Yet, it was not an ordinary yowl; it was a hollow, tortured wail! Qwilleran replayed the fourth act, jumping tracks to the death scene: Adriana receiving the box of dead violets, thinking them a cruel message from a lost lover, burying her face sorrowfully in the wilted flowers, not knowing they came from the princess, not knowing they were poisoned. Koko howled again. He had made the same anguished response to “The Dimsdale Jinx” when the pasties were mentioned—the poisoned pasties.
EIGHTEEN
After hearing Koko’s response to the opera, Qwilleran sat down at his typewriter with grim purpose. Gone was his prankish cat-and-mouse approach to setting a trap for a con man. This was a different ballgame, he told himself; no more softball; now it was hardball! Koko’s reaction to the poisoned violets confirmed a cynical journalist’s suspicions. It also explained the increasing disturbance on his upper lip.
In the coffee houses the local jokers liked to say, “If you want to murder your wife, do it Down Below, and you can get away with it.” With hindsight, Qwilleran now found recent events painfully obvious: the hurried wedding; the transfer of property to joint ownership; the swift cremation without autopsy; the secrecy about Carter Lee’s whereabouts after the death, precluding interference from anyone in Pickax.
Yet was there any actual proof that he had poisoned her? The howling of a cat—hundreds of miles away—at the moment of death was hardly admissible evidence or even grounds for arrest. Koko’s electrifying cry at the mention of poison was equally thin evidence. His supranormal powers of detection and communication were known to Qwilleran, but would anyone else believe them?
Of one thing he was sure: At the slightest hint that their game was up, Carter Lee and his so-called cousin would disappear, taking their fake IDs and the money from twenty trusting property owners and any amount of loot from the Duncan house.
Qwilleran called the police chief at home. “Andy, sorry to bother you. The case we discussed is more serious than I imagined. I’m going ahead with the entrapment, but I want you to stand by. Anything can happen!”
Then he sat down at his typewriter and pounded out two or three hundred words to implement his scheme. At one point the flash of headlights turning into the adjoining driveway prompted him to telephone Wetherby. Solemnly he said, “Joe, did you hear the news from New Orleans?”
“I did! I did! And I’m mad as hell! This should never have happened! I feel like kicking a door down!”
“Well, I’m going to kick that door down, and I need your help.”
“What can I do?”
“Give me fifteen minutes more at my typewriter, then come over here.”
Qwilleran finished writing his tall tale and had a bourbon ready for Wetherby when he arrived. “Sit down, Joe, and I’ll explain.” He waited until his guest had taken a sip. “Both you and I had suspicions about Carter Lee, of one kind or another, and I’ve been led to believe they weren’t far off base. I intend to confront him in a devious way, just to see how he reacts.”
“Where is he?”
“His intention was to return home before the airport shut down, and he’s now at Danielle’s apartment.” Qwilleran described his scheme and ripped the tall tale out of the typewriter. “Read this.”
Wetherby read it with astonishment. “Is any of this true?”
“Not a word.”
“That last line is pretty strong stuff. How do you plan to present it?”
“It’ll be on tape, like the other yarns I’ve collected, and I’d like it to be read by a voice other than my own.”
“Want me to do it? Let me read it once aloud with a dead mike.” When he reached the last line, Koko howled. “Was that applause or criticism?” Wetherby asked.
Qwilleran grabbed both cats. “We don’t want any sound effects on the tape.” He carried them upstairs and shut them in their apartment.
“Will they stay there? Jet-boy knows how to operate the door handles.”
“So far, they haven’t figured it out, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”
After the recording was completed and played back, Wetherby said he wouldn’t mind witnessing the confrontation. “I could hide in a closet.”
“You wouldn’t fit. They’re hardly deep enough for a coat hanger. Better to be concealed in the bedroom upstairs, with the door ajar. They’ll be here at two-thirty.”
“I’ll be here at two. Shall I bring my handgun?”
“Whatever makes you comfortable. . . And one more favor, Joe. Do you happen to have any tequila?”
“No. Sorry. Only bourbon.”
