Brodie was unconvinced. “What kind of new life does she expect to start at her age?”
“Again: Don't quote me! But I've heard that she's a good cook, and the rumors are that she intends to start a small catering business. And you have to admit this town could stand some improved food service. The catering department at the hotel is an abomination. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the economic development division of the K Foundation had been instrumental in bringing this woman up from Down Below.”
“So what was she doing in West Middle Hummock today? She was seen driving into Floyd Trevelyan's property.”
“What time was it?”
“Around noon.”
Qwilleran had to think fast. “She was probably delivering a hot lunch to a shut-in. Mrs. Trevelyan is said to be—”
“So why didn't she come out until after five o'clock?”
“Andy, how many spies do the state police have stationed in Floyd's trees? And why haven't they found the guy yet? Maybe they're looking in the wrong place.”
“Go home! You're wasting my time.” Brodie jerked his thumb over his shoulder and headed back to his official vehicle.
“It was your idea to stop and chat,” Qwilleran called after him.
“Go home and get that two-wheeled suicide contraption off the street.”
“Okay, tell me how to get out of this traffic without breaking the law!”
“Follow me!” The police car led the way to the head of the circle with light flashing and stopped the flow of traffic in both directions while the richest man in the northeast central United States made his illegal U-turn.
Arriving at the barn he said to Yum Yum, “I had a touch-and-go session with your boyfriend a minute ago.” She was in love with Brodie's badge.
* * *
Polly was dining with the Hasselriches that evening, an obligation she usually dreaded, so he thawed a frozen dinner for himself and opened a can of crabmeat for the Siamese. Then, at a suitable hour, he telephoned Celia and invited her to the barn “for a cold drink on this warm evening.”
She arrived with a joyful, toothy smile and, while Qwilleran reconstituted limeade concentrate, wandered about the barn in search of the Siamese. They were nested together in the bowl-shaped seat of the twistletwig rocking chair.
“We used to have a rocker like yours at the farm,” she said when they were seated with their cold drinks. “It was handed down in my husband's family. He burnt it when we got television.”
“What was the connection?” Qwilleran asked with genuine curiosity.
“Well, for TV he had to have a recliner, and we didn't have room for both. You've got lots of room here. Where are your TV sets?”
“We have only one. It's in the cats' loft apartment. They enjoy nature programs or commercials without the audio.”
Celia laughed with delight. “I wish my husband was alive, so I could tell him that! We had barn cats, and they weren't allowed in the house. They certainly didn't have TV in the hayloft!”
After a few minutes of polite small talk, Qwilleran broached the subject. “How did you fare at West Middle Hummock today?”
“Well! It was very interesting! It's a nice drive out there, and I didn't mind it at all. They have a cute mailbox like an old railroad engine, and they call the house The Roundhouse on the sign, but it isn't round at all!”
He explained that railroad yards used to have round buildings for servicing locomotives in the days of steam, and there was a turntable in the center to shunt the engines into different stalls.
“Learn something every day!” she said with an airy wave of the hand.
“How well were you received?”
“Well, first I met the nurse, who was in a hurry to go off duty. She impressed me as being kind of a cool cucumber. I'll bet she lives in Brrr.” Celia stopped to enjoy a laugh at her own humor. “She showed me the medicines and told me not to get off schedule or the patient might wind up in the hospital. Then she left, and I met the patient's daughter. She could be quite pretty if she was happy, but I'm afraid she's a very bitter young lady—in her early twenties.”
“What's her name?”
“When I asked, she didn't answer right away, but then she said it was Tish. Later, though, her mother called her Lettie. She hates Lettie. I know how she feels. I always hated Celia.”
As his informer rambled on, Qwilleran was doing some quick arithmetic: Lettie plus Tish equals the young woman he met in the bank; she claimed her last name was Penn, although the teller called her Trevelyan. He said, “Her name is probably Letitia—a bad choice, any way you look at it. Letitia Trevelyan sounds like ‘thank you' in a foreign language.”
