

"I'm afraid I'm a Moose County anomaly," was the answer. "Non-golfing, non-fishing, non-hunting." "We'll have to do something about that," said the banker cordially. "I'd like to sponsor you for the country club." The first order of business concerned the opening of a drawing account at the bank. Then Penelope suggested to Qwilleran that he start sifting through any documents he might find in the house. "It would be wise," she said, "to acquaint yourself with insurance coverage, taxes, household inventories, and the like before turning them over to our office." He squirmed uncomfortably. He despised that kind of paperwork.

"Is everything progressing smoothly?" she asked, smiling and dimpling.

"The housekeeper arrived this morning," he said, "and she agrees we should have some day help." "I recommend Mrs. Fulgrove. She works for us a few days a week and is very thorough. Has Birch Trevelyan made contact with you?" "Never showed up. All the doors need attention, and we definitely need a lock on the back door." "That Birch is a lazy dog," said the banker. "You have to catch him atone of the coffee shops and twist his arm." Penelope threw Mr. Fitch a reproving glance. "I'll handle it, Nigel. I think I can put a little diplomatic pressure on the man… Do you have any questions, Mr. Qwilleran?" "When does the city council meet? Sitting in on a meeting is a good way to get acquainted with a new community.

Mrs. Cobb might like to go, too." "In that case," Penelope said quickly, "I'll take the lady as my guest. It wouldn't be appropriate for you to escort her." "Oh, come on, Penny," said the banker with a half laugh, and she threw him one of her sharp glances.

Turning to the silent accountant, she asked, "Do you have anything to add, Mr. Cooper?" "Good records," he said. "It's important to have good records. Do you keep good records, Mr. Qwilleran?" Qwilleran had visions of more paperwork. "Records of what?" "Personal income, expenditures, deductions. Be sure to keep receipts, vouchers, bank statements, and such." Qwilleran nodded. The accountant had given him an idea. After the meeting he drew the man aside. "Do you have the records of domestic help at the Klingenschoen house, Mr. Cooper? I'd like to know the dates of employment for one Daisy Mull." "It's all in the computer," the accountant said. "I'll have my secretary phone you with the information." In the ensuing days Qwilleran enjoyed the housekeeper's home cooking, answered letters, and bought new tires for the bicycle in the garage. He also telephoned the young managing editor of the Picayune. "When are you going to introduce me to coffee shop society, Junior? You promised." "Any time. Where do you want to go? The best place is the Dimsdale Diner." "I had lunch there once. I call it the Dismal Diner." "You're not kidding either. I'll pick you up tomorrow morning at ten. Wear a feed cap," the editor advised, "and you'd better practice drinking coffee with a spoon in the cup." Although Junior Goodwinter looked like a high school sophomore and always wore running shoes and a Pickax varsity letter, he had graduated from journalism school before going to work for his father's newspaper. They drove to the diner in his red Jaguar, the editor in a baseball cap and Qwilleran in a bright orange hunting cap.

"Junior, this county has the world's worst drivers," he said. "They straddle the centerline; they make turns from the wrong lane; they don't even know what turn signals are for. How do they get away with it?" "We're more casual up here," Junior explained. "You people Down Below are all conformists, but we don't like anybody telling us what to do." They parked in the dusty lot at the diner, among a fleet of vans and pickup trucks and one flashy motorcycle.

The Dismal Diner was an old railroad freight car that had been equipped with permanently dirty windows. The tables and chairs might have been cast-offs from the Hotel Booze when it redecorated in 1911. For the coffee hour, customers pushed tables together to seat clubby groups of eight or ten — all men wearing feed caps. They helped themselves to coffee and doughnuts on the counter and paid their money to a silent, emaciated man in a cook's apron. Cigarette' smoke blurred the atmosphere. The babble of voices and raucous laughter was deafening.

Qwilleran and Junior, sitting at a side table, caught fragments of conversation: "Never saw nothin 'like what they put on TV these days." "How's your dad's arthritis, Joe?" "Man, don't try to tell me they're not livin' together." "We need rain." "The woman he's goin' with — they say she's a lawyer." "Ever hear the one about the little city kid who had to draw a picture of a cow?" Qwilleran leaned across the table. "Who are these guys?" Junior scanned the group. "Farmers. Commercial fishermen. A branch bank manager. A guy who builds pole barns.

One of them sells farm equipment; he's loaded. One of them cleans septic tanks." Pipe smoke and the aroma of a cigar were added to the tobacco haze. Snatches of conversation were interwoven like a tapestry.

"Durned if I didn't fix my tractor with a piece of wire. Saved a coupla hundred, easy." "Always wanted to go to Vegas, but my oId lady, she says no." "Forget handguns. I like a rifle for deer." "My kid caught a bushel of perch at Purple Point in half an hour." "We all know he's got his hand in the till. Never got caught, that's all." "Here's Terry!" several voices shouted, and heads turned toward the dirty windows.

One customer rushed out the door. Picking up a wooden palette, he slanted it across the steps to make a ramp.

Then a man in a feed cap, who had eased out of a low-slung car into a folding wheelchair, waited until he was pushed up the ramp into the diner.

"Dairy farmer," Junior whispered. "Bad accident a few years ago. Tractor rollover… Milks a hundred Holsteins an hour in a computerized milking parlor. Five hundred gallons a day. Eighteen tons of manure a year." The talk went on — about taxes, the commodities market, and animal waste management systems. There was plenty of laughter — chesty guffaws, explosive roars, cackling and bleating. «Baa-a-a» laughed a customer behind Qwilleran.

"We all know who she's makin' eyes at, don't we? Baa-a-a!" "Ed's new bam cost three quarters of a million.".

"They sent him to college and dammit if he didn't get on dope." "That which is crooked cannot be made straight, according to Ecclesiastes One-fifteen." "Man, he'll never get married. He's got it too good. Baa-a-a!" "We need rain bad." "If he brings that woman here, there's gonna be hell to pay." A sign over the doughnut tray read: "Cows may come and cows may go, but the bull in here goes on forever." "I believe it," Qwilleran said. "This is a gossip factory." "Nah," Junior said. "The guys just shoot the breeze." Toward eleven o'clock customers began to straggle out, and a man with a cigar stopped to give Junior a friendly punch in the ribs. He had a big build and arrogant swagger, and he bleated like a sheep. He rode off on the flashy motorcycle in a blast of noise and flying gravel.