"I don't know why he should be," said Qwilleran. "He has his French knives and his eight-burner stove."

"You're not being serious," she chided. "His wife is dead, you know, and his heart isn't in the law business; he should be running a fine restaurant. On Tuesday night, after I'd had dinner at my son's house, I came home after midnight and saw a light in the kitchen, so I went in to investigate. There was Mr. Maus sitting at the table with his head in his hands. He was holding a piece of raw meat on his eye."

"Filet mignon, of course."

"All right. I won't tell you the rest of it."

"Please. I'm sorry."

"Well, he told me he'd been sitting on the bench down by the river and tripped on the boardwalk when he started to leave. Don't you think that's rather sad — sitting down by the river all alone?"

"He had a different explanation for me," Qwilleran said. "Would you like to dance? I'm a sad, lonely, unhappy man, too."

They danced slowly and thoughtfully, and Qwilleran was thinking of suggesting a walk in the moonlight when he was suddenly overcome by complete exhaustion. His shoulders sagged; his face felt drawn. He had been up since dawn, tramping around the farmers' market, and then there had been the long drive, followed by boating (he hadn't rowed a boat for fifteen years) and then dancing and a large meal . . .

"Are you tired?" Rosemary asked. "You've had a long day. Why don't we go upstairs?"

Qwilleran agreed gratefully.

"Would you like me to massage your neck and shoulders?" she asked. "It will relax you, and you'll sleep beautifully. But first a hot bath, so you won't have sore muscles after all that rowing."

She drew the bath for him, coloring the water lettuce green with mineral salts, and after he had soaked the prescribed twenty minutes, she produced a bottle of lotion that smelled faintly of cucumber. The soothing massage, the aromatic lotion, and Rosemary's murmured phrases that he only half heard made him drowsy. He felt — he wondered — he wanted to say — but he was so relaxed. . . so sleepy. . . perhaps tomorrow. . .

It was noon when Qwilleran awoke on Sunday and learned that Rosemary had been up since seven and had hiked around the lake. They lunched hurriedly and reported to the ballroom for the cake-judging, only to discover that the plans had been changed. The judging had taken place before noon to accommodate the television crews. However, Qwilleran was towed around the ballroom by a public relations person to meet the beaming winners.

He congratulated the grandmotherly creator of the inside-out marble mocha whipped cream cake, the vivacious young matron with her brazil nut caramel angel cake, the delicate young man who was so proud of his sour cream chocolate velvet icebox cake, and finally the winner in the teenage class. She was a tiny girl with long straight hair and a wistful smile, and she had concocted a psychedelic cake. Qwilleran stared at the conglomeration of chocolate, nuts, marshmallows, strawberries, and coconut — the banana split cake of twenty-five years ago. He looked at the girl and saw Joy.

"Let's get out of here," he whispered to Rosemary. "I'm seeing ghosts."

They drove home in the late evening — both of them relaxed and content to talk or not to talk as the mood prevailed — and it was midnight when they walked into the Great Hall at Maus Haus.

"When can I take you out to dinner again?" he asked Rosemary. "How about Tuesday evening?"

"I'd love to," she said, "but I have to attend a recital. One of my grandsons is playing the violin."

"You have a grandson?"

"I have three grandchildren."

"I can't believe you're a grandmother! This violinist must be an infant prodigy."

"He's twelve," said Rosemary as they started to climb the stairs. "He's the youngest. The other two are in college."

Qwilleran gazed at the grandmother-of-three with admiration. "You'd better get me some of that wheat germ," he said. She smiled sweetly and triumphantly, and Qwilleran dropped the suitcases and kissed her.

At that moment they heard an outcry. Mrs. Marron came running from the kitchen corridor. She burst into tears."

Rosemary ran downstairs and put an arm around the housekeeper. "What is it, Mrs. Marron? What's wrong?"

"Something — something terrible," the woman wailed. "I don't know how to tell you."

Qwilleran hurried down the stairs. "Is it William? What's happened?"

Mrs. Marron gave him a terrified glance and launched another torrent of tears. "It's the cats!" she wailed. "They took sick."

"What!" Qwilleran started to bolt up the stairs three at a time but suddenly stopped. "Where are they?"

Mrs. Marron groaned. "They were — they were taken away."

"Where?" he demanded. "To the vet? Which one? To the hospital?"

She shook her head and covered her face with her hands. "I called. . . I called the. . . Sanitation Department. They're dead!"

"Dead! They can't be! Both of them? They were perfectly all right. What happened?"

The housekeeper was too shaken to answer. She could only moan.

"Were they poisoned? They must have been poisoned! Who went near them?" He took Mrs. Marron by the shoulders and shook her. "Who got into my apartment? What did you feed them?"

She moved her head miserably from side to side. "By God!" Qwilleran said, "If it was poison, I'll kill the one who did it!"

Qwilleran paced the floor of his apartment. Rosemary had offered to sit with him, but he had sent her away.

"My God! The Sanitation Department!" he said aloud, slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Not even a chance to — I could have — at least I could have buried them with some kind of dignity." He stopped, aware that he was talking to the four walls. He was accustomed to an audience. They had been such attentive listeners, such satisfactory companions, always ready to supply encouragement, entertainment, or solace, depending on his mood, which they had been able to sense unerringly. And now they were gone. He could not come to terms with the idea.

"The Sanitation Department!" he said again with a groan. Now he remembered: Koko had not wanted him to take the weekend trip. Perhaps the cat had an intimation of danger. The thought made Qwilleran's grief all the more painful. His hands were clenched, his forehead damp. He was ready to destroy the beast who had destroyed those two innocent creatures. But where could he pin the blame? And how could he prove anything? Without the two small bodies he could never prove poison. But someone must have entered his apartment during his absence. Who? The only tenants in the house over the weekend, besides Mrs. Marron, were Max Sorrel, Charlotte Roop, Hixie, and Dan Graham. And perhaps William, if he had returned.

Qwilleran picked up the cat's empty food plate and sniffed it. He took a sip from their water dish and spit it out. He smelled nothing unusual, tasted nothing suspicious. But he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. It would be Maus, he decided, returning from his weekend in Miami.

Qwilleran threw open his door and stepped into the hall to confront his landlord. It was not Maus; it was Max Sorrel.

"Man, what's wrong with.you?" Sorrel said. "You look like you've got the d.t.'s."

"Did you hear what happened to my cats?" Qwilleran bellowed. "I went away overnight, and they took sick and died. At least, that's the story I got."

"Damn shame! I know how you felt about those little monkeys."

"I'll tell you one thing! I'm not satisfied with the explanation. I think they were poisoned! And whoever did it is going to regret it!"

Sorrel shook his head. "I don't know. I think there's a jinx on this house. First the housekeeper and then me and then — "

"What do you mean? What about the housekeeper?" Qwilleran demanded.