“Yes, Polly talked me into it.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you away from your exciting book.”
“Thanks for calling,” he said in a routine voice.
“Nighty-night.”
Melinda never called back about the books, for which Qwilleran was thankful, but her name was frequently mentioned around town. One afternoon he dropped into Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design to scrounge a cup of coffee and use the telephone, as he often did when Fran Brodie was in-house. Fran was assistant to Amanda Goodwinter but younger, more glamorous, and better-dispositioned. As a member of the Theatre Club and daughter of the police chief, she had still another attraction: She could always be relied upon for the latest gossip—or local information, as Qwilleran preferred to call it.
Fran greeted him with welcome news: “You’ve just missed Melinda! She came in to try to sell us her father’s books. I don’t know what she thought we could do with them . . . Cup of coffee?” She served it in a mug stenciled with the letter Q, a mischievous reference to his habitual freeloading. “I’m glad you dropped in, Qwill. I’ve found something that you simply must have! It’s you!”
“I should know the free coffee is never free,” he said. “What is it?”
She opened a flat box with exaggerated care. “This is an acid-free box, and this is acid-free tissue,” she explained, as she unwrapped a drab fragment of cloth.
“What the devil is that?”
“It’s a Scottish relic—a fragment of a Mackintosh kilt that was worn by a Jacobite rebel at the Battle of Culloden in 1746!”
“How do you know it is? It looks like a reject from a trash can.”
“It’s documented. It belonged to an old family in Lockmaster, who came here from Canada. Their ancestors were exiled to the New World during the Scottish Clearances.”
“And what am I supposed to do with this faded rag? It wouldn’t even be good enough to wash the car!”
“We’d preserve it in a protective frame for you, as they do in museums, and you could put it on display. Of course, we’d have to pick a location without much daylight or artificial light.”
“That limits us to the broom closet and the cats’ bathroom,” he said. “How much is it worth?”
“It’s expensive, but you can afford it, considering all the money you save on coffee and phone calls.”
“I’ll kick it around.”
“Do that,” Fran said, refilling his coffee mug. “So you’re going to Scotland with my boss! I hear they’re having trouble filling all the seats. Is that because Amanda is one of the passengers? Or because Irma Hasselrich is the tour director?”
“Doesn’t Irma have much of a fan club?” Qwilleran asked.
“I’m afraid people think she’s snobbish and bossy, and her perfect grooming frightens some of the casual types around town. Amanda says she looks like a peeled egg . . . One thing I’d like to know: Why did Irma schedule the tour to overlap our rehearsals of Macbeth? Our three most important people are taking the trip: the two leads and the director!”
“Is Melinda playing Lady Macbeth?”
Fran nodded with disapproval. “Several women read for it, and Carol was my choice, but Dwight Somers wanted Melinda. He’s sort of goggle-eyed about Melinda. She’s probably the reason he signed up for the Scottish tour.”
Qwilleran thought, Good! I hope he monopolizes her and keeps her out of my hair.
One evening shortly after that, when he and Polly were dining at Tipsy’s Tavern in North Kennebeck, Melinda was seated at a table in the same room. He avoided looking in her direction but was aware that her escort was a man with a neat beard.
Polly said it was Dwight Somers. “They’re both going on the Bonnie Scots Tour. Melinda is a longtime friend of Irma, you know.”
“Is that so?” Qwilleran remarked inanely, wincing at the prick of his vanity; he thought that he himself was Melinda’s reason for signing up.
Polly was saying, “I had a physical at her office today. I remember her fifteen years ago when she brought her high-school assignments to the library, and it’s difficult to relate to her as a doctor, but Irma says we women must be supportive. My sister-in-law works in the office at the Goodwinter clinic, and I’ve learned that Dr. Hal’s male patients are transferring their records to a man in Lockmaster, an internist and urologist.”
Qwilleran said, “If you want my guess, it’s their wives who don’t want them going to a young . . . woman doctor.” He was going to say “young attractive woman doctor” but edited his own dialogue.
