The Cat Who Tailed a Thief (2 page)

“It’s like this, Andy,” he explained. “With four stories of wide-open space, it’s impossible to heat evenly. The top balcony is like a sauna while the main floor is chilly. The cats used to go to the top level to get warm, and they’d end up half-cooked. They were so groggy from the heat, they couldn’t walk straight. So I bought a condo in Indian Village for the cold months. I can rent it to vacationers in summer. It’s nowhere near the size of the barn, of course, but it’s adequate, and the county snowplows keep the access road open, for the simple reason that so many politicos live out there. . . By the way, I had my condo furnished by your talented daughter.”

The chief nodded a grudging acknowledgment of the family compliment. In spite of Fran Brodie’s success as an interior designer, her father considered it a frivolous choice of career.

Standing up and presenting the brown paper bag, Qwilleran said, “Here’s a wee dram of Christmas cheer, Andy. See you after the holidays.”

* * *

In earlier days Qwilleran had been frugal by nature and by necessity—while growing up with a single parent, earning his way through college, and working as an underpaid reporter Down Below. His new financial status had introduced him to the luxury of largesse, however. He still practiced certain economies, such as buying used cars for himself, but he enjoyed giving presents, buying drinks, sending flowers, treating companions to dinner, and tipping generously.

When he finally tackled his Christmas shopping on December 23, his list was a long one. Fortunately, he was a speedy shopper who made quick decisions and never had to ask prices. For his shopping spree he left his car in the municipal parking lot, then zipped up his padded jacket, yanked down his wool earflaps, pulled on his lined gloves, and trudged around downtown in snowboots.

Main Street was thronged with shoppers weaving merrily between head-high walls of snow. There was a wintry sun, just bright enough to make the flecks of mica sparkle in the stone facades of store and office buildings, and garlands of greens festooned from rooftops and looped across the street between lightpoles. The babble of voices and rumble of slow-moving vehicles were hushed by the tons of snow piled everywhere and packed hard between the curbs. (Roadways were not salted in Moose County.) Yet, strangely, the acoustical phenomenon emphasized the bursts of Christmas music, the occasional jingle of sleigh bells, and the brassy clang of Santa’s handbell on the street corner.

First Qwilleran went to Lanspeaks’ Department Store to buy something for Polly Duncan, the main name on his gift list. Carol Lanspeak herself waited on him. She and her husband were an admirable pair: good business heads, civic leaders, and major talents in the Pickax Theatre Club. If they had not come home to Pickax to run the family business, Qwilleran believed, Larry and Carol could have been another Cronyn and Tandy, or Lunt and Fontanne.

Carol said to him with a touch of fond rebuke, “I knew you’d pop in at the last minute, so I set aside a suit in Polly’s size, a lovely suede in terra-cotta. She’s down to a size fourteen since her surgery. What did those cardiovascular people
do to her?”

“They convinced her to go for two-mile walks and give up all my favorite foods.”

“Well, she looks wonderful! And she’s drifting away from those dreary grays and blues.”

Qwilleran gave the suit a single glance and said, “I’ll take it.”

“There’s also a silk blouse with a lot of zing that’ll—”

“I’ll take that, too.” The blouse was patterned in an overscaled houndstooth check in terra-cotta and British white.

“Polly will swoon over it!” Carol promised.

“Polly doesn’t swoon easily,” he said. She was a charming woman of his own age, with a soft and musical voice, but there was an iron hand in the velvet glove that ran the public library.

“Where are you two spending Christmas day, Qwill?”

“With the Rikers. Do you and Larry have big plans?”

“We’ll have our daughter and her current friend, of course, and we’ve invited the Carmichaels and their houseguest. Do you see much of Willard and Danielle?”

Not if I can help it, Qwilleran thought. Politely he said, “Our paths don’t seem to cross very often.” It was the Lanspeaks who had introduced him to the new banker and his flashy young wife. Her frank flirtiness, sidelong glances, raucous voice, and breathy stares at his moustache annoyed him.

“I’m afraid,” Carol said regretfully, “that Danielle isn’t adjusting well to small-town life. She’s always comparing Pickax to Detroit and Baltimore, where they have
malls
! Willard says she’s homesick. That’s why they invited her cousin from Down Below to spend the holidays.” She lowered her voice. “Step into my office, Qwill.”

He followed her to the cluttered cubicle adjoining the women’s department.

