Nastiness and alcohol contorted her handsome features. “He couldn’t . . . get anywhere . . . without me.” Her eyes were not focusing, and when she put her glass down on the table, it missed the edge. “Sorry,” she said as she scrambled about on her knees, picking up ice cubes.
Qwilleran was relentless. “I’m sure you could manage the office efficiently while the senior partner is doing great things in the Capitol.”
The brilliant, articulate Penelope was pathetically struggling to make sense. “He won’t . . . go down there. He’ll bring . . . he’ll bring her . . . up here. New partner!”
Remarks overheard at the Dimsdale Diner flashed through Qwilleran’s mind. “Is she an attorney?”
Penelope gulped what remained of her melted ice cubes. “Bring her . . . into the firm, that’s what . . . but over my . . . dead body! I . . . won’t . . . have it. Won’t have it!”
“Penelope,” he said soothingly, “it will be a good thing for you. Another partner will relieve you of some of the pressure.”
She uttered a hysterical laugh. “Goodwinter, Goodwinter & Sh—Smfska!” She stumbled over the name. “Goodwinter, Goodwinter & Smfska! We’ll be . . . laughingstock . . . of the county!”
“Have you expressed your feelings to your brother? Perhaps he’ll reconsider.”
She was losing control. “He’ll . . . he’ll marry . . . he’ll marry that—that tramp! But I’ll . . . I’ll stop it. I can . . . stop it. Stop it!” She looked wild-eyed and disheveled. “I feel . . . awful!”
Qwilleran pulled her to her feet. “You need fresh air.” He walked her to the solarium and through the French doors and held her sympathetically while she gave vent to tears. “Do you want black coffee, Penelope?”
She shook her head.
“Shall I take you home?”
He drove the BMW to the turreted stone residence on Goodwinter Boulevard, with Penelope crumpled on the seat beside him. He parked under the porte cochere and carried her up the steps to the carriage entrance. A housekeeper came running, and Alexander appeared in a silk dressing gown.
“She’s not well,” Qwilleran said. “I think she’s overly tired.”
Alexander looked at his sister sternly and without compassion. “Take her upstairs,” he told the housekeeper. Turning to Qwilleran he said, “Where did you—ah—find her?”
“She came to the house to discuss a legal matter, and she was taken ill. I think she needs a rest—a vacation—before she has a breakdown. Put her in the hospital for a few days. She should have a checkup.”
“It is unfortunate,” Alexander said, “but she goes completely out of her head when she touches alcohol, and she speaks the most utter nonsense. Thank you for returning her—ah—safely. Allow me to drive you home.”
“No thanks. It’s only a short distance, and it’s a nice night.”
As he walked slowly through the moonlit streets he reflected that Mrs. Fulgrove’s report about “mosquitoes” and a dead body was roughly related to the facts, and he concluded that Penelope was overreacting to the threat of Ms. Smfska as professional partner and future sister-in-law. True, it would generate merriment in Moose County, especially among the coffee-shop regulars. Anyone familiar with the Goodwinter mystique and Penelope’s insufferable snobbery would be amused at the thought of Goodwinter, Goodwinter & Smfska. Among the cackling, bleating, guffawing crowd at the Dismal Diner it would probably become Goodwinter, Goodwinter & Mosquito. Nevertheless, after hospital rest and a vacation, he decided, the junior partner would regain her perspective.
Approaching the K mansion, he glanced at the second floor. The lights were turned on in Mrs. Cobb’s suite, indicating that she had returned safely after an evening with that ape! She had always been attracted to tattoos and crew cuts. Her late husband had been a brutish-looking ruffian.
There was a light in the back entry, but the rest of the service area was dark, and as Qwilleran unlocked the door he heard a scraping sound in the kitchen. He stood motionless and listened intently, trying to identify it. Scrape . . . pause . . . long scrape . . . pause . . . two short scrapes. He crossed the stone floor silently in his deck shoes, reached inside the kitchen door, and flicked on the lights.
There in the middle of the floor was the cats’ heavy metal commode filled with kitty gravel, and behind it was Koko, preparing to give it another shove with his nose. The cat looked up with startled eyes and ears.
