The others stood around, somewhat stunned, despite their composure during the rescue.
“I heard the tractor,” Qwilleran said, “and was on my way here to watch the action, when I heard a scream and the machine toppling over and a huge bird flying away. I think it was a great horned owl. There's one living in the woods.”
“When they're after prey at night, they can mistake anything for an animal,” the officer said. “You're smart to wear that yellow cap.”
Gippel said, “That guy'll never make it. His bones are crushed. Do you realize how much that tractor weighs?”
“The soil is wet, though,” Qwilleran pointed out. “He was partially cushioned by the mud.”
“Don't bet on it!” Gippel was notorious for his pessimism, being the only businessman in town who refused to join the Pickax Boosters Club.
As Qwilleran walked back to the barn, he dreaded the task of notifying Polly. The thought of a serious accident on her property would blight her attitude toward the house and add to her worries.
By the time he arrived, his phone was ringing. It was Celia. “Bad news!” she said breathlessly. “Tish just called. Her brother's been in a terrible accident. He's in Pickax Hospital, and she asked me to go there, because she can't leave Florrie.”
“Call me if there's anything I can do, no matter how late,” he said. “Call and tell me his condition.”
He turned on all the lights in the barn in an effort to dispel the gloom that hung over him. The Siamese felt it, too. They forgot to ask for their bedtime treat and were in no mood for sleep. They followed him when he circled the main floor. After several laps, he considered the twistletwig rocker, wondering if its efficacy included the therapeutic. When he gave it a try, both cats piled into his lap, Koko digging industriously in the crook of his elbow. Qwilleran endured the discomfort, remembering that it was Koko's catfit that had sent him down to the building site—before the accident happened!
Eventually Celia called back. “He's unconscious, and only a relative is allowed to see him. I said I was his grandmother. He looks more dead than alive. The nurse wouldn't tell me anything, except that he's critical . . . What's that?” she cried, hearing a crash.
“Koko knocked something down,” he said calmly.
“The hospital will call me if there's a turn for the worse. Tomorrow morning, after Florrie's nurse reports, Tish will drive to town, and we'll go to the hospital together.”
“That's good. She'll need moral support. Keep me informed, but right now you'd better get some rest. Tomorrow could be a hectic day for you.” Qwilleran spoke softly and considerately; he returned the receiver to its cradle gently. Then he turned around and yelled, “Bad cat! Look what you've done!”
Koko gave him a defiant stare, while Yum Yum scampered away guiltily. The epithet could refer to either male or female, but it was Koko who had been nosing the pencil box for several days. Now it lay on the clay tile floor in two pieces. The tiny hinges had pulled out of the old wood, and the box had burst open. The drawer with the secret latch held firm, and the paper clips were secure, but pens, pencils, a letter-opener, and whatnot were scattered all over the floor. As Qwilleran gathered them up, he saw Koko walking away, impudently carrying a black-barreled felt-tip in his mouth.
“Bad cat!” he bellowed again. “Bad cat!” It may have vented his anger, but it did nothing to dent the cat's equanimity.
* * *
Qwilleran set his alarm clock for six forty-five, an unprecedented hour for a late-riser of his distinction. He wanted to break the news to Polly before she heard it on the radio.
At seven a.m. the WPKX announcer said, “A bulldozer rolled over late last night on the outskirts of Pickax, injuring Edward P. Trevelyan, twenty-four, of Indian Village. He was grading a building site in a secluded area when he was attacked by a large bird, thought to be an owl. He lost control of the tractor, which rolled into a ditch, pinning him underneath. The accident victim was taken to Pickax Hospital by the emergency medical service, after being freed by the volunteer rescue squad. His condition is critical.”
Qwilleran called Polly shortly after her wake-up hour of seven-thirty and heard her say sleepily, “So early, Qwill! Is something wrong?”
“I have an early appointment and want to inquire about Bootsie before leaving.”
“I phoned the hospital last night,” Polly said, “and Bootsie was resting comfortably after the initial treatment. It was nice of you to call.”
“One other thing . . . I'm sorry to report that Eddie Trevelyan is in the hospital.”
