The Cat Who Tailed a Thief (11 page)

“Good! I’ll pick up what’s-her-name myself and deliver her to the farm.” As the wordplay sent her into a spasm of hilarity, he added, “Now tell me about your job, Celia.”

“Well, I collect members’ dues and schedule parties and help the caterers and supervise the janitors.”

“Has there been any talk about Lenny Inchpot?”

“Plenty! Nobody thinks he’s guilty, except for one man who thinks Lenny cracked up after his girlfriend was killed in the explosion. Is there anything I can do about the Lenny case, Chief?” Being an avid reader of detective and espionage fiction, Celia relished her role as secret agent.

“Just keep your eyes and ears open,” Qwilleran suggested. “Bear in mind that Lenny may have been framed, and the person who stole the bridge club’s money may have rigged Lenny’s locker. Who’s the man who said he’d cracked up?”

“I don’t know. He’s around a lot. Want me to find out who he is?”

“Yes. Do that. As soon as possible.”

“Okay, Chief. And now I’ve really got to go home and cook. We’re having spaghetti.”

Qwilleran politely averted his eyes as she struggled to get out of the deep sofa.

* * *

When he went to the MacMurchie house the next morning, he was met at the door by a smiling Scot and a bouncing schnauzer, yipping for joy. Her travel luggage was assembled in the foyer: a carton contained her comb and brush, leashes, dishes, a supply of dried food, a blanket, and some old socks. MacMurchie said, “The food is a combination of rice and lamb that she seems to prefer, but she also likes popcorn and bananas. The horse blanket is her bed. The socks are her toys, knotted together in pairs. On TV she likes National Geographic programs and dog-food commercials.”

Qwilleran said, “It looks as if you’re ready to move out yourself. What will happen to the house then?”

“The restoration won’t start until after spring thaw, but that’s all right. By that time more property owners will have signed up, and there’ll be a saving on labor costs. The work will be done by an out-of-town contractor. He specializes in restoration.”

“That won’t make the local construction industry happy,” Qwilleran said.

“It makes sense, though. The job’s too big for the little fellers around here. XYZ Enterprises could handle it, but Carter Lee James isn’t impressed by the kind of work they do. He’s been staying, you know, in one of their apartment buildings.”

“I know exactly what he means, Gil. I live in the Village, too.”

Cody was listening, pancaked on the floor in her froggy-doggy pose.

“On your feet, young lady,” Qwilleran ordered. “We’re going for a ride.”

On the way to the country, Cody rode up front in the passenger seat, standing on her hind legs and watching the snowy landscape whiz past. The Split Rail Goat Farm was in the Hummocks, where drifts swirled in grotesque configurations and made familiar landmarks unrecognizable. The split rail fence that gave the goat farm its name had disappeared under the hummocks of snow thrown up by county plows, and the long driveway was a narrow white canyon. As for the Victorian farmhouse with its menacing tower, it looked surreal against the white background. Strangest of all was the silence.

Mitch Ogilvie, looking bucolic in his rough beard and heavy stormwear, came from a low sprawling barn to meet them. A few years before, he had been a fastidiously groomed and properly suited desk clerk at the Pickax Hotel. After that he was the casual but neat manager of the Farm Museum. Now he was the cheesemaker on a goat farm.

“Kristi’s milking,” he said, “but she told me to say hello. She’s all excited about getting the pooch. What’s his name?”

“Cody is a she. You’ll like her,” Qwilleran said. He carried her into the house, saying, “Here we are! Good dog! Nice new home!”

Mitch piled her luggage in the middle of the kitchen floor. “Let her explore,” he said. “We’ll have some cheese and crackers while she decides if she wants to live here. I wonder how she feels about goat cheese.”

“In my humble opinion, Mitch, any dog who eats popcorn and bananas won’t balk at goat cheese.”

They drank coffee and sampled several cheeses and listened for canine noises in other parts of the house. Occasionally there would be a musical moaning as Cody talked to herself about some questionable discovery.

After a while Qwilleran asked about the procedure in getting the house on the National Register. Built by a Civil War hero, it was the only edifice in Moose County to have official historic recognition. A bronze plaque in the driveway testified to the honor.

