“I hope he has a sense of humor. He’ll need it!”
“Have you heard how the bank will replace Nigel and the boys?”
“Nothing official, but the rumor is that two women officers will be elevated to VP, and a new president will come in from Down Below. I hope he’ll need an interior designer.”
“Where were you when you heard about the suicide?” he asked.
“At the hairdresser’s. Everyone cried. People really loved Nigel. He was so suave and good-looking and charming!”
“I was having dinner at the Old Stone Mill,” Qwilleran said, “and one of the waitresses dropped a tray when she heard the news. I presume Nigel was suave, good-looking, charming, and a big tipper.”
“Now you’re playing the cynical journalist. Bravo!” she said. “Did you hear that Margaret’s place on the library board is going to be filled by Don Exbridge?”
Qwilleran grunted in disapproval. Exbridge was the developer who had tried to have the historic courthouse demolished. He said, “Exbridge will convince the city to tear down our historic public library, so he can build a new one for $9.9 million.”
“Now you’re being vicious as well as cynical!” There was an amused glint in her steely, gray eyes. She liked to goad him. “Don would also like to replace Nigel on the Klingenschoen board of trustees.”
“Perfect!” Qwilleran said. “He can manipulate Klingenschoen grants to buy political favors, like rezoning, tax abatement, sewers, and other benefits for his private enterprises . . . May I freshen your drink? Then we’ll go to Stephanie’s for dinner.” Mischievously he added, “I heard some curious news last week. I heard that Harley disappeared for a year after finishing college.” He knew it would ruffle her.
“He didn’t disappear! He traveled for a year. For centuries young men have taken the grand tour before settling down. Nothing unusual about that!” She was on the defensive now.
“The consensus is that he did something unconventional during his year of freedom.”
“Stupid gossip!” she said testily.
“Did he travel by plane, motorcycle, or camel?”
“Frankly, I never thought it important to ask.”
“Did he discuss his itinerary?”
“The Fitches would consider it tacky to bore people with their travels. And he didn’t bring home any color slides or French postcards or plastic replicas of the Taj Mahal . . . . What am I getting? The third degree?”
“Sorry . . . How’s David? Have you seen him, or talked with him?”
“I talk to Jill on the phone every day,” Fran said, relaxing after her brief flurry of annoyance. “She thinks David’s on the verge of a breakdown. They’re going away for a few weeks—to a quiet place in South America where they spent their honeymoon.”
“I suppose David will inherit everything.”
“I really don’t know.” She looked at her watch. “The restaurant stops serving at nine o’clock.”
“Okay, let’s go . . . as soon as I feed the cats.”
“Did you ever find my cigarette lighter?”
“No, but Mr. O’Dell has been alerted to look for it when he cleans.”
The Siamese had retired to their apartment and were studiously watching birds from the windowsill. Qwilleran put a plate of tenderloin tips on a placemat in their bathroom, turned on the TV without the audio, and quietly shut the door to their apartment.
On the drive to Stephanie’s he said, “Is it true that Harley’s grandfather was a bootlegger?” He expected another indignant rebuttal.
“Yes!” she said with delight. “He believed people were going to drink anyway, and if he smuggled in good stuff from Canada, they wouldn’t go blind from drinking rotgut. He didn’t believe in Prohibition, income tax, or corsets for women.”
The draped tables at Stephanie’s were placed in the original rooms of the old house, and Qwilleran and his guest were seated in the second parlor. The late sun was still beaming through the stained-glass windows, turning the beveled mirrors and wine glasses into rainbows. Over dinner they discussed the new theater.
Qwilleran said, “They’re installing the seats this week. It should be available for rehearsals in August. Do you still want to open with an original revue?”
“Well . . .” Fran said indecisively, “under the circumstances we thought of doing a serious play and asking David to take a role. Something challenging and worthwhile might renew his interest in life. He’s so depressed that Jill is afraid he’ll follow his father’s example.”
Qwilleran thought, If David is involved in the situation that led to Harley’s execution, he has good reason to be depressed. He could be the next victim. To Fran he said, “Do you have any particular play in mind? Nothing Russian, I hope; it would push him over the brink.”
