“Polly’s sister-in-law.”
Polly said, “Qwill’s cats get food intended for humans, and I can’t convince him it’s the wrong thing to do.”
“If you can convince Koko,” he said, “I’ll gladly go along. In his formative years Koko lived with a gourmet cook and developed a taste for lobster bisque and oysters Rockefeller. If I feed the female catfood while the male is dining on take-outs from the Old Stone Mill, I’ll be accused of sex discrimination.”
The groom said, “We want a couple of Abyssinians as soon as we’re settled.”
“It’s my considered opinion,” said Pender Wilmot, “that the world would be a better place if everyone had a cat.”
Timmie spoke up. “Oh Jay weighs twenty pounds.”
The pastor said, “Whenever I sneeze, my Whisker-Belle makes a sound as if she’s blessing me.”
“When I was a little girl taking piano lessons,” June Halliburton put in, “our cat howled every time I hit a wrong note.”
“Oh Jay has fleas,” said the sociable Wilmot scion.
Qwilleran caught the attorney’s eye, and the two men drifted into the library. Wilmot said, “This is the first wedding I’ve ever attended where the sole topic of conversation was cats.”
“You could do worse,” Qwilleran remarked.
“My wife says you called me.”
“Yes, it’s probably none of my business, but I’ve been researching a piece on Euphonia Gage, and a few facts about the Park of Pink Sunsets have aroused my suspicion.”
“Their cavalier repurchase policy is enough to give one pause,” Wilmot said.
“Right! That was the first clue. Then Junior told me about Euphonia’s new will, cutting out her relatives. It was written for her by an in-house lawyer who charges surprisingly low fees.”
Wilmot nodded soberly.
“There’s more,” said Qwilleran. “They have an associate who helps residents unload their valuables—and rips them off. One ostensibly wealthy woman was offered a lock-box in the office safe for financial documents and unreported cash. Who knows if they have extra keys to those boxes? Shall I continue?”
“By all means.”
“The woman I mentioned has sent me snapshots that include the operators of the park, a couple who are chummily called Betty and Claude. Now here’s a curious fact: On the weekend Euphonia died, Betty and Claude were in Pickax, attending the preview of ‘The Big Burning.’ Hixie Rice and I thought they were gate-crashers from Lockmaster, but they were evidently casing the place; shortly after, a dealer Down Below approached Junior about stripping the mansion of architectural features.”
“Junior told me about that,” said the attorney. “The dealer indicated that Mrs. Gage was negotiating a deal before she died.”
“I could go on with this,” Qwilleran said, “but we’re supposed to be celebrating my boss’s wedding.”
“Let’s live with this over the weekend and then get together downtown—” He was interrupted by hubbub outdoors. “Sounds like a pack of wolves out there!”
It was a pack of huskies. Nancy Fincher and her dogteam had arrived to transport the newlyweds to the honeymoon cottage that Don Exbridge was lending them. Arch and Mildred were changing clothes, Carol said. The guests bundled into their own wraps and went out on the porch to admire the dogs and the Christmas lights. It was dark, and every cottage on both sides of the road was outlined with strings of white lights.
“A magic village!” Polly said.
The bride and groom reappeared in togs suitable for an arctic expedition and were whisked away, huddled in the basket of the sled. With Nancy riding the runners, they sped down the avenue of snow through a confetti of tiny lights, while cottagers waved and cheered and threw poorly aimed snowballs.
Then the wedding guests departed for their own cottages or the mainland, and the two remaining couples had a light supper in front of the fireplace.
“Hixie arranged for the dog-sledding,” Carol said. “Nancy will be here for the next two days, taking kids for rides.”
“Adults, too,” Larry added. “How about you, Qwill?”
“No, thanks.”
The evening passed pleasantly. From speakers on the balcony came recorded carols played on antique music boxes and great cathedral organs. At Qwilleran’s request, Larry read a passage from Dickens’s Christmas Carol—the description of the Cratchits’ Christmas dinner. “There never was such a goose!” Then gifts were opened.
