“One question, Simmons. Did you hear about the kidnapping of the parrots shortly after Thelma arrived?”
“No!” was the thundering reply. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She was afraid—or embarrassed. I wormed it out of her assistant. It happened on the Sunday of the big welcoming party. Two days before, she had been pictured with two parrots on the front page of the Something. But I say that had nothing to do with it. I say it was an inside job. Someone knew about her intense fondness for those birds. Someone knew the family would be out of the house—in fact, all of Pleasant Street was attending the party . . . with one exception. The O’Dells left early, and they saw a delivery van drive around behind the Thackeray house and leave a few minutes later.
“Someone knew that large, talkative birds require caging and covering. Someone knew about Thelma’s fabulous jewelry collection, hidden on the premises. The ransom demand specified an instant payoff—or else! Dick made himself a hero by making the transaction and bringing the parrots back alive.”
“And the girls didn’t suspect him?”
“If they did, Thelma chose to forget it . . . but there’s more to the story. On that same night, two vans met on a country road in Bixby County, and large square containers were transferred from one to the other. The sheriff decided they must have been TV sets stolen in a recent burglary at a television store. Before leaving, the driver of the loaded van shot and killed the other. I maintain that the shooter was Dick, and he drove off with the ransom as well as the birds. No doubt he knows a fence who handles stolen jewelry.”
Simmons said, “Someone’s got to warn that woman!”
“It would be more logical for a longtime friend and security aide to break the news,” Qwilleran said. “If you agree, I’ll give you some more ammunition. . . . When Bud Thackeray fell to his death in the Black Creek Gorge, it was ruled officially to be an accident. But there was a discrepancy between what Dick told the police and what Bud wrote in his last letter to Thelma. Dick, visiting his father, agreed to go hiking with him and would even buy some hiking boots. Yet, the newspaper clippings have Dick waiting for his father to come home from hiking, so they could go out to lunch.”
“If I wanted to be a devil’s advocate, Qwill, I could say that the reluctant hiker changed his mind. But, from what I know of this particular devil, he has mud on his boots.”
Two days after Simmons’s sudden departure, three days after the opening of the Film Club, and four days after the great electrical storm, Bushy phoned Qwilleran’s barn. “I’m in your neighborhood. Want to hear the latest installment in the Bushland-Thackeray story?”
Qwilleran knew the photographer had sent Thelma glossy prints of her and the parrots.
He knew Bushy had further ingratiated himself by making a print of her brother’s portrait—on matte paper suitable for framing.
He knew she had sat for her own portrait in Bushy’s studio, after which she said, “It’s the best likeness I’ve ever had. He captured the way I feel!”
Now what?
When Bushy arrived, they went to the gazebo with a thermal coffeepot and a plate of shortbread from the Scottish Bakery.
Bushy said, “There’s nothing wrong with shortbread that couldn’t be improved with chocolate frosting and chopped walnuts.”
“They’ll never let you into Scotland again, mon! Are you still wowing the potato chip heiress, Bushy?”
“Well, she told me she thinks balding men are sexy. I call her Lady Thelma, and she calls me Mr. Bushy. And yesterday she asked me to do a strange favor. She gave me a green card to the late-night show at the Film Club and asked me to do a little spying. That’s my word for it. She wanted to know what kind of people attend and how they behave. She said everyone at the early show is appreciative and well mannered.”
“Did you go?”
“I told her I’d be tied up until next week but I’d go Wednesday. She told me not to talk to anyone at the club. . . . What d’you think, Qwill? Doesn’t it sound like she suspects some kind of monkey business at the late show?”
“I believe the apartment dwellers across the street have complained about noise and rowdyism at three in the morning. I’ll be curious to know what you find out. . . . By the way, has she seen the prints of the hat shots?”
“Yeah, and she flipped over them!”
“Her nephew and Janice are transporting the hats up to Mooseville tomorrow, and I’m driving Thelma. So maybe I’ll have something to report.”
