Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Cat Who Tailed a Thief
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1997 by Lilian Jackson Braun
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN 978-1-1012-1430-5
A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
First edition (electronic): August 2001
Dedicated to Earl Bettinger,
The Husband Who. . .
ONE
It was a strange winter in Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere. First, there was disagreement about the long-range weather forecast. The weatherman at the local radio station predicted a winter of zero temperature, daily snow, minus-sixty windchill, and paralyzing blizzards—in other words: normal. On the other hand, farmers and woodsmen who observed the behavior of the fuzzy caterpillars insisted the winter would be mild. Bad news!
No one wanted a mild winter. Merchants had invested in large inventories of snowblowers, antifreeze, snowshoes, and long johns. The farmers themselves needed a heavy snow cover to ensure a good summer crop. Dogsledders and icefishermen stood to lose a whole season of wholesome outdoor sport. As for the First Annual Ice Festival, it was doomed. All that—plus the unthinkable possibility of a green Christmas!
Throughout November, traditionally a month of natural disasters, the weather was disappointingly good, and the natives cursed the fuzzy caterpillars. Then. . . suddenly, in mid-December, temperatures plummeted and a few inches of no-melt snow started to fall every day. In downtown Pickax, the county seat, the Department of Public Works plows threw up the usual eight-foot walls of snow along curbs and around parking lots. Young people did their Christmas shopping on cross-country skis, and sleigh bells could be heard on Main Street. Best of all, the schools closed twice during the month because of blizzard conditions.
The weather was only the first strange happening of the winter, however. In late December, an outbreak of petty larceny dampened the holiday spirit in Pickax. Trivial items began to disappear from cars and public places, prompting the local newspaper to run an editorial:
Play Safe! Lock Up! Be Alert!
You leave a video on the seat of your car while paying for self-serve gas. You never see it again.
You forget your gloves in the post office. Minutes later, they’re gone.
You hang your sun-glare glasses on a supermarket cart while you select oranges. The glasses disappear.
Who is to blame? Mischievous kids? Gremlins? Your failing memory? The time has come to stop searching for excuses and start playing safe. In Moose County we’re foolishly lax about security. We must learn to lock our cars. . . put valuables in the trunk. . . keep an eye on belongings. . . stay alert!
Some say the incidents are minor, and the pilfering is a temporary nuisance like Mosquito Week in spring. If that’s what you think, listen to our police chief, Andrew Brodie, who says, “A community that tolerates minor violations leaves the door open for major crimes.”
Natives of Moose County were a stubborn, independent breed descended from early pioneers, and it would take more than an editorial in the Moose County Something to change their ways. Yet, there was one prominent citizen who applauded the police chief’s maxim.
Jim Qwilleran was not a native but a transplant from Down Below, as the locals called the metropolitan cities to the south. Surprising circumstances had brought him to Pickax (population 3,000), and he was surprisingly content with small-town life.
Qwilleran was a tall, well-built, middle-aged man with a luxuriant pepper-and-salt moustache and hair graying at the temples. If asked, he would say that he perceived himself as:
A journalist, semi-retired.
A former crime reporter and author of a book on urban crime.
Writer of a twice-weekly column for the Something.
Devoted friend of Polly Duncan, head of the Pickax Public Library.
Protector and slave of two Siamese cats.
Fairly agreeable person blessed with many friends. All of that would be true. . . He would not perceive himself, however, as the richest man in northeast central United States, but that, too, would be true.
An enormous inheritance, the Klingenschoen fortune, had brought Qwilleran to this remote region. Yet, he was uncomfortable with money—its trappings as well as its responsibilities—and he immediately consigned his billions to philanthropic purposes. For several years, the Klingenschoen Foundation had been managed by a Chicago think tank, with little or no attention from James Mackintosh Qwilleran.
It was not only this generous gesture that caused him to be esteemed in Moose County. Admirers cited his entertaining column, “Straight from the Qwill Pen”. . . his amiable disposition and sense of humor. . . his lack of pretension. . . his sympathetic way of listening. . . and, of course, his magnificent moustache. Its drooping contours, together with his brooding eyes, gave him a look of melancholy that made people wonder about his past. Actually, there was more to that moustache than met the eye.
* * *
On the morning of December 23, Qwilleran said good-bye to the Siamese and gave instructions for their deportment in his absence. The more intelligently one talks to cats, he believed, the smarter they become. Their deep blue eyes gazed at him soberly. Did they know what he was saying? Or were they waiting patiently for him to leave so they could start their morning nap?
He was setting out to do his Christmas shopping, but first he had to hand in his copy at the newspaper office: a thousand words on Santa Claus for the “Qwill Pen.” It was hardly a newsworthy topic, but he had a columnist’s knack of making it sound fresh.
