The Cat Who Tailed a Thief

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  In two minutes a sheriff deputy drove up on a motorcycle. “Mr. Wimsey! You old rascal!” he said to the preacher. “We’ve been looking all over for the Clipper! Better talk fast, or I’ll have to arrest you for kidnapping!”

  What happened, you see: Hilda’s dog had been howling for hours, and Grandpa called the sheriff.

  “Great story!” Qwilleran said. “Is there a sequel? What happened to Hilda?”

  “Well, for her own protection the county put her in a foster home, and she had to surrender her hedge clippers. The whole town breathed a lot easier.”

  “How long had they tolerated her threats?”

  “For years! People were long-suffering in those days. They were used to the hardships of pioneer living. Their motto was: Shut up and make do! Is life better in the Electronic Age, Qwill? Sometimes I think I was born too late. My mother lives Down Below, and one night she had dinner in a neighborhood restaurant. The computer was down, and not a single employee could add up a dinner check! Geez! I’m only thirty-five, but I feel like a dinosaur because I can add and subtract.”

  “Don’t lose the skill,” Qwilleran advised. “Computers may not be here to stay.”

  “Let’s go back in the bar and get something to drink. I’m dry,” Gary suggested. “And I want to ask you about something.” He poured coffee for Qwilleran and beer for himself, and then said, “A guy came in here a couple of weeks ago and said he was a restoration consultant from Down Below, doing a lot of work in Pickax. He said this hotel could be a gold mine if I restored it and got it on the National Register, but it would have to be authentic. Well, the thing of it is: My customers like it the way it is—grungy! However, I just told him I couldn’t afford it.”

  “What kind of money was he talking about?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Twenty thousand up front for his services, plus whatever the contractor would charge for doing the work. Do you know anything about this guy?”

  “Carter Lee James. Willard Carmichael spoke highly of him. He’s doing over Pleasant Street as a historic neighborhood—or that’s what the plans are.”

  “How come I haven’t read anything in the paper?”

  “The project is only now getting under way. He didn’t want any premature publicity.”

  “He’s a nice guy, very friendly and down to earth. He had his assistant with him, and she was a real babe.”

  Qwilleran said, “She’s his cousin, and she’s Willard’s widow.”

  “Oh. . . yeah. . . yeah. Too bad about Willard. I met him at the Boosters Club. He was all excited about the Ice Festival. You say they’re cousins? I bought them a drink when they were here, and they sat in that corner booth. They didn’t act like cousins, if you know what I mean.”

  “She flirts with everyone,” Qwilleran said. “She’d flirt with John Wayne’s horse!” Then he asked Gary what he thought about Lenny Inchpot’s arrest.

  “They’re nuts! He’s about as guilty as you and me! I know Lenny. He belongs to the Pedal Club. Won the silver in the Labor Day race!”

  “I’m sure he’ll get off. G. Allen Barter is taking his case. Then what? One wonders if the police have any other leads.”

  Driving home, Qwilleran realized how much he missed his late-night get-togethers with Chief Brodie at the apple barn, when suspicions were aired and official secrets were leaked over Scotch and Squunk water.

  * * *

  Even before he unlocked his front door, he knew there was a message on the answering machine. Koko was announcing the fact with yowls and body-bumps against the door panels. Given the condo’s quality of construction, it was doubtful how much battering the door could take.

  The message was from Celia Robinson, requesting him to call her at the clubhouse before five-thirty, her quitting time. She had a little treat for him and the cats and would drop it off on the way home.

  He phoned immediately. “Visitors bearing treats are always welcome. Do you know where we are? Building Five on River Lane. Park in the driveway of Unit Four.”

  At five-thirty-three her bright red car pulled in, looking brighter and redder against the maze of snowbanks.

  Always jolly, she greeted Qwilleran in a flurry of contagious happiness. “Here’s some goat cheese, a thank-you for steering me to this wonderful job! I only wish it were permanent. . . Hello, kitties!. . . I saw your picture on the front page and cut it out. I’m going to frame it. I bought an extra copy to send to Clayton.” She walked into the living room and flopped into the deep cushions of the sofa, facing the frozen riverbank. “This is a lot smaller than the barn, but you’ve got more of a view. And some new furniture! I never saw a coffee table like this!”