As if on cue, Melinda passed their table on the way to the restroom. “Hi, lover,” she said breezily, pausing for a moment that seemed too long.
Qwilleran rose from his chair and said something trite. “Dr. Goodwinter, I presume.” He rose courteously, but he kept one hand on the back of his chair and stood in a semicrouch, ready to sit down again when she moved on, which he hoped would be soon.
“Are you all excited about our trip together?” she asked with a sly glance, addressing him directly.
“Polly and I are both looking forward to it.” He nodded graciously to his guest.
“Then I’ll see you on the bonny banks of Loch Lomond, lover,” Melinda said as she sauntered away, drawing a manicured hand suggestively across their tabletop. The whiff of fragrance that she left behind was the same she had worn three years before.
“Indeed!” Polly said with raised eyebrows. “What was the significance of that pretty performance?”
“She’s half-bombed,” Qwilleran said with a sense of relief. He had feared he might find Melinda as appealing as before, but the impudent manner that formerly enchanted him now annoyed him; her hair was done in a trendy style he disliked; and she was too thin. His taste had changed. Lest his silence be misconstrued, he quickly said to Polly, “I don’t know about you, but I’ve never traveled with a group, except for a bunch of hyper reporters on a press junket, so I’m hoping for the best and expecting the worst on this excursion.”
“We’ll enjoy it,” she assured him and then said, “Do you remember the bronchitis I had when I spent the summer in England? On this trip I’m taking vitamin C as a preventive. The pharmacist told me about a high-potency capsule, and I respect his advice.”
“Did you discuss it with—your doctor?” Qwilleran was dubious of vitamins, broccoli, and anything else said to be salubrious.
“I mentioned it to Melinda, and she said it wouldn’t do any harm but probably wouldn’t do any good, either. Nevertheless, I intend to try it . . . Have you made your packing list, Qwill?”
“I never make a list. I just throw stuff into my suitcase.”
“You’re singularly offhand, dear! I make a list and take only basic colors, double-duty garments, minimal accessories, and just enough toothpaste, face cream, and shampoo for fourteen days.”
“You’re singularly efficient,” he retorted dryly. “No wonder the library operates so smoothly.”
“Have you done any of Irma’s suggested reading?”
“No, but Edd Smith sold me a book with a fold-out map of Scotland. As soon as I opened the map, both cats came running and pounced in the middle of it, tearing it along the old yellowed creases and making a horrible muddle, as Old Possum would say. I hope it was not a prediction that our trip is going to be a horrible muddle.”
“With Irma in charge, have no fear!” Polly assured him.
During the summer, following that accidental meeting with Melinda at Tipsy’s Tavern, Qwilleran received several phone calls from her, making unacceptable suggestions that he found annoying. He solved that problem by screening calls through his answering machine, but the proximity of two weeks in a minibus could lead to murder, he reflected with testy humor.
Eventually the final orders came from Sergeant Hasselrich, as Lyle Compton called her: “The evening before Day One we shall gather in a private parlor at our Glasgow hotel (see itinerary) for a Happy Hour from six to seven o’clock, after which you will be on
your own for dinner. The tour will depart the next morning after a lavish Scottish breakfast (included in your tour package).” There followed a list of participants in alphabetical order:
John Bushland
Ms. Zella Chisholm
Mr. and Mrs. Lyle Compton (Lisa)
Mrs. Polly Duncan
Ms. Amanda Goodwinter
Dr. Melinda Goodwinter
Ms. Irma Hasselrich
Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Lanspeak (Carol)
Mr. and Mrs. Whannell MacWhannell (Glenda)
James Qwilleran
Archibald Riker
Dwight Somers
Mrs. Grace Chisholm Utley
Qwilleran showed the list to Mildred Hanstable when she arrived at the barn for her briefing prior to cat-sitting with their Royal Highnesses. She arrived in a cloud of fluttering gauze garments that did nothing to minimize her corpulence but gave her the majesty of a clipper ship in full sail. The Siamese greeted her with enthusiasm, knowing her as the source of their crunchy treats.