Celia giggled. “I must remember to tell that one to my grandson.” She dug in her large handbag for her notebook and wrote it down, then went on: “Tish was polite but not what you'd call friendly. That's all right; I didn't expect an afternoon social. She said she was going out and would be back at five o'clock—my quitting time—but first she took me into her mother's room. Oh, my! That poor woman! She can't be more than fifty, but her body is so frail, and her face is so white! The way her eyes looked, they were searching for something. I don't think she gets enough attention, although she's never left alone.”
“That could be true,” Qwilleran said. “Attendance is not attention.”
“She told me to call her Florrie. I fixed her a nice little lunch but had to coax her to eat. She wanted to talk. Her voice is thin and whiney.”
“What did she talk about?”
“Well, she skipped around a lot. She doesn't like vegetables. Someone killed their dog. The nurse is mean to her. No one comes to see her. She hates what's on TV. Lettie goes out and never says where she's going.” Celia stopped for breath. “I listened and sympathized with her until she got tired and wanted to lie down. I asked if she'd like me to sing to her.”
“Don't tell me you sang Mrs. Robinson!” Qwilleran said teasingly.
“Oh, you remembered!” That was cause for more laughter. “No, I sang hymns, and she fell asleep and had a peaceful nap. That gave me time to poke around the house. It's big and has an elevator, but it doesn't look as if anybody loves it, if you know what I mean. And those electric trains in the basement! Never saw anything like it! Do you suppose they let schoolkids come and see them at Christmastime?”
“Probably not.”
“There was a family album in Florrie's sitting room, and when she woke up I asked if we could look at it together. I took her down on the elevator and wheeled her out on the stone patio, and we had a good time looking at snapshots.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“Oh, I learned a lot! She grew up in a railroad family. Her father was a famous engineer. They lived in Sawdust City near the tracks. Railroad people liked to live near the tracks, Florrie said. Watching the trains was big entertainment, I guess. They knew everybody. Everybody waved.”
Qwilleran said, “You have a good ear for detail and apparently an excellent memory.”
Celia waved her small notebook. “I wrote everything down. Her grandfather, uncles, and brothers all worked on the railroad. They were firemen, brakemen, engineers, flagmen, crossing guards, and hostlers, whatever they are.”
“Did Florrie wonder why you were writing things down?” he asked with a note of concern.
“I know what you're thinking, Chief, but I was careful to explain that I wrote long letters to my grandson twice a week and jotted down things to tell him.”
“Smart thinking! Perhaps we should put Clayton on the payroll.”
She laughed, of course, before continuing. “Let me tell you about Florrie's wedding pictures! She married a carpenter who was crazy about trains, and he married her because her father was an engineer. That's what she said! And here's where it gets good: The marriage ceremony was in the cab of a steam locomotive, with everyone wearing coveralls and railroad caps—even the bride and the preacher! Her flowers were tied on a shiny brass oilcan, and when the
couple was pronounced man and wife, the preacher pulled the handle that blows the whistle. That meant the best man had to fire the boiler, too, and it got very hot in the cab, and there was coal dust on her flowers.” In recounting it, Celia rocked back and forth with mirth.
“Did Florrie think this was funny?”
“No, she didn't laugh or smile or anything. It was just something she thought Clayton would be interested to hear about. They had the reception in the depot. Her mother-in-law made the wedding cake like a train of cars coming around a curve. It was all done with loaf cakes and chocolate icing. For music they had a man with a guitar singing songs about train wrecks.”
“No wonder her husband turned out the way he did,” Qwilleran said. “He was a nut even then.”
“Now comes the sad part. After a few pictures of the young couple and their two young children, the pages of the photo album were blank. I wanted to know why no more snapshots, and Florrie said, ‘My husband got too rich. I never wanted to be the wife of a rich man. I liked it when he'd come home tired and dirty from digging a basement or shingling a roof, and we'd sit at the kitchen table and drink a beer and talk before we ate supper. . . .' Isn't that sad, Chief?”
