He arrived before Hixie and sat at the bar, sipping Squunk water with a twist of lemon. He was on his third drink when his guest arrived, looking harried and tossing her pageboy nervously.
“Quick! I need a martini!” she said. “Make it a double. Then I’ll apologize for being late.”
The bartender looked questioningly at Qwilleran, then at Hixie, then at Qwilleran again, as if to say, “Where’s Mrs. Duncan?”
“You’ll never believe this, Qwill,” she said in her usual tragicomic style, “but I was driving out Ittibittiwassee Road with not a car in sight—anywhere! And I got in a two-car accident!”
“That’s not easy to do.”
“Let me tell you how it happened. When I reached Mayfus Road, a car came out of nowhere and ran the stop sign! There were only two of us within ten square miles—and we collided! Why do these crazy things happen to me?”
“You’re disaster-prone, Hixie,” Qwilleran said sympathetically. She had a long history of getting locked in restrooms, setting her hair on fire, picking the wrong men, and more. “It’s fortunate you weren’t hurt.”
“I had my seat belt fastened, but the passenger side was wrecked, and I waited for Gippel’s towtruck to come from Pickax.”
“How did you get here?”
“The sheriff dropped me off. He was a real sweetheart, and I adore those brimmed hats they wear! After dinner you’ll have to drive me to Gippel’s, and they’ll give me a loaner.”
They sat at Qwilleran’s table under the friendly eye of Tipsy and ordered from the no-nonsense menu chalked on a blackboard: steak or fish, take it or leave it. The soup of the day was the soup of the year: bean. The vegetable was always boiled carrots, but they were homegrown, small and sweet. The tiny Moose County potatoes, boiled in their skins, had an Irish flavor, and the steak always tasted like honest meat.
“Have the police knocked on your door?” Qwilleran asked.
“Not yet. Have you talked to anyone?”
“Larry. He worries that someone in the club is guilty, but I think he’s wrong.” Qwilleran patted his moustache.
“Do you know something that the rest of us don’t know?”
“I have a hunch, that’s all.”
Qwilleran’s hunches were always accompanied by a tingling in the roots of his moustache, something he could not explain and refused to discuss. His years on the police beat Down Below, coupled with a natural curiosity, had given him an interest in criminal investigation, and when he was on the right scent there was always that reassuring sensation on his upper lip.
At Tipsy’s the food was served by plump, bustling, jolly, gray-haired women who admonished diners to eat everything on their plates.
Qwilleran said to Hixie, “Where do they get all these clones to wait on table? I suppose they advertise: WANTED: Plump, jolly, gray-haired waitpersons with bustling experience. Grandmothers preferred.”
They ordered steak—and whatever happened to come with it. Over the bean soup Hixie said, “I have something exciting to discuss.”
“Okay. Let’s have it.” Hixie’s ideas were always novel and usually successful, except when they involved Koko; he declined to do TV commercials or endorse a line of frozen gourmet catfoods. It was she, however, who delighted local readers by naming the new newspaper the Moose CountySomething, and it was Hixie who convinced Dennis Hough to advertise his new construction firm as “Huff & Puff Construction Associates.”
“First, have you seen the announcement of my new contest?” she asked.
“Yes. What gave you the idea?”
“Well, you see, Qwill, I drive around the county selling ads, and I see black-and-white cats by the thousand! People seem to think they’re all descended from Tipsy. So I thought, Why not a Tipsy Look-Alike Contest? The Kennebeck Chamber of Commerce jumped at the opportunity! They’re printing posters and T-shirts.”
“And the Something is selling some extra advertising space,” Qwilleran added.
“Of course! We have a good slogan. The original Tipsy, you know, was a very sweet cat as well as comic-looking, so our slogan is ‘Sweeter and Funnier.’ How do you like it?”
“It may be just what this county needs. Are you getting any entries?”
“Hundreds!”
The steaks arrived, and the conversation switched to food—also office gossip at the Something and the open house at Qwilleran’s barn.
