The Cat Who Played Post Office

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Nowadays it doesn’t matter a whole lot, does it? My daughter wants a child but no husband. We’re an endangered species.”

  “This case was different, Arch. Here was a girl from the wrong side of the wrong side of the tracks, and marriage would be a chance to change her name. Just as I was about to visit her mother and ask a few questions, the woman died of accidental substance abuse—or so the coroner decided.”

  “You always get mixed up in these things,” Riker said, “and I don’t know why. Who played the piano? Don’t tell me it was the cat!”

  “Who knows? I also heard the opening notes of Three Blind Mice. And if it wasn’t Koko, we’ve got an apparition on the premises. Take your pick.”

  They returned to the house shortly after dark. Flickering blue lights in an upstairs window indicated that Mrs. Cobb had retired to watch television.

  “Nigthcap?” Qwilleran suggested to his guest.

  At that moment they both heard four notes played on the piano in the drawing room: E, E, E, C—loud and clear.

  Riker was startled. “What was that?”

  “Beethoven’s Fifth,” Qwilleran said. “Now will you believe me?”

  They sat at the kitchen table and listened to the eleven o’clock news on WPKX:

  “The annexation battle between city and county became a slugging match at a public hearing this evening when a township supervisor was assaulted by an angry resident. Clem Wharton declined to press charges against his assailant, Herb Hackpole.

  “The school board tonight voted unanimously in favor of quality education. Board president Nimkoff told WPKX, ‘We’ve put ourselves on the line in favor of quality education.’

  “It was earlier reported that a Pickax Township woman was killed in a fall from a tractor on her father’s farm. According to the coroner’s report, Tiffany Trotter, twenty-two, was killed by a gunshot wound. Police are investigating.”

  TEN

  Qwilleran passed a sleepless night. He was concerned about his friend’s marital breakup. He was apprehensive about hosting an ambitious dinner party. And he felt uneasy about the murder of Tiffany Trotter.

  He had told Riker about her interest in Daisy, adding, “If there’s a connection between her visit here and her murder, it means I’m on a hot scent.”

  “It also means you could be on the hit list yourself,” the editor had said. “Better cool it, Qwill.”

  At an early hour the telephone rang, and Amanda Goodwinter plunged into the conversation with her usual brashness. “Got a problem. Got to find another painter to finish your apartment. Not easy to do these days. Nobody wants to work.”

  “What happened?” Qwilleran asked in the early-morning stupor that followed an unsatisfactory sleep.

  “Didn’t you hear the news? Tiffany Trotter was shot.”

  He was slow in putting two and two together. “Uh . . . yes . . . I heard it on the radio.”

  “That’s Steve’s wife,” Amanda shouted impatiently. “Steve, my painter! He won’t be back on the job for a while.”

  “I didn’t get the connection,” Qwilleran said. “That’s a terrible thing. We don’t expect that in Moose County, do we?”

  “Tourists! That’s what’s wrong,” the designer grumbled. “Coming up here in their fancy painted vans. They’re all stoned, I tell you!”

  “Is that what the police think? I haven’t heard any details.”

  “Francesca says—that’s my assistant; her father is chief of police—Francesca says they think it was a sniper—some psycho who just happened to be driving past the farm with a high-powered rifle. These kooks from Down Below have been known to shoot cows, but this is outrageous!”

  “Is Brodie handling the investigation?”

  “It’s the sheriff’s turf, but the Pickax police co-operate.”

  As Amanda rambled on, conjectures raced through Qwilleran’s mind: Not necessarily a tourist; everyone in the county has a hunting rifle . . . . The husband is always the first suspect. There could be a dozen different reasons why an enemy or a neighbor or even a relative might pull the trigger . . . . Who are these Trotters? Are they involved in anything shady?

  Amanda was saying, “So I’m trying to get Steve’s cousin to finish the job.”

  “No hurry. It can wait till Steve comes back.”

  “Shucks, I want the job finished so I can get my money! Carpet’s waiting to be laid. The blinds are ready . . . . Say, I’m all excited about your party. Hope you’ve got some good bourbon.”

