“Out in California they’re using cats to predict earthquakes.”
“That’s a whole different ballgame . . . How about more coffee? Your cup’s empty.”
“If I drank another cup of this battery acid, I’d be paralyzed from the neck down.”
“After the suggestion you just made, I think you’re paralyzed from the neck up. Who’s the leader of this gang of hoodlums? Isn’t there usually a leader? How old is he?”
“Nineteen and just out of high school. He comes from a good family, but he runs with a pack from Chipmunk. That’s the slummiest town in the county, I guess you know. They get a few cans of beer and go cruising in their broken-down crates.”
“What’s his name?”
Brodie seemed reluctant to reveal it. “Well, I’m sorry to say . . . it’s Chad Lanspeak.”
“Not the department-store heir! Not the son of Carol and Larry!”
The chief nodded regretfully. “He’s been in trouble ever since junior high.”
“That’s really bad news! His parents are just about the finest people in town! Community leaders! Their older son is studying for the ministry, and their daughter is premed!”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. Lanspeak is a good name. It’s hard to figure out how Chad got off the track. People say the third child is always an oddball, and it may be true. Take my three girls, for instance. The two older ones got married right after school and started families. I’ve got four grandkids, and I’m not fifty yet. But Francesca! She was the third. She was determined to go away to college and have a career.”
“But she returned to Pickax to work. You haven’t lost her.”
“Yes, she’s a good girl, and she still lives at home. That’s something we’re thankful for. The family is still together. But she’s all wrapped up in decorating and acting in plays.”
“She has talent, Brodie. She’s directing the next play at the Theatre Club. You should be proud of her.”
“That’s what my wife says.”
“Francesca is twenty-four, and she has to make her own choices.”
The police chief seemed unconvinced. “She could have married into the Fitch family. She dated David Fitch when they were in high school. That’s another fine old family. David’s great-grandfather struck it rich in the 1880s—in mining or lumbering, I forget which. David and Harley went to Yale, and now they’re vice presidents at the bank. Their dad is bank president. Fine man, Nigel Fitch! I thought sure I was going to have one of the boys for a son-in-law.”
Brodie looked away sadly. His disappointment was painful to witness.
“One of my daughters married a farmer,” he went on, “and the other one married an electrician with his own business. Decent fellas, they are. Ambitious. Good providers. But Francesca could have married David Fitch. She used to bring him and Harley home after school to listen to that noise the kids call music. They were real gentlemen. ‘Hello, Mr. Brodie’ and ‘How are you, Mr. Brodie?’ They liked to hear me play the pipes. Nice boys. Nothing snobbish about them at all. Full of fun, too.”
“They’re fine young men,” Qwilleran agreed. “I’ve met them at the Theatre Club.”
“Talk about talent! They’re in all the plays. They were the twins in a musical called “The Boys from Poughkeepsie” or something like that. Nigel is lucky to have sons like those two. Francesca really passed up a good chance.”
“Yow!” said Koko in a sudden irritable commentary on the conversation, as if he were bored.
“Well, to get back to my suggestion,” Brodie said. “Give it a thought or two. I’d like to break up this gang before they get into something worse, like torching barns or breaking into summer cottages or stealing cars. That can happen, you know.”
“Did you ever talk to Carol and Larry about their son?”
The chief threw up his hands. “Many times. They keep up a brave front, but they’re heartbroken. What parent wouldn’t be? The boy doesn’t live at home. He drifts around, shacking up wherever he can, partying all night. Never wanted to go to college.”
“What does he do for money?”
“As I understand it, his grandmother left him a trust fund, but he doesn’t get his monthly check unless he goes to college or works in the family store—Larry put him in charge of sporting goods—but he goofs off half the time and goes hunting or trapping. Poaching, most likely.”
“I feel bad about this,” Qwilleran said. “The Lanspeaks don’t deserve this kind of trouble.”
“You know, Qwill, you bachelors are lucky. You don’t have any problems.”
“Don’t be too sure.”
“What’s your problem?”
“Women.”