Mildred perused the list of names and predicted, “Interesting group! Lyle is a certified sourpuss, but nice . . . Amanda has foot-in-mouth disease, which can be very funny at times . . . Irma is so fastidious, she’ll probably inspect everyone’s fingernails before breakfast . . . Let me know how you like the Chisholm sisters.”
“Do they sing?”
“You don’t know them, Qwill, because you don’t belong to the country club. Grace is a rich widow, and her unmarried sister lives with her on Goodwinter Boulevard. They collect teddy bears.”
“May I offer you a drink, Mildred?”
“Make it coffee,” she said. “I’ve brought some cookies. But first show me the ropes.”
As he conducted her up the ramp to the three balconies, they were followed by two inquisitive cats with stiffly vertical tails and stiffly horizontal whiskers. He explained, “My bedroom and studio are on the first balcony. The door is closed to keep the cats out, because Koko licks postage stamps and gummed envelopes . . . The guestroom is on the second balcony. I suggest you lock up your toothbrush. Yum Yum has a brush fetish; she’d steal my moustache if it weren’t firmly attached . . . I regret that the only television is in the cats’ loft on the top balcony.”
“Don’t apologize. I’ll just set up my quilting frame on the main floor and listen to radio,” she said. “How often are the cats fed?”
“Morning and evening, plus a handful of your crunchy cereal at noon and bedtime. You’ll find canned and frozen delicacies for them in the kitchen.”
“To tell the truth, I’d rather cook for them,” Mildred said. “I really would! I miss having someone to cook for. What other care do they require?”
“They appreciate brushing once a day, and intelligent conversation, and a little entertainment. Koko prefers activities that challenge his intellect; he’s a very cerebral animal.” As they both turned to look at him in admiration, Kao K’o Kung rolled over and groomed the base of his tail. “Forget I said that,” Qwilleran added. “That scoundrel likes to make a fool of me.”
Mildred picked up the female cat, who was now rubbing against her ankles. They were slender and shapely, he noted, for a woman of her weight. “Yum Yum is so huggable,” she said.
“Yes, propinquity is her middle name . . . And now let me demonstrate the fine art of policing their commode.”
After the briefing they sat in the lounge area with coffee and Mildred’s date-nut bars. Massive, square-cut, deep-cushioned chairs and sofas were arranged around a large square coffee table, facing the fireplace cube—a large white monolith with fireplaces on two sides and bookshelves on a third. It was high enough for two Siamese cats to perch like Olympian deities, looking down on the mere mortals below.
“Now, is there anything else I should know?” Mildred asked.
“Mrs. Fulgrove comes in once a week for light cleaning. Mr. O’Dell is our handyman. We have a colony of fruit flies that came with the apple barn, and they come out of hibernation at this time of year. Koko catches them on the wing and munches them as hors d’oeuvres . . . . I guess that’s about all.”
“And tell me what you’re going to do in Scotland.”
“Listen to bagpipes, stay in country inns, visit castles, eat haggis—all the usual, I imagine.”
“Ugh! Haggis is the innards of sheep, boiled and cut up and mixed with oatmeal and spices, then sewn into a sheep’s stomach.”
“Sounds delicious.”
Mildred’s attitude turned suddenly sober. “Before coming over here,” she said, “I read the tarot cards for you, and I think you ought to know what they revealed.”
“It doesn’t sound propitious, but let’s hear it.” Qwilleran was skeptical about card reading, palmistry, and all the occult sciences that interested his plump friend, but she was sincere, and he always humored her. “Do you mind if I tape this, Mildred?”
“Not at all. I wish you would.”
He had already turned on his pocket-size recorder. “What did you learn?”
“Strangely, when I asked the cards about you,” she began, “the answers concerned someone else—someone in danger.”
“Man or woman?”
“A mature woman. A woman with strict habits and upright values.”
That’s Polly, Qwilleran thought; someone has told Mildred about the prowler. “What kind of danger?” he asked.
“Well, the cards were rather vague, so I brought the pack with me, and I’d like to do another reading—in your presence.”
