The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Qwilleran thought, Note . . . note . . . where is it? To Clarissa he said, “I’ll drop Vicki a line as soon as the turmoil subsides.”

  After Clarissa’s call, he began to wonder about that note. He had put it in his coat pocket at the bookstore. It was probably hanging in his closet. It was still at the barn and would remain there for a while.

  He was sitting at the dining table that served as a desk at the condo. His papers were there. His phone was there. His old typewriter was there. His copier was there. And suddenly Koko was there, scattering desk clutter.

  “Down!” he shouted, and Koko dashed out of sight.

  That smart cat had made his point! Among the papers was Vicki’s letter. It had not been left in his coat pocket. He added it to a stack of things-to-do.

  Tuesday was his usual day for transacting K Fund business with the attorney. He phoned Bart at home.

  There followed the predictable weather talk:

  “How’s the weather out there?” Qwilleran asked. “And how bad are the roads?”

  “Not bad. The creek’s running a little high, and everyone’s disappointed about the parade. My kids were to be on one of the floats and so were my wife’s prize peonies. . . . Are you printing a paper tomorrow?”

  “We plan to. Can you get here for our regular meeting? I’m at the condo, not the barn.”

  “Be there at ten-thirty. I suppose you heard the bad news about Nathan Ledfield’s wife?”

  “Too bad. I never met her, but I hear she was charming.”

  “Yes, and my wife says she played the piano like an angel! When she accompanied Nathan on the violin, it was . . . what shall I say? . . . too good for Moose County. (Don’t quote me.) Enough of this chitchat. I sound as if I have cabin fever. I probably do. Look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

  As Qwilleran turned away from the phone, he caught Koko disarranging the stack of mail to be answered, and the cat was particularly interested in the unusual gray envelope with white monogram. In fact, there were fang marks in one corner.

  “What do you think you’re doing,” Qwilleran demanded in a sharp tone that sent Koko flying to parts unknown.

  It was possible that Vicki used scented writing paper, but a sniff dispelled that notion.

  Still, Qwilleran’s curiosity was aroused. His ruminations were interrupted by an excited phone call. It was from Larry Lanspeak.

  “Qwill, I’ve got some bad news about our daughter’s two patients in Purple Point! She’s lost Doris and Nathan. Same diagnosis—respiratory complications! It’s that moldy old mansion they’ve always lived in! I don’t mean to be heartless. Diane’s associate in Lockmaster ordered an environmental investigation. Don’t know whether they got around to it. Everyone’s too busy these days! Well, thought you’d want to know.”

  Qwilleran hung up the phone slowly as he thought of this wealthy couple with so many worldly goods and so much musical talent and so much love for each other—disappointed because they had no children.

  Unexpectedly Koko landed in his lap and stared at him belligerently.

  He wants me to do something, Qwilleran thought. His eyes strayed across the desk to Vicki’s letter. He opened the envelope and read the computer-printed letter quickly, then he read it a second time and phoned the attorney.

  “Bart! I’ve discovered a document that you should see as soon as possible! It’s imperative that you come down this afternoon!”

  When the attorney arrived, Qwilleran’s first words were: “I just heard the bad news about Nathan Ledfield.”

  “Yes, their housekeeper called me after you and I talked. It’s an end of an era! . . . What’s the document you mentioned?”

  “Sit down first, and let me pour you a cup of coffee.”

  When that was done, Qwilleran said, “To put it bluntly, I have a strong suspicion the Ledfields were murdered.”

  Bart all but choked on the coffee. “Is this a theory of yours? Or do you have evidence?”

  “I received a letter from a friend of Clarissa Moore, our new feature writer at the Something. The women were friends in California. The writer of the letter made a flying trip here this past weekend for the purpose—believe it or not—of buying a kitten in the auction at the animal shelter on Saturday.”

  Barter said, “Which you conducted with spectacular success, I’m told.”

  Qwilleran nodded modestly and said, “I didn’t meet the young lady, but she left a note for me, which I’d like you to read.”

