“Did my daughter pick out all this furniture?” Brodie asked, more in dismay than admiration.
“She gets all the credit. She has a good eye and good taste.”
Brodie grunted and turned to leave, but he lingered with his hand on the door handle. “This fella that did over your barn—Dennis what’s-his-name . . .”
“H-o-u-g-h, pronounced Huff. He’s Iris Cobb’s son.”
“I hear Fran is kinda thick with him.” He searched Qwilleran’s face for verification. “He’s married, you know.”
“Don’t worry,” said Qwilleran. “All the women in town go for Dennis, but he dotes on his family, and when they move up here, the fringe element will cool off. Meanwhile, Fran and Dennis have merely collaborated on this project.”
“I hope you’re right . . . Well, good night. We’ve got the driveway blockaded at the far end, and we’re leaving a man on duty. The crime lab is coming up from Down Below.” Brodie walked away a few steps and added, “Something tells me this’ll be an easy case to solve.”
Qwilleran turned out the houselights and climbed the ramp to his bedroom, but he was in no mood to sleep. He perused a playbill and tried to imagine each actor with a smoking gun in hand. In each case it looked like bad casting. He wondered how soon Brodie would start ringing doorbells and rousing the party goers from their beds for interrogation. The chief would undoubtedly start with his own daughter, who lived in Indian Village, a popular apartment complex for singles. Susan, Dennis, and Hixie also had apartments there. The Lanspeaks lived farther out in a rambling country house. Poor Eddington Smith holed up downtown in the bookbinding workshop behind his bookstore. Other members of the club came from surrounding towns: bustling Kennebeck, quaint Sawdust City, ramshackle Wildcat, and as far away as the resort town of Mooseville. Only Wildcat lay to the south of Pickax; a driver heading for Wildcat would turn right on Trevelyan Road upon leaving Trevelyan Trail.
Lying there awake he remembered his houseman’s prediction when he first saw the renovated barn. The white-haired and highly respected Pat O’Dell had been custodian of the Pickax high school before retiring and starting his own janitorial service. He gazed up at the lofty beams and said in a fearful voice, “Will yourself be livin’ here?”
“Yes, I enjoy lots of space, Mr. O’Dell, and I’m counting on you and Mrs. Fulgrove to handle the maintenance as you did in my old apartment.”
“The divil himself would be hard up to clean the windows way up there, I’m thinkin’, or sweep the cobwebs down.”
“That’s one reason we built the catwalks. I hope you’re not leery about heights.”
Mr. O’Dell shook his head with foreboding. “An old farmer, they’re tellin’, was after puttin’ a rope around his neck and swingin’ from one of those rafters. It were seventy year since. Sure an’ that’s when a blight fell on the apple trees. It’s troubled I’d be, Mr. Q, to live here.”
“But life must go on, Mr. O’Dell. Let me show you where we hide the key, in case you want to work when I’m not here. Mrs. Fulgrove will do the light cleaning on Wednesdays.”
“Saints preserve us!” was the janitor’s parting remark as he ventured a final apprehensive look at the superstructure. That had been two weeks ago, and now Mr. O’Dell would be saying, “Sure an’ I told you so.”
When at last Qwilleran managed to doze off on Sunday morning, it seemed a mere fifteen minutes before he was jolted awake by the telephone, its ring sounding more urgent than usual.
Fran Brodie was on the line. “Dad just called and broke the news! This is terrible! What does it mean?”
“It means we’ll all be questioned,” Qwilleran replied sleepily.
“No one in the club would do such a thing, do you think? Dad refused to tell me if they had a suspect or if they found any evidence. He can be so exasperating when he’s playing the cop. It must have been turmoil in your orchard last night.”
“It was, and I’ve had about fifteen minutes’ sleep.”
“Sorry I woke you, Qwill. Go back to sleep. I’m going to call some of the others now.”
Qwilleran looked at his bedside clock. In five minutes WPKX would feature the Orchard Incident on the eight o’clock newscast. He steeled himself for another misleading bulletin, WPKX style, with inflated prepositions and pretentious pauses:
“Hilary VanBrook, principal of Pickax High School, was found dead early this morning IN . . . a parked . . . car. Police say VanBrook was shot in the head AFTER . . . an all-night party held AT . . . a barn . . . occupied BY . . . James Qwilleran. Suicide has been ruled out, and robbery was apparently not the motive according TO . . . Police Chief . . . Andrew . . . Brodie. No further details are available AT . . . this . . . hour.”
