The Cat Who Played Post Office

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Can’t say that I did. What do you think could have happened?”

  “Someone could have drugged her drink and then carried her out to the garage and turned on the ignition, leaving a Scotch bottle for evidence. It’s an attached garage. It could be done under cover.”

  “Say, this is hot stuff!” Amanda said with evident relish. “Wait till I pour another.”

  “Of course,” Qwilleran went on, “the killer would most likely park elsewhere and arrive on foot. Is there any access to the property from the rear?”

  “Only through Dr. Hal’s garden.”

  “Don’t mention this to anyone,” Qwilleran requested, “ ‘but let me know if you come up with a possible clue.”

  “Hot damn! Just call me Nora Charles.”

  Qwilleran walked home slowly, and as he approached the K mansion he saw a terrain vehicle pulling away and heading north.

  “Whose truck was that in the drive, Mrs. Cobb?”

  She was looking radiant. “Herb Hackpole was here. He went fishing this afternoon and brought us a mess of perch, boned and everything.”

  “You seem to have made a hit with that guy.”

  “Oh, he’s very nice, Mr. Q. He wants to take me fishing someday, and he offered me a good trade-in on my van, if I want to switch to a small car. He even wants to take me hunting! Imagine that!”

  Qwilleran grumbled something and retired to his Chippendale sitting room, taking a volume of Trollope that Koko had knocked off a library shelf, but even the measured prose of He Knew He Was Right could not calm an underlying restlessness. His moustache was sending him signals so violent and so bothersome that he considered shaving it off. Only a critical examination in the bathroom mirror forestalled the rash action.

  After a night of fitful sleep he again busied himself with the catalogue cards, but the morning hours dragged by. He glanced at his watch every five minutes.

  At long last Mrs. Cobb announced a bit of lunch in the kitchen. “Only leftover vichyssoise and a tuna sandwich,” she said.

  “I can eat anything,” Qwilleran told her. “Leftover vichyssoise, leftover Chateaubriand, leftover strawberry shortcake—anything. I wonder how many Castilian monks sat at this table four centuries ago and had broiled open-face tuna sandwiches with Dijon mustard and capers. They’re delicious, Mrs. Cobb.”

  “Thank you. How are you getting along with the typing? Are you getting bored?”

  “Not at all. It’s highly educational. I’ve just learned that the chest of drawers in the upstairs hall is late baroque in lignum vitae with heartwood oystering. The knowledge will enrich my life immeasurably.”

  “Oh, Mr. Q! You’re just being funny.”

  “Where are the cats? They’re suspiciously quiet. Can’t they smell tuna?”

  “When I called you for lunch, they were both in the vestibule, waiting for the mail.”

  “Crazy guys!” Qwilleran said. “They know it’s not delivered until midafternoon.” Yet, he had to admit that he too was waiting for something to happen.

  After lunch he returned to his typewriter and was translating “johirgi fiwil hax” into “Fabergé jewel box” when the pitter-patter on the marble floor announced the arrival of the post. An influx of get-well cards was now added to the daily avalanche pouring through the mail slot. Next he heard sounds of swishing, skittering, and scrambling as the Siamese pounced on the pile, sliding and tumbling with joy and talking to themselves in squeaks and mumbles.

  Qwilleran let them have their fun. He was busy recording a pair of Hepplewhite knife boxes with silver escutcheons, worth as much as a cabin cruiser, when Koko labored into the library lugging a long envelope in a rich ivory color. Qwilleran knew that stationery, and his moustache sprang to attention. Feverishly he ran a letter knife across the top of the envelope. There were three pages of single-spaced typing on the Goodwinter & Goodwinter letterhead. It was dated two days before, and the signature had the eccentric e and r that he recognized.

  He read the letter and said to himself, She was right; she should have been a writer; she could have written gothic romances.

  Dear Qwill,

  If I disgraced myself last evening, please be understanding, and I implore you to read this letter with the sympathy and compassion you evinced during my visit.

