Then he'd be fined for operating an illegal charter service. Boats have to be registered before they can take trolling parties. From what you say about the Minnie K, she'd never pass the inspection." Qwilleran had one more mission to pursue that afternoon. His curiosity about the buried pail kept luring him back to the cemetery, and now that he could identify poison ivy he was ready for another expedition. Weekend activity in the lovers' lane had increased the amount of picnic litter, and the sunny days and rainy nights had done wonders for the weeds in the graveyard itself. He found the vicious vines with three pointed leaves around the small headstones, and he remembered how he had torn at them to read the inscriptions. Then he followed the faint foot-trail behind the Campbell monument.

The pail was still camouflaged by scattered weeds, and it was still empty. But it had been used for some purpose. There were bits of straw in the bottom of the pail, and the top-handle on the lid, which Qwilleran had left at right angle to the headstone, was now askew.

Qwilleran didn't linger. He hurried back to the cabin in order to arrive before Rosemary. The whiffs of rotting fish, increasing in pungency, aggravated his cheerless mood. Rosemary, on the other hand, breezed into the cabin bubbling with enthusiasm and carrying an armload of yellow, white, pink, red, and purplish-black tulips.

"The prison gardens are lovely," she said. "You must go to see them, Qwill dearest. A charming man gave me these to bring home. How many pages did you write today?" "I never count," Qwilleran said.

"It's a lovely new prison. A very friendly woman outside the gate invited me to join PALS. That's the Prisoner Aid Ladies' Society, or something like that. They write letters to the inmates and send them little presents." "Did you hear any gossip about the murder?" "Not a word! Do you have any vases for these tulips? I have some groceries in the car for our dinner. I picked up some fresh fish and lovely parsnips and brussel sprouts-and some carrots for the kitty cats. You should grate a little carrot and mix it with their food every day." Brussel sprouts! Parsnips! Qwilleran had been thinking about a sixteen-ounce steak and French fries with ketchup and Parker-House rolls and a Roquefort salad and deep-dish apple pie with cheddar cheese and three cups of coffee.

"Will the fish keep?" he asked. "I'd like to take you to the Northern Lights Hotel for dinner. My day hasn't been productive, and I need a change of scene." "Why, of course! That sounds lovely," Rosemary said. "Do I have time to walk on the beach for an hour?" "You won't like it. The beach is covered with dead fish." "That won't bother me," she said. "It's part of nature." Leaving tulips in a lemonade pitcher on the mantel, in a flour canister on the dining table, and in an ice bucket on the bar, Rosemary tripped jubilantly down the slope to the beach.

Qwilleran sprawled on one of the sofas. "Koko, I feel like an idiot," he told the cat, who was studying him intently from the back of the sofa. "I don't have a single clue.

What are we working with? A dead body in the lake, the murder of a retired cop, and a message on a cassette. Someone has been using this cabin for some kind of illicit or illegal purpose. Never mind who. We don't even know what." "YOW!" said Koko, blinking his large blue eyes.

Qwilleran brought the cassette from his dresser drawer and once more played Little White Lies. The voice cut in: "… bring up more stuff… gotta make some changes..

things are gettin' hot… at the boat dock after supper." It was a high-pitched nasal voice with a monotonous inflection.

"I've heard that voice before," Qwilleran said to Koko, but the cat was playing with his catnip toy. "Things were getting hot because Buck was closing in on his investigation. Some changes had to be made because the cabin was no longer available as a depot." That voice! That voice! He had heard it at the post office, or at the FOO, or at the General Store, or in the hotel dining room.

No! Qwilleran snapped to attention. The voice on the cassette was the voice he had heard in the fog, when two men were brawling on another boat. One voice had a deep rumble and a British accent. The other man spoke with a piercing twang and a flat inflection. As he recalled, something had happened to the engine, and they were arguing, apparently, about the best way to get it started.

CLUNK!

Qwilleran recognized the clunk of a book being pushed from a bookshelf and landing on the floor. Koko had done it before. He was never clumsy; if he knocked something down it was for a good reason.

Koko was on the second shelf, digging behind a row of books to extricate his sockful of catnip. The book he had dislodged was a treatise on historic shipwrecks. It was lying open on the floor — open to a page marked by a folded slip of paper.

There on page 102 was an account of the sinking of the Waterhouse B. Duncan, a freighter carrying a rich cargo of copper ingots. It went down in treacherous water north of Mooseville during a severe storm in November 1913. All lives were lost: three passengers and a crew of twenty-three, including a woman cook.

The folded slip that marked page 102 was a penciled agreement to rent a boat for thirteen summer weekends, terms to be decided. It was dated the previous year and was signed S. Hanstable.

There was something about this information that jogged Qwilleran's memory. Somewhere in one of her letters Aunt Fanny had mentioned… what? The recollection was a vague one. He delved into his correspondence file and groaned; not only were her letters cross- written but her handwriting was extremely individual, and the multitude of dashes made each page a dazzling plaid.

He put on his reading glasses and squinted through half a dozen pages before he found the reference that was nagging his memory. On April third she had first offered him the use of the cabin. Written in her telegraphic style, the letter read:

Charming little place — built entirely of Logs — quite comfortable — I'm getting Older — don't enjoy it so much — last summer decided to rent — two handsome young men — interested in marine history — came up on weekends — their girlfriends stayed all week — horrid creatures — played games with spaghetti — threw it at the ceiling — unspeakable mess — two weeks to clean the place — never again!

Qwilleran's moustache bristled, the way it did when he thought he had found a clue.

The bookmark raised other questions: Did Roger's wife own a boat? Did she print like a kindergarten teacher? Did she spell «decided» with an s?

Before taking Rosemary out to dinner Qwilleran fed the cats, both of whom fastidiously avoided every shred of carrot that contaminated their corned beef.

He had made a reservation at the Northern Lights Hotel in order to get one of the high-backed booths constructed from the salvaged cabins of retired fishing boats. Diners in these booths had to be careful to avoid splinters, and in humid weather the booths exuded haunting reminders of their origin, but they were ideal for confidential conversation.

Rosemary was wearing a Mooseville T-shirt and a braided leather necklace from the prison gift shop, and she looked so youthful, so vibrant, so healthy that Qwilleran found it hard to believe she had a grandson old enough to be in medical school. She hung her shoulder-strap bag on a hook at the entrance to the booth. "Isn't it wonderful," she said, "not to worry about theft! At home, when I go to a restaurant, I put this bag on the floor, keep my foot on it, and wind the strap around my ankle." The menu cover reproduced an engraving of a terrifying storm on the lake, and the paper placemats listed the dates of major shipwrecks plus the number of lives lost.