The Cat Who Blew the Whistle

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  They had known instinctively that Ozzie would not jump. He'd keep his hand on the throttle no matter what, and to hell with the reverse bar. He was a brave man. He'd proved it in countless emergencies. He always said he didn't want to die in bed; he wanted to go out whittlin'.

  It gave Qwilleran a queasy feeling to realize that his own suggestion of a Penn family reunion had resulted in Ozzie's purchase of the train, Florrie's possible cure in Switzerland, the train's destruction, and Ozzie's death. Call it heroic or not, being scalded to death by steam was blood-chilling. Could it have been an old man's penance for abandoning his daughter so cruelly?

  The next morning Qwilleran wrote his review of the play in time for the noon deadline and also dashed off the lyrics for a folksong, titled The Wreck of Old No. 9. These he took to the Old Stone Mill when he went there for lunch. He asked to be seated in Derek's station.

  “Good show last night,” he told the tall waiter. “Best role you've ever done.”

  “Yeah, I was really up,” the actor acknowledged.

  “Did you hear about the train wreck on the radio this morning?”

  “Nah. I slept in, but they're talking about it in the kitchen.”

  Qwilleran handed him an envelope. “Here's a new folksong to add to your collection. You can sing it to the tune of the Blizzard ballad.”

  “Gee, thanks! Who wrote it?”

  “Author unknown,” said Qwilleran. He had done his bit to launch Ozzie Penn into the annals of local folk history. He knew Derek would sing it all over the county.

  * * *

  Another news item—one that would never be memorialized in song—appeared in the paper that day:

  Edward Penn Trevelyan, 24, son of Floyd and Florence Trevelyan, died yesterday as a result of injuries suffered in a tractor accident. He had been on the critical list in Pickax Hospital since Monday.

  Trevelyan was a resident of Indian Village and had recently started his own construction firm. He attended Pickax High School, where he played on the soccer team. He is survived by his parents and a sister, Letitia, at home. Funeral arrangements have not been announced

  It was Polly's day off, and Qwilleran phoned her at home. He assumed she would have read the obituary and the account of the train wreck. She had read both, yet she seemed unperturbed by either.

  “How's Bootsie?” he asked.

  “He's glad to be home.”

  “You missed a good play last night.”

  “Perhaps I can go next weekend.”

  Something's wrong with her, Qwilleran thought; she's in another world. “Would you like to drive up to Mooseville and have dinner on the porch at the Northern Lights?” he asked.

  “Thank you, Qwill, but I'm really not hungry.”

  “But you have to eat something, Polly.”

  “I'll just warm a bowl of soup.”

  “Want me to bring you a take-out from Lois's? Her chicken soup is the real thing!”

  “I know, but I have plenty of soup in my freezer.”

  “Polly, aren't you feeling well? You sound rather down. Is it indigestion again? Did you tell Dr. Diane about your condition?”

  “Yes, and she gave me a digestant, but she wants me to take some tests, and I dread that!”

  “I think I should drive over there to cheer you up. You need some fresh daisies and a friendly shoulder.”

  “No, I just want to go to bed early. I'll be all right by morning; we have a big day at the library tomorrow. But thanks, dear.”

  Following that disturbing conversation, Qwilleran stayed in his desk chair, staring into space and wondering what to do, whom to call. Koko was on the desk, rubbing his jaw against Cerberus, the three-headed dog, and he said to him quietly, “That's a paperweight, friend—not a fang scraper.”

  Koko went on rubbing industriously. One never knew when he was trying to communicate and when he was just being a cat. There was the matter of the felt-tip pens he had been stealing recently—not red ones, not yellow, only black. Was it a coincidence that Polly had hired the black-haired, black-bearded Edward Penn Trevelyan? Penn was Florrie's maiden name. Tish's pen name was Letitia Penn. Koko's attempts to convey information—if that's what they were—failed to get through to Qwilleran. He went for a long bike ride to clear his head. It was good exercise, and he filled his lungs with fresh air, but no questions were answered.

  * * *

  When Celia arrived that evening, she flopped on the sofa, dropped her shapeless handbag on the floor, and said, “Could you put a little something in the lemonade tonight, Chief? I need it!”