“There was a lot of red tape,” Mitch replied, “and Kristi and I have a lot of sweat equity invested in it. Luckily we had the experts from the K Fund advising us. There was one government printout
six yards long
that really threw me for a loop. To me it was all gobbledygook. . . Why do you ask, Qwill? Are you going to try and get your barn registered?”

“No, it’s been irreversibly modernized, but there’s a whole neighborhood in Pickax that hopes to be registered, and I wondered about the procedure. Do you still have the six-yard printout? I wouldn’t mind reading it.”

“Sure. I’ll dig it out for you. With your sense of humor you might have some fun with it in the ‘Qwill Pen’ column.”

Cody, having okayed the premises, returned to the kitchen where her lares and penates were still in the middle of the floor. Mitch found her dishes and put out water and food for her.

“She’ll be happy here,” Qwilleran said as he put on jacket, hat, and gloves. “Take care of her; she comes from a good Scottish household. And tell Kristi I was sorry to miss her, but goats come before guests.”

* * *

It was Qwilleran’s responsibility to pick up the champagne and birthday cake for Lynette’s party. In ordering the cake from the Scottish bakery, he had requested a Scots theme, and he expected the usual three-layer confection with a thistle design in pink and green icing. His reaction, when he picked it up, was: Ye gods! It was a foot-square sheet cake frosted in an all-over
plaid
in red, blue, green, and yellow; a skewer was stuck in the middle, flying a paper flag with an indecipherable message.

“That’s ‘Happy Birthday’ in Gaelic,” the baker said proudly. “It’s the first I’ve ever done like this. Do you like it?”

“It’s absolutely. . . unique!” he said with a gulp of dismay, as he wondered what Polly would say. She might have another heart attack.

“I’ll wrap the flag in a bit of wax paper. You can stick it in the cake when you get home.”

Polly was having her hair done at Brenda’s, and he delivered the cake to her condo, letting himself in with his own key and explaining to Bootsie the legitimacy of his errand. He had been given instructions to leave it in the refrigerator, the only cat-proof vault in the house, and he took the precaution of taping a sign to the front of the appliance: OPEN DOOR WITH CARE! WILD CAKE INSIDE!

* * *

Lynette’s birthday party lacked effervescence, despite the bubbles in the champagne that Qwilleran poured. The hostess worried about the prime rib she was roasting in a new and untested oven. The bereaved widow was resolutely glum. The guest of honor seemed nervous; did she fear her age would be revealed? Background music might have relieved the tension, but the stereo was out-of-order.

According to Moose County custom, the right-hand end of the sofa was reserved for the guest of honor. Carter Lee sat at the other end, wearing one of his monogrammed shirts. Lynette looked as if she had dressed to dance the Highland fling: pleated green tartan, black velvet jacket, and ghillies with long laces wound about her white-stockinged legs.

They said all that could be said about the weather. Carter Lee had no desire to talk shop. Qwilleran’s skill as an interviewer failed him; his questions produced no interesting answers. To fill the silences, Bushy hopped around with his camera, taking candids.

When Qwilleran suggested that Lynette open her gifts, she said firmly, “No! After dinner!” Fortunately the roast beef was superb, the Yorkshire pudding was properly puffy, and Lynette thought the plaid birthday cake was stupendous.

For coffee and cordials the diners moved back into the living room, and Lynette opened her gifts: violet sachets from Polly, a silver “poached egg” from Qwilleran, Bushy’s framed photo, a bottle of wine from Danielle, and the smallest of small boxes from Carter Lee.

It was obviously a ring. Was that why Lynette had been self-conscious and Carter Lee had seemed unnaturally shy? When he slipped the ring on her left hand, Polly gasped audibly at the size of the diamond. Danielle merely tapped the floor with her uncommonly high-heeled shoe. Bushy took another picture or two. Qwilleran opened another bottle of champagne.