  The letter, on gray stationery, read as follows:

  Dear Qwill,

  Sorry not to meet you. Clarissa has told me so much about you. . . . Don’t tell her about this note. You’ll see why. She and I used to double-date on ski weekends with Harvey Ledfield and my friend Greg. We always had a lot to talk about. I was taking a correspondence course in mystery writing; every murder mystery has to have Motive, Opportunity, and Method. And I told them how the hardest part is finding an unusual method. You can’t have the butler poisoning the soup anymore.

  Clarissa, who had been doing research on mold for a school assignment, said that mold found in old houses could cause illness—or even death in old people—and maybe I could use it in a story. Greg, who was in the building business, said the mold, a fungus, could be implanted in the air ducts of a building.

  I said I would try using it in a story, and if it sold, I would split the commission with them. (I wrote it, but it didn’t sell.)

  I said I’d have to go back to poison in the soup. Bad joke, considering what happened at the Old Manse.

  In case you don’t know, Harvey and Greg visited the rich uncle last winter to request backing for a ski lodge, and Harvey was slapped down hard. College tuition—yes. Ski lodge—no. But Harvey didn’t give up. He went to the Old Manse a second time—with a sketch pad and Clarissa. But when he mentioned the ski lodge property as an investment, Uncle Nathan vetoed it again. As the story goes, Harvey was so mad he refused to go to church when the whole household went on Sunday morning. What was he doing while the others were singing hymns?

  I think—and Greg thinks—he was poisoning the air ducts. Greg says the black fungus can be scraped off old houses; it can be found under the wallpaper and in dark closets. He should know; his specialty is restoring old buildings.

  At any rate, after their visit to the Old Manse, Clarissa and Harvey broke up. She got a job at the Something, and Harvey’s aunt and uncle became ill. “Allergies,” they said. I’m very worried about them.

  Does this sound like a synopsis for a crime story, Qwill? Or what?

  Vicki

  Qwilleran said, “My question is: What about Nathan’s will?”

  “Relax, Qwill. Nathan took care of that the day after Harvey was here last winter. He’s leaving everything to the community. But I’ll show this letter to the prosecutor. Harvey should be apprehended on suspicion of homicide.”

  Qwilleran thought, While the Ledfield household, including servants, was at church on Sunday morning, Harvey was implanting fungus in the air ducts of the master suite. . . . Koko knew from the beginning that Harvey was a murderer; that’s why he dropped on his head—something he’d never done before.

  By Tuesday morning Moose County was in an uproar! Two members of an important family had been murdered, and their nephew was being flown back from California as a suspect—under protective custody. Everyone was listening to WPKX newsbites; the grapevine was working overtime; the coffee shops were crowded; rumors were flying.

  “He’ll be lucky if he ain’t lynched!”

  “Wasn’t he the son of that no-good brother?”

  “Wanted their money. They had plenty.”

  “But they were never stingy.”

  “No kids of their own.”

  “Did you know he played the violin? His wife played the piano. They were pretty good, they say.”

  “How old were they?”

  “Not too old. My sister used to see them in church.”

  “My next-door n
eighbor used to work for them. She said they were good people. Mrs. Ledfield even remembered my sister’s birthday. Imagine that!”

  “Too bad they never had kids.”

  “What will happen to their big house?”

  “Somebody’ll make a hotel out of it.”

  “Nah! Not in that neighborhood. Are you nuts?”

  Qwilleran’s phone rang incessantly but all calls were transferred to the answering machine, and he chose which to return—very few.

  There was one he called back, Junior Goodwinter.

  The young managing editor said, “How’d you like that for bad timing? No paper today! Just our Hurricane Special!”

  “Could you throw together a Homicide Special?” Qwilleran suggested facetiously.

  “You’re not kidding. We’ll do a memorial section on Thursday. Could you rustle up a ‘Late Greats’ column? Any other suggestions will be appreciated.”