“And nothing too bloody,” she said.
“And nothing about two brothers.”
A mellifluous voice could be heard in the front parlor, where there were four or five tables for diners. It was a man’s voice, talking earnestly, then laughing heartily.
“I recognize that voice,” Qwilleran said. “But I can’t place it.”
Fran peered over his shoulder. “It’s Don Exbridge!” she said brightly. “And he’s with a woman. I think it’s Polly Duncan! They seem to be having a go-o-od time.” She looked teasingly smug. “Aren’t you going to send drinks over to their table?”
Qwilleran scowled as a ripple of pleasant laughter came from the front parlor. It was Polly’s gentle voice. After that he was impatient with the rest of the dinner: the salad was limp; the hazelnut torte was soggy; the coffee was weak. He was impatient with Fran’s conversation. He was impatient to send her on her way, impatient to get home to the sympathetic Siamese. Not once, he recalled, had she mentioned Koko and Yum Yum during the evening; he doubted whether she even knew their names. Not once had she remarked about the new newspaper or commented on the column he was writing. On the whole he was sorry he had agreed to fly Down Below to look at a stainless-steel bed and some neo-Bauhaus chests. There was nothing wrong with his present bedroom furniture. He felt comfortable with it. He had always felt comfortable with Polly, too. He had never felt entirely comfortable with Francesca.
On arriving home he went first to the cats’ apartment to check on possible drafts from an open window and to turn off the TV. They were both asleep in one of the baskets, curled up like yin and yang. Then he flicked on the light in the bathroom to see if they had finished their dinner, and to give them fresh water.
The scene was one of havoc! Yum Yum’s commode was overturned, and its contents had been flung about the room. A shiny object, half-buried in a damp mound of kitty gravel, proved to be a silver cigarette lighter.
Something, Qwilleran thought, is radically wrong with that cat! She used to be so fastidious! Tomorrow she goes to the doctor!
SCENE TWO
Place:
Qwilleran’s apartment
Time:
The morning after Yum Yum’s demonstration
Featuring:
AMANDA GOODWINTER
As he dialed the animal clinic to make an appointment for Yum Yum, Qwilleran thought, It was stupid of me to buy her a plastic dishpan; she wanted equal rights! She wanted an oval roasting pan like Koko’s.
He was explaining the situation to the receptionist at the clinic when the doorbell rang—three insistent rings. Only one person in Pickax rang doorbells like that.
Amanda Goodwinter clomped up the stairway complaining about the weather, the truckdrivers on the construction site, and the design of the stairs—too steep and too narrow. The love of a good newspaperman had done nothing to improve her disposition or her appearance. Wisps of gray hair made a spiky fringe under the brim of her battered golf hat, and her washed-out khaki suit looked unfitted and unpressed.
“I came to see if my free-loading assistant is making any progress,” she said, “or is she just taking long lunch hours with clients?”
“I think you’l
l be pleased with what she’s done,” Qwilleran said.
“I’m never pleased with anything, and you know it!” She trudged around the apartment, glaring at the wallcoverings and built-ins and accessories, mumbling and grumbling to herself.
“Francesca plans to design some enclosures for the radiators,” he said.
“Planning it is one thing; doing it is another.” She straightened the gunboat picture, which Koko had tilted again. “Where did you get this print?”
“From an antique shop in Mooseville that’s run by an old sea captain.”
“It’s run by an old flimflam artist! He never went farther than the end of the Mooseville pier! There are ten copies of this picture floating around the county—all cheap reproductions, not original prints. The only original is in the Fitch mansion, and it’s there because I sold it to Nigel as a birthday present for Harley. Never did pay me for it!”
“I understand you helped the family with their decorating,” Qwilleran said.
“There’s nothing anyone could do with that place except burn it down. Did you ever see the junk old Cyrus collected? They’re supposed to be treasures. Half of it’s fake!”
“The paperhanger told me they have some pretty wild wallpapers.”