* * *
Late that evening WPKX broadcast a flash-flood warning. The dam on the Rocky Burn had been breached by rushing water and constant battering by tree trunks, boulders, and other debris, and the Rocky Burn was now pouring billions of gallons into the old riverbed, through No Man’s Gully and into the Ittibittiwassee. The giant waterwheel at the Old Stone Mill, dry and weakened after years of disuse, had been wrecked and the timbers swept downstream.
Immediately Don Exbridge and his staff started phoning residents, assuring them there was no need for evacuation under present conditions, but the situation was being monitored by the Disaster Commission. The manager’s office would be open all night to answer questions, and the clubhouse was available as a shelter for anyone desiring company in the emergency. In the event that evacuation became advisable, the siren at the gatehouse would sound and state troopers would be on hand.
Qwilleran phoned Polly. She and the Cavendish sisters planned to sit up together. “Interesting women,” she said. “They’re natives of Moose County, but their teaching careers have taken them all over the country. What do you think of Don’s handling of the emergency?”
“He does that better than he builds condos,” Qwilleran said. He himself retired to his bedroom but slept half-dressed. His valuables and basic clothing were in his luggage near the front door, along with the cats’ carrier and their essentials. In the emergency he left the doors open to both balcony rooms, and sometime during the night two furry bodies climbed into his bed and were not discovered until morning.
It was the roar of the water that caused him to wake. The river was turbulent but not dangerously high—as yet. Now and then a tree sailed past like a galleon with sails furled. Over his morning coffee, Qwilleran recalled how convincingly Carter Lee had postponed publicity on his endeavors and how artfully he had introduced their post-honeymoon plans. They would sit for their portraits, work together on restoration projects, visit his mother in France, buy a summer place on Purple Point. . . and Lynette innocently anticipated all of it.
* * *
The first mission of the day was to find ingredients for margaritas. In his lean years, Qwilleran had moonlighted as a bartender; in this, the affluent period of his life, he took pride in his well-stocked bar and ability to mix a variety of drinks. He was not prepared, however, for margaritas. He had only salt for the rim of the glasses.
Using the phone he confirmed his fear that the liquor store in Pickax was closed, along with every other establishment. The clubhouse bar was locked because the barkeeper was marooned by the Rocky Burn deluge. When Qwilleran called Hixie Rice, she referred him to Susan Exbridge, who referred him to her ex-husband. From Don Exbridge he learned the surprising information that the Cavendish sisters had lived in southern California and had brought home a fondness for margaritas. When Qwilleran rang their doorbell, he was greeted as a hero and supplied with everything he needed for the drinks.
* * *
Wetherby Goode arrived at the promised time and was sequestered in the bedroom, with the door ajar. “Try not to sneeze,” Qwilleran told him. The Siamese, glutted with a substantial meal that would slow them down, were shut up in their own apartment with the television turned on, minus audio.
Shortly after two-thirty, the Land-Rover pulled up in front of the condo, and Qwilleran greeted his guests with the right mix of solemnity and hospitality. Carter Lee was subdued, but Danielle was
her usual giddy self.
“Ooh! Look!” she said, pointing at the display of weaponry on the foyer wall. Her cousin turned away in a silent rebuke.
The cordial host took advantage of the situation. Craftily he said, “Those are Scottish dirks from Gil MacMurchie’s collection. He had five, but the best one was stolen during that epidemic of thievery a few weeks ago.” He unhooked one from the frame and continued his lecture while ushering them into the living room. “The dirk is longer than a dagger and shorter than a sword—a very useful weapon, I’m sure. It’s interesting to know that the grooves in the blade are called blood grooves. This hilt has a thistle design, which is an emblem of Scotland, but the most desirable is a lion rampant.” He placed it on the coffee table in its scabbard, hoping that its presence would arouse their guilt. Then, having chafed the subject long enough, he asked, “May I offer you a margarita? I’ve been told I make a good one.”