Then the couple answered questions: Yes, they had set the date. . . No, there would be no announcement in the paper until after the ceremony. . . Yes, it would be soon, because they were honeymooning in New Orleans and wanted to be there for Mardi Gras. . . No, it would not be a church wedding—just a small affair at the Indian Village clubhouse . . . Yes, that’s where they had met, across a bridge table.

* * *

After the guests had left, Qwilleran’s first question to Polly was: “Did you know anything about this little bombshell?” He was helping her clear away the party clutter.

“Not an inkling! They haven’t known each other very long. I hope she knows what she’s doing.”

“I thought she was deeply involved at the church. Why no church wedding?” he asked.

“I can guess why,” Polly said. “I was in her wedding party twenty years ago when she was left waiting at the church—literally. She was in her grandmother’s satin gown with yards of veil. She was carrying white roses and violets. Six attendants were in violet taffeta. The church was filled with wedding guests. But the groom and groomsman didn’t arrive. Someone telephoned the hotel; they had left, so they must be on the way. The organist started playing voluntaries to reassure the fidgety guests. Someone called the police to inquire if there had been an accident. We waited in the anteroom, and waited, and waited. Lynette started looking pale, then she turned the color of our dresses and passed out. The groom never showed up.”

“That was a brutal thing to do,” Qwilleran said. “What was wrong with the guy?”

“He was a local boy from a good family, but he was afraid of marriage and afraid to break it off. His family was mortified.”

“What happened to him? Did he ever show his face?”

“He joined the armed services and lost touch with everyone. Lynette was hospitalized. The worst part was returning the hundreds of wedding presents!”

Qwilleran said, “So we can assume that’s why she doesn’t want an item in the paper until after the ceremony.”

“It appears so, doesn’t it?” Polly agreed. “Danielle seemed less than happy about her cousin’s engagement, it seemed to me.”

“Someone should tell her she’s not losing a cousin; she’s gaining a cousin-in-law.” Then, after a moment’s reflection, he added, “Do you suppose Lynette is going to get her revenge by jilting Carter Lee?”

“Oh, Qwill! How can you be so cynical? She’d never do a thing like that!”

The morning after Lynette’s birthday party and the surprising engagement announcement, Qwilleran was wakened by what he feared was a pounding heartbeat, but it was the
thrum-thrum-thrum
of Wetherby Goode’s wake-up music on the Sousabox. The volume was low enough to eliminate all but the percussion, which reverberated along the steel beam running the length of Building Five. A brochure listing fifty Sousa marches, with dates, had been stuck behind Qwilleran’s door handle by his friendly neighbor, but whether the morning selection was the “U.S. Field Artillery March” (1917) or “Pet of the Petticoats” (1883), one could not tell.

The Siamese, too, were awake and could hear and feel the
thrum-thrum-thrum.
Koko, waiting for his breakfast, sat on his haunches and slapped the carpet with his tail in time with the percussion.

A remarkable cat, Qwilleran thought; his tail was becoming more eloquent all the time. He fed them, brushed them, and joined them in a little active recreation. Although the day was cold, the sun was bright, streaming in the living room window and reviving the lone housefly that had come with the condo and was spending the winter in Unit Four, Building Five. In the game they played, Qwilleran stood with folded newspaper, ready to swat; the cats leaped and made futile passes and crashed into each other as the fly swooped playfully around the two-story living room. He had been living with them long enough to have a name, Mosca, and none of his pursuers really wanted to catch him.

For his own breakfast, Qwilleran had two sweet rolls from the freezer and several cups of coffee from the computerized coffeemaker. Then he got an early start on his column for February 1:

* * *

His typing was interrupted by the telephone, and he heard Celia Robinson’s voice saying with unusual crispness, “Mr. Qwilleran, this is your accountant’s office. The numbers you requested are two, eighteen, five, twenty-six, five. Repeat: two, eighteen, five, twenty-six, five.”

“Thank you for your prompt assistance,” he said.