“Sit down,” she said. “I feel sorry for Danielle. People are saying unkind things, but she’s asking for it. She looks so freaky! By Pickax standards, at any rate. Skirts too short, heels too high, everything too tight, pounds of makeup, hair like a rat’s nest!. . . It may be fashionable Down Below, but when in Rome—”

“She needs a mentor,” Qwilleran interrupted. “Couldn’t Fran Brodie drop a few hints? She’s glamorous and yet has class, and she’s helping Danielle with her house.”

“Fran’s been dropping hints, Qwill, but. . . ” Carol shrugged. “You’d think her husband would say something. He’s an intelligent man, and he’s fitting right into the community. Willard has joined the chamber of commerce and the Boosters Club and is helping to organize a gourmet club. Yet, when Larry submitted his name to the country club for membership, nothing happened. They never sent the Carmichaels an invitation! We all know why. Danielle’s flamboyant manner of dress and grooming and deportment raises eyebrows and causes snickers. They call her voice cheap. It
is
rather strident.”

“Rather,” Qwilleran said. It was unusual for Carol to be so critical and so candid.

“Well, let me know if you think of something we can do. . . Shall I gift wrap Polly’s suit and blouse?”

“Please. I’ll pick them up later. Go easy on the bows and jingle bells.”

He next went to Amanda’s Design Studio, hoping to find a decorative object for the Rikers and hoping that Fran Brodie would be in-house. The police chief’s daughter was out, unfortunately, and her cantankerous boss was in charge. Amanda Goodwinter was a successful businesswoman and a perennial member of the Pickax City Council, always re-elected because of her name. The Goodwinters had founded Pickax in the mid-1800s.

Amanda’s greeting was characteristically blunt. “If you’re looking for a free cup of coffee, you’re out of luck. The coffeemaker’s on the blink.” Her unruly gray hair and drab, shapeless clothing were considered “interestingly individual” by her loyal customers. Her political enemies called her the bag lady of Pickax.

To tease her, Qwilleran said he wanted to buy a knickknack for a gift.

She bristled. “We don’t sell knickknacks!”

“Semantics! Semantics! Then how about a bibelot for Arch and Mildred Riker?”

She huffed and scowled and suggested a colorful ceramic coffeepot, its surface a mass of sculptured grapes, apples, and pears.

“Isn’t it a trifle gaudy?” Qwilleran complained.

“Gaudy! What are you saying?” Amanda shouted in her council chamber voice. “It’s Majolica! It’s hand-painted! It’s old! It’s expensive! The Rikers will be crazy about it!”

“I’ll take it,” Qwilleran said, knowing that Mildred was a collector with an artist’s eye and Arch was a collector with an eye for the bottom line. “And I’d like it gift wrapped, but don’t fuss.”

“I never fuss!”

* * *

For the other names on his list he relied on the new Sip ’n’ Nibble shop. They would make up gift baskets of wine, cheese, and other treats and deliver them anywhere in the county by Christmas Eve.

On a whim he also went into the men’s store to buy a waggish tie for Riker, who was known for his conservative neckwear. It was bright blue with a pattern of lifesize baseballs, white stitched in red. He hoped it would get a laugh.

His final stop was the Pickax People’s Bank to cash a check, and the sight of the famous moustache created a stir. Customers, tellers, and security personnel smiled, waved, and greeted him:

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Q!”

“All ready for Santa, Mr. Q?”

“Finished your Christmas shopping, Mr. Q?”

He responded with courteous bows and salutes and took his place in line.

The gray-haired woman ahead of him stepped aside. “Are you in a hurry, Mr. Q? You can go first.”

“No, no, no,” he remonstrated. “Thank you, but stay where you are. I like to stand in line behind an attractive woman.”

The commotion brought a man striding from an inner office with hand outstretched. “Qwill! You’re the exact person I want to see! Come into my office!” The new banker had the suave manner, expensive suit, and styled hair of a newcomer from Down Below.

Qwilleran followed him into the presidential suite and noted a few changes: a younger secretary, more colorful furnishings, and art on the walls.

“Have a chair,” Carmichael said. “I hear you’re living in Indian Village now.”

“Only for the winter. The barn’s not practical in cold weather. How about you? Have you moved into your house?”

“No, we’re still camping out in an apartment at the Village. Danielle has ordered a lot of stuff for the house, but it takes forever to get delivery. Expensive as hell, too, but that’s all right. My sweetheart likes to spend money, and whatever keeps her happy keeps me happy. . . Say, are you free for dinner tonight? I’ve been wanting us to get together.”

