The fellow sat down on the cot, looking bewildered.
“Where did you get all these radios and cameras?” Qwilleran began. “Where did you get that pocketknife? What brought you here from Massachusetts? Do you know someone in Pickax? Do you have a partner here? Why did you break into my barn and take my cat? Did you think I’d pay a lot of money to get her back? Who told you I had a valuable cat? Was it your partner’s idea? What was your name before you changed it to Charles Edward Martin?”
Headlights and flashing blue lights were approaching through the woods.
“Here comes the popcorn machine! Better tell the police the whole truth, or you’ll be in bad trouble. And tell them the name of your partner, or they’ll throw the book at you, and your partner will go scot-free . . . Here they are! And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take my radio and cassettes.”
On the way back to town, Qwilleran held Yum Yum tightly. Only her nose projected from the enfolding jacket as she looked up with trusting eyes and contemplated his moustache. He said, “That guy’s not very sharp. He has the instincts of a criminal, I think, but not the capabilities.”
“He’s punch-drunk,” Nick said, “from booze or drugs or both. I’ve seen a lot of ’em. What I don’t understand—how did he manage to grab Yum Yum? She’s always leery of strangers.”
Qwilleran was not ready to tell the whole story as he perceived it, not even to Nick. He said, “She likes beards. She’s a pushover for anything resembling a brush. I think he broke in primarily to abduct one of the cats for ransom. After he had grabbed her and taken her out to the car, he came back for the radio he’d seen on my desk. That’s when Koko sprang on his head from the top of the refrigerator and drew blood.”
“Mmmmmmmmmm,” Yum Yum murmured.
“Yes, sweetheart, we’ll soon be home, and you can have a bath.”
Nick said, “How did you know she was in that john?”
“The pervading stink in that place had a distinct overtone of cat—nervous cat! I know it well! And there were cat hairs everywhere. I can imagine her flying around that trailer, shedding hair like a snowstorm and finally seeking refuge in that foul closet. My poor little sweetheart!”
Before the Bambas left the apple barn that night, Lori gave Yum Yum a bath, and Qwilleran supplied warm towels, while Nick nailed something over the broken window in the door.
“I feel guilty about keeping you people out so late,” Qwilleran said. “Do you have a baby-sitter?”
“Nick’s mother is staying overnight,” Lori said. “Thank God for mothers-in-law!”
“How could you be so sure, Qwill, that Yum Yum’s kidnapper was the Boulevard Prowler?” Nick asked.
“Just a hunch.” Qwilleran pounded his moustache with his fist.
After they had gone, he still had to write a review of the play for the Thursday paper, but the Siamese needed comforting, so he touched a match to the combustibles in the fireplace and made a lap for them. Both cats climbed aboard, Yum Yum sinking like a lead weight with her chin on his wrist. Even Koko, who was not a lap-sitter, huddled close to his ribcage.
Only then could he think objectively. He could visualize the headline in the next day’s paper: Goodwinter Heir Alive and in Jail. He tried to recall when he had first suspected the Boulevard Prowler to be Dr. Hal’s son. Absurd though it might seem, it was Yum Yum’s cache of emery boards that steered his mind in that direction. Someone had told him—Carol Lanspeak, he thought—that Melinda’s brother was named Emory. Emory spelled with an O was a fairly common name in the Pickax phone book. Every time Qwilleran found a stray emery board on the floor, his mind went to the stray son who was killed in a car crash . . . Then the old gentleman at the Senior Care Facility had talked about the doctor’s monthly payments. Emory wasn’t Moose County’s first remittance man; local historians wrote that wealthy families had often deported undesirable members to areas Down Below to avoid embarrassment to the family name. As for the payments continuing after Emory’s death, Qwilleran could invent several explanations but accepted the most credible: Emory was still alive . . . A few days later he met the bearded suspect at the preview of the Goodwinter sale, lingering over a table of family memorabilia: old LP recordings, a much-used piggy bank, the doctor’s monogrammed pocketknife, a photo in a silver frame. Upon talking to him, Qwilleran realized that the beard disguised a long narrow face, known in Moose County as the Goodwinter face.