“You bad cat!” Qwilleran said sharply. “You’re the one who’s been moving things around! You could kill a person! Cut it out!”
He returned the commode to the laundry room and went upstairs to think about Penelope and compare her to Melinda. They were both handsome women with the Goodwinter features and intelligence and education. The attorney was the more striking of the two, but she lacked Melinda’s equanimity and sense of humor. He was lucky to have a healthy, well-adjusted woman like Melinda who called him “lover” and managed great dinner parties and knew how to pronounce sphygmomanometer.
The next morning he found Mildred Hanstable in the kitchen delivering wild blueberries. She and Mrs. Cobb were having a cup of coffee and getting acquainted.
Qwilleran said, “Mildred, you’ll be interested to know that Mrs. Cobb is a palmist.”
Mildred squealed with delight. “Really! Would you be willing to read palms at the hospital bazaar? We have tarot card readings and raise quite a bit of money that way.”
The housekeeper seemed flattered. “I’d be glad to, if you think I’m good enough.”
Diplomatically Qwilleran steered Mildred out of the kitchen and into the library, where he seated her in a comfortable chair and handed her a grubby clutch of yellowed paper.
She shuddered and recoiled. “What’s that?”
“Daisy’s diary. We found it behind her bed. It’s totally illegible. I can distinguish a date at the top of each page, that’s all. She began writing January first and ended in May.”
Mildred accepted the diary gingerly. “It looks like a mouse nest, but it’s her handwriting, all right. I wonder if I can decipher it.” She studied the first page. “Once you get the hang of her letter formation it’s not so bad . . . . Let’s see. It starts with ‘Happy New Year to me,’ but the spelling’s atrocious . . . . Hmmm . . . She says her mother is drunk. Poor girl never knew what it was to have a decent parent . . . . She mentions Rick. They go out in the woods and throw snowballs at trees. He buys her a burger . . . . How’m I doing, Qwill?”
“You’re amazing! Don’t stop.”
“Oh-oh! On January second she loses her job at the studio. Calls Amanda a witch. There’s something about an elephant, spelled with an f. It’s a Christmas present from Rick.”
“He’s the one who stole it,” Qwilleran guessed. “Amanda blamed Daisy. Her friends used to hang around the studio.”
Mildred scanned the pages. “Very depressing . . . until January fifteenth. She gets a job at the Goodwinter house—uniforms provided. A room of her own. Won’t have to live with Della. She celebrates with Rick, Ollie, Tiff and Jim.”
“Tiffany is the one who was shot on her father’s farm.”
“Yes, I know. I had her in home ec. Married one of the Trotter boys. Father injured in a tractor accident . . . . Now the diary skips to February. Daisy decides she doesn’t like housework. Well, neither do I, to tell the truth . . . . A new boyfriend, Sandy, gives her cologne for a Valentine. Spelled k-l-o-n-e. See what I mean about her spelling? . . . She doesn’t write much in March . . . April is pretty well messed up . . . . Oh-oh! Lost her job again.”
“That’s when she started working here, according to the employment records,” Qwilleran said.
“She’s in love with Sandy, spelled l-u-v. . . . No more mention of Rick or Ollie or Jim . . . . Sounds as if she’s serious. Sandy gives her a gold bracelet . . . . Let’s see what else . . . . Oh-oh! Here—on April thirteenth—she thinks she’s pregnant . . . . Tiff takes her to Dr. Hal . . . . Very happy now . . . . She sketches some wedding d
resses . . . . Della is pleased. Knits some things for the baby . . . . Now there are pages torn out . . . . April thirtieth, she cries all night. Sandy wants her to have an abortion. No marriage . . . . He gives her money . . . . Della tells her to have the baby and make him pay . . . . That’s all. That’s the last entry.”
“Sad story, but it confirms all our guesses.”
“Where can I wash my hands, Qwill? This book is foul. And I have to go and get my hair done.”
After escorting Mildred to her car, he returned to the library to lock up the diary. To his surprise the desk drawer was open. He was sure he had closed it, but now it stood a few inches ajar. The ivory elephant was there—and the gold bracelet—and the postal card. But the envelope of money had vanished.
