“Interesting sidelight,” Qwilleran said. . . . “Are you going to the game tonight?”
“Should I?” asked the newcomer to Pickax.
“It's the sporting highlight of the year!” Qwilleran said seriously, as if it were true. “Take your receptionist.”
* * *
Once a year there was a softball game between the Typos and the Tubes—two scrub teams composed of newspaper staffers and hospital personnel. Compared to the regular league games, their efforts were ludicrous, and the only spectators were family members and fellow employees, but everyone had a good time. On this occasion, Qwilleran was in no mood to attend the game alone, but he knew Roger MacGillivray would be on the sidelines, hurling scurrilous insults at the Tubes. Roger was the on-the-spot reporter in Mudville.
The softball field had been merely a bare spot in the landscape west of Pickax until the K Foundation added two more diamonds, a soccer field, bleacher seats, and a pavilion. Now it was named Goodwinter Field, after the founders of the city. A Goodwinter was playing shortstop this year—Junior, the managing editor. Others were recruited from the city room, sports department, and photo lab. Their bright red T-shirts and baseball caps made a lively scene when they were in the field. The hospital team, composed mostly of technicians, wore T-shirts in operating-room green and happened to win every year.
Most of the spectators sat in the second and third rows of the bleachers. Junior's wife was there with a baby in a car tote and a small boy who couldn't sit still. Bushy had brought his receptionist, who was more attractive than Qwilleran had previously thought. Arch and Mildred Riker were there, of course, wearing red baseball caps with the MCS logo.
“Where's Polly?” Mildred asked.
Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers were a chummy duo seated apart from the others, a development that was duly noted by the matchmakers at the game. She waved to Qwilleran and called out, “Where's Polly?”
When he saw Roger arriving and heading for the pavilion, he followed him. “Nice piece in the paper today, Roger.”
“Thanks. I finally learned how to make no-news sound like news.”
“The shooting of the dog was a bizarre twist.”
“Right! The natives are restless. Someone threw a brick through the Lumbertown office window this afternoon, and when they talk about F.T., the initials stand for something else.”
The cry of “Batter up” sent the two men scurrying to the bleachers with their soft drinks. At Qwilleran's suggestion they climbed to the top row. “Better view,” he explained. More privacy, he thought.
The sun was still high in the sky, where it belonged on a summer evening in the north country. The play on the field was leisurely. The sports fans were appropriately rude.
During a lull in the game, Qwilleran asked, “How did you find out about the dog?”
“The family reported it to the police, and I went out to their house. They're not supposed to talk to the media, and the nurse wouldn't let me in, but then the daughter saw me and said it was all right. She was in my history class when I was teaching—an A-plus student. When I'd assign a chapter, she'd augment it with research in the library. . . . Sock it to ‘im, Dave! Break his bat! . . . She should've gone on to college.”
“Why didn't she?”
“They wanted her at home to take care of her invalid mother. I think she's a lonely and frustrated girl. I could tell she wanted to talk to me, lawyer or no lawyer. We went out on the patio and reminisced about high school—had a few laughs.”
“Could you tell how she was reacting to the publicity and the pressure?”
“She was all broken up about the dog. He was a chow. His name was Zak, spelled Z-a-k. Dead on second! Good mitt, Juny! . . . Finally she told me, off the record, that the dog really belonged to her brother, but the lawyer wanted the public to think he was Floyd's.”
“So all the dog lovers would feel sorry for his client,” Qwilleran suggested.
“Right! Her brother lives in an apartment where they don't allow pets, so he kenneled Zak at his parents' house, nights. Served a double purpose. Everybody in the country has a watchdog. . . . Make it three, Dave. You're hot!”
Dave made it three, the green shirts trotted onto the field, and the red shirts took their turn at bat.
“Was Floyd's son in any of your classes?” Qwilleran asked.
“All I can say is: He occupied a seat. A student he was not! He and his buddy from Chipmunk were always in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Fighting . . . carrying knives . . . underage drinking . . . ”
“Any drugs?”
