Koko responded to the sound of a familiar voice with a happy gurgling sound, but as the tape unreeled he seemed to hear something else.
“Bushy is taking hundreds of pictures on this trip. At first, when Irma stopped the bus for a spectacular view, we all piled out with our cameras, but now Bushy and Big Mac are the only ones who take pictures. The rest of us, jaded with spectacular views, remain in our seats. Occasionally Bushy photographs members of our group in different settings, especially Melinda. He seems to think she’s a good model.”
Koko jumped on and off the desk when he heard this segment, and Qwilleran recalled Lori Bamba’s theory—that cats respond to the palatal shhhh sound. (Her own cats, for that reason, were named Sheba, Shoo-Shoo, Natasha, Trish, Pushkin, and Sherman.) Evidently “Bushy” was the trigger sound here.
“Today I was talking to Lyle Compton about the famous medical school at Glasgow University, and he mentioned that the infamous Dr. Cream was a Glaswegian. He was the nineteenth-century psychopath who became a serial killer in England, Canada, and the United States—not as legendary as Jack the Ripper but noted for ‘pink pills for pale prostitutes,’ as his M.O. was described.”
Koko reacted excitedly to this reference, leading Qwilleran to assume that he heard the word “serial” and confused it with the crunchy “cereal” that was his favorite treat.
In mid-afternoon Qwilleran walked downtown to the offices of the Moose County Something, to pick up a few more copies of Irma’s obituary. He also left a small white box with a CRM monogram on the desk of Hixie Rice, the advertising manager, who had been his friend and neighbor Down Below. Then he dropped into Junior Goodwinter’s office.
“You’re back early,” the managing editor said. “We don’t expect Arch till tomorrow or Wednesday. Tell me about Scotland. What did you like best?”
“The islands,” Qwilleran answered promptly. “There’s something wild and mystic and ageless about them. You feel it in the stones under your feet—the ancient presence of Picts, Romans, Saxons, Gaels, Angles, Vikings—all that crowd.”
“Wow! Write it up for the ‘Qwill Pen’ column!” Junior suggested with his boyish enthusiasm.
“That’s my intention eventually, after I’ve had a chance to sort out my impressions. But I came in to compliment you on the obit, Junior. A beautiful piece of copy! We’re sending clips to Irma’s friends in Scotland . . . How about the local scene? Any momentous news in Moose County?”
“Well, we’re carrying a series of ads on the liquidation of Dr. Hal’s estate. Melinda’s selling everything in a tag sale. I hope she rakes in some dough, because she needs it. After that, the house will go up for sale, and we’ll have another empty mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard.”
“Did you attend Irma’s funeral?” Qwilleran asked.
“Roger covered it, but I didn’t go. The cortege watchers counted forty-eight cars in the procession to the cemetery.”
“I hear there was some kind of argument about the disposition of the remains.”
“Oh, you heard about that? Melinda said they’d had a doctor/patient discussion about living wills. She said Irma preferred cremation and no funeral. Mrs. Hasselrich wanted to go along with her daughter’s wishes, but her husband—with his legal mind-set, you know—said it wasn’t in writing. So Irma was buried in the family plot with full obsequies—eulogies, bagpipe, tenor soloist, and marching band. You know how Pickax loves a big funeral production!”
Qwilleran said, “I ought to write a column on living wills.”
“Can you rip off a piece on Scotland for Wednesday? Your devoted readers are waiting to hear about your trip.”
“We saw a lot of castles. I’ll see if I can write a thousand words on castles without having to think too much,” Qwilleran promised as he started out the door.
Walking home from the newspaper office, he let his mind wander from castles to the baronial mansions on Goodwinter Boulevard. The only solution to the local problem, as he envisioned it, would be rezoning . . . or a bomb . . . or an earthquake, and the old-timers in Pickax would prefer either of the latter to rezoning. He was walking along Main Street toward Park Circle when a car in a southbound lane caught his attention. It had what he thought was a Massachusetts license plate, its light color like a white flag among the dusky, dusty local plates. But it was not the old maroon car he had seen and suspected at the time of the prowler scare. It was a tan car, and it was soon lost in traffic. He thought, It could be the same guy in a new car; it could be the same car with a new paint job.