“Arrgh! That tramp Harley married! I gave her what she wanted, but I made sure it’s peelable wallpaper. I hope somebody has the sense to peel it off! They should go in with a backhoe and shovel out all the crap! All those mangy stuffed animals and molting birds and phony antiques! Don’t know what they’ll do with the old mausoleum now. Might as well dynamite the whole thing and build condos.”
“Would you like to sit down, Amanda, and have a cup of coffee?”
“No time for coffee! No time to sit down!” She was still tramping back and forth like a nervous lioness. “Besides, that stuff you call coffee tastes like varnish remover.”
“With the Fitch family virtually wiped out,” Qwilleran said, “this community has suffered a great loss.”
“Don’t waste any tears over that crew! They weren’t as perfect as the lunkheads around here like to think.”
“But they were civic leaders—active in all the service clubs and all the fund-raising drives. They served the community unselfishly.” He was aware that he was baiting her.
“I’ll tell you what they were up to, mister; they were polishing their egos! Fund-raising—pooh! Just try to get any money out of their own pocketbooks, and it was a different story. And were they ever slow to pay their bills! I should’ve charged ’em the same interest the bank charges!”
Qwilleran persisted. “The daughter of the janitor at the bank is going to art school, and Nigel Fitch personally paid her tuition.”
“The Stebbins girl? Hah! Why not? Nigel’s her natural father! Stebbins has been blackmailing him for years! . . . Well, I can’t stay here all day, completing your education.” She started down the stairs. Halfway down she said, “I hear you’re going to Chicago with my assistant.”
“We have to choose some furniture for my bedroom,” Qwilleran said. “By the way, when’s the wedding?”
“What wedding?” she shouted and slammed the front door.
SCENE THREE
Place:
The Black Bear Café
Time:
Evening of the same day
Introducing:
GARY PRATT, barkeeper, sailor, and friend of Harley Fitch
Qwilleran had three reasons for driving to the Hotel Booze in Brrr on Thursday evening. He had a yen for one of their no-holds-barred hamburgers. Also, he wanted another look at the black bear that had scared the wits out of him at his birthday party. But mostly, he wanted to talk with Gary Pratt, the barkeeper who had sailed with Harley on the Fitch Witch.
He telephoned Mildred Hanstable, who lived a few miles west of Brrr, to ask if she would like to meet him for a boozeburger. She would, indeed! Women never declined Qwilleran’s invitations.
She said, “I’d like to see what Gary’s done to the hotel since his father let him take over.”
“I hope he hasn’t cleaned it up too much,” Qwilleran said. “And I hope Thumbprint Thelma hasn’t quit. I wonder if they still set ant traps under all the tables.”
The Hotel Booze was built on a sandhill overlooking the lakeside town of Brrr. It was an old stone inn dating back to pioneer days when there were no frills, no room service, no bathrooms, and (on the third floor) no beds. In its “Publick Room” miners and sailors and lumberjacks gathered on Saturday nights to drink red-eye, eat slumgullion, gamble away their pay, and kill each other. From those turbulent days until the present the hotel had been distinguished by its rooftop sign. Letters six feet high spelled out the message: BOOZE ROOMS FOOD.
Most of Moose County considered the Hotel Booze a dump. Nevertheless, everyone went there for the world’s best hamburgers and homemade pie.
Qwilleran and his guest met in the parking lot and walked together into the Publick Room, now renamed the Black Bear Café. At the entrance the bear himself stood on his hind legs, greeting customers with outstretched paws and bared fangs.
“The room looks lighter than before,” Mildred observed.
Qwilleran thought it was because they had washed the walls for the first time in fifty years. “And they repaired the torn linoleum,” he said, looking at the silvery strips of duct tape crisscrossing the floor. “I wonder if they reglued the furniture.”
He and Mildred seated themselves cautiously on wooden chairs at a battered, wooden table. A sign on the empty napkin dispenser read: PAPER NAPKINS ON REQUEST, 5¢.
Behind the bar was a hefty man with a sailor’s tan, an unruly head of black hair and a bushy black beard, lumbering back and forth with heavy grace, swinging his shoulders and hairy arms as he filled drink orders calmly and efficiently.