Then, Qwilleran tried to recall, when did I first suspect he had a partner?
The fellow could carry off a solo operation like pilfering a silver pocketknife. And, being a native of Moose County, he would know the best time to break into the Purple Point cottages. But he wasn’t smart enough to plot a kidnapping; that was obvious. Furthermore, having lived Down Below for a decade or so, how would he know about Qwilleran’s wealth and his relationship with Polly? How would he know about the renovated barn in the orchard and Qwilleran’s obsessive concern for his pets? How did he know that Qwilleran would be attending the play on Wednesday night?
When it had become clear to him that the prowler was the resurrected Emory Goodwinter, all the questions were answered, including, “What was the maroon jalopy doing in the elite Indian Village?” and “Why did Melinda drop in so sociably after the rehearsal Monday night, and why was she working so hard to be sweet?”
She dropped in, Qwilleran now believed, to case the premises, and he had played right into her hands, giving her the T word and demonstrating how it worked. He mentally kicked himself, thinking, God, what a fool I was! He remembered her interest in the Scottish tapes, which she probably instructed Emory to grab—just in case they contained information that might be incriminating.
The blaze in the fireplace burned out, and Qwilleran carried the Siamese to their loft apartment, limp with sleep, and wrote his review of Macbeth.
SEVENTEEN
AS THE SIAMESE and the rest of Pickax slept, Qwilleran wrote his review of Macbeth, praising Larry and being kind to Melinda. Kindness, he had learned, was a large consideration in writing drama criticism for a small town. To maintain some semblance of integrity, however, he expressed his opinion that it was redundant to project the image of a dagger on the back wall of the stage when Macbeth said, “Is this a dagger which I see before me?” He wrote, “It distracts audience attention from Shakespeare’s great words, although modern grammarians—with their rules about whiches and thats—may be uncomfortable with the famous line.”
Convinced that his review was sufficiently charitable, he retired for the night, taking care to set his alarm clock. He had to drive Polly to the library the next morning. Even though the Boulevard Prowler had been apprehended, her car was still at Gippel’s garage, awaiting a rebuilt carburetor.
“I was concerned about your sudden exit last night,” she said when he called for her, “but Arch said it was a bit of theatricality indulged in by drama critics.”
“There’s an element of truth in that,” he replied evasively. “I’ll tell you the whole story when we both have more time. Meanwhile, I’d like you to do me a favor—with no ifs, ands, or buts. Yours not to reason why! Just do it!”
“Well!” she said warily. “Is it so very terrible?”
“Ask your sister-in-law to sneak a look at Irma’s medical records in the clinic office. I’m curious about her heart condition and the prescribed medication.”
“You’re like a dog with a bone, Qwill; you simply won’t let go of the matter. I’m not sure it would be ethical, but I’ll ask her at church Sunday.”
“Ask her today. Phone her and take her to lunch at Lois’s. Charge it to me . . . But don’t eat too much,” he added to lighten the serious aspect of his request.
“I’m overwhelmed by your generosity!”
“Are you going to the women’s banquet tonight? I’ll take you there and pick you up, and you can tell me her reaction. If it’s unethical, ask her to do it anyway. I won’t tell.”
“Under protest, dear,” she sighed as sh
e stepped out of the car.
“Have a nice day. Issue lots of new-reader cards!”
From there he drove to the Moose County Something to hand in his breathlessly awaited copy, and Arch Riker beckoned him into his private office. “Man, have we got a story!” said the publisher, waving a galley proof. “It’s set up in type and ready to go, and we’ll break it as soon as your burglar is arraigned. Is this why you ran out of the theatre last night? You must have some kind of burglar alarm implanted under your skin! Or did Koko alert you via mental wireless?” Riker never missed a chance to make a mocking reference to the cat’s remarkable abilities, which were beyond his understanding. He handed over the galley:
BREAK-IN EXPOSES
GOODWINTER HOAX
A suspect has been charged with breaking into the Pickax residence of James Qwilleran Wednesday night, bringing to light a six-year-old hoax. The suspect, Charles Edward Martin of Charlestown, MA, is in fact Emory Goodwinter, allegedly killed six years ago in a car crash on the New Jersey Turnpike. Records show his name was legally changed at that time. He is the son of the late Dr. Halifax Goodwinter.
