The Cat Who Wasn't There

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “At least talk to her and get me off the hook. I’ve got a paper to publish.”

  Qwilleran muttered a protest but agreed to follow through, after giving her a day to recover from jet lag. He promised to get rid of her in one way or another.

  “Try murder!” Riker said and slammed down the receiver.

  Before writing his column on castles, Qwilleran refreshed his memory by listening to a tape that he recorded after bumping his head on a stone lintel.

  “There are said to be more than a thousand castles in Scotland, some with very low doorways. They were first built in medieval times by conquerors of Scotland, as fortresses from which to rule the rebellious natives. A livable castle consisted of an impregnable wall as much as fourteen feet thick, a ditch or moat, a tower called a keep, an iron gate called a yett, an inner courtyard, and housing for the conqueror’s family, retainers, and soldiery. This stronghold also had a pit for prisoners, and gun-loops and battlements from which defenders could hold the fort, as the saying goes, and pour boiling oil on attackers.

  “Many of these historic castles now lie in ruins. What is more stirring to the imagination than a noble ruin on a mountaintop, silhouetted against the sky . . . or on a cliff overlooking the sea . . . or on a lonely island, reflected in the silvery water of a loch? Other castles have been restored as museums or palatial residences whose owners admit the public for a fee.

  “Today we visited the island where Macbeth was buried in 1057” . . . (Sound of knocking.) “Now who the devil is that?”

  (Pause.)

  “How do you feel, lover? You seemed rather quiet during dinner.”

  “After conversing with the same crowd for five days, I’m running out of things to say and also the patience to listen.”

  “May I come in? I want to check your pulse and temperature. Sit down over there, please.”

  As soon as Melinda’s voice issued from the player, Koko began protesting in a piercing monotone. After three years’ absence, she still aroused his antagonism, the cause of which had never been clear. Had he objected to her perfume? Did he detect her hospital connection? Anything associated with a hospital was on Koko’s hate list. No, more likely he had sensed her motives; Koko was dedicated to keeping Qwilleran single.

  Qwilleran retired to his studio to write a thousand words on castles, and the Siamese retired to some secret hideaway. Before he left the barn to deliver his copy, however, he made a routine check. He never left home without knowing their whereabouts. This time they were not sleeping on the chairs in the lounge area, not huddled on the fireplace cube or the refrigerator, not hiding under a rug or behind the books on the shelves. They were in one of those voids in another time warp into which cats are able to vanish at will. It happened frequently, and the only way to rout them out was to shout the secret password: Treat! Then they would materialize from nowhere to claim their handful of crunchy cereal or morsel of cheese. It was the only guaranteed method, and to ensure its efficacy he never used the T word unless he meant to deliver.

  So Qwilleran yelled “Treat!” and they suddenly appeared in the kitchen. “I’m going out,” he told them as he dispensed their snack. “Don’t answer the phone if it rings.”

  Being on a short deadline, he used the quick route downtown, through the woods that gave the apple barn its countrified seclusion, and he was able to deliver his copy to Junior Goodwinter in time for Wednesday’s edition.

  “Is this your piece on castles?” the editor asked. “I’ve been waiting to read it. Everyone likes castles.”

  “While churning it out,” Qwilleran said, “I figured out how to solve the Goodwinter Boulevard problem. Turn it into an avenue of castles and sell tickets to tourists. The owners can reserve seven or eight rooms for their families, while the public tramps through the other ten or fifteen at $5 a head. The revenue from admissions will take care of taxes and maintenance.”

  “I wish you weren’t only kidding,” Junior said.

  “Do you know anything about the new chef at the hotel? Have you eaten there since they hired him?”

  “No, but I hear he’s pretty good, although anyone would be an improvement.”

  Using Junior’s phone, Qwilleran called Polly at the library. “Are you feeling adventurous? Would you like to have dinner at the hotel? They have a new chef.”

  “That’s what I heard. Is he good? What is his background?”

  “He’s from Fall River, Massachusetts.” Facetiously he added, “They say he’s a legend in Fall River.”