  “I mix a tolerable Tom Collins,” he said. “I take it you've had a hectic day.”

  “We've had two deaths in the family on the same day! Both funerals are on Saturday. The women leave for Switzerland on Sunday. Tish is upset! Florrie is hysterical!”

  “Drink this and relax awhile,” he said, presenting the tray. “Tell me what you thought of the play.”

  “I liked it! We both did. I had to read it in high school, but I'd never seen it on the stage. The greenies were fun—better than fairies. And I loved that young man who's so tall. Derek Cuttlebrink was the name in the program.”

  Qwilleran assured her that there was a whole village full of Cuttlebrinks. “They're all characters!” he said.

  “That nice Mr. O'Dell was there with his daughter. He talked to us in the lobby. Charming Irish accent!” She looked around the barn. “This would make a good theatre—with people on the balconies and the stage on the main floor.”

  Qwilleran said, “Everyone wants to convert it into a theatre or a restaurant or a poor man's Guggenheim. You've never seen the view from up above. Let's take a walk. Bring your drink.”

  They climbed the ramps, and he showed her his studio, the guestroom, the cats' loft apartment, and the exposed beams where the Siamese did their acrobatics.

  When they returned to ground level, Celia dug into her handbag for her notebook. “Well! Are you ready for this, Chief? Tish told me some terrible things after Eddie died. Do you think a dying man comes back to life just before his last breath?”

  “Sometimes there's a moment of lucidity before death,” he said. “Great men utter memorable last words, according to their biographers, and others reveal lifelong secrets.”

  “Well, here's what happened yesterday morning. It's lucky the nurse was at the house when the hospital called. Tish drove into town in a hurry. Eddie was slipping away, but she talked to him, and all of a sudden his eyes moved, and he struggled to speak—just snatches of this and that.”

  “Were you there?” Qwilleran asked.

  “I was waiting outside the room. Tish told me about it after. We came back to my apartment for a cup of tea, and she began to cry. Eddie had been mixed up in more dreadful things than anyone guessed.”

  At that moment the telephone rang. “Excuse me,” he said and took the call in the library.

  A shaking voice said, “Qwill, take me to the hospital. I don't feel well.”

  “I'll be right there!” he said firmly. “Hang up! Hang up!” As soon as he heard the dial tone, he punched 911. Then he dashed to the back door, calling to Celia, “Emergency! Gotta leave! Let yourself out!”

  He drove recklessly to Goodwinter Boulevard and arrived just ahead of the ambulance. Using his own key, he let the EMS team into the apartment and ran up the stairs ahead of them.

  Polly was sitting in a straight chair, looking pale and frightened. “Chest pains,” she said weakly. “My arms feel heavy.”

  While the paramedics put a pill under her tongue and attached the oxygen tube with nose clips, Qwilleran made a brief phone call.

  She was being strapped onto the stretcher when she turned a pathetic face to him and said, “Bootsie—”

  “Don't worry. I've called your sister-in-law. She'll take care of him. I'll follow the ambulance.” He squeezed her hand. “Everything will be all right . . . sweetheart.”

  She gave him a grateful glance.

  He was
there at the hospital when Polly was admitted and when Lynette Duncan arrived shortly afterward. The two of them sat in a special waiting room and talked about Polly's recent worries.

  “You know,” Lynette confided, “before she visited that friend in Oregon and got hooked on the idea of building a house, I wanted her to come and share the old Duncan homestead. I just inherited it from my brother. He'd had it ever since our parents died. Polly was married to my younger brother. He was a volunteer firefighter and lost his life in a barn fire. Tragic! They were newlyweds. Maybe she told you. Anyway, now I own this big house, over a hundred years old, with large rooms and high ceilings. Really nice! But too big for me. I think Polly would love it, and Bootsie could run up and down stairs.”

  It was the kind of nervous, rambling chatter heard in hospital waiting rooms when relatives wait for the doctor's verdict.

  Finally a young woman in a white coat appeared. Qwilleran held his breath.

  “Mrs. Duncan is doing very well. Would you like to see her? I'm Diane Lanspeak; I happened to be a few blocks away when they brought her in.”