“Alcohol was the chief problem then. That was a few years ago, you know. Eddie and the other kid were expelled. . . . Okay, Typos! Murder those bedpan pushers!”
From the third row Riker bellowed, ”Send those bloodsuckers to the morgue!”
Nevertheless, at the end of the sixth, the score stood 12 to 5 in the Tubes' favor. Qwilleran watched with mild enthusiasm; he preferred hardball to softball. He liked the overhand or sidearm pitch, the crack of a real baseball, the long run to first, and nine innings. At the next lull he asked Roger, “Does Floyd's daughter think the shooting was connected with the charge against her father?”
“She didn't say, and I didn't ask. Sensitive subject.”
“What time did the shooting take place?”
“About two in the morning. Her mother was awake and heard the shot. She rang for her daughter.”
“Did anyone hear the dog bark at the prowler?”
“I guess not.”
The game ended at 13 to 8, and Roger stood up, yelling. ”Good try, guys! Next year we'll anesthetize those tube jockeys!”
When Qwilleran returned to the barn after the game, Yum Yum was curled up like a shrimp in his favorite lounge chair, asleep. Koko was in the foyer, looking out the window.
“If it's Zak you're waiting for, give up!” Qwilleran told him. “He won't be coming around anymore. . . . Let's have a read. Book! Book!”
After one last intense look down the trail, Koko tore himself away from the window and did some educated sniffing on the bookshelves. Finally he nosed The Panama Canal: An Engineering Treatise.
“Thank you for reminding me,” said Qwilleran, who had forgotten to open the book since bringing it home.
It contained many statistics and black-and-white photos of World War I vintage, and although Qwilleran found it quite absorbing, Yum Yum quickly fell asleep, and Koko kept yawning conspicuously.
“To be continued,” Qwilleran said as he replaced the book on the history shelf.
SEVEN
After the ballgame and the Panama Canal session, Qwilleran phoned Polly at her apartment. “Did you read the front page today?” he asked. “Did you see the item about the Trevelyan dog?”
“Wasn't that a senseless, uncivilized thing to do?” she replied vehemently. “What did they hope to accomplish? It won't bring the fugitive back! It won't compensate them for their financial losses!”
“And it wasn't even Floyd's dog,” Qwilleran told her. “It belonged to his son, your builder.”
“That's even worse!”
“He's the chow who came to work with the crew every day—a beautiful animal, friendly and well-behaved.”
“Are there any suspects, have you heard?”
“Not as yet, I guess. Police are investigating.”
“Oh, dear,” Polly sighed. “One evil only leads to another.”
Qwilleran changed the tone of his voice from objective to warmly personal. “And how is everything with you and Bootsie?”
“We're well, thank you. And what did you do today, dear?”
“Well, this evening I watched the Tubes trounce the Typos in the annual ballgame. I knew you'd be too busy to go, but everyone wanted to know where you were.” This was stretching the truth; there had been only two inquiries, although everyone was probably wondering why the richest bachelor in the northeast central United States was alone.
Hope sprang eternal in the breasts of several hundred single and soon-to-be-single women in Moose County.
“I'm sorry, dear,” Polly said. “I know I haven't been good company recently. I've had so much on my mind.”
“That's all right,” he said and then added naughtily, “Celia Robinson arrives tomorrow, and I feel obliged to spend some time with her. She doesn't know anyone up here.”
There was an eloquent pause before Polly said coolly, “That's very hospitable of you.”
“You'll meet her sooner or later, although I think she's not your type. She splits infinitives.”
“I'll look forward to meeting her.” Polly's voice dripped icicles.
“Well, I'll let you get back to your blueprints.”
“Thank you for calling . . . dear.”
“I'll keep in touch. Don't let the house get you down, Polly.”
Qwilleran hung up with a pang of misgiving. He had deliberately irked Polly by mentioning Celia, and he recognized it as an act of unkindness to vent his own frustration. It was like shooting the embezzler's dog, he realized.
Tomorrow, he told himself, he might call and apologize; then again, he might not.
