He wrote, “Compared to a nervous, hyped- up, violent, clock-watching game like football, baseball is a spectator sport that encourages relaxation. The leisurely pace—punctuated by well-spaced spurts of running, sliding, and arguing—promotes a feeling of well-being, enhanced by the consumption of a hot dog or beverage of choice. The continual pauses—for bat-swinging, mitt-thumping, cap-tugging, belt-hitching, hand-spitting, and homeplate-dusting—produce a pleasant hypnosis.”
Qwilleran's concentration was interrupted by the urgent ringing of the doorbell, as well as banging on the kitchen door. He ran down the ramp and found Derek Cuttlebrink towering on the doorstep. “Special delivery from Breakfast Island!” he announced. “Want me to carry it in?”
“Will it come through the doorway?” Qwilleran asked. A pyramid large enough to sit in, he reasoned, would have awkward dimensions.
“No problem,” Derek yelled as he returned to his pickup and unloaded an item of furniture. “Where d'you want me to put it?” he asked as he maneuvered it through the kitchen door.
“Do I have to tell you?” Qwilleran responded tartly. “What is it supposed to be?”
“A rocking chair! Handmade! Antique! One size fits all! It belonged to Elizabeth's old man.” Derek set the rocker down and sat in it. “Comfortable, too! Try it; you'll like it!”
It was made entirely of bent twigs, except for the rockers—and the bowl-shaped seat that appeared to be varnished treebark. Qwilleran thought, It's the ugliest chair I've ever seen! He slid into the seat cautiously and was immediately tilted back as if ready for dental surgery. It was, however, a remarkably comfortable sling.
“There's something I'm supposed to give you.” Derek dashed out to his truck and returned with a snapshot. “This is her old man, posing with his chair. She thought you'd like to see what he looked like. Now I've gotta get to work. I'm on for the dinner hour, five to eight.”
“What about your rehearsal?” Qwilleran called after him.
“The rude mechanicals aren't scheduled tonight.”
After Derek had driven away, raising more dust than other visitors had done, Qwilleran grabbed the phone and called Amanda's Studio of Design, hoping Fran Brodie would be in-house. She answered.
“Stay there! I'll be right over!” he shouted. He hung up while she was still sputtering, “What . . . What . . . ?”
He usually chose to walk downtown, but this time he drove. At the design studio he barged through the front door and threw a snapshot on Fran's desk. “Know anything about this? The chair, not the man.”
The designer's eyes grew wide. “Where did you get this picture? Who is he? Is he selling the chair?”
“The man's dead. The chair is in my barn. It's supposed to be a thank-you from Elizabeth for saving her life on the island. If I'd known I was getting this, I'd have thrown her back in the swamp.”
“Very funny,” Fran said, “but you don't know what you're talking about. This is a twistletwig rocker, a hundred years old, at least. It was the poor man's bentwood, made of willow.”
“Well, the poor man can have it! Even Whistler's Mother would think it was ugly. Koko sniffed it and made a face. Yum Yum won't go anywhere near it; that should tell you something!”
“I don't consider Yum Yum an arbiter of taste!” The two females had feuded briefly at one time, and Yum Yum won. “As a matter of fact, it's a beautiful piece of folk art, and a dealer on the East Coast recently advertised one for $2,000.”
“You're pulling my leg!”
“I'm not! This is a choice collectible! Do you want to sell? Amanda will give you a thousand without blinking. Is it comfortable?”
“Very, but I still think it's a nightmare masquerading as furniture.”
“Go back! You're not ready!” Fran said impatiently. “The chair is linear sculpture! It'll be a dynamic accent for your light, contemporary furniture. Live with it for a while, and you'll be writing a treatise for the “Qwill Pen” on the charms of twistletwig. I'll help you do some research.”
She had said the magic word; whenever anyone mentioned material for his column, Qwilleran went on red alert. To save face he pointed to a wooden box on her desk. “What's that? Is that another high-priced collectible?” It was slightly crude, in the size and shape of a two-pound loaf of bread.
