“Sometimes I'm not sure what he is” was the truthful answer.
“Hey, this is some barn, ain't it?”
“Wait till you see the interior. Come in and have a drink.”
As soon as they went indoors, Koko came forward with mouth open and fangs bared, emitting a hostile hiss. His stiffened tail was straight as a fencer's sword.
“Does he bite?” the visitor asked, drawing back.
“No, he's overreacting because you think he's a weasel. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Sit anywhere,” he added, noting the young man's reluctance to step on the unbleached Moroccan rug or sit on the pale, mushroom-tinted furniture. “What's your drink?”
“Shot ‘n' a beer's okay.” He sank into a capacious lounge chair and stared in awe at the balconies, catwalks, ramps, and giant fireplace cube.
“How do you like it?” Qwilleran called from the bar.
“Piece o' work, man!”
“I heard about the house you built for the Alstocks in Black Creek. It's been highly praised.”
“Yeah . . . well . . . ” Eddie was uncomfortable with the compliment.
At the barn the drinks were usually served on a tray, but on this occasion Qwilleran carried the beer can and shot glass by hand. “How are you getting along with Mrs. Duncan?” he asked.
“She's okay, but she worries too much. She's always on my back about somethin'.” He downed the whiskey. “Hey, I don't know your name.”
“Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran.”
“I think I heard it somewheres.”
“Could be. . . . I noticed you had an extra helper today.”
“The job'll go faster now.”
“Who's your regular man? You two seem to work well as a team.”
“Benno. He's from Chipmunk. I knew him in high school. We both took Vocational. What do you do?”
“I'm a writer. I write books . . . about . . . baseball.” It was the whitest lie Qwilleran could devise on the spur of the moment. He could get away with it because Eddie obviously did not read the Moose County Something.
“I like soccer,” Eddie said, and Qwilleran became an instant soccer enthusiast.
After the builder's second shot of whiskey, he seemed more relaxed. “Wotcha think of my dog?”
“Beautiful chow! Friendly personality! What was his name?”
“Zak.”
“Good name. Who came up with that?”
“My sister.”
“Did she get along with Zak, or was he strictly a man's dog?”
“Zak liked everybody. But him and me, we were like buddies. He was a joker, too. I'd take him out on a job, and he'd hang around all day till I started to pack up. Then he'd take off, and I'd hafta chase him. The louder I yelled, the faster he'd run, like he was laughin' at me. He liked to run, di'n't like to be chained. He had a long dog run at my folks' house. That's where they got 'im. Right between the eyes. Musta come outa the kennel to see who was prowlin' around.”
“Did he bark? Shouldn't he have barked?”
“Di'n't nobody hear any barkin'.”
“Where was his body found?”
“Right near the fence.”
Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. “So he was evidently shot at close range, and he didn't bark. Sounds as if the shooter was someone he knew.”
Eddie's delayed response and nervous eyeballs gave the impression that he knew more than he was telling. “Zak knew lotsa people.”
Qwilleran was at his sympathetic best: the concern in his eyes, the kindly tilt of his head, the way he leaned toward his listener, the gentle tone of his voice. “How's your mother feeling these days?”
Eddie looked startled. “D'you know her?”
“We've met, and I feel very bad about her illness. Does she have good medical care?”
“Aw, the doctors don't know nothin'. There's one doctor that has a cure, but he's in Switzerland.”
“Is that so? Have you thought of taking her there?”
“Yeah, my sister and me, we thought about it, but . . . we di'n't have the dough. The trip, y'know . . . the treatment . . . stayin' there a long time . . . outa sight! I dunno . . . ”
“How about another drink?” Qwilleran suggested.
“Nah, I gotta hit the road.”
“Some coffee? I could throw a burger in the microwave.”
“Nah, I gotta meet a guy in Sawdust.”
* * *
As the contractor drove away in his pickup, Koko ambled inquisitively into the room as if saying, Has he gone?
