“I wonder how long it takes to dry before they can start the framing. Mr. Trevelyan uses platform framing construction. I must phone him tomorrow morning to see if he spaces the joists on twelve-, sixteen-, or twenty-four-inch centers.”
“I'd go with twelve-inch, considering the way Bootsie goes around stamping his feet,” Qwilleran said in another attempt to amuse her.
With worry in her voice she said, “Will I regret my decision to eliminate the fireplace? It makes a charming focal point, but it adds to the initial cost and then creates extra work if one burns wood, and I would never consider the gas-fired type.”
“Be of good cheer,” he said. “I have three fireplaces, and you're welcome to come and enjoy one or more at any hour of the day or night. I'll chop the wood, keep the logs burning, and haul the ashes. Reservations should be made an hour in advance.” He was doing his best to divert her, without success, and the conversation ended with frustration on Qwilleran's part.
He turned from the telephone to his stack of mail. An envelope with an Illinois postmark caught his eye:
Dear Chief,
I got your letter about the Kabibbles and almost died laughing. Glad you like them. I'll send some more. You can see by the envelope I've left Florida. I'm back on my son's farm. Sorry to say, I don't get along too good with my daughter-in-law—she's such a sourpuss—and you may think I'm crazy, but I'm thinking of moving to Pickax. It sounds very nice. I know you get lots of snow, but I love to throw snowballs at the side of a barn. I'd need to somehow find a furnished room because I sold everything when I moved to Florida, and maybe I could find a part-time job—cleaning houses or waiting on tables. I'd like to sort of give it a try for a year anyway.
What do you think?
Yours truly
Celia Robinson
She gave a phone number, and Qwilleran called immediately without waiting for the evening discount rates as he was prone to do. The phone rang and rang, and he let it ring while fragments of thought teased his brain: Celia could cook . . . Did he need a live-in housekeeper? . . . No, he liked his privacy . . . Some macaroni and cheese, though . . . Some meatloaf for the cats . . .
He was wondering about Celia's mashed potatoes when a woman's harassed voice shouted a breathless hello.
In a menacing monotone he said, “I'd like to speak to Mrs. Celia Robinson.”
“She's out back, collecting eggs. Who's calling?”
“Tell her it's the Chief.”
“Who?”
“Chief of the Florida Bureau of Investigation,” Qwilleran said with his talent for impromptu fabrication.
The receiver was put down abruptly, and a woman's voice could be heard shouting, “Clay, go and get Grandma quick. Tell her to hurry!”
There was a long wait, and then he could hear Celia's laughter before she reached the phone. “Hello, Chief,” she said happily. “You must've got my letter.”
“I did indeed, and it's a splendid idea! Your grandson can spend Christmas with you, and you can have snowball fights. How is Clayton?”
“He's fine. Just got back from science camp. He won a scholarship.”
“Good! Now to answer your questions: Yes, you'll have no trouble finding part-time work. Yes, you can find a furnished apartment. There's one close to downtown, if you don't mind walking up a flight of stairs.”
“I don't want to pay too much rent.”
“No problem. The owner will be only too happy to have the premises occupied.”
“Could I bring my cat? You remember Wrigley, from Chicago.”
“By all means. I'll look forward to meeting him.” He waited for her merry laughter to subside before asking, “Do you have transportation?”
“Oh, you should see the cute little used car I bought, Chief! It's bright red! I bought it with your check. I didn't expect you to send so much. It was fun helping you.”
“You performed a valuable service, Celia. And now . . . Don't waste any of our glorious summer weather. Plan on coming soon. I'll send you the directions.”
“Oh, I'm all excited!” she crowed, and he could hear her happy laughter as she hung up.
The apartment he had in mind was a four-room suite in the carriage house behind the former Klingenschoen mansion, now the K Theatre. It was imposing in its own right, being constructed of glistening fieldstone with carriage lanterns at all four corners and four stalls for vehicles. Qwilleran had lived there while his barn was being remodeled, and it was still equipped with his basic bachelor-style furnishings in conservative colors.