  “It’s an old pine woodbox that had four or five coats of paint. Fran Brodie stripped it down to the wood and waxed it.”

  “Some people are so clever! It sure is pretty. What do you keep inside?”

  “Old magazines. Would you like a mug of hot cider, Celia?”

  “No, thanks. I have to go home and cook. Mr. O’Dell is coming to supper. Clayton thinks we should get married. What do you think, Chief?”

  “Never mind what I think,” Qwilleran said. “What does Mr. O’Dell think? Has he been consulted?”

  Celia screamed with laughter. “He hasn’t said anything, but I know he’s interested. He has a house. I’d hate to leave my apartment. It’s so central.”

  “What are your priorities, Celia? Love or location?”

  She laughed again, uproariously. “I might have known you’d say that!. . . Well, what I want to tell you: I’ve found a home for the little black dog that Clayton liked. He couldn’t take it home; it would only make trouble with his stepmother. What’s the dog’s name?”

  “Cody. A female schnauzer. Who wants to adopt her?”

  “A nice young man from the Split Rail Goat Farm. He came to the clubhouse today to give a talk to the Daffy Diggers—that’s a garden club.”

  “I know Mitch Ogilvie very well,” Qwilleran said. “Also his partner, Kristi. Cody will be happy with them.”

  Confidentially Celia said, “They’re thinking of getting married. I hope they do. He’s such a nice young man!”

  “Are you implying that all nice young men make good husbands? I’m a nice middle-aged man, but you don’t see me galloping down the aisle.”

  “Oh, lawsy!” She laughed. “I put my foot in it again! Anyway, Mr. Ogilvie said he’d give what’s-her-name a good home.”

  “Good! I’ll pick up what’s-her-name myself and deliver her to the farm.” As the wordplay sent her into a spasm of hilarity, he added, “Now tell me about your job, Celia.”

  “Well, I collect members’ dues and schedule parties and help the caterers and supervise the janitors.”

  “Has there been any talk about Lenny Inchpot?”

  “Plenty! Nobody thinks he’s guilty, except for one man who thinks Lenny cracked up after his girlfriend was killed in the explosion. Is there anything I can do about the Lenny case, Chief?” Being an avid reader of detective and espionage fiction, Celia relished her role as secret agent.

  “Just keep your eyes and ears open,” Qwilleran suggested. “Bear in mind that Lenny may have been framed, and the person who stole the bridge club’s money may have rigged Lenny’s locker. Who’s the man who said he’d cracked up?”

  “I don’t know. He’s around a lot. Want me to find out who he is?”

  “Yes. Do that. As soon as possible.”

  “Okay, Chief. And now I’ve really got to go home and cook. We’re having spaghetti.”

  Qwilleran politely averted his eyes as she struggled to get out of the deep sofa.

  * * *

  When he went to the MacMurchie house the next morning, he was met at the door by a smiling Scot and a bouncing schnauzer, yipping for joy. Her travel luggage was assembled in the foyer: a carton contained her comb and brush, leashes, dishes, a supply of dried food, a blanket, and some old socks. MacMurchie said, “The food is a combination of rice and lamb that she seems
to prefer, but she also likes popcorn and bananas. The horse blanket is her bed. The socks are her toys, knotted together in pairs. On TV she likes National Geographic programs and dog-food commercials.”

  Qwilleran said, “It looks as if you’re ready to move out yourself. What will happen to the house then?”

  “The restoration won’t start until after spring thaw, but that’s all right. By that time more property owners will have signed up, and there’ll be a saving on labor costs. The work will be done by an out-of-town contractor. He specializes in restoration.”

  “That won’t make the local construction industry happy,” Qwilleran said.

  “It makes sense, though. The job’s too big for the little fellers around here. XYZ Enterprises could handle it, but Carter Lee James isn’t impressed by the kind of work they do. He’s been staying, you know, in one of their apartment buildings.”

  “I know exactly what he means, Gil. I live in the Village, too.”

  Cody was listening, pancaked on the floor in her froggy-doggy pose.

  “On your feet, young lady,” Qwilleran ordered. “We’re going for a ride.”