He made a quick trip to the kitchen, where Mrs. Cobb was preparing mustard sauce for the smoked tongue. “Was any one here in the last half hour?”
“Only Mrs. Hanstable.”
“I accompanied her to her car, and when I returned, my desk drawer was open, and an important envelope was missing.”
“I can’t imagine, unless . . . I told you strange things have been going on in this house, Mr. Q.”
He headed back to the library to make a thorough search of his desktop—just in time to see Koko plodding aimlessly through the foyer, his jaws clamped on the corner of a white envelope that dragged between his legs.
“Drop that!” Qwilleran shouted. “Bad cat! How did you get it?”
Koko dropped the envelope, stepped over it with unconcern, and went to sit on the third stair of the staircase.
In the library Qwilleran found scratches on the front edge of the drawer. It was a heavy drawer, and Koko had gone to some trouble to open it. Why?
Ever since the accident on Ittibittiwassee Road, Koko had been acting strangely. Prior to that episode he and Qwilleran had been good companions. They treated each other as equals. The man talked to the cat, and the cat listened and blinked and looked wise, then answered with a “yow” that signified tolerant interest or hearty agreement or violent disapproval. They had played games together, and since moving into the K mansion Koko had been particularly attentive.
Suddenly all that had changed. Koko’s attitude was one of scornful aloofness, and he committed annoying misdemeanors—like pushing his commode around the kitchen, knocking fine books off the shelf, and—now—stealing money. Something was wrong. A personality change in an animal usually signified illness, yet Koko was the acme of health. His eyes sparkled; his appetite was good; his lithe body was taut with energy; he romped with Yum Yum. Only with Qwilleran was he reserved and remote.
There were no ready answers, and Koko committed no further mischief that day, but late that night Qwilleran was reading in his upstairs sitting room when he heard prolonged wailing, shrill and mournful. Hurrying downstairs as fast as the injured knee would permit, he followed the eerie sound to the back of the house. There, in a shaft of moonlight that beamed into the solarium, was an alarming performance. Koko, his fur unnaturally ruffled, was half crouched, with his head thrown back, and he was howling an unearthly lament that made the blood run cold.
The tall case clock in the foyer bonged twice. Approaching the cat cautiously, Qwilleran spoke to him in a soothing voice and then stroked his ridged fur until he calmed down.
“You’re a good cat, Koko, and a good friend,” Qwilleran said, “and I’m sorry if I’ve been preoccupied or cross. You’ve been trying to get my attention. You’re smarter than I am sometimes, and I should read your messages instead of flying off on a wild hunch. Will you forgive me? Can we be friends again? You and Yum Yum are all the family I’ve got.”
Koko blinked his eyes and squeaked a faint “ik ik ik.”
It was two o’clock. Four hours later Qwilleran found out what it was all about.
FIFTEEN
It was six o’clock, but Qwilleran already was awake when the telephone startled him with its early-morning ring of urgency. His curiosity had been working overtime and disturbing his sleep ever since Penelope’s unexpected visit and Koko’s unexplained antics. Was the nocturnal howl a protest? A warning? Or was it something that cats do in the light of a full moon?
Then the telephone rang, and a familiar voice said in an ominous minor key, “Qwill, did I wake you? I thought you’d want to know—Penelope has taken her life!”
He was stunned into silence.
“Qwill, this is Melinda.”
“I know. I heard you. I can’t believe it! Yes, I can believe it. I knew she was on the brink of something. What a bloody shame! What a waste of brains and gorgeousness! Was there any explanation?”
“Just the usual—she’d been depressed lately. Dad is over at their house now. Alex called him first, then the police. The medical examiner is there, too.”
“Did she O.D. ?”
“She took a bottle of Scotch to the garage and sat in the car with the motor running. I’m due at the hospital now. I’ll call you later.”
“How about dinner tonight?”
“Sorry, lover. I have to attend a baby shower, but I’ll drop in beforehand and you can fortify me with a gin and tonic. I may have more information by then.”
When he broke the news to Mrs. Cobb, she said, “I feel terrible about it! She was such a lovely person.”