“That's an English pencil box,” Fran said. “A country piece, rather old. I believe it's walnut. It came from the Witherspoon estate in Lockmaster.”
The wood was a mellow brown enhanced by the distress marks of age. The lid was rimmed with a fine line of brass, and there was a small brass key in the lock. Qwilleran lifted the lid and found a shallow compartment.
“You could use it for cufflinks,” she suggested.
“I don't use cufflinks. No one in Pickax uses cufflinks! What I need is a place to lock up my pens. One of our resident cat burglars has been swiping them, and I suspect Koko.”
“This would be perfect, and you could use the drawer at the bottom for paper clips.”
“Yum Yum opens drawers and collects paper clips.” He tugged at the drawer. “It's jammed.”
“No, it isn't. There's a secret latch.”
“I'll take it,” he said. “Also my snapshot.”
Carrying the pencil box under his arm, Qwilleran walked to his car two blocks away; parking was a major problem in downtown Pickax. He could never set foot in the center of town without meeting a dozen acquaintances, and today he threw greetings to his barber, an off-duty patrolman, the cashier from Toodles' Market, and the proprietor of Scottie's Men's Store, who said, “Aye, there's the Laird hi'self! When will you be comin' in to be measured for a kilt?”
“Not until you hear from my undertaker,” Qwilleran retorted.
Then Larry Lanspeak, on the way to the bank, stopped him to ask, “What's that you're carrying? Your lunch bucket?”
“No, a pistol case. I'm on my way to a duel. . . . How's the play coming, Larry?”
“We've had problems. Fran and the new girl from Chicago wanted to incorporate a pyramid in the forest scenes. Imagine cluttering the stage, complicating the blocking, and confusing the audience with such a senseless gimmick! Carol, Junior, and I had to threaten to drop out before Fran would listen to reason. That girl is a good client of hers and also made a sizable donation to the club's operating budget. Politics! Politics!”
* * *
Arriving home with his English pencil box, Qwilleran filled the top compartment with felt-tip pens. One of the black ones was missing again, and he found it in the foyer. The drawer he filled with jumbo paper clips. The Siamese watched, their inquisitive tails curved like scimitars.
“Foiled, you villains!” he said as he locked the lid. He left the key in the lock, since neither cat had learned how to turn keys. It would be only a matter of time, he surmised.
He and Polly dined early at the Old Stone Mill, as she was attending a dessert-and-coffee wedding shower for one of the library clerks. “Would you care to join us?” she asked teasingly. “Men often attend showers now, you know.”
“This man doesn't,” he said, putting a brusque end to the subject. “The electrician and plumber were working on your house this morning. It's beginning to look less like a lumberyard and more like a habitation.”
“What am I going to do with all those mounds of soil they excavated for the foundation?” she asked with a worried frown.
“I suppose they'll use some of it for fill and then grade the lot. They'll move the dirt anywhere you say, with two swipes of the bulldozer.”
“I'd love to have a berm between the house and the highway. With plantings it would give a sense of privacy, but I don't want it to look landscaped. I want it to look completely natural. How does one do that?”
Rather too sharply Qwilleran said, “One calls Kevin Doone. He attended horticultural college for four years to learn how to do that.”
“Do I bore you with my concerns about the house, dear?” Polly asked with a frank gaze.
“You nev
er bore me! You know that. But—for your own sake—I wish you'd delegate your problems to the professionals instead of trying to make all the decisions yourself.”
“It'll be the only house I'll ever build, and I want it to express me,” she said meekly. “I've always lived in places where I've had to compromise and make do.”
“I understand, and I apologize for being flip. What else is preying on your mind? I want to hear.”
“Well . . . the interior. I'd love to have white plastered walls and Williamsburg blue woodwork. I saw it in a magazine—with country antiques—but one needs good furniture with such a stark background. My things aren't good, but they're family heirlooms, and I couldn't part with them. I know wallpaper backgrounds are more flattering to a hodgepodge of furniture, but . . . I'm absolutely smitten with the idea of white walls and blue woodwork. Last night I couldn't sleep for thinking about it.”