  Qwilleran said, “I think you’ll like our visitor from Down Below. Arch Riker is an editor from the Daily Fluxion.”

  “I’ll be on my good behavior, unless my cousins provoke me, and then look out!”

  “May we pick you up? I’ll send Arch over with the limousine.”

  “Hot damn!” said Amanda.

  Qwilleran and Riker took a walk downtown during the morning hours, to view the bizarre street scene—eight centuries of Old World architecture condensed into two commercial blocks. The department store posed as a Byzantine palace. The gas station looked like Stonehenge.

  At the Picayune office they introduced themselves to Junior’s father, owner and publisher of the newspaper. Senior Goodwinter was a mild-mannered man, wearing a leather apron and a square paper cap made of folded newsprint.

  “Is it true you hand-set most of the type yourself?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Been doing it since I was eight. Had to stand on a stool to reach the typecases,” Senior said proudly. “It’s the best part of the business.”

  Riker said, “The Picayune is the only paper I know that has successfully resisted twentieth-century technology and new trends in journalism.”

  “Thank you,” said the publisher. “It hasn’t changed in any way since it was founded by my great-grandfather.”

  From there the two men walked to the office of Goodwinter & Goodwinter. Qwilleran apologized to Penelope for dropping in without an appointment. “I simply wanted to introduce Mr. Riker and request some information.”

  “Come into the conference room,” she said graciously, but her automatic smiles and dimples faded when he put his question:

  “Do you know anything about the Trotter girl who was murdered?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked sharply.

  “Do you have any inside information about the young woman, her family, her activities? Any theories about the murder? Was it a random killing or is there some local intrigue, some shady connection?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place, Mr. Qwilleran. This is a law firm—not a detective agency or a social services office.” There was a sarcastic edge to her voice. “May I inquire why you ask these peculiar questions?”

  “Sorry. I should have explained,” Qwilleran said. “My first impulse, on hearing about the murder, was to establish a scholarship for farm youth as a memorial to Tiffany Trotter. I’m assuming she was an innocent victim. If there is anything unsavory about her character or connections, my idea would not be exactly appropriate.”

  The attorney relaxed. “I see what you mean, but I’m unable to give you an immediate answer. My brother and I will take it under advisement. We are both looking forward to your dinner tomorrow evening.”

  Walking away from the Goodwinter office Qwilleran said to Riker, “I’ve never seen her quite so edgy. She’s working too hard. Her brother spends half his time in Washington—doing God-knows-what—and she has to handle the practice single-handed.”

  Exactly at noon the siren on the roof of City Hall blasted its hair-raising wail. At that signal everything in Pickax closed for an hour, allowing workers to go home to lunch. No taxes or traffic tickets were paid; no automobiles or candy bars were sold; no prescriptions or teeth were filled. Only emergency services and one small downtown restaurant continued to operate.

  Qwilleran and Riker went into the luncheonette for a sandwich and listened to the buzz of voices. There was only one topic of conversation:

  “The
y weren’t married more than a year. She made her own wedding dress.”

  “Tiff made more kills last year than anybody in the volleyball league.”

  “My brother was Steve’s best man. All the fellas wore white tailcoats and white top hats. Really cool!”

  When the two men returned home there was an unfamiliar truck parked near the garage, its body mounted high over the chassis.

  “What’s that ugly thing doing there?” Riker asked.

  “Don’t knock it,” Qwilleran said. “A terrain vehicle up here has the éclat of a private jet Down Below. Farmers and sportsmen love ’em. I’ll go and see whose it is.”

  In the loft above the garage he found a substitute painter putting the finish coat on the doorframes. “Are you Steve’s cousin?”

  “Yeah, I’m fillin’ in till he gets back.”

  “I feel very bad about Tiffany.”

  “Yeah, it’s tough. And you wanna know what? The police took Steve in for questioning! Ain’t that a kick in the head?”

  “It’s only routine,” Qwilleran assured him. “The police think the sniper was a tourist.”

  The painter looked wise and said in a lowered voice, “I could tell ’em a few things, but I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

  Typical small-town reaction, Qwilleran thought. Everyone knows the answers, or thinks he does, or pretends to. But no one talks.

