Then, to my horror, Qwill, you arrived on the scene and raised questions about the missing housemaid — although how your suspicions were prompted, I cannot fathom. It came to our attention that you were talking freely about the matter and interviewing possible witnesses.
The two men agreed between themselves that the two witnesses should be silenced, and I reluctantly agreed. What else could I do? But when they discussed ways to stop your meddling, Qwill, I was appalled! I pointed out that your death would mean the loss of billions of dollars in Moose County. My arguments accounted for nothing. They cared only about saving their own skins.
You have suspected a plot against your life, and you were right to do so. You have misidentified the conspirators, however. Now you know the truth.
For five years [have lived with this specter of guilt and fear. [t was bearable only because I had saved the family from unthinkable scandal-and because I had Alex's love.
And then he broke the terrible news that he was bringing a «brilliant» young attorney to Pickax as a partner ill the firm and — this was the crushing blow — as a wife!
[t was more than I could bear. My lifetime of sacrifice and devotion was thrown aside in a moment. I had involved myself in heinous crime, only to have it end like this — only' to be cast aside.
What could I do? There was only one was to stop it. In a frenzy of desperation I confronted Alex and threatened to reveal his complicity in three murders. The instant the words were out of my mouth I realized I had made a fatal mistake. My God! The hatred in my brother's eyes! How can I describe the rage and vengeance that contorted my brother's features — the face that I had thought so beautiful!
Forgive me if I appear melodramatic, but I now fear for my life. I fear that every day may be my last. A bullet from the same rifle that killed the farm girl will be quick and merciful, or they will devise a means that will simulate an accident or suicide.
In any event, Mrs. Fulgrove will mail this letter, and I am following your example in preparing letters for the prosecutor and the media, naming the brute who killed the pregnant girl, burying her alive in a mineshaft, who arranged a friendly drink with her mother and drugged the whiskey, who fired a single perfect shot at a girl on a farm tractor.
You are not safe, and the future of Moose County is at stake, until these two men are apprehended and brought to justice.
Yours in good faith. Penelope Goodwinter
16
The shriek of a bomb and the boom of a cannon shattered his frightening dream of global war. He struggled to shake off sleep.
Another boom! Was it a figment of his dream, or was something battering the bedroom door?
Boom! Qwilleran rolled out of bed and groped his way to the door, staggering with sleep. He stopped, listened, reached cautiously for the doorknob. He yanked it open! And a cat hurtled into the room.
Koko had been throwing his weight against the securely latched door, trying to break it down. Now, with stentorian yowls that turned to shrieks, he raced to the staircase.
Qwilleran, not stopping for slippers or robe or light switches, followed as fast as he could while the cat rushed ahead, swooping downstairs, bounding back upstairs to scold vehemently, then flying down again in one liquid movement.
The house was in darkness, save for a dim glow from streetlights on the Circle. Qwilleran moved warily toward the rear of the house where Koko was leading him, now in stealthy silence. Reaching the library, the man heard the back door being unlocked and slowly opened, and he saw a dark bulky figure moving furtively through the entry hall. Qwilleran stepped aside, shielded by the Pennsylvania schrank, while a white blur rose to the top of the seven-foot wardrobe.
Unmindful of the cold stone floor under his feet but thinking wildly of baseball bats and crowbars, Qwilleran watched the intruder pass the broom closet, hesitate at the kitchen door, then enter the large square service hall where the schrank stood guard. There was not a sound. Qwilleran could hear his own heartbeat. Koko was somewhere over- head, crouching between two large, rare, and valuable majolica vases.
As the dark figure edged closer, Qwilleran reached for the toprail of an antique chair, but it was wobbly with age and would shatter if used as a weapon. Just then he heard a barely audible «ik-ik» on top of the schrank, and he remembered the pickax in the library. He slipped into the shadows to grope for it. There were only seconds to spare!
His hand was closing around the sturdy handle when a confusion of sounds broke the silence: a thump, a clatter, a man's outcry, and a loud thud-followed by the unmistakable crash of an enormous ceramic vase on a stone floor.
Qwilleran sprang forward with the pickax raised, bellowing threats, towering over the figure that now lay prone.
With squeals and shrieks Mrs. Cobb rushed downstairs, and the house flooded with light.
"Call the police," Qwilleran shouted, "before I bash his brains!" The man lay groaning, one arm twisted at a grotesque angle and one foot in the cats' spilled commode. The shards of majolica were scattered around him, and Koko was sniffing in the pocket of his old army jacket.
