"Among Daisy Mull's belongings. I was cleaning out the attic." "It must be six years since this disappeared from the I studio," the designer said. "Daisy was working for me then, but it was an election year, and I thought some sneaky Republican made off with it." She handed the carving back to Qwilleran. "Here! It's yours. It's a good one — old — can't import them anymore." "No! No! It's your property, Amanda." "Shut up and keep it," she barked at him. "I've already taken a loss on the books. What did you think of the meeting last night?" "It was refreshing to hear public servants speaking English. No prioritizing. No impacticizing. No decontextualizing." "Your speech was a corker-all that bosh about vigilant awareness and cogent concern. It gave me a bellyache, but they fell for it," "By the way, who's Mr. Hackpole?" Qwilleran asked.

"He gives everybody a bellyache. Always throwing a monkey wrench in the works. Steer clear of Hackpole. He's bad news." "The overweight councilman seemed to side with him in the flag dispute." "That's Scott Gippel — scared to death of Hackpole. They're next-door neighbors. Hackpole never pulled a shotgun on anybody yet, but he can get gol-durned mad if somebody steps on his grass or complains about his dogs." "What's his problem?" "Wife ran off with a beer-truck driver, and he went bonkers. Didn't affect his financial savvy, though. He sells used cars. Sharp operator!.. Well, let's go and look at the paint job. You ought to keep this back door locked. Bloody tourist season, you know. Town's full of creeps, stoned to the gills. They broke into Dr. Hal's office. Took drugs and needles." As they approached the garage Qwilleran said, "Look at this big wardrobe. I thought it was junk, but Mrs. Cobb says it's a Pennsylvania schrank and highly collectible." Amanda snorted. "Looks like junk to me." "Well, I'd like your porters to move it into the house when they have time. I'd like to put it just outside the library." "Arrgh!" she growled. Puffing and grunting, she climbed the stairs to inspect the apartment under renovation. After threatening to fire Steve if he didn't show some signs of life, she had another incredulous look at Daisy's murals and then said to Qwilleran, "Walk me to my car." As they walked down the driveway under ancient maple trees, Qwilleran remarked about the glorious weather.

"Wait till you've spent a winter here, mister!" Then she added, "Got some advice for you. Watch your step in Pickax.

The town likes to gossip. Somebody's always listening. Seems like the whole town's bugged. Wouldn't be surprised if they bugged the flowerboxes on Main Street. I don't trust our mayor either. Nice fella, but I don't trust him as far as I can spit.

So keep your eyes and ears open, and don't say anything you don't want repeated." "At the coffee shop, you mean?" "Or at the country club. Or on the church steps." Amanda climbed into the driver's seat with some awkward maneuvering of knees, elbows, and hips. She gunned the motor and her car shot down the driveway, stopped short with squealing tires, and backed up. "And watch out for' my cousins! Don't be fooled by the phony Goodwinter charm." She took off again, barreling recklessly into the traffic flow around the Circle. Qwilleran was baffled. Pickax was full of Goodwinters, and they were all cousins. There was nothing phony about Melinda. He liked her humor — sometimes cynical, usually irreverent. She had just returned from Paris, and he had made a date with her, anticipating a relaxing evening of conversation, if not more. Melinda had been aggressively seductive from the beginning.

"Is that good or bad?" he said aloud when he returned to the house to feed the cats. "What would you guys like for breakfast? Veal Oscar? Coq au vin? Shrimp deJonghe?" He diced some of Mrs. Cobb's pot roast and arranged it on a Royal Worcester plate with pan juices, a little grated carrot, and a sprinkling of hard-cooked egg yolks. "Voil…," he said.

Both cats attacked the meal with gusto, carefully avoiding the grated carrot.

His next visitor was Tiffany Trotter, the same wholesome, robust country girl who had interviewed for the job of housekeeper. This time they talked in the library to avoid the noise of Birch's hammering and sawing and radio; he was now building shelves for Mrs. Cobb's reference books.

In the library Tiffany swiveled her eyes over the bookfilled shelves and sculptured plaster ceiling. "This is a pretty room," she said.

"You wanted to speak to me about Daisy," Qwilleran reminded her.

"She used to work here." "I'm aware of that. Are you a friend of Daisy's?" "We were very good friends, and — " She shrugged for want of the right words. "I thought it was kinda funny when she left town without telling me — didn't even write." She searched Qwilleran's face for his reaction.

"Did you make inquiries at that time?" "I asked the old lady she worked for, and she said Daisy moved to Florida. She acted as if she was mad about something." "That was five years ago. How long had you been friends?" "Since ninth grade. The Dimsdale kids were bused to Pickax, and the other kids made fun of Daisy because she was a Mull. I kinda liked her. She was different. She could draw." "Did she have boyfriends?" "Not till she left school. She didn't finish. She didn't like school." "Do you know who her friends were?" "Just guys." "She was pregnant when she left. Did you know that?" "Mmmm… yes." "Did she say anything about getting an abortion?" "Oh, no!" Tiffany was emphatic for the first time during the interview. "She wanted the baby. She wanted to get married, but I don't think the guy wanted to." "Who was the father?" "Mmmm… I dunno." "What did Daisy's mother think about all of this?" Tiffany shrugged. "I dunno. She never talked about her mother.

They didn't get along." "Mrs. Mull died a few days ago. Did you know?" "Somebody told me." It was one of those moments when Qwilleran would have relished a smoke. Puffing a Scottish blend in his old quarter- bend bulldog would have sharpened his mental processes, would have given him pauses in which to organize his questions. But Melinda had urged him to give up his comfortable old pipe.

He asked the girl if she would like a beer, thinking it would help her relax; she was sitting on the edge of the blood red leather sofa.

"I guess not," she said. "I haftago and do the milking." "Do you think something bad might have happened to your friend?" Tiffany moistened her lips. "I dunno. I just thought it was funny when she went away and didn't tell me. Nobody else cared, so that's why I came." As Qwilleran accompanied her to the front door, Birch was shifting his tools and radio to another place of operation.

"Whatcha doin' here, sweetheart?" he called out in his hearty voice. "Lookin' for a job? Whatsa matter with that big bozo you married? I thought you'd be knocked up by now. Baa-a-a-a!" Tiffany gave the man a sideways glance and a timid smile, and Qwilleran said to him, "Skip the social pleasantries, Birch. Just tell us when we're going to get a lock on the back door." "Came in yesterday — airmail from Down Below," Birch said. "You'll have it tomorrow. No lie." Qwilleran watched Tiffany leave. She crossed the little park and drove away in a pickup that had been parked on the far side of the Circle. Why hadn't she parked in the driveway? There was ample space. Her wordless reaction to Birch's remark had been equally puzzling.

"Damrnit!" Qwilleran said aloud. He should have asked her why she came to see him. Who told her he was interested?

There's something going on here that I don't know about, he thought, and she knows something she's not telling.

That's the way it is in a small town. It's all very friendly and open on the surface, but underneath it's a network of intrigue and secrecy.