“And what am I supposed to be doing?”
“Just wave at people and act jolly.”
“I won’t feel jolly,” he grumbled, “but I’ll try to make an adjustment . . . I’m doing this only for your foot, Hixie . . . ma chérie,” he added tartly.
When Qwilleran returned to the dinner table, the others regarded him with concern.
“I need another piece of pie,” he said.
Later, when he returned from Polly’s apartment with a generous serving of the bird, he was met by two excited Siamese. “Ho ho ho!” he boomed with simulated jollity. They fled from the room.
“I beg your royal pardons,” he apologized. “I was practicing. Would you entertain the concept of turkey for dinner?”
While they devoured the plateful of light meat and dark meat with studious concentration and enraptured tails, he collected the loot under the kitchen table: an inner sole, a silver toothpick in a leather sheath, a tortoiseshell napkin ring, and . . . the jeweler’s box that they had pilfered from the desk drawer.
“You rascals!” he scolded affectionately. “Where did you have it hidden?”
In the library he examined the ring once more. It was now clear that the initials entwined on the crown were W and E. There was also an intimate inscription inside the band, with the initials ERG and WBK. Then Koko leaped to the desktop and showed unusual interest in the gold memento, touching it gingerly as if it might bite. Qwilleran tamped his moustache as he questioned the cat’s reaction. Was he simply attracted to a small shiny object? Or did he detect hidden significance in the ring? If the latter, it would be something more topical than the illicit affair in Lockmaster, circa 1929. But what? Koko could sense more with his whiskers than most humans could construe with their brains. Unfortunately, he had an oblique way of communicating, and Qwilleran was not always smart enough to read him.
Ring . . . gold ring . . . horse farmer . . . E and W . . . wasn’t ERG a unit of energy? It seemed nonsensical, and in years gone by Qwilleran would have scoffed at such speculation, but life with Kao K’o Kung had taught him to pay attention, even though he sometimes felt like a fool.
FIFTEEN
THE DAY AFTER Thanksgiving Qwilleran was still pondering the significance of the signet ring when he went downtown to the newspaper to hand in his copy. Before leaving the house he took a roll call, as he always did. Yum Yum with graceful tail was rubbing against his ankles, and he picked her up to whisper comforting sentiments in her twitching ear. Koko was in the library closet, sitting tall and solemn in the open safe like some mythic oracle with all the answers.
Qwilleran started out to walk downtown, but the footing was precarious; the daily snowfall was packing down and turning sidewalks into minor glaciers. He drove to the newspaper office.
Junior greeted him in high spirit. “Hixie tells me you’re going to be our Santa Claus! You’ll be terrific! And you’ll have a good time!”
“I don’t know about that, but I’ll give it my best shot,” he replied as he handed Junior the jeweler’s box.
“My grandfather’s ring!”
“Guess again! Look inside the band.”
“Wow!” said Junior when he read the inscription. “So WBK is the horse farmer who wanted to jump off the silo!”
“It would be interesting to know if Euphonia’s recent boyfriend in Florida spells his name with a K. I thought it was C-r-o-c-u-s. I’ll have to check it out.”
“I haven’t told you the latest,” said Junior. “In probating Grandma’s estate we’re having trouble finding enough assets to warrant contesting the will. The bank records show huge cash deposits at the time she liquidated everything. After that there were sizable withdrawals, as if she’d invested in securities, although she didn’t play the stock market. She liked something safe. But we don’t find any financial documents.”
“Some old people are afraid of banks,” Qwilleran said. “She may have hidden them. They may be in the library closet.”
“Naw, she told me to burn everything in that closet.”
“Or . . . you may not be aware of this, Junior, but Gil Inchpot spent heavily on farm improvements in the last two or three years, and no one knows where he got the money. Did Euphonia lend it to him on the strength of her affection for Lena?”
“Hey! That makes sense!” said Junior. “Some time back, Inchpot called me here at the office, asking for her address in Florida. He owed her some money and wanted to repay the loan.”
“You gave him her address?”
“Sure. But if he paid her, what the devil happened to the dough! She couldn’t have lost it all at the race track! Or could she?”
