The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “They don’t bother me. They were around the last time I was here. The big one had his nose in everything I did.”

  “Koko has a healthy curiosity. Do you mind if I watch, too?”

  Pete wielded yardsticks, shears, knives, brushes, and rollers with swift assurance.

  “You seem to know what you’re doing,” Qwilleran said in admiration. “I’m a confirmed don’t-do-it-yourselfer.”

  “Been hanging wallpaper since I was fourteen,” said Pete. “I papered some of the best houses in the county. Never had a complaint.”

  “That’s a good track record. Did you ever paper the Fitch mansion in the Hummocks?”

  Pete stopped abruptly and laid down his shears. The expression on his face was difficult to interpret. “Yeah, I been there, three or four times.”

  “That was a shocking incident Tuesday night.”

  “Yeah.” Qwilleran noticed that he gulped.

  “The police haven’t made any arrests, but I understand they’re questioning suspects.”

  “Yeah, they’re doing their job.” Pete went back to work but not as energetically as before.

  “I’ve never seen the Fitch house,” Qwilleran said. “What kind of wallpaper did they like?”

  “Raw silk—very plain. I hung a lot of raw silk when Mr. and Mrs. Fitch lived there. Then they moved to Indian Village and wanted the same thing in their condo. They’ve got some spread!”

  “Did you do any work for Harley and his wife when they moved in?”

  “Yeah, I did the breakfast room in a crazy pattern with pink elephants. She liked everything jazzy. I did their bedroom, too—all red velvet.”

  “Would you like a cup of coffee or a cold drink or beer?” Qwilleran asked.

  “I wouldn’t mind something to drink. Coffee, I guess. Gotta stay sober on this job, even if it isn’t all stripes.”

  Qwilleran thawed some frozen coffee cake in the microwave, pressed buttons on the computerized coffeemaker, and served the repast in the studio, among the ladders and paste buckets. Pete sat on the floor with the plate between his legs. Koko watched him with whiskers curled forward and then applied his nose to the man’s shoes and pantlegs with the concentration of a bloodhound on a hot scent.

  “Shove him away,” said Qwilleran, who was also sitting on the floor with his coffee.

  “He’s okay. I like animals. This is good coffee cake.”

  “A friend of mine made it. Iris Cobb. She manages the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum.”

  “Yeah, I know her. I did some work for the museum. She’s a good cook. I gained about ten pounds before the job was done.”

  “I wonder if they’ll make the Fitch mansion into a museum now,” said Qwilleran, edging back into the topic that interested him. “I doubt whether David Fitch wants to live there.”

  “Yeah, he has that crazy house up on the hill. I can’t figure it out, but I guess they like it. They don’t go in for wallpaper.”

  “Harley will be missed at the Theatre Club. He was a good actor and always high-spirited. I never met his wife. What was she like?”

  Pete shook his head slowly in silent awe. “She had everything!” When Qwilleran registered surprise, he added, “She used to be my girl.” There was another gulp.

  Qwilleran waited for details, but none was forthcoming, so he said, “You knew her for quite a while?”

  “Ever since she went to work for the Fitches—housework, you know. She lived there at the house. That’s when I was hanging the raw silk.”

  “Then you have a personal reason to resent this crime.”

  “Yeah,” he said moodily.

  “Why did you let her get away?”

  “She didn’t want a paperhanger, although I make good money. She wanted a rich man—someone to take her to Vegas and Hawaii and places like that. Well, she got him, but it didn’t do her any good.”

  “A damn shame, Pete.”

  “Yeah, I really went for that girl.” He turned an unabashed face to Qwilleran. “The reason I was late today—the police wanted to ask some questions.”

  “I’m sure they’re questioning everyone who knew Belle. That’s the way it’s done.”

  “Yeah, but I guess they thought I had reasons for . . . killing them both.”

  After the work was finished and Pete had cleared out his ladders and buckets, it was late. Qwilleran had no desire to go out to a restaurant, so he thawed some frozen stew for himself and gave the cats the rest of their chicken liver pâté. Yum Yum nibbled it daintily, but Koko lacked appetite. He prowled the living room nervously, as if a storm might be brewing, although nothing but fine weather was predicted.