  Qwilleran said, “I know your parents. We're all glad to have you back in Pickax.”

  “Thank you. I've heard a lot about you. One question: the cardiologist may recommend a catheterization. It's well to take pictures and determine exactly what the situation is. A mild heart attack is a warning. If Mrs. Duncan needs help in making a decision, who will—?”

  “I'm her nearest relative,” Lynette said, “but Mr. Qwilleran is—” She turned to look at him. No more needed to be said.

  In the hospital room they found Polly looking peaceful for the first time in weeks, despite the clinical atmosphere and the tubes. They exchanged a few words, Polly speaking only about the capable paramedics, the kind nurses, the wonderful Dr. Diane.

  * * *

  When Qwilleran returned to the barn, Celia had gone, leaving a note: “Hope everything is okay. Call me if I can help.”

  The Siamese, unnaturally quiet, walked about in bewilderment; they knew when Qwilleran was deeply concerned, but not why. As soon as Qwilleran sat in the twistletwig rocker to calm his anxiety, Yum Yum hopped into his lap and comforted him with small, catly gestures: an extended paw, a sympathetic purr. Koko looked on with fellow-feeling, and when Qwilleran spoke to him, he squeezed his eyes.

  The gentle rocking produced some constructive ideas: Polly would recover, move into the Duncan homestead, and forget about building a house. The K Foundation would reimburse Polly for her investment and complete the building as an art center. The Pickax Arts Council had been campaigning to get the carriage house for that purpose before Celia arrived.

  As Qwilleran rocked and gazed idly about the lounge area, he caught sight of a small dark object on the light tile floor. His first thought: a dead mouse! Yet it was too geometric for that, more nearly resembling a large domino. Unwilling to leave the comforting embrace of the bent willow twigs, he tried to guess what the foreign object might be, but eventually he succumbed to curiosity.

  “You'll have to excuse me for a minute, sweetheart,” he said to Yum Yum as he hoisted himself out of the underslung rocker.

  The unidentified object was the smallest of tape recorders, and the truth struck Qwilleran with suddenness: Celia's grandson had mailed it from Illinois; the cats had stolen it from her handbag; she had been secretly recording her meetings with Tish, in spite of his admonition. That explained her graphic reports and remarkable memory for details. She had transcribed the taped dialogue into her notebook, which she then consulted so innocently at their briefings. While admiring her initiative, he frowned at her noncompliance.

  Nevertheless, he lost no time in playing the tape.

  SIXTEEN

  Before playing Celia's secret tape, Qwilleran asked himself, Shall I embarrass her by returning it . . . or let her think she lost it? He set it up on the telephone desk and prepared to take notes. The first sounds were nothing but sobs and whimpers, with sympathetic murmurs and questions from Celia. Then he heard a wracked voice say:

  “I can't believe it, Celia! I thought she was my friend—my best friend! But she used me! She used all of us!”

  “What do you mean, Tish?”

  “She was going to divert funds for Mother's treatment in Switzerland! She was going to divert money for Eddie's condos, too. We believed her, because she was so knowledgeable and so nice! (Burst of sobs.) I even cheated so it would look as if she'd been fired. She's the one who suggested it. . . . Oh-h-h! She was so clever! Why didn't I see through her scheme?”

  “What was her scheme, Tish? What did she do that was so bad?”

  “It's what Eddie tried to tell me before he died. She wanted someone to do a special job for her, and he took Benno to see her.”

  “What kind of job? Didn't Eddie ask questions?”

  “I guess not. My poor brother wasn't smart. He only went to tenth grade. And he drank too much. He ended up being an accomplice in a terrible crime.” (Choking sobs.)

  “Oh, dear! What kind of crime?”

  (Long pause.) “Murder! When F.T. disappeared, they said he'd skipped with millions of dollars that didn't belong to him, but it was Nella who skipped. Floyd was dead!”

  “Was Eddie able to tell you all this?”

  “In snatches. He was gasping for breath. I had to put my ear close to his lips to hear him.”

  “Are you sure it's true?”

  “People don't lie when they're dying, do they?”

