Koko, he admitted once again, was amazing. He couldn’t spell; neither could he add or subtract. He bypassed the three Rs because he knew everything instinctively. He was psychic! Qwilleran often asked himself, How did I happen to adopt the only psychic cat in captivity? It never occurred to him that Koko may have made it happen, just as he had engineered Qwilleran’s presence on the nature trail at a vital moment.
Without further unpacking, Qwilleran phoned the police chief at home. “Andy, I got your phone message, and now I have some information—”
“Where are you?”
“Back at the apple barn, but I was on the island during the storm.”
“How was it?”
“Halfway between terrifying and boring. Want to run over for a confidential chat and a nip of the good stuff?”
“Be there in three minutes.”
Galloping paws were thundering up the ramps, around the balconies, across the beams, back down to the mezzanine level, from which they swooped to a cushioned chair on the main floor. After two weeks of confinement, they had rediscovered SPACE. Qwilleran said to them, “I swear never to subject you guys to that ordeal again!”
While waiting for Brodie he took another look at the note from Dwight Somers:
Didn’t want to give you this dope over the phone (I used Watergate tactics to get it) and I’m leaving the island on the next ferry. I quit this crummy job! Have an appointment with a firm in Lockmaster—sounds good. Noisette’s last name is duLac. Permanent residence: Lake Worth FL. Hope this helps.
Almost immediately a vehicle could be seen weaving through the woods and bouncing on the rutted road. It was an occurrence that always excited Koko.
“It’s the law!” Qwilleran warned him. “Please, no catfits!”
Andy parked at the back door and came blustering through the kitchen. “This had better be good! You pulled me away from a TV special on Edinburgh.”
“If it isn’t good enough to take to the prosecutor, I’ll buy you and your wife dinner at the Old Stone Mill.”
Andy’s Scotch was ready—with a little water and no ice—and the two men took their glasses into the lounge, where the chief sank into the cushions of an oversize chair. “I hear the hotel got hit bad, just as I predicted.”
“The ancient gods of the island have had a curse on the Pear Island resort from the beginning.”
“You can’t fight nature…any more than you can fight City Hall. So what have you got? Hard evidence or soft clues?”
“I’ve got a hack saw blade, some signals from Koko (who’s never wrong), and enough two-and-two to put together and make a case of sabotage, bigamy, arson, murder, and several counts of attempted murder. Everyone tried to explain them away as accidents, but I maintain they were the result of two criminal plots, both masterminded by the black sheep of a wealthy family from Chicago. Finding himself married to June Halliburton and Noisette duLac at the same time, he got rid of one wife and helped the other wife to get rid of her husband. I’d guess that both murders were accomplished by drugging the drinks of the victims. Then June’s mattress was set afire, and George duLac fell into the hotel pool, probably with a gentle assist.
“Both of these incidents,” Qwilleran pointed out, “made unfavorable publicity for the resort but were actually subplots. The major campaign to harass the resort and undermine its tourist business was engineered by the bigamist and an employee at his family’s estate. I’ll name names when I talk to the prosecutor.”
“How much of this is guesswork on your part?” the chief asked.
“You can call it what you like, but it’s deduction based on observation, reports from witnesses, and tips from Koko.” Qwilleran went into a few details regarding the gumbo poisoning, the finding of the hack saw blade, and the argument in the stable. He thought it best not to mention the dominoes. Brodie’s admiration for Koko’s occult talents had its limits. “Freshen your drink, Andy?”
“fust a wee dram.”
On Saturday all three of them—the man and his two animal companions—found themselves in a post-vacation, post-hurricane lethargy. The Siamese curled up in their old familiar places; Qwilleran lolled around and refused to answer the telephone. Later, when he checked his answering machine, there were these messages:
From Fran Brodie: “Thanks for sending me Ms. Cage. I’m doing an apartment for her at Indian Village.”
From Polly Duncan: “Sorry I was snippy last night. I was travel-weary. I’m dying to tell you about my big decision.”