After talking to Celia, he tore into action, his first call being to Fran Brodie at the design studio. She had selected the original furnishings and also those in the barn.
“Fran, drop everything—will you?—and do a quick facelift on my old apartment . . . No, I'm not moving back into it. A woman who was a friend of Euphonia Gage in Florida has been advised by her doctor to move up here for the salubrious climate.”
“Well! I never heard anything like that!” Fran exclaimed. “Perhaps we should open a health spa. What kind of person is she?”
“A fun-loving grandmother, who has a cat and drives a red car. . . . Yes, I agree the place needs some color—and some feminine fripperies, if you'll pardon the political faux pas. The cats' old hang-out should be made over into a guestroom for her teenage grandson, and my Pullman kitchen should be replaced by a full-scale cooking facility, with an oven big enough to roast a turkey. How fast can you do this? She'll be here in ten days.”
“Ten days!” Fran yelped into the phone. “You're a dreamer! Free-standing appliances are no problem, and we can get stock cabinets from Lockmaster, but there's the labor for installing countertops, flooring, lighting—”
“Offer the workmen a bonus,” Qwilleran said impatiently. “Get them to work around the clock! Send me the bill.” He knew Fran liked a challenge; she prided herself on doing the impossible.
Breaking the news to Polly required more finesse, however. He called her at home that evening. “How did everything go today?” he asked pleasantly. “I see they painted the yellow lines on the library parking lot.”
“Yes, but that wasn't the main event of the day,” she said. “Mr. Tibbitt's seat cushion developed a slow leak and whistled every time he moved. It could be heard on the main floor, and the clerks were in hysterics. It was rather amusing in a bawdy way.” Polly trilled a little discreet laughter.
Finding her in a good mood, Qwilleran broached the real subject on his mind. “I know your assistant likes to moonlight on her day off. Would she be willing to act as mentor for a new resident of Pickax?”
“What would it entail?”
“Driving someone around town and pointing out the stores, churches, restaurants, civic buildings, medical center, and so forth. Information on local customs would be appreciated—also city ordinances, like ‘No whistling in public.' And she might throw in some current gossip,” he added slyly, knowing that Virginia Alstock was the main fuse in the Pickax gossip circuit.
“Who is this person?” Polly asked crisply.
Expecting the third degree, Qwilleran roguishly teased her with piecemeal replies. “A friend of Junior's grandmother in Florida.”
“Why would anyone in his or her right mind leave the subtropics to live in the Snow Belt? Is this person male or female?”
“Female.”
There was a brief pause. “Where is she going to live?”
“In my old apartment.”
“Oh, really? I didn't know it was available for rent. How did she find out about it?”
“The subject of housing arose in a telephone conversation, and I offered it to her.”
There was another pause. “You must know her quite well.”
“As a matter of fact,” he said, thinking the game had gone on long enough, “she was instrumental in solving the mystery surrounding Euphonia's death.”
“I see. . . . How old is she?”
“Polly, I never ask a lady her age. You know
that.”
There was an audible sniff. “Approximately.”
“Well . . . old enough to have a teenage grandson . . . and young enough to like snowball fights.”
“What is this woman's name?”
“Celia Robinson, and I'll appreciate it, Polly, if you'll alert Mrs. Alstock. Mrs. Robinson will be here in about ten days.”
Qwilleran chuckled to himself after hanging up the receiver. He could imagine the gabby Mrs. Robinson and the gossipy Mrs. Alstock having lunch at Lois's Luncheonette.
* * *
For the next few days he made discreet inquiries, wherever he went, about parttime work for a newcomer. One day he met Lisa Compton in the post office. She worked at the Senior Care Facility, and her husband was superintendent of schools; between them they could provide answers for most questions.
Qwilleran mentioned his quest, and Lisa asked, “Does this woman have a warm, outgoing personality?”
“She's got it in spades,” he said.
“Do you know about our new outreach program? It's called Pals for Patients. We supply Pals to homebound Patients; the Patients pay us, and we pay the Pals, minus a small commission for booking and collecting. Patients who can't afford to pay are subsidized by the Klingenschoen Foundation. You probably know all about that.”