  “You liked the paperhanger, didn’t you?” Qwilleran said to him, “and I think he liked you. He seems like a decent guy. I hope the police don’t find a way to pin something on him.”

  Qwilleran was restless, too. He tuned in and rejected four out-of-county radio stations before settling on WPKX for the local news:

  A North Kennebeck motorist driving west on Ittibittiwassee Road narrowly escaped injury when a vehicle behind him, which had been speeding and weaving across the yellow line, passed recklessly, forcing him off the pavement. Following this and other similar incidents, the sheriff’s department has announced a new war on drunk driving . . . In other news: Pickax will have posies this summer. Fifty flower boxes on Main Street have been planted with petunias . . . Sports news at this hour: The Pickax Miners beat the Brrr Eskimos in softball tonight, eight to three.

  Next Qwilleran tried the out-of-town newspapers, but even the Daily Fluxion and Morning Rampage failed to capture his attention. He made a cup of coffee and drank only half of it. He wanted to phone Polly but was reluctant to do so; he would have to explain the female architect.

  In desperation he pulled Moby-Dick off the shelf—a book he had not read since college days—and the first three words grabbed his attention: “Call me Ishmael.” Halfway through the first paragraph he settled down with enjoyment. This was the kind of literature that he and Polly used to read aloud during lazy weekends in the country. He was still reading when the 2:30 A.M. freight train sounded its mournful whistle on the north side of town. The Siamese had long since fallen asleep.

  And he was still reading when a succession of sirens screamed up Main Street. It sounded like three police cars and two ambulances. A major accident, he told himself. Another drunk driver leaving a bar at closing time. Reluctantly he closed the book and turned out the lights.

  Qwilleran slept well that night and dreamed richly. He was embarking on a whaling voyage . . . seeing the watery part of the world . . . a sailor aloft in the masthead, jumping from spar to spar like a grasshopper. He was not ready to give up his dreaming when the telephone jolted him awake.

  “Qwill, have you heard the news on the radio?” It was Francesca. She and her father had a habit of phoning at an unreasonable hour.

  “No,” he mumbled. “What time is it?”

  “Seven-thirty. There was a car-train accident last night.”

  “Did you wake me up to tell me that?”

  “Wake up, Qwill, and listen to me. Three youths were killed when they rammed their car into the side of a moving freight train.”

  Qwilleran grunted. “Someone’s going to get sued if they don’t do something about those dark crossings: no street lights; no red warning lights; no barricades.” He was fully awake now. “Kids get a few beers, drive seventy in a forty-five-mile zone, with the radio blasting so they can’t hear the train whistle. What does anyone expect?”

  “Please, no soliloquy, Qwill. I called to tell you that the victims were three teenagers from Chipmunk, and one of them was Chad Lanspeak!”

  Qwilleran was silent as he sorted out his reactions and groped for words.

  “I know it’s going to be rough on Carol and Larry,” Fran went on, “but here’s the significance of the accident. Dad says it winds up the Fitch case! The other two kids were the prime suspects!”

  Still he said noth
ing.

  “Qwill, have you gone back to sleep?”

  “Sorry, Fran, I haven’t had my coffee yet. I’ll have to think about this for a while. We’ll talk about it later.”

  He replaced the phone gently and touched his moustache almost reverently. It was tingling as it did in moments of intuitive premonition. It was telling him that the car-train accident, no matter what others might say, had no bearing on the investigation of the Fitch murders.

  ACT ONE—CURTAIN

  INTERMISSION

  Following the death of the prime suspects, the concerned citizens of Moose County were noticeably relieved. It was over! Everyone knew the homicide detective had returned to his headquarters in the state capital.

  Furthermore, it was June, and they had weddings, graduations, parades, fireworks, picnics, family reunions, and camping trips to think about. Conversation in the coffee shops returned to normal: the weather, fishing conditions off Purple Point, and the selection of a beauty queen for the Fishhook Festival in Mooseville.

