The Siamese, too, were awake and could hear and feel the thrum-thrum-thrum. Koko, waiting for his breakfast, sat on his haunches and slapped the carpet with his tail in time with the percussion.
A remarkable cat, Qwilleran thought; his tail was becoming more eloquent all the time. He fed them, brushed them, and joined them in a little active recreation. Although the day was cold, the sun was bright, streaming in the living room window and reviving the lone housefly that had come with the condo and was spending the winter in Unit Four, Building Five. In the game they played, Qwilleran stood with folded newspaper, ready to swat; the cats leaped and made futile passes and crashed into each other as the fly swooped playfully around the two-story living room. He had been living with them long enough to have a name, Mosca, and none of his pursuers really wanted to catch him.
For his own breakfast, Qwilleran had two sweet rolls from the freezer and several cups of coffee from the computerized coffeemaker. Then he got an early start on his column for February 1:
January is the jet lag of December; March wishes it were April, but February is its own month—noble in its peaceful whiteness, the depths of its snowdrifts, and the thickness of its ice. February is unique in its number of days. February is the only month that can be pronounced four different ways. It’s the birthdate of presidents and the month of lovers. Let us all praise. . .
* * *
His typing was interrupted by the telephone, and he heard Celia Robinson’s voice saying with unusual crispness, “Mr. Qwilleran, this is your accountant’s office. The numbers you requested are two, eighteen, five, twenty-six, five. Repeat: two, eighteen, five, twenty-six, five.”
“Thank you for your prompt assistance,” he said.
It was exactly as he had guessed. The code spelled B-R-E-Z-E. It was scoundrelly George Breze who suggested that Lenny Inchpot had “cracked up.” According to conventional wisdom in Moose County, it was Old Gallbladder himself who was cracked—or crooked. Breze-bashing was a favorite pastime in the coffee shops, partly in fun and partly in earnest. He was suspected of everything, yet was never charged with anything, leading critics to believe that corrupting government officials was one of his crimes. Where did he get his dough, they wondered. On Sandpit Road he rented trucks, leased mini-storage units, ran a do-it-yourself car wash that was always out of detergent, cannibalized junk cars, and sold odds and ends of seasonal merchandise, such as rusty, bent, secondhand snow shovels.
Qwilleran returned to his typewriter. There was much to be said about February. It was second only to December as the favorite month of the greeting card industry. Commercially, valentines had an edge over year-end holiday greetings, which specialized in goodwill; valentines could be sentimental, passionate, flattering, comic, or insulting—something for everyone. Qwilleran described his own seven-year valentine feud that began in high school:
In my sophomore year there was a girl in Mrs. Fisheye’s English Comp class who was brainy and aggressively disagreeable. The problem was that we were rivals for Top Dog status in the class. That year I received an anonymous homemade valentine that I knew came from her. A large red folder had these words printed on the cover. “Roses are red, violets are blue, and this is how I feel about you.” Inside was one word—BORED!—along with a repulsive magazine photo of a yawning dog. I said nothing but saved it and mailed it back to her the following February, anonymously. In our senior year it returned to me, somewhat dog-eared but still anonymous. The charade continued annually all through college. Then I left Chicago, and that was the end of our silent feud. I don’t remember the girl’s name, but I think she really liked me.
As Qwilleran typed, both cats were on his writing table: Yum Yum laying on her brisket and enjoying the vibration transmitted through the wooden surface. Koko, the more cerebral of the two, watched the type bars jump and the carriage lurch, as if he were inventing a better way. Suddenly his ears alerted, and he looked toward the phone. A few moments later, it rang.
Qwilleran expected Polly to phone her day’s grocery list. Instead, it was Lynette. “I had a wonderful time last night! Thank you again for that lovely brooch. I’ll wear it to pin my clan sash on my wedding day.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he murmured.
“And the plaid cake was so clever! Polly said you brought it. Was it your idea?”
“I’m afraid I can’t take the credit,” he said tactfully.
“Now Carter Lee and I have a big favor to ask. Would you mind if we dropped by for a few minutes?”
“Not at all. Come at five o’clock and have a glass of wine.”
