“So soon?” she crowed with delight. “Then you must come for lunch, dear heart. Zella is a wonderful cook.”
“I’m sure she is,” he replied, “but I have a previous engagement. How about two o’clock?”
“Then we’ll have tea,” she said with finality. “We brought some shortbread from Edinburgh. Do you like Scotch shortbread?”
“My favorite treat!” If Qwilleran was atoning, he was doing it with panache.
To fortify himself for the appointment he had a good lunch at the Old Stone Mill—crab bisque, a Reuben sandwich, pumpkin pie—and before driving to Goodwinter Boulevard he picked up a bunch of mums at the florist shop. Mums were Moose County’s all-purpose flower for weddings, funerals, and table centerpieces. On second thought, he bought two bunches, one rust and one yellow.
The sisters lived in one of the larger stone mansions on the boulevard, next door to the residence of the late Dr. Halifax Goodwinter. The Chisholms and the Utleys had been among the founders of Moose County. Yet, like many of the old families, they were disappearing as the later generations stayed single or remained childless or moved away after marrying outsiders from such remote areas as Texas and the District of Columbia. It was said that Grace Utley had two daughters Down Below, who would have nothing to do with her. So the widow and her unmarried sister lived by themselves in the big house. According to Junior Goodwinter, they were among the old-timers who would fight rezoning to their last breath.
Upon arriving, Qwilleran had hardly touched finger to doorbell before the door was flung open.
“Welcome to Teddy Bear Castle!” cried Grace in her abrasive voice, while Zella hovered in the background, wringing her hands with excitement. She was wearing her gold teddy bear with ruby eyes. Grace, bereft of everything but what she had on her person at the time of the theft, was reduced to a few gold chains and a frog brooch paved with emeralds.
With a courteous bow Qwilleran presented his flowers, rust for Grace and yellow for Zella, who squealed as if she had never before received a floral token.
“So good of you to come!” said Grace. “Zella, dear, put these in water.” Then grandly she waved an arm about the foyer. “How do you like our little friends, Mr. Qwilleran?”
Being familiar with boulevard architecture, he knew what to expect: grand staircase, massive chandelier, carved woodwork, stained glass, oversize furniture. But he was unprepared for the hundreds of shoe-button eyes that stared at him—charmingly, impishly, crazily—from tabletops, cabinets, chairseats, and even the treads of the wide staircase.
“We’re collectors,” Grace explained with pride.
“So I see.” Feeling a presence behind him, he turned to find a plush animal somewhat larger than himself.
“That’s Woodrow, our watch bear,” said Grace.
“How many do you own?”
“Zella, dear, how many do we have now?” she shouted toward the kitchen.
“One thousand, eight hundred, and sixty-two,” came the small voice.
“One thousand, eight hundred, and sixty-two . . . yes. Zella has them catalogued for insurance purposes.” She led Qwilleran to a locked vitrine in the drawing room. “This is Theodore, our button-in-ear Steiff. One just like him sold for $80,000.”
Other bears sat on chairs, windowsills, the fireplace mantel, and the grand piano.
“That’s Ignace on the piano bench—Zella’s special friend. She took him to Scotland. I took Ulysses, the one on the rocking horse,” Grace said. “Fortunately Ulysses was traveling in Zella’s luggage.”
Other bears sat at the dining room table with a full setting of china, crystal, and silver at each place and a napkin on each lap. Several, wearing eyeglasses, were reading books in the library or working at the desk. Throughout the house they were arranged in tableaux: playing croquet, trimming a Christmas tree, sailing toy boats in a tub of water, wheeling a baby bear in a stroller, gardening with a toy wheelbarrow. Although they all seemed to have the same perky ears, felt snout, stitched mouth, and shoe-button eyes, they had individual facial expressions and personalities. Many were in costume. Some squeaked, or laughed, or blinked battery-operated eyes.
Qwilleran, who had seen everything as a newsman Down Below, had never seen anything like this.
“Zella, dear, you may serve the tea now,” Grace said as the tour ended.