  As I write this I am of sound mind—and perfectly sober, I assure you. I am also bitter and contrite in equal proportions. Obviously I am still among the living, but such will not be the case when you receive this letter. Mrs. Fulgrove has instructions to drop it in the mail in the event of my sudden demise. She is the only person I can trust to carry out my wishes. And if I seem calm and businesslike at this moment, it is because I am endeavoring to emulate you. I have, and always have had, a great deal of admiration for you, Qwill.

  In writing this painful confession, my onlyhope is that you are alive to read it. Otherwise a great misfortune will befall the people of Moose County. If I can save your life and prevent this—by accusing certain parties—I shall have done penance for my transgressions.

  How does one begin?

  I have always loved my brother with an irrational passion. Even as a child I was enamored and possessive, yearning for his attention and flying into a rage if he bestowed it elsewhere. Eventually Alex went away to prep school and I was sent to boarding school, but we were always together weekends.

  When my father begged me to study law for Alex’s sake, I pus aside my ambition to be a writer and attended law school gladly. My grandfather had been a chief justice; my father was a brilliant attorney respected in the entire state. It was intended that Alex should follow in their footsteps. Unfortunately, as my father pointed out, his only son-and-heir would never be more than a third-rate lawyer. I was elected to compensate for his shortcomings and maintain the Goodwinter reputation in the legal field.

  I never regretted my role, because it meant Alex and I could be together constantly. My rude awakening occurred five years ago when I discovered he was having an affair with our live-in maid. It was a knife in my heart! Not only had be betrayed me, but he had consortedwith the commonest of females—a girl from the Mull tribe. I dismissed her at once.

  But worse was yet to come. It was the shattering news that she was pregnant and expected to marry her “Sandy,” as she impudently called him. After a brief moment of panic, I steeled myself and devised a constructive solution. I would arrange to send her away for an abortion and pay her to relocate in another state.

  But no! Her mother, a woman of dubious reputation, influenced her to decline the abortion and file a paternity suit. My God! That such a calamity should happen to our branch of the family! I was infuriated by the arrogance of these people! In desperation I approached one of Alex’s boyhood acquaintances and enlisted his cooperation.

  Let me explain. When Alex and I were young, Father insisted that we attend public school in Pickax, expecting democratization to shape our life attitudes. On the contrary, we were harassed by the hateful middle-class children. I used my wits to keep them in their place, but Alex was weak and an easy target for their cruelty. I was obliged to go to his rescue.

  I hired the school bully—with my own money—to keep Alex’s tormentors in line. He continued as bodyguard and avenger until Father saw fit to send us to better schools in the East.

  Five years ago—in our new hour of trouble—I begged the same man to convince the Mull girl to submit to an abortion and leave town permanently, in return for a generous financial arrangement, of course. Lest the support payments be traced to their source, it was agreed that cash would regularly be turned over to our intermediary—to be forwarded, less his commission, to the girl. This subterfuge was my idea. How clever I thought I was! Actually, how naive!

  At the time of the girl’s departure there was a cave-in at Three Pines Mine, on the heels of which that thoroughly amoral and despicable man gloatingly informed us that she was buried a thousand feet underground and would make no more trouble. He pointed out, however, that we
were accomplices before the fact.

  The deed was done! No amount of remorse would undo the crime. It remained only to avoid scandal at all costs. The cash payments continued, increasing regularly with inflation and the man’s greed. But, at least, Alex and I felt safe, and we had each other.

  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 Ireluctantly 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 I have lived with this specter of guilt and fear. It 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 in the firm and—this was the crushing blow—as a wife!

  It 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 way 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 thatcontorted 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

  SIXTEEN

  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 the 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 opening, 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 overhead, crouching between two large, rare, and valuable majolica vases.

  As the dark figure edged closer, Qwilleran reached for the top rail 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 the 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 r
un 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 pâté 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.”