“It’d better be good,” Arch said. “I’m standing here dripping.”
“It’s not good. It’s bad. We’ve just heard from New Orleans. Lynette was rushed to the hospital last night, and she died this morning.”
“What! What did you say?. . . What happened to her?”
“Gastrointestinal complications. Dr. Diane talked to the hospital down there.”
“In other words, food poisoning,” Riker said cynically. “They don’t call it that in the City of Gastronomy. Do you have any details?”
“Only that she phoned Polly a couple of times and said the food was too rich and spicy for her.”
“How can we reach Carter Lee?”
“He’s flying back. Danielle will meet the five o’clock shuttle.”
“I hope WPKX doesn’t get wind of it. I’d like to have a clean newsbreak for once.”
“Right!. . . Now go back to your shower, Arch. I hope you’re not dripping on Mildred’s new carpet.”
That was easy. Breaking the news to Polly would be tough.
SEVENTEEN
“Okay if I come over for a few minutes?” Qwilleran asked Polly on the phone. “I have something to discuss.”
“Would you like breakfast?” she offered. “The library’s closed today. I have time.”
“No, thanks. I have a column to finish.”
On the way there he considered his approach: how to lead up to the bad news in some non-frightening way.
She met him at the door, looking keenly interested but not anxious.
“Let’s sit on the sofa,” he said. “I have a confession to make.” They went into the living room, and he took her hand fondly. “I’ve been guilty of trying to save you from worry and loss of sleep, and in doing so, I’ve not kept you fully informed.”
“Is that such a transgression?” she asked lightly.
“Well. . . maybe. When Lynette called Saturday night, she complained of a stomach upset. It was worse than she thought. Carter Lee had to take her to the hospital.”
“Oh dear!” she said in alarm. “How did you find out?”
“He called Danielle and asked her to notify us. It was after one A.M., too late to bother you, so I called Dr. Diane and enlisted her help. She called the hospital and found Lynette in critical condition with gastrointestinal complications. Diane kept calling for updates during the night, and the last time she was given the bad news.”
“Oh, Qwill! What are you telling me?” Polly cried with her hands to her cheeks.
“She died about three-thirty this morning.”
Polly groaned. “She was only forty! She was healthy! Is there something else they’re not telling us?”
“I don’t know.” He had no intention of mentioning alcohol abuse now; that would come later. “You can lose your mind trying to figure it out,” he said gently, hoping to steer her away from his own growing suspicions. “Just remember how happy she was in her last few weeks, and what a kind, helpful person she’s been all her life.”
“You’re right,” Polly said, taking a deep breath. “After her shattering disappointment twenty years ago, she never wallowed in self-pity but went on doing things for others and enjoying life, but. . . ” Her voice wavered. “I can’t talk about it now, Qwill. I need to be left alone for a while.”
* * *
There was a call on his answering machine when he returned. He phoned Dr. Diane at her office.
“I had a suspicion about something,” she said, “so I came to the office early to pull Lynette’s file. She had signed a living will, bequeathing her eyes and body tissues for transplantation. I called the hospital, and they’d not been advised that she was an organ donor. The body had been released to a mortuary as authorized by the next of kin. I called the mortuary. It was too late even for an autopsy. They said the next of kin had signed for cremation!”
Qwilleran said, “That’s not what Lynette wanted at all! Even I know that she wanted to be buried at Hilltop in the Duncan plot—with a full funeral, like her brother’s.”
“Apparently her husband wasn’t aware of any of this,” Diane said.
He thought, It’s not usually discussed on honeymoons. What he said was: “Diane, I’ve broken the news to Polly, and she asked to be left alone for a while, but this new development is something that I think you should discuss with her.”
“I’ll be glad to,” she said. “I don’t know exactly how or when, but I’ll work something out. My parents will be devastated when they hear about this.”
“A lot of people will be.”
“Where is her husband? I wonder.”
“Flying home today. I plan to call him this evening. Perhaps I can get his explanation. Meanwhile, there’ll be a front-page story in today’s paper.”