  On the way to the country, Cody rode up front in the passenger seat, standing on her hind legs and watching the snowy landscape whiz past. The Split Rail Goat Farm was in the Hummocks, where drifts swirled in grotesque configurations and made familiar landmarks unrecognizable. The split rail fence that gave the goat farm its name had disappeared under the hummocks of snow thrown up by county plows, and the long driveway was a narrow white canyon. As for the Victorian farmhouse with its menacing tower, it looked surreal against the white background. Strangest of all was the silence.

  Mitch Ogilvie, looking bucolic in his rough beard and heavy stormwear, came from a low sprawling barn to meet them. A few years before, he had been a fastidiously groomed and properly suited desk clerk at the Pickax Hotel. After that he was the casual but neat manager of the Farm Museum. Now he was the cheesemaker on a goat farm.

  “Kristi’s milking,” he said, “but she told me to say hello. She’s all excited about getting the pooch. What’s his name?”

  “Cody is a she. You’ll like her,” Qwilleran said. He carried her into the house, saying, “Here we are! Good dog! Nice new home!”

  Mitch piled her luggage in the middle of the kitchen floor. “Let her explore,” he said. “We’ll have some cheese and crackers while she decides if she wants to live here. I wonder how she feels about goat cheese.”

  “In my humble opinion, Mitch, any dog who eats popcorn and bananas won’t balk at goat cheese.”

  They drank coffee and sampled several cheeses and listened for canine noises in other parts of the house. Occasionally there would be a musical moaning as Cody talked to herself about some questionable discovery.

  After a while Qwilleran asked about the procedure in getting the house on the National Register. Built by a Civil War hero, it was the only edifice in Moose County to have official historic recognition. A bronze plaque in the driveway testified to the honor.

  “There was a lot of red tape,” Mitch replied, “and Kristi and I have a lot of sweat equity invested in it. Luckily we had the experts from the K Fund advising us. There was one government printout six yards long that really threw me for a loop. To me it was all gobbledygook. . . Why do you ask, Qwill? Are you going to try and get your barn registered?”

  “No, it’s been irreversibly modernized, but there’s a whole neighborhood in Pickax that hopes to be registered, and I wondered about the procedure. Do you still have the six-yard printout? I wouldn’t mind reading it.”

  “Sure. I’ll dig it out for you. With your sense of humor you might have some fun with it in the ‘Qwill Pen’ column.”

  Cody, having okayed the premises, returned to the kitchen where her lares and penates were still in the middle of the floor. Mitch found her dishes and put out water and food for her.

  “She’ll be happy here,” Qwilleran said as he put on jacket, hat, and gloves. “Take care of her; she comes from a good Scottish household. And tell Kristi I was sorry to miss her, but goats come before guests.”

  * * *

  It was Qwilleran’s responsibility to pick up the champagne and birthday cake for Lynette’s party. In ordering the cake from the Scottish bakery, he had requested a Scots theme, and he expected the usual three-layer confection with a thistle design in pink and green icing. His reaction, when he picked it up, was: Ye gods! It was a foot-square sheet cake frosted in an all-over plaid in red, blue, green, and yellow; a skewer was stuck in the middle, flying a paper flag with an indecipherable message.

  “That’s ‘Happy Birthday’ in Gaelic,” the baker said proudly. “It’s the first I’ve ever done like this. Do you like it?”

  “It’s absolutely. . . unique!” he said with a gulp of dismay, as he wondered what Polly would say. She might have another heart attack.

  “I’ll wrap the flag in a bit of wax paper. You can stick it in the cake when you get home.”

  Polly was having her hair done at Brenda’s, and he delivered the cake to her condo, letting himself in with his own key and explaining to Bootsie the legitimacy of his errand. He had been given instructions to leave it in the refrigerator, the only cat-proof vault in the house, and he took the precaution of taping a sign to the front of the appliance: OPEN DOOR WITH CARE! WILD CAKE INSIDE!

  * * *

  Lynette’s birthday party lacked effervescence, despite the bubbles in the champagne that Qwilleran poured. The hostess worried about the prime rib she was roasting in a new and untested oven. The bereaved widow was resolutely glum. The guest of honor seemed nervous; did she fear her age would be revealed? Background music might have relieved the tension, but the stereo was out-of-order.