When the waitress served the bread pudding, he said, “One thing puzzles me. How will you judge the Tipsy contest?”
“Glad you asked, Qwill. People are sending in snapshots of their cats, and we’ll narrow them down to the fifty best look-alikes. They’ll come to Kennebeck for the final judging, and I’m hoping you’ll be one of the judges.”
“Hold on, Hixie!” he said. “You know I like to cooperate, but I would rather not have to judge fifty live cats.”
“Your name on the panel will add a lot of prestige to the contest,” she said, “and Lyle Compton has agreed to judge.”
“Our school superintendent will do anything for public exposure. He might want to run for governor some day. Who else is on the panel?”
“Mildred Hanstable.”
Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. Roger MacGillivray’s newly widowed mother-in-law was one of his favorite women—and an excellent cook. He said, “All right. It’s a foul prospect, but I’ll do it.”
Over the coffee, Hixie broached the subject of the murder again. “Hilary was infuriatingly uncooperative when I was trying to get publicity for Henry VIII. And everyone I talk to harbors some grudge against the guy.”
“He’s hurt someone more deeply than we know,” Qwilleran said. “There are dark corners of his life that he’s kept secret.”
“Do you think it could be drug-related?”
“Not likely, although I’m sure the idea of a high school principal as drug dealer appeals to your imagination. Moose County has always been pretty clean; that’s one advantage to living in the boondocks. We have an alcohol problem, but that’s all—as yet.”
“The sheriff’s helicopter is always hovering over those desolate stretches between Chipmunk and Purple Point.”
“They’re looking for poachers, not marijuana plantings. What does Gary Pratt think about it? Do you still see a lot of Gary?”
“Not lately,” Hixie said. “He’s such a hairy ape, and since meeting Dennis I realize I go for clean-cut.”
Qwilleran assumed his uncle role again. “I hope you know Dennis is happily married, Hixie. Don’t walk into any more disappointments. He has a bright two-year-old who looks just like him, and his wife’s trying to sell the house in St. Louis so the family can be together up here.”
“She’s not trying very hard,” was Hixie’s flippant retort. “Dennis says she doesn’t want to live four hundred miles north of everywhere.” She turned serious. “I don’t know whether this means anything, Qwill, but . . . I tried to call Dennis this morning after I heard the news on the radio, and he wasn’t there. I got a recorded message.”
“He was probably sleeping and didn’t want to be disturbed,” Qwilleran suggested. “None of us got much sleep last night.”
“But I looked out the window at the carport, and his assigned parking space was empty.”
“He might have gone home with someone. Did that occur to you?”
“I don’t think he did. This afternoon, when his van was still missing, I mentioned it to the manager, and this is what she told me: According to the nightman at the gate, Dennis left before daybreak, right after he came in. He didn’t say anything, but he looked worried, and he drove away from the gate very fast and turned onto the highway with tires squealing.”
THREE
RETURNING HOME FROM Tipsy’s restaurant Sunday night, Qwilleran stepped on a small object in the foyer and kicked another one in front of the schrank. A third turned up under a rug. They were metal engravings mounted on wooden blocks—printing memorabilia that he had started to collect. In embarking on a new hob
by, he had also provided a pastime for the Siamese: stealing typeblocks from the typecase where they were displayed. This time they had filched small cuts of a fish, a rabbit, and a rooster. Either the subject matter was appealing, or the blocks were the right size for a playful paw.
As Qwilleran entered the barn, the light on his answering machine was flashing, and he pressed the button to hear a brief recorded message from Polly: “Qwill, I arrived home from Lockmaster later than I planned. Don’t call me back tonight. I’m very tired, and I’m going to bed early.”
There were no intimate expressions of affection included in the message; Polly, he concluded, must be very tired, indeed. After brunch at the Palomino Paddock what else had she been doing?
He himself felt in high gear despite his fifteen minutes of sleep the night before. He was stimulated by the puzzle confronting Chief Brodie, although he had no intention of meddling in the case. His friend would not appreciate suggestions from an amateur investigator. While working the police beat Down Below Qwilleran had written a book on urban crime, now out of print, but it hardly entitled him to advise a pro like Brodie.
