The Cat Who Tailed a Thief

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Go ahead,” she yelled back, “but make it snappy. He’s got work to do.”

  “Park the mop, Lenny, and sit down for a few minutes,” Qwilleran said. “Did you hear that Tracy Kemple’s in the hospital?”

  “No! What happened?”

  “Nervous breakdown. Have you seen today’s paper?” He opened it to the wedding page. “The bridegroom is Carter Lee James.”

  “Oh-oh!” Lenny said with a gulp. “Tracy thought she was on the inside track with that guy. I guess it was wishful thinking.”

  Or, Qwilleran thought, deliberate misrepresentation. “Do you know how she met him?”

  “Sure. He was trying to sell the Kemples on signing up for his big project. It meant paying a lot of money up front, and Ernie wasn’t keen on the deal. To me, Carter Lee sounded like a sharpie, but Tracy was impressed by the houses he’d had published in magazines. . . You know, Mr. Q, I’ve been suspicious of strangers ever since that smooth talker with a bunch of flowers blew up the hotel last year. Where I made my mistake with Tracy—I told her I thought Carter Lee was a phoney. That was a dumb thing to do. I should’ve kept my big mouth shut. All it did was make her mad, and she told me to get lost. . . That’s the story. Now what?”

  “It’s for you to decide. For starters, you might call Ernie and sympathize with him. He’s feeling down.”

  “Yeah, I could do that. I always got along with Ernie.”

  “He’s willing to appear at your hearing as a character witness. So am I.”

  “Honest? That’s great, Mr. Q! And thanks for lining up Mr. Barter. He’s a super guy!”

  “Okay. See you in court.”

  When Qwilleran left the lunchroom, Lenny was swishing the mop around like a sleepwalker.

  “Get with it!” his mother screamed. “Folks’ll be comin’ in before the floor’s clean!”

  Before going home, Qwilleran bought six copies of the Something for Polly to give Lynette on her return. He dropped them off at the library.

  “Did you know Carter Lee is from New York?” he asked.

  “I know only that he’s worked in eastern cities. Lynette says his portfolio of past projects is thrilling. I’d like to see it.”

  “So would I,” he said.

  “I’m expecting you to come for another chicken dinner tonight. We’ve had seven of the recipes so far; only ten to go.”

  “I can hardly wait,” he said ambiguously. “Any excitement at the library today? Any loud voices? Any wet boots?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it, Qwill! The clerks and volunteers talk about nothing but the naming of cats! I told them Bootsie is now Brutus, and his companion will be named Catta, which is said to be Latin for the female of the species. My assistant has three cats: Oedipuss, Octopuss, and Platypuss. And the silver tabby who sleeps in the window of Scottie’s men’s shop is Haggis MacTavish.”

  Soon Moose County would have something else to talk about.

  Late that same afternoon, Qwilleran was pulling into his driveway, and Wetherby Goode was pulling out. The weatherman tooted his horn lightly and lowered the window. “Got a minute, Qwill?”

  There was an element of anxiety in the question that made Qwilleran say, “Sure. Want to come in?”

  When Wetherby saw the Siamese, who were being politely inquisitive, he said, “You’ve got two top-of-the-line cats here. Mine’s an orange tiger called Jet Stream, slight pun intended. He answers to Jet-boy.”

  “Care for a drink, Wetherby?”

  “No, thanks. I’m on my way to the station. Call me Joe. That’s my real name.”

  “Well, sit down, Joe, and tell me what’s eating you.”

  He sat on the edge of a chair. “What did you think about the Ice Festival update at the luncheon?”

  “I’d say they’ve done a superlative job of organization and promotion. I’m not keen on being grand marshal, but I hope it’s a popular and financial success.”

  “So do I, but—I hate to say this, Qwill—there’s a warming trend in the offing. A real warming trend!”

  “It can’t last more than a couple of days. This is February!”