  “Maybe you're right, Tish. But how was Eddie an accomplice?”

  “He helped Benno bury the body. But Nella was gone, and Benno didn't get his blood money. He wanted Eddie to pay off.”

  “How much? Do you know?”

  “No, but it must have been a lot. Eddie's money was tied up. They argued. Benno shot his dog for spite. Then, one night in a bar, the lights went out. Benno pulled a knife. Eddie tried to get it away from him. He didn't mean to kill him—”

  “Oh, Tish, I feel so sorry for you! I wish I could do something to help. What can I do?”

  “Nothing. It just helps to have someone to talk to. You've been so good to us, Celia.”

  “Are you going to do anything about Eddie's confession?”

  “I don't know. I can't think straight.”

  “But Nella should be arrested, if she plotted the murder and stole the money. Where did they bury the body?”

  “Eddie tried to tell me, but he couldn't get it out. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he was gone.” (Convulsive crying.)

  “There must be something I can do to help you, dear.”

  “I don't know. I just want to get on that plane and never come back.”

  “Could I handle the funeral arrangements for you?”

  “Would you? I'd be so thankful.”

  “Do you need me at the house this afternoon?”

  “No, I'll be there, getting Mother ready for the trip. She's never been on a plane. I haven't either. Wouldn't it be ironic if it crashed in the Atlantic?”

  “Oh, Tish! Don't say that!”

  “The Trevelyan curse!” (Wild laughter.)

  As the tape ended, Qwilleran realized the meaning of Koko's eccentric behavior in recent weeks. The first hint of something wrong was the cat's unusual vigil at the front window; he sensed impending evil!

  The day after Audit Sunday, Qwilleran recalled, Koko performed his ominous death dance on the coffee table—specifically circling the scandal headline on the front page of the paper. After that, he became a cat possessed. While Yum Yum pursued wads of crumpled paper and collected paper clips, Koko was infatuated with black pens, duck decoys, the wooden whistle, the brass paperweight, and other significant items. The three-headed dog may have been symbolic of the three felons involved in the Lumbertown fraud and its bloody aftermath. (On the other hand, Koko may have found the sharp edges of the paperweight useful, Qwilleran had to admit.)

  Then the question arose: Were Eddie's deathbed accusations only hallucinations
? Did Nella really mastermind the plot? Dwight Somers had seen “scruffy characters” knocking on her door; both Eddie and Benno fitted that description. Did Nella urge Eddie to move to Indian Village and into her own building for devious reasons? She was nothing less than gorgeous, everyone agreed, and the unkempt high school dropout from Sawdust City could easily have fallen under her spell.

  Qwilleran's eye fell on the wooden whistle that someone had knocked off the coffee table for the twentieth time. Perhaps Nella herself tipped off the auditors; that would account for the neat timing of the scheme. She juggled the books; she plotted the murder; she blew the whistle and collaborated with the auditors; she made the phone call that lured Floyd to the fork in the road, where he parked his car and met a pickup truck with two carpenters, one with a hammer and one with a shovel. His disappearance was intended to confirm his guilt, and it fooled everyone—except Koko.

  Qwilleran looked at his watch. It was late, but not too late to call the police chief at home. “What are you doing tomorrow morning, Andy?” he asked, after some teasing about late-night X-rated TV movies.

  “Taking the wife shopping” was the gruff reply.

  “How about driving over to the apple barn first, for half an hour?”

  “Business or social?”

  “Business, but I'll have coffee waiting for you.”

  “Oh, no, you won't! I'm not ready to have my hair fall out. I'll bring a nontoxic take-out from Lois's.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine o'clock.”

  * * *

  On Saturday morning Koko knew something was afoot. While eating his breakfast, he kept looking over his shoulder and listening. When Brodie arrived, he was not in uniform, and Yum Yum kept staring at him.

  “What's the matter with her?” Brodie asked.

  “She's looking for your badge.”

  Qwilleran had been wondering how to report his information to the police chief without naming his collaborators: a pleasant gray-haired grandmother and an intuitive cat. He began by enlisting Andy's sympathy. “Polly's in the hospital,” he said morosely. “Heart attack.”