After that, Qwilleran drove to Pickax to hand in his copy and have lunch at the Spoonery. He hoped also to see Brodie about Lenny’s case, but the police chief was attending a law enforcement meeting. He attended quite a few of those, and Qwilleran wondered if they were held in ice fishing shanties on the frozen lake.
The Spoonery was a downtown lunchroom specializing in soups; it was the brainchild of Lori Bamba, an ambitious young woman who was always trying something new. Qwilleran sat at the counter and ordered the Asian hot and sour sausage soup. “How’s Nick?” he asked Lori. “I never see him anymore.”
“He’s spending such long hours at the turkey farm, I hardly see him myself, but he’s happy not to be working at the prison.”
“For both your sakes, I’m glad he cut loose from that job. And how’s the soup business?”
“I’m learning,” she said with a good-natured shrug. “There’s more demand for tomato rice and chicken noodle than for eggplant peanut.”
“This, my friend, is Pickax,” he reminded her.
“Do the kitties feel at home in Indian Village?” Lori had five of her own and was his mentor in affairs of the cat.
“Home is where the food is. Feed them at the appointed hour, and they’ll be happy anywhere. There’s one odd development, though. Our next-door neighbor plays Sousa marches, and not only does Koko beat time with the music, but he’s started whacking the floor at other times.”
“Does he swish his tail from side to side?”
“Definitely! Right, left—bam, bam—right, left!”
Lori said seriously, “That’s a danger signal. Does he direct his anger at Yum Yum?”
“Yes, and at me, too! He’s trying to tell me something, and I’m not getting it. He’s exasperated. Cats! They can drive you crazy. . . This soup is great, Lori.”
“Thanks. May I quote you? All I need to do is say, ‘Mr. Q likes it,’ and there’ll be a run on Asian hot and sour sausage soup.”
From there he went to the design studio to pick up his dirks. “Superb job of framing!” he told Fran Brodie. “My compliments!”
“Where’ll you hang them?”
“In the foyer, over the chest of drawers.”
“Don’t hang them too high,” she cautioned. “Men of your height tend to hang wall decorations too high. It’s the Giraffe syndrome.” Then her manner changed from flip to confidential. “I heard a fantastic rumor this morning. Lynette is getting married at long last! And to Carter Lee James, if you can believe it!”
“It just proves there’s hope for you, Fran,” he said, knowing how to tease her.
“Yes, but how many Carter Lee Jameses are there to go around?” she retorted.
“Where did you hear the rumor?”
“One of my good customers called me. Do you think it’s true? Lynette’s older than he is, you know. He might be marrying her for the Duncan money.”
“That’s an unkind remark. She has a lot of good qualities, and they’re both interested in old houses—and bridge. I hear they’re excellent players.”
“I’m surprised Danielle didn’t tell me—if it’s true.”
“How’s the play going?” he asked, smoothly changing the subject.
“Good news! We were able to get Ernie Kemple for Judge Brack, and it’s perfect casting, although his booming voice and Danielle’s tinny one sound like a duet for tuba and piccolo. You should come
to rehearsal some night and have a few laughs. She calls him J.B. You know the line where Hedda points General Gabler’s pistol and says: I’m going to shoot you, Judge Brack. Well, Danielle gave a little wiggle and said, ‘I’m gonna shoot you, J.B.’ We all broke up!”
Qwilleran tamped his moustache. “If you want my opinion, Fran, this play will never make it to opening night.” On the way out of the studio he asked casually, “Is your dad an ice fisherman?”
“No, he’s not much of a sportsman. A little duck hunting in the fall, that’s all. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondered. . . Has he said anything lately about the Willard Carmichael murder?”
“Not recently. When it first happened he said it would never be solved unless a suspect in another street crime confessed in a bid for leniency.”
