He returned the hiding place to its previous condition and drove home, wondering who would bury a garbage pail in a cemetery — and why. The only clue was a tremor on his upper lip.

Before going to dinner in Mooseville he prepared a dish of tuna for the Siamese.

"Koko, you're not earning your keep," he said. "Strange things are happening, and you haven't come up with a single clue." Koko squeezed his blue eyes languidly. Perhaps the cat's sleuthing days were over. Perhaps he would become nothing but a fussy consumer of expensive food.

At that moment Koko's ears pricked up, and he bounded to the checkpoint. The distant rumble of an approaching vehicle became gradually louder until it sounded like a Russian tank. A red pickup truck was followed by a yellow tractor with a complicated superstructure.

The driver of the truck jumped out and said to Qwilleran: "You got a jack pine that's ready to fall on the house? We got this emergency call from Pickax. Something about the power lines. We're supposed to take the tree down and cut it up." The tractor extended its skybox; the chain saws whined; three men in visored caps shouted; Yum Yum hid under the sofa; and Qwilleran escaped to Mooseville half an hour before the appointed time for dinner.

The Northern Lights Hotel was a relic from the 1860s when the village was a booming port for shipping lumber and ore. It was the kind of frame building that should have burned down a century ago but was miraculously preserved. In style it was a shoebox with windows, but a porch had been added at the rear, overlooking the wharves. Qwilleran sat in one of its rustic chairs and indulged in his favorite pastime: eavesdropping.

Two voices nearby were in nagging disagreement. Without seeing the source Qwilleran guessed that the man was fat and red-faced and the woman was scrawny and hard-of-hearing.

"I don't think much of this town," the man said in a gasping, wheezing voice. "There's nothing to do. We could've (gasp) stayed home and sat on the patio. It would've (gasp) been cheaper." The woman answered in a shrill voice, flat with indifference. "You said you wanted to go fishing. I don't know why. You've always hated it." "Your brother's been blowing off about the fishing up here for (gasp) six years. I wanted to show him he wasn't the only one (gasp) who could land a trout." "Then why don't you sign up for a charter boat, the way the man said, and stop bitching?" "I keep telling you — it's too expensive. Did you see how much they want (gasp) for half a day? I could buy a Caribbean cruise for (gasp) that kind of dough." Qwilleran had checked the prices himself and thought them rather steep.

"Then let's go home," the woman insisted. "No sense hanging around." "After driving all this way? Do you know what we've spent on gas (gasp) just to get up here?" Roger appeared at that moment, wearing a black baseball cap.

"I see you're dressed for evening," Qwilleran said. "You didn't tell me it was formal." "I collect 'em," Roger explained. "I've got seventeen so far. If you've got any enemies, I should warn you about that orange cap of yours; you'd make a perfect target." They hung their caps with a dozen others on a row of pegs outside the hotel dining room, then took a side table underneath a large tragic painting of a three-masted schooner sinking in a raging sea.

"Well, we had a perfect day," Qwilleran said, opening with the obligatory weather report. "Sunny. Pleasant breeze. Ideal temperature." "Yes, but the fog's starting to roll in. By morning you won't be able to see the end of your nose. It's no good for the trolling business." "If you ask me, Roger, the artwork in this room isn't any good for the trolling business. Every picture on the wall is some kind of disaster at sea. It scares the hell out of me. Besides, the charter boats charge too much — that is, too much for someone like me who isn't really interested in fishing." "You should try it once," Roger urged. "Trolling is a lot more exciting, you know, than sitting in a rowboat with a worm on a hook." Qwilleran looked at the menu. "If the lake is full of fish, why isn't there one local product on the menu? Nothing but Nova Scotia halibut, Columbia River salmon, and Boston scrod." "It's all sport-fishing here. The commercial fisheries down the shore net tons of fish and ship them out." To Nova Scotia, Massachusetts, and the state of Washington, Qwilleran guessed.

Roger ordered a bourbon and water; Qwilleran, his usual tomato juice. A cranky-looking couple took a table nearby, and he noted smugly that the man was red-faced and obese and the woman wore a hearing aid.

Roger said: "Is that all you drink? I thought newsmen were hard drinkers. I studied journalism before I switched to history ed… Say, you've got me counting blue pickups, and I found out you're right. My wife always says people in northern climates like blue… Do you live alone?" "Not entirely. I've adopted a couple of despotic Siamese cats. One was orphaned as the result of a murder on my beat. The female was abandoned when she was a kitten. They're both purebred, and the male is smarter than I am." "I have a hunting dog — Brittany spaniel," Roger said. "Sharon has a Scottie…

Were you ever married, Qwill?" "Once. It wasn't an overwhelming success." "What happened?" "She had a nervous breakdown, and I tried to pickle my troubles in alcohol. You ask a lot of questions, Roger. You should have stuck to journalism." The newsman said it with good humor. He had spent his entire career asking questions, and now he enjoyed being interrogated.

"Would you ever get married again?" Qwilleran allowed the glimmer of a smile to twitch his moustache. "Three months ago I would have said no; now I'm not so sure." He rubbed the backs of his hands as he spoke; they were beginning to itch. The bartender at the Press Club had predicted he would get hives from drinking so much tomato juice, and perhaps Bruno was right.

The fat man at the next table seemed to be listening, so Qwilleran lowered his voice.

"The police set up a roadblock Monday night. What was that all about? There was nothing in the paper or on the radio." Roger shrugged. "Roadblocks are a social activity up here, like potluck suppers. I think the cops do it once in a while when things get dull." "Are you telling me there isn't enough crime in Moose County to keep them busy?" "Not like you have in the city. The conservation guys catch a few poachers, and things

get lively at the Shipwreck Tavern on Saturday nights, but the cops spend most of their time chasing accidents — single-car accidents mostly. Someone drives too fast and hits a moose, or kids get a few beers and wrap themselves around a tree. There's a lot of rescue work on the lake, too; the sheriff has two boats and a helicopter." "No drug problem?" "Maybe the tourists smoke a few funny cigarettes, but — no problem, really. What I worry about is shipwreck-looting. The lake is full of sunken ships. Some of them went down a hundred years ago, and their cargoes are on public record. The looters have sophisticated diving equipment — cold-water gear, electronic stuff, and all that. There's valuable cargo down there, and they're stripping the wrecks for private gain." "Isn't that illegal?" "Not yet. If we had an underwater preserve protected by law it would be a big boost for tourism. It could be used by marine historians, archaeologists, and sport-divers." "What's holding you back?" "Money! It would take tens of thousands for an archaeological survey. After that we'd have to lobby for legislation." Qwilleran said: "It would be a tough law to enforce. You'd need more boats, more helicopters, more personnel." "Right! And by that time there wouldn't be any sunken cargo to protect." The men had ordered a second round of drinks, but Qwilleran stopped sipping his T J.

He rubbed his itching hands and wrists surreptitiously under the table.