“There he is again!” Polly screamed.
FIFTEEN
WHEN POLLY SCREAMED, Qwilleran opened his car door and stepped out, facing the parked car.
“Don’t!” she cried. “He may be dangerous!”
Immediately the other car went into reverse, then gunned forward, swerving around Qwilleran and narrowly missing his elbow. It headed for Main Street, traveling the wrong way in the westbound lane, traveling without lights.
“Let’s get to the phone,” Qwilleran said as he jumped back in the car and turned up the drive to the carriage house.
The patrol car responded at once, followed by the police chief himself, wrenched away from his Sunday night TV programs.
Qwilleran told Brodie, “This is the same prowler who was hanging around last June—the same M.O., the same beard—although he pulled the visor down when he found himself spotlighted. Last June you ran a check. He’s Charles Edward Martin of Charlestown, Massachusetts.”
“Did you get the number tonight?” Brodie asked.
“He drove away fast without lights, although I’d guess it was a light-colored plate—the kind we’ve seen before. His taillights didn’t go on until he reached Main Street and turned right . . . I told you the car had been seen in Dimsdale, Mooseville, and Indian Village, and you made some quip about selling cemetery lots.”
The chief’s grunt was half recollection and half apology.
“Since we pried you out of your comfortable recliner, Andy, would you take a cup of coffee? . . . Polly, do you feel like brewing a pot?”
She was sitting on the sofa, hugging her cat and looking upset. “Certainly,” she said weakly and left the room.
In a lower voice Qwilleran said, “Why does this guy lie in wait for Polly? I’ve told you my suspicions. Whoever this creep is, he knows her connection with me, and he’s plotting abduction. Believe me!” He massaged his moustache vigorously. “Incidentally, he’s the same guy I saw shoplifting at the Goodwinter sale.”
Brodie was not interested in coffee, but he gulped it, promised full cooperation, and went home to catch the eleven o’clock news.
Polly paced the floor nervously. “Why does he loiter around here, Qwill?” She had the intelligence to know the answer, and Qwilleran knew she was aware of the reason, yet neither of them wanted to put it into words. Instead, he assured her that three police agencies would be working on it.
“But it will call for intensive vigilance on your part, Polly. I don’t want you going anywhere alone! I’ll drive you to and from work, take you shopping, deliver you to evening meetings. It will be a bore for you, but it won’t last long. The police know exactly what they’re looking for, and they’ll soon pick him up for questioning.”
Qwilleran refused to abandon her until her equanimity was restored, so it was late when he left the carriage house. He almost forgot the birthday gift in the trunk of the car. The sight of the blue gown and robe ensemble did much to cheer her—or so she made it seem. It was unclear who was trying to reassure whom.
The next morning, after driving Polly to the library, he took his white car to Gippel’s garage. “Give this crate the once-over, will you?” he asked the head mechanic. “And let me have a loaner for the day.”
Gippel’s loaners had decent engines, but the paint was dull, the fenders were bent, the springs were worn out, the interior was dirty, and the upholstery was torn—exactly the kind of vehicle Qwilleran wanted for a tour of Moose County. His first destination was Dimsdale, where his loaner looked quite normal in Shantytown. There was no maroon car there. Next he drove to Mooseville and checked the Shipwreck Tavern, the eatery called the Foo, and the shabby waterfront where he had once made the mistake of chartering a boat. From there he proceeded east along the lakeshore to the affluent resort area called Purple Point, which was completely deserted on a September Monday. Next came the village of Brrr, coldest spot in the county. Already it was in the throes of November winds from the northeast, and the scene was bleak. Even the parking lot of the Hotel Booze was empty, but Qwilleran went into the Black Bear Café to see Gary Pratt, the proprietor. With his shaggy hair and beard he resembled the mounted black bear at the entrance. Gary was puttering behind the bar.
“Where’s everybody?” Qwilleran asked.
“It’s early. They’ll be in for burgers at noon. What brings you up here?” Automatically he poured a glass of Squunk water on the rocks.
