NINETEEN
THE THWARTED BURGLARY on Goodwinter Boulevard was the subject of a news bulletin on WPKX Sunday afternoon. It was a newscaster’s dream: breaking and entering, vandalism, attempted theft, and four big names: the Gage mansion owned by Junior Goodwinter and occupied by James Qwilleran, the Klingenschoen heir.
After the broadcast, Junior was the first to call. “Hey, Qwill! Is there a lot of damage?”
“The ballroom’s a wreck, but they didn’t get around to anything on the main floor, thanks to the blackout. The light fixtures are still on the elevator. The murals are rolled up on the ballroom floor; I hope they can be salvaged.”
“I’d better buzz over and take a look. Is the power back on?”
“It was restored while the police were here. I’ll plug in the coffeemaker.”
Minutes later, when Junior viewed the dangling wires and stripped walls, he said, “I can’t believe this! Who did it? He wasn’t named on the air, and our reporter couldn’t get anything at police headquarters. The suspect won’t be charged until tomorrow.”
“Suspect! That’s a laugh! He was caught red-handed when the cops arrived—trapped in the elevator with his loot. Brodie himself was here . . . Come into the kitchen.” Qwilleran poured coffee and said, “It’s my guess that he’s the dealer who phoned you and wanted to buy the stuff. He’s from Milwaukee.”
Junior unwrapped a few slices of fruitcake. “What made him think he could help himself?”
“It wasn’t his own idea—or so he swears. He had a partner, an electrician, who decamped with the van when the power failed. It was the dealer’s van, and he was madder’n hell! He was glad to name his accomplice, thinking the guy had thrown a circuit breaker in order to steal the vehicle. He didn’t know it was a general blackout.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I talked to Brodie afterward. The state police are tracking the van. And listen, Junior: Anything I tell you is off the record. If you jump the gun and I lose my credibility with Andy, your name isn’t Junior anymore; it’s something else.”
“Agreed,” said the editor.
“That isn’t good enough.”
“Scout’s honor! . . . So if the neighborhood hadn’t blacked out, the rats would have gotten away with it. That’s some coincidence!”
“And if I hadn’t come home when I did,” Qwilleran said, “the suspect, as he is charitably called, wouldn’t be in jail.”
“What brought you home, Qwill? I thought you were staying till Monday. And how did you get off the Point? The highway’s still blocked.”
“Regarding the latter question, read my column in Tuesday’s paper. The other question . . .” He related the cat-sitter incident: the missing cats, the frantic phone call, the strange vehicle, the alarming possibilities. “But when I walked in, there they were! Both cats! Acting as if nothing had happened! Where were those two devils hiding when Lynette was looking for them, and why were they hiding? I’m convinced that Koko can sense evil, but did he know that their absence would bring me home in a hurry? . . . This is good fruitcake. Who made it?”
“Mildred . . . But how did the thieves know you wouldn’t be home?”
“That part of the story gets complicated.” Qwilleran smoothed his moustache, a familiar gesture. “With Celia Robinson’s help, I’ve been collecting evidence about those con artists down there. She’s been reporting to me from a mall, thinking her home phone is tapped. Just before Christmas I took a chance on calling her at home—about a small but urgent matter—and that’s the only way those crooks could find out I’d be gone for the weekend. Her phone really was tapped, and they’d connect my name with the Gage mansion. Betty and Claude were here, you remember, for the preview of our show. They’re no dummies! They’re real professionals!”
Junior said, “Wait till Wilmot hears your story!”
“I discussed my suspicions with him at the wedding, but now that it’s become police business, it puts a new face on the matter. There’s some hard evidence.”
“It’ll make a hot story,” the editor said, “especially with the cats involved.”
“Leave the cats out of it,” Qwilleran said sternly.
“Don’t be crazy! That’s the best part!”
“If you want a hot story, get this, Junior: Your aunt Lethe was born on the same day as your grandmother’s housekeeper and in the same place. In a county as small as Lockmaster was in 1928, how many girl babies would be born on November 27? It’s my contention that Euphonia paid a farm family to take Lethe and change her name to Lena Foote . . . That would make Nancy Fincher your cousin.”
Junior gulped audibly. “That’s a wild guess on your part.”
“Okay. Send a reporter to Lockmaster to search the county records for a Lena Foote and a Lethe Gage born on the same day. I’ll bet you a five-course dinner there’s only one . . . unless . . . your esteemed grandmother bribed the county clerk to rig the books.”
“That’s a possibility,” Junior admitted. “We all know how corrupt they are in Lockmaster.”
“Don’t you find it significant that Lena dropped out of school at the age of fifteen and entered the employ of the Gages—where she remained for more than forty years? Don’t you think Nancy has your grandmother’s genes? Euphonia was tiny, and so is she—”
“And I’m vertically challenged myself,” Junior interrupted.