"Koko never ceases to amaze me," Qwilleran said to Melinda at the dinner table that evening. "He knew someone was going to break in, and he knew far enough in advance to get upstairs and wake me up. The way he threw himself against my door, it's a wonder he didn't break every bone in his body. The fantastic thing is: he pushed his commode to a spot where the guy was sure to trip over it. The majolica vase is a small price to pay for his heroism." Qwilleran and Melinda were having dinner at Stephanie's, the Lanspeaks' new restaurant. He called for her at her father's house on Goodwinter Boulevard, where she was changing clothes after a hard day at the clinic, giving allergy shots and bandaging Little Leaguers.
Dr. Halifax greeted him at the door. "You had another narrow escape last night, Qwill. You live a charmed life. The needles and morphine they found on him were stolen from my office a short time ago." "What's his condition?" "Compound fracture. Dislocated shoulder. He's a heavy fellow, and he went down like a ton of bricks on your stone floor. He's a police prisoner, of course, and a broken arm is the least of his troubles." Qwilleran and his date walked to the restaurant, which occupied an old stone residence rezoned for commercial use.
"The Lanspeaks named it after their cow," Melinda said, "and they did the whole place in dairy colors: milk white, straw beige, and butter yellow. It's a service-oriented restaurant." Qwilleran grunted. "What this town needs is a food-oriented restaurant." A young hostess greeted them. "My name is Vicki, and I'm your hostperson. Your waitperson is Matthew, and he'll do everything possible to make your visit enjoyable." A young man immediately appeared. "My name is Matthew. I am your waitperson, and I am at your service." "My name is Jim," Qwilleran replied. "I am your customer, and I am very hungry. The lady's name is Melinda. She is my guest, and she is hungry, too." "And thirsty," Melinda added. "Okay, Qwill, tell me all about the break-in last night. How did he get into the house?" "Birch is pretty crafty. He made an extra key for himself when he installed our new back door lock. Evidently he waited for a moonless night — there was a heavy cloud cover — and approached through the orchard behind the house.
His truck was hidden in the old barn out there. I suspect he was going to haul me away to one of the mine sites and dump me down a shaft." "Darling, how horrible!" "I had a look at the truck this morning, and it's the same terrain-buggy that tried to run me down on Ittibittiwassee Road. I recognized the big rusty, grinning grille from my dream. We can also assume it was Birch who doped Penelope's Scotch and carried her out to the garage while Alex was establishing his alibi at the club." Matthew arrived with Melinda's champagne and Qwilleran's mineral water. "This is your champagne cooler," he said, "and these are your chilled glasses." "We'd also like an appetizer," Qwilleran told him. "Bring us some p?t de caneton." "That's kind of a meatloaf made of ground-up duck," the waitperson explained helpfully.
"Thank you, Matthew. It sounds delicious." Melinda drank a toast to
Qwilleran for exposing a deplorable crime.
Apologetically he said, "I'm afraid it's going to be a nasty scandal when everything comes to light." "A lot of us guessed the relationship between Penny and Alex," she said, "but who would dream they'd collaborate in a murder plot? And who would ever imagine he'd conspire to kill his sister? He needed her! She was the mainstay of his career." "Not anymore. He found another brilliant woman — with Washington connections — to take her place. Penelope became a threat. She knew too much, and she was too smart." Melinda gazed at Qwilleran with admiring green eyes.
"No one thought to question Daisy's disappearance before you came here, lover." "I can't take credit. It was Koko who sniffed out the clues. A couple of days ago he rooted out Penelope's thank- you note on my desk, and I checked it against the postal card from Maryland. She had written it in a disguised hand, but some individual letter formations gave it away. It was probably mailed from a suburb in Washington when Alex was on one of his junkets." "Poor self-inflated Alex," Melinda said. "I hate to think what a court trial will do to him — his ego, I mean. He was a wreck, Dad told me, after his session with the prosecutor today." "Birch and Alex may have done the dirty work, but I think Penelope was the mastermind. After I started inquiring about Daisy, Birch started doing a lot of work for us. I thought he was hooked on Mrs. Cobb's cooking, but in retrospect I believe Penelope hired him to spy on us. Someone was in a position to know I was talking to Tiffany Trotter and was about to talk to Della Mull. They were probably the only two who knew the identity of Daisy's Sandy." "Didn't you ever suspect Penelope?" "Well, she changed the subject whenever I mentioned Daisy, but I thought she considered it gauche to discuss servants. I admit I was puzzled when she repeatedly declined my invitations to lunch or whatever." "No mystery," Melinda said. "I told her to keep hands off or I'd spread some unsavory rumors." "Melinda, you're a nasty green-eyed monster." "All Goodwinters have a nasty streak; it's in our genes." After studying the menu they ordered trout almandine.
"That's trout with almonds," said the waitperson, eager to be of service.