“Just moseying around before snow falls. What kind of winter do you expect?”
“Lots of snow but an early thaw. I see by the paper that you went to Scotland. How’d you like it?”
“Nice country. Reminds me of Brrr. Did you do much sailing this summer?”
“Not as much as I’d like to. Business was too good.”
“If you guys are going to promote tourism,” Qwilleran said, “you can kiss your summer loafing goodbye . . . but then you can afford to go to Florida in the winter.”
“That’s not for me. I like winters up here. I’m into dogsledding.”
“Are you getting more out-of-state customers these days?”
“Yeah, quite a few.”
“Have you run into a guy from Massachusetts called Charles Martin? Wears a beard like yours. Drives a maroon car.”
“There was a bearded guy in here, trying to sell cameras and watches to my customers—obviously hot. I threw him out,” Gary said.
Two other bartenders reported similar incidents. Otherwise, no one knew a Charles Martin. Qwilleran visited Sawdust City, North Kennebeck, Chipmunk, Trawnto, and Wildcat and drank a lot of Squunk water that day.
After returning the loaner he picked up Polly at the library and took her to dinner. Eight hours in the real world of the Dewey decimal system had helped her recover from the fright of the night before, but not from the dinner of the night before. All she wanted to eat, she said, was a simple salad and a bran muffin.
“What did you do all day?” she asked, as they settled in a booth at Lois’s Luncheonette.
“Just cruised around, looking for ideas for my column. It was a good day to get out of the house because Mrs. Fulgrove was coming to clean and complain about cathair. I pay her extra for cathair, but she complains just the same.”
Polly said, “I looked up the origin of Scotland Yard. It was an area in London with a palace for visiting Scottish kings in the twelfth century. It later became headquarters for the CID.”
“Polly, you’re the only person I know who follows through.”
“That’s what libraries are all about,” she said with professional pride. “By the way, Gippel called to say the supplier sent the wrong part, so I won’t have my car until Friday.”
“You have a full-time volunteer chauffeur, so that’s no problem,” he said. At the same time he was thinking, If no car is parked at her carriage house, the prowler will wait for her to drive in; the police can set a trap. He made a mental note to pass this information along to Brodie.
Driving Polly home, he noted that the trucks were still carting purchases away from the Goodwinter mansion, and he pointed out the breakfront that the Comptons had bought. At her apartment he stayed just long enough for a piece of pie and then went home to feed the Siamese. The conscientious Mrs. Fulgrove was driving away as he pulled into the barnyard, and he waved to her; the woman’s scowl indicated that she had worked overtime because of the vast amount of cathair everywhere.
He unlocked the back door, expecting to be welcomed by the usual clamor and waving tails, but the cats surprised him by their absence, and when he went to the kitchen to stow his car keys in the drawer, he was surprised to find it open—just enough for an adroit paw to reach in and hook a claw around a small brown velvet teddy bear.
“Oh-oh!” he said and went looking for Tiny Tim. All he found was a pair of debilitated animals lying on the rug in front of the sofa, apparently too weak to jump on the cushioned seat. They were stretched out on their sides, their eyes open but glazed, their tails flat on the floor. He fel
t them, and their noses were hot! Their fur was hot!
He rushed to the telephone and called the animal clinic, but it was closed. Anxiously he called Lori Bamba, who was so knowledgeable about cats.
“What’s the trouble, Qwill?” she asked, responding to the alarm in his voice.
“The cats are sick! I think they’ve eaten foreign matter. What can I do? The vet’s office is closed. Shouldn’t they have their stomachs pumped out?”
“Do you know what they ate?”
“A stuffed toy, not much larger than a mouse. It was in a kitchen drawer, and I think Mrs. Fulgrove left it open.”
“Was it catnip?”
“No, a miniature teddy bear. They act as if they’re doped. Their fur is red hot!”
“Don’t panic, Qwill,” she said. “Did Mrs. Fulgrove use the laundry equipment?”
“She always puts sheets and towels through the washer.”
