The official starter was frantic. The sheriff’s car, the grand marshal, and the color guard were lined up. The first float was pulling up with its serious statesmen in wigs and knee breeches, but the athletes were out of control. “What do we do?” the starter cried to his aides. “Do we cancel ’em?”
At that moment, two gunshots sounded above the din. The effect was paralyzing. Everything stopped. No one moved. The silence was heavy with unasked questions.
Then the coach blew his whistle. “Fall in!”
The sheriff’s car started to roll. After giving it a fifty-yard head start, the piper began his slow, swinging gait and skirling rendition of the national anthem. The color guard snapped to attention.
No one asked who had fired the shots, but Qwilleran had an idea.
One by one, the units moved out of the staging area in the correct order, with floats and marchers and bands alternating appropriately.
Qwilleran, waiting for the bikers to be signaled, watched the Friends of Wool roll past. The shepherd stood knee-deep in a small flock of sheep and baby lambs and played his flute. Two spinners dressed as pioneer women sat in antique chairs and treadled their wheels. Six similar chairs were arranged back-to-back for the knitters: four women and two men.
Finally the Parade of Bikers was given the signal. The first to take off was the high-wheeler, followed by neat rows of bikes pedaled by men and women, girls and boys, in colorful helmets. Bringing up the rear was the most prominent man in the county, reclining in a bucket seat with his feet elevated. Everyone recognized the moustache, and while they applauded, cheered, screamed, and whistled, Qwilleran drew on his theater training and pedaled with unflappable cool.
The onlookers swarmed into the road and followed the recumbent—a Pied Piper with wheels. Whether their acclaim was for the bike, or the famous moustache, or the man behind the K Fund . . . that was anyone’s guess.
The destaging area of the parade was the high school parking lot on the eastside, and when Qwilleran arrived, he found a traffic jam. Floats were scattered helter-skelter. Families arrived to pick up their athletes, musicians, moms, pets, and bathing beauties. Two school buses were waiting to transport float personnel back to their vehicles on the westside. A truck from the Ogilvie Sheep Ranch was collecting sheep, spinning wheels, and antique chairs.
Qwilleran grabbed Mildred’s arm just as she was boarding the bus. “You got me into this. How about getting me out?”
“What’s the problem, Qwill?”
He said, “I can’t take my bike on the bus. You take my car keys and bring my van down here. It’s a brown van—in the FOO parking lot.”
She took his keys. “What did you think of our float?”
“The lambs were cute. The shepherd looked like the real thing. The sheep were fat and woolly . . . But your husband, if I may say so, looked sheepish.”
“I heard that!” Arch shouted. “I wouldn’t even be here if you hadn’t blackmailed me, you dirty dog!”
The bus driver tooted the horn. “Come on, folks. They want us to move!”
Qwilleran had invited Andrew Brodie to stop at the cabin for a drink, following the parade, and the chief had said, “Make it at four o’clock. I’ve got to make an appearance at a backyard barbecue—some relatives in Black Creek.”
At four o’clock, Qwilleran had a beverage tray on the porch, along with some Gorgonzola and crackers. “How was it?” he asked when his guest arrived, scowling.
“All they had to drink was iced tea! I played a tune for them and had a sandwich, then got the heck out!”
“You came to the right place, Andy. I happen to have some single-malt Scotch and good cheese.”
Brodie was still in piper’s garb, except for the feather bonnet and shoulder plaid. Cocked over one eye was something like a military overseas cap—in navy blue with a red pompon, cockade, and two ribbons hanging down the back. “It’s a Glengarry,” he said in response to Qwilleran’s compliment. He tapped his left temple. “It has my clan badge.”
They went out to the porch, where Koko was again on the pedestal and Yum Yum was sniffing insects on the outside of the screen. When Brodie sat down, however, she came over to inspect his brogues, bare knees, and fancy garters. Then she stood on her hind legs to see what the kilt was all about.
“She’s bewildered,” Qwilleran explained. “Aren’t you the visitor who used to wear long pants and a shiny metal badge?”