"Fine. And we'd like asparagus." "That's extra," Matthew warned. While they waited for the entre Melinda said to Qwilleran, "So you were wrong about the New Jersey connection. There was no sinister plot to eliminate you and grab the inheritance." He looked sheepish. "That's what happens when I jump to my own conclusions instead of getting my signals from Koko. You know, that cat is ten pounds of bone and muscle in a fur coat, with whiskers and a long tail and a wet nose, but he's smarter than I am. Without ever visiting Daisy's apartment, he knew something was wrong. He knew Penelope's final letter was going to be delivered. He knew Birch was sneaking up to the house last night." "Cats have a sixth sense." "Six! I say Koko has sixteen!" "If only he could communicate!" "He communicates all right. The problem is: I'm not smart enough to read him. Let me tell you something, Melinda.
When I got the notion that the whole state of New Jersey was after me, Koko was disgusted; he avoided me for days. At one point he pushed some books off a shelf in the library, and I scolded him for it. Do you know what the books were? A poem titled Doomsday by a seventeenth-century Scottish poet named Sir William Alexander!" The entree was served. "This is your trout amandine and asparagus on heated plates," said Matthew.
Qwilleran stared at the vegetable..'This isn't asparagus. It's broccoli." "Sorry. I'll take it back." Matthew removed the plates but soon returned with them. "The chef says it's asparagus." They ate their trout and broccoli in silence until Qwilleran said, "If Koko hadn't sniffed out the Daisy situation, and if I hadn't started investigating, Penelope and Tiffany and Della would be alive today." "And a murderer would be at large," Melinda reminded him.
"The Goodwinter reputation would be intact, and Alexander would run for Congress. He'd marry Ilya Smfska and produce another generation of supersnobs." "And the murderer and his accomplices would live happily ever after." "Penelope would eventually make an emotional adjustment," Qwilleran said, "and Alexander would keep on paying for Birch Tree's boats and trucks and motorcycles, but he could afford it." "And no one would care that Daisy was buried in the Three Pines mineshaft," Melinda said.
After the tossed salad on a chilled plate with a chilled fork, and after the Ribier grapes with homemade cheese, and after coffee served with Stephanie's own cream, Qwilleran and Melinda walked back to her father's house.
Dr. Halifax met them at the door. "Prepare for some jolting news," he said. "Just heard it on the radio. A private plane crashed fifty miles south of the airport, and the pilot has just been identified." "Alexander," Qwilleran said quietly, as his moustache bristled.
Back at the mansion he was greeted by a prancing Siamese. Koko knew it was time for the nightly house check, and he led the way to the solarium.
"Case solved," Qwilleran said to him, "but I'd like to know the real reason why you pushed those things around the kitchen. Were you trying to tell me to get that cold stone floor carpeted?" He finished locking the French doors, and Koko preceded him to the breakfast room. While the man checked the Staffordshire figurines and German regimental steins, the cat checked for stray crumbs under the table.
"Tell me something," Qwilleran said to him. "When you found Daisy's diary, were you just chasing a fly? And if so, how come it happened to be crawling about Sandy Goodwinter's initials?" Koko bounded ahead to the library, where he pawed a leather-bound copy of The Physiology of Taste. In the dining room he sniffed the carved rabbits and pheasants on the sideboard. Then he marched into the drawing room, zigzagging across the Aubusson rug to avoid the roses in the pattern. While Qwilleran gave the bronzes and porcelains a security check, Koko headed for the antique piano.
Leaping lightly to the cushioned bench, he reached up with his right paw in an indecisive way, then withdrew it. After a few tentative passes with his left paw, he planted it firmly on G and then C. He seemed pleased with the sound made by the keys. More confidently he hit the D with his right paw and finally touched the E.
Qwilleran shook his head. "No one would believe it!" He switched off the lights and strode to the kitchen, humming the tune Koko had played: "How Dry I Am!" Yum Yum was asleep on her blue cushion, and Qwilleran stroked her fur before opening the refrigerator. He splashed a jigger of white grape juice in a saucer, placed it on the floor, and watched Koko lap it up with lightning-fast tongue, his tail curled high in ecstasy.
"I'll never figure you out," Qwilleran said. "You're all cat, and yet you sense the most incredible secrets. You were fascinated by Penelope, and it wasn't just her French perfume. You howled at the exact hour when she died." Koko licked the saucer dry and started to wash up. "Did you know she was going to be murdered?" Koko interrupted his ablutions to give Qwilleran a penetrating stare, and the man slapped his forehead as the truth struck him. "It wasn't a homicide set up to look like a suicide. She framed those guys! It was suicide planned to look like murder!" Koko finished his chore, with great care to wash behind his ears, between his toes, and all along his whip of a brown tail.
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The Cat Who Played Post Office tcw-6 Page 16