* * *
Qwilleran needed sleep. Two or three hours would tide him over, with his answering machine fielding calls. By ten-thirty he was awake and ready to go. He had a column to write, but the topic he had planned seemed inappropriate. It was to be a dissertation on breakfast cereal, pro and con, yesterday and today, hot and cold, with and without raisins. He phoned Polly.
“How are you feeling?” he asked kindly.
She replied wearily, like one who has survived a crying jag. “I feel more in control now. Is there something I should be doing? I’m no longer next of kin, am I? Diane phoned me. None of Lynette’s last wishes have been respected. Perhaps he didn’t know.”
“There is something you could do, Polly, that would be very useful. Help me write a column about the Lynette that everyone remembers: dancing the Highland fling, visiting patients at the hospital, winning bridge tournaments, hostessing at the church bazaar, making her winter pilgrimage to Hilltop, tracing her ancestors back to the eleventh century.”
“I could do that,” she said. “I’d have to think about it, though.”
“Think fast. I’m on deadline. I’ll be over with my tape recorder at one o’clock.”
He knew it would do her good to participate in something constructive. For him it was an easy way to grind out a column in a hurry. As it evolved, her reminiscences were so interesting, and Polly was so well-spoken, that he had nothing to do but transcribe them on his typewriter. All interviews, he thought, should be such a cinch!
While he was transcribing, there was action on the hutch cabinet, Yum Yum scratching at the toy drawer, Koko pawing the other. It was the first time he had taken an interest in that particular part of the cabinet, and Qwilleran felt a twinge on his upper lip that led him to investigate. The Procrastination File contained all kinds of clutter, but on top of the pile was the manila envelope from the attorneys. Taking time out from his typing to examine the contents, he found what he expected: papers to be signed and mailed in the enclosed envelope. Bart always made it easy for him, but it could be done later, and he tossed everything back into the drawer.
“Yow-ow-ow!” came a scolding command from Koko, who was sitting on the cabinet and punishing it with his tail. It signified urgency.
Qwilleran was prompted to take a closer look at the documents and Bart’s hand-scribbled instructions.
Qwill—Don’t neglect to initial paragraphs G, K, and M. Mail soon as possible . . . Leaving for St. Paul while airport still open. Back Wednesday to discuss CLJ’s credentials. K Fund investigators find no connection whatever with preservation/restoration field. . . May have to swim home.—Bart
Qwilleran phoned the Pickax police station and asked the chief, “When do you quit today?”
“Four o’clock.”
“Don’t leave! I’ll be there. It’s important.”
* * *
When Qwilleran went to the newspaper office to hand in his copy, he picked up the Monday edition with the front page news story, illustrated with file photos.
The young managing editor was gloating. “For once we broke the news before WPKX. I don’t know how we kept it from leaking.”
“My column’s a follow-up,” Qwilleran said. “Polly gets all the credit.” He t
ook a few extra copies of the Monday paper for her. It was the lead story:
LAST DUNCAN DIES AT 40
Lynette Duncan of Pickax, the county’s last Duncan-by-blood, died this morning at the age of 40, less than a week after her marriage to Carter Lee James. The couple were honeymooning in New Orleans when she succumbed to “gastrointestinal complications,” according to the death certificate. She is survived by her husband, who was at her bedside in her last hours, and by her sister-in-law, Polly Duncan, widow of William Wallace Duncan.
Following Scottish custom, Ms. Duncan retained her maiden name when she married out of her clan. She was intensely proud of her heritage, representing the fourth generation of a family who migrated to Moose County in the 1850s and prospered as merchants. Their gravesites in the Hilltop Cemetery adjoin the meditation garden originated by the Duncan family as a place of solace for all mourners of the community.
After being graduated from Pickax High School, Ms. Duncan attended the Lockmaster Business Academy and embarked on a career in accounting. For the last five years she has been employed by the Goodwinter Medical Clinic, handling patients’ health insurance claims.
