The Cat Who Tailed a Thief (16 page)

Kemple, who had been hunched over the table, leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath. “That’s why I wanted to bounce it off you, Qwill. That’s a good idea.”

“Another thing, Ernie: I hate to say this, but is it possible that Tracy is lying to get revenge on Carter Lee?”

“I admit I thought of that, Qwill. You know, my daughter used to be a sweet, innocent girl, but she got off the track, and circumstances have changed her.”

“If it’s true that she’s lying, she could be in deep trouble. Yes. . . you’d better talk to Bart in a hurry.”

“I appreciate your interest and your advice, Qwill.” He reached for the check. “This lunch is on me, and I’ll even throw in a little carved and painted wooden doll for a good-luck token.”

“Keep it!” Qwilleran said. “I’ve got all the good luck I can use . . . By the way, how are the rehearsals for
Hedda Gabler
?”

Kemple’s guffaw rattled the beaded fringe on the hanging lights overhead. “I call the play
Hedda Cauliflower.
Danielle isn’t playing Hedda; she’s playing Adelaide in
Guys and Dolls.
And I’m not playing Judge Brack; I’m playing the villain in
The Drunkard.
You should come to a rehearsal, just for laughs. Trouble is, I feel sorry for Carol. Fran Brodie, too. They’re working so hard! Why did they ever give that role to Danielle?”

“Good question,” Qwilleran said.

* * *

As he drove out Ittibittiwassee Road, Qwilleran was plagued by other questions: Was Carter Lee indeed the petty thief who had annoyed townsfolk in December? If so, what was his motivation? Would a man of his professional standing stoop to stealing used clothing intended for the needy? Was the petit larceny a rehearsal for the grand larceny in the Village clubhouse? A sum estimated at two thousand dollars had been taken from the money jar. As for the lambskin coat reported stolen on New Year’s Eve, Qwilleran had seen its like in catalogs, priced at fifteen hundred. But then he had seen Carter Lee wearing a similar, if not identical, coat when he and Lynette made their impromptu visit. Was it the same coat, or had he bought a new one? If the same, had he recovered it, or had it never really been stolen?

Nothing made much sense until Qwilleran arrived home. The Siamese met him at the door, prowling restlessly. It was too early for their dinner. They were bored. No birds, no falling leaves, no dancing snowflakes. They needed action.

In one drawer of the hutch cabinet there were cat toys galore: things that bounced, rattled, rolled, glittered, or smelled like catnip. Yum Yum could entertain herself for hours with one of these, batting it under the sofa, then pawing it out again. Koko, on the other hand, was too worldly-wise for such kittenish amusements. He preferred the stimulation of the chase, and he sat on his haunches gazing speculatively into the upper reaches of the living room.

“Okay, where’s Mosca?” Qwilleran said, folding a newspaper and whacking his left palm.

They waited. The cat gazed upward hopefully; the man whacked his palm. Their pet housefly was conspicuously absent, and a sickening thought occurred to Qwilleran. There was a possibility that Koko had caught him and eaten him. “Disgusting!” he said as he tossed his folded newspaper into the wastebasket.

Yum Yum was on the hutch cabinet, scratching at the wrong drawer. He rapped on the front of the toy drawer. “No! No! Over here!” It made no difference; with catly persistence she pawed the wrong drawer.

“Cats!” he said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. To convince her, he jerked open the drawer and showed her the Procrastination File. In her near-sighted way she studied the letters, sealed envelopes, brochures, and clippings for a long minute, then jumped down and went to the kitchen for a drink of water.

It was a reminder to Qwilleran, however, to look at Clayton’s photos: candids of the dowser, close-ups of the forked stick, shots of Cody, and one of Carter Lee measuring the mantel with a tapeline and Danielle making notes. Also in the envelope was the transcript of Clayton’s tape recording. Much of the dialogue duplicated Qwilleran’s tape, but there was an unexpected interlude:

MAN: Refinish floor. Strip and refinish five-foot varnished mantel. Repaper room in Victorian design. . . Am I going too fast for you, Danny?. . . Replace two panes in breakfront with crowned glass. . . Hello there! Who are you?

Clayton: I’m visiting my grandma. Mind if I take some pictures to show my mom when I get home?

Man: On the double! We’re working here. . . Danny, where were we?

WOMAN: (shrilly) With crowned glass.

MAN: Replace chandelier with gaslight fixture.