“How do you know?” she asked anxiously.
“It was on the air this morning. He was in an accident last night.”
“Oh, dear! I hope it wasn't drunk driving.”
“They called it a tractor rollover. It looks as if he won't be able to supervise his crew for a while.”
In the pause that followed, Qwilleran could imagine the questions racing through Polly's mind: How bad is it? How long will he be incapacitated? Can his helpers proceed without him? Will it delay my construction?
“Oh, no!” she cried. “Was he working on my property?”
“I'm afraid so. He was doing a little midnight grading while he had the use of a rented skim-loader.”
“I feel terribly guilty about this, Qwill. I've been nagging him about the grading,” Polly said in anguish. “It's so discouraging. Everything seems to be happening at once. First Bootsie, and now this!”
“One thing I can assure you, Polly. You have no reason to worry about the house. If any problem arises, it'll be solved. Just leave everything to me.”
Qwilleran hung up with a sense of defeat, knowing his advice would be ignored; she would worry more than ever. It was nearly eight o'clock, and he walked briskly down the trail in the hope of finding workmen on the job. The site was deserted. The tractor lay on its side in the ditch; across the highway its flatbed trailer was parked on the shoulder; the pavement was a maze of muddy tracks. Soon a pickup pulled onto the property, and one of Eddie's workmen jumped out.
Qwilleran went to meet him. “Do you know your boss is in the hospital?”
“Yeah. He's hurt bad.”
“Can you continue to work on the house?”
The man shrugged. “No boss, no pay. I come to pick up my tools.”
“Do you know where Eddie rented this machine?”
“Truck-n-Track in Kennebeck.”
At that moment a late-model car stopped on the shoulder, driven by Scott Gippel on his way to work.
“Did you hear the newscast, Scott?” Qwilleran asked.
“Sure did! That guy's gonna cash it in, take it from me. It's the Trevelyan curse, all over again. Same place. Same family. Look! You can see the foundation where their farmhouse burned down.”
“Well, don't be too worried about Eddie. He's young, and he's strong—”
“And he drinks like a sponge,” the car dealer said. “He's probably got alcohol instead of blood in his veins.”
Qwilleran let that comment pass. There had been a time when he fitted the same description, more or less. He said, “Could your tow truck get this thing out of the ditch and deliver it to Kennebeck?”
“Who pays?”
“I do, but I want it done fast . . . immediately . . . now!”
Without answering, Gippel picked up his car phone and gave orders.
Qwilleran waited until the carpenter had picked up his tools—and nothing belonging to Eddie. He waited until the tractor had been towed away. Only then did he go home and feed the cats. They were unusually quiet; they knew when he was involved in serious business.
He himself breakfasted on coffee and a two-day-old doughnut while pondering Koko's bizarre behavior in recent weeks: the interminable vigils at the front window . . . his perching on the fireplace cube with the decoys . . . his vociferous and absurd reaction to the name Hermia . . . his digging in the crook of Qwilleran's elbow, ad nauseam.
As the man ruminated, the ca
t was investigating the bookshelf devoted to nineteenth-century fiction.
“You'd better shape up, young man,” Qwilleran scolded him, “or we'll send you to live with Amanda Goodwinter.”
“Ik ik ik!” said Koko irritably as he shoved a book off the shelf. It was a fine book with a leather binding, gold tooling, India paper, and gilt edges. With resignation and the realization that one can never win an argument with a Siamese, Qwilleran picked up the book and read the title. It was Dostoyevsky's The Idiot.
“Thanks a lot,” he said crossly.
* * *
Qwilleran's telephone was in constant use that morning. He called Kennebeck and instructed Truck-n-Track to send him Eddie's rental bill, not forgetting to credit the deposit. He instructed Mr. O'Dell to pick up Eddie's table saw and other tools and store them in a stall of the carriage house.
At one point he telephoned the Lanspeaks, who called their daughter at the medical clinic, who spoke to the chief of staff at the hospital, who revealed that the patient was in and out of consciousness, having sustained massive internal injuries and multiple fractures. The next twenty-four hours would be decisive.