“Now you’re getting it! Also, a deceptively young countenance is characteristic of all three of you. Nancy even has Euphonia’s sweet smile. Sorry I can’t say the same about you . . . More coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’ll amble home and break the news to Jody that we have a pack of Siberian huskies for first-cousins-once-removed.”
“And don’t forget that the murdered potato farmer was your uncle-by-marriage,” Qwilleran added.
Junior wandered out of the house in an apparent daze.
The Siamese were under the kitchen table, waiting for crumbs, and Qwilleran shared the last slice of fruitcake with them. They slobbered over it eagerly, being careful to spit out the nuts and fruits.
On Monday the snowbound Purple Pointers were able to return to town. An electrical contractor sent a crew to the Gage mansion to restore the ballroom fixtures. An installer from Amanda’s design studio prepared to rehang the murals. Qwilleran wrote a column about his experience on the frozen bay, with paragraphs of praise for the musher’s musher. And at five o’clock Celia Robinson called.
“Did you enjoy Christmas?” he asked.
“Yes, we had a good time,” she said in a subdued manner that was unusual for her. “We splurged on dinner at a nice place, and Clayton had a real steak, not chopped.”
“Did he bring Wrigley with him?”
“Yes, Wrigley’s a nice cat. Black and white. But something odd is happening here, Mr. Qwilleran. Pete, the assistant manager, went to Wisconsin to spend Christmas with his parents, and he hasn’t come back. Betty and Claude haven’t been seen since yesterday noon. There’s no one in charge of the office. Clayton and I went in and sorted the mail today, but everybody’s upset.”
“What is Claude’s last name?”
“I think it’s Sprott. Another thing, Mr. Qwilleran. I’ve decided to leave Florida. Too many old people! I’m only sixty-eight.”
“Where would you go?” he asked.
“Someplace back in Illinois, where I can get a part-time job and be closer to my grandson.”
“Excellent idea!”
“But I’m babbling about myself. How was your Christmas? That was a funny phone call I got from you, but I figured out why you did it. Was it a nice wedding?”
“Very fine.”
“Did Santa bring you something exciting?”
“Some books, that’s all, but that’s better than a necktie. Was Clayton able to carry out his assignment?”
“Didn’t you get his tape recording? We mailed it Friday afternoon. When I told him what you wanted, he went right out and bought a little tape reco
rder to wear under his cap. He wore it when he visited Mr. Crocus.”
“Did you listen to the tape?”
“No, we wanted to get it into the mail before the holiday. I thought you’d have it today.”
“Mail is always slow in reaching Moose County. Meanwhile, Celia, I have a question for you, if you can think back to the day you discovered Mrs. Gage’s body. It was a Monday noon, you told me. She’d been dead sixteen hours, the doctor said, meaning she died Sunday evening. Did you see anyone go to her home on Sunday?”
“Oh dear! Let me think . . . You think someone might have given her disturbing news that made her take those pills?”
“Whatever.”
“I can’t recall right off the bat, but maybe Mr. Crocus will know. He’s the kind that notices things.”
“Well, give it some serious thought, and I’ll watch the mail for Clayton’s tape.”
“And Mr. Qwilleran, I put something in the package for you personally. It isn’t much. Just a little holiday goodie.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Celia. I’ll keep in touch.”
When Celia’s package arrived on Tuesday, Qwilleran sank his teeth into a rich, nut-filled, chewy chocolate brownie, and he had a vision. He envisioned Celia transplanted to Pickax, baking meatloaf for the cats and brownies for himself, catering parties now and then, laughing a lot. Then he abandoned his fantasy and listened to Clayton’s tape. What he heard prompted him to phone Pender Wilmot immediately.
“I’d like to hear it,” the attorney said. “Would you like to bring it to my office tomorrow afternoon?”
“No. Now!” Qwilleran said firmly.
The law office in the new Klingenschoen Professional Building was unique in Pickax, where dark mahogany and red leather were the legal norm. Wilmot’s office was paneled in light teakwood, with chrome-based chairs upholstered in slate blue and plum.
Qwilleran noticed a black iron lamp with saucer shade. “That looks like a Charles Rennie Mackintosh design,” he said. “I saw his work in Glasgow last September. My mother was a Mackintosh.”
“I have Scots blood myself,” said the attorney. “My mother’s ancestors came out in the 1745 Rising.” He showed Qwilleran a framed etching of an ancestral castle. “Now, what is the new development you mentioned?”
“The attempted burglary,” Qwilleran began, “confirms my theory about the Pink Sunset management, and news of the arrest has obviously reached them through their assistant. He’s undoubtedly the electrician who removed the light fixtures and then stole the other fellow’s van. All three of them have disappeared, according to my informant at the park. She has also sent me a taped conversation that warrants further investigation.”