  “The weather’s been weird all over the globe. An unseasonable and prolonged warm spell is not only possible but inevitable—that plus warm rain! Do you realize what it’ll do to the Ice Festival? A premature thaw could wipe out the profits expected by local business firms, not to mention disappointing thousands of people in three counties! After I give the long-range forecast tonight, I may have to leave town. Don’t they always shoot the messenger who brings bad news? A meteorologist’s lot, like that of a policeman, is not a happy one. Listeners expect forecasts to be perfect, but they don’t care about warm fronts and cold air pockets. They only want to know which jacket to wear and whether to close the car windows. . . Well, anyway, I felt like unloading the bad news on somebody. Thanks for listening.”

  When Wetherby left, Qwilleran went to his office alcove to read the day’s mail and have another look at the wedding photos in the Something, only to find that someone . . . someone had thrown up a hairball on the newspaper. Both cats crouched nearby, waiting for him to make the discovery.

  “I don’t know which of you did this,” he said, “but I consider it a new low! A breach of etiquette!”

  Yum Yum squeezed her eyes, and Koko acted as if he’d lost his hearing.

  * * *

  While dressing to have dinner at Polly’s (flattened chicken breast with ripe olives, garbanzos, and sun-dried tomatoes), Qwilleran received another annoying phone call from Danielle. Impudently she said, “Hi, snookums! Wanna come out to play tonight?”

  Stiffly he replied, “Whom are you calling? We have no small dogs by that name at this number.”

  “Qwill, this is Danielle,” she said with the shrillness that jarred his nerves.

  “I would never have guessed.”

  “Oh, you’re a big kidder! My cousin’s away on his honeymoon, and I don’t have anybody to play with. Why don’t you come on over for drinks and dinner? I’ll thaw something.”

  “The invitation is almost irresistible,” he said, “but I have a previous engagement.”

  The brief but irritating exchange made the prospect of flattened chicken breast a gustatory delight. For the walk to Polly’s, he left his hat and gloves at home. The temperature was incredibly mild, and the sidewalk—instead of being dusted with white—was black with wetness.

  “You’re not wearing your hat!” Polly greeted him.

  “It seems to be a little warmer tonight,” he said, without revealing his privileged information.

  “I’ve just found out the difference between friendly snow and unfriendly snow,” she said with enthusiasm. Polly collected scraps of information as avidly as the Kemples collected dolls. “Flurries and snow showers are friendly; blizzards and snow squalls are unfriendly. Do you find that interesting?”

  “Very,” he replied, thinking of the forthcoming thaw. “How’s Brutus?”

  “I think he’s pleased with his new name.”

  “Have you heard from Lynette?”

  “No, I’m sure she has other things on her mind,” Polly said. “But Mildred called about the gourmet club. They’re skipping the February meeting as a token of respect for Willard—a moment of silence, so to speak.”

  “That’s appropriate. I’ll go along with that.”

  “Have you heard how Danielle is doing in the play?”

  “Only that tickets for all performances are selling fast. It’s my theory that Pickax audiences will eagerly pay money to see the widow of a murdered man.”

  “How ghoulish!” Polly said with a shudder.

  After dinner—it was the best recipe so far—they listened to the tapes Qwilleran had recorded for Tall Tales. He said, “Koko has heard them twice, and each time he yowls at ‘The Dimsdale Jinx.’ Either he’s uncomfortable with Homer Tibbitt’s high-pitched voice, or he knows what pasties are all about.”

  “Brutus loves pasties,” Polly said over her sh
oulder as she went to answer the phone. “Lynette! We were just talking about you! Qwill’s here. Wait a minute . . . Qwill, would you take this phone? I’ll pick up the one on the balcony.”

  “How’s New Orleans?” he said to the caller.

  “Warm and wonderful!” Lynette talked fast and excitedly. “We’re staying at a charming old inn. Our room has a four-poster bed and a fireplace. Breakfast is brought up on a huge tray: croissants, fabulous preserves, and delicious hot chocolate!”

  “Be careful with that hot chocolate!” Polly warned, slipping into the conversation.

  “You should see the French Quarter and the lacy wrought-iron balconies! So romantic! The coffee is strange; Carter Lee says they put chicory in it. But my favorite is the Creole gumbo. It’s seasoned with something called filé powder. I’m going to buy some, so I can make it when I get home.” She hardly stopped for breath. “Everything is different here. When they drink a toast, they say, ‘Here’s to a short life and a merry one!’ The parades start Saturday. I can hardly wait!”