  Riker had found a hammock in the backyard and was reading the Picayune. Mrs. Cobb was in the kitchen, pounding boned pheasant for the terrine.

  “The police were here!” she announced. “They wanted to know if Steve was on the job yesterday afternoon, and I was able to give him an alibi. He was having a beer with me at the time of the shooting. He’s a nice young man. I feel very sorry for him.”

  “It’s abnormally quiet. Where’s Birch?”

  “Gone fishing. He’s catching salmon for the croquettes.”

  “Is everything progressing to your satisfaction?”

  “Everything’s getting done, but Koko’s been acting funny, scratching the broom closet door and jumping up to reach the handle.”

  “I put that musty suitcase in the closet, and he can smell it. He doesn’t miss a thing. It’s time I got rid of all that junk.”

  Koko heard his name and came running, saying, “ik ik ik,” in a businesslike tone.

  “Okay, okay, I’m throwing the smelly things out.” Qwilleran carried the large carton of Daisy’s winter clothing to the trash bin in the garage and then returned for the suitcase. He was halfway to the back door when he heard an emphatic yowl. It was not the kind of cat-talk that meant “Time for dinner” or “Here comes the mail” or “Where’s Yum Yum?” It was a vehement directive.

  Qwilleran stopped. Why, he asked himself, had Koko suddenly resumed interest in the suitcase? Not the carton, just the suitcase. Without further hesitation he turned around and carried the piece of luggage to the library. Koko followed in great excitement.

  Once again Qwilleran inspected the contents of the suitcase, examining each pathetic item, hoping to find a clue or start a train of thought. He emptied the case right down to the sleazy torn lining.

  “Yow!” said Koko, who was supervising the process.

  Torn lining! A twinge on Qwilleran’s upper lip was telling him something. Speculatively he passed a hand over the bottom of the case. There was the outline of something flat and rectangular beneath the cheap, shiny, stained cloth. When he reached into the rip it tore further and exposed an envelope—a blank white envelope. Inside it was a wad of currency—new bills—hundred-dollar bills—ten of them.

  “Yow!” said Koko.

  Where, Qwilleran wondered, did she get this much money? Did she steal it? Was it a payoff? A bribe to leave town? The wherewithal for an abortion?

  Daisy might not have realized the value of the ivory elephant. She might have forgotten the gold bracelet in her hurry to get away. But if she happened to have a thousand in cash, she would hardly leave town without it . . . that is, if she had left town.

  After the dinner party, Qwilleran promised himself, he would have another chat with the police chief.

  ELEVEN

  On the day of the party the house was in turmoil, and the Siamese were banished to the basement—until their indignant protests became more annoying than their actual presence underfoot.

  Mrs. Cobb was rolling croquettes and slivering lamb with garlic. Mrs. Fulgrove was ironing table linens, polishing silver, and writing place cards and gentlemen’s envelopes in her flawless penmanship, flattered beyond words when asked to do so. The florist delivered a truckload of flowers. The end sections of the long dinner table had been removed in order to seat ten comfortably, and Melinda was using a yardstick to measure the correct distance between dinner plates.

  All this frenzied activity made Qwilleran nervous. He had never hosted a formal dinner; all his entertaining had been done in restaurants and clubs. So, when Riker borrowed the car and went sightseeing, Qwilleran set out for a tranquilizing bike ride.

  Having completed the loop that constituted his daily ten-mile workout, he was just within the city limits when a menacing dog with a full set of repulsive teeth bounded from a backyard and charged the bicycle, barking and nipping at his heels. Qwilleran bellowed and swerved to the left and heard a screeching of tires as a motorist behind him jammed on the brakes.

  Someone called to the dog, and the animal ran back into the yard, where two others were barking and straining at their chains.

  In spluttering fury Qwilleran approached the driver of the car. “That dog—did you see him come at me?”

  The woman at the wheel said, “I’m all shook up. I thought sure I was going to hit you. It was terrible! It shouldn’t be allowed.”