“That's what you think,” Qwilleran said. “No one tells me these things. . . . Was the program your brainchild?”
“No, it was Irma Hasselrich's last great idea. I merely implemented it,” said Lisa. “What's your friend's name?”
Qwilleran hesitated, knowing that a bulletin would flash across the Pickax grapevine: Mr. Q has a new friend. He explained his hesitation by saying glibly, “Her last name is Robinson. Her first name is Sadie or Celia—something like that. We've never met. She was a dear friend of Euphonia Gage in Florida, who said Celia—or Sadie—had an exceptionally warm and outgoing personality.”
“Okay. Send her to me when she arrives. We'll put her name on the list.”
“She'll appreciate it, I'm sure. How's your grouchy old husband, Lisa?”
“Believe it or not, he's happy as a lark. You know Lyle's perverse temperament. Well, he's tickled to see Floyd Trevelyan in trouble. They've been enemies ever since Floyd sued the school board for expelling his son.”
As it turned out, Floyd was in more trouble than anyone imagined, and the Moose County Something could gloat over its first front-page coverage of a financial scandal.
The Lumbertown Credit Union was closed indefinitely and its assets frozen, pending a hearing before the state banking commission on charges of fraud.
Millions of dollars belonging to depositors were allegedy missing.
Also missing were the president of the institution and his secretary.
FIVE
News of the Mudville scandal broke in mid-morning, enabling the Moose CountySomething to remake the front page. Arch Riker phoned Qwilleran for help with rewrites and phones. “And listen, Qwill: Stop at Toodles' and pick up a few bottles of champagne.”
Suffused with a newsman's urge to disinter the story behind the story, Qwilleran left in a hurry, although not without waving good-bye to the Siamese. He told them where he was going and when he might return, as if they cared. After their breakfast they could be infuriatingly blasé. Yum Yum merely sat on her brisket and gave him a glassy stare; Koko walked away and was heard scratching in the commode.
At the newspaper office the mood was one of jubilation. Rarely did breaking news break on their deadline. Ordinarily the public heard it first from the electronic media—sketchily, but first. Not until the next day would the newspaper come in a poor second. True, they were able to publish photos, sidelights, background facts, quotes from individuals involved, and opinions from casual observers. After all, the Moose County Something claimed to be the north-country newspaper of record. “Read all about it” was their slogan, recalling the cry of the old-time corner newshawker.
When the presses were finally rolling, the champagne corks popped in celebration. If Qwilleran remembered his own exuberant days of champagne-squirting Down Below, it was without any wishful pangs of yearning. He was simply glad to be where he was when he was—and who he was.
Eventually Riker's booming voice announced, “Enough hilarity! Back to reality!” The staff calmed down and went to work, and Qwilleran went on his way, leaving his car in the parking lot and walking around town to do his own snooping.
First he went to the police station to see his friend Andrew Brodie, but the chief was absent—probably meeting with state and county lawmen to organize a manhunt, and womanhunt.
Qwilleran's next stop was Amanda's Studio of Interior Design on Main Street. Amanda was not there, but Fran Brodie was holding the fort attractively, sitting at a French writing table with her long slender legs crossed and her double-hoop earrings dangling. She had been one of the seductive young women who pursued Qwilleran when he arrived in Pickax to claim his inheritance. Only Polly Duncan remained in the running; in this case, he had done the pursuing. Fran was still a friend and confidante, however. He admired her talent as a designer, her dedication to the theatre club, and her strawberry blond hair. Also, she was the daughter of the police chief and an occasional source of privileged information.
When he entered the shop, she saw him immediately and turned her face away, groaning loudly—a bit of theatre-club pantomime.
“Is it as bad as all that?” Qwilleran asked. He knew that the studio had handled the renovation of the Party Train.
“That rat owes us tens of thousands!” she wailed. “Amanda's at the attorney's office right now. Floyd had signed a contract for the work, and we never dreamed he'd run out on it.”