Polly was thrilled with the opals. She gave Qwilleran a twenty-seven-volume set of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets. They were leather-bound and old.
“Wait till my bibliocat sniffs these!” he said with detectable pride. He gave the Lanspeaks a pair of brass candlesticks, Dutch baroque.
The next morning began with wake-up music that Wagner had composed as a Christmas gift for his wife, and Carol prepared eggs Benedict for breakfast. It had snowed lightly, and Timmie Wilmot, with a broom over his shoulder, rang the doorbell.
“Sweep your porch?” he asked.
“All right, but be sure you do a good job,” Larry admonished him. To the others he explained, “Timmie’s parents want to develop his work ethic.”
The snowy landscape was bright with winter sunshine, and the frozen bay was dotted with the small shanties of ice fishermen. All day the telephone jangled with holiday greetings from distant places, and the dogsled could be seen flying up and down the white canyon. After Christmas dinner—Cornish hen and plum pudding—Polly took a nap and Carol wrote thank-you notes, while Larry tinkered with his new model-building kit.
Later, they walked to an open house at the Exbridge cottage. Nancy Fincher was there, their guest for the weekend. “When are you going to run the article on dog-sledding?” she asked Qwilleran.
“As soon as the race dates are announced.”
“Would you like to take a ride tomorrow?”
“I’ve had a ride!” he said testily.
“But the parade wasn’t the real thing.”
“It was real enough for me!” He remembered the discomfort of the costume and the horror of climbing the ladder while it ripped at the seams. He also remembered a conversation with Nancy. “What was the date of the parade?” he now asked her.
Her answer was prompt. “November 27.”
“Are you sure?”
“I know, because it was my mother’s birthday.”
Qwilleran’s impulse was to telephone Junior immediately, but other guests were demanding his attention. Conversation was animated until someone announced, “It’s snowing, you guys! And the wind’s rising! It looks like a blizzard’s cooking!”
The guests said hasty farewells, and Larry guided his party home through the swirling flakes. Polly said, “I’m thankful we don’t have to drive back to Pickax tonight. Crossing the Flats in a blizzard must be a horrendous experience!”
Back at the cottage Larry tuned in the weather forecast: “Snow ending by midnight. High winds continuing, gusting up to sixty miles an hour.”
“If there’s drifting on the Flats and the highway is buried, we’ll be trapped,” Carol said cheerfully, “but that’s the excitement of weekending on the Point. You may have to stay longer than you intended . . . Dominoes, anyone?”
The wind howled around the cottage, making Polly nervous, and Carol sent her to bed with aspirin and earplugs. Soon she retired herself, leaving the two men sprawled in front of the fire.
Qwilleran said to Larry, “You manipulate that fireplace damper like a cellist playing Brahms.”
“With this kind of wind, you have to know your stuff. Do you use the fireplaces where you’re living?”
“With those old chimneys? Not a chance!”
Larry said, “I heard about Euphonia’s will. Cutting off her own flesh and blood was bad enough, but throwing her fortune away at the racetrack was a crime! To be eighty-eight and suddenly broke must be tough to take. Is that why she ended it all?”
“I don’t know,” Qwilleran sai
d. “They’ve had other suicides in the Park of Pink Sunsets.”
“The name alone would drive me over the edge,” Larry said. “How about a hot drink before we turn in?”
The morning after the blizzard the snowscape was smoothly sculptured by the wind, but the day was bright, and the air was so clear it was possible to hear the churchbells on the mainland.
During breakfast Larry tuned in WPKX, and Wetherby Goode said, “Well, folks, December has been mild, but last night’s blizzard made up for lost time. The ice fishermen have lost their shanties. The entire westside of Pickax is blacked out. And the Purple Point Road is blockaded by ten-foot snow drifts. The plows won’t be out till Monday morning, because the crews get double-time for Sundays, so you holiday-makers on the Point will have to go on drinking eggnog for another twenty-four hours. Today’s forecast: mild temperatures, clear skies, variable winds—” The announcement was interrupted by the telephone.