  Qwilleran alone failed to share their relief. The state detective, he told himself, had left town to catch the real criminals off-guard. It might take time, but someone, somewhere, would be deluded into a false sense of security. Someone would return to the scene of the crime. Someone would talk too freely in a bar. Someone would inform the police.

  An uneasy sensation on Qwilleran’s upper lip convinced him that the final curtain had not fallen on the Fitch murder case.

  Act Two

  SCENE ONE

  Place:

  Qwilleran’s apartment; later, Stephanie’s restaurant

  Time:

  Late afternoon on the day following the car-train accident

  Qwilleran sat at the big desk in his cork-lined studio, writing a letter of condolence to Carol and Larry Lanspeak. The Siamese were sitting on his desk in parallel poses—Yum Yum waiting to grab a paper clip and Koko hoping to lick a stamp, a quarter inch of pink tongue protruding in anticipation.

  Yum Yum had leaped to the desktop first, arranging her parts in a tall, compact column. She sat on her haunches with forelegs elegantly straight, forepaws close together, tail wrapped around her toes clockwise. Koko followed suit, arranging himself alongside the female in an identical pose, even to the direction of the tail. They were almost like twins, Qwilleran thought, although Koko’s strong body and noble head and intelligent eyes and imperious mien gave him a masterful aura that could not be mistaken.

  “I feel sorry for the Lanspeaks,” he said to the Siamese. His voice sounded rich and mellow, thanks to the cork wallcovering, and the cats liked a rich, mellow, male voice. “I can provide Chad’s alibi for the night of the murder, but the Chipmunk stigma will always link him to the killers in the public memory. As the saying goes . . . ‘lie down with dogs; get up with fleas.’ ”

  Koko scratched his ear in sympathetic agreement.

  “I’m not convinced that the Chipmunk hoodlums killed Harley; there are too many alternatives. I may be beating the drum for an unpopular cause, but I’m going to follow my instincts.” He groomed his moustache with his fingertips.

  “Harley disappeared for a year after graduation, and no one really knows where he went or what he was doing. He could have been mixed up in almost anything. Just because he was an admirable figure in Pickax, it doesn’t follow that he played that role out of town. He was a versatile actor, and he liked to play against type. That Boris Karloff bit he was rehearsing was his kind of number.”

  Koko blinked in apparent acquiescence; Yum Yum maintained her wide-eyed, baffled, blue stare.

  “His year of sowing wild oats, if that’s what it was, could have led to blackmail. He could have made enemies. He might have experimented with drugs and become involved with a drug ring. And a sexual escapade with some questionable character, male or female, is not beyond the realm of possibility.”

  Both cats squeezed their eyes, as if this were heady stuff.

  “There’s no telling what a young man will do when he cuts loose from his family and hometown. He might have run up gambling debts that he couldn’t pay. It was odd that he married Belle in Las Vegas instead of at the Old Stone Church.”

  Qwilleran was swiveling his chair back and forth as he spoke. Abruptly he stopped and caressed his moustache. “And another possibility! David may have been a silent partner in Harley’s adventure. Their grandfather was a bootlegger. Rumrunners from Canada used to land their goods on his beach. Perhaps something else has been landing on that beach. David’s house would make a good look-out station.”

  Both cats now had their eyes closed and were swaying slightly.

  “I hope I haven’t bored you,” he said. “I was just airing a few theories.”

  He finished writing his note to the Lanspeaks. His messages of sympathy were always beautifully worded; a sincere fellow-feeling had always been one of his assets as a newspaper reporter.

  As he was addressing the envelope the telephone rang, and he swiveled to reach it on the table behind him. It was a call from Iris Cobb, manager of the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum. In her usual cheery voice she asked, “Would you like to come over and see the museum, Mr. Q, before it opens to the public? You could come to dinner, and I’d make pot roast and mashed potatoes and that coconut cake you like.”

  “Invitation accepted, Mrs. Cobb,” he replied promptly, “provided the coconut cake has apricot filling.”

  She had been his housekeeper when he and the Siamese lived in the big house, and the old formality of address still existed between them. It was always “Mr. Q” and “Mrs. Cobb.”