Qwilleran hesitated. “Well. . . it’s rather short notice, you know.” Willard, he decided, was okay, but the googly-eyed Danielle made him uncomfortable.

Carmichael went on. “I’m baching it tonight. Danielle is taking our houseguest to Otto’s Tasty Eats—a vile restaurant, if you ask me—so I told her I had to work. Her cousin is spending the holidays with us.”

“Well. . . with a little judicious finagling. . . I could manage to be free. Where would you like to go?”

“Where could we get pasties? I’ve never had a pasty. I don’t even know what it is.”

“It’s the official specialty of Moose County, dating back to mining days,” Qwilleran said. “And it’s pronounced to rhyme with
nasty,
by the way.”

“I stand corrected,” the banker said.

“It’s an enormous meat-and-potato turnover—okay for a picnic but not for a civilized dinner. Have you been to Onoosh’s café?”

“No, Danielle doesn’t like Mediterranean. When I was in Detroit, though, I used to haunt Greektown for shish kebab, taramasalata, and saganaki. . . Oopah! Oopah!”

“That’s the spirit!” Qwilleran said. “Suppose we meet at Onoosh’s whenever you’re free. I have to go home and. . . feed the cats.” He was wearing knockabout clothes, but if he had said, “I want to go home and change,” Willard would have said, “Don’t bother. Come as you are. I’ll take off my tie.”

Going home to feed the cats was an excuse that was never challenged.

Qwilleran drove home to Indian Village in his four-wheel-drive vehicle, considered advisable for winter in the country. Having traded in his compact sedan for a medium-size van, he was pleased to find it convenient on many occasions, such as trips to the veterinarian with the cats’ travel coop. It was almost new—only thirty thousand miles—and Scott Gippel had given him a good trade-in allowance.

Indian Village on Ittibittiwassee Road was well outside the Pickax city limits. It was debatable whether the drive was more beautiful in summer’s verdure or winter’s chiaroscuro, when bare trees and dark evergreens were silhouetted against the endless blanket of white. Along the way was the abandoned Buckshot mine and its ghostly shafthouse, fenced with chain-link and posted as dangerous. Just beyond was the bridge over the Ittibittiwassee River, which then veered and paralleled the highway to Indian Village and beyond.

Geographically and politically the Village was in Suffix Township; psychologically it was in a world of its own, being an upscale address for a variety of interesting residents. At the entrance, a gate gave an air of exclusivity, but it was always open, giving an air of hospitality. The buildings were rustic board-and-batten, compatible with the wooded site, summer and winter, starting with the gatehouse and the clubhouse. Apartments were clustered in small buildings randomly situated on Woodland Trail. Condominiums in strips of four contiguous units extended along River Lane, close to the water that rushed over rocks or swirled in pools. Even in winter a trickle could be heard underneath the snow and ice.

As Qwilleran neared his own condo in Building Five, he began to think about his housemates. Would they greet him excitedly?—meaning hungrily. Would they be dead asleep on the sofa, curled together in a single heap of fur? Would they have pushed the phone off the hook, or upchucked a hairball, or broken a lamp during a mad chase?

Before unlocking his own door, he delivered the groceries he had picked up for Polly. He had a key to her unit at the other end of the row. Even while unlocking her door he began talking to her watchcat, Bootsie, explaining that he was there on legitimate business and would simply refrigerate the perishables and leave.

His own Siamese were in the window overlooking the riverbank, laying contentedly on their briskets, listening to the trickle beneath the snow and ice. The wintry sun bounced off the white landscape, making a giant reflector that illuminated their silky fawn-colored coats and accentuated their seal-brown points.

“Hello, you guys,” Qwilleran said. “How’s everything? Any excitement around here? What’s the rabbit count today?”

Languorously, both cats stood up, humped their backs in a horseshoe curve, and then stretched two forelegs and one hind leg. The male was Kao K’o Kung (Koko, for short)—the “smart cat” in Brodie’s book. He was sleek and muscular with a commanding set of whiskers and intense blue eyes that hinted at cosmic secrets. Yum Yum, the female, was delicate and outrageously affectionate. Her large, limpid blue eyes were violet-tinged. Being Siamese, they were both highly vocal, Koko yowling a chesty baritone and Yum Yum uttering a blood-chilling soprano shriek when it was least expected.