  It had to be an early dinner, because Polly had scheduled one of her frequent committee meetings at the library, and the members were gathering at seven-thirty. He often wondered how a small library in a small town could keep so many committees busy with whatever it was they did. Meanwhile he killed time by listening to a few more of his Scottish tapes. The Siamese listened, too. When their dinner hour was approaching, their empty stomachs stimulated their interest in everything that Qwilleran did.

  One tape launched him on a new train of thought and aroused certain suspicions. It was a conversation with Lyle Compton toward the end of the tour. Lyle was saying:

  “Too bad we didn’t see any smugglers’ caves. I used to read about Dick Turpin, the notorious smuggler and highwayman, but Irma never mentioned smuggling at all. I wonder why. At one time in history it was a national industry. The ragged coastline, you know, with all those hidden coves and sheltering islands, was ideal for bringing in contraband by ship.”

  “What did they smuggle, Lyle?”

  “Luxury items like rum, wine, tea, tobacco, lace, diamonds, and so on. From Scottish coastal villages they were transported to major cities in Britain by wagon and stagecoach—disguised as something else, of course. It drove the government crazy, but it must have been an exciting operation. They had a network of tunnels and hiding places, including caves along the shore. A whole string of inns was involved.”

  “With a great natural resource like the coast of Scotland, you can’t tell me that they’re not exploiting it today.”

  “You’re right, Qwill! Probably for drug smuggling.”

  Click.

  There was no vocal response from Koko during this tape, although his ears twitched whenever he heard Qwilleran’s voice. Then it was five-thirty and time to pick up Polly at the library.

  Qwilleran was wearing his new suede sports coat ordered from Scottie’s Men’s Store before the tour. He had never spent that much money on any item of clothing, but Scottie had assumed his Scots brogue and talked him into it. It was camel beige, and he wore it with brown trousers. Polly said he looked wonderful. She was wearing a black and yellow kilt purchased in Inverness.

  “It’s a MacLeod tartan, but it goes with my black blazer,” she explained.

  “So much for clan loyalty,” he said.

  The “New” Pickax Hotel had been built in 1935 after the Old Pickax Hotel burned down, and now the locals were saying that it was time for another fire. In 1935 the public rooms had been furnished in Early Modern—not comfortable, not attractive, but sturdy. Recently a runaway snowplow had barged into the front of the building, demolishing the lobby but not the sturdy oak furniture.

  Qwilleran and his guest were the first to arrive in the dining room, and the hostess seated them at a window table overlooking Main Street. He remarked, “I hear you have a new chef.”

  “He’s completely redone the menu,” she said. “It’s very exciting! Would you like something from the bar?”

  After ordering dry sherry for Polly and Squunk water with a twist for himself, Qwilleran scanned the menu card. Only a diner familiar with the hotel for the last forty years would consider the selection exciting: French onion soup instead of bean, grilled salmon steak instead of fish and chips, chicken cordon bleu instead of chicken and dumplings, and roast prime rib instead of swiss steak.

  When the waiter brought the drinks, Qwilleran asked, “Is the chicken cordon bleu prepared in the kitchen, or is it one of those frozen, p
refabricated artifacts shipped in from Ontario?”

  “No, sir. The chef makes it himself,” the waiter assured him.

  Qwilleran decided to try it, but Polly thought the ham and cheese stuffing would violate her diet; she ordered the salmon.

  The previous cooks had merely dished up the food; the new chef arranged the plates: parsley, boiled potatoes, broccoli, and a cherry tomato with the salmon; broccoli, a cherry tomato, and steamed zucchini straws with the chicken cordon bleu.

  “I see they’ve gone all-out,” Qwilleran commented.

  Surveying the neat bundle on his plate, he plunged his knife and fork into the chicken, and a geyser of melted butter squirted fifteen inches into the air, landing on his lapel and narrowly missing his left eye.

  “This isn’t what I ordered!” he said indignantly as he brushed the greasy streak with his napkin. “Waiter! Waiter!”

  “It’s chicken Kiev!” Polly cried.