* * *
On the way home Qwilleran thought about Lenny Inchpot and George Breze. He needed to confer with Celia Robinson—but how and where? Her bright red car parked in front of his condo twice in quick succession would arouse the curiosity of neighbors, Polly included. Gossip was a way of life in Pickax, although it was called “sharing information.” Rumors traveled on the Pickax grapevine with the speed of light. When Qwilleran was living at the barn, his location was secluded; even so, Andy Brodie had observed a red car entering the woods that screened the barn from Main Street. With all of this in mind, Qwilleran found it wise to brief Celia by mail, as he had done when they worked together on the Florida investigation. . . As soon as he arrived home, he typed the following communication:
(For your eyes only. Memorize, shred, and flush.)
TO: Agent 00131/2
FROM: Q
MISSION: Operation Winter Breeze
ASSIGNMENT: To tail the subject identified in your report. Code name: Red Cap. Introduce yourself as Lenny’s replacement. Play the friendly club hostess. Find out why Red Cap spends so much time in the TV lounge when he could be selling rusty snow shovels on Sandpit Road. Be charming. If he offers to buy you a drink, accept. You can pour it in the plastic ferns when he isn’t looking. Bear in mind that Red Cap may be the Pickax Pilferer, and he may be covering up by falsely accusing Lenny. When mission is accomplished, phone headquarters to set up a rendezvous in the fresh produce department at Toodle’s Market.
Toodle’s Market was the perfect venue for a clandestine meeting. Strangers commonly exchanged opinions on the best oranges for juice, the best way to cook beets, or the best buy in wine. Furthermore, food demonstrators created a party atmosphere by handing out samples of cheese spread or olive butter, and there were little paper cups of coffee available. One could easily talk with the opposite sex without causing a traffic jam in the telephone system.
To deliver the briefing to Celia’s mailbox at the gatehouse, Qwilleran strapped on his snowshoes—or “webs” as they were called by the real buffs—and he trekked through the woods over a fresh fall of snow, trudging with wide-legged stance and long strides, keeping a slow and steady pace with a slightly rolling gait. He found it tranquilizing. At the gatehouse, he found a certain esthetic satisfaction in unstrapping the webs and sticking their tails in the snowbank.
* * *
As five o’clock approached, Qwilleran gave the Siamese an early dinner and instructions on how to behave during the visit of the happy couple. “No flying around! No knocking things down! No domestic quarrels!” They acted as if they understood, regarding him soberly, although actually they were just digesting their food.
The guests drove up promptly at five, Carter Lee driv-ing Willard’s Land-Rover. In the foyer, they removed their boots and hung scarfs and coats on the clothes tree, which Lynette admired at length. It was a square column of brass seven feet tall, with angular hooks of cast brass at varying levels.
“It’s Art Deco, old but not antique,” Qwilleran said. “Fran found it in Chicago. It came from the office of an old law firm.”
The visitors hung their hats on the top hooks: one fluffy white angora knit, and one Russian-style toque of black fur. Then they walked into the living room and remarked about the fine wintery view and the beautiful cats.
“This one is Koko, and that one is Yum Yum,” said Lynette, who had fed them one weekend in Qwilleran’s absence. She extended a hand familiarly for them to sniff, but with typical feline perversity they ignored her and went to Carter Lee.
“Don’t take it personally,” the host explained to her. “They always consider it their duty to check out a newcomer.”
The newcomer said, “My mother, who lives in Paris, has a Siamese called Theoria Dominys du Manoir des Ombreuses. Dodo, for short.”
Lynette said, “We’re going to France in May. Carter Lee speaks French fluently, and I’m going to brush up what I learned in high school. Le crayon est sur la table.”
“For starters, then, how about a glass of merlot or pinot noir?” Qwilleran suggested. Red was Moose County’s wine of choice in cold weather.
While he was pouring, they took the best seats in the house: the deep-cushioned sofa sheltered somewhat by the overhanging balcony and in full command of the view. The waning daylight was prolonged by the brilliant whiteness of the riverbank and the frozen river below.
“To all appearances, it’s frozen solid,” Qwilleran said, “but when I’m snowshoeing and all is silent, I can hear a faint trickle of water under the ice. The cats can hear it all the time. They sit in the window, listening.”
The starry-eyed bride-to-be said, “We plan to have a summer place. . . don’t we, honey? Either on the Ittibittiwassee or Rocky Burn.” He nodded and smiled, looking quietly contented.