Articles stolen from the Qwilleran residence have been retrieved. The cost of damage is not yet known. Stolen articles in the suspect’s possession have been identified as those taken from Purple Point cottages in the last week, total value $7,500. Loitering and shoplifting charges also have been brought.
The suspect is a police prisoner at the Pickax Hospital, where he is being held for treatment of injuries incurred during Wednesday night’s break-in.
Qwilleran taunted Riker in return by saying scornfully, “Is that all the information you were able to get?”
“Why? Do you know something we don’t?”
“Plenty!” he said, looking wise.
Junior appeared in the doorway. “How’d you like my headline, Qwill? I hated to do that to cousin Melinda, but this is the biggest news since VanBrook. We’ve been trying to reach her for further details. Can’t find her. Emory had a police record before he left town, so the burglaries won’t surprise her.”
Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought.
“He was running with a gang of vandals from Chipmunk while he was still in high school. The big surprise was to find him alive after his father insisted for six years that he was dead. Do you think she was a party to the hoax, or an innocent dupe like the rest of us?”
Riker said, “Do you have something you want to tell your old buddies, Qwill?”
“Not yet.” He had no desire to relive the painful moments of Yum Yum’s abduction. As for the identity of Emory’s partner, that was something for Emory to disclose. “See you later!” he said with a debonair wave intended to confound them. He was eager to talk to the police chief.
Brodie hailed him as soon as he crossed the threshold at headquarters. “I see you’re gonna get your name in the paper again!”
“You should be thanking me for doing your work!” Qwilleran retorted.
“How’d you find him?”
“Nick Bamba, who has an eye like an eagle, had tracked the Boulevard Prowler to the Dimsdale area, and I’d already decided he was Emory. When he broke in and kidnapped my female cat—”
“What! You didn’t report anything like that!”
“I didn’t know it when I gave the report to the officers. As soon as I learned she was missing, Nick and I found Emory in Shantytown, rescued her, and radioed you. Did Emory identify his accomplice?”
The chief looked at him sharply. “You know about that?”
“I knew he had to have an accomplice, and Melinda was the only person who qualified. Her behavior has been irrational ever since she returned from Boston. Some of us suspect drugs.”
“I’m glad the good doctor isn’t alive to face this mess. It’d kill him!”
“What are you going to do about her?” Qwilleran asked.
“That’ll be up to the prosecutor . . . If you ask me, there was bad blood on her mother’s side.”
“I assume Emory answered questions cooperatively.”
“Best damned suspect we’ve ever had! Answered questions before we asked ’em. His sister knew about the hoax; they were in touch all the time she was in Boston, and after Dr. Hal died, she sent Emory money once a month. He didn’t come for his dad’s funeral last June; he came expecting to collect his inheritance in instant cash. When that didn’t work out, Melinda told him another way to get rich quick: Get rid of Mrs. Duncan.”
So that was the plot! Qwilleran realized in horror. Murder, not ransom!
His expression caused Brodie to say, “Sit down. Have a cup of coffee.”
Qwilleran took his advice. “Melinda had always wanted to marry into the Klingenschoen fortune. She hounded me all summer and halfway across Scotland. Last Sunday, Emory again failed to grab Polly, as you know. The next night, Melinda showed up at the barn after rehearsal, and she was playing America’s Sweetheart, without the curls. I couldn’t fathom her motive. Now I know. She was plotting with Emory to kidnap one of my cats! For ransom! That woman needs help!”
After his visit with Brodie he stopped at the drug store to buy a few items and chat with the pharmacist, a young man more congenial than the crabby old pill counter who used to be on duty in the prescription cage. Then he went home to brush the cats. Only then did he realize what it would have been like to lose Yum Yum—not to have her pawing his pant leg, reaching up for his moustache, and croodling—worse still, not to know her whereabouts or her fate. Koko himself had not fully recovered from the trauma of the night before; he prowled incessantly and muttered to himself.