“Who made the tape?”
“Her grandson. He’s friendly with an elderly resident who was a confidant of Mrs. Gage. The young man secreted a recording device under his cap when he went to see the old gentleman. I had a hunch that this Mr. Crocus might know something enlightening about her last days.” Qwilleran started the tape. “The preliminary dialogue is irrelevant but interesting. He was probably testing the equipment.”
As the tape unreeled, it produced the charming voice of a young woman and an adolescent baritone with falsetto overtones.
“Are you Betty? My grandma sent you this plant. She’s Mrs. Robinson on Kumquat Court.”
“A Christmas cactus! How sweet of her! And what is your name?”
“Clayton.”
“Tell her thank-you, Clayton. We’ll put it right here on the counter, where all the Sunsetters can enjoy it when they come in for their mail.”
“Last year she gave a Christmas plant to the old lady next door, but she died.”
“We say elderly, not old, Clayton.”
“Okay. What was her name?”
“Mrs. Gage.”
“What happened to her, anyway?”
“She passed away in her sleep.”
“She looked healthy last Christmas.”
“I’m afraid she accidentally took the wrong medication.”
“How do you know?”
“The doctor said so. We really don’t like to talk about these things, Clayton.”
“Why not?”
“It’s so sad, and at this time of year we try to be happy.”
“Was it written up in the paper?”
“No, this is a large city, and they can’t report everything.”
“But my grandma says she was rich. They always write up rich people when they die, don’t they?”
“Clayton, this is an interesting conversation, but you’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.”
“Can I help?”
“No, thank you, but it’s kind of you to offer.”
“I could sort the mail.”
“Not today. Just tell your grandmother that we appreciate the plant.”
“I know computers.”
“I’m sure you do, but there’s really nothing—”
“You’re a very pretty lady.”
“Thank you, Clayton. Now please . . . just go away!”
Wilmot chuckled. “His ingenuous performance is ingenious. How old is he?”
“Thirteen.”
After a few seconds of taped silence, the adolescent voice alternated with the husky, gasping voice of an elderly man.
“Hi, Mr. Crocus! Remember me?”
“Clayton! I hardly recognized you . . . . No beard this year.”
“I shaved it off. How’re you feeling, Mr. Crocus?”
“Moderately well.”
“What are you doing? Just sitting in the sun?”
“That’s all.”
“Grandma sent you this plant. It’s a Christmas cactus.”
“Very kind of her.”
“Where’ll I put it?”
“Next to the door. Tell her thank-you.”
“Okay if I sit down?”
“Yes . . . yes . . . please!”
“Been doing any chess lately?”
“No one plays chess here.”
“Not even your grandkids?”
“My grandchildren never visit me. Might as well not have any.”
“I don’t have a grandpa. Why don’t we work out a deal?”
(Slight chuckle.) “What terms do you propose?”
“We could play chess by mail, and I could tell you about school. I just made Junior Band.”
“What instrument?”
“Trumpet. Do you still play the violin?”
“Not recently.”
“Why not?”
“No desire. I’ve had a very great loss.”
“That’s too bad. What happened?”
“Mrs. Gage . . . passed away.”
“She was a nice lady. Was she sick long?”
“Sad to say, it was . . . suicide.”
“I knew somebody that did that. Depression, they said. Was she depressed?”
“She had her troubles.”
“What kind of troubles?”
“One shouldn’t talk about . . . a friend’s personal affairs.”
“Our counselor at school says it’s good to talk about it when you lose a friend.”
“I have no one who’s . . . interested.”
“I’m interested, if you’re going to be my grandpa.”
“You’re a kind young person.”
“Do you know what kind of troubles she had?”
(Pause.) “Someone was . . . taking her money . . . wrongfully.”
“Did she report it to the police?”
“It was not . . . She didn’t feel . . . that she could do that.”
“Why not?”
“It was . . . extortion.”
“How do you mean?”
“She was being . . . blackmailed.”
“That’s bad! What was it about? Do you know?”
“A family secret.”
“Somebody committed a crime?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she say who was blackmailing
her?”
“Someone up north. That’s all she’d say.”
“How long did it go on?”
“A few years.”
“I’d go to the police, if it was me.”
“I told her to tell Claude.”
“Why him?”
“She was leaving her money to the park, and . . . she was afraid . . . there wouldn’t be any left.”
“Is he Betty’s husband?”
“Something like that.”
“What did he say?”
“He told her not to worry.”
“That’s not much help.”
“He said he could put a stop to it.”
“What did she think about that?”
“She worried about it. In a few days . . . she was gone.”
“Did she leave a suicide note?”
The Cat Who Went Into the Closet Page 20