He prepared a cup of coffee and carried it to a comfortable chair, propping his feet on an ottoman. Yum Yum promptly took possession of his lap, and Koko assumed an attentive position at his feet. They were ready for some quality time.
“Well,” he began, “what we have here is the kind of criminal case that is solved immediately—or never. What’s your guess?”
Koko blinked his eyes, a signal that Qwilleran interpreted as “no opinion.” Cats, he recalled, were never interested in generalities.
“I don’t buy the theory that it was an inside job,” he went on, grooming his moustache, “although I don’t know why I feel that way. If Brodie expends too much time and effort in hounding the members of the club, he’s wasting his time.”
“Yow,” said Koko.
“I’m glad you agree. The one individual he should be investigating is the victim himself. Who was he—really? Where did he get a name like Hilary VanBrook? We know he came here from Lockmaster, but where did he operate before that? He was obviously not a native of the north country, so why did this brilliant man with a cosmopolitan background and impressive credentials choose to live in the outback? Where did he disappear on weekends? Why did he need that large house on Goodwinter Boulevard?”
Qwilleran had forgotten that he himself was indirectly responsible for bringing the principal to Pickax. Four years before—four long and eventful years—Qwilleran had arrived in Moose County as the reluctant heir to the Klingenschoen fortune, reluctant because he had no desire for wealth. He was a dedicated journalist who enjoyed hacking a living on the crime beat. He was content with a one-room apartment, no car, and a meager wardrobe that packed in a jiffy when his newspaper sent him off on assignment. Finding himself suddenly encumbered with millions—yet with no interest in financial matters—he solved the problem very simply: He established the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund to give the money away. Immediately a board of trustees started awarding grants, scholarships, and loans to benefit the community.
In direst need, it so happened, was the local school system, known to operate on the lowest per-pupil expenditure in the state. As the Klingenschoen Fund poured money into school facilities and teacher salaries, this cornucopia of largesse gave superintendent Lyle Compton an idea: Money might lure the celebrated Hilary VanBrook away from Lockmaster High School where he had accomplished wonders in a few years. Although Lockmaster considered Moose County a primitive wilderness populated by savages who could not even win a football game, VanBrook accepted the Pickax challenge—and the lucrative contract. Under his leadership the Pickax high school earned accreditation, the curriculum was expanded, and more graduates went on to college. Although the athletic teams did no better, faculty and parents considered the new principal a miracle-worker—while loathing his overweening personality and heartless policies.
A few months before his murder VanBrook wrote a typically curt and scornful letter to the Theatre Club, proposing a Shakespeare production as a change from the light comedies, musicals, and mysteries favored by local audiences. He volunteered to direct it himself. The play he proposed was The Famous History of the Life of King Henry the Eighth, and the officers of the Theatre Club uttered a unanimous groan.
Carol Lanspeak called Qwilleran for his opinion. “I’m consulting you,” she said, “because the K Fund may have to bail us out if it’s a flop. No one likes the idea, and yet Horseface has a reputation as a no-fail genius. We’re asking him to meet with our board of directors for further discussion, and we’re inviting you to audit the meeting. You can bring your tape recorder if you wish; it might make a subject for the ‘Qwill Pen’ column—that is, if we decide to cut our throats.”
It was a dinner meeting held in a private room at the New Pickax Hotel, built in 1935, the year its predecessor burned down. After a dinner of meatloaf and scalloped potatoes (the hotel was not noted for its imaginative cuisine), the board waited for the guest of honor to arrive. VanBrook had declined to join them for dinner, a pointedly unfriendly gesture. When he finally arrived—late, without apology—Carol called the meeting to order and invited the principal to elucidate on his proposal. As if the board were composed of illiterates, he responded by reading a copy of the same letter he had mailed to them, spitting out the phrases with obvious disdain.
