“Do you mind if I tape this, Mildred?”
“Not at all. I wish you would.”
“What did you learn?”
“Strangely, when I asked the cards about you, the answers concerned someone else—someone in danger.”
“Man or woman?”
“A mature woman. A woman with strict habits and upright values.”
“What kind of danger?”
“Well, the cards were rather vague, so I brought the pack with me, and I’d like to do another reading—in your presence.” (Pause.)
“Yow!”
“Want me to lock him up, Mildred?”
“No, let him watch. (Pause.) I’m using the Celtic pattern for this reading. This card is the significator. (Pause.) I see a journey . . . a journey across water . . . with stormy weather ahead.”
“Glad I packed my raincoat.”
“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.”
“Looks like a happy card to me.”
“But it’s reversed.”
“Meaning . . .”
“Some kind of fraud . . . or treachery.”
“Yow!”
“In conclusion . . . I urge you to be prepared . . . for the unexpected.” (Pause.)
“Very interesting. Thank you.”
Click.
As the tape slowly unreeled, the Siamese were alerted, having heard another cat inside the black box, and both of them circled the player with curiosity. Perhaps they also recognized the voices of Qwilleran and Mildred. It was significant that Koko had yowled at her mention of treachery. At the time of the reading, Qwilleran had thought the cards referred to Polly. Now it was obvious that Irma was the woman in danger; it was she who would be the victim of treachery . . . That is, Qwilleran reminded himself skeptically, if one took the cards seriously.
He looked up Mildred Hanstable’s number. It was Sunday morning, and she would probably be at home, cooking or quilting. “Good morning,” he said. “The meatloaf was delicious. The Siamese let me have some of it for dinner last night.”
“There’s beef stew in the freezer for you, don’t forget,” she said.
“I feel twice blessed. I’m calling, Mildred, to ask if you’ve lost one of your tarot cards. I’d hate to see you playing with a short deck.”
“I don’t know. Let me check.” In a moment she returned to the phone. “You’re right. There are only seventy-seven.”
“I’m afraid Koko stole one. He left his fang marks in it. I hope that doesn’t affect the—ah—authority of the deck.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Hidden under a rug. It’s a card I remember from your reading before I left for Scotland.” He described the woman in the grape arbor.
“Yes, I recall. It was reversed when I read for you, and I predicted treachery.”
“And you were right! Grace Utley’s jewels were stolen by a trusted bus driver.” He avoided mentioning his suspicions about Irma’s death.
“Grace was crazy to take them on the trip,” Mildred said, “but no one ever said that woman was in her right mind.”
“Shall I mail the card to you?” he asked. “Or shall we have dinner some evening—soon.”
“I’d love it!” Her voice rang with pleased surprise.
“We’ll include Polly and Arch,” he added hastily, “and the three of us will tell you all about Scotland.”
“Say when. I’m always free. Just hang on to the nine of pentacles until then.”
“What is the significance of pentacles?” he asked.
“They correspond to diamonds in regular playing cards.”
An odd coincidence, Qwilleran thought as he hung up. The nine of diamonds! The Curse of Scotland!
Now he was impatient to talk with Polly about the address book. He waited until he thought she would be home from church, but there was no answer when he called. She might have gone to Sunday brunch with her sister-in-law, or she might be visiting the Hasselriches.
A few hours later Polly called in great excitement. “I have it! I have the address book!” she cried.
“How did the family react to your request?”
“When I phoned about it, they were most appreciative and invited me to dinner after church. It was a painful occasion, but we talked about Irma lovingly, and they said they consider me their surrogate daughter now. I was deeply touched.”
“Did they know anything about Katie?”
“Only that she and Irma had been in art school at the same time. When I brought the book home, I searched it for a Katie with an Edinburgh address and discovered one Kathryn Gow MacBean. It looks as if MacBean might be her married name, in which case Bruce would be a Gow.” Polly sounded excited about her first attempt at detection and deduction.
