Both men were silent for a moment. Qwilleran could hear the gold watch ticking. Finally he asked, “Did they ever find out what caused the wreck?”
“Musta been the brakes went blooey, but the railroad, they laid it on the engineer—said he were drinkin'. Saved the comp'ny money, it did, to lay it on the engineer. Poor feller! Steam boiler exploded, an' he were scalded to death.”
“Horrible!” Qwilleran murmured.
‘Yep. It were bad, ‘cause he weren't a drinkin' man.”
“So that's why they changed the name of the town to Wildcat! You're a very lucky man, Ozzie, to have survived so many dangers! If you had your life to live over again, would you be a hoghead?”
“Yep.” After the excitement of telling the story, the old man was running out of steam.
Qwilleran said, “Too bad the Trackside is closed. We could get some food and drink.”
“There be another place down the street,” said Ozzie, reviving somewhat. “Better'n the Trackside.”
As the two men walked down Main Street, slowly, Qwilleran asked if any women lived in the Retirement Center.
“Nope.”
“I hear women never go into the Trackside. Do you know why?”
“Nope.”
“Railroads are hiring women as engineers now,” Qwilleran said.
“Not up here! Not the SC&L!”
The old man was breathing hard when they arrived at the bar and grill called The Jump-Off. A middle-aged woman with a bouncer's build and a rollicking personality greeted them heartily. Four young women in baseball jerseys were talking loudly about their recent win. A few elderly men were scattered about the room. The hearty greeter took their order: rye whiskey straight for Ozzie, ginger ale for Qwilleran.
When Ozzie had downed his drink, Qwilleran asked, “How did you feel about driving old No. 9 and hauling the Party Train?”
“Purty good” was the answer.
“It hasn't made any more runs since then.”
“Nope.”
“Too bad the credit union had to close. Sawdusters must be feeling the pinch. Were you affected?”
“Nope. Had m'money in a bank.”
Hmm, Qwilleran mused; why not in his son-in-law's corporation? “Can you stand another rye, Ozzie? And a burger?”
“Doc says one won't do no harm, so I figger two'll do some good.”
Qwilleran signaled for refills. “Did someone tell me Floyd Trevelyan is your son-in-law?”
“Yep.”
“How do you like the model trains at his house?”
“Never see'd ‘em,” Ozzie said, staring into space.
There was an awkward silence, which Qwilleran filled with questions about the quality of the burgers, the degree of doneness, the availability of condiments, and the kind of fries. The bar served railroad fries: thick, with skins on. Finally he said, “I met your daughter once. Do you have other children?”
Ozzie's reply was bluntly factual: “One son killed on the rails. One killed in Vietnam. One somewheres out west.”
“Sorry to hear that. Do you see your daughter often?”
“Nope. Don't get around much.”
Qwilleran coughed and took a bold step. “Did you know she's seriously ill? You ought to make an effort to visit her. She may not have long to live.”
Ozzie blinked his eyes. Was it emotion or the rheuminess of old age? Suddenly he said angrily, “Ain't see'd ‘er since she married that feller! Way back then I said he weren't no good. They wasn't even married in church! Guess she l'arned a lesson.”
In a voice oozing with sympathy, Qwilleran said, “She tells people she's very proud of you, Ozzie—proud to have a father who's a famous engineer. No matter what happened, you were always her hero.”
“Then why di'n't she listen to me? She were a good girl till she met that crook. I knowed he'd turn out bad.”
“Yet you agreed to drive No. 9 for him.”
“That publicity feller wanted me to do it. Paid good money. It were an honor. All those people cheerin' and the band playin'! Nobody knowed No. 9 were owned by a crook!”
“Have you never seen your grandchildren?”
“Nope.”
“The boy is a house builder, and the girl is an accountant, I believe. Is your wife living?”
“Nope. Been gone nine year.”
“How did she feel about being estranged from your daughter?”
“Never talked about it. Wouldn't let her say Florrie's name in the house. . . . You say the boy's buildin' houses? Like father, like son. Prob'ly turn out to be another crook!”