Soon after, Celia called again. She had been to the hospital with Tish. Eddie was conscious but didn't recognize his sister. “I think they had him all doped up,” she said. “We were wondering how to break the news to Florrie and how she'd take it, and we decided that the reunion with Grandpa Penn might soften the blow. What do you think, Chief?”
Qwilleran thought, It'll either soften the blow or deliver the coup de grace. He said, however, “Good idea!”
“So I'll phone him and ask if I can pick him up this afternoon. I hope it isn't too short notice.”
“It won't be. The social schedule at the Retirement Center seems to be flexible.”
“Also, I have something to report right now, Chief, if you can see me for a few minutes before I leave for The Roundhouse.”
When she arrived, she was flushed with excitement.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“I haven't time.” Sinking into the cushions of the sofa, she rummaged in her handbag for her notebook and then dropped the roomy carryall on the floor, where its gaping interior immediately attracted the Siamese. It was used to transport such items as cookies, paperback novels, house slippers, drugstore remedies, and more. “What do you think they're looking for?” she asked, as the two blackish-brown noses sniffed the handbag's mysteries.
“Wrigley,” Qwilleran said. “They think you've got Wrigley in there, and they want to let the cat out of the bag.”
Celia howled with more glee than the quip warranted, Qwilleran felt, but he realized she was overexcited by the day's happenings. He waited patiently until she calmed down, then asked, “Where's Tish now?”
“Still at the hospital. They have a comfy waiting room for relatives in the intensive care wing, and that's where we had a heart-to-heart talk this morning—Tish and I. I asked if Eddie had friends we should notify, but she doesn't know any of his friends . . . I told you they're a strange family, Chief . . . Then she said Nella Hooper liked Eddie a lot and would be sorry to hear what happened, but she didn't leave a forwarding address. Nella, I found out, is the secretary at the credit union who was fired a couple of weeks before it closed. She and Eddie lived in the same apartment building. She wasn't a secretary, Tish said, but more like an assistant to the president. She had a degree in accounting and knew computers and made a big impression on Tish. They used to go to lunch together.”
“First question,” Qwilleran said. “What was this highly qualified woman doing in a tank town like Sawdust City? Besides everything you mention, she has smashing good looks! I've seen her.”
“She loved trains! That's all. It was a dream job, traveling around the country with the president, looking at trains and—”
She was interrupted by the phone. Hixie was calling to say that Nella Hooper's apartment would not be available until October first—and maybe not then if she decided to come back. The credit union always paid her rent—quarterly—in advance. Eddie Trevelyan had moved to Indian Village four months before Audit Sunday. Hixie concluded, “Is he the one who was in that bad accident last night?”
“He's the one. Floyd's son. Thanks, Hixie. Talk to you later.”
As Qwilleran returned to the lounge area, he was thinking, If they were going to fire Nella in July, why would they pay her rent until October? To Celia he said, “Did Tish mention why Nella was fired?”
“She wasn't fired, really. Nella's father in Texas has Alzheimer's disease, and her mother needed her at home, so Nella had to quit her job. But the office made it look like she was fired, so she could collect benefits. She left without saying good-bye, which really hurt Tish's feelings, although she realizes Nella had family troubles on her mind.”
“Hmmm, makes one wonder” was Qwilleran's comment. “As I recall, Tish said she hated her father for cheating on Florrie. How does she react to Nella's relationship with her father?”
“Strictly business, she said. Her father's real girlfriend owns a bar in Sawdust City. Tish told Nella how she felt about F.T. and how he wouldn't spend the money to send Florrie to Switzerland. Nella was very sympathetic and said it would be easy to switch $100,000 into a slush fund for Florrie, and F.T. would be none the wiser. Also, it would be legal because it was all in the family. . . . Do you understand how this works, Chief?”
“I don't even understand why seven-times-nine always equals sixty-three.”