  “Maggie Sprenkle was their closest friend. She can tell you plenty—all in good taste.”

  “Would you call her? You seem to be her fair-haired boy.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “What’s the deadline?”

  Moose County was mopping up. Although the storm had finished its dirty work, the sun was not exactly shining, and folks still wore the hurt expressions of citizens who had been punished for something they didn’t do.

  EIGHTEEN

  Tuesday night WPKX kept the grapevine awake with hints about murder in high places. Wednesday morning the Something published an extra, announcing the deaths of Nathan and Doris Ledfield, plus a bulletin that a Ledfield heir had been arrested in California. The entire edition sold out in two hours. And for the rest of the day, all telephone lines were busy throughout the county.

  Qwilleran wrote so copiously in his private journal that he had to drive to the stationery shop for another notebook. Not the classic cloth-bound hardcover suitable for preservation in the Library of Congress. Not a slick black-and-chromium looseleaf. Just an ordinary school notebook with lined pages bound into an ugly brown plastic cover.

  Behind the stationer, there was a print shop that had permission to reproduce Cool Koko’s wise sayings on eight-by-ten cards suitable for framing, with proceeds going to animal welfare. (It’s worth noting that a manufacturer of picture frames claimed to sell more eight-by-tens in Moose County than in the rest of the entire state.)

  The most recent was: “Cool Koko says: Look before you leap on the kitchen stove.”

  From there Qwilleran went to the department store to buy a pair of socks he hardly needed.

  Larry Lanspeak was busy in the front of the store. “Go back to the office,” he said to Qwilleran. “Carol wants to see you.”

  Carol gave him a tearful greeting. “Oh Qwill! I can’t believe the dreadful thing that happened! Liz Hart was killed on the Bloody Creek Bridge last night. Liz was like a second daughter to us!”

  He commiserated the best he could and then brought up the obvious question: “What will happen to the Old Grist Mill?”

  “Her brothers will want to sell,” Carol said, “and those sharpies in Lockmaster will want to buy, but we can’t let them get a toehold in Moose County . . .” She paused and waited for a reaction. Getting none, she blurted, “Why don’t you buy it, Qwill? . . . I mean, the K Fund?”

  “Hmmm,” he mused, aware of the feeling between the two counties. “The K Fund invests in local properties. You might suggest it to G. Allen Barter of HBB&A . . .”

  “We know Bart very well!” Carol said with enthusiasm. “The Barters have a farm next to ours.”

  Qwilleran continued his walk through downtown, exchanging greetings with passersby—words and gestures that were more somber than usual.

  On Main Street he automatically looked up at the second floor of the Sprenkle Building to see if the five “ladies” were in the five windows. This time one was missing. Was she unwell? Having a bite to eat? Or had she just excused herself? He stopped to watch, often wondering if the ladies could see him across the street, and if they would recognize his moustache. Then Maggie appeared in the window beckoning him urgently.

  He crossed the street, waving thank you to the drivers who stopped to let him through the crowded traffic lanes.

  At the entrance a buzzer admitted him, and he climbed the narrow stairs covered with plush carpet thick enough to turn an ankle.

  As he expected, Maggie wanted to talk about the Ledfield tragedy.

  Qwilleran said, “I regret sincerely that I never met the Ledfields.”

  “It would have been a case of mutual admiration,” she cried. “Nathan admired your handling of the Klingenschoen fortune—and he always read the ‘Qwill Pen’ aloud to Doris. . . . Oh, Qwill!” She showed signs of another emotional outburst.

  “Stay calm, Maggie. Remember and be thankful for all the years the Sprenkles and the Ledfields had together.”

  “I remember the beautiful hands of Doris and Nathan. Musicians’ hands are long and slender. Doris said they exercised their fingers for fifteen minutes every day. Her fingers flew over the keys without seeming to touch them. And Jeremy used to marvel at Nathan’s fingering of the violin strings. . . . I know you like music, Qwill. Would you like to borrow my collection of their piano and violin recordings? Polly has told me about your magnificent music system at the barn!”