Qwilleran thought of their physical resemblance; Eddie had the black Trevelyan hairiness. He said, “Ozzie, a reunion with your daughter might prolong her life. It would mean so much to her. You might find it painful, but it could be the finest thing you've ever done. How long since you've seen her?”
“Twenty-five year. She were on'y nineteen when they had that sham weddin' in an engine cab. In over-halls! Not even a white dress! I di'n't go. Wouldn't let m'wife go neither.”
Ozzie hung his head and said no more, and Qwilleran thought, He'd be shocked if he saw her!
After a silence during which they munched their burgers, Qwilleran said, “The woman who takes care of Florrie could pick you up some afternoon and bring you back. Her name is Mrs. Robinson.”
There was no response from Ozzie.
“Mrs. Robinson has a video of you driving No. 9 for the Party Train. She'd be glad to show it to you.”
“Like t'see that! Fred and Billy, they'd like t'see it, too.”
“Who are they?”
“Fred Ooterhans, fireman, and Billy Poole, brakeman. We worked together since I-don't-know-when. We was the best crew on the SC&L. Still together at the Center, playin' cards, shootin' the breeze.”
Qwilleran paid the tab and said, “It's been a pleasure meeting you, Ozzie. Thank you for the interview.”
“Gonna print it in the book?”
“That's my intention. And don't be surprised if you get a call from Mrs. Robinson.”
* * *
Shared weekends had always been important to Qwilleran and Polly, ever since he lost his way in a blizzard and stumbled into her country cottage looking like a snowman with a moustache. And yet, weekends were losing their savor, and he blamed it on Polly's house. In an effort to restore some of the magic, however, he proposed Saturday night dinner at the Palomino Paddock in Lockmaster, a five-star, five-thousand-calorie restaurant.
Polly was surprised and pleased. “What is the occasion?”
“You don't know it, but we're exchanging our vows tonight,” he said. “You're vowing to stop worrying about your house, and I'm vowing to end the Cold War with Bootsie.”
“I'll wear my opals,” she said, entering into the spirit of the occasion.
The Paddock was a mix of sophistication and hayseed informality, decorated with bales of straw and photographs of Thoroughbreds. The servers were young equestrians, fresh from a day of riding, eventing, jumping, or hunting. The chef-owner lived on a two-hundred-acre horsefarm.
Seated in a stall, Polly and Qwilleran drank to their new resolve—she with a glass of sherry and he with a glass of Squunk water.
He said, “Don't forget, the play opens Thursday evening, and I have four tickets. We can have dinner with the Rikers.”
“Who's playing my namesake?” Polly had been named Hippolyta by a parent who was a Shakespeare scholar.
“Carol Lanspeak. Who else?”
“She's not very Amazonian.”
“She doesn't look like a fairy queen, either, but she's doubling as Titania.” He pronounced Titania to rhyme with Britannia.
“According to my father, Qwill, Shakespeare took Titania from Ovid and undoubtedly used the Elizabethan pronunciation of the Latin, which would be Tie-tain-ia.”
“Try that on Moose County for size,” Qwilleran quipped. “Did your father ever explain Hold, or cut bowstrings?”
“He said that etymolo
gists have been debating its source for two centuries. I could look it up for you.”
“No thanks. Sometimes it's more fun not to know. . . . By the way, I've uncovered another Hermia case: a father who forbade his daughter to marry the man of her choice, disowning her when she disobeyed, and forbidding his wife ever to mention their daughter's name.”
“Shakespeare at least had a happy ending. Is there more to your story?”
“There may be. Meanwhile, I've been reading the play aloud, and Koko gets excited whenever I mention Hermia. He also knocked Androcles and the Lion off the shelf—not one of Shaw's best, but I enjoyed reading it again. I played the lion when I was in college. It was a good role; no lines to learn.”
“What else have you been reading?”
“A mind-boggling book on the engineering of the Panama Canal. Do you realize the Big Ditch took ten years to complete? It's forty miles long, and they dug out 240 million cubic yards of earth!”
She listened in a daze, and Qwilleran knew she was wondering how many cubic yards of earth would be necessary to build a berm on her property.