From Mildred Riker: “If you’ll invite us for drinks tomorrow, I’ll bring a casserole and a salad. Want to hear about the hurricane and Polly’s vacation.”
On Sunday evening the Rikers arrived with food and bad news: The high winds had damaged the new addition to their beach house. Polly arrived with her roll of papers and good news. “When I told my friend in Oregon that I intended to keep my carriage house apartment in the new college complex, she convinced me I should own my own home. She’s an architect, and we spent the whole time planning a house—two stories high, so Bootsie can run up and down stairs. All I need to do is find a piece of land that’s not too remote and not too expensive.” She unrolled the architect’s sketches and spread them on the coffee table.
Riker applauded. Mildred was thrilled. Qwilleran felt much relieved. He said, “There are two acres at the far end of the orchard, where the Trevelyan farmhouse used to be. I’ll sell them for a dollar.” Then everyone applauded.
When they asked him about the hurricane, he shrugged it off. “When you’ve seen one hurricane, you’ve seen ’em all.” He captivated them, however, with the tale of the missing lightkeepers.
Mildred said, “Why is everyone mystified? It’s perfectly obvious that the men were plucked off the island by a UFO.”
No one applauded, but Koko said “Yow-ow-ow” in what seemed to be an authoritative affirmative.
Glibly Qwilleran explained, “He smells the casserole in the oven.”
“Okay, Qwill,” said Riker. “What was your real reason for going to Breakfast Island? You didn’t fool me for one minute, and you’ve filed only one piece of copy in two weeks.”
“Well, you know, Nick Bamba was concerned about the series of accidents on the island, and he wanted me to go over there and poke around for evidence of foul play; but…there were three plainclothes detectives from the state police on the scene, so I told myself, Why get involved?”
“Now you’re getting smart,” the editor said. “I’ve always told you to mind your own business.”
The Rikers left fairly early. Qwilleran drove Polly home and returned to the barn fairly late. He gave the Siamese their bedtime snack, and then the three of them enjoyed their half-hour of propinquity before retiring: Qwilleran sprawled in his big chair, Yum Yum curled on his lap with chin on paw, and Koko on the arm of the chair, condensing himself into an introspective bundle of fur. Satisfied with his treat and contemplating lights-out, Koko looked like anyone’s pampered pet, and yet…
Qwilleran asked himself the questions that would never be fully answered:
When Koko tore the month of June off the calendar, did he know that June Halliburton would lose her life next door?
When he ruined my good clothes and stopped me from visiting the merry widows, did he know what lay ahead on the nature trail? Otherwise, I would never have met the royal family or heard their daughter’s story of royal intrigue. Or was it all coincidence?
When Koko threw his catfit and dislodged the tragedy mask, was it because it looked like the dissipated Jack Appelhardt?
And how about his raid on the nutbowl? Did he know that the French word for hazelnut is noisette?
And how about the dominoes? “Level with me, Koko,” Qwilleran said to the sleepy cat at his elbow. “Do you get a kick out of swishing your tail and sending them flying off the table? Or do you know what you’re doing?”
Koko squeezed his eyes and opened his mouth in a cavernous yawn—showing his fangs, exposing
a pink gullet, and breathing a potent reminder of his bedtime snack.
And now, a special excerpt
from the bestselling mystery starring
Qwilleran, Koko, and Yum Yum…
THE
CAT WHO BLEW
THE
WHISTLE
Available in paperback
from Jove Books
The engineer clanged the bell. The whistle blew two shrill blasts, and the old steam locomotive—the celebrated Engine No. 9—huff-puff-puffed away from the station platform, pulling passenger cars. She was a black giant with six huge driving wheels propelled by the relentless thrust of piston rods. The engineer leaned from his cab with his left hand on the throttle and his eyes upon the rails; the fireman shoveled coal into the firebox; black cinders spewed from the funnel-shaped smoke stack. It was a scene from the past.
