The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “At least it’s different,” Riker acknowledged reluctantly.

  “People around here like to be different,” Junior explained. “My next-door neighbor hangs his Christmas tree upside down from the ceiling, and there’s a restaurant in Brrr that charges a nickel for a paper napkin.”

  Roger said, “I know a farmer in Wildcat who doesn’t believe in daylight saving time. He refuses to move his clock ahead, so he’s an hour late for everything all summer.”

  “Okay, how about this one?” Hixie said. “I sold an ad to a little old lady in Smith’s Folly who sells candy, cigarettes, and pornographic magazines, and she mentioned the Fitch funeral. She said she’d never been to a funeral. She said all her family were buried in the backyard without any fuss.”

  Riker said, “I don’t believe a word of this nonsense.”

  “In Moose County I’ll believe anything,” Qwilleran said, “but Hixie is exaggerating about the magazines. I’ve been in that shop.”

  “It’s true!” she insisted. “The racy stuff is behind a curtain.”

  “Okay, you loafers, back to work,” Riker ordered. “Here comes the mailgirl with another sack.”

  Qwilleran wanted to leave, until he heard they were sending out for deli sandwiches. “What news on the police beat?” he asked Roger.

  “The investigation continues. That’s all they’ll say.”

  “That’s all they ever say. Have you had any tips that they’re closing in?”

  “Well, everyone seems to think it’s narrowing down to Chipmunk. That’s what people said from the very beginning. You know, I hate to see a town get a reputation like that. When I was teaching, I had some good students from Chipmunk. There are decent working-class families living in those low-rent houses, but a few hoodlums give the town a black eye.”

  Qwilleran was smoothing his moustache, and Riker noticed the familiar gesture. “If the police can’t solve the case, leave it to Qwill,” he said with mild sarcasm.

  “One thing I’ve been wondering,” Qwilleran said. “Harley’s wife never attended rehearsals at the Theatre Club. Didn’t like the people, I guess. So why was she going to attend on Tuesday night?” He waited for an opinion, but none was forthcoming. “Did she want to be out of the house? Did she know what was going to happen?”

  “Wow!” said Junior. “That’s a pretty radical idea.”

  “We don’t know what connections she might have had in Chipmunk. She might have collaborated in a plot to burglarize the house.”

  Roger said, “Her maiden name was Urkle, and they’re not a bad family. Belle wasn’t a good student; in fact, she dropped out. But she wasn’t a bad girl.”

  “Go ahead, Qwill. What’s your theory?”

  “Let’s say she supplied a key to the house and told her accomplices where to look for loot. But the timing was off, because David and Jill were delayed. When her confederates arrived, they were confronted by Harley. Maybe he recognized them, or maybe they were just trigger-happy and afraid he would identify them, so they killed him. Then Belle had to be silenced because she knew who had murdered her husband, and they feared she might crack under questioning.”

  “Wow!” said the young managing editor.

  “How many do you think were involved in the break-in?” Roger asked. “Everyone refers to murderers, plural.”

  “In any conspiracy, the fewer the better. I would say there was one to stand look-out in their vehicle, and another for the inside work. Being alone, he might have been overpowered by Harley, so he had to shoot . . . I get a sad picture of poor little Belle Urkle in her so-called rehearsal clothes, waiting upstairs, realizing the plot has failed, playing a scene she never rehearsed.”

  “Shall we have soft music in the background?” Hixie suggested.

  “She hears the shot downstairs. She’s terrified, not knowing what will happen next. She hears the killer coming up the stairs . . .”

  “You’d better go back to writing your novel, Qwill,” said Riker.

  Then Roger said, “One of the cops told me something interesting today—off the record, of course. In determining the time of death, they decided that Belle was shot first.”

  SCENE ELEVEN

  Place:

  The Old Stone Mill

  Time:

  Evening of the same day

  Introducing:

  ALACOQUE WRIGHT, architect from Cincinnati

  While waiting for Alacoque Wright to arrive, Qwilleran wrote two letters of condolence: one to Nigel Fitch on the loss of his son, and one to David and Jill on the loss of their brother. He had to work fast in order to seal the envelopes and affix the stamps before that maniac of a cat swooped in with his wet tongue. As soon as an envelope or stamp came out of the desk drawer, Koko stalked it with a quivering nose and an insane gleam in his eye.