“Me too! Glad I'm not the only dumbbell. . . . Well, anyway, the next thing was that Tish introduced Eddie to Nella, because he wanted money to build condos. If he could buy the land, he could borrow against it to start building, but F.T. wouldn't back him. Nella told him not to worry; she could work the same kind of switch because it was all in the family. But before anything happened, Nella had to quit, and the credit union went bust. Tish was lucky to have her savings in a Pickax bank. She didn't trust F.T.” Celia had been talking fast. She looked at her watch. “I've gotta dash. If I'm late, the nurse gets snippy.”
As Qwilleran walked with Celia to the parking area, she said, “Someone backed a truck up to the carriage house today and started unloading stuff. I went downstairs to see what it was all about, and I met the nicest man! He said he works for you.”
“That's Mr. O'Dell. You'll see him around frequently. He's the one who cleaned your windows before you moved in.”
“They may need cleaning again soon,” she replied with a wink, and she drove away laughing.
Indoors Qwilleran found something on the floor that belonged on the telephone desk: the paperback playscript that Fran wanted him to read. Koko was under the desk, sitting on his brisket and looking pleased with himself. Qwilleran smoothed his moustache with a dawning awareness: There was a leonine theme in Koko's recent antics, starting with the lion in A Midsummer Night's Dream . . . then Androcles and the Lion . . . and now the Lion in Winter. Did he identify with the king of beasts? For a ten-pound house cat he had a lion-sized ego.
Or, Qwilleran thought, he's trying to tell me something, and I'm not getting it!
FOURTEEN
When Qwilleran's secret agent reported to Operation Whistle HQ on Tuesday evening, she was in a state of exhaustion. “I'm absolutely whacked!” she said. “First, the hospital this morning . . . then the family reunion . . . and then some flabbergasting news!”
“Sit down before you fall down,” Qwilleran said. “Relax. Have a swig of fruit punch. Say hello to Koko and Yum Yum.”
The Siamese came forth, looking for her handbag. When plumped on the floor it looked like a treasure-filled wastebasket. “Have you been good kitties?” she asked them.
“No,” Qwilleran replied. “Koko is still in the doghouse for malicious destruction of property. . . . Now go on with your story. In the last episode of The Trials of the Trevelyans, you were having a heart-to-heart talk with Tish, and Nella had just left without saying good-bye.”
“Yes, that
was the Sunday they had that train ride at $500 a ticket. After the train ride, Floyd came home, got a mysterious phone call, and said he had to go and see a man about a train. He left, and they never saw him again.”
“When did Tish tell you this?”
“This morning at the hospital. I couldn't tell you because I had to rush off to The Roundhouse. . . . So then I called Grandpa Penn and said I'd pick him up at two o'clock. He sounded as if it was the video he was really excited about. I didn't mention Eddie's accident.”
“Did Florrie know he was coming?”
“Oh, yes! She was thrilled at the idea of seeing ‘Pop' after so many years. She wanted to get all dressed up. At two o'clock, like I promised, I drove out to Sawdust City. That retirement home is a depressing building. Have you seen it?”
“I have, and I think the residents spend most of their waking hours at the Trackside Tavern and the Jump-Off Bar. Who can blame them?”
Celia told how she walked into the lobby and found three old fellows sitting in a row—all shaved and combed and respectable in white summer shirts. “They all stood up, and I asked which one was the famous engineer. The tallest one said, ‘I'm the hoghead.' I told him my car was at the curb, and he said, ‘Full steam ahead.' But when I led the way to my car, all three men followed me! Before I knew it, three husky old men were squeezing into my little car. I was worried about my springs, but what could I do? I said, ‘I didn't know you were bringing your bodyguards, Mr. Penn.' They all laughed.”
“Well put,” Qwilleran said.
“It turned out they were his fireman and brakeman, who'd always worked as a crew and still stuck together. Their names were Fred and Billy, and they were all excited about seeing the video. On the way to The Roundhouse they talked a mile a minute!”
“NO!” Qwilleran shouted, and Yum Yum—caught pilfering a pocketpack of tissues from the wonderful hand bag—dropped it and ran. “Sorry, he said. “Go on with your story.”
The Cat Who Blew the Whistle Page 17