  “Allowed! It’s not allowed! It’s prohibited by law. I’m going to make a formal complaint. May I have your name as a witness?”

  She shrank away from him. “I’d really like to help, but . . . my husband wouldn’t want me to get involved. I’m terribly sorry.”

  Qwilleran said no more but biked directly to the police station, where he found Chief Brodie on the desk, growling about a complaint of his own. “Too much paperwork! They invent computers to make life easier, and everything gets complicated. What can I do for you, Mr. Q?”

  Qwilleran related his experience with the unchained dog, giving the name of the street and the number of the house. “That dog might be rabid,” he said, “and I might have been killed.”

  Brodie made a helpless gesture. “Hackpole again! It’s a problem. He’s had a lot of warnings. There’s nothing more we can do unless you want to go to the magistrate and sign a complaint. Nobody else will stick his neck out.”

  “Who is Hackpole, anyway? Was he ever a New York cabdriver?”

  “He was born here, but he worked in the East for a long time—Newark, I think. Came back a few years ago. Runs a used-car lot and a garage.”

  “Will it do any good if I sign a complaint?”

  “The sheriff will deliver a summons, and there’ll be a show-cause hearing in two or three weeks.”

  “I’ll do it!” Qwilleran said. “And tell the sheriff to get an antirabies shot and wear dogproof pants.”

  When he returned home from his bike ride he was less tranquil than before, but the magnificence of the interior calmed his tensions.

  In the dining room, crystal and silver glittered on white damask, and two towering candelabra flanked a Victorian epergne, its branches filled with flowers, fruit, nuts, and mints.

  By seven o’clock Melinda had changed into a chiffon dinner dress in a green than enhanced her eyes. Qwilleran, wearing the better of his two suits and his new tie, looked almost well dressed; his hair and moustache were trimmed, and two weeks of biking had given him a tan as well as an improved waistline.

  Riker had been dispatched to pick up Amanda. As for the Siamese, it was decided that they be allowed to join the company. Otherwise their nonstop wailing would drown out the efforts of t
he three elderly men who were tuning their stringed instruments in the foyer.

  Playing the role of butler, the genial owner of the department store was rehearsing with starched dignity and a stony countenance. As the footmen, the banker’s sons were practicing obsequious anonymity—not easy for Yale undergraduates, Melinda remarked. The Fitch twins would be stationed at the front door to admit guests and conduct them to the solarium, where Lanspeak would announce them and serve cocktails. Later, in the dining room, the footmen would serve from the left and remove plates from the right, while the butler poured wine with a deft twist of the wrist.

  “Remember,” Melinda told them. “No eye contact.”

  How did I get mixed up in this? Qwilleran wondered.

  First guest to ring the doorbell was the fresh-faced young managing editor of the Picayune, looking like a high school student on graduation day. Roger and his wife and mother-in-law arrived in high spirits, Sharon in an Indian sari and Mildred in something she had woven herself, with much fringe. Equally merry were Arch Riker and his blind date, leading Qwilleran to assume they had stopped at a bar. Amanda’s floral print dinner dress had the aroma of a cedar closet and look of a thrift shop.

  Finally, making their quiet but grand entrance, were Penelope and her brother, Alexander—a tall impressive pair with the lean, high-browed Goodwinter features and an elegant presence. Alexander looked cool and important in a white silk suit, and his sister was cool and chic in a simple white dinner dress. She moved in a cloud of perfume, an arresting fragrance that seemed to take everyone by surprise.

  “The Duke and Duchess have arrived,” Amanda whispered to Riker. “Mind your manners or it’s off with your head!”

  Qwilleran made the introductions, and Alexander said to Riker in his courtroom voice, “We trust you will find our peaceful little community as enjoyable as we find your—ah—stimulating newspaper.”

  “I’m certainly enjoying your—ah—perfect weather,” said the editor.

  Qwilleran inquired about the weather in Washington.

  “Unbearably hot,” said the attorney with a wry smile, “but one tries to suffer with grace. While I have the ear of—ah—influential persons, I do what I can for our farmers, the forgotten heroes of this great northern county of ours.”