  Next, Qwilleran prepared for company. He straightened the gunboat picture over the sofa, removed used coffee cups and scattered newspapers, put on his best suit, and filled the ice bucket with cubes. “Cokey is coming,” he said to the Siamese. “Try to be on your best behavior.”

  Koko made an ugly noise, halfway between a hiss and a snarl, and Qwilleran suddenly realized why. At that moment the doorbell sounded, and Cokey was admitted.

  There were hugs and kisses appropriate under the circumstances, and then Qwilleran said, “I can’t call you C-o-k-e-y any more. Koko will have a fit. He thinks it’s his name being spoken. Cats are jealous of their names. Koko doesn’t like anyone to touch his tail, pry open his mouth, or apply his name to any other entity—animal, vegetable or mineral. That’s why we have only ginger ale around the house and not that other popular beverage.”

  “That’s all right,” said Alacoque. “Call me Al. That’s what my husband always called me. How are you, Qwill? You’re looking so healthy, it’s indecent. I missed you the first time I was in town.”

  “I was Down Below, partying at the Press Club, inhaling polluted air and trying to get unhealthy again, so my old friends would recognize me.”

  “I must say there’s something about country living that agrees with you.”

  “You’ve changed, too,” Qwilleran said. “You’re looking older and wiser, if you don’t mind the dubious compliment.” Formerly addicted to clothes that she made out of drapery samples, she was now the sleek, well-dressed, self-assured, city-bred, successful career woman—in pantdressing suitable for climbing around a construction site.

  “There’s nothing like a good job and a bad marriage to make a girl look older and wiser,” she admitted ruefully.

  “I didn’t know about your marriage. Are you divorced?”

  “No, but I work in Cincinnati, and he’s driving a truck in San Francisco, where he belongs.”

  She volunteered no details, and Qwilleran asked no questions. Walking to the small serving bar incorporated in the bookshelves, he remarked, “I suppose you’re still drinking yogurt and prune juice.”

  “Lord, no! I’ll take Irish neat, if you have it . . . Is that Koko? He looks older and wiser, too.”

  “The little one is Yum Yum. You’ve never met her.”

  “She’s adorable. How’s your current love life, Qwill?”

  “I don’t know, frankly. I’ve been rather happy with a woman of my own age—a librarian—but she’s beginning to resent the young woman I’ve hired as my interior designer.”

  “Stick with the librarian, Qwill. You know how I feel about interior designers! Remember when I was a reluctant assistant in Mrs. Middy’s studio with all those calico lampshades and mammy rockers?” Alacoque looked around the living room with approval. “I’m glad to see you’ve furnished in contemporary.”

  “I find it comfortable, especially with a few old books and old prints thrown in.”

  “Do you like living up here?”

  “To my surprise, yes. I’ve always lived in big cities and had the big-city viewpoint, but people up here think differently and I find myself adjusting. Also, a town of this size has a human scale an
d a slower pace that I find comforting.”

  “That’s the second time in a minute and a half that you’ve mentioned comfort. Is that a sign of growing older?”

  “Older and smarter. In Pickax I walk a lot; I’ve lost weight, and I’m breathing better. We have fresh air, safe streets, minimal traffic, friendly people, boating in summer, skiing in winter . . .”

  “Does Pickax need an architect? Young, talented, friendly female wishes to apply.”

  “I may need an architect soon,” Qwilleran told her. “There’s an old apple barn on my property that I’d like to convert into a place to live.”

  “I’ve always wanted to convert a barn.”

  “We’re dining tonight at an old gristmill converted into a restaurant. I think you’ll approve of it—both the food and the architecture. But first I’d like to give you a scenic tour of Moose County, whenever you’re ready.”

  “Let’s go,” she said, draining her glass.