He rattled on, doubting that she was really listening. “The book was written by Colonel Goethals, the engineer in charge. It was published in 1916. The flyleaf of my copy was inscribed by Euphonia Gage to her father-in-law. It was a Christmas present. He would be Junior Goodwinter's great-grandfather. I'll give the book to Junior when I've finished reading it.”
“That will be nice,” Polly mused.
When it was time to order from the menu, Qwilleran had no problem in making a choice: she-crab soup, an appetizer of mushrooms stuffed with spinach and goat cheese, a Caesar salad, and sea scallops with sun-dried tomatoes, basil, and saffron cream on angel hair pasta. Polly ordered grouper with no soup, no appetizer, and no salad.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asked anxiously. She tended to keep her ailments a secret.
“Well, I've been plagued with indigestion lately,” she confessed, as if it were a character flaw. “I have an appointment with Dr. Diane this week.”
He thought, She's getting ulcers over that damned house!
Polly seemed to enjoy her spartan dinner and seemed to be having a good time. And yet, Qwilleran sensed a curtain between them. She was really thinking about her house, and he, to tell the truth, was really thinking about the briefing of his secret agent.
* * *
Celia arrived at the barn Sunday evening in a flurry of smiles and youthful exuberance. “I had a wonderful weekend!” she cried. “I attended service at the Little Stone Church and met the pastor during the coffee hour in the basement. The choirleader said she could use another voice, and everyone was so friendly! Then Virginia took me to Black Creek to meet her folks, and we had a lovely brunch. I know I'm going to like it here, Chief.”
“Good!” he said. “Make yourself comfortable while I concoct an exotic drink.”
While he opened cans of pineapple juice and grapefruit juice, Celia found the wooden whistle on the coffee table and blew a few toots. “This takes me back!” she said. “When I was little and living on a farm, I could hear train whistles blowing all the time. That was to warn people to get off the tracks. Anybody who didn't have a car or a truck used to walk the rails to get to the next town.” She sipped her drink. “My! This is good! What did you put in it?”
“I never reveal my culinary secrets,” Qwilleran replied pompously.
“In the newspaper the police say they're investigating the scandal. Aren't they getting anywhere?”
“They do things their way, Celia, and we do things our way. We're searching for answers to questions, not hard evidence, which is what they have to have. That's why any scraps of information you pick up at The Roundhouse will help solve the puzzle.”
“Something's bothering me, Chief. I feel guilty because I'm sort of . . . spying on Tish and Florrie.”
“No need to feel that way. You're giving them something they desperately need: friendship, warmth, and sympathy, and at the same time helping to bring a criminal to justice. Just remember not to sound like an interrogator; keep the conversation chatty. Talk about your grandson, and ask Tish about her grandparents. Talk about your brothers, and inquire about hers.”
Celia laughed at this. “I'll never go to heaven, Chief, after telling so many lies for you. I only had sisters.”
“St. Peter will understand this ignoble means to a noble end. You must also bear in mind, Celia, that Tish may be lying to you; she may be part of the scam.”
“Oh, my! That's hard to believe!”
“Nevertheless, keep your wits about you. It would be interesting to know what they're doing for money. Tish is laid off; all credit union deposits are frozen; her father has disappeared; that house must be costly to maintain, to say nothing of the cost of nursing care and medication. Did Floyd provide for the family before decamping? Did he keep a safe in the house? Is that where he kept his ill-gotten gains? Or did he have millions stashed in a suitcase under the bed?”
Celia laughed uproariously. “Now you're really kidding, Chief. How could I find out stuff like that?”
“They're merely questions to keep in the back of your head. How did Tish feel about the secretary who absconded with Floyd? The attorney has instructed them not to talk about the case, but if you can get her to break down, find out what kind of work she did at the Lumbertown office. Did she suspect tampering with the books? If so, did fear of her father prevent her from reporting it? Perhaps . . . Tish was the one who blew the whistle. This is all long-range probing, of course.”
“It's going to be so much fun!” Celia said in great glee.