  Qwilleran said to the young man, “Is this supposed to be chicken cordon bleu?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, it’s not! It’s something else. Take it back to the kitchen and tell Karl Oskar I want chicken cordon bleu.”

  “Your coat is ruined!” Polly said in dismay. “Do you think the cleaner can get it out?”

  The waiter soon returned with the plate. “The chef says this is chicken cordon bleu, like it says on the menu.”

  Blowing furiously into his moustache, Qwilleran said, “It may be so described in Fall River, but it’s chicken Kiev in the rest of the civilized world! . . . Come on, Polly. We’re going to the Old Stone Mill.” To the bewildered hostess he said, “I’m sending you the bill for a new suede coat, and if I hadn’t ducked, you’d be paying for an eye, too.”

  Over dry sherry and Squunk water at their favorite restaurant, the pair tried to relax, but Qwilleran was in a bad humor, and he plunged recklessly into a subject that had been on his mind for a couple of days, his suspicions augmented by the tape he had heard before coming to dinner. “You know, Polly,” he blurted out, “I’m beginning to wonder if Irma’s death could have been murder.”

  Polly recoiled in horror. “Qwill! What makes you say that? Who would do such a thing? And why?”

  “How well did you really know Irma?”

  She hesitated. “She was just a casual acquaintance until recently, when we started to go birding together. Out there on the riverbank or in the wetlands, where it was quiet and peaceful, it was easy to exchange confidences—”

  “Did she ever tell you what she did on her frequent trips to Scotland?”

  “Not in detail. I know she went birding in the islands. She always mentioned puffin birds and the red-necked phalarope—”

  “Hmmm,” he murmured cynically, thinking that bird-watchers on the islands would make good lookouts, especially if equipped with radios. “I hate to say this, Polly, but I always received the impression that Irma was hiding something behind a somewhat artificial facade, and now it occurs to me that the Bonnie Scots Tour may have been a cover for something else—a scam that backfired.”

  “What!” Polly’s throat flushed. “What in God’s name are you talking about?” She pushed her sherry away in an angry gesture.

  “For centuries the Scottish coastline has lent itself to smuggling. Today the contraband is probably drugs.”

  Shocked, Polly demanded, “Are you suggesting that Irma was involved in smuggling drugs? Why, that’s unthinkable!”

  Qwilleran thought, Irma was fanatically devoted to raising money for charity, and fanaticism makes strange bedfellows. He said, “She never told you anything about her friends in Scotland. What about this man she sneaked away with every night—always in wild, secluded country where the inns had no names? What were they doing? And did something go wrong? He could have slipped her a drug because she became a threat. He had a police record. Obviously he was planning to steal the jewels. Did Irma know about that?”

  Polly snatched the napkin from her lap and threw it on the table. “How can you make such malicious assumptions when she’s not here to defend herself? It was a heart attack! Melinda said so!”

  “Melinda could be wrong.”

  “I refuse to listen to this assault on Irma’s integrity!”

  “I’m sorry, Polly. Perhaps Irma was an innocent victim, murdered because she could identify Bruce after he committed his crime . . . Finish your drink, and we’ll ask for the soup course.”

  “No!” she said bitterly. “You have your dinner. I’ll wait in the lobby.”

  He signaled the waitress. “Check, please, and cancel our order.”

  They drove back to town in silence, but he could feel the waves of anger emanating from the passenger seat. When they reached the library, Polly stepped out of the car and said a curt thank you.

  At the barn, he was met by two alert Siamese with questioning tails, as if they felt the tension in the air. Now Qwilleran felt hungry, as well as uneasy about the scene with Polly and indignant about his suede coat. He threw it on a kitchen chair and searched the refrigerator for the makings of a sandwich. Yum Yum, as if she wanted to comfort him, presented him with an emery board.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” he said.

  As he swallowed his sandwich and gulped his coffee, he admitted to himself that he had been tactless in linking Polly’s friend with illegal activity. Yet, there was something about the events in the Highlands that made his moustache bristle, and he was floundering in his search for a clue.