“That was impolite to hiss at a guest,” Qwilleran reprimanded him, though realizing the cat had never before seen such a hairy human. He himself was pleased that he had concealed his connection with the media, while establishing a contact with the Trevelyan family that could be pursued without arousing suspicion. He made a mental list of procedures:
—Continue to take an insulated chest of cold drinks to the building site.
—Talk soccer with the crew during their break; read the soccer news in the daily paper.
—Attend a soccer game.
—Show interest in the house construction and ask dumb questions.
Qwilleran's ideas concerning the shooting of the dog were crystallizing. The perpetrator (a) had a grudge against Floyd and (b) knew where and how the dog was kenneled, although (c) he was unaware that he was shooting someone else's pet. One distasteful idea came to mind: The crime was purposely committed to encourage public sympathy for Floyd. The notion was not completely farfetched in this stronghold of dog owners.
In any case, since Zak had not barked and was shot at close range, the shooter was obviously someone he knew, and yet . . . that could be anyone. Zak was friendly to a fault.
Regarding the police investigation of the shooting, Qwilleran assumed that they knew all of the above but had more important matters to investigate, such as the whereabouts of the embezzler himself.
Something Eddie had said now started a new train of thought: Floyd might have stashed the stolen money in Swiss banks; he might now be in Switzerland and not Mexico as everyone assumed; he might be arranging to fly his wife there for treatment. This theory, Qwilleran realized, had its flaws, but if it were viable, why had Koko performed his death dance? Baffled, he decided to table the matter and take Celia Robinson to dinner.
First he had to feed the cats. He often reflected that he was retired from the workplace, had no family responsibilities, and was the richest man in the northeast central United States. Yet his entire life was structured around the humble routine of feeding the Siamese, brushing their coats, entertaining them, doing lap service, and policing their commode. Early in his life it would have been inconceivable!
* * *
The question now arose: Where to take the loudly gleeful Mrs. Robinson to dinner? The New Pickax Hotel was the usual choice for business dinners and social obligations; no one went there for fun. On this evening Polly would be dining there with the library board, a group of genteel older women whose voices never rose higher than a murmur. The dining room was small, furthermore, and other tables would be occupied by lone business travelers intent on their tough steak. Celia's shrieks of laughter would reverberate like a tropical bird in a mortuary.
Qwilleran's own favorite restaurant was the Old Stone Mill, but he was too well known there, and the entire staff kept tabs on his dining companions. The safest choice was a steakhouse in North Kennebeck named Tipsy's. It occupied a large log cabin; the atmosphere was informal; the patrons were noisy; and the restaurant had the distinction of being named after the owner's cat. That would please Celia.
When he called for her, she was obviously wearing her best dress, her best jewelry, and full makeup. She looked nice, although she would be conspicuous at Tipsy's.
“Where are we going?” she asked with excitement. “I saw ads in the paper for Otto's Tasty Eats and the Nasty Pasty. Such funny names! And Moose County Something is a crazy name for a newspaper! I also read about a town called Brrr;
was that a misprint?”
“Brrr happens to be the coldest spot in the county,” he informed her.
“That's a good one!” she exclaimed with hearty laughter. “Wait till I tell my grandson! I write to Clayton once a week, sometimes twice.”
“You can plan on plenty of two-letter weeks while you're here,” Qwilleran said. “People who live 400 miles north of everywhere tend to be different. It's called frontier individualism.”
On the way to North Kennebeck Celia continued to be convulsed with merriment at signposts pointing to Chipmunk, West Middle Hummock, and Sawdust City. “I don't believe it!” she cried when Ittibittiwassee Road crossed the Ittibittiwassee River. “Are they for real?”
“Sawdust City is not only real but recently it's been the scene of a major financial scandal.”
“I like scandals!” she cried happily.
“Virginia Alstock will fill in the details tomorrow, but briefly: The president of a financial institution has disappeared along with his secretary and millions of dollars belonging to depositors. Mrs. Alstock will also take you to meet Lisa Compton at the Senior Care Facility. Would you care for part-time work as a companion for elderly shut-ins?”