“Shall we listen to some tapes?” Qwilleran asked, and Koko ran to the desk, yowling with anticipation. Either he had added “tape” to his vocabulary or he was reading Qwilleran’s mind. Of the tapes recorded before Melinda left Scotland, one segment in particular caught Koko’s attention—a brief exchange between Polly and Melinda:
“I didn’t know she had a bad heart. She never mentioned her symptoms, and we were the best of friends.”
“She was too proud to admit to any frailty—and too independent to take my advice or even medication. It could have saved her.”
Qwilleran thought, If Irma refused to take medication, there would be no prescription to foul up; we’ll know more about this when Polly’s sister-in-law checks Irma’s records.
Farther along on the same tape were the voices of, first, the Lanspeaks and then the MacWhannells:
“Do you realize, folks, how lucky we are to have Melinda along on this trip?”
“Irma was coming down with something at the castle today. I told Larry it sounded like laryngitis.”
“I knew someone who dropped dead of a sore throat. It’s a freak disease—some kind of syndrome.”
“Daddy, you suspected something was wrong last night, didn’t you?”
“You’re right, Mother . . . It so happened we were playing a table game with Polly and Dwight, and I went upstairs to get a sweater for Glenda. We had room No. One, and the girls had Nine and Eleven at the end of the hall. I saw Melinda come out of Eleven and scoot right into her own room. I started to speak to her, but she was preoccupied. I told Glenda right then that Irma must be ill.”
Qwilleran thought, Yes, but . . . Irma was out on the moor with Bruce and came in late, according to Polly, so Eleven was empty, because Polly was in the lounge.
“Yow!” said Koko, who seemed to enjoy MacWhannell’s chesty voice.
The time came to drive Polly to the Distinguished Women’s banquet in the New Pickax Hotel, an event subsidized by XYZ Enterprises with proceeds going to the Pickax Hospital for an intensive care unit. She looked stunning in her blue batwing cape and peacock feather brooch, and he told her so. She wanted to know more about the burglar and the hoax, but he assured her that everything had been reported in the newspaper. The loitering charge, he said, indicated that Emory was the Boulevard Prowler.
After dropping her off, he went to the theatre to have another look at Macbe
th. He wanted to see if the actors felt more comfortable in their roles and whether Dwight had taken his advice about the dagger. Aware that he could not stay for the entire performance, he slipped into an unsold seat in the back row.
The lights dimmed, and an unwelcome voice came through the speakers—the anonymous voice that announces changes in the cast, usually to everyone’s disappointment. “In tonight’s performance the role of Lady Macbeth will be played by Jennifer Olson, and the role of Lady Macduff will be played by Carol Lanspeak. Thank you.”
There were murmurs in the audience and at least one squeal of delight from some friend of Jennifer’s. To Qwilleran the substitution raised an urgent question, and at intermission he went backstage to hunt down Dwight Somers. “Where’s Melinda?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said the director. “When she didn’t report by seven-fifteen, I called her clinic, and the answering machine said they were closed until nine tomorrow morning. Then I called her apartment; no answer. We both live in the Village, you know, and there’s an elderly neighbor who knows everything that goes on. I phoned her, and she said that Melinda’s car had been in and out of the parking lot all day, but now it was gone again. I even called the police about a possible accident. Nothing! So I decided to go ahead with Jennifer. How’s she doing?”
“Not bad, under the circumstances.”
“I heard about Melinda’s brother. She must be really upset. That’s the only reason I can imagine why she wouldn’t show, but she should have notified us.”
The stage manager was calling “Five minutes,” and Qwilleran returned to the auditorium. He stayed through the sleepwalking scene, then slipped out. The banquet would be over.
When he picked up his passenger, she was carrying a large flat box. “I received an award for public service,” she said. “It’s a very tasteful plaque.”
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