Both faces brightened. They were sitting on the sofa, facing the windows, and Qwilleran would be able to study their countenances. He wondered if Wetherby Goode was enjoying his performance. He proposed a toast to Lynette’s memory, causing the bereaved husband to nod and look down woefully. Danielle pouted and studied the salt on the rim of her glass.
“You’re wise to come home and plunge into your commitments,” Qwilleran said in his avuncular style. “Work is said to be a great healer.”
“It’s painful but therapeutic in the long run,” Carter Lee agreed. “I know Lynette would want me to carry on. I have dreams of making Pleasant Street a memorial to her, perhaps calling the neighborhood the Duncan Historical Park.”
“A beautiful gesture,” Qwilleran murmured, feeling hypocritical. He knew that neighboring property owners, though outwardly friendly, would resent such a designation. “I hope you’re aware,” he continued, “that this county has enough historic property to keep you busy for a lifetime. There are two projects in which I have a personal interest. A great deal of money is being budgeted for their restoration. First is the historic Pickax Hotel downtown, boarded up since an explosion last year.”
“I’ve seen it,” Carter Lee said. “What are the interior spaces?”
“Twenty guestrooms and many public areas, including a ballroom. The other project is the Limburger mansion in Black Creek, slated to operate as a country inn. . . May I freshen your drinks?”
So far, so good, Qwilleran thought as he mixed two more margaritas. The guests were relaxing. They talked easily about the flooding, and Danielle’s role in the play, and the future of the gourmet club. They listened receptively to the plans for Short and Tall Tales and said, yes, they would like to hear one.
“I like ghost stories,” said Danielle, wriggling in anticipation.
They listened to “The Dank Hollow” and called it sensational. As Qwilleran served another round of drinks, he said, “And now I’m going to play one that no one else has heard. It hasn’t even a name as yet. I want your opinion.”
A hundred years ago, when Moose County was booming and ten mines were in operation, the wealthy mine-owners built mansions in Pickax and lived in grand style on Goodwinter Boulevard. But they had an annoying problem. Their houses were haunted by the restless spirits of dead miners, buried in cave-ins or killed in underground explosions. Ghostly noises kept the families awake at night and terrified the children. A newspaper Down Below went so far as to send a reporter to Pickax by stagecoach; after investigating, he wrote about the moaning and coughing and constant chip-chip-chipping of invisible pickaxes.
Shortly after the story was published, a man by the name of Charles Louis Jones drove into Pickax in a covered wagon, accompanied by a pretty young woman in a sunbonnet, his sister Dora. He said he possessed the gift of conjury and could rid the neighborhood of ghosts. He said he had worked the miracle for many communities Down Below. There was a sizable fee, but the harassed mine-owners were willing to give him anything. To do the job he asked for a pickax, a miner’s hat, and several burlap bags filled with sand.
The contracts were signed, and he and his sister went to work—at night, after the families had retired. She carried the pickax and chanted spells, while her brother wore the miner’s hat and scattered sand in attics and cellars. After two weeks, clients reported the condition somewhat relieved and signed new contracts at a higher rate.
All the while, the two strangers were treated royally, being a friendly and attractive pair. Charles Louis was particularly charming. No one wanted to see them leave, least of all Lucy Honeycutt. Her father owned Honey Hill mine. Though not the prettiest girl on the boulevard, she had the largest dowry. When Charles Louis asked for her hand in marriage, Mr. Honeycutt was flattered and Lucy was thrilled. With her handsome and gifted husband she would travel far and wide, helping other distressed communities. Dora would teach her the conjuring chants. So the marriage took place—rather hurriedly, the gossips said.
As the tape unreeled in the silent room, with only the sound of the rushing river to distract, Qwilleran observed the visitors. Danielle was enjoying it; her cousin was listening more critically. At the mention of Charles Louis Jones, his eyelids flickered. As the story went on—Lucy’s dowry, the gifted husband, the hasty marriage—he uncrossed his knees, set down his glass, glanced at Danielle. He was gradually getting the point, Qwilleran thought. There was more to the tale:
After the wedding the nightly sand rituals continued; so did the partying and the payments, although there was grumbling about diminishing results. Then, one night, after eating a mullet stew prepared by her sister-in-law, Lucy became ill. The same night, Charles Louis and Dora disappeared in the covered wagon, along with Lucy’s dowry and certain silverplate and jewelry from the haunted houses, probably in the burlap bags.
