“Don’t laugh! This really happened! People gave him money, and he went to work in the attics, throwing sand around and chanting mumbo jumbo. Then he suddenly disappeared, along with some of their treasures.”
“How about the ghosts? Did they disappear, too?”
“No one really knows. The victims of the scam were too embarrassed to talk about it. . . Sorry I don’t have more details.”
“I’d like to meet your great-uncle, Joe. I’d like to go to Horseradish with my tape recorder. Would he be willing to talk?”
“Talk! You couldn’t shut him up! Take plenty of tape. He’s a great old fellow. And by the way, he’s got a big gray cat called Long John Silver.”
Qwilleran was pleased to find another lead for Tall Tales. He enjoyed his steak sandwich. He found Wetherby to be good company. He liked his enthusiasm and candor. It occurred to Qwilleran that a weatherman from Horseradish might have been a more suitable match for Lynette than a restoration consultant from New York.
On the way back to Indian Village, the driver was busy maneuvering the van through puddles, but at one point he turned to his passenger and said, “I shouldn’t ask you this, since you were best man at the wedding—”
“I told you why I was there,” Qwilleran said. “I hardly know the groom. Go ahead and ask.”
“Were you surprised at the match between Lynette and Carter Lee? Was Polly surprised?”
“I won’t presume to answer for Polly. They’re sisters-in-law, and she was glad to see Lynette so happy. But. . . yes, I was surprised—as much as a veteran journalist is ever surprised.”
“The reason I ask: I observed Carter Lee at the bridge club. The way he buttered her up was marvelous to behold. And it worked.”
“ ‘All’s fair in love and war,’ they say.”
“Maybe, but I’m inclined to think of him as a fortune hunter. Although Lynette has a job and never puts on airs, we all know she inherited the whole Duncan estate. And it seems to me they got married pretty fast. ‘Marry in haste; repent at leisure,’ as the saying goes.”
“Someone should have told me that twenty years ago,” Qwilleran said.
“In case you don’t know, Qwill, there’s another fortune hunter in the woods, and she’s got her sights on you!”
“Danielle?” Qwilleran dismissed her with a shrug. “She’s a little flaky. Believe me, Joe, I’ve learned how to deal with Lorelei Lee types. They come in all shapes, sizes, and model numbers. I appreciate your concern, though. . . Does Danielle still show up at the bridge club?”
“Hardly ever, which is okay with us; she’s a terrible player. She’s busy rehearsing a play. Can you imagine? She’s doing the lead in Hedda Gabler!”
“I can’t imagine,” Qwilleran said quietly.
* * *
On Saturday morning another businesslike call from “the accountant’s office” informed him that the “documents” he had requested were being delivered to the gatehouse at Indian Village. To pick them up he drove his van carefully through flooded lanes, between shrinking snowbanks, under gray skies that were dumping even more water on the soggy terrain. The rain, it raineth every day had been the weatherman’s morning adage, not a comforting one.
The clerk in the mailroom handed him a large flat package wrapped in white tissue and tied with red ribbon. “It looks like a valentine,” she said. “Maybe it’s a big chocolate heart.”
At home the Siamese played with the ribbons while Qwilleran read the accompanying note from Celia:
Dear Chief,
No problem! I didn’t even have to give Red Cap any brownies. He said okay, so I called the lady and she let me pick it up. My! She’s a strange one! Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. Just had a letter from Clayton. He wants to know how you liked his snapshots.
Celia
Qwilleran had not even glanced at Clayton’s photos; they were in the Procrastination File. As for the famous Carter Lee James portfolio, it was a leather-bound scrapbook of color photographs under plastic: interiors and exteriors of old houses. They were all apparently authentic and obviously expensive. Before he could peruse them critically, the phone rang again, and he heard the booming voice of the retired insurance agent:
“Qwill, this is Ernie. Ernie Kemple. Is your condo still high and dry?”
“So far, so good. Any flooding on Pleasant Street?”
“No, knock on wood. Every house has a sump pump working overtime.”
“How’s Tracy?”
Kemple lowered his voice to a gruff rumble. “Do you happen to be coming downtown? I know the driving’s bad, but. . . I don’t want to talk on the phone.”