The twenty-four hatboxes were wedged tightly into Thelma’s van on Sunday afternoon. Thelma was as excited as a fond parent seeing her child play the lead in a high-school production of My Fair Lady. They took off with the van in the lead; Janice had driven up there before and knew the route. Once they were on Sandpit Road, it was straight going to Mooseville.
In an attempt to calm Thelma’s nerves, Qwilleran tried to entertain her with legends of Mooseville: the Sand Giant who lives in the dune overlooking the town and can be heard to grumble when angered . . . and the mysterious fate of the Jenny Lee, a fishing boat owned by Bushy’s ancestors . . . and—”
“Why are those ditches filled with water?” she asked.
“Those are drainage ditches that keep the farmers’ fields from being flooded after a heavy rain. You’ll notice a lot of farm equipment on this road.”
A large tractor was lumbering ahead of them at twenty miles an hour.
“You learn to be patient when you drive through farming country, and you don’t complain about mud on the road. This tractor won’t be with us long; it’s just transferring from one field to another.”
It was a two-lane country road, paved but muddy from the treads of farm equipment.
Qwilleran was following the Thackeray van, in front of which was the slow tractor.
Dick Thackeray, driving the van, was not patient. Several times he pulled into the southbound lane in an attempt to pass the slow-moving vehicle, but there was always a southbound vehicle that forced him back in line.
Qwilleran stopped talking and watched the maneuvering with apprehension. “Don’t try it, buddy,” he said under his breath. Dick tried it. He pulled out of line and accelerated. The tractor driver, from his high perch, waved him back. There was a pickup coming south. Its driver leaned on his horn. Dick kept on going—faster.
Thelma cried, “What is that fool doing?”
At the last minute, realizing he couldn’t make it, Dick veered left onto the southbound shoulder. It was muddy. The van slid toward the ditch, then toppled over into the water.
“Oh my God!” Thelma screamed. “My hats! . . . Janice!”
All traffic had stopped. Thelma was fumbling with her safety belt.
“No! Stay here!” Qwilleran was calling 911 on the cell phone. The truck driver could be seen doing the same. Thelma was fumbling for the door handle, and he grabbed her left forearm so tightly that she cried out in pain.
The farmer had jumped down and was heading for the van, which was upside down and half submerged. The truck driver waved all approaching traffic to the northbound lane—to keep the road open for emergency vehicles. In a minute or two their sirens could be heard; the First Responders . . . a sheriff’s patrol . . . the Rescue Squad . . . two ambulances, one from each direction . . . another patrol car . . . a tow truck with a winch.
Qwilleran had released his grip, and Thelma covered her face with her hands and moaned, “That fool! That fool!”
What could he say? How could he comfort her? He had seen the alligator-print boxes float away in the muddy ditch, then sink. He spoke her name, and there was no answer. Fearing she was in shock, he called to a deputy:
“She saw the accident. Family members are in the van. I’m worried. She’s in her eighties.”
A medic came to check her vital signs.
“She’s okay,” he reported to Qwilleran. “She’s angry that’s all. Madder’n a wet hen!”
The accident victims were lifted from the wreck and p
ut on stretchers, to be whisked by ambulance to the Pickax hospital.
Qwilleran said to Thelma, “They both seemed to be conscious. I’ll call the hospital after a while. Meanwhile I should make a few phone calls. Excuse me.” He stepped out of the car, taking the cell phone and a county phone book from the pocket in the door.
First he called Elizabeth Hart, who was shocked, then concerned about Thelma, then dismayed over the ruined plans.
He notified Thelma’s physician, Diane Lanspeak, at home in Indian Village.
He also called Celia O’Dell, who had been a volunteer caregiver and knew exactly what to do and say. She said she would be standing by. She was waiting for them when they returned to Pleasant Street. She asked Thelma if she would like a cup of cocoa.
“All I want is to sit in my Pyramid for a while.”
Soon, Dr. Diane phoned. She had called the hospital and learned that the two accident victims were being treated and released.
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He was not eager to face Thelma’s fool nephew and mouth the usual polite claptrap, and he was glad when Celia said her husband would pick them up.
It had not been Qwilleran’s idea of a pleasant Sunday afternoon in May.