Qwilleran muttered, “I could punch that announcer IN . . . the teeth!” The reference to “a parked car” and “all-night party” would have tongues wagging all over the county, he predicted. It was Sunday. He could imagine the buzzing among church goers. Telephone lines would be jammed; restaurants would be crowded with folks who never dined out as a rule; neighbors who disliked yardwork would be raking leaves and spreading rumors across back fences. Immediately Qwilleran’s own phone started to ring.
Larry Lanspeak was the first to call. “Heard anything more, Qwill?”
“Not a word.”
“Okay if I drop in for a few minutes before church?”
“Sure. Come along.”
“Carol’s on the altar committee, so I’ll have to drop her off at ten o’clock with a trunkful of mums.”
“Come through the theatre parking lot,” Qwilleran instructed him. “The lane’s blockaded.”
Next Eddington Smith called, speaking in the same trembling voice that had made him inaudible as Cardinal Campeius. “Do you think they’ll suspect me?” he asked. “I’ve got a handgun in my workshop. Do you think I should get rid of it?”
“Has it been fired recently?” Qwilleran asked, knowing that Edd had never bought any ammunition.
“No, but it has my fingerprints. Maybe I should wipe them off.”
“Don’t do anything, Edd, and don’t worry. The police wouldn’t suspect you in a million years.”
Shortly afterward, Susan Exbridge telephoned, opening with the brazen banter that she had affected since her divorce. “Qwill, darling, why don’t you confess? With those sexy eyelids and that sinister moustache you look exactly like a killer.”
In contrast, the next caller was frantically serious. It was Wally Toddwhistle’s mother. “Oh, Mr. Q, I’m worried sick,” she cried. “Do you think they’ll suspect Wally?”
“Is there any reason why they should?”
“Well, he got into trouble in his last year of high school, and Horseface gave him a rotten deal. Don’t you know about it?”
“No. What happened?”
“It was only a prank that the kids dreamed up. It wasn’t even Wally’s idea, but he took the blame and wouldn’t tell on the others, and that damned principal expelled him a few weeks before graduation! I went to school and raised hell, but it didn’t do any good. Wally never got his diploma. His dad was ill during all this trouble, and I think that’s what killed him.”
“Did you or Wally make any threats at that time?”
“Wally wouldn’t threaten a fly! I guess I said a few things I shouldn’t’ve, though. I speak my mind, but Wally is a sweet boy. He takes after his dad.”
“When did this happen?”
“Two years ago last May.”
“If you were going to shoot Mr. VanBrook, Mrs. Toddwhistle, you would have done it before this. Put your mind at ease.”
She wanted to talk longer, but Larry Lanspeak arrived, and Qwilleran asked to be excused.
Larry, looking immaculate in his custom-tailored suit and highly polished wingtips, said, “Don’t let me stay more than twenty minutes. I’m ushering today.” The Lanspeaks attended the Old Stone Church across the park from the Klingenschoen Theatre—the largest, oldest, wealthiest congregation in t
own. He dropped into a chair in an attitude of dejection, saying, “I worry about this situation.”
“Did Hilary attend your church?” Qwilleran asked as he poured coffee.
“I don’t think he had church affiliations anywhere, but he seemed to be knowledgeable about Eastern religions.”
“From what I observed, he seemed to be knowledgeable about everything.”
“You can say that again! I remember seeing his résumé when we hired him. He’d spent quite some time in Asia and claimed to read and write Chinese—as well as Japanese, which he claimed to speak fluently. His housekeeper told our housekeeper that he had a lot of Oriental stuff around the house . . . But that’s not all! According to the résumé, he had studied architecture and horticulture; he had been an Equity actor in New York; and he had assorted degrees in education. I suppose you can do all that if you’re not tied down with a family and don’t spend any time socializing. He never attended athletic events or any other school function, which is a faux pas in a small community. In fact, he was conspicuously invisible on Saturdays and Sundays, although a couple of persons reported seeing him driving south on Friday nights—toward Lockmaster, you know.”