“Good work, Polly!” Qwilleran said. “Give me the Edinburgh phone number, and I’ll see what I can find out.” He avoided mentioning Koko’s death dance around the obituary or his own murder theory.
She said, “I’d invite you over for coffee or something, but I need to do some laundry and get myself together for work tomorrow. Let me know what luck you have.”
After hanging up, Qwilleran checked his watch. It was too late to call Edinburgh, but the next morning he took his first cup of coffee to the telephone desk, locked the meddlesome Koko in the loft, and placed a call to Katie. He said, “This is Jim Qwilleran, a friend of Irma Hasselrich.” He used a sincere and cordial tone of voice intended to inspire confidence.
“Yes?” the woman replied warily.
“I’d like to speak to Kathryn Gow. Or is it Kathryn MacBean?”
“I’m Mrs. MacBean.”
“I’m phoning from the States—from Irma’s hometown of Pickax.”
“Where is she?” came a sharp reply. “I mean, I expected her to ring me up.”
“She never reached Edinburgh, I’m sorry to say,” Qwilleran said, introducing a grieved note to prepare his listener for bad news. “I was a member of her Scots Tour, and while we were still in the Western Highlands, she suffered a heart attack and died.”
“Died! . . . That’s perfectly awful!”
“It pains me to break the news, but her family felt you’d want to know.”
There was a blank silence.
“Hello? Hello?” he said.
In a softer voice Katie said, “I do declare, this is a bit of a shock! I mean, she was fairly young.”
“Her body was flown back here, and she was buried two days ago. We’re notifying a list of her friends.”
“Was the rest of the tour canceled? My brother was the driver. Odd that he didn’t notify me.”
“Bruce Gow! Is he your brother?”
“Ah . . . yes.”
“He’s an excellent driver, and he was very courteous to a busload of crotchety American tourists.”
“Yes, he’s . . . very good. What is your name, did you say?”
“Jim Qwilleran. My mother was a Mackintosh. We’re branches of the same clan. There was a MacBean, a giant of a man, who fought at Culloden and killed thirteen English with his broadsword, fighting with his back to a wall.” This was intended to proclaim his Scottish sympathies and win her good will.
“Ah . . . yes . . . there’s a fair number of Mackintoshes about.” Her attention was wandering as if she were concerned about her brother. “When did it happen?”
“Almost a week ago.”
“Honestly, I’m in a state! I’m not sure I know quite what to say, Mr . . . . Mr . . . .”
“Qwilleran. It would help to console Irma’s parents if you would write them a note. How long had you known her?”
“More than twenty years. We met in art school. In Glasgow.” She see
med to be speaking in a guarded way.
“Do you have any snapshots or other memorabilia that you could part with? I’m sure her parents would welcome any little memento.”
“I expect that’s the least I can do, isn’t it?”
“Do you have the address?”
“Goodwinter Boulevard? Yes, of course.”
“I’ll send you a clip of the obituary that ran in the local newspaper. It has a very good photo of Irma.”
“That would be kind of you. If you could spare two cuttings . . .”
“Glad to do it, Mrs. MacBean.”
“And thank you for calling, Mr . . . .”
“Qwilleran.”
He verified her address before concluding the conversation and hung up with a strong feeling of satisfaction. Now he was ready to talk with Chief Brodie.
He walked briskly downtown to the police station, and the sergeant at the desk nodded him into the inner office before a word was spoken.
Brodie looked up in surprise. “When did you get back, laddie?”
“Saturday. Did you hear the bad news?”
The chief nodded. “I played the bagpipe at her funeral.”
“You probably heard that she had a fatal heart attack, but there’s more to the story than that, and I’d like your advice.” Qwilleran glanced toward the outer office and closed the door.
“Pour a cup of coffee and sit down. How was Scotland, apart from that?”
“Beautiful!”
“Get your fill of bagpipes?”