A few distinguished bears were invited to join the party. They had their own tiny cups and saucers, and Zella poured tea for them.
Grace said to Qwilleran, as sweetly as she could with her rasping voice, “We’re going to name our next little friend after you, and you must attend the christening party.”
Asking permission to use a tape recorder, he asked the routine questions: Why do you collect bears? When did you start? Which have you had the longest? Where do you find them? Who makes the costumes? How do you keep them from catching dust? Do you have a good security system?
“The best!” said Grace. “We also have a watchman living in the caretaker’s apartment over the garage, and his wife vacuums the bears in rotation.”
Meanwhile, Qwilleran drank tea without pleasure and ate shortbread dutifully, asking himself, What am I doing here? . . . Are the women crazy? . . . Are they pulling my leg?
With his third cup of tea he made a desperate effort to change the subject. “Well, it looks as if you’re going to have some excitement next door—the liquidation sale.”
Grace erupted in indignation. “It’s absolutely dreadful! Zella and I are leaving town until it’s over. No one should be allowed to have a tag sale in a neighborhood like this! How will they handle the crowds? Where will they park? Everyone in Moose County adored Dr. Hal and will want to buy something as a memento. I’ll tell you one thing: Dr. Hal would never have permitted such a sale! But his daughter is another breed. She does as she pleases without regard for anyone else. The entire contents of the house should have been moved to the Bid-a-Bit auction barn.”
“Why didn’t Dr. Melinda do that?” he inquired.
“Why? Because she can make more money with a tag sale on the premises!”
“Did you know the Goodwinter family well?”
“All my life! . . . Zella, dear, this tea is cold. Would you bring a fresh pot?” When her sister had left the room, she said in a hushed voice, “Zella could have married Dr. Hal, but she missed her chance by being too meek, and he had the misfortune to marry a woman with bad blood. Mrs. Goodwinter’s father died of a disease that the family never mentions, and her brother embezzled money in Illinois and went to prison. Melinda was their firstborn, spoiled from the cradle. Their son—we always knew he’d be the black sheep of the family. He finally left town and was later killed in a car accident. Everyone said it was a blessing in disguise because he was an embarrassment to his father and a worry to his mother, who was a chronic invalid.”
Before making his escape, Qwilleran asked, “Would you ladies allow the Moose County Something to photograph your collection for a feature story?”
“We’d be flattered, wouldn’t we, Zella? That is, Mr. Qwilleran, if you’ll promise to write the article yourself. You write so well!”
“I think that could be arranged. And now, thank you for a memorable adventure and delicious tea.”
Blushing furiously, the shy sister stepped forward, saying, “This is for you!” She handed him a brown velvet teddy bear, hardly three inches high.
“Oh, no! I wouldn’t think of robbing your collection,” he said.
“But we want you to have it,” Grace insisted. “Please accept it.”
“His name is Tiny Tim,” Zella said.
With Tiny Tim in his pocket, Qwilleran left the house, saying to himself, Whew!
Back home at the barn, his first move was to phone Riker at the office. He said, “Arch, you owe me one! I’ve just spent a tedious afternoon with the Chisholm sisters, drinking tea and eating shortbread, and they want me to be godfather to their next teddy bear.”
“What about their idea f
or a book?”
“They never mentioned a book. They just wanted someone to visit and be impressed by their collection, but I think we should do a story. Send a good photographer over there, like John Bushland, and I’ll bet the wire services will pick it up!”
While he was on the phone, the Siamese were rifling his jacket pocket. They knew instinctively that something new had arrived.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” he scolded when he finished the phone call. They were sinking their fangs into the spongy body. He hid Tiny Tim in the kitchen drawer where he always tossed his car keys.
Then he checked the answering machine; there was still no call from Polly, all the more reason why he wanted to consult Melinda. If she agreed that Irma’s attack could have been drug-induced, he would be in the clear. The entire cast was scheduled to rehearse that night; he could get an answer from her during a break, without personal complications.