The solution would be so easy, he thought, if she would let him bankroll a houseful of pedigreed country antiques. She could have the twistletwig rocker for starters. But Polly would never approve of such largess. He said, “Suppose one of your clerks came to you with such a problem. How would you advise her?”
After a pause, she said with an abashed half-smile, “I'd tell her to keep the things she loves and use wallpaper.”
“And I believe you'd be right.”
Polly breathed a large sigh. “I've been doing all the talking. How thoughtless of me! What have you been doing?”
“Well, I had a chat with your builder, and he's not a bad fellow, in spite of his raggle-taggle appearance and double negatives. I've come to the conclusion that Moose County is bilingual. Half of us speak standard English, and the other half speak Moose.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Soccer, and the fact that one of his ancestors built the barn. Neither of us mentioned his father, of course, but I inquired about his mother's health. He seems to think that a Swiss doctor has a cure for her rare disease. One wonders how true it is, and how effective, and how safe.”
“It's not to be dismissed out-of-hand,” Polly asserted. “Alternative medicine has always been practiced in other countries, and now by maverick physicians here.”
Then it was time for her to leave for the wedding shower. Qwilleran drove her back to the library, where her car was parked, and then went home to phone Celia.
She was waiting eagerly for his call. “I had a ball!” she cried. “Virginia is a lot of fun. She's contralto soloist at the Little Stone Church. She told me I could sing in the choir. And do you want to hear something funny? There's a cat that attends services every Sunday! They leave the front door ajar, and she walks in, picks out a lap, and sleeps all through the sermon. . . . Besides working at the library, Virginia has three teenagers, a dog, two cats, a hutch of rabbits, and some chickens.”
“Where did you have lunch?”
“Lois's Luncheonette, and Lois sent two free desserts to our table—bread pudding. It wasn't as good as mine. I use egg whites to make it fluffy and whole wheat flour to make it chewy, plus nuts and raisins, and vanilla sauce.”
“How do I place an order?” Qwilleran asked. “Do you accept credit cards?” There was laughter on the line before he could ask, “Did you meet Lisa Compton?”
“Yes, I did, and she's very nice. She told me about a sad case in West Middle Hummock where she can send me to—”
“Celia,” he interrupted, “why don't you jump into your little red car and drive down here? You can see the apple barn, meet the cats, and tell me about the sad case.”
Moments later she stepped out of her car in the barnyard and gasped at the sight. “I grew up on a farm and never saw anything like this!” She was equally enthralled by the interior but shocked at the condition of the orchard.
“According to legend,” Qwilleran explained, “a curse was placed on the orchard a hundred years ago. I thought the curse had exceeded the statute of limitations, but lately the property's been under surveillance by the FBI.”
“Really?”
“Yes, we have our own Feline Bureau of Investigation.”
Celia laughed at his quip, but it was controlled laughter. She was fine-tuning.
The Siamese were listening to the conversation from a safe distance, sitting alertly and ready for flight if the visitor's laughter should hit the wrong note. Meanwhile they were sensing that she came from a poultry farm, lived with a black-and-white cat named Wrigley, and manufactured Kabibbles in her kitchen.
“Seriously,” he said, “I'm glad you've enlisted in the Pals for Patients program. You're perfect for the job. What do you know about your first assignment?”
“Only that the patient is the wife of the man who disappeared with a lot of money that doesn't belong to him. It must be terrible for the poor woman, to be ill and have that happen. A practical nurse comes in five mornings a week, and I work afternoons. The rest of the time her daughter is there.”
Qwilleran said, “I've heard that they're two lonely and unhappy women. With your cheerful personality you'll be very good for them. And you can do more than that! There's an element of mystery surrounding the scandal. I believe there's more to the story than people think.” Then he added with heavy implication, “The police investigators may be on the wrong track.”
Excitedly she asked, “Are you investigating it yourself, Chief?”
“I have no authority to do so, and the Trevelyans' lawyer has instructed them not to talk to the media.”
