“The camp,” the young man gasped, as if with his last breath.
“Great Oaks? That’s ten miles from here! I hope you were able to hitch a ride.” It was not likely; local drivers were not prone to pick up hitchhikers with haircuts different from their own.
“Have you had food, Clarence?”
The young man shook his head. “Couldn’t pay for any. She’s gone. Didn’t leave no money.”
“Well, come into the gazebo and have a bowl of soup and a ham sandwich.” He showed Clarence to a lounge chair. “Stretch out here. Take off your boots. Munch on these nuts while you’re waiting. Would you like some fruit juice?”
“Any beer?”
“Sorry. No beer.” There was beer—and everything else—in the bar, but Qwilleran preferred to keep the party dry.
In the barn he gave the soup another shot of heat and slipped another slice of ham into the sandwich. The cats watched—Yum Yum bemused, Koko mystified; the male cat always wanted to know the who, why, and what. Qwilleran was wondering how to break the news of the car accident. Lish was simply “gone,” as far as her driver knew . . . and how indeed could he hold a conversation with this man of few words?
Back in the gazebo the guest wolfed down the repast that the host had intended for himself, but that was simply one of the quiddities in the life of the Klingenschoen heir.
Qwilleran kept the questions casual. “How long have you worked for Lish?”
After a pause, “I dunno.”
“It’s hard to remember, isn’t it? Time flies. Did she leave you a note?”
He shook his head while chewing.
“Do you have any idea where she would go?”
“Nope.”
“Where’s your own home, may I ask? If I’m not being too nosy.”
“Don’t have none.”
“Do you just hang out?”
He nodded.
“Yes. I guess young people like that lifestyle,” Qwilleran added, trying not to sound too judgmental.
“Lish is a smart woman. She said you were a good driver. Do you like your work?”
Another nod.
“What other jobs do you do for her?”
“I’m her shooter.” He said it with pride, it seemed.
“You mean, with a camera? Is she into photography?”
For an answer, the “shooter” opened his loose jacket and showed something shiny in a holster, close to his rib cage.
“Neat!” Qwilleran commented, for want of a better reaction.
He pondered the next question. “How about a dish of ice cream, and I’ll have one, too. Would you like chocolate sauce?” The host brought two dishes, saying genially, “Nothing like a big dish of ice cream at the end of a hard day. Now tell me about your shooting. It must be interesting.”
“I only did it twice.”
“Do you remember where?”
“Once down on the beach, somewhere around here, and once up north.”
“Who were the guys? Do you know?”
The answer was a shrug.
“I hope your boss was pleased with your work. I suppose you came back up here for the celebration.”
“Nah. She was mad at her grandma. I thought she’d want another shootin’, but she didn’t.”
Qwilleran thought, This could be a comedy turn, if it weren’t so tragic. “What will you do now that she’s taken the car?”
“She’ll come back.”
“I don’t think so, Clarence. She had an accident this afternoon. It was on the radio. She was killed.”
The young man stared.
“Did you hear me? She was killed—instantly—and the car was smashed.”
With what seemed like regret, Clarence said, “And I always kept it so clean!”
The fellow’s remark struck Qwilleran as revealing. The boss was dead, the car was totaled, and he was grieving over the polish he kept on it. There was the look in his eyes, the dilation of his pupils that indicated he was “messed up” on drugs. Qwilleran had once been “messed up,” but on alcohol—homeless, penniless, jobless, and friendless. Then strangers had snatched him back from the Valley of Death—literally. And the incident had turned him around. But he had not murdered anyone; Clarence had shot that man down on the beach. Lish had staged the event, finding the victim and possibly disappearing with the loot. All that was canceled out by her head-on collision with the Bixby Airport bus, leaving Clarence to face the music. Whether he was high on crack or simply dull-witted, the situation was the same: He had been the shooter, and he was in trouble.
Qwilleran asked, “What will you do now that Lish is gone? You were the shooter, and you’ll have to take the blame for the murders. Do you realize you’ll be arrested, put on trial, sent to prison?”
The black pupils that passed for eyes in the pathetic face darted back and forth.
“I’ll phone my lawyer. He’ll do the best he can for you. I’ll have to go inside to get his number and try to track him down. I’ll send my friend Koko out to keep you company. Do you like cats?”
He nodded without enthusiasm.
Qwilleran returned with the cat in his tote bag, tipping him out gently on the table at Clarence’s elbow. The two were regarding each other questioningly as Qwilleran hurried back into the barn.
First he did his civic duty by calling Andrew Brodie. The police chief was always at home, watching TV, on Sunday evenings. “Andy, police news! The man who shot the victim on my beach property is in my gazebo, playing with Koko. He’s a sad sack, and I feel bad about turning him in. I think his partner has kept him in a drugged state to make him follow orders. His partner was killed in that airport-bus crash.”