Qwilleran felt it wise to alert Polly, if he could do so without alarming her, and when he reached the library he went in, nodded to the friendly clerks, and climbed the stairs to the mezzanines. She was sitting in her glass-enclosed office, listening sympathetically to a young clerk who was pregnant. The young woman left immediately when her boss’s special friend appeared in the doorway.
“Anything new?” Polly asked eagerly.
“I had a long telephone conversation with Katie,” Qwilleran said, “and it appears her brother’s name is in fact Gow. She was surprised he hadn’t notified her of Irma’s death—or so she said . . . By the way, did you and Irma ever discuss living wills? Or last wishes? Or anything like that?”
“No. She never mentioned death or illness. Why do you ask?”
“I thought I might write a column on living wills. It’s a hot topic right now. When you two got together, what did you talk about, anyway? Besides me,” he added to give the discussion a light touch.
Her smile was mocking, but her reply was serious. “We talked about my problems at the library . . . and her work at the facility . . . and clothes. She had a great interest in fashion. And naturally we talked about birds. Irma’s life list included the Kirtland’s warbler, the red-necked grebe, and the white-winged scoter. She had traveled around the country on bird-counts.”
Polly stopped and regarded him wistfully, and he squirmed in his chair, knowing she would expect him to go birding in Irma’s place. Clearing his throat to signal a change of subject, he asked casually, “Have you noticed any more suspicious characters around town since we returned?”
“Well . . . no . . . I haven’t really been looking.”
“In times like these a woman should keep her eyes open and her wits about her, no matter where she is.”
“Oh, dear! I suppose you’re right, but it sounds so threatening!”
He avoided pursuing the unpleasant subject but tossed off a parting reminder to be careful, with no mention of the tan car with a Massachusetts plate. Later in the afternoon he reported it to Nick Bamba, however. Nick had an eagle eye for anything automotive: car makes and models, license plates, bumper stickers, drivers, and even the driving habits of individual motorists.
When Nick arrived to deliver his wife’s typing, his first words were, “I see you’ve got a new car.”
“Not new, just different,” Qwilleran said. “My old one conked out, and I hate to let Gippel skin me on a new model. The prices are outrageous. My first car, when I was sixteen, was $150.”
“How come you got a white one?”
“Does it look like a diaper service? It’s all they had on Gippel’s lot—that is, the only car where the floor of the backseat would accommodate the cats’ commode . . . Nick, how would you like a wee dram of Scotch, hand-carried from the distillery for a moment such as this?”
“Sure would, but don’t make it too wee.”
They sat in the lounge area, Nick sipping Scotch on the rocks, Qwilleran sipping white grape juice, and both of them dipping into bowls of Mildred Hanstable’s homemade sesame sticks. Then the Siamese started parading in front of them. Whenever the Bambas visited the barn, Koko and Yum Yum made themselves highly visible, walking back and forth languorously, pivoting and posing like models on a fashion-show runway.
“So what did you think of Scotland?” Nick asked.
“The Western Isles and Highlands are fascinating,” Qwilleran told him. “The landscape
is almost spooky, with a haunting melancholy in spite of all the tourists and backpackers.”
“How were the country inns?”
“Pleasant, hospitable, comfortable. The food was different, but good. Have you and Lori given any more thought to opening a bed-and-breakfast?”
“We talk about it all the time. With the tourist business increasing, we think we should act now and get in on the ground floor, but it’ll take a lot of nerve to quit my good job with the state.”
“Is the tourist season long enough to make it worthwhile?”
“Right now there’s a seven-month season for boating, camping, hunting, and fishing, and there’s talk about developing a winter sports program.”
“May I touch up your drink, Nick?”
“No, thanks. One’s enough. It’s really smooth. Did you see them making it?”
“Not exactly. This stuff has been lying around in a cask for fifteen years.”
