“No, he arrived safely and was registered at a hotel. Apparently he was walking to a restaurant when he was mugged. And shot. . . ”
“Fatally?” Pender asked under his breath.
“Fatally.”
“Oh, my God!” Mildred said in a horrified whisper.
“They’re trying to break the news to her gently.”
At that moment there was a shriek from the library.
Larry returned to the room and faced the diners. “Friends,” he said, “you won’t feel like eating your dessert.”
SIX
The WPKX bulletin about the homicide sent the entire county into shock and rage, and individuals wanted to share their feelings with others. When thwarted by busy signals on the phone, they went out in the snow and cold to gather in public places and bemoan the loss of Willard Carmichael, who had died in such an unthinkable way. Qwilleran, with his usual compulsion to take the public pulse, joined them and listened to their comments:
“Those cities Down Below are jungles! He shouldn’ta went there!”
“We’ve lost a good man. He would have been an asset to the community. He attended our church.”
“What’ll happen now? He was married to that young girl. They’d bought the Fitch house.”
“I feel sorry for his wife. We shoulda been nicer to her, even though she didn’t fit in.”
“If she moves back Down Below, she’s nuts!”
“The church’ll send their Home Visitors to call on her and try to give her some comforting thoughts.”
With grim amusement Qwilleran visualized Danielle receiving these well-intentioned visitors with their “comforting thoughts.” That alone would drive her back Down Below, where her citified wardrobe would be appreciated, and where she could buy a kinkajou. No doubt Willard had provided for her generously.
While downtown he stopped at the design studio, expecting Fran Brodie to be up-to-date on developments. The husky delivery man was there alone. “She flew Down Below with that woman,” he said. “I’m mindin’ the store till the boss gets back from a call, if that’s what she’s doin’. I think she’s goofin’ off.”
Qwilleran went to the department store for more details and found the compassionate Carol Lanspeak still distraught. “Fran took Danielle home last night and stayed with her, and my daughter went over and gave her a sedative. Danielle’s a good customer of Fran’s and feels comfortable with her, so we thought Fran should be the one to take her to Detroit. We got in touch with Carter Lee James, and he’s meeting them at the airport and taking care of everything. Fran will stay in the airport hotel tonight and come right home tomorrow. We don’t want her wandering around in that city!”
“I predict Danielle won’t return,” said Qwilleran, influenced by wishful thinking.
“Well, maybe not, but if she does, we want to have a quiet little dinner for her, and we want you and Polly to be there. Danielle likes you, Qwill.”
He hoped the day would never come. He had always disliked women who were sexually aggressive. Melinda Goodwinter, broke and in need of a rich husband, had been a problem. Now he feared he would have a merry widow on his trail, winking and pouting and remarking about his moustache. Danielle was not one to wear black for very long, if at all.
His next stop was the newspaper office. It was late morning, and the staff was on deadline. Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor, was writing an editorial in the nature of a tribute to Willard. Roger MacGillivray was punching out a piece on the banking improvements instituted by the victim. Jill Handley was on the phone collecting laudatory quotes to be used in a human interest feature.
Qwilleran found the publisher at his massive executive desk, juggling two phones. “What’s the latest?” he asked when Riker had a breathing space.
“I talked to Brodie. He’s in touch with the Detroit police, but I’m afraid Willard is just another statistic. Thousands of homicides go unsolved Down Below.”
Qwilleran said, “He had wanted Danielle to go with him. If she had been along, no doubt they would have taxied to the restaurant, and this wouldn’t have happened—or, at least, the odds would have been better. If she’s sensitive enough or smart enough to figure that out, she could feel guilty.”
“Well, we’ll never know. She won’t come back,” Riker predicted, shaking his head soberly.
On his way out of the executive suite, Qwilleran was hailed by Hixie Rice. He went into the promotion office and sat down.
“What do you know?” she asked.
“No more than you do.”
“It was a shocker. Willard was a nice guy—cocky but kind of sweet. He worked with Mildred and me on the organization of the club and the dinner menu. What did you think of it?”