“What did I tell you!” Brodie said in triumph. “I told you they’d all be chasing after you. A fella can’t inherit millions like you did and expect to live a normal life. If you don’t mind some advice, I say you should get yourself a wife and get your name off the eligible list.”
“I had a wife,” Qwilleran said. “It didn’t work out.”
“So try it again! Marry a young woman and start thinking about heirs. You’re not too old for that.”
“When I go, I’m leaving everything to the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund. They’ll distribute it right here in Moose County, where the money was made and where it belongs.”
“I suppose all kinds of people are bugging you for handouts.”
“The Fund takes care of that, too. I turn everything over to them. They dole it out to charities and good causes and give me a little to live on.”
“Och! You’re a little daft. Did anybody ever tell you?”
“I’ve never wanted a lot of money or possessions.”
“I noticed that,” said Brodie, glancing around the room. “How many millionaires or billionaires live over the garage? Did you ever see how the Fitches live? Nigel and his wife have a double condominium at Indian Village, and Francesca says it’s really fixed up! Harley and his bride have the old Fitch mansion that looks like a castle. Twenty-two rooms! David and Jill have a new house that’s going to be on the cover of some magazine . . . I tell you, Qwill, Fran really blew it when she didn’t marry David Fitch. But it’s too late now.”
After Brodie had made his departure, maneuvering down the stairs and complaining about the narrow treads, Qwilleran mixed another cup of instant coffee in the four-by-four-foot closet that served as his kitchen. He also warmed up some two-day-old doughnuts in the miniature microwave.
Koko jumped down from the biography shelf and started prowling like a caged tiger, yikking and yowling because his breakfast was late. Yum Yum sat hunched up in a bundle of self-pity for the same reason.
“Cool it,” Qwilleran told Koko, after consulting his watch. “The chuckwagon will be here any minute.”
When he and the Siamese lived up front in the mansion, they had a housekeeper who spoiled all three of them with home-cooked delicacies. Now Qwilleran took lunch and dinner in restaurants, and the cats’ meals were catered by the chef at the Old Stone Mill. A busboy named Derek Cuttlebrink made daily deliveries of poultry, meat, and seafood that needed only to be warmed with a little of the accompanying sauce.
When Derek finally arrived with the shrimp timbales in lobster puree, he apologized for being late and said, “The chef wants to know how they liked the veal blanquette yesterday.”
“Okay, except for the Japanese mushrooms, Derek. They don’t like Japanese mushrooms. And tell him not to send marinated artichoke hearts—only the fresh ones. Their favorite food is turkey, but it must be off-the-bird—not that rolled stuff.”
He tipped the busboy and sat down to finish his coffee and watch the Siamese devouring their food. Each cat was a study in concentration—tail flat on the floor, whiskers swept back out of the way. Then they washed up fastidiously, and Yum Yum leaped into Qwilleran’s lap, landing as softly as a cloud and turning around three times before settling down. Koko arranged himself on the biography shelf and waited for the
dialogue to begin.
Qwilleran made it a policy to converse with the cats; it seemed more rational than talking to himself, as he had a tendency to do after living alone so long. Koko in particular seemed to enjoy the sound of a human voice. He responded as if he understood every word.
“Well, Koko, what do you think of Brodie’s ridiculous suggestion?”
“Yow,” said the cat with an inflection that sounded like disdain.
“The poor guy’s really disappointed that Fran didn’t marry into the Fitch family. I wonder if he knows she’s making a play for me.”
“Nyik nyik,” said Koko, shifting his position nervously. He had never been enthusiastic about any of the women in Qwilleran’s life.
Qwilleran had first met Fran Brodie when he started buying furniture from Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design. Amanda was middle-aged, gray-haired, dowdy, tactless and irascible, but he liked her. Her assistant was young, attractive and friendly, and he liked her also. Both women wore neutral colors that would not compete with the fabrics and wallpapers they showed to clients, but on Amanda the beige, gray, khaki and taupe looked drab; on Francesca’s willowy figure they looked chic. More and more Amanda retired into the background, running the business while her vivacious assistant worked with the clients.