Qwilleran said, “Now would be the time for me to type some catalogue cards for you. I’d welcome the distraction.”
The task required even more concentration than he expected. First he had to decipher the registrar’s notes. Someday he would compose a magazine piece on the subject, titled “How Not to Write Right; or, Seven Easy Ways to Total Obfuscation.”
It was like cracking a secret code. As soon as he discovered that a “habimeon glooo luptii” was actually a Bohemian glass luster, the rest was easy. On each card he had to type the file number of the artifact, its name, date, description, provenance, and value. The four-digit and five-digit evaluations kept him in a state of fiscal shock.
Naturally the Siamese were on the desk, assisting in their own unhelpful way. Yum Yum was stealing pencils and pushing paper clips to the floor. Koko, friendly once more after Qwilleran’s apology, was nosing about the desktop like a bloodhound. At one point he flushed out Penelope’s thank-you note written after the dinner party, and Qwilleran noted her mannered handwriting and the affected e, r and s that somehow implied a classical education.
When Melinda arrived after office hours, she explained, “I’d rather go to dinner with you, lover, but my generation is always getting married or pregnant, and I have to go to cute showers with cute invitations, cute guessing games, cute table decorations, and cute refreshments. When I marry, I’m going to elope. Would you care to elope, lover?”
“Not until they take out my itching stitches. Sit down and tell me how Alexander is reacting.”
Melinda curled up in one of the solarium’s big wicker chairs. “Dad had to sedate him. Alex got terribly emotional. He and Penny were very close—only a year apart—and they grew up like twins. He feels guilty for spending so much time out of town. He wishes he’d stayed home last night instead of going to a bachelor party at the club. Did you know he’s getting married?”
“I heard a rumor.”
“She’s an attorney—young—graduated top of her class.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Ilya Smfska.”
Qwilleran nodded. That much checked out; Penelope hadn’t been merely garbling her diction. “Who found the body?”
“Alex got home just before daylight, drove into the garage, and there she was.”
“Did they establish the time of death?”
“Two A.M.”
“Any suicide note?”
“Not as far as I know. Everyone knows she’s been overworked, but the ironic fact is that Alex’s fiancée could have relieved her caseload. But it’s too late now.”
She finished her cool drink, declined another, and prepared to leave for her social obligation. �
��Anyway,” she said with a cynical smirk, “Penelope won’t have to attend any more showers.”
After dinner Qwilleran went for a slow, thoughtful walk down Goodwinter Boulevard. The old family mansion that Penelope and Alexander had shared was partly obscured by twelve-foot hedges, but several cars could be seen in the driveway. Beyond them was the five-car attached garage, obviously a modern addition to the turreted, gabled, verandaed house. Next door was another Goodwinter residence, much less pretentious, where Dr. Halifax lived with his invalid wife. It had been Melinda’s childhood home.
A raucous blast from a car horn alerted Qwilleran, and he saw Amanda turning into a driveway across the boulevard.
“Come on in for a shot,” she called out with gruff heartiness.
“Make it ginger ale, and I’ll take two,” he said.
The interior of the designer’s house appeared to be furnished with clients’ rejects. (He wondered if the Hunzinger chair and Pennsylvania schrank had been headed for this eclectic aggregation.) The furniture was cluttered with design magazines, wallpaper books, and fabric samples.
“Move those magazines and sit down,” Amanda said. “Had a little excitement in the neighborhood last night.”
“Her act was unthinkable!” Qwilleran said.
“Not to me! I knew that unholy situation was headed for an explosion, but I didn’t figure on suicide. I thought she’d blow her brother’s brains out, if he has any.”
“Do you think it was really suicide?”
Amanda put down her glass on a porcelain elephant table and stared at her visitor. “Golly, that’s something I never thought of. Murder, you mean? You can’t pin it on Alex. He was at the club all night, playing cards with Fitch and Lanspeak and those other buzzards. Or so the story goes. Now you’ve got me wondering.”
Qwilleran stood up and looked out the front window. “You can see their driveway from here. Did you notice any other vehicle there last night?”
The Cat Who Played Post Office Page 16