“When she decided to bequeath a health spa to the park, Junior, didn’t she know her fortune was dwindling? Or did that happen after she wrote her new will?”
“Well, I don’t know, but Wilmot hasn’t given up yet. He has more possibilities to explore, but it takes time.”
Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. “More and more I think the operation Down Below is shady—if not downright crepuscular. How about the lawyer who writes cheap wills? He could be in on it. How about the dealer who liquidated Euphonia’s treasures? Does anyone know who he is or what he paid for the stuff? He could have robbed her blind!”
“Wow!” said Junior. “Maybe I should put a bug in Wilmot’s ear.”
“Not yet. Wait until I have more evidence.” Qwilleran started to leave. “It just might be a well-organized crime ring!”
“Don’t go, Qwill. This is getting good!”
“I have an appointment to try on my Santa Claus suit. We’ll talk later.”
En route to the theatre Qwilleran realized that his attitude toward the Christmas parade was mellowing. He could visualize himself riding in a sleigh behind a horse decked out in jingle bells. Sleighs were often seen on the unsalted streets of Pickax. The experience might make a good topic for his column.
At the K Theatre Carol Lanspeak and the seamstress were waiting for him, and Carol said, “We really appreciate your cooperation in the emergency, Qwill. Larry says he’ll treat you to dinner at the Palomino Paddock, if he lives. Try on the pants first.”
Qwilleran squeezed into the red breeches. “They’re a good length for clam digging,” he said.
Mrs. Toddwhistle, who worked on costumes for the Theatre Club, said, “I have some red fabric, and I can add about six inches to the length—also a stirrup to keep them down in your boots.”
Carol looked critically at his yellow duck boots. “You should have black. What size do you wear? I’ll bring a pair from the store.”
The coat was roomy enough for two bed pillows under the belt, although snug through the shoulders and under the arms. The sleeves could be lengthened by adding more fake fur to the cuffs, the women assured him. They seemed to know what they were talking about . . . Everything would work out just fine! . . . No problem! . . . He would make a wonderful Santa!
With that matter settled he applied his attention to the situation in Florida and telephoned Celia Robinson without waiting for the discount rate. “Did you enjoy Thanksgiving, Celia?” he began.
“Oh, yes, it was very nice. About thirty of us went in the bus to a real nice restaurant. We had a reservation. It was buffet.”
“Did Mr. Crocus go with you?”
“No, he didn’t feel like it. He remembers last Thanksgiving when Mrs. Gage was with us and read a poem. She wrote it herself.”
“I promised to send him a book of hers but got sidetracked because of the Big Snow. How does he spell his name?”
“I think it’s C-r-o-c-u-s, like the flower.”
“Are you sure? It could be K-r-o-k-u-s, you know. What’s his first name?”
“Gerard. He has a shirt with GFC embroidered on the pocket. Mrs. Gage gave it to him, and he wears it all the time.”
“Hmmm,” Qwilleran murmured. Reluctantly he abandoned the long-lost-lover theory. Mr. Crocus was not WBK. “Did you ask him if he’d speak with me about Mrs. Gage?”
“Yes, I did, Mr. Qwilleran, but he said it wouldn’t be in good taste to talk to the media about a dear departed friend. I don’t feel that way. I’d like to see you write a beautiful article about her, and if there’s anything more I can do—”
“You’ve been a great help, Celia, and—yes, there is more you can do. I believe I’ve uncovered something in the Park of Pink Sunsets that’s a bigger story than Euphonia Gage.”
“You don’t mean it!” she said excitedly. “Is it something nice?”
Qwilleran cleared his throat and planned his approach before replying. “No, it isn’t nice, as you say. I believe there’s activity in your community that is highly unethical, if not illegal.”
With sudden sharpness she said, “You reporters are always trying to dig up dirt and make trouble! This is a lovely place for retirees like me. Don’t call me any more. I don’t want to talk to you. You told me you were writing a nice article about Mrs. Gage! I don’t want anything more to do with you!” And she slammed the receiver.
“Well! How do you like that?” Qwilleran asked the bookshelves.