Fran was tall like her father, with the same gray eyes and strawberry-blond hair, but her eyes had a steely glint of ambition and determination.
“She knows I’m involved with Polly Duncan,” Qwilleran said, “but it doesn’t slow her down. Polly warned me about joining the Theatre Club and hiring Fran, but I thought it was just female cattiness . . .”
“YOW!” said Koko sternly.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Let’s say it looked like an older woman’s jealousy of a young rival, and Fran is really on the make! I don’t know whether she’s after me or the Klingenschoen money.”
“Nyik nyik,” Koko said.
“The aggressiveness of the new generation is hard for me to accept. I may be old-fashioned, but I like to do the chasing.”
Francesca’s strategy was all too transparent. She had asked for a key to his apartment, in order, she said, to supervise the workmen and the delivery of merchandise. She brought wallpaper-sample books and furniture catalogues for his perusal, entailing consultations in close proximity on the sofa, with pictures and patterns spread out on their laps and with knees accidentally touching. She timed these tête-à-têtes for the cocktail hour, when it was only polite for Qwilleran to offer a drink or two, after which a dinner invitation was almost obligatory. She suggested that they fly Down Below for a few days to select furniture and art objects at design centers and galleries. She wanted to do over his bedroom with draped walls, a fur bedcover, and mirrored ceiling.
Francesca was attractive without doubt. She bubbled with youthful vitality, wore enticing scents, and had legs that looked provocative with high-heeled sandals. Having turned fifty, however, Qwilleran was beginning to feel more comfortable with women of his own age who wore size 16. Polly Duncan was head librarian at the Pickax Public Library, and she shared his interest in literature as no other woman had ever done. Following the tragic death of her husband many years before, she was now rediscovering love, and her responses were warm and caring, belying her outward show of reserve. They were discreet about their relationship, but there were few secrets in Pickax, and everyone knew about the librarian and the Klingenschoen heir, and also about the interior designer.
“Polly is getting edgy,” Qwilleran said to his attentive listener. “I don’t like what jealousy does to a woman. She’s intelligent and admirable in every way, and yet . . . the brainiest ones sometimes lose control. Sooner or later there’s going to be an explosion! Do you think librarians ever commit crimes of passion?”
“Yow,” said Koko as he scratched his ear with his hind foot.
SCENE TWO
Place:
Downtown Pickax
Time:
The following morning
Cast:
HIXIE RICE, a young woman from Down Below
EDDINGTON SMITH, dealer in used books
CHAD, the black sheep of the Lanspeak family
Construction workers, pedestrians, clerks
Qwilleran decided to take a casual walk downtown after hearing the 9 A.M. newscast on station WPKX. “Vandals opened fire hydrants during the night, seriously draining the city’s water supply and impeding firefighters called to a burning building on the west side.”
As a veteran journalist who had written for major newspapers around the country, Qwilleran despised the headline news on the radio—those twenty-five-word teasers sandwiched between two hundred-word commercials. They only fueled the feud between the print and electronic media. He stormed around his apartment, ranting aloud—to the alarm of the Siamese.
“How many hydrants were opened? Where were they located? What was the extent of water loss? What was the cost to the city? Whose building burned as a result? When was the vandalism discovered? Why did no one notice the gushing water?”
The Siamese flew about the apartment as they always did when Qwilleran went on a rampage.
“Well, never mind. Excuse the outburst,” he said in a calmer mood, tamping his moustache. “In a few days we’ll get our news from print coverage.”
Moose County had been without a good newspaper for several years, and now the situation was about to be corrected. Thanks to the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund and some prodding from Qwilleran, a paper of professional caliber would hit the streets on Wednesday next.
Meanwhile, there were only two adequate sources of news. One could plug into the grapevine that flourished in the coffee shops, on the courthouse steps, and over back fences. Or one could wander into the police station when the talkative Brodie was on duty.