WOMAN: Chuck, did you see those daggers in the hall?

MAN: What about them?

WOMAN: One has a lion on the handle.

MAN: Do you like it?

WOMAN: It’s my sign. Leo.

MAN: Well. . .

WOMAN: Do you think I could?

MAN: He’ll never miss it. . . Hey, what is it you want now, kid?

CLAYTON: Is this your dog?

MAN: Get him out of here! Both of you, evaporate!

CLAYTON: C’mon, pup. C’mon.

Qwilleran read no further. The stolen dirk had not turned up in Lenny’s locker, but Danielle had given one like it to Lynette as a wedding gift. The hilt was a lion rampant. . . Now he thought he had figured it out: Danielle was a kleptomaniac, stealing at random all over town when she first moved to Pickax. Did Willard know? Did he have the anonymous check sent from a Chicago bank to cover the theft? Did Carter Lee know her weakness and humor her? The theft of his lambskin coat on New Year’s Eve may have been a playful prank, a family joke. Did she steal his good-luck doll and plant it in Lenny’s locker along with the other things? Was it a
woman
who phoned the tip to the police hotline? That was one clue that could be checked.

By Saturday evening the pretty little bubbling brooks and picturesque gurgling streams of Moose County had become raging torrents, overflowing their banks, inundating farmlands and forests. Wooded areas were so thoroughly soaked that shallow-rooted trees toppled across highways, adding to the hazard of driving. Some were washed downstream along with timbers from wrecked bridges, creating temporary dams that caused even more flooding.

As Qwilleran dressed for dinner with Polly, he tuned in the WPKX news update and heard: “The sheriff’s helicopter, searching for stranded motorists in isolated areas, rescued a family of five in the Plumley Mill area an hour ago. Several vehicles are completely submerged at the fish camp west of Mooseville.”

Polly called to see if driving would be too bad. They had a reservation at the Old Stone Mill. She said, “We closed the library at noon today and won’t open Monday. The schools will be closed.”

Qwilleran said, “I called the restaurant about their parking lot; no problem. And I called the sheriff about the highways; the access road to the Mill is. . . accessible.”

The restaurant had been converted from an old grist mill; the picturesque waterwheel, almost twenty feet high, was still there, although the millstream had long since run dry. They were ushered to their favorite table and approached by their favorite server, Derek Cuttlebrink, a towering six-feet-eight.

“Hi! Guess what!” he said even before announcing the evening specials. “We may get our millstream back again. It was a branch of the Rocky Burn that dried up in the Forties. Now the Rocky Burn is running so high, it could bust right through here and start the mill wheel turning again!”

“Where would the water go from here?” Qwilleran asked.

“Through No Man’s Gully and into the Ittibittiwassee. . . What’ll it be? One dry sherry and one Squunk with a twist?”

As he loped toward the bar on his long legs, Polly said quietly, “I’m glad Derek is buckling down to some kind of life. Meeting that girl has been good for him.” At various times he had wanted to be a cop, an actor, a career busboy, or just a bum. Now he was enrolled in Restaurant Management at MCCC.

Returning with the drinks, he said, “Now for the bad news. I’m not supposed to talk about this, but the Ice Festival biggies are having a secret emergency meeting in the private dining room downstairs. It doesn’t look good.”

In between the friendly overtures of the attentive server, the two diners managed to discuss automation for the library, the newspaper’s editorial on illiteracy, the new Brutus, and Herman Melville’s obsession with good and evil.

Polly said, “I have a feeling Lynette will phone again tonight. She’ll have been to the parades. Have you heard if Carter Lee is getting the commission to restore the hotel and the Limburger mansion?”

“The K Fund hasn’t decided. Like the mills of God, they grind slowly.” He felt as if he were living a double life. He could talk to his tablemate about his Fauré recordings and the Rikers’ new car but not about his disturbing suspicions. He avoided mention of Danielle and the silver-hilted dirk, the doll found in Lenny’s locker, Wetherby’s opinion of Carter Lee, and his own devious scheme to get a look at Carter Lee’s portfolio. Polly would only worry. Besides, Qwilleran’s conclusions were based on hunches, hearsay, and idle gossip.

After poached salmon with leek sauce for her and pork tenderloin with black currants for him, they returned to Indian Village in time to receive Lynette’s phone call.

“We were wondering about you,” Polly said, signaling to Qwilleran to pick up the balcony phone. “What have you been doing today?”