Qwilleran brought in the gift-wrapped packages from his van, read the mail picked up at the gatehouse, made some phone calls, fed the cats, and changed into a tweed sports coat over a turtleneck jersey. Polly had told him he looked particularly good in turtlenecks; their simplicity was a foil for his handsome moustache. He was half pleased and half annoyed by everyone’s preoccupation with his unique facial adornment. Fran Brodie called it a Second Empire moustache, as if it were a piece of furniture.

What no one knew, of course, was its functional significance to its owner. Whenever Qwilleran suspected that something was false or out-of-order in any way, he felt a tingling sensation on his upper lip. Experience had taught him to pay attention to these signals. Sometimes he would tamp his moustache, pound it with his fist, comb it with his knuckles, or merely stroke it thoughtfully, depending on the nature of the hunch.

Polly, who was in the dark about this phenomenon, would say, “Are you nervous about something, dear?”

“Sorry. Only a silly habit,” he would reply. He did, however, heed her suggestion about turtlenecks.

Tonight, Qwilleran took one last look in the full-length mirror, said good-bye to two bemused animals, and drove to Onoosh’s Mediterranean Café in downtown Pickax.

Onoosh Dalmathakia and her partner had come from Down Below to open their restaurant, and it had received good coverage from the
Moose County Something
and the
Lockmaster Ledger
in the adjoining county. According to the publicity, the atmosphere was exotic: small oil-burning lamps on brass-topped tables, Mediterranean murals, and hanging lights with beaded fringe. In the kitchen Onoosh herself was training local women to roll stuffed grapeleaves and chop parsley—by hand—for tabbouleh. The reporter who interviewed her for the
Something
said she spoke with a fascinating Middle-Eastern accent that seemed just right with her olive complexion, sultry brown eyes, and black hair. Her partner had a Middle American accent, being a sandy-haired native of Kansas.

Qwilleran had not tried the restaurant before suggesting it to the banker. When he arrived, he felt transported halfway around the globe by the aroma of strange spices and the twang of ethnic music. Two waitpersons were hurrying about, wearing European farmer smocks but looking like students from the community college.

Carmichael waved from a corner booth, where he was sipping a Rob Roy. “Hard day!” he said. “I needed a head start. You’re my guest tonight. What would you like to drink?”

Qwilleran ordered his usual Squunk water on the rocks with a twist, explaining that it was a local mineral water, said to be the fountain of youth.

“It must be true,” Carmichael said, “because you certainly look fit. How does it taste?”

“To tell the truth, Willard, it could be improved by a shot of something, but I’ve sworn off shots of everything.”

“Call me Will,” the banker said. “I should give up the hard stuff myself. I gave up smoking two years ago, but do you want to hear something stupid? I never travel in a plane without two packs of cigarettes in my luggage—for luck.”

“If it works, don’t apologize.”

“Well, I haven’t been in a plane crash, and they never lost my luggage!”

“How’s your lovely wife?” Qwilleran asked. It was the polite thing to say and in no way reflected his personal opinion.

“Oh, she’s all involved in decorating the new house, and Fran Brodie is really taking her for a ride. That’s okay with me. Anything to keep peace in the family!”

“A wise attitude!” Qwilleran gave the sober nod of one who has been there.

“Were you ever married, Qwill?”

“Once. Period. . . You bought the Fitches’ contemporary house, as I recall.”

“I’m afraid I did—the one that looks like the shafthouse of an abandoned mine. No wonder it was on the market for three years! It’s ugly as sin, but Danielle likes anything that’s modern and
different,
so I acquiesced.”

Qwilleran thought, She’s spoiled; she has a mouth made for pouting, and a voice made for complaining. He asked, “How long have you two been married?”

“Not quite a year. My first wife died three years ago, and I was living alone in a big house. Then I went to Baltimore on business and met Danielle in a club where she was singing. It was love at first sight, let me tell you. She doesn’t have a great voice, but she’s one gorgeous woman! So I brought her back to Michigan.”

“What made you move up here?”

“That’s a story! I’d been wanting to get away from the fast track and the pollution and the street crime. I’d been mugged twice and had my car hijacked once, which was par for the course. But then I was robbed by a fast-food restaurant, and that was the clincher. I was ready for River City, Iowa.”

“Robbed
by
the restaurant or
in
the restaurant?” Qwilleran was a stickler for the right word.

“
By
the restaurant, I’m telling you. It was Sunday, and Danielle had gone to Baltimore for a visit. In the evening I went out to get a burger and fries but forgot my bill clip, so I stopped at an ATM across from the restaurant. When I ordered my burger, I paid with a twenty but got change for a five. I pointed out the error. The counter girl called the manager. He took the cash drawer away to count it and brought it back faster than you can count your fingers. He said the cash box showed I’d paid with a five. All I had on my person that night was a twenty from the ATM, but how could I prove it?” Willard stopped to finish his drink.