Qwilleran said, “I could be lured downtown if someone wanted to have lunch at Onoosh’s.”
“I can meet you there anytime.”
“I’ll leave right away.”
Ittibittiwassee Road, being a major county thoroughfare, was passable. Even so, Qwilleran silently thanked Scott Gippel for selling him a vehicle with a high axle, as the wheels swished through large puddles and small floods, spraying rooster tails. Crossing the bridge, he stopped to observe the water level. It was higher than usual but still well below the concrete bridge-bed. Many bridges on back roads were submerged with only their railings visible, according to WPKX.
He tuned in the hourly newsbreak: “Six inches of rain fell in one hour at the official checkpoint in Brrr. Many paved secondary roads are under five inches of water, and the sheriff’s department warns motorists to stay on main highways whenever possible. In the Black Creek valley, volunteer firefighters are going from door to door, warning families to move to higher ground. Emergency shelters are being set up in schools and churches.”
Traffic was sparse for a Saturday, and there were few pedestrians downtown. Qwilleran and Kemple were the only customers at Onoosh’s.
Her partner waited on them. “We told our girls to stay home. Onoosh is alone in the kitchen,” he said.
She waved at them from the pass-through.
Qwilleran ordered stuffed grape leaves and tabbouleh. Kemple decided on falafel in a pita pocket.
“You asked about Tracy,” he said, still speaking in his confidential rumble. “Her mother’s home now and knows how to handle her. They can communicate.”
“Did Tracy see the wedding story in the paper?”
“Not until she calmed down, but now she has an entirely new take on the situation. She feels guilty.”
“How do you explain that?”
“You remember the little doll of ours that was found in Lenny’s locker; we’d reported it stolen. . . Well, the drama unfolds! Scene One: Tracy had given it as a good-luck token to Carter Lee, without our knowledge. Scene Two: She and Lenny had a falling out, and in the heat of battle he said Carter Lee was a phoney. Scene Three: She’s just confessed to my wife that she repeated Lenny’s slur to Carter Lee.”
“Why?” Qwilleran asked.
“It was on one of her glamorous dates with the big city dude. They were drinking margaritas at the Palomino Paddock. She was high. She didn’t know what she was doing.”
“Interesting,” Qwilleran mused, touching his moustache.
“When the doll turned up in Lenny’s locker, she was afraid to come forward. It would spoil her chances with Carter Lee. But now she hates him, and she’s filled with remorse for what happened to Lenny. She wants to go to his hearing and tell the judge the truth.”
“This gets complicated, Ernie. In coming to the defense of the one, she’s accusing the other. If he planted the doll in Lenny’s locker, one can assume he also planted the video, sunglasses, etc. And that implies he stole them. He may be a cad and a user, but is he a petty thief? He’s a professional man with standing in the community; does he go around snitching sunglasses? Does it mean he also stole the bridge club’s money—and his own coat at the New Year’s Eve party? Before Tracy does anything, she should consult G. Allen Barter.”
Kemple, who had been hunched over the table, leaned back in his ch
air and drew a deep breath. “That’s why I wanted to bounce it off you, Qwill. That’s a good idea.”
“Another thing, Ernie: I hate to say this, but is it possible that Tracy is lying to get revenge on Carter Lee?”
“I admit I thought of that, Qwill. You know, my daughter used to be a sweet, innocent girl, but she got off the track, and circumstances have changed her.”
“If it’s true that she’s lying, she could be in deep trouble. Yes. . . you’d better talk to Bart in a hurry.”
“I appreciate your interest and your advice, Qwill.” He reached for the check. “This lunch is on me, and I’ll even throw in a little carved and painted wooden doll for a good-luck token.”
“Keep it!” Qwilleran said. “I’ve got all the good luck I can use . . . By the way, how are the rehearsals for Hedda Gabler?”
Kemple’s guffaw rattled the beaded fringe on the hanging lights overhead. “I call the play Hedda Cauliflower. Danielle isn’t playing Hedda; she’s playing Adelaide in Guys and Dolls. And I’m not playing Judge Brack; I’m playing the villain in The Drunkard. You should come to a rehearsal, just for laughs. Trouble is, I feel sorry for Carol. Fran Brodie, too. They’re working so hard! Why did they ever give that role to Danielle?”