“It is indeed. Did she say anything else about her husband?”
“Not a word, and I didn't think I should ask.”
“You're right. The questions will come later.”
“When Tish came home, I said good-bye to Florrie, and she held out her arms for a hug.” Celia blinked her eyes at the recollection. “On the way out I had a few words with Tish. She'd brought home an armful of library books, and we talked a bit about our favorite authors. She said she'd like to be a writer herself. I asked if she'd studied it in college, and she said, ‘My father didn't think college was necessary, because I could go right into the family business.' ”
“How did she say it? Regretfully? Apologetically? Matter-of-factly? Bitterly?”
“Kind of stiffly, I thought. So then I looked innocent and said, `What business is your family in?' She looked surprised, so I explained that I'd just moved to town a couple of days ago and didn't know anything about anything. She said they were in the financial business, but she was on vacation.”
“I'm proud of you, Celia,” Qwilleran said. “You've done very well for starters.”
“Thank you. I really enjoyed every minute. And before I left, I told Tish I was sorry to hear their dog had been shot. Tish felt sick about it. He was a beautiful chow. And that gave me an idea! Pets are supposed to be good for elderly patients—for their morale, you know—so I suggested bringing Wrigley to visit her mother. He's a lovable cat, very clean, very quiet. Tish thought it would be wonderful, so that's what I'm going to do. Do you have any other suggestions, Chief?”
“Yes. Continue to do your Pals for Patients job. Take Wrigley, by all means. Both of those lonely women need your cheery presence, and Tish may prove to be your best source of information. Continue to play the uninformed newcomer. At the same time, acquaint yourself with all the published facts on the scandal to date. I have a file of clippings for you to take home and read. Good luck! I'll call you tomorrow night.”
“Oh, I'm so excited!” she exclaimed. She reached for a long wooden object on the coffee table. “Is this what I think it is?” She blew one end and produced the high-pitched whistle of a steam locomotive. Yum Yum vanished; Koko stood his ground and swiveled his ears wildly.
* * *
Qwilleran could do his best thinking with his feet elevated, a legal pad in his left hand and a black felt-tip in his right, and this is how he settled down in the library area after Celia had driven away. Yum Yum immediately came trotting down the ramp. Whenever he sat down, her built-in antenna signaled his whereabouts and flashed green. There she was, ready to curl up on his lap, and who could deny that appealing little creature? He had known her when she was a trembling, mistreated kitten. Now she was a self-assured young lady who wanted her own plate at dinnertime and who had once tried to steal the police chief's badge off his chest. Qwilleran propped his writing pad against the furry body on his lap and started an off-the-cuff list of questions that needed to be explored. The writing surface rose and fell as she inhaled and exhaled:
Does Tish have any life of her own, apart from job and family responsibilities? Did she, or does she, resent her father's interference in her career possibilities?
When he was gallivanting around the country in pursuit of his personal pleasures, how did Tish feel about being a live-in Cinderella? How did she react to his all-night absences and travels with his secretary, while Florrie wasted away at The Roundhouse?
How much, if anything, does Tish know about the embezzlement? Was she a collaborator in juggling the books? Was that Floyd's reason for wanting her in his office instead of in college? Did she collaborate willingly, or was Floyd a tyrant who gave orders and insisted on being obeyed?
Does she know where he is? Does she have any guesses where he is?
* * *
It was about eleven o'clock when headlights came bobbing through the Black Forest. Koko announced the fact, having seen them first. Qwilleran switched on the exterior lights and went out to investigate. There were two sets of headlights. He stood with his fists on his hips and listened to the owl hooting until the vehicles came into full view.
The first was a pickup truck, and Derek Cuttlebrink unfolded his long frame from the driver's seat. “Brought you a load of wood,” he announced flippantly.
Two women from the second vehicle walked forward. “Hi, Qwill,” said Fran Brodie. “We're delivering a surprise!”
Elizabeth was with her. “You can sit in it, Mr. Q, and wonderful things will happen! I have it on good authority.”