Qwilleran froze as he heard a gunshot! “Oh, my God! Has he shot Koko?”
Dropping the phone with a crash, Qwilleran rushed out to the gazebo . . . There was the cat, standing on the table, arching his back to twice its usual height, and bushing his tail to four times its usual size. In the chair slumped Clarence, with blood running from a bullet hole in his temple.
Qwilleran ran back to the phone. He spluttered, “Andy . . . Andy. There’s a new development—”
“Be right there! Don’t let him get away!” the chief said.
“He’s not going anywhere. Bring the body wagon,” Qwilleran shouted.
SEVENTEEN
The gossips had little grist for their mill. As always, local police and news media respected Qwilleran’s desire for anonymity. The perpetrators of the homicide were dead, and Koko, the only witness to the suicide, was not talking. Edythe Carroll was back in her Ittibittiwassee apartment under the close supervision of Dr. MacKenzie, along with her collection of miniature porcelain shoes. They had survived the collision, thanks to the sturdiness of the luggage, the way it was lodged in the back of the car, and the thickness of the bath towels.
These developments left Qwilleran gratefully free to concentrate on the “Qwill Pen” column and the “Great Storm” show, which was playing twice weekly to full houses. Polly Duncan and the Rikers attended the second matinee, after which they met for a picnic in the gazebo: drinks courtesy of Arch, casserole by Mildred, celery sticks and low-calorie dessert by Polly.
“How come this place looks so clean?” asked Arch Riker, a master of the brutal compliment.
“The cats spend a lot of time out here, and they shed. It’s about time I had it cleaned.”
The truth was that the fussy pair had boycotted the gazebo ever since the gunshot and would not return until the cleaning crew had scoured everything and left a comforting aroma of detergent.
The party of four plunged into the refreshments and the conversation—lauding Qwilleran for his performance, Maxine for her composure, Mrs. Carroll for her munificence, and the town of Brrr for its spunky birthday party.
Mildred asked, “Who on earth would think of that crazy birthday cake stunt?”
“Gary Pratt. He’s a nut,” Arch said. “Why does he go around looking like a bear?”
“Beca
use he’s president of the chamber of commerce,” Qwilleran said, “and this is Moose County, and he can look any way he wants!”
“Your set!” Arch conceded, having watched the tennis matches on television. “Let’s talk about the bookstore. How’s it coming?”
Polly had been waiting politely to be asked. “We’ve hired a bibliocat—a handsome marmalade with magic green eyes—and we’re looking at carpet samples to match them. Also, we’ve lined up a former teacher from the Lockmaster Academy of the Arts who’ll work part-time.”
“What’s his name?” asked Mildred, who prided herself on knowing everyone.
“Alden Wade. The cat’s name is Dundee. I have a snapshot of him in my handbag. Would you like to see it?”
“The teacher or the cat?” Arch asked.
“My husband is being arch,” Mildred said.
Dundee’s cream-and-apricot markings and alert appearance and fascinating eyes were admired.
Then Arch said, “Qwill, I can’t resist asking any longer. What’s that thing on the side table?” He pointed to a small block of wood and a paddle.
“A turkey call,” Qwilleran explained. “The Outdoor Club was selling them to raise money for a good cause, so I bought a few to give to friends who hunt game birds. I use this one to tease Koko. He talks back to it. He thinks he can talk turkey.”
“Now I’ve heard it all! Let’s go home.”
The guests carried the dishes into the barn, and the women tidied the kitchen while Qwilleran fed the cats. Arch had learned that he could be most helpful by keeping out of the way, so he wandered around and made comments:
“I see you’ve got a new phone. . . . Who made this turned wood gadget with paper clips in it? . . . I see Koko knocked an Uncle Wiggily book off the shelf. . . . Are you still reading to the cats?”
The guests drove away, and Qwilleran transported the cats to the gazebo in their tote bag, along with a book about a rabbit who wore a top hat and had gentlemanly manners. Yum Yum had smuggled her silver thimble to the gazebo in the tote bag and proceeded to bat it around the concrete floor. Koko was sitting on his brisket near the screen, as if waiting for something to happen.
“Are you waiting for the mailman?” Qwilleran asked. “Waiting for Santa Claus? Waiting for Godot?”
The cat turned and regarded him pityingly—or so it seemed.
Suddenly Qwilleran felt weary, not only from the effort of doing a one-man show and the excitement of partying afterward, but also from the whole Lish-and-Lush experience, climaxed by the suicide in his own backyard. He felt the urge to relax, do nothing, enjoy the early summer evening, give his vocal cords a hiatus. Perhaps he dozed off. Possibly he dreamed. He may have heard Koko clucking and gobbling.