The next day was sunny with little breeze and temperatures higher than usual. An Anvil Chorus of ringing hammers at the end of the trail indicated that the carpenters were working feverishly. After coffee and a roll, Qwilleran walked down to the building site. There were now three men on the job, all wearing sweatbands and no shirts. Their perspiring backs glistened in the sun.
Qwilleran called to them, “Could you guys use some cold drinks? I live at the end of the trail. Be glad to bring a cooler down here.”
“Got any beer?” asked the helper with a ponytail.
“No beer!” Eddie ordered. “No drinkin' on the job when you work for me . . . Benno!” The way he spoke the man's name was a reprimand in itself.
Qwilleran went home and loaded a cooler with soft drinks, which he delivered by car. The trio of workers removed their nail aprons and dropped down under a tree—Zak's tree—and popped the cans gratefully.
After a couple of swallows, Eddie set down his drink and started sharpening a pencil with a pocketknife.
Qwilleran said, “I notice you sharpen that pencil a lot.”
“Gotta have a sharp pencil when you measure a board,” the carpenter said, “or you can be way off.”
“Is that so? It never occurred to me. . . . Where's your dog? Is it too hot for him today?”
The two helpers looked at their boss questioningly, and Eddie said with a glum scowl, “He won't be comin' with me no more. Some dirty skunk shot him, night before last.”
“You don't mean it!” Qwilleran said in feigned surprise. “Sorry to hear it. Was it a hunter, mistaking him for a wild animal?”
Furiously Eddie said, “Wasn't no accident! I could kill the guy what done it!”
Qwilleran commiserated with genuine feeling and then said he'd leave the cooler and pick it up later.
Eddie followed him to the car. “D'you live in the barn up there? Somebody in my family built it, way back. This was his orchard. I see you fixed up the barn pretty good. I poked around one day when there wasn't nobody home, ‘cept a cat lookin' at me out the window. At first I thought it was a weasel.”
“Would you like to see the inside of the barn when you've finished work today?” This was a rare invitation. Qwilleran discouraged ordinary sightseers.
“Would I! You bet!” the young man exclaimed. “We quit at four-thirty. I'll drive up and bring your cooler back.”
“Good! We'll have a drink.” Qwilleran knew how to play the genial host.
Before driving back up the trail, he picked up his mail and noticed with foreboding a bulky envelope from the accounting firm. It suggested tax complications with pages of obscure wordage in fine print. When he opened it, however, out fell a large swatch of plaid cloth in bright red—the Mackintosh tartan. He felt the quality. It was a fine wool, and the red was brilliant. An accompanying note from Gordie Shaw stated that custom-made kilts could be ordered from Scottie's Men's Store. There was also an application for membership in the Clan Mackintosh of North America. It was simple enough; the dues were low; his mother's clan affiliation qualified him for membership. It was something he would have to think about seriously—the membership, not the kilt. He left the envelope on the telephone desk where it would catch his eye and jog his decision.
Qwilleran planned to stay home all day, waiting for an important phone call. Celia Robinson was driving up from Illinois and was instructed to telephone upon reaching Lockmaster.
Throughout the day there were frenzied sounds of building at the end of the trail: the clunk of two-by-fours, the buzz of a tablesaw, the syncopated rhythm of hammers. Qwilleran admired a carpenter's skill in sinking a nail with three powerful blows. His own attempts started with a series of uncertain taps, a smashed thumb, and a crooked nail, which he tried to flatten by beating it into the wood sideways.
At about two o'clock the phone rang, and Koko's uncanny sense knew it was important; he raced to the telephone and jumped on and off the desk. Qwilleran followed, saying, “I'll take it, if you don't mind.”
A cheery voice said, “I'm in Lockmaster, Chief, and I'm reporting like you said. Permission requested to proceed.” This little charade was followed by a trill of laughter.
“Good! You're thirty miles from Pickax, which is straight north,” he said crisply. “When you reach the city limits, it's three more blocks to a traffic circle with a little park in the center. Look for the K Theatre on your right. It's a big fieldstone building. Turn into the driveway. I'll be watching for you. Red car, did you say?”
