Afterward Polly said to Qwilleran, “It’s overindulgence that’s disagreeing with her.”
“Or overexcitement,” he said. “Going from Moose County to Mardi Gras in a few air hours is like taking a few thousand volts of electricity.”
All together it was a successful weekend of reading aloud at her place, listening to music at his place, arguing about Jane Austen, doing all the things they enjoyed. Through it all Brutus behaved like a noble Roman. “See? I told you so!” That was what Qwilleran wanted to say, but he held his tongue. Even the breakfast omelette was made with real eggs and real cheese; no substitutes.
It was late Sunday afternoon when Qwilleran finally returned to Unit Four. Yum Yum was happily engaged with a crocheted mouse from the toy drawer, but Koko was nervous and unfocused. He prowled aimlessly, sniffed numerous invisible spots, jumped on and off the coffee table, peered at the ceiling.
“If you’re looking for Mosca, he doesn’t live here any more,” Qwilleran told him. “You can’t eat your cake and have it, too.”
Whatever was bothering the cat was bothering him as well. All the concerns suppressed during the last twenty-four hours were resurfacing. Dejectedly he sprawled in his big chair and listened to the rain—more rain!—pattering on the deck and splashing on the windows. Indoors there was only the sound of Yum Yum scurrying after her prey and Koko murmuring to himself. Now he was on the coffee table, examining the leather-bound scrapbook; he was a fiend for leather!
On an impulse, Qwilleran leaped out of his chair and went to the telephone to look up a number. She lived in the Village. She had opinions. She was hard-headed and not afraid to speak her mind. Sometimes she could be a little crazy. She was perfect! He knew she would be home. She was not one to go splashing around flooded highways except for financial gain, and this was Sunday.
The throaty voice that answered had an added note of impatience. “Yes? Now what, dammit.”
In his most mellifluous tone he said, “Amanda, this is one of your admiring constituents and a frequent customer of your studio.”
“Oh! It’s you! You scoundrel!” she said. “I thought it was the city attorney again. He’s been calling me all day. There’s a class-action suit against Pickax on account of the flooding. The stupid voters keep voting down millage to improve the storm sewers, but they forget that when it rains. Arrrgh!”
“You have my sympathy, Amanda. It’s generous of you to keep serving on the council as you do.” What he thought was: You keep running for re-election because it’s good for your design business.
“So what’s your complaint?”
“No complaint. Only a request for three minutes of your valuable time. Do you mind if I drive over? And would you be offended if I brought a pint of very fine brandy?”
A few minutes later she admitted him to her condo, which was piled to the ceiling with furnishings from the old Goodwinter mansion.
“Be my valentine!” he said, handing her a bottle tied with red streamers from Celia’s package. She would never notice that they were punctured with fang marks.
“Pretty good stuff,” she said, looking at the label. “Sure you can afford it?. . . Sit down, if you can find a place. Throw those magazines on the floor. Care for a drink?”
“Not this time, thanks. I just want you to look at this scrapbook.”
She accepted it questioningly and scowled at the color photos. “Is this your new hobby? Cutting out pictures from magazines?”
“What you’re looking at,” he replied, “is the portfolio Carter Lee James shows to prospective clients. I borrowed it without his knowledge.”
“Does he pretend he did all these restoration jobs?”
“Clients get the impression that he did.”
“Well, I get the impression he’s a royal fakeroo! You notice they’re not identified—who or where—and look at this one! A Queen Anne Victorian. It was done by a friend of mine down south, and her name isn’t Carter Lee James! I’ve been in this house! I recognize the gasolier, the stencils on the ceiling, the parlor set! Why, I even know the bear rug in front of the fireplace!”
Qwilleran was aware she had resented Carter Lee from the beginning. “Have you done any business as a result of his recommendations, Amanda?”
“Not a penny! Two council members live on Pleasant Street. They’ve each paid him twenty thousand up front. How come my clients never pay me up front?”
“He’s a professional charmer. You should try being more sweet-natured.”
