"Have you started to catalogue the collection?" "Yes, and I'm terribly excited. There's a silver vault in the basement with some eight-branch silver candelabra about three feet high. The butler's pantry has china to serve twenty-four, and the linen closet had damask and Madeira banquet cloths like you wouldn't believe! You ought to give a big dinner party, Mr. Qwilleran. I'd be glad to cook for it." "Good idea," he said, "but don't try to do too much. Save some time for youself. You might want to join the Historical Society, and when you're ready to take on appraisal jobs we'll run an ad in the Picayune — even get you some publicity on WPKX." "Oh, that would be wonderful!" "And how would you like to attend a city council meeting? I intend to go, and the attorney suggested you might enjoy it, too." "Wasn't that sweet of her! Yes, I'd love to go," Mrs. Cobb said, her eyes shining. "We had so much trouble with bureaucrats in the city; I'd like to see how a small town operates." "Okay, it's a date. Now I'm going to take a bike ride before dinner." "Mr. Qwilleran," the housekeeper said hesitantly, "It's none of my business, but I'd like to say something if it won't offend you." "Fire away!" "I wish you'd get a new bicycle. That old one is such a rattletrap! It's not safe." "The bike's perfectly safe, Mrs. Cobb. I've cleaned it and oiled it and bought new tires. It has a few squeaks, but it's good enough for my purposes." "But there are so many trucks, and they travel so fast! They could blow you right off die road." "I do most of my biking on country roads, where there's very little traffic. Don't worry." The housekeeper set her mouth primly. "But it doesn't look right for a man in your position to be riding a — riding a piece of junk, if you'll pardon the expression." "And if you'll pardon my saying so, Mrs. Cobb, you're beginning to sound like Penelope Goodwinter. Those eight- branch candelabra have gone to your head." She smiled sheepishly.

"While I'm gone," he said, "Miss Goodwinter might call to say when she's picking us up for the council meeting. Also, a Mrs. Hanstable might phone. She wants a tour of die house. Tell her that any time tomorrow will be okay. I'm going to start charging twenty bucks for these tours." "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran, you must be kidding." In order to bike on country roads he had to negotiate four blocks of downtown traffic, five blocks of old residential streets, and then six blocks of suburbia abounding in prefabricated ranch houses, children, plastic tricycles, dogs, and barbecue smoke. After that came the lonely serenity of open country — pastureland, old mine sites, patches of woods, and an occasional farmhouse with a bicycle-chasing dog.

As he pedaled along the four straight miles on Ittibittiwassee Road he thought of many things: lamb stew and dumplings for dinner… Melinda coming home soon… the loungy sofa he had ordered… Arch Riker's pending visit… a tick-tick-tick in the rear wheel… a dinner party with three-foot silver candelabra… poor Mrs. Cobb, too long a widow… a new grinding noise in the sprocket… Daisy, Daisy… the police chief with a good Scottish name… cream-filled coconut cake.

"The nerve of that guy!" he said aloud, and a lonely cow on the side of the road turned her head to look at him benignly.

Nerve was Birch Tree's outstanding trait. Early the next morning he arrived with a truckful of tools, an appetite for breakfast, and a portable radio. Qwilleran was half awake when a blast of noise catapulted him from his bed. Raucous music was augmented by a concert of caterwauling.

Grabbing his old plaid robe, he bolted downstairs and found the maintenance man happily at work on a kitchen door.

Yum Yum was screeching like the siren at City Hall, and Koko was exercising his full range of seven octaves as the music pulsed out of a radio with satellite speakers and a control panel like a video game.

"Cut the volume!" Qwilleran shouted. "It's hurting their ears!" "Throw 'em a fish head and they'll shut up," Birch yelled. "Baa-a-a-a!" Qwilleran made a dive for the controls. "If you want to know, Birch, that blaster hurts my ears, too." Mrs. Cobb beckoned him into the laundry room. "Let's not discourage him," she whispered. "He's touchy, and we want to keep him on the job." For the next few days Birch Tree was always underfoot, modifying the volume of his radio in proportion to Mrs. Cobb's supply of food, compliments, and beer. The whine of power tools turned the cats' ears inside out, but Qwilleran learned to accept the chaos as a positive indication of progress.

On the afternoon that Mildred Hanstable came to see the house, the tour started in the garage, where the slow-motion painter was spreading Mojave beige in Qwilleran's future studio. They picked their way among buckets, ladders, and drop cloths to reach Daisy's apartment.

At the sight of it the art teacher caught her breath. "It's remarkable! A tour deforce! A poor girl's Sistine Chapel!" Tears came to her eyes. "That sad little creature! I wonder if she'll ever return." Qwilleran fingered his moustache uncertainly. "Frankly, I'm beginning to doubt that Daisy's alive." "What are you trying to tell me, Qwill?" "We don't know if she ever really left town, do we?" "Do you suspect something… awful?" "I don't know. It's just a hunch, but it's a strong one." How could he tell her about the tremor on his upper lip and the tune that kept running through his mind? "Let's go to the house, Mildred, and you can tell me what Daisy's mother said." As they turned to leave the apartment the congenial Steve was standing in the doorway, holding a paint roller and shaking his head. "I'd hate to hafta paint this room. Did she do it all by herself? Crazy Daisy! That's what we called her in school." "Just go back and push that roller, Speedo," Qwilleran said with a fraternal punch on the shoulder. "No laps, no sags, no drips, no pimples." In the main house he conducted Mildred through the rooms with the finesse of a professional guide. "Opposite the fireplace you see a pietra dura cabinet, late seventeenth century. The Regency desk is laburnum with kingswood banding." Mrs. Cobb was training him well.

"All this art! All this splendor!" Mildred exclaimed. "You don't expect it in Moose County." "Very few people knew what this house contained," Qwilleran said. "The Klingenschoens never entertained, although they owned a boxcarful of china and silver… Would you like a drink?" "Do you have any fruit juice?" He served white grape juice from Koko's private stock, and they sat in the solarium, where Mildred critiqued the marbled sculptures. It was mercifully quiet, except for an occasional "Baa-a-a!" Birch had turned off his radio and was having a beer with Mrs. Cobb in the kitchen. Either the housekeeper was totally smitten, or she was a master strategist.

The work was being done, and it was being done well.

"And now," Qwilleran said to Mildred, "tell me about Mrs. Mull." "She was fairly sober and quite agreeable. I gave her your message, and when I mentioned the gold jewelry she perked up noticeably." "Did she have any news of her daughter?" "None, but here's something interesting. She too received a postcard shortly after Daisy left. Something like 'Going to Florida… never coming back… forget about me… you never loved me. Della was quite bitter about it." "Did you see the card?" "She hadn't kept it. And naturally she didn't remember the postmark or the handwriting or the date. That was five years ago, and she's been in a fog most of the time." Qwilleran said, "I went to the police station and met Chief Brodie. Pleasant guy, very cooperative. Daisy had no record — no arrests, no complaints. I gave him the date when she left, but there was no report to Missing Persons." "I'm relieved to know she has a clean slate," Mildred said. "She wasn't a bad girl, but the odds were against her. She used to come to school in rags. I kept some of Sharon's old clothes in the art room, and I'd make Daisy put them on.