“Believe it or not, Andy, we didn’t hear so much as a squeal, all the time we were there.”
“You went to the wrong places, mon. You should come to Scottish Night at my lodge. We’ll show you what piping is all about . . . So, what’s buggin’ you?”
Qwilleran pulled up a chair. “Well, there were sixteen of us on the bus traveling around Scotland,” he began, “and our driver was a Scot named Bruce, a sullen fellow with red hair who spoke only to Irma. They conversed, I believe, in Gaelic.”
“She knew Gaelic? That’s a tough language.”
“They seemed to communicate all right. Then one morning she was found dead in bed by her roommate, Polly Duncan. Cause of death: cardiac arrest, according to Dr. Melinda, who was traveling with us. The next day the bus driver disappeared, and so did Grace Utley’s luggage, containing a small fortune in jewels. I suppose you know about her spectacular jewelry—and the way she flaunts it.”
“That I do! She’s a walking Christmas tree!”
“We notified the village constable and gave a description of Bruce, but no one knew the guy’s last name except Irma, and she was dead!”
“And Scotland is full of redheads by the name of Bruce. So what’s the advice you want?”
“I have reason to believe,” and here Qwilleran smoothed his moustache proudly, “that the heart stoppage was drug-induced. We hear of young athletes dropping dead because of substance abuse. If it can happen to them, it can happen to a forty-year-old woman with an existing heart condition.”
“You can’t tell me that Irma was doing drugs. Not her! Not that woman!”
“Listen, Andy. Every night after dinner she went out with Bruce. There was a lot of gossip about it.”
“Why would a classy dame like her hang around with a bus driver?”
“We’ve since found out—from correspondence in her briefcase—that he was an old flame. Also, it appears, an ex-con. If he was plotting a jewel heist, wouldn’t he get rid of the one person who could identify him? I suspect he slipped her some kind of drug.”
Brodie grunted. “Do the police over there know that you suspect homicide?”
“No, it’s a new development. But here’s the good news, Andy.” Qwilleran waved a slip of paper. “We’ve found the name, address, and phone number of Bruce’s sister in Edinburgh, and through her we learned his last name is Gow.”
“Give it here,” said the chief, reaching across the desk. “Also the name of the town where you reported the larceny. Do you know what we’re getting into? They’ll want to exhume the body!” Then he added, partly in jest and partly because he believed in Koko’s extraordinary gifts, “If Scotland Yard can’t find the suspect, we’ll assign your smart cat to the case.”
“Yes,” said Qwilleran, going along with the gag. “Too bad Koko wasn’t there!”
He left the police station with a light step, knowing he had contributed vital information to the investigation, and he treated himself to a good American breakfast of ham and eggs at Lois’s Luncheonette, with a double order of her famous country fries.
His elation was short-lived, however. When he returned home, the barn was a scene of havoc: torn newspapers everywhere, books on the floor, the telephone knocked off its cradle, and the rest of Qwilleran’s morning coffee spilled on the desk and floor, while Koko was in the throes of a catfit. He raced around and around the main floor, almost faster than the eye could see, then up the circular ramp to the catwalk under the roof, where he screamed like a banshee before pelting down the ramp again, rolling on the floor, and fighting an imaginary adversary.
Qwilleran watched in helpless astonishment until the cat, having made his point, sat down on the coffee table and licked himself all over. He had staged catfits before, and it was always a desperate attempt to communicate.
“What’s it all about, Koko?” Qwilleran asked as he cleaned up the mess. “What are you trying to say?”
It was Irma’s obituary that had been shredded, and he was trying to convey that she had not died of natural causes; of that Qwilleran was sure. He had learned to read Koko’s body language and the nuances of his yowling. The varying inflections and degrees of intensity—like the subtleties of Oriental speech—registered affirmation or negation, approval or disapproval, excitement or indifference, imperious demand or urgent warning.