Qwilleran heard someone whisper, “Isn’t he a pill?” Yet, the man had a rich, well-modulated voice; it was easy to believe he had been a professional actor. The principal finished reading and rolled his eyes at the walls and ceiling.
Officers and board members exchanged looks of dismay. The first to find nerve enough to speak was Scott Gippel, car dealer and treasurer of the club, whose girth was so enormous that he required two chairs. “The public won’t go for that heavy stuff,” he said.
Carol Lanspeak spoke up. “Since receiving Mr. VanBrook’s letter I’ve read the play twice, and I regret to say that I can’t find a single memorable or quotable line except the first one: I come no more to make you laugh.”
“That’s when half the audience gets up and walks out,” said Gippel good-naturedly, his not-too-solid flesh quivering with mirth over his own quip.
The chairman of the play-reading committee, a retired teacher of English, commented, “Mr. VanBrook has a point; it’s time we attempted Shakespeare, but is this the right play for us? There is even some doubt that Shakespeare wrote Henry VIII. It reads—if you will pardon my candor—as if it were written by a committee.”
Qwilleran stole a look at VanBrook, who was listening in supercilious silence, gazing at the ceiling and rolling his eyes as if searching for cracks in the plaster.
Fran Brodie said, “I’d like to make another objection. Henry VIII calls for a large cast, and we have limited space backstage and very few dressing rooms. The theatre was not designed for large productions.”
“The cost of all those costumes will be prohibitive,” Gippel added.
“And there are so few roles for women,” Carol objected.
“If you ask me, it’s too dull and too long,” said Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor of the Moose County Something. “And the last scene is a let-down, like the last half of the ninth in a 14-0 ballgame.”
VanBrook rose to his feet. “May I speak?”
“Of course. Please do,” said Carol with an artificial smile. She frowned at her husband, who had not opened his mouth during the objections. As president of the board of education he had helped convince VanBrook to leave Lockmaster, and he joined Lyle Compton in humoring the principal—who was doing so much good, and who was known to be temperamental, and whose contract was coming up for renewal. If VanBrook failed to sign again, he would undoubtedly return to the Lockmaster school system, and the good folk of Pickax would be left drowning in chagrin.
In a condescending manner VanBrook began. “Henry VIII is no longer than Romeo and Juliet, and it is shorter by f
ar than Hamlet and Richard III. So much for too long.” He darted a contemptuous glance at the editor. “As for too dull, the play has been captivating audiences for three centuries with its color and pageantry. Furthermore, it addresses such contemporary concerns as corruption, greed, power politics, and the abuse of women. As a morality play it deplores the vain pomp and glory of this world . . . Is everyone still with me?” His listeners wriggled uncomfortably, and he went on. “You say there are too few roles for women, and yet one of the strongest roles Shakespeare ever wrote for a woman is Katharine of Aragon, Queen of England. Anne Boleyn is another coveted role, and even the Old Lady is a small gem of a part. For those who fancy themselves in period costumes there are plenty of ladies-in-waiting sweeping on and off the stage. And if you think Henry VIII lacks great scenes, let me draw your attention to Buckingham’s arrest, his unjust condemnation as a traitor, the roisterous party that King Henry crashes in disguise, the queen’s court trial, her later confrontation with Cardinal Wolsey, Wolsey’s repentant leave-taking, the coronation of Queen Anne, and the heart-rending death of Katharine.”
He flashed a triumphant glance around the conference room and continued. “It so happens that I have staged this play before, and there are certain techniques that can be employed—notably the use of students as supernumeraries, to be costumed at the school and transported to the theatre in school buses. The Klingenschoen garage at the rear of the theatre can provide dressing rooms for actors playing small roles and making infrequent entrances.”
Qwilleran thought, Wait a minute, bub! I’m still living in the garage!
“As for the final scene,” VanBrook said, “this purely political indulgence was tacked on to flatter the monarchy, and let me assure you that it will be omitted. Henry VIII will end with Katharine’s death scene, which has been called the glory of the play.”
The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal Page 5