“Good question,” Qwilleran said.
* * *
As he drove out Ittibittiwassee Road, Qwilleran was plagued by other questions: Was Carter Lee indeed the petty thief who had annoyed townsfolk in December? If so, what was his motivation? Would a man of his professional standing stoop to stealing used clothing intended for the needy? Was the petit larceny a rehearsal for the grand larceny in the Village clubhouse? A sum estimated at two thousand dollars had been taken from the money jar. As for the lambskin coat reported stolen on New Year’s Eve, Qwilleran had seen its like in catalogs, priced at fifteen hundred. But then he had seen Carter Lee wearing a similar, if not identical, coat when he and Lynette made their impromptu visit. Was it the same coat, or had he bought a new one? If the same, had he recovered it, or had it never really been stolen?
Nothing made much sense until Qwilleran arrived home. The Siamese met him at the door, prowling restlessly. It was too early for their dinner. They were bored. No birds, no falling leaves, no dancing snowflakes. They needed action.
In one drawer of the hutch cabinet there were cat toys galore: things that bounced, rattled, rolled, glittered, or smelled like catnip. Yum Yum could entertain herself for hours with one of these, batting it under the sofa, then pawing it out again. Koko, on the other hand, was too worldly-wise for such kittenish amusements. He preferred the stimulation of the chase, and he sat on his haunches gazing speculatively into the upper reaches of the living room.
“Okay, where’s Mosca?” Qwilleran said, folding a newspaper and whacking his left palm.
They waited. The cat gazed upward hopefully; the man whacked his palm. Their pet housefly was conspicuously absent, and a sickening thought occurred to Qwilleran. There was a possibility that Koko had caught him and eaten him. “Disgusting!” he said as he tossed his folded newspaper into the wastebasket.
Yum Yum was on the hutch cabinet, scratching at the wrong drawer. He rapped on the front of the toy drawer. “No! No! Over here!” It made no difference; with catly persistence she pawed the wrong drawer.
“Cats!” he said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. To convince her, he jerked open the drawer and showed her the Procrastination File. In her near-sighted way she studied the letters, sealed envelopes, brochures, and clippings for a long minute, then jumped down and went to the kitchen for a drink of water.
It was a reminder to Qwilleran, however, to look at Clayton’s photos: candids of the dowser, close-ups of the forked stick, shots of Cody, and one of Carter Lee measuring the mantel with a tapeline and Danielle making notes. Also in the envelope was the transcript of Clayton’s tape recording. Much of the dialogue duplicated Qwilleran’s tape, but there was an unexpected interlude:
MAN: Refinish floor. Strip and refinish five-foot varnished mantel. Repaper room in Victorian design. . . Am I going too fast for you, Danny?. . . Replace two panes in breakfront with crowned glass. . . Hello there! Who are you?
Clayton: I’m visiting my grandma. Mind if I take some pictures to show my mom when I get home?
Man: On the double! We’re working here. . . Danny, where were we?
WOMAN: (shrilly) With crowned glass.
MAN: Replace chandelier with gaslight fixture.
WOMAN: Chuck, did you see those daggers in the hall?
MAN: What about them?
WOMAN: One has a lion on the handle.
MAN: Do you like it?
WOMAN: It’s my sign. Leo.
MAN: Well. . .
WOMAN: Do you think I could?
MAN: He’ll never miss it. . . Hey, what is it you want now, kid?
CLAYTON: Is this your dog?
MAN: Get him out of here! Both of you, evaporate!
CLAYTON: C’mon, pup. C’mon.
Qwilleran read no further. The stolen dirk had not turned up in Lenny’s locker, but Danielle had given one like it to Lynette as a wedding gift. The hilt was a lion rampant. . . Now he thought he had figured it out: Danielle was a kleptomaniac, stealing at random all over town when she first moved to Pickax. Did Willard know? Did he have the anonymous check sent from a Chicago bank to cover the theft? Did Carter Lee know her weakness and humor her? The theft of his lambskin coat on New Year’s Eve may have been a playful prank, a family joke. Did she steal his good-luck doll and plant it in Lenny’s locker along with the other things? Was it a woman who phoned the tip to the police hotline? That was one clue that could be checked.