“Where he spent the weekend smoking opium and reading Chinese poetry, no doubt,” Qwilleran quipped.
“He was shot in the head, according to the radio,” Larry said. “Doesn’t that sound like a Chinese execution?”
“Or someone was hiding in the backseat, waiting for him to get behind the wheel. That’s how they do it in the movies.”
“Don’t take this too lightly, Qwill. It certainly looks as if the shooter was one of us.”
“Or someone who wanted to make it look like one of us.”
“I’ll tell you one thing—straight. I’ve never seen a rehearsal period with so much antagonism . . . On the other hand, could it be some kind of drug connection?”
“I thought Moose County was free of influences from Down Below,” Qwilleran said. “There are no fast-food chains. Not even garage sales!”
“But they’re going to creep in,” Larry predicted, “now that we’ve started promoting tourism.”
Qwilleran refilled the coffee cups. “Were you able to reach the superintendent?”
“Yes, I woke Lyle around four o’clock this morning and broke the news.”
“What was his reaction?”
“Well, you know Lyle Compton! He never minces words! He said he’d often felt like braining Hilary himself. That’ll be the general reaction around town, believe me! We’ll have enough collective guilt in Pickax to sink a battleship.”
Qwilleran said, “I just heard that VanBrook expelled Wally Toddwhistle a few weeks short of graduation because of some schoolboy escapade.”
“True. And it was a crime on Hilary’s part. Wally is a nice quiet kid, and he was a pretty good student. As for the nature of the prank, most people around town got a kick out of it.”
“What was the offense?”
“Well, it was like this. Wally’s father was a taxidermist, you know, and Wally brought a stuffed skunk to school. Somehow it turned up on the principal’s chair. Wally looked like the obvious culprit, although he swore he didn’t do it. The whole school board went to bat for him, but VanBrook threw him out. He told the board he’d run the school his way or tear up his contract. Lyle was afraid to cross him.”
“It seems like draconian punishment.”
“Wally didn’t really suffer, though. He’d been working with his father ever since he was a kid, so he just took over the taxidermy shop, and he’s doing okay without a diploma. He’s simply talented. Hunters all over the Midwest send him their skins.”
“More coffee, Larry?”
“No, thanks. This is potent stuff. I’ll be waltzing up the center aisle and spilling the offering plate.” He looked at his watch. “I hear church bells. I’ll talk to you later.” On the way out he stopped to say, “Wait till Lockmaster hears about this! The people down there think we’re barbarians, and this will confirm their opinion.”
As Larry drove away, answering the summons from the tower of the Old Stone Church, another kind of summons could be heard from the third balcony, where the Siamese had been sleeping off the excitement of the night before. Qwilleran released them from their apartment and was feeding them when Polly Duncan telephoned. He assumed she had heard the shocking news on the air, but her greeting was unexpectedly blithe.
“Dearest,” she said, “I’m still in Lockmaster. It was a lovely wedding, and we celebrated into the wee hours. Did you give Bootsie his breakfast this morning?”
“Uh—yes,” he said, knowing when it was advisable to bend the truth a little. Under the circumstances he had forgotten Bootsie completely.
“How is my little darling? Did he eat well? Did you talk to him?”
“Yes, indeed. We had a stimulating discussion about American foreign policy and the value of the dollar. When will you be home? Don’t forget we have a reservation for dinner at Tipsy’s.”
“That’s why I’m calling, dear. I’ve been invited to brunch at the Palomino Paddock, and I think I should accept. It’s a four-star restaurant, and I’ve never been there. Do you mind? We can dine at Tipsy’s next Sunday.” She sounded unusually elated.
“I don’t mind at all,” Qwilleran said stiffly.
“I’ll be home in time to give Bootsie his dinner, and I’ll call you then.”
“By the way,” he said, “obviously you haven’t listened to the radio. We’ve had an unfortunate incident up here.”
“No, I haven’t heard. What happened?”
“Hilary VanBrook has been murdered.”
“Murdered! Incredible! Who did it? Where did it happen?”