“Arrrgh! I noticed there hasn’t been any publicity on Pleasant Street in your paper. How d’you explain that?”
“He doesn’t want publicity until the whole neighborhood is signed up. Lynette Duncan will be promoting it for him when they return from their honeymoon.”
“Poor girl! She should have stayed single!”
* * *
When Qwilleran drove into his own driveway, his neighbor rushed out of Unit Three, waving an envelope. Qwilleran lowered the car window.
“This letter belongs to you,” Wetherby said. “It was in my mailbox. I just picked up my Saturday delivery. Sorry it’s a day late.”
“Thanks. No problem.” It was a manila envelope from Hasselrich, Bennett & Barter, often bad news and always a nuisance. “Would you like to come in for a drink—and a long talk about precipitation and warm fronts?”
“I’ll take the drink. Wait till I feed the cat.”
When Wetherby arrived and was pulling off his boots, Qwilleran asked, “Bourbon?” They filed into the kitchen: host, guest, male cat, female cat—in that order.
“Do you like these closet doors?” Wetherby asked, indicating the lightweight louvered bi-folds. A wall of them covered the broom closet, laundry alcove, and pantry. “Jet-boy opens them with his nose. He’s learned exactly where to push to make them buckle. When I come home, every door in the house is ajar.”
“I think Don Exbridge got a special deal on bi-folds,” Qwilleran said. “They’re in every room and hall in the house!”
“Not only that, but they have springs that squawk like a strangled chicken, usually when Jet-boy is making his rounds at night.”
“Let’s not discuss this in front of the Siamese,” Qwilleran said. “They’ll get ideas.”
They carried their drinks into the living room and discussed the latest news: After an all-night crisis meeting, the promoters of the Ice Festival were forced to cancel the event. It was a tortured decision, but snow was turning to water, and ice was turning to slush. Ice-fishing shanties were falling through into the lake. It meant disappointment for all, loss of business for many, and embarrassment for the community.
Qwilleran said, “The newspaper is committed to covering expenses, but I feel sorry for Hixie Rice. It was her brainchild. Still, she’s indomitable. Even now she’s probably devising a brilliant way to utilize fifteen thousand polar-bear buttons.”
“Want to hear some really surprising news?” Wetherby said with enthusiasm. “The bridge club found out who sent the anonymous check to cover the two-thousand-dollar theft.”
“Who?” Qwilleran asked, expecting it to be Willard Carmichael.
“A nice little lady who lives in the Village and doesn’t even play bridge. She’s from an old family and gives a lot to charity. Sarah Plensdorf.”
“I know her! How did you find out?”
“That’s the best part. Her accountant is Mac MacWhannell, who’s a guest-member of the bridge club. In doing her tax return he found a two-thousand-dollar item paid to the bridge club. Mac said the item was actually a tax-deductible donation to the Youth Center.”
“Good for Big Mac!” Qwilleran said. “May I refresh your drink?”
When he returned, Yum Yum was sitting on the visitor’s lap, doing her amorous act: purring, rubbing, and gazing soulfully into his eyes.
“Nice cat,” Wetherby said. “Are you still getting postcards with cat names? I know a girl in Horseradish who calls her cats Allegro and Adagio. One’s lively; the othe
r’s quiet. What are you going to do with the postcards?”
“I envision a large bonfire in the newspaper parking lot.”
“Has anyone had a postcard from the honeymooners?”
“I don’t know. Lynette called Polly last night and is eager to come home. She’s going to work with Carter Lee, promoting restoration jobs around the county.”
Wetherby said, “I hope, for her sake, his project is on the up-and-up.”
“You have doubts?”
“I’m a professional doubter. Plenty of suckers in Pickax seem to have twenty thousand to gamble. I suppose that’s not much if you consider the total value of the property in today’s market, but what do they get for their investment?”
“Expert advice, supervision of the work, and access to the National Register.”
Wetherby was on his way to a dinner party, and after he had left, Qwilleran pulled out the government printout borrowed from Mitch Ogilvie. Unfolded and spread on the floor, it did indeed measure six yards. He read it all, frequently tapping his moustache and sometimes shooing Koko away.