Qwilleran said, “Don’t stop now. What did you do?”

“Nothing I’m particularly proud of. I called him a crook and threw the whole tray at him. I hope the coffee was scalding hot!. . . That’s the story! The next day I contacted an executive placement agency, and here I am!”

“You’re safe here. We don’t have fast fooderies.”

“That puzzles me,” the banker said. “There’s money to be made in this county if you wanted to build a mall and bring in fast foods. . . But look here! I’m gassing too much. Let’s order some appetizers and another drink.” He ordered hummus and asked to have the pita served warm.

Qwilleran ordered baba ghanouj and said to the server, “Would you ask Onoosh if she can make meatballs in little green kimonos?”

In less than a minute she came rushing from the kitchen in her white apron and chef’s toque. “Mr. Qwill!” she squealed. “It’s you! I knowed it was you!”

He had risen, and she flung her arms around him. A radiant smile transformed her plain face, and her tall hat fell off. It was an emotional scene, and—in Pickax style—the other diners applauded.

“Just an old friend,” Qwilleran explained after she had returned to the kitchen.

The banker asked, “Do you think a Mediterranean restaurant will go over in a town like this?”

“I hope so. It’s backed by the Klingenschoen Foundation as part of the downtown improvement program. Also, Polly Duncan tells me that Middle Eastern cuisine is on-target healthwise.”

“I’ve met your Polly Duncan, and she’s a charming woman,” Willard said with a note of envy. “You’re a lucky man. She’s attractive, intelligent, and has a beautiful speaking voice.”

“It was her voice that first appealed to me,” Qwilleran said. “ ‘Soft, gentle, and low,’ to quote Shakespeare. And it’s the first time in my life that I’ve had a friend who shared my literary interests—a great feeling! Also, I’m constantly learning. Jazz used to be the extent of my music appreciation, but Polly’s introduced me to chamber music and opera.” He stopped to chuckle. “She hasn’t converted me to bird-watching, though, and I haven’t sold her on baseball—or Louis Armstrong.”

“I understand you’ve bought separate condos in the Village. Have you ever thought of—”

“No,” Qwilleran interrupted. “We like our singlehood. Besides, our cats are incompatible.”

“While I’m asking nosey questions, mind if I ask another?. . . The Klingenschoen Foundation seems to have poured millions into Moose County—schools, health care, environment, and so on. What’s the source of their wealth?”

Qwilleran explained simply: “The K family made their fortune here during the boom years of Moose County—in the hospitality business, you might say. A later generation invested wisely. The family has died out now, and all the money has gone into the K Foundation.”

“I see,” said the banker, eyeing Qwilleran dubiously. “My next nosey question: Is it true that
you
are the K Foundation?”

“No, I’m just an innocent bystander.” How could a journalist explain to a banker that money is less interesting than the challenge of deadlines, exclusives, and accurate reporting?

Their dinner orders were taken, and both men chose the lentil soup with tabbouleh as the salad course, followed by shish kebab for Will and stuffed grapeleaves for Qwill.

The conversation switched to the gourmet society that was being organized. “Cooking is my chief pleasure,” the banker said. “It’s relaxing to come home from the play-it-cool bank environment and start banging pots and pans around. Danielle hates the kitchen, bless her heart. . . She’s bugging me to grow a moustache like yours, Qwill. She says it’s sexy, but that isn’t exactly the bank image. . . Have you ever been to Mardi Gras? She talked me into making reservations, although I’d rather take a cruise.”

Qwilleran, as a journalist, was a professional listener, and he found himself practicing his profession. Willard seemed to need an understanding and sympathetic ear. Willard said, “When we move into our house, we want to get a couple of Siamese like yours—that is, if I can talk Danielle into it. The Village doesn’t allow cats in apartments.”

“I know. That’s why I bought a condo.”

“I’ll bet your cats miss the barn.”

“They’re adaptable.”

“Are they a couple?”

“No, just friends.”

Willard said, “I have two grown sons in California, but I’d like to start a second family. At my age I think I could father some smart offspring, but Danielle isn’t keen about the idea.” He shrugged in resignation.

The conversation slowed to a desultory pace after the entrées were served. Once in a while Willard would ask a question. “Were you ever an actor? You’ve got a trained voice.”