  * * *

  As they drove past farms, woods, lakes, and historic mine sites, Alacoque exclaimed over the grotesque shapes of weathered shafthouses, the stark remains of ghost towns, picturesque stone farmhouses, and a whole town of chinked log buildings on the lakeshore.

  “And now we’re coming into the Hummocks,” Qwilleran said, “where the affluent families have their estates.” The road swooped up and down nobby hills traced with miles of low, stone walls. Then he turned into a gravel road between stone pylons, marked PRIVATE. “This is the Fitch estate—hundreds of acres, in the family for generations. I’ve never been here before, but they say there are two interesting houses. One is a twenty-two-room mansion built in the twenties, and the other is a contemporary house that’s been photographed for a national magazine.”

  The road curved around hills, ascended the rounded crests and dipped down again, winding between woodland and meadow.

  “Gorgeous terrain!” Alacoque said. “Was it done by glaciers or bulldozers?”

  They crested a hill, and suddenly in the valley below there appeared a sprawling stone house with many chimneys—and two police cars in the driveway.

  “There was a murder here on Tuesday,” Qwilleran explained.

  “Was it a young banker and his wife?” Alacoque asked. “I heard the construction workers talking about it.”

  A sheriff’s car backed out of the drive and blocked the road as Qwilleran approached, and a brown-uniformed deputy strolled over to speak to him. “This road is closed, sir. May I see your driver’s license?” He glanced at the wallet Qwilleran offered, and his expression relaxed as he recognized the name and photograph of the richest man in the county. “Were you looking for someone, sir? There’s no one here, and no one at the other house, either.”

  “My passenger is an architect from Cincinnati,” Qwilleran replied. “She’s merely interested in seeing the exterior of David Fitch’s house. Its architecture has had national attention.”

  “I see,” said the deputy slowly, as he thought about it, bobbing his head until the tassels on his broad-brimmed hat danced. “You can drive up there if you want to. I’ll lead the way. There are some tricky forks in the road and some muddy spots.”

  The two cars proceeded slowly along the winding road. “Muddy spots!” Qwilleran said. “It hasn’t rained for a week.” There were no forks in the road, either.

  Up and down the gentle hills they moved until the spectacular house came in view.

  “Fantastic!” Alacoque cried. “It’s inspired by those shafthouses at the old mines!”

  The contemporary house was built of rough cedar. Five cubes, each smaller than the one below, were stacked to make an irregular five-story pyramid, until the top floor was merely a lookout over the valley below.

  The sheriff ambled over. “You can walk along the terrace if you want to. It has a good view. You can see the big lake from here.”

  “Do you know who did the construction?” Alacoque asked.

  “Caspar Young, ma’am.”

  “Do you know who designed it?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  As she studied the house from all angles, she remarked on the use of massive timbers, the cantilevered decks, the integration with the terrain, the fenestration, massing and site orientation, the planes and angles and voids. The deputy, who accompanied them closely, appeared to be impressed.

  Qwilleran thanked him and then followed the official car back down the road. He looked at his watch. “I want to see,” he said to Alacoque, “how long it takes to drive from here to the stone house, and exactly when and where it comes into view. I’m wondering how much warning the burglars had—how much time to pack their loot and make a getaway. David and Jill were late in picking up Harley and Belle. They said they had a plumbing emergency. If they had been on schedule, all this might not have happened. Did someone want them to be late? Was the plumbing emergency contrived?”

  “I suspect the plumber,” Alacoque said. “All plumbers look furtive to me.”

  The tour continued through Squunk Corners, the lakeside town of Brrr, and Smith’s Folly. Then they arrived at the Old Stone Mill, and Alacoque was enchanted by the former gristmill built of stone and nestled in a wooded setting. The old millwheel turned and creaked and shuddered as if it were still supplying power to grind wheat and corn. Within the building, timbers and floors were artfully bleached to the color of honey, and pale-oak tables and chairs contributed to the cheerful feeling of well-being.

  “Hello, Derek,” Qwilleran said to the tall busboy who was filling the water glasses with the air of one who owned the place. “You seem to be busy tonight.”