“But you're not really media,” she protested. “You just write a column, don't you?”
Qwilleran took a moment to enjoy an internal chuckle. “Be that as it may, it would be inadvisable for me to involve myself personally in the case.”
Celia was sitting on the edge of her chair. “Could I help you, Chief?”
“I'm sure you could. When do you start?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Suppose you get the lay of the land, and we'll talk again tomorrow evening. By that time I'll have planned our strategy.”
“Is there anything special I should do tomorrow?”
“Just be friendly and sympathetic. They may welcome the chance to talk to someone. Don't ask too many questions; keep it conversational. And never . . . never let them know you're associated with me!”
“I'll write it down,” she said. “I always write everything down.” Her large handbag was on the floor near her chair, and she fumbled in it for a notepad, whereupon two quiet slinky Siamese approached in slow motion to explore its contents.
“No!” Qwilleran said firmly, and they withdrew backward at the same slow pace. “It's never a good idea to leave your handbag open while they're around,” he explained. “Koko is an investigator, and Yum Yum is a kleptomaniac.”
NINE
With unusual anticipation Qwilleran awaited Celia Robinson's report on her first day in West Middle Hummock. He patted his moustache frequently as he assured himself he was finally on-line with the investigation.
Copy was due for his Friday column, but his profound treatise on baseball was not quite finished, so he dashed off a thousand words on “the sweet corn of August,” one of Moose County's much-vaunted crops. Like vintners with certain wines that don't travel well, farmers produced only enough sweet corn for local consumption—a rare delicacy that had never been exported.
He delivered the copy by bicycle, then took a long ride, hoping the monotony of pedaling would crystallize his thoughts about the Trevelyan case. It was an inspiration, he believed, to use Celia as a secret agent. In Florida she had proved herself to be entirely trustworthy: she used common sense; she followed instructions; she read spy novels. They would call this investigation Operation Whistle.
As Qwilleran approached the Park Circle, he was wondering whether to make an illegal left turn into the theatre driveway, or cut through the park where biking was prohibited, or circle the park and make an illegal U-turn. Before he could make up his mind, a police car pulled him to
the curb, and Andrew Brodie stepped out.
“See your license?” the chief barked. “Attempting to elude an officer. Biking without a helmet. Exceeding the speed limit. Failure to provide a reflector on the rear fender.”
“Write me a ticket,” Qwilleran shot back, “and I'll see you in court on your day off.”
Brodie was an imposing figure on the Pickax landscape, always growling and scowling and snapping commands—except when he was playing the bagpipe at weddings and funerals. He did both very well. Qwilleran considered him one of his best friends, and the two friends rarely missed an opportunity to exchange gibes. After the usual banter, the chief dropped his official brusqueness and said in a voice brimming with innuendo, “I've noticed some activity behind the theatre.”
The eagle-eyed cop had apparently seen the red car, but Qwilleran ignored the oblique reference and launched a long explanation that had nothing to do with the question. One of his many skills was his seemingly innocent failure “to get it.”
“Yes, the parking lot's busy these days,” he began. “They're in the throes of producing a new play, and you know what that means: actors rehearsing every night, set builders and costume makers on the job every day. It's quite an ambitious project: A Midsummer Night's Dream with a cast of hundreds. Your daughter's directing it. Shakespeare wrote it. Junior Goodwinter is playing Puck. Carol and Larry are doubling as—”
“Knock it off!” Brodie interrupted. “You've rented your carriage house to somebody—older woman—drives a red car—Florida plates.”
Qwilleran's aimless babbling about the play had given him time to formulate a defense. “The real estate division of the K Foundation handles rentals. I don't get involved with that.”
“But you know who she is,” the chief said accusingly.
“Of course! Everyone knows who she is: a friend of Euphonia Gage in Florida.”
“What's she doing up here?”
“I'm not entirely clear about this, but I believe it had to do with doctor's orders. She was in a deep depression following the death of her favorite grandson—or something like that—and Euphonia had praised Moose County as a good place to start a new life.”
The Cat Who Blew the Whistle Page 11