“Yow!” said Koko from his reserved seat in the safe.
“Did I strike a raw nerve? Celia may be part of the ring—a simple, fun-loving grandmother, mixing with the other residents and singling out the likely victims. Now that she knows we suspect their game, what will she do?”
He thought of phoning Junior. He thought of bypassing Junior and calling Wilmot. Then he decided to wait and see.
The day of the parade was sunny but crisp, and Qwilleran wore his long underwear for the ride in an open sleigh. He assumed it would be a sleigh and not a convertible with the top down.
At the theatre, where he went to get into costume, he found the breeches lengthened and equipped with stirrups, which made them rather taut for comfort, but Carol said he would get used to the feeling. She strapped him into his two bed pillows and helped him into his coat. The sleeves had been extended with white fake fur from elbow to wrist.
“I look as if I had both arms in a cast,” he complained. Trussed into the stuffed coat and taut breeches, he found it difficult to bend over. Carol had to pull on his boots.
“How is the fit?” she asked. “They run large to allow for thick socks.”
“I feel as if I’m wearing snowshoes.” He was hardly in a jolly mood. “Is this belly supposed to shake like a bowlful of jelly? It feels like a sack of cold oatmeal. Has Larry ever worn this getup?”
“Many times! At church and at the community Christmas party. He loves playing Santa!”
“Why does the old geezer have to look seventy-five pounds overweight? Even as a kid I doubted that he could come down a chimney. Now I question why the heart specialists don’t get after him. Why aren’t the health clubs coming forward?”
“Would you ruin a thousand-year-old image, Qwill? Come off your soapbox. It’s all in fun.” Carol powdered his moustache, reddened his cheeks, and adjusted the wig and beard before adding a red hat with a floppy pointed crown.
“I feel like an idiot!” he said. “I hope Polly won’t be watching the parade from an upstairs window of the library.”
They drove north in the Lanspeak van along Pickax Road, the sun glaring on the snowy roadbed and snowy landscape. Qwilleran had left his sunglasses at the theatre, and the scene was dazzling. Already the parade route was filling up with cars, vans, and pickups loaded with children.
“This is all very exciting,” Carol said. “Pickax has never had a Christmas parade before. The welcoming ceremonies will be in front of the store, and when you arrive, Hixie’s secretary will meet you and tell you what to do.”
“Speaking of stores,” Qwilleran said, “could you suggest a Christmas present for Polly? Jewelry, perhaps. She likes pearls, but she says she doesn’t need any more.”
“How about opals? I think she’d like opals, and there’s a jeweler in Minneapolis who’ll send some out on approval.”
They were approaching the Dimsdale Diner, where vast open fields were covered with glaring snow. “It’s incredibly bright today,” he said, feeling as if his eyeballs were spinning.
“Yes, a perfect day for a parade,” said Carol, who was wearing sunglasses.
“What kind of conveyance do you have for jolly old St. Nick with two arms in a cast?” he asked.
“Oh, didn’t Hixie tell you?” she said, eager to break the news. “We’ve arranged for a dogsled with eight Siberian huskies!”
Parade units were gathering around the snowy intersection: floats, a brass band on a flatbed truck, a giant snowplow, a fire truck, a group of cross-country skiers, and a yelping dogteam.
“We meet unexpectedly,” Qwilleran said to Nancy. He assumed it was Nancy; the glare was distorting his vision.
“No one told me you were going to be Santa,” she said with delight. “I thought it was going to be Mr. Lanspeak. There’s a bale of hay in the basket for you to sit on, and I covered it with a caribou skin. I think it’ll work. We won’t be going very fast. Where are your sunglasses?”
“I left them in town,” Qwilleran said. “Santa with shades seemed inappropriate.”
“Isn’t this exciting? I’ve never been in a parade. I wish my mom could see me now—driving Santa Claus in a dogsled! She died before I even started dog-sledding. Today would have been her birthday . . . It looks as if they’re getting ready to start.”
The band struck up, the sheriff’s car led the way, and the parade units fell into place, with the dogsled bringing up the rear—Nancy riding the runners, Qwilleran in the basket. She drove the team with one-syllable commands: “Up! . . . Go! . . . Way!”