  He played some more tapes, hoping for enlightenment:

  “At the inn where we’re lodged tonight, the fireplace mantel is draped with a fringed scarf; the lamp shades are fringed; and there are rugs thrown over the sofas—all very cozy. Blankets are used for draw draperies over the windows, which should say something about winters in the Highlands. The mantel shelf is adorned with the usual clock, some pieces of china, and a live but apathetic cat. The cats in the Scottish Highlands are not as nervous as American cats. They walk in slow motion, stretch lazily instead of purposefully, and spend their time resting on wharf pilings, fences, doorsteps, windowsills, rooftops, or fireplace mantels.”

  It surprised Qwilleran that the Siamese failed to respond to this segment of the tape. There was something about the sound of the word “cat” that usually commanded their immediate attention. When they were sleeping, he had only to whisper “cat” and their ears would twitch. The tapes rolled on:

  “Today I did my neighborly duty on the bus, sitting with Zella in the morning and Grace in the afternoon. When we’re on the road, Zella looks out the window and enjoys the scenery. Grace never stops talking about life back home. She’s an encyclopedia of Pickax scandal, and what she doesn’t know, she invents. That, at least, is her reputation. It appears that the only Moose County families without skeletons in the closet are the Chisholms and the Utleys, and even the Utleys have a few bones rattling under the stairs.”

  Qwilleran kept glancing at his watch. He half expected Polly to phone and say, “Qwill, I’m afraid I overreacted.” He thought she would call about nine o’clock, after the committee meeting, but the telephone was exasperatingly silent.

  “After dinner tonight Irma did her usual vanishing act, and Larry, Melinda, and Dwight went into the garden to work on Macbeth. I’d hear Larry’s magnificent voice: ‘Is this a dagger which I see before me?’ He’d repeat it several times with different emphasis. Or I’d hear Melinda screaming, ‘Out, damned spot! Out, I say!’ How do these intrepid actors endure the midges that swarm up out of the bushes in millions?”

  It was a disappointing session for Qwilleran, with no clues on the tapes and no pertinent comments from Koko. Neither cat, he now realized, had been in evidence for some time—not, in fact, since he had returned home. Where were they? Reluctant to overdo the T word, he wandered about the barn, searching all levels, calling their names, hoping to find one or the other. No luck! And where, he asked himself, was his suede coat?

  TEN

  WH
EN QWILLERAN FOUND his suede sports coat, he had a wild impulse to phone Polly and relate the incredible circumstances: how he had found it under a kitchen chair . . . how the suede surface was furred with cat hair . . . and how the streak of melted butter had completely disappeared. There was not even a trace of it! The left-hand lapel was now more roughly sueded than the right, but the grease spot was gone.

  Before he could pick up the phone, however, he thought about their disagreement at the restaurant. They’d had spats in the past, which were always resolved when one or the other decided the triumph was not worth the battle. This time he was in no mood to wave the white flag. She should have been more understanding, he thought. She should have known he was blowing off steam after the infuriating chicken episode. She was well acquainted with his reckless surmises when faced with unanswered questions. Furthermore, he had apologized—somewhat—in the restaurant, and he was in no hurry to make further amends.

  Perhaps there was an element of suppressed guilt lurking under his rationalizations, calling for atonement, and that was why he telephoned the Chisholm sisters the next morning with such a pretense of bonhomie. Grace Utley answered.

  “Good morning,” he said in his most ingratiating tone. “This is your erstwhile traveling companion, Jim Qwilleran. I trust you two lovely ladies had a pleasant journey home.”

  “Oh, Mr. Qwilleran! It’s so nice of you to call!” she said, with excitement heightening the rasp in her voice. “We had an enjoyable flight. Mr. Riker was our seatmate, and he’s a most interesting man.”

  “He enjoyed your company, too. That’s why he asked me to call. He says you have an idea for a book that you want to discuss.”

  “About our teddy bear collection . . . yes! He was quite excited about the idea. Would you be willing to help us? I know you’re a very busy man . . .”

  “Not so busy that I’d turn down a stimulating challenge! I’d like to explore the possibilities—perhaps this afternoon.”