Next he opened the manila envelope from the law office, saw the papers to be signed, grunted an objection, and tossed them into the Procrastination File. He was in no mood for tedious work. He fed the cats, made a sandwich for himself, and determined to spend the evening on his Melville project. It would take his mind off the can of worms that had been opened when Willard Carmichael came to town. Many peculiar things had happened since then. Tomorrow he would go to see Brodie and lay it all out: weird incidents, suspicious developments, hearsay, his own qualms, and even Koko’s recent idiosyncrasies. Meanwhile, he would read.
Qwilleran was reading the Melville novels in chronological order, hoping to trace the author’s development. First, there were the adventure tales, then a comic potboiler, then the advent of symbolism in Moby-Dick, then the creeping pessimism and cynicism. Koko was equally fascinated by the books; he knew a good binding when he smelled one! But the cat had his own ideas about the reading sequence. Qwilleran was ready to start volume seven, a story about a writer, titled Pierre; Koko wanted him to read volume ten, pushing it off the shelf with his nose. “Thanks, but no thanks,” Qwilleran told him as he opened volume seven. The cat lashed his tail like a bad loser.
At eleven o’clock the Siamese had their bedtime treat. Then the three of them trooped to the balcony, and Qwilleran continued reading in his bedroom. It was about one-thirty when his phone rang—an ungodly hour for anyone to call in Moose County.
His apprehension turned to anger when he heard the voice that he loathed. “Qwill, this is Danielle. I just got a call from Carter Lee. He’s terribly worried, and—”
“What’s wrong?” Qwilleran interrupted gruffly as he felt the unwelcome sensation on his upper lip.
“It’s about Lynette. She’s real sick. He thought it was too late to call Polly, so—”
“How ill is she?” he demanded.
“She’s in the hospital. He took her to Emergency.”
“Which hospital? Do you know? There must be several.”
“He didn’t tell me. If he calls back—”
“Did he tell you the nature of the illness?”
“It’s her stomach.”
“Do you have a phone number for your cousin?”
“Well, he was calling from the hospital, and I guess he’s still there. If he calls back—”
“How about the inn where they’ve been staying?” Qwilleran asked impatiently.
“He never told me the name of it.”
“Great!” he said with edgy sarcasm. “Let me know if you hear anything further, at any hour of the day or night. And now hang up so I can do some investigating.”
Qwilleran sat with his hand on the cradled receiver as he planned his next call. He would not disturb Polly; it would serve no purpose and would only keep her awake all night. He remembered Lynette’s last phone call: the spicy food, the upset stomach, the remedy that Carter Lee had gone out to buy. Had it worsened her condition? Or did it make her feel good enough to go out and mingle with the mob and eat God-knows-what?
He thought of calling Dr. Diane, but first he phoned the night desk of the New Orleans newspaper and identified himself as a reporter for the Milwaukee Journal; it sounded more legitimate than the Moose County Something. He said his editor wanted him to track down an emergency case—a Milwaukee citizen attending Mardi Gras. He said he needed names and phone numbers of hospitals.
“On the fax?”
“No. I’ll hold.”
A minute later a night deskman was reading off the information.
“Thanks. Sorry to bother you,” Qwilleran said. “My editor is a bleepin’ tyrant.”
“Aren’t they all? How’s the weather in Milwaukee?”
“Not as good as in New Orleans.”
“Hope you find your case. The ER in every hospital’s busy tonight.”
Only then did Qwilleran call Dr. Diane—with apologies—and tell her the story. He said, “If I call the hospital, they won’t even talk to me. As the personal physician of a prominent Pickax citizen, you can ask the right questions. I have the phone numbers of all the medical facilities. Can you do it? Can you locate her and find out her condition?”
“Of course. I’ll be glad to do it.” Diane had the neighborliness of a Lanspeak. “It could be something routine, like an allergy. I’ll call you when I have something definite.”