“I’m going downtown to do a few errands,” Qwilleran informed his housemates. “Mr. O’Dell will be coming in to clean, and he has orders not to give you any handouts, so don’t put on your phony starvation act. See you later.”
Koko and Yum Yum listened impassively and then accompanied him to the head of the stairs, where they both rubbed jaws against the Mackintosh coat of arms until their fangs clicked on the wrought iron. Qwilleran often wondered about their silent farewells. Were they sorry to see him go, or glad? Were they worried or relieved? Who could tell what was behind those mysterious blue eyes?
He always walked downtown. Everything in Pickax was within walking distance, although few of the locals ever used their legs for transportation. As he walked down the long driveway, the construction crew working on the renovation of the mansion greeted him jovially, and the job supervisor tossed him a hard hat and invited him into the building to inspect their progress.
The Klingenschoen mansion, three stories high and built of fieldstone two-feet thick, had been completely gutted in preparation for the conversion, and the interior was redesigned to provide amphitheater seating, a thrust stage, a professional lighting system, and adequate dressing rooms. It would seat three hundred and would be the new home of the Theatre Club.
“Will it be finished on schedule?” Qwilleran asked.
“Hopefully, if the architects don’t give us any flak,” said the supervisor. “Someone’s flying up from Down Below to make an inspection next week. I hope they don’t send that girl architect. She’s a tough baby.”
Qwilleran chuckled at the remark. The architectural firm was a Cincinnati outfit specializing in small theater design, and the “tough baby” was Alacoque Wright, a flighty young woman he had dated Down Below before she eloped with an engineer. He resumed his walk, marveling at the quirks of fate and anticipating a reunion with Cokey.
The three blocks of Main Street that constituted downtown Pickax were unique. In its heyday the town had been the hub of the mining and quarrying industry in the county, and all commercial buildings were constructed of stone. What made the cityscape unusual was the design of the stores and office buildings, which masqueraded as mi
niature castles, temples, fortresses and monasteries, reflecting the flamboyant taste of nineteenth-century mining tycoons.
Walking past the public library (housed in a Greek temple), Qwilleran automatically looked for Polly Duncan’s cranberry-red car in the parking lot. In front of the lodge hall (a small-scale Bastille) a volunteer shaking a canister for the “Save Our Snakes” fund flashed an irresistible smile, and he donated a dollar. As he passed Scottie’s Men’s Shop (a Cotswold cottage) a young woman breezed out of the store with her hair flying, her shoulder bag flying, and yards of skirt flying. It was Hixie Rice, the exuberant advertising manager of the new Moose County newspaper. She had been his neighbor Down Below, and he had been instrumental in bringing her to Pickax.
“Hi, Qwill!” she trilled.
“Morning, Hixie. How’s it going?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe! I sold Scottie a double spread for the opener, and he signed a twenty-six-week contract. Even that weird bookstore took a quarter page. And today I’m lunching at the country club with three bankers! Nigel Fitch is charming, and his sons are adorable, especially the one with a moustache. Too bad they’re all married.”
“I didn’t know that made much difference to you.”
“Forget my lurid past Down Below,” she said with an airy gesture. “In Pickax I’m totally discreet. I’ve given up married men, cigarettes, and high heels. I bought seven pairs of skimmers at Lanspeak’s, and I skim everywhere. What are you doing for dinner tonight? I’ll buy.”
“Sorry, Hixie, but I’ve got a date.”
“Okay. Catch you later.” She skimmed across Main Street in the middle of the block, dodging cars, vans, and pickups with deft footwork, throwing kisses to the drivers who whistled in appreciation or honked horns in annoyance.
Qwilleran headed for the bookstore that Hixie called weird. For once she had not exaggerated. It literally crouched on the backstreet behind Lanspeak’s department store. Rough stones were piled up to simulate a grotto, and the stone was feldspar; on a sunny day it glittered like the front of a burlesque house. Hanging alongside the front door was a weathered sign, almost illegible: EDD’S EDITIONS. In the grimy front window were old books with drab covers, and one drooping potted plant.
The Cat Who Sniffed Glue Page 2