“Oh, yes! I'm good with old people and invalids. I cheer them up.”
“I believe it!” he said sincerely.
Celia became serious. “Do you think I laugh too much, Chief?”
“How much is too much?”
“Well, my daughter-in-law says I do. My husband was just the opposite. He always expected the worst. I've always been an optimist, and I began laughing to make up for his bad humor, but the more I laughed, the worse he got, and the worse he got, the more I laughed. It was funny when you think about it. I noticed you never laugh, Chief, although you've got a terrific sense of humor.”
“I'm a chuckler,” he said. “My laughter is internal. I wrote a column once about the many kinds of laughter. People giggle, titter, guffaw, snicker, cackle, or roar. My friend Polly Duncan, whom you'll meet, has a musical laugh that's very pleasant. Laughter is an expression of mirth involving the facial muscles, throat, lungs, mouth, and eyes. It's usually involuntary, but one can control the volume and tone to suit the time and place. It's called fine-tuning. . . . My next lecture will be at 9 a.m. tomorrow.”
“I never thought of that,” she said. “I'm going to try fine-tuning.”
“There's a hostess at the restaurant where we're going who greets customers with loud, cackling laughter. I always think, There goes another egg.”
Celia tried to smother her screams of delight. “What's the name of the restaurant?”
“The Chicken Coop.”
She exploded again but cut it short.
“No, it's really called Tipsy's.” Then he explained how it was founded in the 1930s and named after a white-and-black cat whose markings made her look inebriated, and whose deformed foot made her stagger. “Her portrait in the main dining room was the subject of county-wide controversy recently,” he said, “resolved only when art fakery was revealed.”
When they arrived at the restaurant and were greeted by the hostess with a cackling laugh, Celia struggled to keep a straight face as she mumbled to Qwilleran, “Another egg!”
The menu was limited. Qwilleran always ordered the steak. Celia asked if the fish had bones, because she wanted to take some home to Wrigley. During the meal she had many questions to ask.
“Who is your friend with the nice laugh?”
“The administrator of the public library. It's her assistant who will chauffeur you around town tomorrow.”
“Where do you live?”
“No doubt you've noticed the evergreen forest behind the theatre parking lot. Beyond that is an old orchard with a hundred-year-old apple barn. That's where I live.”
“You live in a barn?”
“I've fixed it up a little. You'll see it one of these days. After you're settled, we'll have a talk. I think . . . I may have another assignment for you, Celia.”
* * *
After dropping his dinner guest at her apartment, Qwilleran hurried to the barn to make a phone call. Just inside the kitchen door he picked up a black felt-tip pen from the floor. “Drat that cat!” he muttered as he dropped it into the pewter mug on the desk. A pen lying on a desktop was fair game to Koko, but he never filched one from the mug. He suspected Yum Yum.
It was the Compton residence that he called, and Lisa answered. “Do you want to speak to my grouchy husband?”
“No, I want to speak with his charming wife. It's about Pals for Patients.”
“Sure. What can I do for you?”
“Does the Trevelyan family in West Middle Hummock ever call you for help?”
“All the time! The Pals we send out there never keep the job very long. It's a long drive for only a few hours' work, and it's an unhappy family. No one's assigned to them at the moment—not since the credit union closed. Their daughter worked there, but now she's at home, taking care of her mother herself. Why do you ask?”
“I've met the son. He's building Polly's house. It was his dog who was shot. Did you read about it?”
“Nasty business!” Lisa said.
“I agree. I have no sympathy for Floyd, but I feel sorry for his family, especially his wife, and I have a suggestion. The Celia Robinson I mentioned to you has a cheerful disposition that would do wonders for Mrs. Trevelyan, I'm sure. Mrs. Robinson will call at your office tomorrow, and I wish you'd see what you can do.”
“You don't think she'd mind the drive?”
“She's just driven for three days with a cat in the backseat, and there were no complaints—from either of them. She's an inspiration, I tell you! She could even make Lyle smile.”
