Qwilleran pulled out two kitchen chairs. “Come in and sit down, Steve. How about a cup of coffee?”
Mrs. Cobb quickly filled two mugs from the coffee maker and set them on the table, together with a plate of doughnuts.
“Don’t want no coffee,” Steve said, staring at Qwilleran belligerently. “Gotcha letter.”
“It’s hard to express the sorrow I feel about this outrageous crime,” Qwilleran said. “I met Tiffany only twice, but—”
“Quit the bull! ’S all your fault,” the painter said sullenly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Y’got her mixed up in it. If y’didn’t shoot off ’bout Daisy, wouldn’ta happened.”
“Now wait a minute,” Qwilleran said gently but firmly. “You overheard my private conversation with a visitor and went home and told your wife, didn’t you? It was her idea to come here and talk about it. Furthermore, the police suspect that some tourist drove past the farm and—”
“Ain’t no tourist, and y’know it.”
“I haven’t the least idea what you’re implying, Steve.”
“The letter y’sent me . . . tryin’ to buy me off. No dice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Y’wanna give money away to kids. Hell, what y’gonna do for me? Why’n’cha pay for the fun’ral?” With an angry gesture he swept the coffee mug off the table. It shattered on the stone floor.
Mrs. Cobb made a hurried exit and returned almost immediately with Birch Tree.
“Okay, Stevie-boy,” Birch said, grinning and showing his big square teeth. “Let’s go home and sleep it off.” He hoisted the younger man from the chair and propelled him toward the door.
Glancing out the window, Qwilleran saw the painter’s truck parked with one wheel in the rhododendrons. “He can’t drive in that condition,” he said.
“I’ll drive his truck. You follow and bring me back,” Birch instructed in a tone of authority. “Only a coupla miles. Terence’s dairy farm. Now you’ll see where the stink comes from when the wind’s from the southwest. Baa-a-a-a!”
After depositing Steve in his mobile home on the farm, Birch went to the farmhouse and talked to the in-laws. Then the two men drove back to town in the two-door, Qwilleran marveling at the man’s competence and self-assurance in handling the awkward situation.
“Nice day,” Birch said. “We needed rain, but they sent us too much. Baa-a-a-a!”
“I’ll be able to take my bike out this afternoon,” Qwilleran said.
“Me, I’m gonna knock off early and get in some fishin’. Big salmon’s bitin’ a few miles off Purple Point.”
“Do you have a boat?”
“Sure do. Forty-foot cruiser, loaded. Fish-finder, automatic pilot, ship-to-shore—you name it. Y’oughta get one.”
Qwilleran frowned. “Fish-finder? What’s that?”
“A graph, y’know. A CGR. Sonar computer graph recorder. Traces the bottom of the lake. Tells you where the fish are, and how many. First-class way to fish!”
By noontime Birch had cleared out with his noisebox and tools, and Qwilleran enjoyed his lunch in peace.
“It’s good to have the doors fixed,” Mrs. Cobb said. “It was worth all the commotion.”
Qwilleran agreed. “Now Koko won’t be able to barge into my room at six A.M. He thinks everyone should get up at dawn.”
The housekeeper served lunch in the cheerful breakfast room, where William and Mary banister-back chairs surrounded a dark oak table, and yellow and green chintz covered the walls and draped the windows.
“Best macaroni-and-cheese I ever tasted,” Qwilleran announced.
“I found some really good cheddar at a little store behind the post office,” Mrs. Cobb said. After a moment she added, “I also noticed a sale of ten-speeds at the hardware store.” She looked at him hopefully. “Twenty percent off.”
Qwilleran grunted. “When they make a dogproof bike, I may be interested.”
Later that afternoon he had another interesting scrap of conversation. The mail-cat trudged into the library to deliver Penelope’s thank-you note, about which there lingered a faint but heady suggestion of Fantaisie Féline.
Qwilleran studied the intelligent-looking animal. “What was Steve trying to tell us, Koko? Who killed Tiffany Trotter—and why? And what really happened to Daisy Mull? Are we wasting our time hunting for answers?”
