"Who's that?" Qwilleran asked. "Birch Tree," Junior said. "It's really Trevelyan, an old family name in Moose County.

His brother's name is Spruce, and he has two sisters, Maple and Evergreen. I told you we're individualists up here." "That's the guy who's supposed to do our repairs, but he's taking his own sweet time." "He's good, but he hates to work. Hikes his prices so people won't hire him. Always has plenty of dough, though.

He's part owner of this diner, but that would never make anyone rich." "Unless they're selling something besides food," Qwilleran said.

On the way back to Pickax he asked if women ever came to the coffee hour.

"Naw, they have their own gossip sessions with tea and cookies… Want to hear the eleven o'clock news?" He turned on the car radio.

Ever since arriving in Moose County Qwilleran had marveled at the WPKX news coverage. The local announcers had a style that he called Instant Paraphrase.

The newscaster was saying, "… lost control of his vehicle when a deer ran across the highway, causing the car to enter a ditch and sending the driver to the Pickax Hospital, where he was treated and released. A hospital spokesperson said the patient was treated for minor injuries and released.

"In sports, the Pickax Miners walloped the Mooseville Mosquitoes thirteen to twelve, winning the county pennant and a chance at the play-offs. According to Coach Russell, the pennant gives the miners a chance to show their stuff in the regional play-offs." Suddenly Junior's beeper sounded, and a siren at City Hall started to wail. "There's a fire," he said. "Mind if I drop you at the light? See you later." His red Jaguar varoomed toward the fire hall, and Qwilleran walked the few remaining blocks. On every side he was hailed by strangers who seemed happy to see him and who used the friendly but respectful initial customary in Pickax.

"Hi, Mr. Q." "Morning, Mr. Q." "Nice day, Mr. Q." Mrs. Cobb greeted him with a promise of meatloaf sandwiches for lunch. "And there's a message from Mr. Cooper's office. The person you inquired about terminated her employment five years ago on July seventh. She started April third of that year. Also, a very strange woman walked in and said she'd been hired to clean three days a week. She's upstairs now, doing the bedrooms. And another thing, Mr. Qwilleran — I found some personal correspondence in my desk upstairs, and I thought you should sort it out. It's on your desk in the library." The correspondence filled a corrugated carton, and perched on top of the conglomeration of papers was Koko, sound asleep with his tail curled lovingly around his nose. Either the cat was developing a mail fetish, or he knew the carton had once contained a shipment of canned tuna.

Qwilleran removed the sleeping animal and tackled the old Klingenschoen correspondence. There was no order or sense to the collection, and nothing of historic or financial importance. Mail that should have been thrown into a wastebasket had been pigeon-holed in a desk. A letter from a friend, dated 1921, had been filed with a solicitation for a recent Boy Scout drive.

What caught Qwilleran's attention was a government postal card with two punctures in one comer, looking suspiciously like the mark of feline fangs.

The message read: "Writing on bus. Sorry didn't say goodbye. Got job in Florida — very sudden. Got a lift far as Cleveland. Throw out all my things. Don't need anything. Good job — good pay." It was signed with the name that had been haunting Qwilleran for the last ten days, and it was dated July 11, five years before. Curiously enough, there was a Maryland postmark. Why the girl was traveling from Cleveland to Florida by way of Maryland was not clear. Qwilleran also noted that the handwriting bore no resemblance to the precise penmanship on Daisy's luggage tags.

He ripped the tag from the suitcase in the kitchen and went in search of Mrs. Fulgrove. He found her in the Empire suite, furiously attacking a marble-topped, sphinx-legged table with her soft cloths and mysterious potions.

"This place was let go somethin' terrible," she said, "which don't surprise me, seein' as how the Old Lady didn't have no decent help for five years, but I'm doin' my best to put things to rights, and it ain't easy when you're my age and pestered with a bad shoulder, which I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy." Qwilleran complimented her on her industry and principles and showed her the luggage tag. "Do you know anything about this?" "Course I do, it's my own writin', and nobody writes proper anymore, but the nuns taught us how to write so's anybody could read it, and when the Old Lady told me to put that girl's things in the attic, I marked 'em so's there'd be no mistake." "Why did the Old Lady keep Daisy's clothing, Mrs. Fulgrove? Was the girl expected to return?" "Heaven knows what the Old Lady took it in her head to do. She never throwed nothin' away, and when she told me to pack it all in the attic, I packed it in the attic and no questions asked." Qwilleran disengaged himself from the conference and let Mrs. Fulgrove return to her brass polish and marble restorer and English wax. He himself went back to answering letters. The afternoon delivery brought another avalanche spilling into the vestibule, to be distributed by the two self-appointed mail clerks. Koko delivered a card announcing a new seafood restaurant, as well as a letter from Roger's mother-in-law. She wrote:

Dear Qwill, Are you enjoying your new lifestyle? Don't forget you're only thirty miles from Mooseville. Drop in some afternoon. I've been picking wild blueberries for pies.

Mildred Hanstable

She had been Qwilleran's neighbor at the beach, and he remembered her as a generous-hearted woman who loved people. He seized the phone and immediately accepted the invitation-not only because she made superb pies but because she had been Daisy Mull's art teacher.

Driving up to the shore the next afternoon he sensed a difference in the environment as he approached the lake — not only the lushness of vegetation and freshness of breeze but a general air of relaxation and well-being. It was the magic that lured tourists to Mooseville.

The Hanstable summer cottage overlooked the lake, and an umbrella table was set up for the repast.

"Mildred, your blueberry pie is perfection," Qwilleran said. "Not too gelatinous, not too viscous, not too liquescent." She laughed with pleasure. "Don't forget I teach home ec as well as art. In our school district we have to be versatile, like coaching girls' volleyball and directing the senior play." "Do you remember a student named Daisy Mull?" he asked.

"Do I ever! I had great hopes for Daisy. Why do you ask?" "She worked for the Klingenschoens a while back, and I found some of her artwork." "Daisy had talent. That's why I was so disappointed when she didn't continue. It's unusual for that kind of talent to surface in Moose County. The focus is on sports, raising families, and watching TV. Daisy dropped out of school and eventually left town." "Where did she go?" "I don't know. She never kept in touch, to my knowledge — not even with her mother, although that's easy to understand. What kind of artwork did you find?" Qwilleran described the murals. "I'd love to see them," Mildred said. "In fact I'd like to see the whole house, if you wouldn't mind. Roger says it's a showplace." "I think we can arrange that… Didn't Daisy get along with her mother?" "Mrs. Mull has a drinking problem, and it's hard for a young girl to cope with an alcoholic parent… Please help yourself to the pie, Qwill." He declined a third helping, reminding himself that Mrs. Cobb was planning lamb stew with dumplings for dinner, with her famous coconut cake for dessert.

He drew a postal card from his pocket. "I found this at the house, dated five years ago. Daisy was on her way to Florida. Mildred looked at the address side of the card, frowning a little. Then she turned it over and read the message twice.