“I’ll tell you when you return,” Qwilleran said. “Enjoy your brunch.”
As a point of honor he never broke a social engagement, and Polly’s defection irked him considerably. She had been partying all night with that Lockmaster crowd; why did she need to stay down there for a mere brunch? If she wanted to eat at a four-star restaurant, he could take her there.
“What do you think of that development?” he asked Koko.
The cat murmured an ambiguous reply, his attention fixed on the berry bushes outside the window, where the cardinal usually made his morning call.
“I’d better hike over to the boulevard and feed the monster,” Qwilleran said.
He walked briskly to Goodwinter Boulevard, where Polly’s apartment occupied the second floor of a carriage house behind an austere stone mansion. All the houses on the street were built of stone—the coldly impressive castles of nineteenth-century mining tycoons and lumber barons. One such house had been leased by VanBrook, and Qwilleran wondered why the man had needed such grandiose living quarters with fifteen or twenty rooms. As he passed it he noticed that the draperies were drawn on all the windows.
Arriving at Polly’s carriage house he unlocked the downstairs door and climbed the stairs to her apartment, where a yearling Siamese was complaining about his tardy breakfast.
“Mea culpa! Mea culpa!” said Qwilleran. “I’ve been involved in extraordinary circumstances. Here’s an extra spoonful.” He gave Bootsie fresh water and a quick brushing and then hurried back to the barn in time to catch the phone ringing.
The exuberant voice of Hixie Rice said, “Isn’t this exciting, Qwill? We’ll all be interrogated! I’m going to invent some lurid details—nothing incriminating—just something to add zest and color to the investigation and attract the media Down Below.”
Hixie—a transplant from Down Below, where she worked in advertising and publicity—took pleasure in manipulating the media, both print and electronic.
Qwilleran said sternly, “I suggest you curb your creative impulse in this case, Hixie. We’re all faced with a serious situation. Stick to the facts, and don’t spread any false rumors to confuse the constabulary or entertain the local residents.”
“I love it when you’re playing uncle,” she laughed.
/> Relenting he said, “Would you like to discuss the matter over dinner? I have a table reserved at Tipsy’s.”
She made the obvious reply. “Where’s Polly?”
“Out of town.”
“Good! I’ll have you all to myself. Shall I meet you at the restaurant?”
The place called Tipsy’s Tavern was located in the town of Kennebeck northeast of Pickax. Driving there to meet his guest, Qwilleran passed through countryside that had seemed wild and mysterious four years before, when he was a transplanted city dweller. Now he felt comfortable with the Moose County scene: stony pastures, potato farms and sheep ranches . . . dark patches of woods providing habitat for thousands of whitetailed deer . . . dry autumn cornfields from which clouds of blackbirds rose and swirled in close-order formation as he passed . . . the rotting shafthouses of abandoned mines, now fenced and posted as dangerous.
The first sign of Kennebeck was a towering grain elevator in the distance, the skyscraper of the north country. Then the watertower came into view, freshly painted with the town symbol. Some enterprising artist, not afraid of heights, had canvassed the county, decorating watertowers. Every community flaunted its symbol: a pickax, a fish, a sailboat, an antlered buck, a happy face, a pine tree. Kennebeck’s tower, like the welcome sign at the town limits, bore the silhouette of a cat. It was a prosperous community with a wide main street and curbstones, plus senior housing, condominiums, and other signs of the times. Yet, in the 1930s Kennebeck had been in danger of becoming a ghost town.
Then, providentially, a blind pig operator from Down Below, hurt by the repeal of Prohibition, returned to his hometown of Kennebeck to open a legitimate bar and steakhouse. He brought with him a white cat with a deformed foot (it made her stagger) and a comical black patch on her head, like a hat slipping down over one eye. Appropriately her name was Tipsy. Her boozy antics and agreeable disposition made customers smile and attracted diners from far and wide. Tipsy’s personality, along with the good steaks, put Kennebeck back on the map.
The original restaurant in a log cabin had been enlarged many times during the intervening years, but it still offered casual dining in a rustic setting, and Qwilleran’s favorite table was in the main dining room within sight of a larger-than-life oil painting of the founding cat.
The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal Page 4