Lynette sounded tired. “We went to the parades on Canal Street. You’d never believe the floats, music, costumes, and masks! They throw strings of beads from the floats into the crowd. Then there’s the partying in the streets—jostling, screaming, drinking, and goodness knows what else! Some people take their clothes off! It’s wild!”

Qwilleran asked, “Are you still doing justice to the food?”

“Oh, hello, Qwill. Well, my tummy doesn’t feel too good today; that Cajun stuff is awfully spicy. Carter Lee’s gone out to buy some kind of remedy.”

“Be careful with shellfish,” Polly admonished. “You know how you sometimes react.”

With a noticeable sigh, Lynette said, “Three more days of Carnival, then everything stops and we go home. I’ll be glad to see Pickax again.”

Afterward Polly said to Qwilleran, “It’s overindulgence that’s disagreeing with her.”

“Or overexcitement,” he said. “Going from Moose County to Mardi Gras in a few air hours is like taking a few thousand volts of electricity.”

All together it was a successful weekend of reading aloud at her place, listening to music at his place, arguing about Jane Austen, doing all the things they enjoyed. Through it all Brutus behaved like a noble Roman. “See? I told you so!” That was what Qwilleran wanted to say, but he held his tongue. Even the breakfast omelette was made with real eggs and real cheese; no substitutes.

It was late Sunday afternoon when Qwilleran finally returned to Unit Four. Yum Yum was happily engaged with a crocheted mouse from the toy drawer, but Koko was nervous and unfocused. He prowled aimlessly, sniffed numerous invisible spots, jumped on and off the coffee table, peered at the ceiling.

“If you’re looking for Mosca, he doesn’t live here any more,” Qwilleran told him. “You can’t eat your cake and have it, too.”

Whatever was bothering the cat was bothering him as well. All the concerns suppressed during the last twenty-four hours were resurfacing. Dejectedly he sprawled in his big chair and listened to the rain—more rain!—pattering on the deck and splashing on the windows. Indoors there was only the sound of Yum Yum scurrying after her prey and Koko murmuring to himself. Now he was on the coffee table, examining the leather-bound scrapbook; he was a fiend for leather!

On an impulse, Qwilleran leaped out of his chair and went to the telephone to look up a number. She lived in the Village. She had opinions. She was hard-headed and not afraid to speak her mind. Sometimes she could be a little crazy. She was perfect! He knew she would be home. She was not one to go splashing around flooded highways except for financial gain, and this was Sunday.

The throaty voice that answered had an added note of impatience. “Yes? Now what, dammit.”

In his most mellifluous tone he said, “Amanda, this is one of your admiring constituents and a frequent customer of your studio.”

“Oh! It’s you! You scoundrel!” she said. “I thought it was the city attorney again. He’s been calling me all day. There’s a class-action suit against Pickax on account of the flooding. The stupid voters keep voting down millage to improve the storm sewers, but they forget that when it rains. Arrrgh!”

“You have my sympathy, Amanda. It’s generous of you to keep serving on the council as you do.” What he thought was: You keep running for re-election because it’s good for your design business.

“So what’s your complaint?”

“No complaint. Only a request for three minutes of your valuable time. Do you mind if I drive over? And would you be offended if I brought a pint of very fine brandy?”

A few minutes later she admitted him to her condo, which was piled to the ceiling with furnishings from the old Goodwinter mansion.

“Be my valentine!” he said, handing her a bottle tied with red streamers from Celia’s package. She would never notice that they were punctured with fang marks.

“Pretty good stuff,” she said, looking at the label. “Sure you can afford it?. . . Sit down, if you can find a place. Throw those magazines on the floor. Care for a drink?”

“Not this time, thanks. I just want you to look at this scrapbook.”

She accepted it questioningly and scowled at the color photos. “Is this your new hobby? Cutting out pictures from magazines?”

“What you’re looking at,” he replied, “is the portfolio Carter Lee James shows to prospective clients. I borrowed it without his knowledge.”

“Does he pretend he did all these restoration jobs?”

“Clients get the impression that he did.”

“Well, I get the impression he’s a royal fakeroo! You notice they’re not identified—who or where—and look at this one! A Queen Anne Victorian. It was done by a friend of mine down south, and her name isn’t Carter Lee James! I’ve been in this house! I recognize the gasolier, the stencils on the ceiling, the parlor set! Why, I even know the bear rug in front of the fireplace!”