Yet, this was a Sunday afternoon in the high-tech present. Thirty-six prominent residents of Moose County had converged on the railway station in Sawdust City to pay $500 a ticket for a ride behind old No. 9. It was the first run of the historic engine since being salvaged and overhauled, and the ticket purchase included a champagne dinner in a restored dining car plus a generous tax-deductible donation to the scholarship fund of the new community college.
When the brass bell clanged, a stern-faced conductor with a bellowing voice paced the platform, announcing, “Train leaving for Kennebeck, Pickax Little Hope, Black Creek Junction, Lockmaster, and all points south! All abo-o-oard!” A yellow stepbox was put down, and well-dressed passengers climbed aboard the dining car, where tables were set with white cloths and sparkling crystal. White-coated waiters were filling glasses with ice water from silver-plated pitchers.
Among the passengers being seated were the mayors from surrounding towns and other civic functionaries who found it in their hearts, or politics, to pay $500 a plate. Also aboard were the publisher of the county newspaper, the publications’ leading columnist, the owner of the department store in Pickax, a mysterious heiress recently arrived from Chicago, and the head of the Pickax Public Library.
The flagman signaled all clear, and No. 9 started to roll, the cars following with a gentle lurch. As the clickety-clack of the drive wheels on the rails accelerated, someone shouted, “She’s rolling!” The passengers applauded, and the mayor of Sawdust City rose to propose a toast to No. 9. Glasses of ice water were raised. (The champagne would come later.)
Her black hulk and brass fittings gleamed in the sunlight as she chugged across the landscape. Steel rumbled on steel, and the mournful whistle sounded at every grade crossing.
It was the first run of the Lumbertown Party Train.…No one had any idea it would also be the last.
The morning after the train ride and the afterglow at Polly’s apartment, nothing disturbed Qwilleran’s deep sleep until the telephone rang at nine o’clock. He had slept through the yowling demands coming from the top balcony; he had slept through the rumble of the cement-mixing truck down the lane. He thought it was predawn when he said his sleepy hello into the bedside phone.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you up yet?” Arch Riker shouted at him. “All hell’s breaking loose! Didn’t you hear the news from Sawdust City?”
“Only on the radio last night,” Qwilleran replied with a lack of energy or interest. “Any more news?”
“Only that Floyd Trevelyan can’t be reached for clarification. It sounds like a bust! It must be a major case to warrant surprise action like this—on a Sunday, for Pete’s sake!”
Always grouchy before his first cup of coffee, Qwilleran replied with irritable sarcasm, “I can imagine a SWAT team of bookkeepers in business suits and knit ties, armed with portable computers, parachuting down on the Lumbertown office and kicking in the doors.”
“You’re not taking this seriously,” the publisher rebuked him. “Consider the timing! It happened while the evening excursion was in progress. The Capitol gang evidently knew the schedule of the Party Train.”
“Thanks to Dwight Somer’s hype, everyone in three states knew the schedule.”
“Anyway, we’ll soon find out what it’s all about. Junior is contacting the state banking commission, and Roger’s on his way to Sawdust City, via Trevelyan’s home in West Middle Hummock. We’ll have a story for the front page, and if my hunches are right, it’ll bump the Party Train to page three.…Talk to you later.”
Now that Qwilleran was awake, more or less, he pressed the Start button on the coffeemaker and shuffled up the ramp to release the Siamese from their loft. As soon as he opened their door, they shot out of the room like feline cannonballs and streaked down to the kitchen. Qwilleran followed obediently.
“Yow-ow-ow!” Koko holed upon arriving at the feeding station and finding the plate empty.
“N-n-now!” echoed Yum Yum.
As Qwilleran opened a can of red salmon, crushed the bones with a fork, removed the black skin, and arranged it on two plates, he thought, Cats don’t fight for their rights; they take them for granted. They have a right to be fed, watered, stroked on demand, and supplied with a lap and a clean commode…and if they don’t get their rights, they quietly commit certain acts of civil disobedience.…Tyrants!