It would be easy to chuckle about this tale of haunted houses, gullible countryfolk, a glib con man, a woman posing as his sister, and a clever swindle—if it were not for the tragic ending. Lucy died, and the cause of death, according to the post mortem, was not mullet stew but arsenic.
Carter Lee’s jaw clenched and he stared wordlessly at Qwilleran, who said amiably, “Did you enjoy that? Would you like to hear it again?”
The man on the sofa turned to his companion and thundered, “Go to the car!”
“Why?” she whined, pouting at her unfinished drink.
“Go and get in the car! Do as I say!”
Reluctantly she went to the foyer to put on her boots.
“Forget the boots! Get out of here!” Then, as the door slammed, he said to Qwilleran, “Very funny! What kind of game are you playing?”
There was a click overhead as the levered door handle of the cats’ apartment unlatched. The other door squeaked.
“An old Moose County game known as ‘Call the Prosecutor.’”
With one swift movement Carter Lee was on his feet and reaching for the dirk.
Qwilleran jumped out of his chair. “Hold it! There’s a witness up there!” He pointed to the balcony. Koko was teetering on the railing. Wetherby was coming out of the bedroom.
In the split second that Carter Lee hesitated, a flying object dropped down on him like an eagle on a rabbit. He screamed as claws gripped his head. Half blinded by trickles of blood, he staggered toward the foyer, falling over furniture, groping for the front door, with Koko still riding on his head and howling. Qwilleran was yelling at him to get down; Yum Yum was shrieking in alarm; Wetherby was bellowing as he pounded down the stairs. It was one minute of chaos until Koko swooped to the floor and Carter Lee made it out the front door.
“Let’s follow him!” Qwilleran shouted.
“We’ll take my van! It’s in the drive!”
They grabbed their jackets and left Koko licking his claws.
The Land-Rover splashed down River Lane and turned left to the gatehouse, then left again on Ittibittiwassee with Wetherby’s vehicle not far behind.
“Where do they think they’re going?” Qwilleran said as he reached for the car phone.
“She’s driving. Look at that van weaving!”
On the phone he said, “Qwilleran reporting. Suspected murderer and accomplice headed west on Ittibittiwassee in white and red Land-Rover. Male suspect has head injuries. Female driving erratically. Now three miles east of bridge. This report from pursuit car. Over.”
The reply was inaudible as their tires whined through floods. Plumes of spray from the car ahead hit their windshield, and the wipers worked frantically to maintain visibility.
Qwilleran shouted above the racket, “If they get across the bridge, they’ll run right into the police!”
“I’m gonna hang back a bit, Qwill. This is suicide!”
They covered the next two miles without talking. Then Qwilleran shouted, “It worked! The trick worked!”
“I heard every word.”
“Let’s hear it for Koko!”
“The bridge is around the next curve,” Wetherby said.
“Stop on the hill.”
On the crest they pulled over and parked on a muddy shoulder. From there they could see the fugitive vehicle approaching a bridge submerged except for the guard rails. The river was churning and roaring.
“They’ll never make it.”
“They’re gonna try.”
As they watched, a surge came downstream—a huge wave bringing tree trunks, a chunk of concrete from a culvert, and timbers from the shattered mill wheel. It was the kind of debris that would collect at a crook in the river, then suddenly let loose. The surge hit the bridge like a battering ram as the Land-Rover put on speed.
“Stupid!” Wetherby yelled.
The bridge-bed cracked and heaved and pitched the white and red van over the guardrail to be swept along in the turbulent water until it snagged on the branches of a fallen oak. There it hung, trapped between the crotch of the ancient tree and an enormous boulder.
“Can you see them, Joe?”
“No sign of life. I hope their seatbelts were fastened.”
The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Page 20