“Everything was excellent. I don’t know about the dessert. No one felt like eating dessert.”
“And wouldn’t you know. The dessert was my contribution!” Hixie had a long history of major and minor disappointments, yet she always bounced back. “How about lunch, Qwill? I’ll buy and put it on my expense account.”
“Those are the words I love to hear.”
She started pulling on her boots. “We’ll drive to Mooseville and eat at the Northern Lights. That’s headquarters for the Ice Festival, and I want to fill you in on the plans. You might get a slant for your column. We’ll take my van. How do you like your four-over-four?”
“It uses more gas, and the cats find it a little bumpier.”
“Willard drove a Land-Rover, and you could probably get a good deal on it. I’m sure Danielle won’t keep it. He bought her a Ferrari.”
“She flew to Detroit this morning, and I doubt whether she’ll come back. She didn’t want to move here in the first place,” he said.
“But didn’t they buy the Fitch house?”
“That was to humor her. I doubt whether Carter Lee will return, either. The Pleasant Street project was half Willard’s idea, and the bank was going to finance it. Without him, I don’t know. . . ”
“Too bad. Carter Lee was a really neat guy. He always wore monogrammed shirts.” Then after a few moments’ silence, Hixie said, “After some serious reflection I can see why a man of Willard’s age would marry a gorgeous young woman like Danielle, but why would she marry him, except for his money?”
“Don’t forget,” Qwilleran reminded her, “Willard could cook.”
They turned onto the lakeshore drive, where beach houses were boarded-up, snowed-in, bleak and forbidding. Mooseville, a teeming fishing village in summer, was chillingly quiet in January, and relentlessly white. Piers protruded blackly from the white frozen lake. On Main Street, where most commercial enterprises were closed, the dark log cabins and pseudo-log cabins had snow in their chinks and on their rooftops. Dark evergreens drooped with their white burden. The fishing fleet and pleasure craft were somewhere else, in dry dock.
They parked at the Northern Lights Hotel, overlooking the expanse of ice that extended to the horizon. Far, far out it was dotted with a row of black fishing shanties, like dominoes. In the dining room there was one waiter and a limited menu: fried fish sandwich with lumbercamp fries and coleslaw.
Hixie said, “The Ice Festival will be a shot in the arm for the shoreline. By the end of January, the ice on the lake will be twenty inches thick at least. All of the activities will take place on the ice: races, tournaments, hospitality, and entertainment.”
“What kind of races?”
“Dogsled, snowmobile, motorcycle, cross-country ski, snowshoe, and ice skate. Plows will clear the race tracks and rinks, building up snow barriers as viewing ridges for spectators. Other areas will be cleared for hospitality tents. . . And see those fishing shanties out there? We’ll have twice that many for the tournament. They’ve signed up already. Colleges all over are sending artists to the snow sculpture competition. And there’ll be a torchlight parade on Friday night to kick off the whole exciting weekend!”
Qwilleran listened dumbly to her exuberant recital, finally asking, �
��How many people do you expect?”
“As many as ten thousand.”
“What! Where’ll they park, for Pete’s sake!”
“No problem. Parking will be inland at Gooseneck Creek, where there’s lots of open area, frozen solid,” she explained glibly. “Shuttle buses will transport people to the ice, where they’ll buy admission tickets and get their Festival buttons. The design is a three-inch plastic button with a polar bear on a blue background, a souvenir worth saving. We’ve ordered fifteen thousand, because people will want to buy extras to take home.”
“Where’ll they sleep?”
“Most will be day-trippers from the tri-county, but we have lodgings lined up all over Moose County, even in private homes.”
“And what are the hospitality tents?”
“They’ll sell food and drink, admissions, and tickets for prize drawings. There’ll also be a first-aid tent and two EMS ambulances.”
Qwilleran said, “I’m impressed, Hixie. Some brilliant brain has thought of all this, and I suspect it’s yours.”
She pointed to the frozen lake outside the hotel window. “Look out there, Qwill, and imagine flags flying, striped tents, portable johns painted in bright colors, and thousands of people having a wonderful time! Doesn’t it make your blood race?”
