SIXTEEN
IT WAS CUSTOMARY for Qwilleran and Polly to spend Saturday evening together, and this time the chief attraction was turkey leftovers, which she had prepared in a curry sauce with mushrooms, leeks and lentils. They could now call the bird a turkey.
“Do you think Mildred is still sensitive about her late husband?” Polly asked. “I hope not. She and Arch are very right for each other, and they should get on with their new life . . . Tell me about the parade, dear.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said in an even voice.
She knew better than to insist.
He said, “I’m expecting a phone call around eight o’clock, and I’d like to take it privately, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” she replied, although her lips tightened. He had not even told her who would be calling.
Exactly at eight o’clock the telephone rang, and he took the call in the bedroom with the door closed. Polly started the dishwasher.
The anguished voice of Celia Robinson blurted, “Oh, Mr. Qwilleran, I apologize for hanging up on you like that! What horrible things did you think of me? I didn’t mean a word of what I said, but I was afraid somebody would be listening in. I’m making this call from a phone in a mall.”
“Are you on a switchboard at the park? I thought the residents had private numbers.”
“We do! We do! But Clayton thinks the whole park is bugged. I always thought he was kidding, but when you mentioned something illegal, I got worried. I thought it might be dangerous to talk to you. Is it true what you said? Are you an investigator?”
Experience warned him that she might be part of the ring, luring him to show his hand. Yet, a tremor in the roots of his moustache told him to risk the gamble. He had formulated a plan. He said, “I’m just a reporter with a suspicion that Junior’s grandmother was a victim of fraud.”
“Oh, dear! Are you going to expose it?”
“There’s insufficient evidence at present, and that’s where you can help. You thought highly of Mrs. Gage; are you willing to play a harmless trick on those who robbed her? I believe your grandson would approve.”
“Can I tell Clayton about it? I write him every week.”
“You’re not to confide in him or Mr. Crocus or anyone else. Consider yourself an undercover agent. You’ll be rewarded for your time and cooperation, of course. In Pickax we have an eleemosynary foundation that’s committed to the pursuit of justice.”
“I never heard of one of those,” she said, “but I’m honored that you’d ask me to help. Do you think I can do it?”
“No doubt about it, provided you follow orders.”
“What if it doesn’t work? What if I get caught?”
Qwilleran said, “Whether it succeeds or fails, no one will suspect you of duplicity, and you’ll be kept in chocolate-covered cherries for life.”
Celia howled with delight. “What do I do first?”
“You’ll receive your briefing along with a check to cover expenses. Where do you receive your mail?”
“It comes to the park office, and we pick it up there. It’s a good excuse to go for a walk and chat with our neighbors. Sometimes we pick up each other’s mail.”
“That being the case,” he said, “I’ll send your orders to the post office in care of general delivery.”
“Oh, goody!” Celia said as the elements of intrigue dawned upon her. “Is this a sting?”
“You might call it that. Now go home and say nothing. I’ll put the wheels in motion, and you should receive your assignment in two days, unless we have another Big Snow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Qwilleran! This gives me a real boot!”
He emerged from the bedroom patting his moustache with satisfaction. He even said a kind word to Bootsie, who was sitting outside the door, and he was very good company for the rest of the evening.
* * *
The next day, as he worked on Celia’s briefing, he thought, This may be the dumbest thing I ever did in my life—sending $5,000 to a stranger who may be a double agent. And yet . . .
The document that went into the mail read as follows:
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY! Memorize, shred, and flush.
TO: Agent 0013½
FROM: Q
MISSION: Operation Greenback, Phase One
ASSIGNMENT: Your unmarried sister in Chicago has died, leaving you sole heir to a large house, valuable possessions, and financial assets. You wish to share your new fortune with your neighbors by giving a Christmas party in the clubhouse on December 11 or 12. Notify the management that you will spend as much as $5,000 on a caterer, florist, and live music. (A check for this amount, drawn on a Chicago bank, will arrive under separate cover.) Observe the management’s reaction to the above and report to Q. Watch for further briefings in the mail.