The K Theatre, built within the fieldstone shell of the former Klingenschoen mansion, was small—only 300 seats—but it was large enough for the Pickax Theatre Club. The auditorium was a steeply raked amphitheatre with a thrust stage, and there was a gracious lobby. When Qwilleran arrived there Wednesday night, he found Larry Lanspeak in the lobby, bent over the drinking fountain.
“Your beard looks promising,” he told the actor.
Larry rubbed his chin. “In two more weeks it should be good enough for an eleventh-century Scottish king.”
“How’s the play shaping up?”
“Not bad. Not bad at all! When we were away, Fran worked with the supporting cast in the eleven scenes where Melinda and I don’t appear, and she did a good job. This is our first full-cast rehearsal.”
Larry returned to the stage, and Qwilleran slipped into the back row. Some of the actors were draped over the front seats, awaiting their scenes. Dwight was in front of the stage directing performers who were running lines without the book. One of them, playing a messenger, was making his exit, and Lady Macbeth was saying, “Unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top full of direst cruelty!”
“Hold it!” the director said. “Bring the messenger back, and take it again, Melinda, from Thou’rt mad to say it! Give it some fire!”
They repeated the scene. Then Larry made his entrance. “My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight!”
Melinda replied, “And when goes hence?”
“Tomorrow—” Larry interrupted his own line, saying, “Dwight, how do I play this? Is Macbeth honored that the king is going to stay under his roof? Or is he already planning to kill him? What is he thinking at this moment?”
The director said, “Lady Macbeth plants the idea of murder in his head with her line, And when goes hence? That means, Melinda, that you’ve got to give her question some powerful innuendo. And—when—goes—hence? The audience should feel a chill up the spine . . . Got it, everybody?”
“Got it,” said Larry. “She plants the idea, and I pause before Tomorrow. In that split second the audience realizes the king will never leave the castle alive.”
Qwilleran was impressed with Dwight’s direction and told him so during the break, intercepting him on the way to the drinking fountain.
“Thanks,” he said. “Larry’s a joy to direct, let me say that. Now I know why he has such a great reputation in community theatre. I’d heard about him in Iowa before I knew there was any such place as Pickax.”
“Will the show be ready by the last Thursday in the month?”
“It’s got to be! The tickets are printed.”
Carol walked up the aisle to get a drink of water, and Qwilleran said to her, “Why don’t you ask the K Foundation to give you a drinking fountain backstage?”
“Not a bad idea. It would save wear and tear on the aisle carpet . . . Did I hear someone mention tickets?” she asked. “We could use some help in the box office, Qwill. Are you available?”
“If it doesn’t require any rare skills or mental acuity.”
To Dwight she said, “Qwill lives right behind the theatre—in an apple barn!” Then she went on her way to the lobby.
“I’ve heard about your barn,” the director said. “I’m partial to barns.”
“Stop in for a drink some night after rehearsal.”
“I’ll do that. I’ll bring my tin whistle, and you can tell me how you react to my witch music.”
There was a whiff of perfume, and Melinda sauntered up the aisle en route to the drinking fountain. “Hi, lover,” she said with surprise and pleasure. “What are you doing here?”
Dwight gave a quick look at both of them and drifted away to the lobby.
“Just snooping,” Qwilleran said, “but since you’re here, I’ll ask you a couple of questions. If I write about the liquidation of your father’s estate in the ‘Qwill Pen’ column, will that be okay with you?” He knew it would be, but it was an opener.
“God, yes! Every little bit helps,” she said. “I need to sell everything. The preview will be a week from Friday. Would you like a preview of the preview?” she asked teasingly. “Hang around, and I’ll take you over to the house when we finish here.”
“Thanks, but not tonight,” he said.
“Wouldn’t you like to see everything—without people around?”
He employed the journalist’s standard white lie. “Sorry, I have to do some writing on deadline. But before I go, here’s one more question. It’s about Irma’s death. As you probably know by now, the bus driver disappeared after you left, along with Grace Utley’s jewels, and Irma was the only one who knew his name or anything about him. It occurred to me that Bruce could have given her some kind of fatal drug to conceal his identity.”