It was exactly as he had guessed. The code spelled B-R-E-Z-E. It was scoundrelly George Breze who suggested that Lenny Inchpot had “cracked up.” According to conventional wisdom in Moose County, it was Old Gallbladder himself who was cracked—or crooked. Breze-bashing was a favorite pastime in the coffee shops, partly in fun and partly in earnest. He was suspected of everything, yet was never charged with anything, leading critics to believe that corrupting government officials was one of his crimes. Where did he get his dough, they wondered. On Sandpit Road he rented trucks, leased mini-storage units, ran a do-it-yourself car wash that was always out of detergent, cannibalized junk cars, and sold odds and ends of seasonal merchandise, such as rusty, bent, secondhand snow shovels.

Qwilleran returned to his typewriter. There was much to be said about February. It was second only to December as the favorite month of the greeting card industry. Commercially, valentines had an edge over year-end holiday greetings, which specialized in goodwill; valentines could be sentimental, passionate, flattering, comic, or insulting—something for everyone. Qwilleran described his own seven-year valentine feud that began in high school:

As Qwilleran typed, both cats were on his writing table: Yum Yum laying on her brisket and enjoying the vibration transmitted through the wooden surface. Koko, the more cerebral of the two, watched the type bars jump and the carriage lurch, as if he were inventing a better way. Suddenly his ears alerted, and he looked toward the phone. A few moments later, it rang.

Qwilleran expected Polly to phone her day’s grocery list. Instead, it was Lynette. “I had a wonderful time last night! Thank you again for that lovely brooch. I’ll wear it to pin my clan sash on my wedding day.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he murmured.

“And the
plaid cake
was so clever! Polly said you brought it. Was it your idea?”

“I’m afraid I can’t take the credit,” he said tactfully.

“Now Carter Lee and I have a big favor to ask. Would you mind if we dropped by for a few minutes?”

“Not at all. Come at five o’clock and have a glass of wine.”

After that, Qwilleran drove to Pickax to hand in his copy and have lunch at the Spoonery. He hoped also to see Brodie about Lenny’s case, but the police chief was attending a law enforcement meeting. He attended quite a few of those, and Qwilleran wondered if they were held in ice fishing shanties on the frozen lake.

The Spoonery was a downtown lunchroom specializing in soups; it was the brainchild of Lori Bamba, an ambitious young woman who was always trying something new. Qwilleran sat at the counter and ordered the Asian hot and sour sausage soup. “How’s Nick?” he asked Lori. “I never see him anymore.”

“He’s spending such long hours at the turkey farm, I hardly see him myself, but he’s happy not to be working at the prison.”

“For both your sakes, I’m glad he cut loose from that job. And how’s the soup business?”

“I’m learning,” she said with a good-natured shrug. “There’s more demand for tomato rice and chicken noodle than for eggplant peanut.”

“This, my friend, is Pickax,” he reminded her.

“Do the kitties feel at home in Indian Village?” Lori had five of her own and was his mentor in affairs of the cat.

“Home is where the food is. Feed them at the appointed hour, and they’ll be happy anywhere. There’s one odd development, though. Our next-door neighbor plays Sousa marches, and not only does Koko beat time with the music, but he’s started whacking the floor at other times.”

“Does he swish his tail from side to side?”

“Definitely! Right, left—bam, bam—right, left!”

Lori said seriously, “That’s a danger signal. Does he direct his anger at Yum Yum?”

“Yes, and at me, too! He’s trying to tell me something, and I’m not getting it. He’s exasperated. Cats! They can drive you crazy. . . This soup is great, Lori.”

“Thanks. May I quote you? All I need to do is say, ‘Mr. Q likes it,’ and there’ll be a run on Asian hot and sour sausage soup.”

From there he went to the design studio to pick up his dirks. “Superb job of framing!” he told Fran Brodie. “My compliments!”

“Where’ll you hang them?”

“In the foyer, over the chest of drawers.”

“Don’t hang them too high,” she cautioned. “Men of your height tend to hang wall decorations too high. It’s the Giraffe syndrome.” Then her manner changed from flip to confidential. “I heard a fantastic rumor this morning. Lynette is getting married at long last! And to Carter Lee James, if you can believe it!”

“It just proves there’s hope for you, Fran,” he said, knowing how to tease her.

“Yes, but how many Carter Lee Jameses are there to go around?” she retorted.

“Where did you hear the rumor?”