“Not another rocking chair!” he said, trying not to sound ungrateful, yet leaving himself leeway to refuse it.
What Derek was unloading from the truck was an armload of five-foot poles. “Where shall I set 'em up?” he asked, pausing on the threshold.
Fran, who had led the way into the barn, pointed toward the lounge area. “Over there, Derek. There's plenty of space between the fireplace and the sofa.” Having been the interior designer for the barn, she retained a proprietary interest in it. Whenever she visited, she went about straightening pictures, moving furniture, and giving unsolicited advice. Her sincere, good-natured aggressiveness usually amused Qwilleran, but he drew the line at five-foot poles.
“What the devil are those things supposed to be?” he demanded in a cranky voice.
“It's a portable pyramid,” Elizabeth announced with the air of a generous benefactor. “Wally Toddwhistle designed it; Derek will put it together for you.”
“Only takes a jiffy,” Derek said. “All you need is a screwdriver. Got a screwdriver?”
“There's a toolkit in the broom closet.” Qwilleran threw himself on the sofa and watched with a dour expression as five-foot poles were joined to become ten-foot poles, which fitted together to make a ten-foot square; then four other ten-foot poles were attached to the corners and joined at the apex.
“Voilà! A pyramid!” cried Elizabeth.
Derek crawled into the cagelike structure and sat cross-legged. “Wow! I'm getting vibrations! I'm getting ideas! How about selling Elizabeth the barn, Mr. Q, and I'll open a restaurant?”
“How about telling me what this damm fool thing is all about?” Qwilleran retorted.
Fran spoke up. “Larry and Junior ganged up on us and wouldn't let us use it in our stage set. I thought you'd enjoy experimenting with it. Then you could write a column about pyramid power. It has something to do with the electromagnetic field.”
“Hmmm,” he murmured, mellowing a trifle.
Derek, still in the pyramid, said, “Somebody get my guitar!”
Elizabeth ran out to his truck, returning with the instrument, and he sang a ballad titled “The Blizzard of 1912.” Everyone said he'd never done it better. Derek said he'd felt inspired. Qwilleran suggested some refreshments.
&n
bsp; With their drinks and bowls of Kabibbles, they sat around the big coffee table, facing the pyramid. Fran and Derek were in the usual rehearsal clothes, straight from the ragbag, but Elizabeth was striking in a baggy red jumpsuit tied about the middle with a long sash of many colors. The Siamese sat a safe distance from both guests and pyramid.
“How are the rehearsals progressing?” Qwil-leran asked.
“Situation normal,” said the director. “Larry is allergic to green makeup . . . The prop girl has eloped, and we can't find any of the props . . . The stage manager broke his thumb. And the donkey head hasn't arrived from Down Below.”
“Hee-haw! Hee-haw!” Derek put in for dramatic effect.
Yum Yum scooted up the ramp and looked down from the second balcony, but Koko merely wiggled his ears.
“When is the first dress rehearsal?”
“Monday. The tickets are selling very well. We may not have a show, but we'll have an audience.”
“How many intermissions?”
“One. We're cutting after Bottom and Titania are bewitched. It sends the audience out smiling and brings them back ready for more.”
“Hey! What are those ducks up there?” Derek asked, pointing to the top of the fireplace cube.
Qwilleran said, “From left to right: Quack, Whistle, and Squawk. They're hand-carved decoys that Polly brought from Oregon. Actually, left to right, they're a merganser, a pintail, and a lesser scaup.”
Derek tried quacking, whistling, and squawking like a duck before the conversation returned to community theatre: its problems, calamities, and embarrassments.
“Like the time we were doing a romantic costume play,” Fran recalled. “Hoop skirts, powdered wigs, and satin breeches! The female lead was in a car crash on opening night, and Larry had to do her whole part, reading from the book, wearing a beard and tattered jeans. Talk about embarrassing! To the audience it was high comedy. They loved it!”
The Cat Who Blew the Whistle Page 12