  “You could bring Koko and Yum Yum,” she suggested. “I miss the little dears, and they’d enjoy prowling around this big place after being cooped up in your apartment.”

  “Are you sure they’d be welcome in the museum?”

  “Oh, yes, they never do any damage.”

  “Except for an occasional ten thousand-dollar vase,” Qwilleran reminded her. “What day did you have in mind?”

  “How about Sunday at six o’clock?”

  “We’ll be there!” He made a mental note to buy a pink silk scarf at Lanspeak’s. Pink was Mrs. Cobb’s favorite color. He missed his former housekeeper’s cooking. Now, as live-in manager of the museum, she had one wing of the farmhouse as a private apartment—with a large kitchen, she said. The invitation sounded promising.

  Qwilleran turned back to his desk and found the desktop strewn with paper clips; the envelope he had been addressing was gone, and two cats were missing. A telltale slurping under the desk led him to Koko and a limp, sticky envelope.

  “Okay, you scoundrels,” he said as he crawled under the desk. “I consider this antisocial behavior. Shape up, or you’ll get no pot roast on Sunday.”

  When the telephone rang a second time, he stowed the envelope in a drawer. It was five o’clock, and he knew who would be on the line.

  “I’m about to leave the studio, Qwill. Do you mind if I drop in to check on Pete’s work?”

  “Sure, come along, Fran. It’s a big success. The cork gives the room a good acoustical quality.”

  “I knew it would, and your voice sounds perfectly magnificent!” she said. “See you in five minutes.” She sounded gayer than usual.

  Francesca has been to lunch with a client, Qwilleran thought. To the Siamese he said, “She’s coming for a drink, and I don’t want anybody grabbing her ankle or stealing her personal property.”

  Shortly after, the designer turned her own key in the lock downstairs and bounced up to the apartment in high spirits.

  “Scotch?” he asked.

  “Make it light. I had a lo-o-ong lunch date with a new client. Don Exbridge! I’m doing his new condo in Indian Village.”

  Qwilleran huffed silently into his moustache. The recently divorced Exbridge was a developer and one of the most eligible catches in town; women melted at his smile.

  They carried their drinks into the studio, and Qwilleran sat at his writing desk while Fran
cesca curled up in the big lounge chair where he did his creative thinking and occasionally a little catnapping. She curled up with more abandon than usual, he noted. He said, “The cork walls were a good choice for this room, Fran.”

  “Thank you. Pete did a great job. He always does.”

  “Even with mitered stripes?”

  “Ah! The Brrr Blabbermouth has been telling tales!” she said with a grimace. “That stripe job was one of my early mistakes. At lunch today Don Exbridge asked for plaid wallcovering in his den, and I vetoed it in a hurry. I told him his whole condo development is out-of-square. He just smiled his enchanting smile. He’s very easy to get along with. We’re going to Chicago to choose some things for his place.”

  Qwilleran frowned. “When are you and I flying Down Below to choose my bedroom furnishings?”

  Fran reacted with surprise and pleasure. “How about next week? There’s a new king-size four-poster I want you to see.”

  “I don’t want anything that looks as if George Washington slept in it,” he objected.

  “This bed is contemporary. Stainless-steel posts with brass finials. And there are some new case pieces from Germany that you’ll like—very neo-Bauhaus. Do you mind if I make the hotel reservations? I know a cozy place near the showroom district—expensive, but it’ll go on your bill, and it won’t hurt a bit. How about next Wednesday? If we catch the morning shuttle to Minneapolis, we can be in Chicago for lunch.”

  Qwilleran thought, When Polly finds out about this, it will be the coup de grace.

  Fran said, “What else did Big Mouth tell you?”

  “About the pink elephants and red velvet that he installed for Harley and Belle. Was that one of your mistakes?”

  “NO!” she thundered in her best stage voice. “My boss handled that transaction. Amanda will sell clients anything they want, whether it’s bad taste or utterly impractical or illegal. She’s corrupt, but I like her.”

  “Arch Riker is going to marry Amanda.”