“Hands off my husband!” Lisa said. “He may be an old curmudgeon, but he's mine! . . . Okay, I'll see what I can do.”
Qwilleran hung up slowly with a satisfied feeling of accomplishment. Already his logical mind was telling him how to brief Celia for her assignment. As he sat at the desk, making notes with a black felt-tip, he realized that neither cat had greeted him at the door. He glanced around casually, then with mounting concern. That's when he saw the blood-red splotch on a light-colored sofa.
Logic gave way to panic! He jumped up, knocking over the desk chair, and rushed toward the lounge area. ”Koko! Yum Yum!” he shouted. There was no answer.
EIGHT
Words can hardly express Qwilleran's panic when he glimpsed the blood-red splotch in the lounge area, nor his relief upon finding that it was the swatch of fabric in the Mackintosh tartan. The Siamese had stolen it! The envelope containing the application for membership in the clan was on the floor nearby. And where were the culprits? On top of the fireplace cube, observing Qwilleran's brief frenzy with wonder, as if thinking, What fools these mortals be!
“You devils!” he said, shaking his fist in their direction. Then he had second thoughts. It was not necessarily a two-cat caper. Which one of them was guilty? They both looked annoyingly innocent. Most likely Koko had heisted the envelope for some obscure reason of his own. Did he smell the red dye in the cloth? At one time in his brief but stellar career he had chewed red neckties.
Then Qwilleran had a quirky thought. “If you're trying to get me into a kilt,” he shouted at Koko, “no dice!”
Nevertheless, he read the application blank once more. By nature he was not a joiner of clubs, societies, or associations (apart from the press club). Yet, as Big Mac had said, it would be a tribute to his mother if he joined the clan; she had been so proud of her Scottish heritage. Having reached middle age, he now found himself thinking about her with appreciation and admiration. He remembered her precepts: Give more than you get. . . . Be yourself; don't imitate your peers. . . . Always serve beverages on a tray.
She had died when he was in college. If she had lived longer, she would have gloried in his success as a journalist, wept over the crisis that almost ruined his life, and finally delighted in his new prosperity, especially sinc
e it was her Klingenschoen connection that sowed the seed.
Qwilleran filled out the membership application. Polly would be happy. “But no kilt!” he muttered to himself.
“YOW!” came a comment from the top of the fireplace cube.
* * *
The day after his visit with Eddie Trevelyan, Qwilleran drove to the mailbox with another cooler of soft drinks in the trunk. This was Phase One in his plan to get into the Trevelyan household by the back door. For Phase Two he would need Celia's help and the cooperation of Lisa Compton.
There were five trucks at the building site; electrician and plumber were “roughing in,” according to Eddie. Qwilleran dropped off the cooler and returned to the barn to read his mail. One letter piqued his curiosity. The stationery had character, and the envelope was hand written in a distinctive script. He read:
Dear Mr. Q,
Just a note to say I'm sending you a memento from my father's personal collection. Whenever you sit in it, your creativity will scintillate. I want you to have this souvenir because I shall never forget that you saved my life on the island and encouraged me to improve my life-style.
My brother will bring it over on his boat, and Derek will pick it up at the pier in Mooseville and deliver it in his truck.
Gratefully,
Liz
Qwilleran's first thought was: No! Not a pyramid! What will I do with it? Where can I put it? How large is it? Can I donate it to a school or museum without hurting Elizabeth's feelings? She had wanted him to call her Liz, a diminutive that only her father had used, but Qwilleran had no desire to be a surrogate parent.
He read the rest of his mail, throwing most of it into the wastebasket or red-inking it for handling by the secretarial service. A few letters he would answer himself, by postal card or phone call. Cards required fewer words than letters and were cheaper to mail. Despite his new wealth, there was an old frugality in his nature.
After that he went to work in his balcony studio, which was off-limits to the Siamese. The closed-door policy, he liked to explain, kept the cats out of his hair and the cat hairs out of his typewriter. Now he was trying to find something different to say about baseball for the “Qwill Pen” column.
The Cat Who Blew the Whistle Page 10