All along the route the spectators were shouting to Santa, and Qwilleran waved first one arm and then the other at persons he could not clearly see. Both arms were becoming gradually numb as the tight armholes hampered his circulation. When they turned onto Main Street the crowds were larger and louder but just as blurred, and he was greatly relieved when they reached their destination.
Lanspeak’s Department Store was built like a castle. An iron gate raised on heavy chains extended over the sidewalk, providing a marquee from which city officials could review the parade.
As the dogsled pulled up to the store, Nancy leaned over and said to Qwilleran, “I’ll take the dogs behind the store until you’ve finished your speech.”
“Speech! What speech?” he demanded indignantly.
“Mr. Qwilleran, sir,” said a young man’s voice coming out of the general blur.
“Wilfred? Get me out of this contraption! I can’t see a thing!”
“They’re waiting for you up there,” said the secretary. “I’ll hold the ladder.”
Only then did Qwilleran become aware of a ladder leaning against the front edge of the marquee. “I can’t bend my knees; my arms are numb; and I can’t see! I’m not climbing up any damned ladder!”
“You’ve got to,” said Wilfred in panic.
Hundreds of spectators were cheering, and the officials were looking over the edge of the marquee and shouting, “Come on up, Santa!” Qwilleran walked to the foot of the ladder with a stiff-legged gait, his knees splinted by the taut breeches. He looked up speculatively to the summit. “If I fall off this thing,” he said threateningly to the nervous secretary, “both you and Hixie are fired!”
He managed to lift one foot to the first rung and grasp the siderails. Cheers! Then slowly he forced one knee after the other to bend, all the while maneuvering the long-toed boots and hoisting the two bed pillows ahead of him. More cheers! There was an occasional ripping sound—where, he was not sure—but the more the rips, the easier the climb. And the louder were the cheers. Gradually he felt his way to the top of the ladder, where helping hands reached out and hauled him onto the marquee.
There was a microphone, and the mayor said a few words of welcome, his speech slurred by the fortifying nips he had taken to keep warm. “And now . . . I give you . . . Santa Claus . . . in person!” he concluded.
Qwilleran was steered to the mike. “M-er-r-ry Christmas!” he bellowed. Then he turned away and said in a voice that went out over the speakers, “Get me outa here! How do I get down? I’m not going back down that stupid ladder!”
There were more cheers from the spectators.
The store had a second-floor window through which the city officials had arrived, and Qwilleran climbed through it. Wilfred was waiting for him in the second-floor lingerie department. He said, “The dogs are being brought around to the front door.”
“To hell with the dogs! I’m through! Find someone to drive me back to the theatre!”
“But they’re expecting you at the courthouse, Mr. Qwilleran.”
“What for?”
“Lap-sitting.”
“Lap-sitting? What the devil is that?”
“They built a gingerbread house for you in front of the courthouse, and the kids sit on your lap and have their pictures taken.”
“Oh, no, they don’t!” Qwilleran said fiercely. “I refuse flatly! Enough is enough!”
“Mr. Qwilleran, sir, you gotta!”
They rode down on the elevator, and even before they landed on the main floor they heard a voice on the public address system: “Paging Santa Claus! Paging Santa Claus!”
“Where’s a phone?” he snapped . . . “Yes?” he yelled into the mouthpiece.
“Hey, Qwill! How did it go?” It was Junior’s enthusiastic voice.
“Don’t ask!”
“The city desk just had a strange phone call, Qwill: Celia Robinson in Florida, calling from a pay phone in a mall. She said she had to get in touch with you secretly. What’s that all about? We never give out home phones, but she’s calling back this afternoon to find out how to reach you. Extremely important, she says.”
“Give her Polly’s number,” Qwilleran said, his voice calm for the first time in two hours. “Tell her to call around eight o’clock tonight.”
“Whatever you say. Are you all through with your Santa stunt?”
“No,” Qwilleran said in a matter-of-fact way. “I have to go to the courthouse for lap-sitting.”
The Cat Who Went Into the Closet Page 16