“One of my good customers called me. Do you think it’s true? Lynette’s older than he is, you know. He might be marrying her for the Duncan money.”

“That’s an unkind remark. She has a lot of good qualities, and they’re both interested in old houses—and bridge. I hear they’re excellent players.”

“I’m surprised Danielle didn’t tell me—if it’s true.”

“How’s the play going?” he asked, smoothly changing the subject.

“Good news! We were able to get Ernie Kemple for Judge Brack, and it’s perfect casting, although his booming voice and Danielle’s tinny one sound like a duet for tuba and piccolo. You should come to rehearsal some night and have a few laughs. She calls him J.B. You know the line where Hedda points General Gabler’s pistol and says:
I’m going to shoot you, Judge Brack.
Well, Danielle gave a little wiggle and said, ‘I’m gonna shoot you, J.B.’ We all broke up!”

Qwilleran tamped his moustache. “If you want my opinion, Fran, this play will never make it to opening night.” On the way out of the studio he asked casually, “Is your dad an ice fisherman?”

“No, he’s not much of a sportsman. A little duck hunting in the fall, that’s all. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondered. . . Has he said anything lately about the Willard Carmichael murder?”

“Not recently. When it first happened he said it would never be solved unless a suspect in another street crime confessed in a bid for leniency.”

* * *

On the way home Qwilleran thought about Lenny Inchpot and George Breze. He needed to confer with Celia Robinson—but how and where? Her bright red car parked in front of his condo twice in quick succession would arouse the curiosity of neighbors, Polly included. Gossip was a way of life in Pickax, although it was called “sharing information.” Rumors traveled on the Pickax grapevine with the speed of light. When Qwilleran was living at the barn, his location was secluded; even so, Andy Brodie had observed a red car entering the woods that screened the barn from Main Street. With all of this in mind, Qwilleran found it wise to brief Celia by mail, as he had done when they worked together on the Florida investigation. . . As soon as he arrived home, he typed the following communication:

Toodle’s Market was the perfect venue for a clandestine meeting. Strangers commonly exchanged opinions on the best oranges for juice, the best way to cook beets, or the best buy in wine. Furthermore, food demonstrators created a party atmosphere by handing out samples of cheese spread or olive butter, and there were little paper cups of coffee available. One could easily talk with the opposite sex without causing a traffic jam in the telephone system.

To deliver the briefing to Celia’s mailbox at the gatehouse, Qwilleran strapped on his snowshoes—or “webs” as they were called by the real buffs—and he trekked through the woods over a fresh fall of snow, trudging with wide-legged stance and long strides, keeping a slow and steady pace with a slightly rolling gait. He found it tranquilizing. At the gatehouse, he found a certain esthetic satisfaction in unstrapping the webs and sticking their tails in the snowbank.

* * *

As five o’clock approached, Qwilleran gave the Siamese an early dinner and instructions on how to behave during the visit of the happy couple. “No flying around! No knocking things down! No domestic quarrels!” They acted as if they understood, regarding him soberly, although actually they were just digesting their food.

The guests drove up promptly at five, Carter Lee driv-ing Willard’s Land-Rover. In the foyer, they removed their boots and hung scarfs and coats on the clothes tree, which Lynette admired at length. It was a square column of brass seven feet tall, with angular hooks of cast brass at varying levels.

“It’s Art Deco, old but not antique,” Qwilleran said. “Fran found it in Chicago. It came from the office of an old law firm.”

The visitors hung their hats on the top hooks: one fluffy white angora knit, and one Russian-style toque of black fur. Then they walked into the living room and remarked about the fine wintery view and the beautiful cats.

“This one is Koko, and that one is Yum Yum,” said Lynette, who had fed them one weekend in Qwilleran’s absence. She extended a hand familiarly for them to sniff, but with typical feline perversity they ignored her and went to Carter Lee.

“Don’t take it personally,” the host explained to her. “They always consider it their duty to check out a newcomer.”

The newcomer said, “My mother, who lives in Paris, has a Siamese called Theoria Dominys du Manoir des Ombreuses. Dodo, for short.”