The Cat Who Went Into the Closet

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Not even for me. That grieved me.”

  “You must have liked her a lot.”

  “She was a lovely lady. She liked music and art and poetry.”

  “I like music.”

  “But what kind? You young people—”

  “Would you like a game of chess after supper, Mr. Crocus?”

  “I would look forward to that with pleasure.”

  “I have to go somewhere with my grandma now. I’ll see you after supper.”

  The attorney said, “So we know—or think we know—what happened to Mrs. Gage’s money.”

  “We know more than that,” Qwilleran said. “We know that she gave birth to a natural daughter in 1928 while her husband was in prison. In those days, and in a community like Pickax, that was an intolerable disgrace for a woman with her pride and pretensions. It’s my contention that she gave her daughter—with certain stipulations and considerations—to a Lockmaster farm family, who raised her as Lena Foote. In her teens Lena went to work in the Gage household and remained there for the rest of her life. I’m guessing that Euphonia continued to pay hush money to the foster parents. Lena lost contact with them, but they came to her funeral a few years ago. Shortly afterward, Lena’s widower began spending large sums of money for which there was no visible source. I say he’s your blackmailer. The foster parents, being very old, may have passed on their secret to him—a kind of legacy for his daughter.”

  Wilmot had been listening intently to Qwilleran’s fabric of fact and conjecture. “How did you acquire your information?”

  “It’s remarkable how many secrets you uncover when you work for a newspaper. When Mrs. Gage moved to Florida, the man I suspect of being the blackmailer obtained her address from her grandson, saying he owed her money which he wished to repay. He continued to hound her, until she confided in Claude Sprott. A few days later, Gil Inchpot was murdered, and the state detectives have neither a motive nor a suspect.”

  Wilmot was swiveling in his chair, a rapt listener. “Sprott had a vested interest in Mrs. Gage’s estate, of course.”

  “What was left of it,” Qwilleran added. “His sticky fingers had already been in the pie, one way and another.”

  “If he arranged for Inchpot’s murder, who could have pulled the trigger?”

  Qwilleran was ready for the question. “When you and I talked about it at the wedding, Pender, I told you that Sprott and his companion were in Pickax, incognito, for the preview of ‘The Big Burning.’ Now it occurs to me that they had flown up here not only to appraise the rare chandeliers. That was the weekend Inchpot disappeared. They probably rented a car at the airport and knocked on the door of his farmhouse, saying they were out of gas—after which they dropped his body in the woods and left his truck at the airport.”

  “Odd, isn’t it, that they chose the Klingenschoen woods?”

  “Not odd. Virtually unavoidable. Do you realize how many square miles of woodland belong to the Klingenschoen estate around Mooseville and Brrr? . . . And here’s something else I’ve just learned,” Qwilleran told the attorney. “As soon as their Milwaukee associate was arrested in my elevator and their Florida assistant was fugitive in a stolen vehicle, they skipped the Park of Pink Sunsets.”

  “We should see the prosecutor fast,” Wilmot said. “Let’s try to catch him before he goes to lunch.”

  TWENTY

  AFTER A LONG session with the Moose County prosecutor, Qwilleran telephoned Celia Robinson. “I called to sing the praises of your chocolate brownies,” he said. “I assume no one is listening to our conversation.”

  “Nobody ever came back,” she said in a tone of bewilderment. “The police have been here, asking questions. Clayton and I have sort of taken charge of the office. We’re trying to keep people calm, but the oldsters at the park get very upset.”

  “I also want to compliment your grandson on the tape. He’s a smart young man.”

  “Yes, I’m proud of him.”

  “Have you been able to recall anything about the Sunday that Mrs. Gage died?”

  “Well, Mr. Crocus and I put our heads together,” she said, “and we remembered that the electricity went off around suppertime. There was no storm or anything, but every home on Kumquat Court lost power, and Pete came looking for a short circuit. He went to every home on the court.”