Amiable small talk continued for a while. Sitting apart on the sofa, the couple held hands across the center cushion and exchanged fond glances occasionally. Then, as if by hand signal, Lynette said, “We’d be grateful, Qwill, if you and Polly would stand up for us at our wedding. Polly is willing.”
“Of course! I’m honored to be asked. What’s the date?”
“A week from Tuesday. It’s scheduled so we can honeymoon during Mardi Gras.”
Carter Lee added, “We have a reservation that starts Wednesday, at an inn near the French Quarter.”
“New Orleans is an exciting place for a wedding trip,” Qwilleran murmured.
Lynette said blithely, waving the hand with the dazzling diamond, “There’s an old superstition: ‘Marry on Tuesday, many a bluesday.’ But I’m not worried. The ceremony will be here in the clubhouse, with the pastor of our church officiating. Then there’ll be a simple reception for about forty—”
“But we’d like you and Polly,” Carter Lee interrupted, “to be our guests for dinner at the Boulder House Inn. We’re staying there overnight and leaving on the shuttle flight Wednesday morning. The inn has limo service to the airport.”
“It’ll be a Scottish wedding, Qwill,” Lynette said. “I’ll wear a sash in my clan tartan over a white dress and fasten it with the silver brooch you gave me. Polly will wear her floor-length kilt and a clan sash. Then there are several Scottish customs, like a wreath of flowers in my hair and a silver coin in my shoe—for luck. At the reception Polly will break the traditional oatcake over my head.”
Qwilleran said, “You can buy oatcakes at the Scottish bakery, but silver coins haven’t been struck since the 1960s.”
“I’ll cheat. I’ll put a thin dime in my shoe. Carter Lee has to leave his left shoelace untied during the ceremony.”
“I’ll cheat, too,” Carter Lee said. “I’ll wear evening pumps.”
“Yes, he’ll be in dinner clothes,” Lynette said, “but we’re counting on you, Qwill, to wear full Highland dress.”
He nodded his agreement, having received innumerable compliments on his Scottish Night debut.
“Since I’m marrying out of my clan, I’m supposed to keep my maiden name. Once a Duncan, always a Duncan. . . But you don’t mind, do you, honey?”
Her fiancé squeezed her hand and smiled indulgently. They were being so coyly sentimental that Qw
illeran shuddered inwardly. Coy sentimentality was beyond his frame of reference. Furthermore, he had a dinner date, and they had said they would drop in for a few minutes; they had been there more than an hour. He should never have served them a second glass of wine. In an effort to jog them loose from their prenuptial euphoria, he changed the subject, saying somberly, “Carter Lee, how is your cousin? Is she—? Is she—?”
“She’s holding up,” he replied. “She’d like to marry again, and that’s a healthy sign. She should go on with her life. She has so much to give. I hate to see it go to waste, don’t you, Qwill?”
Before Qwilleran could formulate an appropriate reply to a debatable question, all three of them were unnerved by a sudden fracas in the foyer: snarling, thumping, hissing, growling. He jumped up and rushed to the scene. The two cats were fighting over the Russian fur hat, rolling in it and kicking it—and each other—with hind legs like steel pistons.
“Stop that!” Qwilleran thundered, and the two culprits streaked away in opposite directions. “My apologies!” he said to Carter Lee.
“No problem. I’ll just give it a good shake.”
They drove away in the Land-Rover, and Qwilleran went to dinner at Polly’s, but not before giving the Siamese a treat and saying, “You rascals!”
TWELVE
Qwilleran’s life that winter was a jigsaw puzzle of work, social events, reading, daily snowshoeing, telephone calls, and the exigencies of domesticity with two Siamese cats. Once a week the pieces fell into place when he spent a predictable weekend with Polly Duncan. He could count on contentment and stimulation in equal quantities, plus at least one set-to with Bootsie. The weekend following Lynette’s birthday party, something went wrong, however. It started with broiled whitefish and broccoli at her place on Saturday evening and ended with Sunday dinner at the Palomino Paddock, a five-star restaurant in Lockmaster County.
The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Page 13