Qwilleran was aware she had resented Carter Lee from the beginning. “Have you done any business as a result of his recommendations, Amanda?”

“Not a penny! Two council members live on Pleasant Street. They’ve each paid him twenty thousand up front. How come my clients never pay me up front?”

“He’s a professional charmer. You should try being more sweet-natured.”

“Arrrgh! I noticed there hasn’t been any publicity on Pleasant Street in your paper. How d’you explain that?”

“He doesn’t want publicity until the whole neighborhood is signed up. Lynette Duncan will be promoting it for him when they return from their honeymoon.”

“Poor girl! She should have stayed single!”

* * *

When Qwilleran drove into his own driveway, his neighbor rushed out of Unit Three, waving an envelope. Qwilleran lowered the car window.

“This letter belongs to you,” Wetherby said. “It was in my mailbox. I just picked up my Saturday delivery. Sorry it’s a day late.”

“Thanks. No problem.” It was a manila envelope from Hasselrich, Bennett & Barter, often bad news and always a nuisance. “Would you like to come in for a drink—and a long talk about precipitation and warm fronts?”

“I’ll take the drink. Wait till I feed the cat.”

When Wetherby arrived and was pulling off his boots, Qwilleran asked, “Bourbon?” They filed into the kitchen: host, guest, male cat, female cat—in that order.

“Do you like these closet doors?” Wetherby asked, indicating the lightweight louvered bi-folds. A wall of them covered the broom closet, laundry alcove, and pantry. “Jet-boy opens them with his nose. He’s learned exactly where to push to make them buckle. When I come home, every door in the house is ajar.”

“I think Don Exbridge got a special deal on bi-folds,” Qwilleran said. “They’re in every room and hall in the house!”

“Not only that, but they have springs that squawk like a strangled chicken, usually when Jet-boy is making his rounds at night.”

“Let’s not discuss this in front of the Siamese,” Qwilleran said. “They’ll get ideas.”

They carried their drinks into the living room and discussed the latest news: After an all-night crisis meeting, the promoters of the Ice Festival were forced to cancel the event. It was a tortured decision, but snow was turning to water, and ice was turning to slush. Ice-fishing shanties were falling through into the lake. It meant disappointment for all, loss of business for many, and embarrassment for the community.

Qwilleran said, “The newspaper is committed to covering expenses, but I feel sorry for Hixie Rice. It was her brainchild. Still, she’s indomitable. Even now she’s probably devising a brilliant way to utilize fifteen thousand polar-bear buttons.”

“Want to hear some really surprising news?” Wetherby said with enthusiasm. “The bridge club found out who sent the anonymous check to cover the two-thousand-dollar theft.”

“Who?” Qwilleran asked, expecting it to be Willard Carmichael.

“A nice little lady who lives in the Village and doesn’t even play bridge. She’s from an old family and gives a lot to charity. Sarah Plensdorf.”

“I know her! How did you find out?”

“That’s the best part. Her accountant is Mac MacWhannell, who’s a guest-member of the bridge club. In doing her tax return he found a two-thousand-dollar item paid to the bridge club. Mac said the item was actually a tax-deductible donation to the Youth Center.”

“Good for Big Mac!” Qwilleran said. “May I refresh your drink?”

When he returned, Yum Yum was sitting on the visitor’s lap, doing her amorous act: purring, rubbing, and gazing soulfully into his eyes.

“Nice cat,” Wetherby said. “Are you still getting postcards with cat names? I know a girl in Horseradish who calls her cats Allegro and Adagio. One’s lively; the other’s quiet. What are you going to do with the postcards?”

“I envision a large bonfire in the newspaper parking lot.”

“Has anyone had a postcard from the honeymooners?”

“I don’t know. Lynette called Polly last night and is eager to come home. She’s going to work with Carter Lee, promoting restoration jobs around the county.”

Wetherby said, “I hope, for her sake, his project is on the up-and-up.”

“You have doubts?”

“I’m a professional doubter. Plenty of suckers in Pickax seem to have twenty thousand to gamble. I suppose that’s not much if you consider the total value of the property in today’s market, but what do they get for their investment?”

“Expert advice, supervision of the work, and access to the National Register.”

Wetherby was on his way to a dinner party, and after he had left, Qwilleran pulled out the government printout borrowed from Mitch Ogilvie. Unfolded and spread on the floor, it did indeed measure six yards. He read it all, frequently tapping his moustache and sometimes shooing Koko away.