  According to Moose County custom, the right-hand end of the sofa was reserved for the guest of honor. Carter Lee sat at the other end, wearing one of his monogrammed shirts. Lynette looked as if she had dressed to dance the Highland fling: pleated green tartan, black velvet jacket, and ghillies with long laces wound about her white-stockinged legs.

  They said all that could be said about the weather. Carter Lee had no desire to talk shop. Qwilleran’s skill as an interviewer failed him; his questions produced no interesting answers. To fill the silences, Bushy hopped around with his camera, taking candids.

  When Qwilleran suggested that Lynette open her gifts, she said firmly, “No! After dinner!” Fortunately the roast beef was superb, the Yorkshire pudding was properly puffy, and Lynette thought the plaid birthday cake was stupendous.

  For coffee and cordials the diners moved back into the living room, and Lynette opened her gifts: violet sachets from Polly, a silver “poached egg” from Qwilleran, Bushy’s framed photo, a bottle of wine from Danielle, and the smallest of small boxes from Carter Lee.

  It was obviously a ring. Was that why Lynette had been self-conscious and Carter Lee had seemed unnaturally shy? When he slipped the ring on her left hand, Polly gasped audibly at the size of the diamond. Danielle merely tapped the floor with her uncommonly high-heeled shoe. Bushy took another picture or two. Qwilleran opened another bottle of champagne.

  Then the couple answered questions: Yes, they had set the date. . . No, there would be no announcement in the paper until after the ceremony. . . Yes, it would be soon, because they were honeymooning in New Orleans and wanted to be there for Mardi Gras. . . No, it would not be a church wedding—just a small affair at the Indian Village clubhouse . . . Yes, that’s where they had met, across a bridge table.

  * * *

  After the guests had left, Qwilleran’s first question to Polly was: “Did you know anything about this little bombshell?” He was helping her clear away the party clutter.

  “Not an inkling! They haven’t known each other very long. I hope she knows what she’s doing.”

  “I thought she was deeply involved at the church. Why no church wedding?” he asked.

  “I can guess why,” Polly said. “I was in her wedding pa
rty twenty years ago when she was left waiting at the church—literally. She was in her grandmother’s satin gown with yards of veil. She was carrying white roses and violets. Six attendants were in violet taffeta. The church was filled with wedding guests. But the groom and groomsman didn’t arrive. Someone telephoned the hotel; they had left, so they must be on the way. The organist started playing voluntaries to reassure the fidgety guests. Someone called the police to inquire if there had been an accident. We waited in the anteroom, and waited, and waited. Lynette started looking pale, then she turned the color of our dresses and passed out. The groom never showed up.”

  “That was a brutal thing to do,” Qwilleran said. “What was wrong with the guy?”

  “He was a local boy from a good family, but he was afraid of marriage and afraid to break it off. His family was mortified.”

  “What happened to him? Did he ever show his face?”

  “He joined the armed services and lost touch with everyone. Lynette was hospitalized. The worst part was returning the hundreds of wedding presents!”

  Qwilleran said, “So we can assume that’s why she doesn’t want an item in the paper until after the ceremony.”

  “It appears so, doesn’t it?” Polly agreed. “Danielle seemed less than happy about her cousin’s engagement, it seemed to me.”

  “Someone should tell her she’s not losing a cousin; she’s gaining a cousin-in-law.” Then, after a moment’s reflection, he added, “Do you suppose Lynette is going to get her revenge by jilting Carter Lee?”

  “Oh, Qwill! How can you be so cynical? She’d never do a thing like that!”

  ELEVEN

  The morning after Lynette’s birthday party and the surprising engagement announcement, Qwilleran was wakened by what he feared was a pounding heartbeat, but it was the thrum-thrum-thrum of Wetherby Goode’s wake-up music on the Sousabox. The volume was low enough to eliminate all but the percussion, which reverberated along the steel beam running the length of Building Five. A brochure listing fifty Sousa marches, with dates, had been stuck behind Qwilleran’s door handle by his friendly neighbor, but whether the morning selection was the “U.S. Field Artillery March” (1917) or “Pet of the Petticoats” (1883), one could not tell.