With mental reservations, he agreed, and they moved to the card table, Qwilleran politely averting his eyes as Mildred struggled to get out of the deep-seated lounge chair. When she asked him to shuffle the pack, Koko hopped to the table with an excited “Yow!”
“Want me to lock him up, Mildred?” Qwilleran suggested.
“No, let him watch.” She was laying out a certain number of cards in a certain pattern. “I’m using the Celtic pattern for this reading. This card is the significator.” They were colorful cards in fanciful designs, and as she manipulated them she mumbled to herself. There was a thoughtful pause. Then she said, “I see a journey . . . a journey across water . . . with stormy weather ahead.”
“Glad I packed my raincoat,” he said lightly.
“Stormy weather could stand for dissension, mistakes, accidents, or whatever.”
“Too bad I didn’t know before I paid my money.”
“You’re not taking this seriously, Qwill.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound flippant.”
“This final card . . . is not auspicious . . . You might consider it a warning.”
The card showed a scene in a grape arbor, with a woman in flowing robes, a bird perched on her wrist, and a scattering of gold coins. “Looks like a happy card to me,” Qwilleran observed.
“But it’s reversed.”
“Meaning . . .”
“Some kind of fraud . . . or treachery.”
“Yow!” said Koko.
“In conclusion . . . I urge you to be prepared . . . for the unexpected.” Mildred always became short of breath toward the end of a reading, and her energy flagged, so Qwilleran thought it best not to pursue the subject.
“Very interesting. Thank you,” he said as he turned off the tape recorder.
Mildred walked away from the table and took a few deep breaths. When she recovered, she said, “I’ll look forward to hearing the outcome.”
“So will I!” Qwilleran admitted.
“When do you leave?”
“I catch the shuttle to Chicago tomorrow noon, and the international flight leaves at six P.M. After changing planes at Heathrow and going through the formalities, I should arrive in Glasgow at ten A.M., their time. I’m leaving a list of telephone numbers where we can be reached, and don’t hesitate to call if there’s an emergency. Mildred, you don’t realize how much this is appreciated by all three of us.”
“The pleasure is all mine. We’ll have a ball, won’t we
, cats?”
“Yow!” said Koko, squeezing his eyes as if visions of shrimp Newburgh danced in his head.
The next morning Qwilleran said a regretful goodbye to the cats and looked back as he walked out the door to see two pairs of large blue eyes filled with concern. He would have wished for a more cheerful send-off. And when he drove away he was aware of two tiny creatures watching him from an upper level of the huge barn.
At the Moose County Airport he parked his car in the new indoor facility, and the shuttle plane departed without requiring the usual last-minute repairs. The connection in Chicago went smoothly, perhaps too smoothly. Three meals and several magazines later, he arrived in Glasgow on schedule. His luggage was flown, unfortunately, to another city in Western Europe. So began the Bonnie Scots Tour.
THREE
BY THE TIME the participants in the Bonnie Scots Tour gathered for the Happy Hour on the eve of Day One, Qwilleran had recovered from jet lag, retrieved his luggage, and paid homage to Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Throughout the day other travelers from Moose County had been straggling wearily into the centrally located hotel selected for the jumping-off place.
At six o’clock Qwilleran—dressed in blazer, shirt, and tie according to instructions from Sergeant Hasselrich—reported to the hotel lobby and found it bright with kilts worn by males of all ages; there was a wedding reception in the banquet hall. The Bonnie Scots party was scheduled for the Robert Burns parlor, which was no different from the Sir Walter Scott Parlor or the Bonnie Prince Charlie Parlor or the Robert Louis Stevenson Parlor, except for a portrait of the poet hanging above the bar. When Qwilleran entered, a white-coated young man with red hair was circulating with a tray of champagne and orange juice.
Among the guests already on hand were Larry and Carol Lanspeak, the most likable couple in Pickax. They were civic leaders, owners of the Lanspeak Department Store, and mainstays in the Theatre Club. Qwilleran approached them, saying, “All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!”
The Cat Who Wasn't There Page 4