Upon the death of her brother, Cameron, a year ago, she inherited the Duncan homestead on Pleasant Street and was the first homeowner to enlist in the Pleasant Street restoration project.
Community service was a way of life for Ms. Duncan, who was honored last year after serving a total of ten thousand hours of volunteer work at the hospital, public library, historical museum, and other facilities. She was an active member of the Old Stone Church.
“She was a selfless, compassionate woman,” said the Rev. Wesley Forbush, “always willing to help, and never stinting of her time.”
Mayor Gregory Blythe said, “She was a role model for the community and will be missed even by those who never met her.”
At the time of her death Ms. Duncan was president of the Pickax Bridge Club, which she helped to found, and treasurer of the Moose County Genealogy Society.
Funeral arrangements have not been announced.
As Qwilleran finished reading the news account, two thoughts occurred to him: Lynette would be appalled to have her age printed in the headline. . . and Mayor Blythe was one of the few persons she totally disliked. Then he wondered: How will Ernie Kemple’s daughter react when she finds Carter Lee is back in the running as a bachelor? Will she still come forward in Lenny Inchpot’s defense? Is it too late not to come forward? She has confessed her complicity to her mother, but she cannot have confessed to G. Allen Barter; he left for St. Paul Friday. There was still time to retract her confession; she could tell her mother she lied in an insane fit of revenge. . . All of this was brainstorming on Qwilleran’s part. To be continued, he told himself, as he sloshed through the puddles to city hall.
Brodie was waiting for him, with the Moose County Something on his desk. “Terrible news!” he said, tapping the front page. In the Pickax hierarchy, the Brodies had always been respecters of the Duncans, and he had piped at Lynette’s wedding. “How must her new husband feel?”
“We’ll soon find out,” Qwilleran said. “He’ll be here when the shuttle splashes down at five o’clock.”
“I’ll pipe at the funeral if he wants me to. I piped for Cameron’s funeral. More than fifty cars went to the cemetery. Is the body being shipped in today? The airport’s closing down.”
“Her husband opted for cremation.”
“What! Did I hear you right? When Cameron died, Lynette told me there was one more gravesite waiting for her. She said she’d be proud to join her ancestors on the hill. She was sentimental where her clan was concerned. . . Nice lady!”
“She can still have her funeral,” Qwilleran said, “starting with a memorial service at the church, a procession of cars to the cemetery, and interment of her ashes on the hill with the traditional ceremony.” He could tell by the chief’s silence that he was not quite sold on the idea.
Finally Brodie said, “You must know the James fellow pretty well; you were his best man. Why wouldn’t he comply with her wishes?”
“Do you think it’s something that’s discussed in the first week of marriage?” So far, Qwilleran had been going with the flow; now he changed course. “I don’t know Carter Lee James at all! I was pressed into service at Lynette’s request. Willard Carmichael first invited him up here for the holidays because his wife was homesick; they claimed to be cousins. The three of them met Lynette at the bridge club, and she invited them to see her house. That was the beginning of the Pleasant Street project, as it’s called.”
“I’ve heard about it,” Brodie said, “but there hasn’t been anything in the paper.”
“It’s been growing by word of mouth, which Carter Lee says is the healthy way to go. Property owners pay him twenty thousand up front for consulting services, supervision of the actual work, and the possibility of being nominated for the National Register of Historic Places. Everyone who signs up is enthusiastic—and those who don’t are virtually blackballed by their neighbors. The guy has a winning personality and a manner that inspires confidence.”
The chief nodded. “I talked to him at the wedding. Seemed like a decent fellow.”
“I even suggested that the K Fund hire him to restore the hotel and the Limburger mansion. . . and that’s when the wings fell off! They checked his credentials and came up with zilch. Yet he claims to have restored important landmarks all over the eastern seaboard. I’ve seen the portfolio he shows to prospective clients, and I doubt whether it’s legitimate. I also know the procedures for getting on the National Register, and no restoration consultant can guarantee his clients anything. He can only raise their hopes.”