Qwilleran had planned the tongue-in-cheek approach to relieve any apprehension Celia might have, and he could imagine her merry laughter upon reading the document. And if, he reflected grimly, she happened to be a double agent, her laughter would be even merrier. He still trusted the encouraging sensation on his upper lip, however, and he prepared a second secret document to go out in the mail the next day:
MISSION: Operation Greenback, Phase Two
ASSIGNMENT: Ask the management about the possibility of moving into a double-wide . . . Test them by saying that your sister wished you to adopt her cat, who has a trust fund of his own of $10,000 a year. Ask for a special permit to have an indoor cat who is quiet, and not destructive, and rich. Observe their reactions to the above and report to Q at HQ.
Qwilleran enclosed a card with his home phone number and instructions to call collect from a pay phone any evening between five and six o’clock. Then he waited. He wrote two columns for the Moose County Something. He signed a hundred Christmas cards for Lori Bamba to address. He looked at jewelry from Minneapolis and selected a lavaliere and earrings for Polly: fiery black opals rimmed with discreet diamonds. He read more of Robinson Crusoe to the cats.
One early evening, as he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of enlisting Celia, he was talking with Lori Bamba on the phone when Koko started biting the cord. “Excuse me, Lori,” he said. “Koko wants me to hang up.”
A moment later the phone rang, and a hushed voice said, “This is Double-Oh-Thirteen-and-a-half. Is it all right to talk?” Background noises assured him she was calling from the mall.
“By all means. I’ve been waiting for your report.”
“Well! Let me tell you!” she said in her normal voice. “I’ve been having a ball! Everybody’s excited about the party, and Betty and Claude are falling all over me! They used to treat me like a clown; now I get respect! They’re giving me a special permit for the cat, and they’re putting me at the top of the list for a double-wide!”
“You’re a good operative, Celia.”
“Shall I go ahead and get a cat?”
“Wait a minute! Not so fast! In the interest of realism, the cat should be shipped from Chicago.”
“Clayton could bring it when he flies down for Christmas. I’d like a Burmese, but they’re expensive. Maybe he could find one at an animal shelter.”
Qwilleran said, “Cost is not the issue here, but let’s not get ahead of the game. Wait for orders.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just so excited! I feel as if I’ve really inherited my sister’s fortune, and I don’t even have a sister! What do I do next?”
“Keep checking the post office, and call whenever you have something to report.”
“Isn’t this fun?” she was squealing as he said goodnight.
Qwilleran had already plotted his next move. The following day he walked downtown to the store that had gold lettering on the window: EXBRIDGE & COBB, FINE ANTIQUES.
Susan Exbridge greeted him effusively. “Darling! You survived the Big Snow! Did you enjoy being snowbound?”
“It wasn’t what John Greenleaf Whittier had led me to expect. The lucky bunch in his poem sat around
a blazing fire, roasting apples and telling stories. I was alone with a kerosene stove and two cats, and all of us were bored stiff. How about you?”
“The people in my building in Indian Village played bridge for five days.”
Wandering through the shop, Qwilleran lingered over a pair of brass candlesticks a foot high, with thick, twisted stems and chunky bases the size of a soup bowl. “I like candlesticks,” he remarked.
“Most men do, and I refuse to guess why,” she said. “These are Dutch baroque, but I found them in Stockholm.”
“I’ll take them,” he said. “Do you know how or where Euphonia sold her belongings?”
“I know how . . . but not exactly where,” said Susan. “I wanted her to work with some good dealers in New York and Philadelphia, but someone in Florida offered her a lump sum for everything, and she fell for it. People get lazy about liquidating and want to do it the easy way.”
“How much did they offer? Do you know?”
“I have no idea, but we can assume that it was well under the going price.”