“It makes me want to move to Mexico,” he said.
She pounded his arm with a friendly fist. “I know you, Qwill. You’ll wind up loving it! You’ll want to hang out here for two days!”
“And how does the newspaper fit into the picture?”
“We’re sponsoring it as a public service. That means advancing the money, but costs will be more than covered by admissions, contestants’ fees, and raffle tickets. All prizes are donated.” Hixie paused for a sobering thought. “Willard was all for it! The bank was donating a microwave.”
The fish sandwiches were not bad, and Qwilleran was contemplating a piece of apple pie when Hixie said, “Could I ask you a favor, Qwill?”
“I thought so,” he said. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch. What do you want me to do?”
“Well, there’ll be a couple of thousand people here Friday night, and you’re the most famous personality in three counties. Would you be noble enough to act as grand marshal of the torchlight parade?”
“What does that entail?” He remembered his traumatic experience in a Santa Claus suit the previous year. “If it means wearing a polar-bear costume—”
“Nothing like that! You simply ride in a horse-drawn sleigh with the cheering multitude lining the route. They love you, Qwill.”
“Yes, but do I love them? All it takes is one ugly kid throwing the first snowball, and then it’s avalanche time, with everyone playing hit-the-moustache. No thanks!”
Hixie was only momentarily rebuffed. “Is there any kind of conveyance you could suggest?”
“An army tank,” he said. “Or how about a county snowblower with enclosed cab? I could ride in the cab and spray the cheering multitude with snow. I might enjoy that.”
“You’re not taking this seriously,” she chided him.
“Do you know that the temperature drops at night, and the wind comes off the lake, and the wind chill is sixty below? And you’re having a parade!”
“Okay, so we have a few details to rethink, but will you be grand marshal?”
“I can’t say no, can I? You’d make me walk home. Let’s say I’ll take it under advisement.”
They drove home via Sandpit Road, past George Breze’s snow-covered empire, with only a curl of smoke coming from the “office.”
“Does Red Cap pay club dues?” Qwilleran asked. “He was conspicuously absent on New Year’s Eve.”
“He must have clubhouse privileges. He’s always in the TV lounge, but no one speaks to him.”
“How’s Lenny Inchpot working out as club manager? Lois is bursting with pride these days.”
“She should be proud! He’s very reliable and helpful and even studies at his desk in his spare time. Don Exbridge likes him because he’s clean-cut and good with people—the result of having been a hotel desk clerk, I suppose.”
“How did Lenny react to the two thefts?” Qwilleran asked.
“He was upset, but Don told him there was nothing he could have done to prevent either of them.”
“Do you suspect anyone, Hixie?”
“Yes. It’s either Amanda Goodwinter or you.”
* * *
The day Fran Brodie was due back from Detroit, Qwilleran left a message on her answering machine: “Fran, you must be bushed. Would you like dinner at the Old Stone Mill?”
Around seven in the evening she called back. “You’re right, Qwill. I’m even too exhausted to go out to dinner. I just want to take my shoes off and have a cup of cocoa and a graham cracker, but if you want to come over in half an hour, I’ll give you a report.”
“I’ll be there.”
Meanwhile he fed the cats and thawed his own dinner: a freezer carton marked M-and-C. This, plus Fran’s reference to C-and-GC, gave him an idea for the “Qwill Pen.” Comfort food! What did prominent townsfolk crave in times of exhaustion, sadness, or frustration? Polly always prepared poached eggs on toast with the crusts cut off. He could imagine the mayor gulping red Jell-O, George Breze wallowing in mashed potatoes and gravy, Amanda Goodwinter gorging on Oreos, Chief Brodie eating chocolate pudding.
As he swallowed his macaroni and cheese, the Siamese sat in quiet bundles on the carpet, not looking at each other, not looking at anything. Abruptly Koko rose, stretched, walked over to Yum Yum and, without apparent malice, bopped her on the head. She winced.
“Stop that!” Qwilleran shouted. “Act like a gentleman!”
