That would look god-awful!" This was Amanda's comment.

"It would not be legal." "We'd be defacing the flag of the United States." "Why not get an ordinary printed flag? It doesn't have to be as fancy as this one." "That solution doesn't eliminate the affront to the donor, rest her soul." This was the elderly councilwoman.

"Then buy a fancy one with gold fringe and send the bill to Hawaii and Alaska. They're the ones with all the money." There were cheers from the audience.

Mayor Blythe wielded the gavel. "We have a four-horned dilemma here. We can keep the present flag and offend Mr.

Hackpole. We can replace it and offend the memory of the original donor. We can buy a cheap substitute and sully the: city's image. Or we can buy an expensive flag with funds that might better be applied to the new municipal parking lot. I would entertain a motion to table this issue and proceed with further business, assuring Mr. Hackpole that his objection will be given due consideration." The flag issue was tabled; the forty-eight stars and thirteen stripes were saluted by all except Mr. Hackpole, and the council applied its brainpower to more important matters: barking dogs, the watering of the downtown flowerboxes, and a request from the waterbed store for permission to install a Cuddle Room in which prospective customers might test the product.

At the conclusion of the business meeting the mayor said, "Before we adjourn I would like to introduce a distinguished guest and new resident of Pickax — Mr. James Qwilleran." The benevolent heir to the Klingenschoen fortune — impressively tall and hefty and moustached-rose and bowed graciously. He was greeted by applause and cheers, but no whistles, this being Pickax.

"Mr. Mayor, members of the council, ladies and gentlemen," he began, "it is a pleasure to join a community imbued with such sensitive concern, cogent awareness, and vigilant sense of responsibility. I have listened with rapt attention to the flag discussion, and I should like to propose a solution. First I suggest that you preserve the present flag as a memorial to the donor and as a historic artifact, mounting it on the wall under glass. Second, I urge you to accept my gift of a new custom-made, all-wool, silk-lined, floor-standing flag with hand-stitched stripes, embroidered stars, and gold fringe, to be ordered through Amanda's Studio of Interior Design." The cheers were vociferous, and the demonstration ended with a standing ovation. Qwilleran raised his hand for silence. "You are all aware of the historic Klingenschoen mansion on the Circle. It is my intention that it will eventually be donated to the city of Pickax as a museum." More cheers. "Meanwhile, its priceless treasures are being preserved professionally by our new house manager, who will function as conservator, registrar, and curator of the collection. She is an authority with impeccable credentials, who comes to us from Down Below. May I present Iris Cobb? Mrs. Cobb, will you please stand?" Mrs. Cobb's eyes glistened more brightly than the rhinestones on her glasses as she took her bow. And when the meeting adjourned, Penelope said in slightly crisp tones, "Indeed, Mr. Qwilleran, you were a wellspring of surprises this evening." She drove them home but declined to join them in a celebratory nightcap. "My brother is waiting for me at the office," she explained. "We are pleading a case in court tomorrow, and there are momentous decisions to make before we call it a day." Mrs. Cobb also excused herself. "You'll think I'm silly, Mr. Qwilleran, but I want to have a good cry. If only my husband was alive and could hear the applause tonight and see me taking a bow! And your wonderful introduction! It was all so — so thrilling!" She ran upstairs.

Qwilleran went to the library to gaze in panic at the growing pyramid of mail on his desk. Fearing that his gift of a flag would result in even more saccharine letters of commendation, he telephoned the Mooseville postmistress at her home.

Her husband answered.

"Hi, Nick. How's everything in Mooseville?" "Perfect temperature, Qwill, but we need rain. I saw you out biking the other day. Where'd you get that relic?" "It could use a paint job," Qwilleran admitted, "but it works. I like biking. It gives me time to think. What I don't like is a dog barking at my heels." "They're not allowed to run loose in this county. You could make a complaint to the police. That's a violation." "Well, I always bellow a few choice words, and so far I haven't lost a foot. How's Lori? Is she still working?" "Not for long," Nick said, "She's put in her resignation." "She wrote to me about part-time secretarial work." "Sure thing. I'll put her on." A vivacious Lori came on the line. "Hello, Qwill. Did you get my letter?" Immediately Koko was on the desk, nudging the phone and trying to bite the cord. He knew who was on the other end of the line, Qwilleran pushed him away.

I did indeed, Lori, and there are two bushels of letters here, waiting for you. If Nick wants to pick them up, you can answer them at home." "Super!" "You're an expert typist, and your machine is much better than mine." "Thank you. Nick gave me an electronic for my birthday. I really wanted some little diamond earrings, but he's so practical. An engineer, you know." "I also want to ask a question, Lori, since you're so knowledgeable about cats." Qwilleran was fighting for possession of the telephone. "Koko likes to sit on the grand staircase, but only on the third stair. How do you explain that behavior?" He gave Koko another shove.

Lori said, "Cats leave their individual scent wherever they go, and they like to return to the same spot. It's like their private territory." "Hmmm," Qwilleran mused. "Perhaps you're right."

It was still only ten-thirty, and he was finishing a letter to the Pickax Thespians, declining their invitation to play the role of Teddy in Arsenic and Old Lace, when he heard a snatch of music.

From the drawing room came three distinct notes: E, D, C. Koko was playing the piano again. At least, Qwilleran presumed it was Koko at the keyboard, although he had never actually witnessed the cat pressing the keys. No doubt Mrs. Cobb would attribute the performance to the resident ghost.

Going to investigate, he found Koko ambling around the drawing room with conspicuous nonchalance. Qwilleran picked him up and plunked him without ceremony on the piano bench. "Now let's hear you play something." Koko said, "ik ik ik," in a pleasant voice and rolled over to lick his nether parts.

"Don't be modest. Show me what you can do." Qwilleran set the cat back on his four feet and then guided one paw to the keyboard. Twisting like a pretzel, Koko squirmed out of the man's grasp, jumped to the floor, and walked away with stiff-legged hauteur, returning to his perch on the third stair.

Was it coincidence that the notes coming from the piano had been the opening phrase of "Three Blind Mice"?

Qwilleran felt the familiar tickle on his upper lip. There was some significance, he felt, to the number three. Three-base hit… three-dollar bill… three sheets to the wind… the three Weird Sisters… three-mile limit. Clues eluded him completely.

The next morning Qwilleran was having his third cup of coffee when Amanda Goodwinter arrived unexpectedly, giving the doorbell her three impatient rings.

She barged into the vestibule, wearing an unkempt khaki suit and canvas golf hat, with wisps of hair escaping from underneath the brim. "Came to see if my painter is loafing on the job," she announced.

Qwilleran marveled that Penelope could look so sleek in a suit and Amanda could look so frumpy — the sleeves too long, one shoulder drooping, and the blouse collar half-in and half-out.

"What's that infernal racket?" she demanded.

"Birch Tree is doing some repairs for us," Qwilleran said. "Excuse me a moment. I have something to give you." From a locked drawer in the library desk he brought an ivory elephant. "I think this belongs to you." "Where the devil did you find this?" She turned the carving over to verify the label.