Qwilleran stretched out on his bed and waited. He had lost interest in reading. He may have dozed, because he suddenly found himself catapulted out of bed by a roar and clatter overhead. Enormous hailstones were pounding the roof and bouncing off the deck. They bothered the Siamese, too, who complained until they were admitted to his own bedroom. They were quiet then, except for one violent outburst from Koko for no apparent reason.
It was four-thirty before the phone rang. Dr. Diane’s voice was ominously solemn. “I found her, Qwill. She was in critical condition. I called the hospital several times, at intervals, and. . . ”
“She’s gone?” Qwilleran gasped.
“She died an hour ago.”
“What was given as the cause?”
“Gastrointestinal complications, aggravated by alcohol abuse.”
“No!” he said. It was impossible, he thought. She had hardly sipped her champagne at her birthday party, and she never touched hard liquor. Had Carter Lee coaxed her to try a Sazerac or some other exotic drink?. . . Then he remembered Koko’s anguished howling about an hour before.
“Qwill! Are you still there?”
“I’m here, Diane. I don’t know what to say. How am I going to break the news to Polly?”
“Would you like me to do it?”
“Thanks, but I think I should handle it—but not until her normal wake-up hour. I’ll go to her house and tell her in person. . . Yes, that’s the best way. Diane, you have no idea how much we appreciate your cooperation.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” she said.
After hanging up, he paced the floor and tried to sort out his reactions. He was shocked by the suddenness of it all. . . saddened by the loss of a young, productive, generous, well-loved daughter of Pickax. . . overcome with sympathy for Polly, who was losing her last link with “family”. . . and he was angry, too. It was not yet five o’clock, but he called Danielle’s number. The line was busy. He continued pacing the floor, and Koko watched with the anxious look that can widen a cat’s eyes. Who but Carter Lee could be calling her at this hour? After a few minutes he tried the number again and heard another busy signal. What could they be saying to each other that would take so long? Or did she have the phone off the hook? He went downstairs to start the coffeemaker and then called again.
When her number started ringing, he was in a mood to shout at her: Where’s your cousin? Why is he so secretive about his whereabouts? Have you been talking to him? Your line’s been busy for an hour! What have you been saying to each other, for God’s sake?
&nb
sp; When she answered in her ridiculous voice, he said calmly, “Danielle, I’ve just heard the terrible news. We’ve lost Lynette. Did Carter Lee call and tell you?”
“Yes, just now. How did you find out?”
“Our local doctor was in touch with the New Orleans hospital.”
“Isn’t it awful? My cousin’s a basket case. I was trying to buck him up.”
“I’d like to call him and express my sympathy. I’m sure any kind words will help at a time like this. Did you get his phone number at the inn?”
“He’s checked out already! He’s coming home. I told him to get here before the airport shuts down. He’s flying in today. He said he’d leave as soon as he made all the arrangements.”
“I’d be glad to meet the five o’clock shuttle—”
“He wants me to pick him up. There are some things he wants to tell me. Before she died, Lynette told him to carry on the work. He wants to make Pleasant Street kind of a memorial to her.”
“Did he say anything about funeral arrangements? There’s a beautiful place where four generations of Duncans have been laid to rest, and the last gravesite has been waiting for the last Duncan. Does he know about it?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Important funerals for important people are a Pickax tradition.”
“He didn’t say anything about that.”
“I see. Well, call me if there’s anything I can do.”
“He told me to break the news to Polly, but I don’t know how.”
“That’s all been taken care of,” Qwilleran said hastily and untruthfully. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
Fortified by this assortment of half-truths and white lies, Qwilleran squared his shoulders, planned his day, drank his coffee, fed the cats, brushed their fur, showered and shaved, and waited for seven o’clock.
At that hour he called the Riker residence, and Mildred said Arch was in the shower.
“Tell him to grab a towel and rush to the phone. This is important!”
Riker came on the line grumbling but curious.
Qwilleran said, “Save today’s front page for a major newsbreak.”
The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Page 18