Koko strolled nonchalantly from the room.
Picking up the little female and fondling her silky ears, Qwilleran murmured, “Why do you let him get away with that? Sock him on the nose!” She purred throatily.
Then it was time to visit Fran. Bundled in layers of warm clothing, he walked the length of the Village to her apartment. The young woman who opened the door wore sweats and no makeup. She looked pale and frazzled.
“Help yourself in the fridge, if you want anything,” she said, flopping on the sofa. The living room was furnished with items he had seen in the design studio in times gone by—items that apparently had failed to sell: a houndstooth-check sofa, an elephant cocktail table, a lamp with a grapeleaf shade.
“Rough day?” he asked sympathetically.
“We really started the Nouvelle Dining Club with a bang, didn’t we?—if you’ll pardon the pun,” she said.
“The timing seemed more like fiction than fact.”
“Danielle was lucky to be with friends. If she’d been home alone, Dad would have gone to her apartment to break the news, cop-style. Even so, she was hysterical. When we got home, Dr. Diane was waiting with a hypo, so that helped. In fact, she slept just fine, but I didn’t sleep a wink. Larry lined up our tickets, and in the morning we took off. She was groggy until we boarded the jet in Minneapolis. Then she had a drink and started to talk. She’d had a hunch something would happen, because he forgot to take the cigarettes he always packed—for luck.”
“Did she feel any guilt?”
“No,” said Fran. “After another drink she started putting him down. He called her Danny-girl, which she hates. She’d begged him not to go to the seminar, but his work always came first. He was critical of the way she acted, the clothes she wore, the things she said, and the food she ate. . . Isn’t it ironic, Qwill, that a fast-foodie like Danielle should marry an epicure who thinks ketchup is a mortal sin?”
“They hadn’t known each other long before they married,” Qwilleran observed.
“She didn’t mention how he lavished money on her. He seemed to have plenty. He paid cash for the Fitch house and gave her an unlimited budget to do it over. . . But now I’m worried, Qwill. She ordered fabulous custom furniture and carpets for the house. Suppose. . . just suppose she never come
s back and the studio is stuck for the order! Some of the fabrics are a hundred dollars a yard!”
“What kind of deposit did they give you?”
Fran looked sheepish. “None, actually. We didn’t ask for one. This is a small town; her husband was head of the bank; they were fantastic customers. . . When I ordered things for your barn, Qwill, did I ask for a deposit?”
“Well. . . no.”
“So when we were on the plane and she was jabbering away, I was dying to know her plans, although I didn’t want to ask her flat out. I thought about it hard and then took a deep breath and said, ‘Danielle, this is going to be a rough time for you, but it would help you adjust if you’d really get involved in the theatre club. You have talent. You should be playing a role in our next production.’ You can see I was desperate, Qwill.”
“People have been struck down by lightning for lesser lies.”
“Well, it worked. Danielle perked up and asked what kind of role.”
“I could suggest a couple,” Qwilleran said unkindly.
Fran ignored the jibe. “We’re scheduled to do Hedda Gabler, and I’m to do the title role, but I’d gladly step aside if it would convince her to stay in Pickax and finish the house.”
“And let her do Hedda? You’re losing it, Fran. You’re tired. I’ll go home. You go to bed and sleep it off.”
“No, I mean it! I’d coach her every step of the way. She’s got a phenomenal memory for prices, style numbers, and the names of fabrics. She should be able to learn lines.”
“There’s more to acting than learning lines. Do you want to turn a tragedy into a farce?”
Fran said, “Any port in a storm, as Dad says. Anything to keep a good customer, as Amanda says. By the time Danny-girl had tossed off her third drink, she wanted to finish the house, move in, add a swimming pool, give some parties, buy a couple of horses, and take riding lessons. She also asked about a voice coach and acting lessons. By the time we landed at Metro, she was feeling no pain. Carter Lee was waiting, and they had a tearful reunion. As soon as possible, I said good-bye and told them we looked forward to seeing them both in Pickax—soon.”
The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Page 7