The cat sat tall on the desk, swaying slightly as he concentrated his blue gaze on Qwilleran’s forehead. Suddenly the man realized that Koko had never experienced the murals in Daisy’s apartment. He grabbed him and carried him out to the garage. The sleek body was neither struggling in protest nor limp with acquiescence—just taut with anticipation.
First Koko was allowed to examine the cars, the bicycle, the garden implements. It was always better to let him take his time and follow his own inclinations. Eventually he found the flight of stairs and scampered up to the living quarters. In the freshly painted apartment he craned his neck and sniffed in every direction without any apparent pleasure. Then he wandered down the hall and into the jungle of daisies.
Koko’s first reaction was to flatten himself, belly to the floor. All around him were wild, tangled, threatening forms on walls and ceiling. Cats could not distinguish colors, Qwilleran had been told, but they could sense them. When Koko concluded that the place was safe, he started slinking around, inspecting with caution several mysterious spots on the rug, a scratch on the dresser, and a rip in the chair upholstery. As his investigation reassured him, he stretched to his full length before prancing around the room in a dance of exhilaration—as if he could hear music in colors that Qwilleran could appreciate only with his eyes.
Then something unseen alerted the cat. He looked quickly this way and that, ran a few steps, jumped and waved his paw, scurried across the room, turned and leaped through the air, twisting his lithe body into a back somersault.
Remembering Mrs. Cobb’s haunted-house theory, Qwilleran shivered involuntarily until he realized the truth. It was almost August, the season of houseflies, and Koko was chasing the tiny flying insect, matching its aerial swooping with his own acrobatics. He chased it into the hallway and soon returned, chomping and licking his chops.
“Disgusting!” Qwilleran told him. “Is that all you can find to do?”
Koko was excited by the chase and the kill, and he was bent on finding another prey. He jumped onto the bed and stood on his hind legs, extending a paw up the wall. He was a yard long when he stretched to the limit. He pawed the graffiti, trying to reach one set of initials nestled in the pattern of hearts, flowers, and foliage. Then he sprang, and a fly fell down behind the bed. In a split second the cat was after it. Dead or alive, the fly had fallen between the mattress and the wall. Koko reached into the crevice with one slender foreleg and then the other, mumbling to himself in determined gutturals.
Qwilleran watched the struggle for a while before pulling the bed away from the wall. Like a hawk Koko dived into the aperture, and soon there were sounds of moist chomping.
“Revolting!” Qwilleran said. “You eat those filthy flies, but you won’t eat catfood with added vitamins and minerals. Let’s get out of here. We’re going home.”
Koko remained behind the bed. “Chfff! Chfff!” It was that delicate cat-sneeze.
“It’s dusty back there! Get out! Let’s go!”
The cat failed to respond, and Qwilleran felt the old tingling sensation on his upper lip. Once before, Koko had dredged up some telling mementoes from behind a bed. Kneeling on the mattress the man peered down into the shadows. Koko was hunched over something, sniffing it, nuzzling it, poking it with one inquisitive paw.
Qwilleran reached down and retrieved a notebook—a school notebook with torn and ruffled pages. Koko immediately jumped out of his hiding place, howling and demanding his treasure. Some of the pages had obviously been nibbled by mice.
With the notebook in one hand and the indignant cat in the other, Qwilleran returned to
the house and headed for the library. Koko was howling in high dudgeon, and Yum Yum came running from the solarium, shrieking in sympathy. They were followed by Mrs. Cobb. “What’s the matter? What’s going on here?”
“Give them a treat, will you? Get them out of my hair!”
“Treat!” she cried, and led the way to the kitchen like the Pied Piper.
Qwilleran closed the library door and settled down to inspect Koko’s find. It was the cheapest kind of notebook, with ruled pages, some of them nibbled and all of them stained. It had a definite mousy odor.
“A diary!” he said aloud, as he thumbed through the soiled pages with distaste. He could distinguish dates, but the handwriting was completely illegible. Once upon a time he had known an artist who could make every letter of the alphabet look like a U; Daisy made every letter look like O. The cursive writing was a coil of overlapping circles. The art teacher’s comment had been apt: Daisy’s calligraphic invention was attractive to the eye but impossible to read.