“Very red, Chief,” she said with a hearty laugh.
Qwilleran immediately jogged through the woods to the carriage house to check its readiness. The windows were clean, the phone was connected, and the rooms had been brightened with framed flower prints, potted plants, and colorful pillows. He added a copy of the Moose County Something to the coffee table. The kitchen was miraculously complete, even to red-and-white checked dishtowels. In the bedroom there was a floral bedspread; in the guestroom, a Navajo design. He thought, Nice going, Fran!
Qwilleran went downstairs, just in time to see a red car pulling into the theatre parking lot. The driver rolled down her window and gave him a wide, toothy smile. “We made it!”
“Welcome to Pickax,” he said, reaching in to shake her hand.
She was a youthful-looking, gray-haired woman whose only wrinkles were laugh lines around the eyes and smile creases in the cheeks.
“You look just like your picture in the paper, Chief!”
He grunted acknowledgment. “How was the trip?”
“We took it easy, so as not to put a strain on Wrigley. Most of the way he was pretty good.” In the backseat a black-and-white cat peered mutely through the barred door of a plastic carrier. “One motel in Wisconsin didn't take pets, but I told them he was related to the White House cat, so they let him stay.”
“Quick thinking, Celia.”
“That's something I learned from you, Chief—how to make up a neat little story. . . . Where shall I park?”
“At the doorway to the carriage house—over there. I'll carry your luggage upstairs, but first we'll show the apartment to Wrigley, to see if it meets with his approval.”
Celia laughed merrily at this mild quip. “I'll carry his sandbox and water dish.”
As they climbed the stairs, Qwilleran apologized for the narrowness of the flight and the shallowness of the treads. “This was built a hundred years ago when people had narrow shoulders and small feet.” This brought another trill of laughter, and he thought, I've got to be careful what I say to this woman; she's jacked up.
Upstairs she gushed over the spaciousness and comfort of the rooms, while Wrigley methodically sniffed the premises that had once been home to two Siamese.
“Now, while I'm bringing up your luggage,” Qwilleran instructed Celia
, “you sit down and make a list of what groceries you need. Then I'll do your shopping while you take a rest.”
“Oh, that's too much trouble for you, Chief!”
“Not at all. I have an ulterior motive. Did you bring your recipe for chocolate brownies?”
She laughed again. “I brought a whole shoebox of recipes!”
He had a reason for wanting to shop alone. Otherwise it would be all over town that Mr. Q was buying groceries in the company of a strange woman who laughed at everything he said and was not at all like Mrs. Duncan.
“This evening,” he said in a businesslike way, “it will be my pleasure to take you to dinner, and tomorrow a pleasant woman by the name of Virginia Alstock will drive you around and give you a crash course in what Pickax is all about.”
“Oh, Chief! I don't know what to say. You're so kind!”
“Don't say anything. Get to work on that list. I have a four-thirty appointment.”
“Yes, sir!” she said with a stiff salute and torrents of laughter.
Qwilleran himself was a chuckler, not a laugher, and on the way to Toodles' Market he began to wonder how much of Celia's merriment he could stand. He pushed a cart up and down the aisles briskly, collecting the fifteen items on her list. At the checkout counter the cashier expressed surprise.
“Gonna do some cooking, Mr. Q?”
Ordinarily he checked out a few ounces of turkey or shrimp and a frozen dinner. Tonight he was buying unusual items like flour, potatoes, bananas, and canned cat food. “Just shopping for a sick friend,” he explained.
He delivered the groceries to the carriage house and returned to the barn just as Eddie Trevelyan's pickup came bouncing up the trail. The young man, in jeans and a tank top, jumped out of the cab and gestured toward the decrepit orchard. “Y'oughta do somethin' about them weeds and rotted trees.”
“What would you suggest?” Qwilleran asked amiably.
“I could clean 'em out with a bulldozer and backhoe, pave the road, and build a string of condos.” He glanced toward the front window. “There's the weasel again. You sure he's a cat?”
The Cat Who Blew the Whistle Page 9