He paid for his purchase and asked to borrow some magazines on antiques.
On the way home he stopped at the Bushland Studio. John Bushland had transferred his commercial photography studio from Lockmaster to Pickax, and Qwilleran asked if he had any interior photos of his previous house in Lockmaster.
“I’ve got a complete set. Want to see ’em?”
Qwilleran had visited the photographer’s century-old house and remembered the foyer with its carved staircase, stained-glass windows, and converted gaslight fixtures. “I could use a copy of this shot,” he said. “Also a close-up of the marble fireplace in the front parlor and the one with painted tiles in the dining room. Don’t ask me why I want them, Bushy; it’s too complicated. I need them, that’s all.”
“Sure,” said the genial young man. “How quick?”
“A.S.A.P.”
“Then take these prints. I’ll make more for the file.”
The magazines that Qwilleran carried home contained dealer ads for choice antiques at five-digit and six-digit prices that shocked his frugal psyche. Nevertheless, he made a list of items that would fit his scheme: Jacobean chair . . . carved and gilded divan from India . . . four-poster brass bed in Gothic style . . . spiral staircase from Irish country house . . . collection of botanical plates in porcelain, eighteenth century . . . Empire desk in mahogany and ormolu . . . and more. He omitted any reference to price.
He photocopied the list at the public library. One copy would go to Susan Exbridge for appraisal; the other, to Celia Robinson with another briefing:
MISSION: Operation Greenback, Phase Three
ASSIGNMENT: Your late sister was a collector of antiques and art objects, none of which you understand or even like. There are twelve rooms of such furnishings that you wish to sell with as little effort as possible. Ask the park management if they know how to go about it. Show them the enclosed list as a sampling of the items involved. Mention also that you must sell your sister’s house. Show them the enclosed photos of the interior. Report their responses as usual.
December in Pickax was a month of crowded stores, sparkling decorations, holiday parties, school pageants, and carol singing, with a picturesque snowfall every day. In the “Qwill Pen” column the veteran newsman strove to write about these perennial subjects with a fresh approach, although his mind was on Operation Greenback. He was relieved when his agent made her second report:
“Oh, it was a wonderful party, Mr. Qwilleran! Everybody had a terrific time,” she began. “All the Sunsetters congratulated me on my inheritance.”
“Did Mr. Crocus attend?”
“Well, I had to coax him, but afterwards he said he had a good time. I don’t know whether he meant it. He always says the polite thing.”
“What do you know about his background?”
“Only that he was in some kind of wholesale business in Ohio. No one in his family ever visits him. Maybe that’s why he enjoys Clayton’s company. They play chess together.”
Qwilleran asked, “And how did the management react to your questions?”
“They were very helpful. They have experience and a lot of connections, they said. They’re going to show my list of furniture to a dealer, and he’ll make an offer on the whole houseful.”
“Did you show them the photographs of the house?”
“Yes, they were quite impressed and said there were things that should be removed before vandals get them. They know somebody who does that. He would pay for them, of course. And guess what! Betty and Claude invited me to the dog races! It looks as if I’m in solid! Things were going so good that I did something on my own. I hope I did right.”
“What did you do?” Qwilleran asked sternly.
“I asked if my grandson could come for a whole week during the holidays, even though he’s only thirteen. They said okay, but no singing dogs.”
“I suppose you realize, Celia, that we’re flirting with a security hazard. Clayton will want to know why the management is buttering you up and why the Sunsetters are raving about the big Christmas party you gave. You’ll have to tell him the truth.”
“He can be trusted, Mr. Qwilleran. He won’t give me away. He’ll be glad to see me putting one over on Betty and Claude.”
“Hmmm . . . Let me think about this,” Qwilleran said, cupping his moustache with his hand. “You say he plays chess with Mr. Crocus. Perhaps he could get the old gentleman to unburden himself about things that are troubling him. Is Clayton smart enough, mature enough, to handle this? Mr. Crocus knew about Mrs. Gage’s bequest to the park; he might know other things that would shed light on the matter we’re investigating.”