  “Go easy on the Sazeracs,” Qwilleran advised.

  “I’m so happy!” she said, almost tearfully. “Carter Lee is just wonderful! Everything is perfect!”

  “Well!” said Polly when the conversation ended.

  “I get the impression she likes New Orleans,” Qwilleran remarked.

  “I’m so happy for her!”

  * * *

  At the end of the evening, as he sloshed home through the deepening puddles, he thought about Lynette and her new life. She had quit her job at the medical clinic and would assist her husband in a public relations capacity, promoting restoration. She had the qualifications. She knew everyone in town, and her enthusiasm for Carter Lee’s accomplishments was boundless. Qwilleran had a great curiosity about the portfolio of his work that everyone praised so highly. Even Old Gallbladder had referred to the “mighty purty pitchers.” Breze was no arbiter of historic design, but he might afford a way to borrow the portfolio in Carter Lee’s absence.

  When Qwilleran arrived home, he typed a briefing for Celia:

  Mission: Operation Winter Breeze

  Assignment: To lay hands on the book of “mighty purty pitchers” belonging to Carter Lee James. Start by giving Red Cap some of your homemade brownies, to prove you can cook. Let him know that you’ve seen his house on Sandpit Road and think it would be worth a lot of money if fixed up a little. Say you’re interested in decorating and would like to see the book of pictures. . . Then contact Danielle Carmichael on Woodland Trail and ask to borrow it for Mr. Breze, who is extremely eager to have his house restored. When mission is completed, signal headquarters.

  The next morning Qwilleran deposited Celia’s briefing in her mailbox at the gatehouse. Snowshoeing was out of the question. The temperature was in the unbelievable fifties, and a steady rain was turning the white landscape into a porous gray blanket. Walkways and pavements hemmed in by the shrinking snowbanks were becoming canals. In the mailroom the sudden thaw was the sole topic of conversation:

  “What does this do to the Ice Festival?”

  “The fuzzy caterpillars were right after all. They predicted a mild winter.”

  “Yeah, but their timing was off—by about ten weeks.”

  “How much of this can the storm sewers take?”

  Qwilleran took his mail home to open, throwing most of the communications into his Procrastination File—a small drawer in the hutch cabinet. One was a letter from Celia’s grandson, enclosing snapshots of the dowser and a transcript of a tape recording. The other was an invitation to an opening-night party at Danielle’s apartment—just a cozy little afterglow. RSVP.

  When the telephone rang, he was pleased to hear the good radio voice of his next-door neighbor:

  “Qwill, things are getting pretty sloppy out there, but we have to eat, and they say the road to Kennebeck is not too bad. Are you free? Are you hungry? Would you like to go to Tipsy’s?”

  “I always like to go to Tipsy’s, rain or shine, with friend or foe,” said Qwilleran.

  “Let’s take my van. It’s bigger and makes bigger rooster tails.”

  “Apparently no one has shot the messenger as yet.”

  “Not yet! But the promoters of the Ice Festival are monitoring the ice from hour to hour!. . . ”

  FIFTEEN

  The two men splashed down River Lane in Wetherby Goode’s van. “Some weather!” the weatherman said.

  “How did the landscape liquefy so fast?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Warm rain. Like pouring hot tea on ice cubes.”

  “The county’s gone from a beautiful swan to an ugly duckling overnight.”

  “And it’s going to get uglier,” Wetherby predicted. “The rain, it raineth every day.”

  “Is the Ice Festival doomed?”

  “I’m not predicting. I’m not even opening my mouth. All I can say is: The fuzzy caterpillars knew something we didn’t know. The parking lot at the Dimsdale Diner is underwater, and the people in Shantytown are being evacuated. They’re afraid the old mine may cave in.”

  “How about the Buckshot mine on our road?”

  “The situation’s not so dangerous. The Dimsdale mine, you see, is in a fork between two rivers, the Ittibittiwassee and the Rocky Burn.”