After his bike ride, he decided, he would phone Mildred Hanstable and ask her to look at the diary—and translate it if possible. Meanwhile he added it to the growing collection in the desk drawer: the ivory elephant, a gold bracelet, a postal card, and an envelope with a thousand in cash.
Every one of these memorabilia had been found by that phenomenal cat, he recalled. Yet Koko always made his discoveries seem so casual. This time he went through the motions of chasing a fly, pursuing it up the wall, batting it down as it tried to camouflage itself among the initials . . . . What were the initials?
Qwilleran made a dash to the garage and back. Grabbing the little telephone directory, he combed two columns of listings. Only three subscribers had the right initials: Sam Gafner, Scott Gippel, and Senior Goodwinter.
If SG had been the object of Daisy’s affection, it would have to be Gafner, he concluded. Scott Gippel was the enormous councilman who required two chairs. Junior’s father—with his paper hat and bemused expression—would hardly appeal to a giddy young girl. Gafner, the real estate broker, was the most likely candidate. After his bike ride, he decided, he would do some serious research.
It was a beautiful day for biking. Warmed by the sun and caressed by light breezes, Qwilleran headed for his favorite country road. The vegetation, freshly washed, was a vibrant green. Flocks of blackbirds rose from the brush and followed the lone rider, scolding with staccato chirps. Clicks in the sprocket and rear wheel added to the chorus. He remembered Mrs. Cobb’s parting words: “Be careful with that broken-down contraption, Mr. Q. You really ought to buy a ten-speed.”
Everything on Ittibittiwassee Road smelled damp and clean. The sun and breezes had dried the pavement, but the roadside ditch was filled with rainwater. It was a good thirty feet from the pavement to allow for future widening of the road. This would be a major highway when the condominium development was completed. Too bad! He liked the quiet and the loneliness of the road.
Coming up on the right was the site of the old Buckshot Mine, where miners had died in a cave-in in 1913. As he pedaled past the ruins he listened intently for the eerie whistling sound said to emanate from the mineshaft. The abandoned shaft house, a weathered silver, had been drenched with rain.
Qwilleran was studying the ruins with such concentration that he was unaware of a truck approaching from the opposite direction—unaware until its motor roared. He looked ahead in time to see its burst of speed, its sudden swerve into the eastbound lane, a murderous monster bearing down upon him and his rickety bicycle. He yanked the handlebars and plunged down toward the ditch, but his front wheel hit a rock, and he went sailing over the handlebars. For an interminable moment he was airborne . . . .
When he climbed out of the ditch, dazed and wet and bleeding, he staggered painfully to the deserted highway, not knowing where he was or why he was there.
Roads go somewhere. Follow the road. Move. Keep moving.
In a few minutes or a few hours a car stopped. A man jumped out, shouting, and put him in the front seat. For a few minutes—or hours—he sat in a speeding car. The man kept shouting.
What was he saying? I don’t know—I can’t—
He was wheeled into a building. Bright lights. Strange people, talking, talking—He was tired.
The next morning he opened his eyes and found himself in a strange bed in a strange room.
THIRTEEN
Before Qwilleran was released from Pickax Hospital, he had a consultation with Dr. Melinda.
“All your tests turned out fine,” she said. “You’re a very healthy guy—for your age.”
“And for a young chick you’re a very smart doctor.”
“I’m so smart, lover, that I sneaked in a Wassermann test in case you want to apply for a marriage license. I’m also writing you a prescription for a crash helmet. With your head injury you could have drowned in that drainage ditch.”
“I’m sure the hit-runner thought he was leaving me for dead.”
“Some strange things are happening in Moose County,” Melinda said. “Amanda may be right about the tourist invasion. You should report it to the police.”
“On the strength of what? My dream? Brodie would think I damaged something else besides my bicycle. No, Melinda, I’m merely going to keep a sharp lookout for a certain truck. In my dream I could see it clearly, coming at me fast, a rusty grille grinning at me, towering over me. It was one of those terrain vehicles.”
“Junior was one scared kid when he brought you in. He thought you were a zombie.”