  “Including Mrs. Gage’s?”

  “Everybody’s. We never found out what caused it. The power wasn’t off for long, so it wasn’t serious. That’s the only thing we can remember.”

  “Good enough!” Qwilleran commended her.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Qwilleran?”

  “I may have an idea to discuss with you later on . . . Excuse me a moment. The doorbell’s ringing.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll hang up. Happy New Year!”

  It was Andrew Brodie at the door. “Come on in, chief,” Qwilleran said. “Is this a social call, or did you come to talk shop?”

  “Both. I’ll take a nip of Scotch if you’ve got any. I’m on my way home.” He followed Qwilleran into the kitchen. “A little water and no ice. What are you gonna drink?”

  “Cider. Let’s take our glasses into the library.”

  Brodie dropped into a large, old, underslung leather chair. “Feels like a hammock,” he said.

  “You’ll sag, too, when you’re that old.”

  “That’s some Christmas tree you’ve got.” The chief was looking at Polly’s wreath.

  “Have a good Christmas, Andy?”

  “The usual. Did you get your lights fixed downstairs?”

  “Good as new.”

  Something was on Brodie’s mind. His staccato small talk was a kind of vamp-till-ready until he came to the point. “What’s happening on Goodwinter Boulevard?” he asked. “A lot of property’s changing hands.”

  “Is that good or bad?” Qwilleran asked.

  “All depends. There’s a rumor that the Klingenschoen money is behind it.”

  “Interesting, if true.”

  Brodie threw him a swift, fierce Scottish scowl. “In other words, you ain’t talkin’.”

  “I’ve nothing to say.”

  “You had plenty to say to the prosecutor’s office today. I hear they even sent out for roast beef sandwiches from Lois’s.”

  “Your operatives don’t miss a thing, Andy.”

  “I knew Inchpot,” the chief said, “and I’d never figure him for a blackmailer.”

  “Perhaps he had professional advice,” Qwilleran suggested slyly. “Extortion consultation and one-stop money-laundering would be the kind of services George Breze might offer. His business card was found in Euphonia’s files. Was he an intermediary?”

  Brodie brushed the jest aside. “He serviced her Mercedes . . . How come you came up with all those clues in the Inchpot case when the state bureau was stymied? Did your psychic cat work on it?” He had learned about Koko’s unique capabilities from a city detective Down Below.

  “Well, I’ll tell you this: Koko and his sidekick collaborated to catch the thief in the elevator. I don’t know how many hours he’d been trapped in pitch darkness, but claustrophobia had made him a screaming maniac by the time Nick Bamba and I walked in . . . Freshen your drink?”

  “A wee drop.”

  Qwilleran brought in the bottle and a jug of water. “Help yourself.”

  “By this time I thought Koko would come up with a clue to Euphonia’s suicide.”

  “Well, let me tell you something that’s just occurred to me, Andy. I think she was not the first victim of fraud at the mobile home park, and I know for a fact she was not the first suicide. I have a hunch . . .” Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingertips. “I have a hunch they were all murders. The management profited by a quick turnover. Rob ’em and rub ’em out!”

  “You didn’t tell that to the prosecutor!”

  “I had nothing to support my suspicions when I was at the courthouse, but a phone call from Florida filled in som
e blanks.”

  “You know,” said the chief, “I never thought that feisty woman would cash in like they said she did. Overdose, they said.”

  “It could have been a drop of poison in her Dubonnet. She always had to have her apéritif before dinner, I’m told. The medical examiner who wrote it off as suicide could have been one of those overworked civil servants you hear about, or he could be another useful link in the crime ring. At any rate, I’m going back to the courthouse tomorrow.” The telephone jangled, and he let it ring.

  “Answer it!” Brodie snapped, tossing off his drink. “I’ll let myself out.”