“Were the rail coaches the only work you'd done for him?”
“No. The first was the Lumbertown office, and he liked it. Maybe you've seen how we duplicated the atmosphere of an old railway depot. He had just sold his construction firm to XYZ Enterprises and had tons of money. He paid the bill in thirty days.”
“And what about his house in West Middle Hummock? I had a glimpse of it when I interviewed him about the model trains. The interior didn't look like you; it looked like Mudville thrift shop.”
“Well, he said his wife didn't want any professional help with the house. That meant one of two things: Either he'd rather spend the money on model trains, or Mrs. T was too ill to care. We accepted that. Apparently Floyd himself didn't care how the house looked as long as the bar was well stocked. I don't know who drinks all that stuff. I think they never have company. Maybe Floyd has drinking buddies from Sawdust City. . . . But then, he commissioned us to do the interiors of the PV and the diner and the club car, and believe me, they needed a lot of doing!”
“You did a beautiful job, Fran.”
“Well, why not? He was willing to spend a fortune . . . ”
“And you thought you were on the gravy train,” Qwilleran said sympathetically.
Fran groaned again. “I'm afraid Amanda will have a stroke. You know how excitable she is.”
“Did you work directly with Floyd on the cars?”
“No. With his secretary—or assistant—or whatever she is. Nice person. Good to work with. Nella Hooper has fine taste. When Floyd wanted something flashy, she toned him down.”
“I saw her on the Party Train. Very attractive. Know anything about her background?”
“Only that she's from Texas. She never wanted to talk about herself, and I know when not to ask questions. Floyd had me do her apartment in Indian Village and gave me carte blanche to spend money. She wanted a southwestern theme.”
“How about your father, Fran? Has he had anything to say about the embezzlement?”
“It's too soon.”
“Or the disappearance of the principals?”
“Too soon.”
The way it worked: The police chief would come home from his shift and talk shop with his wife at the kitchen table; then, when Fran made her daily phone call to her moth
er, Mrs. Brodie would pass along some tidbit of information in strict confidence; later, if Qwilleran dropped into the studio looking genuinely concerned and utterly trustworthy, Fran would feel free to confide in him. She was aware that he had helped the police on several occasions, behind the scenes.
“It's too early for any scuttlebutt,” Fran said, “although I haven't called home yet. Why don't you come to rehearsal tonight? By that time I might have heard something.”
“Will Derek Cuttlebrink be there?” Qwilleran asked. “He's on my list of leads to interview.”
“He'll be there. So will his latest girlfriend.”
“You mean—Elizabeth Appelhardt?”
“She prefers to be called Elizabeth Hart now.”
“I must say they're an odd couple.”
“But they're good for each other,” Fran said. “She's talked him into enrolling at the college, and Derek is gradually nudging her into the mainstream. When you first brought her from the island, she was in a world of her own.”
“Please! I didn't bring her here,” Qwilleran said gruffly. “She happened to be on the same boat.”
“Whatever,” the designer said with raised eyebrows. “She's started wearing natural makeup and patronizing my hairdresser, and now she looks less like a character in a horror movie.”
“I hear she's joined the club. That'll be good for her.”
“Good for us, too! She has some fresh ideas for costumes and staging, although I expect some opposition from our older members.”
“Any other news?”
“I'm doing an apartment in Indian Village for Dr. Diane—country French, lots of blue. She seems to have replaced Hixie in Dr. Herbert's life, but here's an off-twist: When Hixie broke her foot, she stayed with Dr. Herbert's mother until she could walk, and now Dr. Diane is staying with his mother until her apartment is ready.”
Qwilleran said, “I'm sure there's some underlying significance to that fact, but it escapes me. . . . I like that paperweight. What is it supposed to be?” He pointed to a fanciful chunk of tarnished brass on Fran's desk.
“That's Cerberus,” Fran told him. “The three-headed dog that guarded the gates of Hades in ancient mythology. Amanda picked it up at an estate sale in Chicago. It belonged to a wealthy meatpacker.”
The Cat Who Blew the Whistle Page 6