The Siamese were still making themselves conspicuous, and Yum Yum carried something in her jaws and laid it at Nick’s feet.
“Hey, what’s this?” he asked.
Qwilleran said, “It’s an emery board. She was stealing them from our cat-sitter, and I keep finding them around the house. You should be flattered that she’s parting with one of her treasures.”
“Thanks, baby,” Nick said, leaning over to scratch her ears. “If we open a country inn, Qwill, we’re going to permit pets. I don’t know how practical it’ll be, but we’ll work it out somehow.”
“Good for you! When I drove to the mountains earlier this year, I stopped at a motel that actually provides an overnight cat for guests who don’t have their own. They do a brisk business at two dollars per cat, per night.”
“Lori and I never knew why you canceled that trip,” Nick said.
Confidentially, Qwilleran explained the prowler episode. “I don’t want this to go any further,” he said, “but I had reason to believe he wanted to grab Polly and hold her for ransom.”
“No! You don’t mean it! Did the police do anything about it?”
“Brodie offered her protection, and I came home immediately. The prowler had a wild beard, and I saw a young man of that description at the library, acting suspiciously. He drove an old maroon car with a Massachusetts plate. Later, the state police saw him leaving the county, and there’s been no further sighting—until today.”
“What happened today?”
“I saw a car with a Massachusetts plate, and they’re rare around here, if not virtually unknown.”
“You’re right about that,” said Nick. “I hardly ever see a New England car. Funny, isn’t it?”
“This was not the original maroon car, but it had the original bushy beard behind the wheel. I didn’t catch the license number.”
“I’ll watch for it.” Nick’s eye had been sharpened by his job at the prison.
“It’s a tan car. Try to get the number. Brodie ran a check on the previous vehicle. It’s registered to one Charles Edward Martin.”
“Will do, Qwill. Now I’ve got to get home to dinner. Here are your letters to sign. Anything to go?”
“Only this.” Qwilleran handed him a small white box with CRM on the cover. “A souvenir of Scotland for Lori.”
“Gee, thanks. She really likes that cape you brought her from the mountains.” Nick had to wade through a tangle of legs, tails, and undulating bodies on his way to the door. “And thanks for the Scotch. It’s good stuff!”
Qwilleran had still another gift to deliver that day, and he walked downtown for the third time. The three commercial blocks of Main Street constituted a stone canyon. In the nineteenth century, the surrounding countryside had been quarried to pave Main Street and build the stores and civic buildings. Squeezed between the imitation forts, temples, and castles was the Old English storefront housing Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design. When he walked into the studio, he was greeted by Fran Brodie, who was always as chic and personable as her boss was dowdy and cranky.
“How’s Amanda?” he asked. “Did she recover from the tour?”
“Oh, yes,” Fran replied with an airy wave of the hand. “Dr. Zoller repaired her denture, and she’s once more her old, sweet, smiling self. She left on a buying trip this morning. What did you think of Scotland?”
“Ask me what I think of tourists! We travel to a foreign country and never really leave home. We take our own egos, preferences, hobbies, dislikes, and conversation and never really appreciate what we see and experience. In Glasgow I went exploring at my own pace and enjoyed it more. You’d like the Charles Rennie Mackintosh exhibits, Fran.” He handed her a small white box. “Here’s what the contemporary artists are doing in the Mackintosh tradition. I thought you’d like it.”
“It’s lovely! It’s Art Nouveau! What is this unusual stone?”
“A Scottish cairngorm.”
She pinned it on the lapel of her bronze-toned suit and gave him a theatrical kiss. “You’re a darling! Will you have coffee?”
“Not this time, thanks. It’s late, and you’re probably ready to close up. I just wanted to ask when you start rehearsals for Macbeth. How are you going to get the show on the boards by the last week in September?”
“We’re used to chaos in community theatre, Qwill, but it always works out by opening night. Dwight did the casting and blocking before he left, and I worked with the supporting cast while you were away—the witches, the bleeding captain, the porter, and so forth. Derek Cuttlebrink is doing the porter in act two, scene three. Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there? He’ll provide our comic relief.”