“Well, the cats probably slept on top of the dryer until they were half-cooked. Our cats do that all the time—all five of them—and the house smells like hot fur.”
“You don’t think they would have eaten the teddy bear?”
“They may have chewed some of it, in which case they’ll throw it up. I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”
“Thanks, Lori. You’re a great comfort. Is Nick there? I’d like to have a word with him.”
When her husband came on the line, Qwilleran reported the return of the Boulevard Prowler and his own scouting expedition around the county, adding, “None of the bartenders had heard of Charles Martin, so he might not be giving his right name—that is, if he gives any name at all. He’s an unsociable cuss. Anyway, it would be interesting to know where he’s holing up.”
“I’ll still put my money on Shantytown,” Nick said. “Anyone can shack up there. Or if he thinks the police are after him, he could hide out in one of the abandoned mines. He could drive his car right into the shafthouse, and no one would ever know.”
“Okay, we’ll keep in touch. Would you and Lori like to see Macbeth on opening night? I’ll leave a pair of tickets at the box office in your name.”
“I know Lori would like it. I don’t know much about Shakespeare, but I’m willing to give it a try.”
“You’ll like Macbeth, Nick. It has lots of violence.”
“Don’t tell me about violence! I get enough of that at work!”
Next, Qwilleran called Junior Goodwinter at home and said, “You left a message on my machine. What’s on your mind?”
“I have news for you, Qwill. Grandma Gage is here from Florida to sign the house over to me. Are you still interested in renting?”
“Definitely.” Now Qwilleran was even more eager to live on the property where Polly had her carriage house.
“It has a subterranean ballroom,” Junior said to sweeten the deal.
“Just what I need! Can I move in before snow falls?”
“As soon as I have the title.”
“Okay, Junior. Are you and Jody going to opening night?”
“Wouldn’t miss it!”
By the time Qwilleran had changed into a warmup suit and had read a newsmagazine, the Siamese started coming back to life—yawning, stretching, grooming themselves, grooming each other, and making hungry noises.
“You scoundrels!” he said. “You gave me a fright! What did you do with Tiny Tim?”
Ignoring him, they walked to the feeding station and stared at the empty plate, as if to say, “Where’s our grub?”
While Qwilleran was preparing their food, a loud and hostile yowl came from Koko’s throat, and he jumped to the kitchen counter, where he could look out the window and stare into the blackness of the woods. Standing on his hind legs he was a long lean stretch of muscle and fur, with ears perked and tail stiffened into a question mark.
“What is it, old boy? What do you see out there?” Qwilleran asked.
There were lights bobbing between the trees—headlights coming slowly along the bumpy trail from the theatre parking lot. He checked his watch. It was the hour when the rehearsal would be over and Dwight would be dropping in for another confidential chat about his problem with Melinda. But why was Koko so unfriendly? He had shown no objection to Dwight on the previous visit, and it was not the first time he had seen mysterious, weaving lights in the woods. Qwilleran turned on the exterior lights.
“Oh, no!” he said. “You were right, Koko.”
The floodlights illuminated a sleek, silvery sportscar, and Melinda was stepping out. He went to meet her—not to express hospitality but to steer her around to the front entrance. If she insisted on intruding, he wanted to keep it formal. He approached her and waited for her to speak, bracing himself for the usual brash salutation.
She surprised him. “Hello, Qwill,” she said pleasantly. “We just finished our first dress rehearsal. Dwight told me about your barn, and I couldn’t wait another minute to see it.”
“Come around to the front and make a grand entrance,” he said coolly. It was the barn that was grand—not his visitor. She wore typical rehearsal clothes: tattered jeans and faded sweatshirt, with the arms of a shabby sweater tied about her shoulders. Her familiar scent perfumed the night air.
“I remember this orchard when we were kids,” she said. “My brother and I used to ride up that trail on our bikes, looking for apples, but they were always wormy. Dad told us never to go into the barn; it was full of bats and rodents.”