“Where’d you get the sailboat?”
“Mike Zander made it. He’s a commercial fisherman by trade.”
“Sure, I know the Zanders. When I worked for the sheriff, this was my beat. Your guy must be Mike Junior. Whenever I see Mike Senior, we laugh about something that happened a few years back. It was Saturday, and the boats had just come in. Summer people were buying fish on the pier. One stuffy old biddy from Down Below looked at the fish—some of ’em still flopping around—and said in an uppity voice, ‘Are you sure they’re quite fresh?’ The crew laughed so hard, she left in a huff.”
“Those guys like a laugh,” Qwilleran said. “Their chicken-feeding float had everybody running for cover!”
“We had a good day for the parade, but what we need now is some rain.”
“You have to admit, though, that the dry spell has helped the mosquito situation.”
“I remember one year, the town council brought in colonies of bats to get rid of mosquitoes. They scared off the tourists as well.”
Qwilleran said, “Let me refresh your drink, Andy.”
“I think I could stand another.”
Yum Yum followed Qwilleran indoors to get a drink of water, and she looked at him so imploringly, he gave her a crumb of Gorgonzola. When he returned to the porch, Brodie was standing at the top of the sandladder.
“Your beach is a lot different this year,” he said. “What’s that burnt circle?”
“Some trespassers apparently had a bonfire before I got here,” Qwilleran said. “At least they didn’t leave any beer cans; that’s to their credit.”
Brodie gave Qwilleran a sharp look. “I hear you’re the one that found the body on the beach.”
“Well, if you must know . . . yes.” He refrained from mentioning Koko’s involvement. Brodie had heard about “that smart cat” from a detective Down Below but believed only fifty percent of it—and that reluctantly. Yet both he and the prosecutor valued Qwilleran’s interest in certain cases and appreciated his tips. They also respected his insistence on anonymity. Brodie, for his part, was not above leaking police information if it would aid Qwilleran’s unofficial investigations. Little by little, a mutual trust had developed between the two men.
They sat in silence for a while, no doubt thinking of the same thing, until Qwilleran asked, “Were they able to identify the backpacker?”
“Oh, sure. He had an ID on his person—Philadelphia address—age twenty-five—no next of kin, but the name and phone number of a woman.”
“Homicide or natural causes?”
“Homicide hasn’t been ruled out . . . the coroner can’t determine the cause of death. They’ve flown the body to the state forensic lab.”
“That’s strange.”
“Stranger than you think. Everything points to the time of death as midnight last Friday, a few hours after he called at the Hawley house, but . . .” Brodie paused uncertainly. “There was no decomposition. Almost like he was embalmed. He’d been dead four days.”
“I should cut off your drinks, Andy.”
“It’s the God’s truth!”
“Does anyone have a theory?”
“If they do, they’re not talking. The State Bureau has clamped down . . . This is all between you and me, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And now I’ve gotta take off. Thanks for the refreshments.”
They walked through the cabin, Brodie looking for his Glengarry. “I thought I left it on the back of the sofa.”
They looked behind the sofa cushions and in other p
laces where he may have dropped the cap without thinking. Then Qwilleran saw Yum Yum sitting on the dining table, looking guilty. “She’s attracted to small shiny objects, Andy. She pinched your clan badge! Let me look under the sofa.” A few swipes with a fireplace poker produced a brown sock, a yellow pencil, and the missing cap. Qwilleran offered to brush it.
“Don’t bother. I’ll just give it a couple of whacks.”
Qwilleran walked with him to his car, saying, “Remember the two gunshots just before the parade started? Did they ever find out who fired them?”
“Nope.”
“Did they ever try?”
“Nope. It worked, didn’t it? . . . How long do you plan to stay here?”
“About a month.”
“We’ll keep an eye on your barn.”
After Brodie had driven away, Qwilleran came to a decision: Koko would never give up the railroad tie as his pedestal, his perch, his rightful eminence. The sailboat sculpture would have to go on the fireplace mantel.