The premises of the Moose County Something were always devoid of seasonal decorations, leaving such frivolities to stores and restaurants. Qwilleran was surprised, therefore, to see a small decorated tree on a file cabinet in the publisher’s office. Arch Riker, his lifelong friend and fellow journalist, had followed him to Pickax to be publisher and editor-in-chief of the new backwoods paper. A paunchy, ruddy-faced man with thinning hair, he sat in a high-backed executive chair and looked happy. Not only had he realized his dream of running his own newspaper; he had married the plump and congenial woman who wrote the food page.
“Mildred and I are expecting you and Polly to have Christmas dinner with us,” he rem
inded Qwilleran.
“Turkey, I hope,” Qwilleran replied, thinking of leftovers for his housemates. “What’s that tree on your file cabinet?”
“It was Wilfred’s idea,” Riker said almost apologetically. “He made the ornaments with newsprint and gold spray.”
Wilfred Sugbury was secretary to the executives—a quiet, hardworking young man who had not only amazed the staff by winning a seventy-mile bike race but was now taking an origami course at the community college. Qwilleran, on his way out, complimented Wilfred on his handiwork.
“I’d be glad to make one for you, Mr. Q,” he said.
“It wouldn’t last five minutes, Wilfred. The cats would reduce it to confetti. They have no appreciation of art. Thanks just the same.”
To fortify himself for the task of gift-shopping, Qwilleran drove to Lois’s Luncheonette, a primitive side-street hole-in-the-wall that had been serving comfort food to downtown workers and shoppers for thirty years. Lois Inchpot was an imposing woman, who dispensed pancakes and opinions with the authority of a celebrity. Indeed, the city had recently celebrated Lois Inchpot Day, by mayoral proclamation.
When Qwilleran entered, she was banging the old-fashioned cash register and holding forth in a throaty voice: “If we have a mild winter, like the caterpillars said, we’ll be swamped with bugs next summer!. . . Hi, Mr. Q! Come on in! Sit anywhere that ain’t sticky. My customers got bad aim with the syrup bottle.”
“How’s Lenny?” Qwilleran asked. Her son had been hurt in an explosion.
“That boy of mine!” she said proudly. “Nothin’ stops him! He has mornin’ classes at the college, and then he’s found himself a swell part-time job, managin’ the clubhouse at Indian Village. He gave you as a reference, Mr. Q. Hope you don’t mind.”
“He’s going to be a workaholic like his mother.”
“Better’n takin’ after his father!. . . Done your Christmas shoppin’, Mr. Q?”
“Don’t rush me, Lois. It’s only the twenty-third.”
* * *
The first gift he purchased was a bottle of Scotch. He carried it in a brown paper bag under his folded jacket when he climbed the stairs to police headquarters at city hall. He was a frequent visitor, and the sergeant at the desk jerked his head toward the inner office, saying, “He’s in.” The chief was visible through a glass partition, hunched over the computer that he earnestly hated.
Brodie was a tough cop who resented civilian interference, and yet he had learned to appreciate the newsman’s tips and opinions that sometimes helped crack a case. On the job he had old-fashioned ideas of law and order and a gruff manner to match. Off duty, he was a genial Scot who played the bagpipe and strutted in a kilt at civic functions.
Qwilleran, placing his jacket carefully on a chair seat and sliding into another, said, “I see you got your name in the paper again, Andy. Who’s your press agent? Planning to run for mayor? I’ll campaign for you.”
With a fierce scowl usually reserved for the computer, Brodie shot back, “If I had an overgrown moustache like yours, I’d get my picture in the paper, too. What’s on your mind?”
“I want to know if you believe what you said in the paper.”
“It’s a known fact! Let the hoods urinate in public and—next thing you know—they’re spray-painting the courthouse, and after that they’re pushing drugs, and then robbing banks, and then killing cops.”
“Any suspects in the pilfering?”
The chief leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Could be punks from Chipmunk. Could be a roving gang from Lockmaster. Could be the kids that hang around George Breze’s dump. We’re investigating.”
“Do you see any pattern developing? There should be a pattern by now.”
“Well, for one thing, there’s a pattern in what they don’t do. They don’t steal Social Security checks from mailboxes, or rip out car radios, or break into doctors’ offices. It’s all piddlin’ stuff, so far. Another thing: There’s no two incidents alike, and locations are scattered. It always happens after dark, too. They avoid shoplifting in stores with bright lights and wide-awake clerks.”
Qwilleran said, “I’ve been thinking it could be a game, like a treasure hunt—perhaps initiation rites for a juvenile cult.”
“We’ve talked to school principals and Dr. Prelligate at the college. They say there’s no sign of suspicious activity.”
“They’d be the last to know,” Qwilleran muttered.
“There’s another possibility. I predicted something like this after the financial bust in Sawdust City. The town’s had a lot of hardship cases this winter, and it’s rough to be hardup at Christmastime, especially if you’ve got kids.”