  Qwilleran said, “Our river seemed to be rushing faster and making more noise, but I don’t see much rise in the water level. In any case, I suppose the bank is high enough to protect us. And we have all those cats in Building Five; if they can predict an earthquake, they should be able to predict a simple flood.”

  “The only bad thing would be if a freak wave in the lake sent a surge up the river. It might reach Sawdust City, but it wouldn’t reach us. You don’t need to give your cats swimming lessons yet.”

  “The schools will have to close if the buses can’t get through the mud on the back roads. Perhaps we should lay in a supply of emergency foods. My barn was prepared for power outages—with canned goods, a camp stove, bottled water, and batteries—but I have nothing here. I should buy for Polly, too.”

  Wetherby said, “We can shop at the Kennebeck Market after lunch, if there’s anything left.”

  “I suggest we shop before lunch,” Qwilleran countered.

  The town of Kennebeck was situated on a hummock, and Tipsy’s Tavern was high and dry on the summit. The restaurant had started in a small log cabin in the 1930s, named after the owner’s cat. Now it was a sprawling roadhouse of log construction, with dining rooms on several levels. In one of them hung an oil portrait of the celebrated white cat with black markings. The food was simple and hearty; rustic informality prevailed; and the servers were older women who called customers by their first names and knew what they liked to drink.

  After a Squunk water and a bourbon had been brought to the table, Qwilleran said to his companion, “I suppose you’re a native, Joe.”

  “A native of Lockmaster County. I came from a town called Horseradish.”

  “In jest, I suppose.”

  “You think so? Look it up on the map,” Wetherby said. “It’s on the lakeshore. Not many people realize it was once the horseradish capital of the Midwest. That was back in the nineteenth century, of course, long before Lockmaster County became fashionable horse country. If there’s any connection, I can’t figure it out. What’s happened to Horseradish—it’s all summer homes and country inns now. Some of my relatives still live there.”

  “What brought you to Moose County, Joe?”

  “Well, after college I worked in television Down Below, and then I had a mid-life crisis ahead of schedule and decided to come back up north. My first thought was Lockmaster City, but then I saw what was happening to Pickax City, and I liked what I saw. So here I am, with Jet-boy. Before him I had another orange cat called Leon, with a head as big as a grapefruit, no neck, and a disposition like a lemon. We were a pair, let me tell you! But that was Down Below. My disposition improved after I came home.”

  Qwilleran asked the logica
l question. “What happened to Leon?”

  “He stayed with my ex-wife. He probably reminds her of me. . . What are you ordering? I always get the steak sandwich on an onion roll.” Then he started talking about Lynette. “She shocked the whole bridge club by marrying so fast, after being on the shelf so long.”

  “Do you know she’s one of your greatest fans, Joe? She goes around quoting your daily quips: The north wind doth blow, and we shall have snow. She’s impressed!”

  “Too bad I didn’t know that!” Wetherby puffed out his chest. “What do you know about her husband?”

  “Not much. I was invited to be best man because I own a kilt.”

  “Yeah, I think I was invited to the reception because I play cocktail piano.”

  “Willard Carmichael told me that Carter Lee’s a highly regarded professional Down Below and could do great things for Pickax. Did you know Willard?”

  “Only around the bridge table, but he seemed like a good egg. I hated what happened to him.”

  The steak sandwiches were served, and Qwilleran pushed the condiment tray across the tabletop, saying, “Horseradish?” Then he asked, “Does your hometown have any local yarns or legends that make good telling? I’m working on a collection for a proposed book. So far, I have stories from Dimsdale, Brrr, and Trawnto Beach.”

  “I have a great-uncle in Horseradish who could tell you some doozies. The town had a problem with lake pirates in the old days. It was the chief port for the whole county, and pirates would board the cargo ships and make their victims walk the plank. Bodies were always being washed up on the beach with hands tied behind their backs. They were buried, but the poor souls couldn’t rest in peace, so Horseradish had a lot of ghosts. People were kept awake by the moaning and door-slamming and cold drafts. . . Is that the kind of thing you’re interested in?”

  “Keep right on going.”

  “One day a man came into town riding on a mule, and he said he had the power to de-haunt houses.”

  Qwilleran said, “That would make a good movie, if it hasn’t already been done.”