  She said, “My favorite is Chopin’s Polonaise Brillante! You’ll both love it!”

  “I’d be honored,” he said.

  Then he added, “Friday’s ‘Qwill Pen’ will be a ‘Late Great’ profile of the Ledfields. Is there anything I should know?”

  “I can tell you one thing,” she replied with fervor. “They always did more than they were asked to do, and gave more than they were asked to give. They supported every worthwhile program: school, church, library, athletic, and civic.”

  Qwilleran said, “Did you know some of their mounted animals were in the Pickax Then parade?”

  “Not only that, but his wildlife museum was open twice a year to schoolchildren who had the highest grades!” Maggie said.

  “The Ledfields visited the barn once, paying three hundred dollars a ticket. It was a benefit for the local literacy program. I was not able to meet them due to an embarrassing incident with Koko that ended the evening early.”

  Maggie had to smile. “Doris told me it was the most fun they had had in years! Your cat stole the show.”

  “Koko disgraced himself, but the evening was a financial success for a good cause.”

  Maggie said, “Nathan called it the best fund-raiser he’d ever attended—and he’d gladly pay to see it again.”

  When Quilleran left he was carrying a leather case of recordings to play on the barn system. He stowed them in the trunk of his car.

  Having declined Maggie’s offer of “a nice cup of tea,” he went instead to Lois’s Luncheonette, where he could get a wicked cup of coffee and listen to the gossip. He called it “taking the public pulse.”

  He found the place in an uproar. Every chair at every table was filled. All the customers were talking at once—about the Ledfields—the murders . . . the family scandal—and the Ledfields’ will. Especially the will! Who would inherit? How much? The possibility that the fortune might be going out of state. Everyone seemed to have a cousin or father-in-law whose wife knew the Ledfields’ housekeeper or whose uncle was their window washer.

  Qwilleran drank his coffee while standing at the cash register, then walked to the office of HBB&A, hoping Allen Barter would be at his desk. He was.

  “What brings you out, Qwill?”

  “I’ve been hearing strange rumors about the Ledfield bequests. Do I have to wait for tomorrow’s newspaper?”

  “Sit down and I’ll fill you in. It’s very simple. An old intermediate school will become the Ledfield Music Center, offering private lessons, classes, recitals, et cetera, all under the supervision of Uncle Louie MacLeod. . . . The Ledfield wildlife collection will be moved to a downtown site conveni
ent for classes of schoolchildren. . . . The Old Manse will become a museum of art and antiques, with guided tours conducted by volunteers trained as guides, and with a respectable admission charge to discourage gawkers. Nathan envisioned it as an educational experience for visitors.”

  “Sounds good,” Qwilleran said. “There are rumors that some of the fortune is going out of state.”

  “You’ve been hanging around the coffee shops, Qwill.”

  Next, Qwilleran left his car in the parking lot and walked to the newspaper. “Just touching base,” he said to the managing editor.

  “We’ll be back to normal tomorrow,” Junior said. “Will you have your usual ‘Qwill Pen’ for Friday?”

  “I’ll write a ‘Late Great’ on the Ledfields.”

  “The terms of the will are scheduled to run tomorrow. It could be quite a sensation. The Ledfields go back to the nineteenth century, when mine owners made fortunes and there was no income tax. And they’ve had a century to invest it, so you know they were loaded. Whether they’re leaving it to Moose County remains to be seen. . . . We’re printing a large run tomorrow.”

  In the days that followed, Qwilleran’s neighbors in the Village assumed he would stay there for the winter, since he had gone to the trouble of moving from the barn.

  True, he had many friends there, and there were numerous activities in the clubhouse, but it could not compare with the barn for livability. The acoustics were magnificent, and he had a collection of the Ledfields’ CDs waiting to be played. Altogether it was an odd situation. The barn made good country living in the city in the summer, and the condo made good city living in the country in winter.

  Qwilleran pondered his options as he watched the cats gobble their dinner.