Now, as Qwilleran watched that rippling pink tongue grooming that snowy white breast, an idea flashed through his head. It was a wild shot but worth trying. He would interrogate Koko! He waited patiently until the fastidious toilette was finished, then sprawled in the roomy lounge chair where the three of them always gathered for enjoyment of quality time. Yum Yum hopped onto his lap, landing weightlessly like a squirt of whipped cream, while Koko settled on the wide arm of the upholstered chair with perfect composure.
Solemnly, Qwilleran began, “This is a serious discussion, Koko, and I want you to give it your personal best.”
“Yow,” the cat replied, squeezing his eyes agreeably.
The man turned on the tape recorder, which was never far from his trigger finger. “Are you aware of the death of Irma Hasselrich?”
“Yow!” came the prompt reply, an obvious affirmative.
“Was she murdered?”
Koko hesitated before saying “Yow!” in a positive way.
“Hmmm,” Qwilleran said, patting his moustache. “Did the bus driver cause her to ingest a substance that stopped her heart?”
Koko gazed into space.
“I’ll rephrase that. Did the bus driver slip her a drug that killed her?”
Koko was mute. He looked from side to side, and up and down, with convulsive movements of his head.
“Pay attention!” Qwilleran rebuked him, and he repeated the question. “Did the bus driver—”
“Yow,” Koko interrupted but without conviction.
It was not the definitive response that Qwilleran had hoped for, and he thought it wise to ask a test question: “Koko, is my name Ronald Frobnitz?”
“Yow!” said the town psychic as he leaped to catch the fruit fly he’d been tracking.
EIGHT
AFTER THE UNSATISFACTORY interrogation of the redoubtable Koko, Qwilleran decided that the cat was a charlatan. Or he was a practical joker who delighted in deluding the man who gave him food, shelter, respect, and admiration. Despite Koko’s past record, there were moments when Qwilleran seriously doubted that he was anything but an ordinary animal, and his so-called insights we
re all a matter of coincidence.
The telephone rang, and Koko raced him to the instrument, but Qwilleran grabbed the handset first.
“Qwill! You’re home!” said the pleasant voice of Lori Bamba, his part-time secretary. “How was Scotland?”
“Magnificent! How’s everything in Mooseville?”
“Same as always. We’re all very sorry about Irma Hasselrich. She was a wonderful woman.”
“Yes, that was a sad happening . . . Did you have any problems with my correspondence?”
“Nothing that I couldn’t handle. Did it rain a lot while you were there?”
“Mornings were misty. That’s what keeps the Scottish complexion so fresh and the Scottish landscape so verdant—just the way it looks in the whiskey ads.”
“Do you think the cats missed you while you were away?” Lori asked.
“Not much. Mildred Hanstable cat-sat, so they ate well.”
“There are several letters for you to sign, Qwill, and Nick can drop them off this afternoon. Will you be home around three-thirty?”
“I’ll make it a point to be here,” Qwilleran said. He found the Bambas an attractive young couple—Lori with her long, golden braids, Nick with his dark, curly hair and alert, black eyes. The best of the next generation, Qwilleran called them. Lori had been Mooseville postmaster before retiring to raise a family and work out of her home. Her husband, trained as an engineer, worked for the state prison near Mooseville, and since Nick shared his interest in crime, Qwilleran looked forward to seeing him and relating the case of the missing bus driver.
Meanwhile, he had a cup of coffee and listened to one of the tapes he had recorded during the tour. The Siamese listened, too, with Koko making an occasional comment from the top of the fireplace cube.
“Tonight we are comfortably lodged and extremely well fed in another historic inn. I suspect Bonnie Prince Charlie slept here 250 years ago. One can hardly buy anything without his picture on it. Irma likes to talk about the heroic women who aided the prince’s cause. Flora Macdonald dressed him in women’s clothing and passed him off as her maid as they traveled through enemy lines. And then there was Lady Ann Mackintosh, who raised regiments to fight for the prince, while her husband was off fighting for the other side.”
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