Late that night the three of them sat on the porch in the dark: Koko gazing at the constellations from his private planetarium, Yum Yum fascinated by the fireflies, Qwilleran thinking his thoughts. Brodie’s remark about the condition of the backpacker’s body piqued his curiosity. Tomorrow he would drive to Fishport to buy some of Mrs. Hawley’s home-bakes, express his relief that the fate of the young man was known, and find out how she and Magnus felt about identifying the body.
FIVE
Friday was a gala day in Mooseville, as vacationers and locals looked forward to opening night of the barn theater. Qwilleran had promised to review the play and would first have dinner at Owen’s Place; he wished Polly could be with him.
Meanwhile, he had to finish a “Qwill Pen” column and take it to the bank to be faxed before noon. He found Main Street in the throes of a holiday weekend. Throngs of vacationers sauntered along the sidewalks, looked in shop windows, licked ice cream cones, and were mesmerized by the waterfront: the lake lapping against pilings, boats gently nudging the piers, screaming seagulls catching stale bread crusts on the fly.
Next on his schedule was a drive to Fishport. What would Doris Hawley have to say about the grim task of identifying the backpacker? As soon as he crossed the Roaring Creek bridge, however, he realized it was the wrong time to ask prying questions about the condition of the corpse. Two police cars were parked in the driveway—one from the sheriff’s department and the other from the state troopers’ post. Furthermore, the sign on the front lawn was covered with a burlap sack, a signal that there were no baked goods for sale. He made a U-turn and returned to Mooseville.
Back in town he went into the post office and found some more postcards from Polly. He had complained, while driving her to the airport, that she never kept in touch while on vacation. She had replied, with a cryptic smile, that she would do something about it. “Doing something about it” meant mailing six cards a week—a kind of playful overkill.
In the lobby of the post office he saw a young woman he knew, unlocking a rental box and scooping handfuls of mail into a tote bag.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be at home? Homeschooling your brats around the kitchen table?”
She was Sharon Hanstable—plump, good-natured, and wholesomely pretty—a young version of her mother, Mildred Riker. She was also the wife of Roger MacGillivray, a reporter for the Moose County Something.
“I work part time at the Great Dune Motel,” she explained, “and Roger’s home with the kids today. He takes the weekend shift at the paper so he can have two weekdays free.”
Both parents were former teachers. Sharon, after leaving that career to raise a family, was always popping up in part-time roles—as a cashier or salesclerk or short-order cook. This was an aspect of small-town life that still astounded Qwilleran.
“If you’re on your way to work,” he said, “I’ll walk with you and carry your mail . . . Are you still enthusiastic about homeschooling?” he asked as they headed for Sandpit Road.
“It’s a big job and a serious responsibility, but also a challenge and a joy,” she replied. “We spend more time with our kids in positive ways. Would you like to try a session of teaching some afternoon, Qwill?”
“No, thanks. I’ll take your word for it.”
“Mother takes a day once in a while, so Roger and I can get away.”
“Your mother is a former teacher. What’s more, she has a heart of gold and the patience of a saint. She probably enjoys being a grandmother.”
They had pushed through the heavy pedestrian traffic on Main Street and were walking down Sandpit Road. Sharon said, “Did you hear that they found the backpacker? It’ll be in today’s paper. Roger’s been on the story since Wednesday, and he happens to know they’ve sent the body to the state pathologist, although they’re not releasing the information. There’s something unusual about the death.” She lowered her voice. “Mother and Roger and I think it has something to do with the Visitors from outer space.”
“Is that so?” he murmured.
“Don’t mention it to Arch. You know how he is. Couldn’t you gently talk some sense into his head, Qwill?”
“I doubt whether I’m the one to try,” Qwilleran said with tact. “How do you explain all this to your youngsters?”
“We tell them the universe has room for many worlds, some with intelligent life. Alien beings are curious about our planet, just as we’re interested in getting to Mars and beyond.”
“Have your kids sighted any of these . . . Visitors?”