  “Friday, you know,” Derek explained. “How did the cats like the poached salmon this morning?”

  “It was a big hit! They even ate the capers.” Turning to his guest Qwilleran said, “This is Derek Cuttlebrink, purveyor of fine foods to Their Majesties, the Siamese, and a member of the Theatre Club.”

  “Hi!” said the busboy.

  “My guest has come all the way from Cincinnati to try your famous poached salmon, Derek.”

  “I have a cousin in Cincinnati,” he said.

  “Cincinnati is full of cousins,” Alacoque said with a disarming smile.

  Qwilleran asked, “Where’s my favorite waitress tonight?”

  “She quit. We have a new girl at this station. This is her first day. She’s pretty nervous, and she’s kinda slow, so give her a break.”

  Eventually a thin, frightened girl presented herself at the table. “I’m S-s-sally, your s-s-server. Today’s s-s-specials are clam chowder, oysters Rockefeller, and poached s-s-salmon. Would you like s-s-something from the bar?”

  “Yes, Sally,” Qwilleran said. “The lady will have Irish whiskey neat, and I’ll have Squunk water with a dash of bitters and a slice of lemon.”

  “S-s-quunk water with . . . what?”

  “A dash of bitters and a slice of lemon.”

  Alacoque was eager to talk about the theater—the two graceful stairways in the lobby, the rake of the amphitheater, the versatility of the staging area. “How good is your theater group?” she asked.

  “A cut above most amateur companies,” he said. “It was founded a hundred years ago and named the Pickax Thespians, but the present generation thought it sounded like deviant sex, so it was changed to the Theatre Club. The young man who was killed Tuesday was one of our best actors.”

  “What were the circumstances?”

  “He and his wife were gunned down in their home—the stone house where we encountered the police cars.”

  “Were they into drugs?”

  Qwilleran gave her a frigid glance. “No one is into drugs up here, Alacoque.”

  “That’s what you think. Do they know who killed them?”

  “They’ve been questioning suspects. Robbery was the obvious motive. They say the house is crammed with valuable collectibles, accumulated a couple of generations back. The family has old money, and they’re very well liked. Harley and his brother have al
ways been known as cooperative, outgoing guys with a lot of class.”

  “How about Harley’s wife?”

  “They’d been married only a short time. I never met her.”

  “I don’t know whether I should repeat this, but . . . the construction gang said she was a tramp.”

  “Did they offer any corroborative detail?”

  “No, but they all nodded and leered. Why would a man like Harley marry a girl with that reputation?”

  “Pertinent question. I’ve been wondering about that myself.”

  Her attention was wandering. She said, “There’s a woman over there who keeps looking at us. She’s with another woman.”

  “Describe her.”

  “Middle-aged, intelligent looking, neat hair, pleasant face. Hair slightly gray. Plain gray suit, plain white blouse.”

  “Size 16? Walking shoes? That’s my librarian,” he said. “I told her I was having dinner with an architect from out of town, and she assumed you wore a beard and smoked a pipe. I didn’t correct her. Now I’m in the doghouse for keeps.”

  “If you need consoling,” Alacoque said, “Young, talented, friendly female architect wishes to apply.”

  Suddenly there was a change of mood in the restaurant. The pleasant hum of diners’ voices was interrupted by an excited hubbub in the rear of the room. The doors to and from the kitchen were rapidly swinging in and out. Waitresses were whispering to their customers, who responded with little cries of emotion and shocked exclamations. One waitress dropped a tray on the hardwood floor. It was Sally, who fell to her knees, frantically scooping up cheesecake.

  Qwilleran flagged down the busboy. “What’s happening here?”

  “Sally heard the news and got all shook up, I guess. Lucky it was cheesecake and not soup or something.”

  “What news?” Qwilleran demanded.

  “Did you know Harley’s mother was in the hospital?”

  “Of course I knew that,” Qwilleran snapped impatiently.

  Derek glanced toward the kitchen. “Our salad girl’s mother is a nurse at the hospital. She just phoned and said Mrs. Fitch died.”