“Then let's confer again tomorrow evening.”
“Do you mind if it's later than usual? Choir practice is Monday nights at seven.”
“Not at all. Call me at your convenience,” Qwilleran said as he escorted her to the parking area. “How's your little car running?”
“Just fine! It gets good mileage, and I love the color!”
* * *
After the red car had driven away, Qwilleran walked the floor to collect his thoughts—through the much-used library area, the seldom-used dining area, the spacious foyer, the comfortable lounge, and back to the library. Twenty-eight laps equalled one mile, Derek Cuttlebrink had computed in one of his goofy moments. Whenever Qwilleran traversed this inside track, both cats would fall into line behind him, marching with tails at twelve o'clock.
Around and around the fireplace cube the three of them traipsed, the man feeling like a Pied Piper without pipes. On the sixth lap he noticed the twistletwig rocker in front of the fireplace cube, its intricately bent willow twigs silhouetted against the white wall. According to Elizabeth Hart, one could sit in the grotesque piece of furniture and expect to think profound thoughts. What Qwilleran needed at the moment was a little profundity, and he undertook to test her theory.
He slid into the rocker's inviting contours gingerly, not quite trusting it to bear his weight. When there was no sign of collapse, he relaxed and began to rock, slowly at first, and then more vigorously. The action attracted Koko, who circled him three times and then leaped lightly into his lap. This was surprising; Koko was not a lap-sitter.
“Well, young man, what's this all about?” Qwilleran asked.
“Yow!” Koko replied as he started to dig in the crook of Qwilleran's elbow. Yum Yum sometimes gave a few casual digs before settling down, but Koko was excavating with zeal. His claws were retracted, but his paws were powerful. Could this be blamed on the twistletwig mystique?
“Who do you think you are?” Qwilleran demanded. “Digger O'Dell? Colonel Goethals? This is not the Panama Canal!”
The cat stopped for a few moments, then resumed his chore with increased energy. The game was not only ridiculous; it verged on the painful.
“Ouch! Enough!” Qwilleran protested. “Hold or cut bowstrings!”
TWELVE
Qwilleran started the week by grinding out a thousand pseudo-serious
words on the history of sunburn. It was inspired by an oil painting in Polly's apartment depicting a beach scene at the turn of the century; the women wore bathing suits with sleeves, knee-length skirts, matching hats, and long stockings. The ninety miles of beaches bordering Moose County were now frequented by summer vacationers without stockings, hats, sleeves, or skirts—and sometimes without tops. He titled his column “From Parasols and Gloves . . . to Sunscreen with SPF-30.” For his readers who had never seen a parasol, he described it as a light, portable sunshade carried like an umbrella, its name derived from French, Italian, and Latin words meaning “to ward off the sun.”
He had to work hard to stretch the subject into a thousand words, and he was not particularly proud of the result when he delivered the copy to Junior Goodwinter. “Consider it a summer space filler,” he said as he threw it on the editor's desk.
After scanning the pages, Junior said, “It's topical, but I've seen better from the Qwill Pen. Want us to run it without a by-line and say you're on vacation?”
“It's not that bad,” Qwilleran protested. “Any more news from Mudville?”
“There's a rumor they've located Floyd-boy's secretary in Texas, but nobody will confirm it.”
“How about the murder in the tavern?”
“The police are being cagey, which means (a) they're onto something big or (b) they're not onto anything at all and hate to admit it. What's really odd is that the power company can't explain the outage. Being countywide, it couldn't be part of a local murder plot—or could it? I'm beginning to agree with the UFO buffs. Do you have a theory, Qwill? You usually come up with a wild one.”
Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. “If I told you my theory, you'd have me committed.”
Leaving the managing editor's office, he stopped in the city room and put a note in Roger MacGillivray's mailbox: “While you're scratching for stories in Mudville, find out what happened at the Trackside Tavern ten years ago. Your reference to it was provocative. Perhaps you know what happened. Perhaps it's too horrendous to mention in a family newspaper. Whisper in your uncle Qwill's ear.”
The Cat Who Blew the Whistle Page 15