Brodie’s scowl intensified as he listened. “Sounds like a scam, all right. The prosecutor should get in on this.”
“Not too fast, Andy. On Wednesday, Bart Barter comes home and can tell us more about the K Fund’s investigation. And tomorrow afternoon I want to set a little trap for Carter Lee, just to see how he reacts. I’ll get back to you with the results—tomorrow about this same time.”
“Good luck,” Brodie growled without enthusiasm. Then he allowed himself a chuckle. “What does your smart cat think about this guy?”
“Well, Koko got hold of his fur hat once and was trying to kill it, if that means anything. To a cat, it’s always open season on fur and feathers.”
* * *
After his conference with Brodie, he waited until a suitable hour before phoning the Carmichael apartment. Danielle answered, saying that her cousin had arrived but was a wreck; he’d been without sleep for almost forty-eight hours; he was now sleeping and couldn’t be disturbed.
“That’s all right,” Qwilleran said. “I wanted only to express my sympathy and invite the two of you for a business discussion tomorrow—and some refreshment. He might find it heartening to hear about two major restoration projects that could use his expertise. Do you think he’s willing to take on something big—at a time like this?”
“He is! I know he is! What time tomorrow?”
“How about two-thirty? I’m in the last unit in Building Five. He’s been here before. . . And what do you both like to drink?”
“Margaritas,” she said promptly.
After that masquerade of goodwill and hospitality, Qwilleran planned—with an element of elation—how to snare his prey. For bait he would use a few drinks, a lot of sympathy, and a spurious business deal. Then he would spring the trap! There was a possibility that Carter Lee would be smooth enough, slick enough, to elude it. Although he had told the theatre club he had no acting ability, he was—in Qwilleran’s book—the Olivier, the Gielgud, the Alec Guiness of the confidence game.
It might or might not be a coincidence that volume ten on the Melville shelf—the one that riveted Koko’s attention—was The Confidence-Man. The cat was also greatly attracted to A. Nutt’s scholarly disquisition on the Ossian hoax! Qwilleran realized now that he should have taken the cat’s eccentricities mo
re seriously.
His immediate task was to prepare the trap. His idea, not yet fully developed, was to tell his listeners about Short and Tall Tales and play “The Dank Hollow” for them. After that, he would play a tall tale of his own—about a scam that victimized Pickax a hundred years ago. It would be so transparently analogous to the Pleasant Street project that the listeners would be uneasy. At least, he supposed, Danielle would be uneasy, even if her “cousin” kept his cool. Now, all Qwilleran had to do was to compose this tricky, sticky bit of fiction.
When he sat down at his typewriter, however, the events of the last twenty-four hours crowded his mind. To clear it he needed a drastic change of thought. What would it be? He looked at Koko; the cat looked at him. Opera, the man thought.
“Yow!” said Koko.
Adrienne Lecouvreur, the man thought.
“Yow!” said Koko.
It was the compact disc album that Polly had given him for Christmas; he had never played it. Somewhat guiltily, he slipped the first disc into the player and stretched out in his lounge chair, with his crossed legs on an ottoman and a mug of coffee in his hand.
The first act was a bustling scene backstage at the Comédie Française, with theatre personnel and their visitors fretting, plotting, and flirting. Koko relaxed nearby, comfortable on his brisket, but Yum Yum had disappeared. No opera lover, she!
The music was lush; the voices were stirring. In the story, taking place in 1730, a glamorous actress and a spiteful princess were rivals for the love of a nobleman. It was a tale of intrigue, passion, deceit, and revenge. It involved a pawned necklace, a bunch of violets, a lost bracelet. Koko fidgeted from time to time. Qwilleran was following the libretto in English, but the cat was hearing it in Italian. As if he knew what it was all about, he made sounds of disapproval as the tension mounted. In the last act, as Adriana was dying in the arms of her lover, Koko howled as if his body would turn inside out.
“You spoiled the finale,” Qwilleran chided him afterward, as Yum Yum crawled out from her secret hiding place.
The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Page 19