“No, lover, it was cardiac arrest, pure and simple,” she said with a patronizing smile, “and considering her medical history and the pace of her life, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”
Qwilleran persisted. “The police now know the driver has a criminal record, so murder is not beyond the realm of possibility, considering the size of the haul.”
Melinda shook her head slowly and wisely. “Sorry to disappoint you, Qwill,” she said with a tired, pitying look. “It would have made a good story, and I know you like to uncover foul play, but this was no crime. Trust me.” She brightened. “If you would like to go somewhere afterward and talk about it, I could explain. We could have a drink at my apartment—or your barn.”
“Another time, when I’m not on deadline,” he said. “By the way, your Lady Macbeth is looking good.” He turned and was halfway across the lobby before she could react to the weak compliment.
He walked home through the woods, swinging a flashlight and thinking ruefully, So it wasn’t murder! Now I suppose I should square things with Polly.
The telephone was ringing when he unlocked the door, and Koko was racing around to inform him of the fact.
“Okay, okay! I’m not deaf!” he yelled at the cat as he snatched the receiver. “Hello? . . . Hi, Nick. I just got in the house. What’s up?”
“You know the Massachusetts car you told me about? I saw it!” said Nick triumphantly.
“The tan car? Forget it! It belongs to the new chef at the hotel. He’s from Fall River.”
“No, not the tan job, Qwill. The original maroon car! It’s back in town.”
“Where did you see it?”
“I was driving north on the highway to Mooseville, and I saw this car turn west on the unpaved stretch of Ittibittiwassee Road. You know where I mean? The Dimsdale Diner is on the corner.”
“I know the road,” Qwilleran said. “It leads to Shantytown.”
“Yeah, and the car was beat-up like the kind you always see turning into that hell hole.”
“Did you follow it?”
“I wanted to, but I was driving a state vehicle and didn’t think I should. He’d get the idea he was under surveillance. But I thought you should know, Qwill. Tell Polly to be careful.”
“Yes, I will. Thanks, Nick.” Qwilleran hung up slowly,
his hand lingering on the receiver. So the Boulevard Prowler was back in town! He punched a familiar number on the phone.
It was ten-thirty P.M., and Polly would be winding down, padding around in her blue robe, washing her nylons, doing something with her face and hair. He had been a husband long enough to know all about that routine.
She answered with a businesslike “Yes?”
“Good evening, Polly,” he said in his most seductive voice. “How are you this evening?”
“All right,” she said stiffly without returning the polite question.
“Was I an unforgivable bore last night?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she replied, “You’re never a bore, Qwill.”
“I’m grateful for small compliments, and I admit it was bad form to bring up a painful subject at the dinner table.”
“After what happened to your new coat, I believe you could be excused.” She was softening up. “Did you take it to the cleaner?”
“That wasn’t necessary. It was chicken-flavored butter, and the cats took care of it. You’d never know anything happened!”
“I don’t believe it!”
“It’s true.”
There was a pause. It was Polly’s turn to say something conciliatory. Qwilleran thought he was handling it rather well. Finally she said, “Perhaps I overreacted last night.”
“I can’t say you weren’t justified. It was my fault for pursuing the subject so stubbornly. Blame it on my Scots heritage.”
“I know. Your mother was a Mackintosh,” she said, adding a light touch to the sober conversation. The Mackintosh connection was a running joke between them.
“Did you have a good day?” he asked.
“Interesting, at best. One of my clerks was rushed to the hospital in labor, and Mr. Tibbitt pressed the wrong button and was trapped in the elevator. We checked out 229 books and 54 cassettes, collected $3.75 in overdue fines, and issued 7 new-reader cards . . . Did you have a good day?”
“I did an assignment for Arch, and earlier this evening I audited a rehearsal at the theatre. Were you out at all tonight?”
“No, I had dinner at home and spent the evening reading and putting my wardrobe in order.”
The Cat Who Wasn't There Page 13