And it was not over!
When he returned to the barn, the self-appointed monitor of the answering machine was going wild. It was mystifying how that cat could tell the difference between an important message and a nuisance call. Could he sense urgency in the tone of voice?
The first message was from Simmons: “Sorry to miss your call. I’ve been baby-sitting with the grandkids. My daughter has a fractured pelvis. Painful, but could be worse. As soon as things straighten out, I’ll read the riot act to Thelma—tell her what I learned from you about the kidnapping and her brother’s socalled accident. She should dump that guy!”
Qwilleran thought, Wait till he hears about the hats!
The message from Bushy was his espionage report. “The late-night film ended at midnight. Half the audience went home. The others went backstage for booze, slot machines and—believe it or not—a porno film on a smaller screen. It was that real sick stuff! How can I tell Thelma about this? She’ll have a stroke! I checked vehicle tags in the parking lot. Mostly from Bixby County.”
22
As someone who liked publicity, Thelma was getting more than her share. “Thackeray” had become a buzzword among headline writers in Moose County. Her opening of the Film Club and her magnanimous loan of the opera house to an animal-rescue cause put her in the limelight, but not all the news was good.
On Monday the banner headline read: 24 WORKS OF ART DROWNED IN DITCH. Dick Thackeray Cited for Reckless Driving.
On Tuesday the news was better but less dramatic: LOST CHURCH FOUND IN FOREST. Thackerays Buried in Graveyard of Tiny Log Chapel.
There was no name-dropping on Wednesday: PUBLIC REST ROOMS SLATED FOR DOWNTOWN PICKAX. Merchants and Shoppers Applaud Town Council’s Decision.
On Thursday morning Bushy stopped at the barn on the way to cover an assignment for the paper. “The newsroom is hot this morning. Thought you’d want to know. It ties in with the bad news I had to report to Thelma. If she didn’t have a stroke then, she’ll have one when she reads today’s headline.”
Thursday’s headline read: INDECENT EXPOSURE LANDS 3 IN JAIL. Members of Film Club Nabbed While Strip-Dancing in Parking Lot.
As soon as papers were delivered to the library, Polly phoned Qwilleran. “That poor woman! My heart bleeds for her! But I can’t think of anything we can do.”
He was silent.
“Qwill, did you hear what I said?”
“I’m thinking. . . . Thelma’s a trouper! She’ll drink a lot of cocoa and sit in her Pyramid and the club will continue as if nothing had happened.”
Later, to confirm his prediction, he phoned the club and heard a recorded message:
“Seats for tonight’s showing of Anna Christie featuring Garbo are sold out. If you want to make a reservation for future shows, press one. Next week’s billing: City Lights (1931). Charlie Chaplin’s last completely silent film.”
It wasn’t until Friday, however, that Qwilleran’s low blood pressure started to rise. His friends at the Something were always eager to tip him off. And in this case they knew he had a special interest in Thelma Thackeray.
First Bushy phoned from his van. “One of the guys in the lab was sent out to get a shot of the entrance of the Film Club. They say it’s closed until further notice.”
Roger MacGillivray, a longtime friend, phoned Qwilleran on the way to the police station. “There’s been a shooting at the club,” he said.
And the managing editor phoned and said, “Qwill, how fast can you get your copy in? We’ve got an early deadline. There’s been a murder.”
The Friday headline read: MANAGER OF FILM CLUB SHOT DURING BURGLARY. Dick Thackeray’s Body Found by Janitors. Safe Cracked.
Qwilleran was taken aback—not because of the murder; after all, Dick moved in questionable circles. What daunted him was Koko’s behavior in the middle of the night—not howling . . . more like . . . crowing! It had been the kind of strident, affirmative communication that could now be interpreted as “I told you so!” . . . That cat! At the time, when Qwilleran was wakened so rudely, he thought Koko had swallowed something unacceptable and he would upchuck in some unacceptable place. But now . . . the incident assumed new meaning.