“I’m sure Clayton could do it, Mr. Qwilleran. He’s a very bright boy and much more on the ball than I am. He reads a lot, you know. Yes, I’m positive he could handle it. He’s thirteen now.”
“All right. It’s worth a try,” Qwilleran said. “Also, have Clayton bring a cat with him—full-grown, because this is supposed to be your sister’s cherished pet. You’ll receive a check from the Chicago bank to cover the purchase of the cat, air transportation, catfood, and a few holiday treats for you and Clayton.”
“That’s very nice of you,” Celia said. “Now Clayton can have one of those five-dollar sundaes. Is there anything else I can do?”
“You should decide on a name for the cat and arrange to feed him or her in the manner to which a $10,000-a-year animal is accustomed.”
“I’ve been thinking about a name. We don’t know whether it will be a boy or a girl, but either way I think Windy would be a good name, since it’s supposed to be from Chicago.”
“Do you have a second choice?” Qwilleran asked. “Windy has other connotations when applied to an animal.”
After discussing this weighty subject at length, they decided to call the cat Wrigley. Celia enjoyed a few laughs, and Qwilleran was in a good mood when he hung up.
The occasion seemed to call for a dish of ice cream, and while in the kitchen he picked up Koko’s current collection: a petrified stick of chewing gum, a mildewed toothbrush, a card of tiny safety pins, and other items of more than usual interest to Qwilleran. One was a purple satin pincushion embroidered ERG and obviously homemade, possibly by a child. There was a business card from Breze Services on Sandpit Road, the nine-digit zip code indicating that it was of fairly recent date. A canceled check for $100—dated December 24, 1972—had been paid to Lena Inchpot; was that the housekeeper’s Christmas bonus from Mrs. Gage, or a salary check? An unpaid traffic ticket issued by the sheriff department had been issued by D. Fincher.
Of greatest interest was a yellowed envelope inscribed “Lethe” in what Qwilleran now knew to be Euphonia’s handwriting, which had an exaggerated up-stroke at the end of each word. It was another poem, he assumed, Lethe being the mythical river in Hades, said to induce forgetfulness. Forgetting and not forgetting had been much on Euphonia’s mind, he thought. The envelope was sealed
, and he used a kitchen knife to slit it. What he found was no poem, but an official paper, a birth certificate issued in Lockmaster County:
Date of birth: Nov. 27, 1928
Name of child: Lethe Gage
Sex: female Color: white
Name of mother: Euphonia Roff Gage
Name of father:
Qwilleran rushed to the telephone. “Brace yourself for some news, Junior!” he said when his young friend answered. “You’ve got an aunt you didn’t know about!”
Junior listened to the reading of the certificate. “Can you beat that! That’s when Grandpa was in prison! The father must have been the horse farmer.”
“Here’s the question,” said Qwilleran. “Is Lethe still alive? Or is she the ‘dead princess’ in Euphonia’s memorial program? If she’s still around, wouldn’t she have come forward for a slice of the inheritance?”
“She might be living somewhere else. She might not know Grandma’s dead.”
“Could be.” Qwilleran thought of the foreign postcards and envelopes with foreign stamps that Koko had dragged out of the closet. “In any case, you should notify the attorney.”
SEVENTEEN
AS CHRISTMAS APPROACHED, Qwilleran accepted invitations to holiday parties, but his mind was on Operation Greenback, and he made it a point to be home between five and six o’clock, the hour when Celia might call with another report. Increasing tremors in the roots of his moustache told him he was on the right track.
One evening at five-fifteen the telephone rang, and a hollow voice said, “This is Celia, Mr. Qwilleran.”
“You sound different,” he said.
“I’m calling from a different mall on the other side of town, and the phones are more private. I had a scare the last time I talked to you.”
The Cat Who Went Into the Closet Page 17