Opening the front door, he reached in and pressed a single switch that illuminated the entire interior with uplights and downlights, dramatizing balconies, catwalks, and beams.
“Oooooooh!” she exclaimed, which was what visitors usually said.
Qwilleran was aware that the Siamese had scampered up the ramps and disappeared without even waiting for their food.
“You could give great parties here,” she said.
“I’m not much of a party giver; I simply like space, and the cats enjoy racing around overhead.” He was trying to sound dull and uninteresting.
“Where are the little dears?”
“Probably on one of the balconies.” He made no move to take her up the ramps for sightseeing.
Melinda was being unnaturally polite instead of wittily impudent. “The tapestries are gorgeous. Were they your idea?”
“No. Fran Brodie did all the furnishings . . . Would you care for . . . a glass of apple cider?”
“Sounds good.” She dropped her shoulder bag on the floor and her sweater on a chair and curled up on a sofa. When he brought the tray, she said, “Qwill, I want to thank you for buying my dad’s paintings.”
“Don’t thank me. The K Foundation purchased them for exhibition.”
“But you must have instigated the deal. At a hundred dollars apiece it came to $101,500. Foxy Fred would have sold them for a thousand dollars.”
“It was Mildred Hanstable’s idea. Being an artist, she saw their merit.”
The conversation limped along. He could have sparked it with questions about the play, the tag sale, the clinic, and her life in Boston. He could have turned on a degree of affability, but that would only prolong the visit, and he hoped she would leave after a single glass of cider. She was being too nice, and he suspected her motive.
Melinda said, “I’m sorry I was a nuisance on the telephone last week, Qwill. I guess I was sloshed. Forgive me.”
“Of course,” he said. What else could he say?
“Do you ever think of the good times we had together? I remember that crazy dinner at Otto’s Tasty Eats . . . and the picnic on the floor of my apartment when the only furniture I had was a bed . . . and the formal dinner with a butler and musicians. Whatever became of that pleasant Mrs. Cobb?”
“She died.”
“Knowing you, Qwill, was the highlight of my entire life. Honestly! Too bad it had to be so short.” She looked at him intently. “I thought you were the perfect man for me, and I still do.”
Qwilleran’s naturally mournful expression was
noncommittal as he recalled his mother’s sage advice: When there’s nothing to say, don’t say it. During his calculated silence Melinda gazed into her glass of cider, and he studied the framed zoological prints on the wall. At the end of the wordless hiatus he asked, “How did the dress rehearsal go tonight?”
She roused from her reverie. “Dwight said it was bad enough to guarantee a good performance on opening night. Will you be there?”
“Yes, I always take a group of friends on opening night.”
“Will you come backstage after the show?”
“Unfortunately,” he said, “I’m reviewing it for the paper, and I’ll have to rush home to my typewriter.”
She glanced around the barn. “Why don’t the cats come around? I’d love to see them before I go. I always adored little Yum Yum.” As Qwilleran recalled, the two females ignored each other. “And I thought Koko was really smart, although I don’t think he liked me.”
Gratefully Qwilleran sensed that the end of her visit was in view, and to speed the departing guest he summoned the Siamese. “Treat!” he shouted toward the upper regions of the barn. The rumble of eight pounding paws was heard, and two furry bodies swooped neck-and-neck down the ramp to the kitchen. He explained to Melinda, “The T word always works, but I’m honor-bound to deliver, or the strategy loses its effectiveness. Excuse me a moment.”
She took the opportunity to browse around, asking about the antique typecase that hung over his desk and remarking about the collection of Scottish tapes, labeled Day One, Day Two, etc. “I’d love to hear them sometime, and your kitchen is so grand, Qwill! Have you learned to cook?”
“No,” he said without explanation or apology.
“I’ve become a pretty good cook. My specialty is Szechuan stir fry with cashews.”
Koko polished off his five-eighths of the treat and left the room with purposeful step as if he knew exactly where he was going—and why. Yum Yum lingered, however, and allowed herself to be picked up and cuddled in Melinda’s arms.
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