Carol answered and said, “It’s for you, Polly.”
“Me?” she said in surprise and apprehension. Conversation at the breakfast table stopped as she talked in the next room. Returning, she looked grave as she said, “Qwill, I think you should take this call. It’s Lynette. She’s calling from your house.”
He jumped up, threw his napkin on the chairseat, and hurried to the phone. “Yes, Lynette. What’s the trouble?”
“I’m at your house, Mr. Qwilleran. I stopped to feed the cats on my way to church, but I can’t find them! They usually come running for their food. I’ve searched all the rooms, but the power is off, you know, and it’s hard to see inside the closets, even with a flashlight . . .”
He listened in silence, his mind hurtling from one dire possibility to another.
“But there’s something else I should tell you, Mr. Qwilleran, although I don’t know if it means anything. When I came over here early last evening, I drove to the carriage house first to feed Bootsie. It was dark, but I had a glimpse of a van parked behind the big house. I didn’t remember seeing it before, and when I came downstairs a half hour later, it was gone. I didn’t think much about it. Koko and Yum Yum gobbled their food and talked to me—”
“What kind of van?”
“Sort of a delivery van, I think, although I didn’t pay that much attention—”
“I’m coming home,” he interrupted. “I’ll get there as fast as I can. I’ll leave at once.”
“Shall I wait here?”
“There’s nothing more you can do. Go on to church. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.” He returned to the table. “I’ve got to get out of here fast. Lynette can’t find the cats, and she saw a strange vehicle in the yard. I won’t stop to pack.” He was headed for the stairs. “I’ll just grab my parka and keys. Polly can drive home with you.”
“Qwill!” Larry said sternly, following him to the stairway. “The road’s closed! You can’t get through! The highway is blocked by ten-foot drifts!”
“Could a snowmobile get through?”
“Nobody’s got one. They’re outlawed on the Point.”
Qwilleran pounded his moustache with his fist. “Could a dogsled get through?”
“I’ll call Nancy,” Carol said. “She’s staying with the Exbridges.”
“Tell her to hurry!”
Polly said anxiously, “What can have happened, Qwill?”
“I don’t know, but I have a hunch that something’s seriously wrong!”
“Nancy’s on her way,” Carol reported. “Luckily she was harnessing her team when I called.”
They were all on the porch when the dogsled and eight flying huskies arrived. Qwilleran was in his parka with the hood pulled up.
Larry asked, “Can your dogs get through ten-foot drifts, Nancy?”
“We won’t use the highway. We’ll cross the bay on the ice. It’ll be shorter anyway.”
“Is that safe?” Polly asked.
“Sure. I’ve been ice-fishing on the bay all my life.”
Qwilleran asked, “Where do we touch land on the other side?”
“At the state park.”
“Someone should meet me there and drive me to Pickax . . . Larry, try to reach Nick Bamba. Second choice, Roger. Third choice, the sheriff . . . How long will it take, Nancy?”
She estimated an hour at the outside. Carol gave them thermos bottles of hot tea and coffee.
“Stay close to shore!” Larry shouted as they took off down an easement to the bay.
Qwilleran was sitting low in the basket on caribou skins as they skimmed across the ice at racing speed. The high winds had left hillocks of snow and wrecked shanties, but Nancy guided the team between obstacles with gruff commands. The shoreline behind them receded quickly.
“Where are we going?” Qwilleran shouted, mindful of Larry’s advice.
“Taking a shortcut. There’s an island out there,” she called back. “It’s reached by an ice bridge.”
Leaving the shore behind, they encountered a strong wind sweeping across the lake from Canada, and they were grateful for their hot drinks when they stopped at the island to rest the dogs.
When they started out again, the wind changed to offshore and was not quite as cutting. They sped along through a world of white: ice under the runners, wintery sky overhead, shoreline in the distance. But soon they began to slow down, and Qwilleran could feel the runners cutting into the ice. The dogs seemed to find it hard going.