“It was a strange experience, Melinda. When I opened my eyes in a hospital bed and didn’t know where I was or who I was, it didn’t disturb me at all. It was simply a puzzle that aroused my curiosity. Glad you got Arch Riker up here to straighten me out.”
Riker picked Qwilleran up at the hospital in a rental car from the airport. “I have time for a cuppa, Qwill, before I catch my plane.”
“Then head north at the traffic light and we’ll tune in the coffee hour at the Dismal Diner. If you think the Press Club is a gossip mill, wait till you hear the boys up here.”
“What did your tests show? Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, but I have some ugly suspicions about my bike mishap. It was no accident, Arch! It was a hit-run attempt on my life.”
“I warned you! Why do you get mixed up in criminal investigations that are none of your business? Leave it to the authorities.”
“This has nothing to do with the missing housemaid. It’s something else entirely. I came to that conclusion when I was lying in that hospital bed. You know the conditions of the Klingenschoen bequest: I have to live in Pickax for five years or the estate goes to a syndicate in New Jersey. Well, what happens if I die before the five years are up?”
“Without knowing anything about probate law,” Riker said, “I’d guess that the dough goes to New Jersey.”
“So it’s to their advantage if I fade out before the five years are up. In fact, the sooner the better.”
Riker gave his passenger an incredulous glance. “That’s a jarring thought, Qwill. Why do you suspect them?”
“It’s a so-called foundation involved in some dubious venture in Atlantic City. I don’t trust those people.”
The editor said, “When I first heard about the Old Lady’s will, I knew it was too good to be true. Forget the inheritance, Qwill. You never wanted a fortune anyway. You know you can have your job back at the Fluxion.”
“Then the money will leave Moose County.”
“Don’t try to be a hero. Get out of here and save your skin. Let those forty-seven affluent Goodwinters buy some new books for the library.”
Qwilleran fingered his moustache with uncertainty. “I’ll figure out something. I’ve got an appointment with the attorney this afternoon. And maybe we’ll hear some scuttlebutt at the diner.”
The coffee house was effervescing in a haze of blue smoke. A few men in feed caps nodded to Qwilleran as he and Riker helped themselves to co
ffee and doughnuts. The two newsmen sat at a side table, listening.
“He’s handin’ out cigars, but he ain’t the father.”
“I butcher my own hogs, make my own sausage. Only way to go.”
“It says in the Bible that a fool’s voice is known by its multitude of words, and that fits him all right!”
“Birds! That’s my bag, and I always limit out.”
“If she’s a lawyer, why would she want to get married?”
“They had to shoot the whole herd. Damn shame!”
“All she wants is his dough, I betcha.”
“Man, my wife makes the best rabbit stew you ever tasted.”
“Never heard the name. Is it Russian or something?”
“My mother-in-law’s been here goin’ on three weeks.”
Before heading for the airport Riker dropped Qwilleran off at his house. “Did you get any clues from all that bull?” he asked.
Qwilleran shook his head. “They know who I am. They clammed up.”
If he was expecting a joyous welcome from the Siamese, he was disappointed. They could smell the hospital, and they circled him with distaste, Yum Yum hissing and Koko producing a chesty rumble that sounded like distant thunder. The situation was still a standoff when he left for his one o’clock appointment.
He walked into the law office slowly, still hampered by the wrappings on his sutured knee. Penelope also lacked her usual verve. She was wearing dark glasses and looking pale. In a shaky voice she said, “You look a trifle battered, Mr. Qwilleran, but we are all thankful it was no worse. What can I do for you?”
He stated his question about the Klingenschoen will.
“As you know,” Penelope reminded him, “it was a holographic will. The dear lady insisted on writing it herself, without an attorney and without witnesses, to protect her privacy. Let me review the document again to refresh my memory.”
The clerk brought the handwritten will, and Penelope read it carefully, shaking her head. “You are justified in being concerned. In the event of your death the estate would go to the alternate heirs in New Jersey. But surely you have nothing to worry about. Except for your temporary injuries, you seem extraordinarily healthy.”
The Cat Who Played Post Office Page 14