He was sure he heard a rustling in the shrubbery, as two wild turkeys appeared, followed by a veritable horde of poults—all the same size. More large birds with red wattles came from the back road, saw the barn, and put their heads together as if critiquing the architecture.
Had Koko invited them? Was this why he had been waiting and watching?
Even as Qwilleran stared at the scene, the congregation began to drift away into the bushes. The last to leave were the poults, with lingering glances back at Koko, perhaps wishing they could have stayed longer.
A high-decibel yowl directly in his ear catapulted Qwilleran out of his lounge chair. Koko was on the chairside table.
“You devil!” he shouted.
Koko nudged the volume of Uncle Wiggily stories.
Qwilleran obliged—reading the honorable doings of Uncle Wiggily. The cat had lost interest in “The Shooting of Dan McGrew” and The Hunting of the Snark, but—it might be noted—not until Lish and Lush had been identified with the two “woodland murders.”
Simmons, who thought “snark” sounded like something spelled backward, would be amused to know that it spelled KRANS. . . . “Kranson” was the real surname of Alicia and her felonious parent.
Qwilleran had to admit that the connection was preposterous; it was purely coincidental. . . . But what about Koko’s reactions to Lish from the very beginning? He had growled at her when she walked down the beach; he had hissed at her message on the phone! All cats have a sense of right and wrong, but Koko’s clairvoyance was beyond belief! There was one incontrovertible fact, and that was the authenticity of his blood-curdling death howl signifying wrongful death. It could be a mile away or a continent away, but it was always connected with an individual or a situation close to home.
“Yow!” said Koko, on the table at Qwilleran’s elbow and staring with a fathomless gaze, after which he rolled over onto his spine and attended to a sudden catly itch.
“Not on the table!” came the scolding, but Kao K’o Kung went on doing what had to be done.
“N-n-now!” came a delicate cry from Yum Yum. With the silver thimble clamped in her little jaws, she jumped to Qwilleran’s lap and gave him her favorite toy.
RECIPES
“They chatted, stopping long enough to order lunch. . . . Qwilleran said he’d stick to his favoriteReuben sandwich.”
REUBEN SANDWICH
12 slices of rye bread
3 tablespoons butter or margarine
Reuben dressing
1 pound of thinly sliced corned beef
11⁄2 cups sauerkraut, well-drained
6 slices Swiss cheese
Spread 1 side of each slice of bread with butter or margarine. Turn the slices over and spread the other side with Reuben dressing. Place corned beef on 6 of the slices, followed by 1⁄4 cup of sauerkraut and 1 slice of cheese. Top with the remaining slices of bread, butter side up. Place on a griddle or large non-stick fry pan to cook. Press down on the sandwiches as they cook or weight them to keep them compact. Cook about 6 minutes or until the first side is crisp. Then turn the sandwiches over and cook until the second side is crisp and the cheese is melted. Makes 6 sandwiches.
REUBEN DRESSING
1 cup mayonnaise
1⁄4 cup sour cream
1⁄3 cup chili sauce
1 teaspoon finely chopped onion
4 tablespoons sweet pickle relish
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1⁄2 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1⁄2 teaspoon horseradish
Combine the mayonnaise, sour cream, and chili sauce in a small bowl. Then stir in the onion, sweet pickle relish, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, and horseradish. Mix thoroughly.
“Then Qwilleran filled a picnic basket with cold drinks in an ice pack, a ham sandwich for himself, crunchies for the Siamese, and twomolasses-ginger cookiesfrom the Scottish bakery. He wondered how these plain, flat, brown cookies could be so humble and yet so delectable. Upon further consideration, he put all four in the basket.”
MOLASSES-GINGER COOKIES
11⁄2 cups flour
3⁄4 teaspoon soda
1⁄2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ground ginger
l teaspoon ground cinnamon
1⁄2 cup butter or margarine, room temperature
3⁄4 cup sugar
1 egg
1⁄4 cup molasses
1⁄2 cup coconut flakes
1⁄2 cup coarsely chopped pecans
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Stir or sift the flour, soda, salt, ginger, and cinnamon together. Cream the butter and sugar together. Add the egg and molasses. Beat well. Blend in the dry ingredients. Add the coconut and nuts. Mix well. Drop by rounded teaspoonfuls about 2 inches apart onto a lightly greased cookie sheet. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes. Cool cookies slightly before removing them from the cookie sheet. Makes about 3 dozen.
); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
The Cat Who Talked Turkey Page 13