Qwilleran sent Thelma flowers and a note of consolation, resisting the urge to say “Good riddance!” When he phoned Simmons in California, the security man said, “Well, that solves the security problem, doesn’t it? Too bad she won’t continue it and hire a manager. . . . I wouldn’t mind handling it myself. I’d enjoy working for her again.”
Then there was another call from Bushy. “Well how about it, Qwill? I feel sorry for Thelma. This really messes up her plans, doesn’t it? I wish there was something I could do. But I don’t want to step out of line.”
“How about taking her and Janice for a cruise Sunday afternoon. It’s peaceful out on the lake. It might be therapeutic. Call Janice and sound her out. I think she’ll agree.”
As for the author of the “Qwill Pen,” he had never really wanted to write a biography of Bud and Sis. But “The Last of the Thackerays” would make a fascinating legend for Short & Tall Tales. He would have to work fast if he wanted to interview her in depth; she was, after all, eighty-two.
He was not fast enough. In Monday’s newspaper there was a news bulletin important enough to warrant a remake of the front page. A black-bordered box focused attention on the sad news: “Thelma Thackeray, 82, died peacefully in her sleep early this morning, at her home on Pleasant Street. She recently returned from a sixty-year career in Hollywood, CA, to found Thelma’s Film Club. She was the last of the Moose County Thackerays. Obituary on Wednesday.”
Qwilleran subdued his urge to phone Janice for details, knowing she would be busy with helpful neighbors. Burgess Campbell, as the Duke of Pleasant Street, would be supervising the arrangements. Mavis Adams was Thelma’s attorney. Celia and Pat O’Dell would be enormously helpful.
He was surprised, therefore, when Janice called him. “May I drive over there, Qwill? I need your advice.”
Within a few minutes the green coupé pulled into the barnyard, and he went out to meet her. Besides her usual shoulder bag she was carrying one of Thelma’s capacious satchel-bags of soft leather. It was bulging as if it contained a watermelon. He refrained from commenting.
“Let’s sit in the library,” he said.
The old books that covered one wall of the fireplace cube from top to bottom made a comforting atmosphere for confidences.
“So many books!” she said.
“That’s only half of them. The rest are in my studio. . . . Now, how can I help you, Janice?”
“I don’t know whether I did the right thing.”
“What did you do?” he asked in a kindly voice, although he was bristling with curiosity. “
Would you like a little fruit juice? A glass of wine?”
“Well . . . yes . . . I think I’d like a glass of wine.”
The white Zinfandel relaxed her, but Qwilleran continued to bristle.
“Thelma’s always an early riser, and I knocked on her door to see if she’d like a cup of tea. She was still under the covers, but I got a sick feeling when I saw a liquor bottle on the bedside table—the bourbon that we bought for Mr. Simmons. Thelma’s always had chronic pancreatitis and was supposed to avoid stress and alcohol—”
“She’s had plenty of stress lately,” Qwilleran interrupted.
“Dr. Diane put ‘acute pancreatitis’ on the death certificate.”
They were both silent for a while, Qwilleran remembering how Thelma had said, “I’ve got to be a very good girl.”
Janice was fidgeting and glancing at Thelma’s handbag on the desk. “There’s something I want to tell you, Qwill . . . about what we did Thursday night. Or Friday morning, really. Thelma said she wanted me to drive her to the club at about two-thirty A.M., and she told me to take a nap and set the alarm clock for two o’clock. When we got there, a few cars were still in the lot, and we parked at the curb until they were all gone except Dick’s loaner. He wrecked his old van, you know.”
“I well remember!”
“She told me to stay in the car, and when she came out a few minutes later, she was smiling, and her big handbag was stuffed full of something. She said, ‘All’s well that ends well.’ One thing I had learned was not to ask questions. She was quite calm all weekend, sitting in her Pyramid and taking care of the Amazons, And Bushy invited us for a cruise on Sunday afternoon—not a party, just a quiet time on the water. I thought that was very sweet of him, and Thelma said it was just what she needed. We came home and she retired early, and the rest is kind of a blur.”
Cat Who Brought Down the House, the Unabridged Audio Page 17