SIXTEEN
By Saturday evening the pretty little bubbling brooks and picturesque gurgling streams of Moose County had become raging torrents, overflowing their banks, inundating farmlands and forests. Wooded areas were so thoroughly soaked that shallow-rooted trees toppled across highways, adding to the hazard of driving. Some were washed downstream along with timbers from wrecked bridges, creating temporary dams that caused even more flooding.
As Qwilleran dressed for dinner with Polly, he tuned in the WPKX news update and heard: “The sheriff’s helicopter, searching for stranded motorists in isolated areas, rescued a family of five in the Plumley Mill area an hour ago. Several vehicles are completely submerged at the fish camp west of Mooseville.”
Polly called to see if driving would be too bad. They had a reservation at the Old Stone Mill. She said, “We closed the library at noon today and won’t open Monday. The schools will be closed.”
Qwilleran said, “I called the restaurant about their parking lot; no problem. And I called the sheriff about the highways; the access road to the Mill is. . . accessible.”
The restaurant had been converted from an old grist mill; the picturesque waterwheel, almost twenty feet high, was still there, although the millstream had long since run dry. They were ushered to their favorite table and approached by their favorite server, Derek Cuttlebrink, a towering six-feet-eight.
“Hi! Guess what!” he said even before announcing the evening specials. “We may get our millstream back again. It was a branch of the Rocky Burn that dried up in the Forties. Now the Rocky Burn is running so high, it could bust right through here and start the mill wheel turning again!”
“Where would the water go from here?” Qwilleran asked.
“Through No Man’s Gully and into the Ittibittiwassee. . . What’ll it be? One dry sherry and one Squunk with a twist?”
As he loped toward the bar on his long legs, Polly said quietly, “I’m glad Derek is buckling down to some kind of life. Meeting that girl has been good for him.” At various times he had wanted to be a cop, an actor, a career busboy, or just a bum. Now he was enrolled in Restaurant Management at MCCC.
Returning with the drinks, he said, “Now for the bad news. I’m not supposed to talk about this, but the Ice Festival biggies are having a secret emergency meeting in the private d
ining room downstairs. It doesn’t look good.”
In between the friendly overtures of the attentive server, the two diners managed to discuss automation for the library, the newspaper’s editorial on illiteracy, the new Brutus, and Herman Melville’s obsession with good and evil.
Polly said, “I have a feeling Lynette will phone again tonight. She’ll have been to the parades. Have you heard if Carter Lee is getting the commission to restore the hotel and the Limburger mansion?”
“The K Fund hasn’t decided. Like the mills of God, they grind slowly.” He felt as if he were living a double life. He could talk to his tablemate about his Fauré recordings and the Rikers’ new car but not about his disturbing suspicions. He avoided mention of Danielle and the silver-hilted dirk, the doll found in Lenny’s locker, Wetherby’s opinion of Carter Lee, and his own devious scheme to get a look at Carter Lee’s portfolio. Polly would only worry. Besides, Qwilleran’s conclusions were based on hunches, hearsay, and idle gossip.
After poached salmon with leek sauce for her and pork tenderloin with black currants for him, they returned to Indian Village in time to receive Lynette’s phone call.
“We were wondering about you,” Polly said, signaling to Qwilleran to pick up the balcony phone. “What have you been doing today?”
Lynette sounded tired. “We went to the parades on Canal Street. You’d never believe the floats, music, costumes, and masks! They throw strings of beads from the floats into the crowd. Then there’s the partying in the streets—jostling, screaming, drinking, and goodness knows what else! Some people take their clothes off! It’s wild!”
Qwilleran asked, “Are you still doing justice to the food?”
“Oh, hello, Qwill. Well, my tummy doesn’t feel too good today; that Cajun stuff is awfully spicy. Carter Lee’s gone out to buy some kind of remedy.”
“Be careful with shellfish,” Polly admonished. “You know how you sometimes react.”
With a noticeable sigh, Lynette said, “Three more days of Carnival, then everything stops and we go home. I’ll be glad to see Pickax again.”
The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Page 17