“No, we’re away from the water and don’t stay up late. Mother says two A.M. is the best time for sightings.”
They had reached the Great Dune Motel, and he handed over the tote bag. “Have you been to lunch at Owen’s Place?”
“Too expensive. I carry my lunch. Also, my boss is miffed because they’re staying at the hotel instead of with us.”
Owen’s Place stood alone on the west side of the highway, although its stained cedar siding matched that of the motel, antique shop, fudge kitchen, and other enterprises on the east side. It had been a coin-operated laundry for several seasons before becoming an unsuccessful Chinese restaurant. Now, in the large front windows, the red velvet draperies of its bok choy period had been replaced with white louvered shutters. With the parking lot paved, and the Great Dune as a noble background, it looked quite elegant, and Qwilleran looked forward to dining there before the theater.
The chamber of commerce must have offered Bowen a good deal, Qwilleran thought. Otherwise, why would a man with contempt for country folk choose to spend the summer 400 miles north of everywhere? Evidently the lake was the attraction, since he had a boat. A recreation vehicle with a boat hitch could be seen around the rear of the restaurant, as well as a white convertible, both with Florida tags.
Walking back toward Main Street, Qwilleran passed Arnold’s Antique Shop—and stopped short. There in the window was the kind of spindly, high-backed antique chair that had been on the float with the sheep. It was a chair design with character, and it aroused his curiosity. He went into the shop. There were several customers, either buying or browsing. According to their dress and mannerisms, Qwilleran could classify them as campers, or wives of sport fishermen, or boaters from the Grand Island Club who had just lunched at Owen’s Place.
The lunch crowd was raving about the chef, the quiche, the skewered potatoes, and the “perfectly darling” maitre d’. Arnold himself was everywhere at once. He was an ageless man with tireless energy, but he had a weathered face that looked like the old woodcarvings he sold. Peering over rimless glasses, he sorted the idle browsers from the potential customers and kept an eye on the former.
A long-haired white-and-black dog wagged a plumed tail at the latter. “Good dog! Good dog!” Qwilleran said to him.
“Hi, Mr. Q! Do you like our pooch?” Arnold asked. “He just wandered in one day. A friendly soul! Brings in more business than an ad in your newspaper!”
“What’s his name?”
“Well, you see, we bought a job lot of china that included a dog dish with the name Phreddie on it, so we named the dog to match the dish . . . Excuse me.”
Arnold went off to take a customer’s money. A man was buying a rusty iron wheel, four feet in diameter but delicate in its proportions, with sixteen slender spokes.
“Beautiful rust job, smooth as honey,” the dealer told the purchaser. “It threshed a lot of wheat in its day.”
Meanwhile, Qwilleran poked through baskets of arrowheads, Civil War bullets, and old English coins. “What’s that guy going to do with the wheel?” he later asked Arnold.
“Hang it over the fireplace in his lodge on Grand Island.”
“Hmmm . . . I could use one of those myself.” He was thinking of the gable end above his own fireplace, a large blank wall that had originally displayed a mounted moosehead; its dour expression had been a depressing reminder of animal rights. Later, the wall showcased a collection of lumberjack tools: axes, a peavey, and crosscut saws with murderous two-inch teeth—equally discomforting. A wheel, on the other hand . . .
“There were two of them, from a field combine,” Arnold said. “The other one’s in my main store in Lockmaster. I’ll have it sent up here, but it’ll take a couple, three days.”
“No rush . . . I’d also like to inquire about the chair in the window. What is it? There were eight of them on a float in yesterday’s parade.”
“That’s a pressed-back dining chair, circa 1900, sometimes thought of as a kitchen chair. In the country, a lot of dining was done in the kitchen. In 1904, or thereabouts, the Sears catalogue offered this chair for ninety-four cents. Did you hear me right? Ninety-four cents! They must’ve sold millions of ’em . . . Pretty thing, ain’t it?”
Three Complete Novels: The Cat Who Tailed a Thief/the Cat Who Sang for the Birds/the Cat Who Saw Stars Page 5