“But the organized charities have raised record sums for the Christmas Fund, and the K Foundation is matching their efforts, dollar for dollar.”
“I know, but some cases always fall through the cracks, or they panic and try to take things in their own hands.” He indulged in a bitter chuckle. “Perhaps they hit on the secret: how to do Christmas shopping without money and without crowds.”
Qwilleran said, “If the thefts are scattered, as you say, someone’s buying a lot of gas to drive around and swipe trivial items. It must be a group effort.”
Brodie threw up his hands. “The whole thing’s crazy!”
“Okay, let me add an incident to your list. This is the reason I’m here.” Qwilleran paused until he had the man’s curiosity aroused. “We all know the Old Stone Church is collecting warm clothing for needy families. There’s a drop-off box behind the building. Every Wednesday the volunteers show up for sorting and mending. I told them I’d drop off a bundle Tuesday night—which I did—a plastic bag full of things in good condition: jackets, sweaters, gloves, etc. But when they opened the box the next morning, it wasn’t there. They phoned me to see if I’d forgotten.”
The chief grunted. “No lock on the box?”
“Who thinks about locks in this neck of the woods? That was the thrust of our editorial! We nagged our readers into buckling up; now we’ll nag them into locking up.”
Brodie chuckled again. “If you spot a guy walking around town in your rags, follow him and take his picture.”
“Sure. And ask for his name and address.”
“My old grandmother in Scotland could tail a thief with scissors, a piece of string, and a witch’s chant. Too bad she died before I got into law enforcement.” Then he grinned. “Why don’t you assign your smart cat to the case?” The chief was the only person in the north country who knew about the remarkable talents of Qwilleran’s male Siamese. The cat did indeed have gifts that set him apart, and Qwilleran tried to conceal the fact, for various reasons. Yet it had leaked to Brodie from a source Down Below, and now the two men bantered about “that smart cat” whose highly developed senses gave him an edge over most humans.
“Koko doesn’t accept assignments,” Qwilleran said with a straight face. “He conducts his own investigations. Right now he has a gang of wild rabbits under surveillance.” Then he added in a serious tone, “But last night, Andy, he jumped on my bookshelf and knocked down a Russian novel titled The Thief. Was that a coincidence, or what?”
“Does he read Russian?” Brodie asked, only half in jest.
“Mine is an English translation.”
The chief grunted ambiguously and changed the subject. “I hear you and your smart cat aren’t living in the barn this winter. How come?” There was disappointment in the question. He often visited the converted apple barn after hours, dropping in for a nightcap and some shoptalk. Qwilleran, though not a drinker himself, stocked the best brands for his guests.
“It’s like this, Andy,” he explained. “With four stories of wide-open space, it’s impossible to heat evenly. The top balcony is like a sauna while the main floor is chilly. The cats used to go to the top level to get warm, and they’d end up half-cooked. They were so groggy from the heat, they couldn’t walk straight. So I bought a condo in Indian Village for the cold mo
nths. I can rent it to vacationers in summer. It’s nowhere near the size of the barn, of course, but it’s adequate, and the county snowplows keep the access road open, for the simple reason that so many politicos live out there. . . By the way, I had my condo furnished by your talented daughter.”
The chief nodded a grudging acknowledgment of the family compliment. In spite of Fran Brodie’s success as an interior designer, her father considered it a frivolous choice of career.
Standing up and presenting the brown paper bag, Qwilleran said, “Here’s a wee dram of Christmas cheer, Andy. See you after the holidays.”
* * *
In earlier days Qwilleran had been frugal by nature and by necessity—while growing up with a single parent, earning his way through college, and working as an underpaid reporter Down Below. His new financial status had introduced him to the luxury of largesse, however. He still practiced certain economies, such as buying used cars for himself, but he enjoyed giving presents, buying drinks, sending flowers, treating companions to dinner, and tipping generously.
When he finally tackled his Christmas shopping on December 23, his list was a long one. Fortunately, he was a speedy shopper who made quick decisions and never had to ask prices. For his shopping spree he left his car in the municipal parking lot, then zipped up his padded jacket, yanked down his wool earflaps, pulled on his lined gloves, and trudged around downtown in snowboots.
Main Street was thronged with shoppers weaving merrily between head-high walls of snow. There was a wintry sun, just bright enough to make the flecks of mica sparkle in the stone facades of store and office buildings, and garlands of greens festooned from rooftops and looped across the street between lightpoles. The babble of voices and rumble of slow-moving vehicles were hushed by the tons of snow piled everywhere and packed hard between the curbs. (Roadways were not salted in Moose County.) Yet, strangely, the acoustical phenomenon emphasized the bursts of Christmas music, the occasional jingle of sleigh bells, and the brassy clang of Santa’s handbell on the street corner.
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