  It was Junior on the line, getting straight to the point with his usual impetuosity. “Hey, Qwill! I just heard a terrific rumor! They say we’re getting a community college in Pickax! And Goodwinter Boulevard is gonna be the campus! How d’you like that? All those white elephants are made to order for administration offices, classrooms, dorms—I hope it’s true!”

  “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be true,” Qwilleran said calmly. “Lockmaster has its College of Animal Husbandry. Pickax could have an Institute of Rumor Technology, with courses in Conspiracy Theory, Advanced Gossip, and Media Leak.”

  “Very funny,” Junior said sourly. “I’ll call Lyle Compton. He’ll know what’s happening.”

  Qwilleran lost no time in phoning Polly. “Have you heard the rumors about Goodwinter Boulevard?”

  “No, I haven’t. What are they saying?” she asked anxiously.

  “The police have heard one rumor, and the newspaper has heard another,” he said, “and they’re both true. I merely want you to be assured, Polly, that your carriage house won’t be affected.”

  “Are you involved, Qwill? Aren’t you going to tell me what the rumors are?”

  “No. At the rate gossip travels in Pickax, you’ll find out soon enough.”

  “You’re cruel! I’m going to phone my sister-in-law.”

  Within hours, Betty and Claude were picked up in Texas near the Mexican border. Pete was arrested at an airport in Kentucky, having abandoned the stolen van. All three suspects would be arraigned on murder charges.

  For Qwilleran the case was closed, and he entertained himself with speculations: If he had not rented the Gage mansion for the winter, Koko would not have discovered the historically important scrap of paper that led to “The Big Burning of 1869,” and if the cat had not become a closet archaeologist, the mysterious deaths of Euphonia Gage and Gil Inchpot might have gone unsolved, and if Oh Jay had not infuriated Qwilleran by spraying the back door, Pickax would not be getting a community college. Would it be named after the Goodwinters, who founded the city? Or the eleemosynary foundation that was funding it? Or the orange cat with fleas and bad breath?

  They were fanciful thoughts, but Qwilleran was feeling heady from too much caffeine. It was shortly before New Year’s. He plugged in the lighted Christmas wreath in the dingy library and relaxed in the hammock-contoured lounge chair with yet another cup of coffee. With refurbishing, he reflected, the library would make an impressive office for the president of the college. Yum Yum was lounging on his lap, her chin resting heavily on his right hand, forcing him to lift his coffee cup with his left. Koko was sitting on Robinson Crusoe in the warm glow of a table lamp. It was a strange coincidence that the cat had chosen that title for their winter reading; it would be even stranger if Celia Robinson were to move to Pickax and become a purveyor of meatloaf to their royal highnesses.

  The Robinson Connection was not the only coincidence that aroused Qwilleran’s wonder. There were three desk drawers filled with pipe cleaners, used emery boards, half-empty matchbooks, pencil stubs, and other junk destined for the trashcan. Yet, among them were articles clearly associated with the recent investigation: the chess piece, for example . . . someone’s denture . . . the 1928 birth certificate . . . a great deal of purple . . . and many items related to financial affairs. And then there was the safe! All these were obvious. It required a great leap of imagination, however, to link shoelaces and corn plasters with the Foote family. Nevertheless, Qwilleran had learned to give his imagination free rein when Koko telegraphed his messages. After all, it was a gold signet ring that finally suggested a ring of criminals in the Pink Sunset case. Was it all happenstance? he wondered.

  “YOW!” said the cat at his elbow—a piercing utterance with negative significance.

  If Qwilleran had any further doubts about Koko’s role in the investigation, they were dispelled by the cat’s subsequent behavior: He never sat in the safe again . . . He lost interest in Robinson Crusoe . . . He completely ignored the fifty closets.

  The case was closed, he seemed to be indicating. Or was it only feline fickleness?

  Cats! Qwilleran thought; I’ll never understand them.

  For the remainder of the winter Koko was content to watch falling snowflakes from the window of the library, meditate on top of heat registers, chase Yum Yum up and down the stairs, and frequently bite her neck. She loved it!