"Mrs. Marron, I must admit, makes an excellent hasenpfeffer," Maus explained. "She will prepare the. . . viands this weekend while I attend a gourmet conclave out of town. . . for which I happen to be the . . . master of ceremonies."

From the open-air market they went into the general market, a vast arena with hundreds of stalls under one roof and a soft carpet of sawdust underfoot. Hucksters with hoarse voices offered spiced salt belly, strudel dough, chocolate tortes, plaster figures of saints, quail eggs, voodoo potions, canned grape leaves, octopus, and perfumed floor wash guaranteed to bring good luck. A nickel-plated machine ground fresh peanut butter. A phonograph played harem music at a record stall. Maus bought snails and some Dutch mustard seed.

For a moment Qwilleran closed his eyes and tried to sort out the heady mix of smells: freshly ground coffee, strong cheese, garlic sausage, anise, dried codfish, incense. A wave of cheap perfume reached his nostrils, and he opened his eyes to see a Gypsy woman looking at him from a nearby stall. She smiled, and he blinked his eyes. She had Joy's smile, Joy's tiny figure, and Joy's long hair, but her face was a hundred years old. Her clothes were soiled, and her hair looked as if it had never been washed.

"Tell the fortune?" she invited.

Fascinated by this cruel caricature, Qwilleran nodded.

"You sit."

He sat on an upended beer case, and the woman sat opposite, shuffling a deck of dirty cards.

"How much?" he asked.

"Dollar. One dollar, yes?"

She laid out the cards in a cross and studied them. "I see water. You take long trip — boat — soon, yes?"

"Not very likely," Qwilleran said. "What else do you see?"

"Somebody sick. You get letter. . . I see money. Lotsa money. You like."

"Don't we all?"

"Young boy — your son? Some day great man. Big doctor."

"Where is my childhood sweetheart? Can you tell me that?"

"Hmmm . . . she far away — happy — lotsa children."

"You're phenomenal. You're a genius," Qwilleran grumbled. "Anything else?"

"I see water — so much water. You no like. Everybody wet."

Qwilleran escaped from the Gypsy's booth and caught up with his landlord. "Better fix the roof," he told him. "There's going to be another biblical-type flood." He shook himself, as if he might have picked up fleas.

When the two men carried their market purchases into the kitchen at Maus Haus, Mrs. Marron said to Qwilleran, "A man from the newspaper called. He said you should call him. Mr. Piper. Art Piper."

"Where've you been?" Arch Riker demanded when Qwilleran, got him on the phone. "Out all night?"

"I've been to the farmers' market, getting material for a column, and I expect to collect time-and-a-half for getting up at an ungodly hour on my day off. What's on your mind?"

"I wish you'd help me out, Qwill. Would you drive to Rattlesnake Lake to act as one of the judges in a contest?"

"Bathing beauties?"

"No. Cake-baking. It's the statewide thing sponsored by the John Stuart Flour Mills. They do a lot of advertising, and we promised we'd send one of the judges."

"Why can't the food editor do it?" Qwilleran snapped.

"She's in the hospital."

"Been eating her own cooking?"

"Qwill, you're crabby today. What's wrong with you?"

"To tell you the truth, Arch, I'd like to stick around here this weekend — to see what I can dig up. Joy's husband invited me in for a drink tonight. I don't want to talk about it on the phone, but you know what we discussed in the coffee shop."

"I know, Qwill, but we're in a jam. You can take some time off next week."

"Can't the women's department handle this contest?"

"They've got a lot of spring weddings to cover. You could make a nice weekend of it, take a company car and drive up this afternoon. You could have a nice dinner at the Rattlesnake Inn — they're famous for their food — and come back tomorrow night."

"They're famous for their bad food, not famous for their good food," Qwilleran objected. "Besides, how can I enjoy a dinner anywhere and stay on my diet? How can I judge a cake contest and lose any weight?"

"You'll figure something out. You're an old pro," said Riker.

"I'll make a deal with you," Qwilleran said after a moment's hesitation. "I'll go to Rattlesnake Lake if you'll send me Odd Bunsen on Monday to shoot pictures in the pottery."

"You think it's a story? We've done potteries before. They all look alike."

"It may not make a story, but I want an excuse to get in there and prowl around." The newsman smoothed his mustache with his knuckles. "We've had another mysterious disappearance, Arch. This time it's the houseboy."

There was silence from Riker as he weighed the lunch, he asked if anyone had seen William.

Hixie, who was busy chewing, shook her head. Dan said, "Nope."

Rosemary remarked that it was unusual for William to miss market day.

Mrs. Marron said, "He was supposed to wax the floors today."

Charlotte Roop was engrossed in her crossword puzzle and said nothing.

Mrs. Marron was serving home-baked beans with brown bread and leftover ham, and Dan looked at the fare with distaste. "What's for dinner?" he demanded.

"Some nice roast chicken and wild rice."

"Chicken again? We just had it on Monday."

"And a nice coconut custard pie."

"I don't like coconut. It gets in my teeth," he said, making a sandwich of brown bread and ham.

"And tomorrow a nice rabbit stew," the housekeeper added.

"Ecch!"

"Mrs. Marron," Qwilleran interrupted, "these baked beans are delicious."

She gave him a grateful glance. "It's because I use an old bean pot. Forty years old, Mr. Maus says. It was made right here in the pottery, and it's signed on the bottom — H.M.H."

"That must have been about the time the sculptor was murdered," Qwilleran remarked.

"It was an accidental drowning," Miss Roop corrected him, looking up briefly from her puzzle.

"Nobody really believes that," said Hixie, and then she recited in a singsong voice:

"A potty young sculptor, Mort Mellon,

Fell in love with a pottress named Helen,

But the pottery gods frowned

And he promptly got drowned.

Who pushed him the potters ain't tellin'."

Miss Roop lifted her chin. "That's very disrespectful, Miss Rice."

"Who cares?" Hixie retorted. "They're all dead."

"Mr. Maus would not like it, if he were here."

"But he's not here. By now he's halfway to Miami."

"Miami?" Qwilleran echoed.

Mrs. Marron brought him some more ham, which he regretfully declined, although he accepted some scraps for his roommates. "By the way," he said to her, "I'm going to be out of town overnight. Would you be good enough to feed my cats tomorrow morning?"

"I don't know much about cats," she said. "Is there anything special I have to do?"

"Just dice some meat for them and give them fresh water. And be absolutely sure they don't get out of the apartment." To the others at the table he said, "I have an assignment at Rattlesnake Lake. Dan, I'll have to take a rain check on your invitation, but we might be lucky enough to get a photographer here on Monday."

Dan grunted and nodded. Qwilleran went on: "I hate the thought of the long drive up to the lake in a company car. The Fluxion seems to have bought a whole fleet of lemons."

A soft voice at his left said, "Would you like company? I'd be happy to go along for the ride. You could drive my car." The newsman turned and looked into the eyes of Rosemary Whiting — the quiet one, the thoughtful one who had brought the cats a ball of yarn. Her brown eyes were filled with an expression he could not immediately identify. He had not realized she was so attractive — her eyes dancing with health, her skin like whipped cream, her dark hair glossy.