The two gobbling heads were so intent on their salmon that even the loud bell of the kitchen phone failed to disturb them.
This time the call was from Polly. “Qwill, did you hear about the state audit in Sawdust City? What do you think of the timing?”
“It looks fishy,” he said, having gulped his first cup of coffee and geared up his usual cynicism. “Any crank can call the hotline to the state auditor’s office and blow the whistle on a state-regulated institution. One of the universities was investigated for misuse of funds, you remember, and it was a false alarm—the work of an anonymous tipster. In Trevelyan’s case, the tip could be a spiteful hoax perpetrated by a customer who was refused a loan.”
“That’s terrible!” she said.
“In a way,” he said, “it’s better to embarrass the management than to barge into the office with a semiautomatic and wipe out innocent depositors.”
“Oh, Qwill! Things like that don’t happen up here.”
“Times are changing,” he said ominously.
There was a pause on the line before she said softly, “I slept beautifully last night. It was a wonderfully relaxing day and evening—just what I needed. I’ve been worrying too much about my house.”
“No need to worry, Polly. I’ll keep an eye on the action at the end of the trail—when I go down to the mailbox—and I’ll keep you informed.”
“Thank you, dear. À bientot!”
“À bientôt.”
Qwilleran poured another mug of the blockbuster brew he called coffee and sat down at the telephone desk to call a number in Indian Village. “Dwight, this is Qwill,” he said soberly.
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” the publicity man wailed. “What the hell’s going on? I didn’t hear the news until this morning, on the air. I called Floyd’s number in West Middle Hummock, but he wasn’t home.”
“Who answered?”
“His wife. She sounded as if she didn’t know anything had happened, and I didn’t want to be the messenger bringing bad news.”
“I didn’t meet his wife when I was there.”
“She usually stays in her room, confined to a wheelchair. I don’t know exactly what her problem is, but it’s one of those new diseases with a multisyllabic name and no known cure. What a shame! All that money, and she can’t enjoy it.”
“Hmmm,” Qwilleran murmured with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. “So what happened? Could she tell you where he was or when he’d be back?”
“Well, she’s quite frail and speaks in a weak voice that’s hard to understand, but I gathered that he came home last night and went out again. Just between you and me, I think it’s not unusual for him to stay out all night. Anyway, the nurse took the phone away from Mrs. T and told me not to upset her patient. So I asked to speak to
the daughter, but she wasn’t home either. The way it works: A nurse comes every morning, a companion every afternoon, and the daughter stays with her mother overnight.”
“Sad situation,” Qwilleran said. “Do you know anything about matters in Sawdust City?”
“No more than you do. You know, Qwill, I worked my tail off, getting that show on the road yesterday—”
“And you did a brilliant job, Dwight. Everything was perfectly coordinated.”
“And then this bomb dropped! Talk about suspicious timing! It couldn’t be purely coincidental.”
“Is Floyd mixed up in politics?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Has he made any enemies in the state bureaucracy? Did he support the wrong candidate for the legislature?”
“Not that I know of. Maybe he distributed a little judicious graft here and there; he had no trouble getting a liquor license for the train, you know. But no. He’s bored with politics. If it doesn’t have steel wheels and run on steel tracks, he’s not interested.”
Qwilleran said, “I’m sorry about this for your sake, Dwight. Let’s hope it’s a false alarm.”
“Yeah…well…it was a kick in the head for me, after I’d tried so hard to create a favorable image for Floyd and Lumbertown and Sawdust City.”
“One question: Was Floyd a passenger on the six o’clock train?”
“No, he had to go home and take care of his wife —he said! I went on both runs, and I’ve had enough accordion music to last my lifetime!”
“Arch has the staff digging for facts, so it’ll be in the first edition if anything develops. If you hear any rumors, feel free to bounce them off a sympathetic ear. And good luck, whatever the outcome, Dwight.”
“Thanks for calling, Qwill. How about lunch later in the week when I’ve finished licking my wounds?”
The Cat Who Came to Breakfast Page 22