“It’s softer than it should be,” Nancy shouted. “It rained one day last week.” She turned the team farther out into the lake where the surface was firm, but they were traveling farther from their destination.
Then Qwilleran saw a crack in the ice between the sled and the shore. “Nancy! Are we drifting? Are we being blown farther out?”
“Hang in there! We’ll get around it!”
She headed the team even farther out, and soon they were climbing a hill of snow. She stopped the dogs with a command. “From here you can see what’s happening. The north wind pushed the loose ice into shore, but the offshore breeze is breaking it up. Stand up! You can see the ice bridge.”
Qwilleran peered across the bay and saw only more slush and more cracks. God! he thought . . . What am I doing here? Who is this girl? What does she know?
“Okay, let’s take off! . . . Up! . . . Go! . . . haw!”
He clenched his teeth and gripped the siderails as they zigzagged across the surface. Slowly the distant shore was coming closer. At last he could see the roof of the lodge at the state park . . . Then he could see a single car parked on the overlook . . . Then he could see a man waving. Nick Bamba!
“Am I glad to see you!” Qwilleran shouted. To Nancy he said, “Dammit, woman! You deserve a medal!”
She smiled. It was a remarkably sweet smile.
“Where are you going from here, Nancy? You’re not going back across the bay, I hope.”
“No, I’ll take the dogs home. It’s only a few miles inland. I hope you find your cats all right.”
“What happened?” Nick wanted to know. “What’s going on here?”
“Start driving, and I’ll tell you,” Qwilleran said. “Drive fast!”
On the road to Pickax he summed up the situation: the missing cats, the strange van parked behind the house, the cat-sitter’s frantic call to Purple Point. “I’ve been doing an unofficial investigation of some unscrupulous individuals, and it caused me to worry,” he said. “I had to get home, but the highway is blockaded. When Nancy proposed crossing the bay on the ice, I was apprehensive. When we got into slush and started drifting out on an ice floe, I thought it was the end!”
“You didn’t need to worry,” Nick said. “That girl has a terrific reputation. She’s a musher’s musher!”
“Have you heard anything more about her father’s murder?”
“Only that the state detectives are sure it wasn’t a local vendetta. They think he was involved in something outside the county. The cause of death,” he said, “was a gunshot to the head.”
They walked to the side door under the porte cochere, where wind currents had swept the drive clear in one spot and piled up the snow in another.
Qwilleran said, “The tire tracks leading to the carriage house are Lynette’s. They were made this morning after the blizzard. She saw the van in the rear last evening before the blizzard. If they broke into the house, it would be through the kitchen door.” He was speaking in a controlled monotone that belied the anxiety he felt in the pit of his stomach.
“The van has been back again since last night,” Nick said. “I’d guess it was here during the blizzard and left before the snow stopped.”
Qwilleran unlocked the side door and automatically reached for a wall switch, but power had not been restored. The foyer with its dark paneling and dark parquet floor was like a cave except for one shaft of light slanting in from a circular window on the stair landing, and in the patch of warmth was a Siamese cat, huddled against the chill but otherwise unperturbed.
“Koko! My God! Where were you?” Qwilleran shouted. “Where’s Yum Yum?”
“There she is!” said Nick, beaming the big lantern down the hall. She was in a hunched position with rump elevated and head low—her mousing stance—and she was watching the door of the elevator.
At the same time there was pounding in the walls and a distant cry of distress.
The two men looked at each other in a moment’s perplexity.
“Someone’s trapped in the elevator!” Qwilleran said in amazement.
Nick peered through the small pane of glass in the elevator door. “It’s stuck between here and the basement.”
There was more pounding and hysterical yelling, and Qwilleran rushed to the lower level. “Call the police!” he shouted up to Nick. “The phone’s in the library!”
The beam of his flashlight exposed a ravaged ballroom. Electrical wires were hanging from the ceiling and protruding from the walls, and canvas murals, peeled from their backgrounds, were lying in rolls on the floor.
The Cat Who Went Into the Closet Page 19