Mildred said, “Gary’s getting to look rather formidable. I’m glad he’s taking an interest in the business. He didn’t show much promise in school, but he made it through two years of college and stayed out of trouble, and now that his father is ill he seems to be showing some initiative.”
Towering boozeburgers were served by a young waitress in a miniskirt. “Where’s Thelma?” Qwilleran asked, remembering the former waitress who ambled out in a faded housedress and bedroom slippers.
“She retired.”
Thelma had always served the toppling burgers with her thumb on top of the bun; now they were skewered with cocktail picks.
Mildred said, “I hope I didn’t disgrace myself at the office party Saturday night.”
“They were pouring the drinks too stiff. I had three corned-beef sandwiches and two dill pickles and regretted it later.”
“I liked your column on Edd Smith, Qwill. It’s about time he had some recognition.”
“He’s amazingly well-read. He quotes Cicero and Noel Coward and Churchill as easily as others quote the stars in a TV serial. But how does he make a living in that low-key operation? Does he have a sideline? Extortion? Counterfeiting?”
“I hope you’re only trying to be funny, Qwill. Edd is an honest, sweet-natured, pathetic little man . . .”
“ . . . who keeps a deadly weapon next to his toothbrush.”
“Well, I have a handgun, too. After all, I live alone, and in summer all those batty tourists come up here.”
“Speaking of handguns,” he said, “I was having dinner at the Old Stone Mill when we heard that Nigel had shot himself, and one of the waitresses reacted very emotionally. I hear she’s an art student. Her name is Sally.”
“Yes, Sally Stebbins. She received a scholarship from the Fitch family, and I imagine she felt the loss deeply.”
“How did she rate a scholarship? Is she a good artist?”
“She shows promise,” Mildred said. “Fortunately her father works at the bank, and Nigel has always taken a paternal interest in employees and their families.” She regarded him sharply. “I hope you’re not resurrecting the old gossip.”
“Is it worth resurrecti
ng?”
“Well, I may as well tell you, because you’ll dig until you find out anyway. There was a rumor that Nigel was Sally’s real father, but it was a despicable lie. Nigel’s integrity has always been beyond reproach. He and Margaret were simply wonderful people.”
Qwilleran gazed at her intently and fingered his moustache. Did she believe what she was saying? Was it the truth? What could anyone believe in this northern backwoods where gossip was the major industry? He asked her, “What was your reaction to the car-train accident?”
Mildred shook her head sadly. “I regret the loss of human life, but it seems like poetic justice if they’re the ones who killed Harley and Belle. Roger says the police haven’t found the jewels. Did you know some valuable pieces are missing? They’re hushing it up, but Roger has a friend in the sheriff’s office.”
The waitress in the miniskirt announced the pie of the day: strawberry. It proved to be made with whole berries and real whipped cream, and Qwilleran and his guest devoured it in enraptured silence. Then Mildred inquired about the Siamese.
“Koko’s okay,” he said, “but I had to take Yum Yum to the vet. I phoned him about her problem, and he told me to bring her in with a urine sample.”
“Interesting! How did you manage that?”
“Not with a paper cup! I had to buy a special kit—a minuscule sponge and some tiny tweezers—and then sit in the cats’ apartment for five hours, waiting for Yum Yum to cooperate. When the mission was finally accomplished I took her to the clinic with the sponge in a plastic bag the size of a Ritz cracker. I felt like a fool!”
“How did Yum Yum feel?”
“Hell hath no fury like a female Siamese who hates the vet. As soon as she saw the cold, steel table, the fur began to fly. Cat hairs everywhere! Like a snowstorm! She was probed and poked and squeezed and stuck with a thermometer. The vet was murmuring soothing words, and she was howling and struggling and snapping her jaws like a crocodile.”
“Did he find anything wrong?”
“He said it’s all psychological. She’s objecting to something in her life-style or environment, and I don’t think it’s the new wallpaper. In my opinion she’s jealous of the interior designer.”
The Cat Who Sniffed Glue Page 12