Before leaving, Qwilleran said, “About that fragment of the Mackintosh kilt—I’ll take it. Now that I’ve seen the battlefield at Culloden, it has some meaning. Go ahead and have it framed . . . and I may see you at one of the rehearsals,” he said as he left the studio.
On the sidewalk he stopped abruptly. Parked at the curb was a tan car that had not been in evidence when he arrived a few minutes before. He walked behind it and wrote down the license number. Then, hurrying back into the studio just as Fran was preparing to lock the door, he demanded, “What’s that tan car parked out in front?”
“Is he there again?” she said indignantly. “He’s supposed to park in the rear. I’m going to complain to the hotel.”
“Who is he?”
“The new chef they’ve just hired. God knows they needed one! The menu hadn’t been changed for forty years.”
“Where did they get him? Where’s he from?”
“Fall River.”
“Fall River, Massachusetts? That’s not exactly the gourmet capital of the east coast!”
“No, but he’s offering things like chicken cordon bleu instead of pig hocks and sauerkraut, and that’s an improvement.”
“Does he have a beard?” Qwilleran asked.
“Yes, a shaggy one. He wears it in a hairnet to cook.”
“What does he give as his name, do you know?”
Fran said hesitantly, “I think it’s Carl. I’m not sure. You seem unusually curious about him.”
“May I use your phone?”
“Sure. Go ahead. We’ll put it on your bill,” she said archly.
“As we say in Scotland,” he admonished her, “don’t be pawky!”
He called the police station.
NINE
THE TELEPHONE AT the apple barn rang constantly Tuesday morning, keeping Koko in a frenzy; he considered it his responsibility to monitor all calls. The barrage started with thank-yous from Lori Bamba and Hixie Rice, each of whom had to be told the significance of CRM, the Art Nouveau background of the peacock feather, and the name of the semiprecious stone.
Then came a report from Chief Brodie: The tan car with the Massachusetts license was registered to one Karl Oskar Klaus of Fall River. He spelled the name. Klaus was the new chef at the hotel, he said.
“Do you know anything about him?” Qwilleran’s attitude was challenging.
“Only that he hasn’t
robbed the bank yet,” Brodie quipped. “What do you have against Massachusetts?”
“Nothing. In fact, my mother was born there. I’m a second-generation codfish.”
Next, a weary traveler phoned from Lockmaster.
“Welcome home, Bushy,” Qwilleran said. “How was your flight?”
“Not too bad. As soon as I catch up on my sleep, I’ll start developing my black-and-white film. I think I’ve got some good shots.”
“Hear any news about the jewel theft before you left?”
“Nope. Nobody was feeling too sorry for Grace Utley. It’s hard to shed tears over lost diamonds when all you have is a $50 watch.”
Qwilleran said, “I’m looking forward to seeing your pictures, Bushy. When will you have prints? Bring them up here and I’ll buy lunch.”
“In a couple of days, okay? And Qwill . . . I’ll be wanting to talk to you about a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Personal.” He sounded discouraged for a young man who was usually so exuberant.
The next call came from Arch Riker. “When did you get in?” Qwilleran asked him.
“Three o’clock this morning! How long have you been home? Three days? And you haven’t written a line of copy!”
“Sounds as if you’re at the office. Go home and go to bed, Arch. Everything’s under control. Junior’s saving me a hole on page two for tomorrow. Have I ever missed a deadline?”
“Another thing!” Riker shouted into the phone. “I came home on the same flight with Grace Utley—in the same row, for God’s sake! And I wish you’d call her and get her off my back.” For a veteran deskman, usually so placid, this was a surprising outburst.
“What does she want?”
“She wants to publish a book about her teddy bear collection, and she wants someone to do the writing and editing. You could do it. You don’t have anything else to do.”
“You must be kidding, Arch.”
“She’ll pay. You could pick up a few bucks.”
“Sure. Just what I need,” Qwilleran said. “Go home and sleep it off, chum. You’re pooped after that long flight, or ramfeezled, as the Scots say.”
The Cat Who Wasn't There Page 11
