sliced turkey breast and chunks of dark meat. As he started chopping a portion of it for the cats' dinner, Yum Yum squealed in anticipation, and Koko pranced back and forth, warbling an aria of tenor yowls and ecstatic gutterals.
Qwilleran watched them eat, but his mind was elsewhere. He liked Roger. Under thirty, with coal-black hair, was a good age to be. But the young man had been remarkably glib on the subject of hawks, loons, raccoons, blue trucks, and police roadblocks. How many of his answers were in the interest of tourism? And if the official brochure encouraged tourists to visit the old cemetery, why did Roger try to discourage it? Did he know something about the pail? And if there was no crime in Moose County, why did Aunt Fanny make a point of carrying a gun?
-5-
Qwilleran was wakened by Yum Yum. She sat on his chest, her blue eyes boring into his forehead, conveying a subliminal message: breakfast. The lake view from the bunkroom windows had been replaced by total whiteness. The fog had settled on the shore like a suffocating blanket. There was no breeze, no sound.
Qwilleran tried to start a blaze in the fireplace to dispel the dampness, using Wednesday's paper and some book matches from the hotel, but nothing worked. His chief concern was the condition of his hands and wrists. The itching was unbearable, and blisters were forming as large as poker chips. Furthermore he was beginning to itch here, there, and everywhere.
He dressed without shaving, fed the cats without ceremony, and—even forgetting to wear his new cap—steered the car nervously through the milky atmosphere.
There was a drug store on Main Street, and he showed his blisters to the druggist.
"Got anything for this?"
"Yikes!" said the druggist. "Worse case of poison ivy I've ever seen. You'd better go and get a shot."
"Is there a doctor in town?"
"There's a walk-in clinic in the Cannery Mall. You know the mall? Two miles beyond town-an old fish cannery made into stores and whatnot. In this fog you won't be able to see it, but you'll smell it."
There was hardly a vehicle to be seen on Main Street. Qwilleran hugged the yellow line, watching the odometer, and at the two-mile mark there was no doubt he had reached the Cannery Mall. He angle-parked between two yellow lines and followed the aroma to a bank of plate glass doors opening into an arcade.
The medical clinic, smelling appropriately antiseptic, was deserted except for a plain young woman sitting at a desk. "Is there a doctor here?" he asked.
"I'm the doctor ," she replied, glancing at his hands. "Where did you go to get that magnificent case of ivy poisoning?”
"I guess I picked it up in the old cemetery."
"Really? Aren't you a little old for that kind of thing?" She threw him a mischievous glance.
He was too uncomfortable to appreciate badinage. "I was looking at the old gravestones."
"A likely story. Come into the torture chamber, and I'll give you a shot." She also gave him a tube of lotion and some advice: "Keep your hands out of hot water. Avoid warm showers. And stay away from old cemeteries."
Leaving the clinic Qwilleran was in a sulky humor. He thought the doctor should have been less flip and more sympathetic. By the time he inched his car back to town through the fog, however, the medication was working, bringing not only relief but a heady euphoria, and he remembered that the doctor had attractive green eyes and the longest eyelashes he had ever seen.
At the hotel, where he stopped for coffee and eggs, four men at the next table were complaining about the weather. "The boats won't go out in this soup. Let's get a bottle of red-eye and play some cards."
At the table behind him a familiar voice said: "We're not leaving here (gasp) till we go fishing.”
A shrill flat voice answered: "Why are you so stubborn? You don't even like to fish."
"This is different, I told you. We go out (gasp) on thirty-six-foot trollers and catch maybe twenty-pound trout."
"You said
Qwilleran watched them eat, but his mind was elsewhere. He liked Roger. Under thirty, with coal-black hair, was a good age to be. But the young man had been remarkably glib on the subject of hawks, loons, raccoons, blue trucks, and police roadblocks. How many of his answers were in the interest of tourism? And if the official brochure encouraged tourists to visit the old cemetery, why did Roger try to discourage it? Did he know something about the pail? And if there was no crime in Moose County, why did Aunt Fanny make a point of carrying a gun?
-5-
Qwilleran was wakened by Yum Yum. She sat on his chest, her blue eyes boring into his forehead, conveying a subliminal message: breakfast. The lake view from the bunkroom windows had been replaced by total whiteness. The fog had settled on the shore like a suffocating blanket. There was no breeze, no sound.
Qwilleran tried to start a blaze in the fireplace to dispel the dampness, using Wednesday's paper and some book matches from the hotel, but nothing worked. His chief concern was the condition of his hands and wrists. The itching was unbearable, and blisters were forming as large as poker chips. Furthermore he was beginning to itch here, there, and everywhere.
He dressed without shaving, fed the cats without ceremony, and—even forgetting to wear his new cap—steered the car nervously through the milky atmosphere.
There was a drug store on Main Street, and he showed his blisters to the druggist.
"Got anything for this?"
"Yikes!" said the druggist. "Worse case of poison ivy I've ever seen. You'd better go and get a shot."
"Is there a doctor in town?"
"There's a walk-in clinic in the Cannery Mall. You know the mall? Two miles beyond town-an old fish cannery made into stores and whatnot. In this fog you won't be able to see it, but you'll smell it."
There was hardly a vehicle to be seen on Main Street. Qwilleran hugged the yellow line, watching the odometer, and at the two-mile mark there was no doubt he had reached the Cannery Mall. He angle-parked between two yellow lines and followed the aroma to a bank of plate glass doors opening into an arcade.
The medical clinic, smelling appropriately antiseptic, was deserted except for a plain young woman sitting at a desk. "Is there a doctor here?" he asked.
"I'm the doctor ," she replied, glancing at his hands. "Where did you go to get that magnificent case of ivy poisoning?”
"I guess I picked it up in the old cemetery."
"Really? Aren't you a little old for that kind of thing?" She threw him a mischievous glance.
He was too uncomfortable to appreciate badinage. "I was looking at the old gravestones."
"A likely story. Come into the torture chamber, and I'll give you a shot." She also gave him a tube of lotion and some advice: "Keep your hands out of hot water. Avoid warm showers. And stay away from old cemeteries."
Leaving the clinic Qwilleran was in a sulky humor. He thought the doctor should have been less flip and more sympathetic. By the time he inched his car back to town through the fog, however, the medication was working, bringing not only relief but a heady euphoria, and he remembered that the doctor had attractive green eyes and the longest eyelashes he had ever seen.
At the hotel, where he stopped for coffee and eggs, four men at the next table were complaining about the weather. "The boats won't go out in this soup. Let's get a bottle of red-eye and play some cards."
At the table behind him a familiar voice said: "We're not leaving here (gasp) till we go fishing.”
A shrill flat voice answered: "Why are you so stubborn? You don't even like to fish."
"This is different, I told you. We go out (gasp) on thirty-six-foot trollers and catch maybe twenty-pound trout."
"You said
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