The Cat Who Sniffed Glue (11 page)

"Is he the one who built the big house in Middle Hummock?"
"Cyrus? Yes indeed! He was a big spender, a big-game hunter, a big collector, a big bootlegger, a big everything."
"Did you say bootlegger?"
"That was something he did on the side," Homer explained plausibly. "The family money came from mining. Cyrus built his house in West Middle Hummock so he could see the big lake from the top of one of the hills. Rumrunners brought the stuff over from Canada and landed on his beach."
"How did he get away with it?"
"Get away with it? One night he didn't get away with it! The sheriff confiscated the whole shipment and poured it on the dump in Squunk Corners. That's why Squunk water is so good for you!... Well, it's past my bedtime. Good night."
Qwilleran watched the old man making his exit with vigorous maneuvers of angular arms and legs. Then he caught Mildred alone at the bar. "You were telling me something interesting about Harley when we were interrupted," he said.
"Was I?" She paused to think. "I've had a few drinks... Was it about the tarot cards?"
"No, Mildred. It was something about Harley's disappearance after his graduation from Yale."
"Oh!... Yes... He was traveling... That's what the family said... Nobody believed it."
"Why didn't they believe it?"
"Well... you know... people around here... gossipy."
"Where did they think he was?"
"Who?"
"Harley."
"Oh!... Let's see... Ask Roger... I've got to sit down."
Qwilleran guided her to a chair and offered to bring her a sandwich and coffee. "How do you like it?"
"What?"
"The coffee."
"Oh!... Black."
When he returned with the food, someone told him that Mildred had gone to lie down in the staff lounge, so he ate the sandwich himself and sought out her son-in-law. "Better look after Mildred, chum. She's had too much to drink."
"Where is she?"
"Lying down for a while. She was mentioning Harley's mysterious disappearance a couple of years ago. Know anything about that?"
"Oh, sure. The family said he was traveling, but you know how we are up here. We get bored with the truth and have to invent something. Some people thought he was doing undercover work for the government. I thought he shipped out as a deckhand on a tramp steamer. He liked boats, and that's the kind of offbeat thing he'd do - probably grow a beard, wear a patch over one eye and stomp around like Deadeye Dick."
"He married Belle in Las Vegas. Was he a gambler?"
"I've never heard anything to that effect. If he had one consuming passion, it was sailing. The Fitch Witch was a neat boat-twenty-seven feet. He and Gary Pratt used to sail her in races and win trophies."
"Hmmm," Qwilleran said, as suspicion tickled the roots of his moustache. In the last few days-since Harley's murder, to be exact - Koko had taken a sudden interest in things nautical. Several times he had tilted the gunboat picture that hung over the sofa, sometimes violently. And the titles he had started sniffing on the bookshelves were sea stories. First it was Moby-Dick and then Two Years Before the Mast. Most recently it was Mutiny on the Bounty. Qwilleran had explained to himself and others that all cats tilt and sniff; they like to rub a jaw on the sharp comers of picture frames and smell the glue used in bookbinding.
Nevertheless, the nautical connection was a curious coincidence, he thought. And there was another mystifying detail: Koko had been excessively attentive to Harley at the birthday party... less than twenty-four hours before his murder - almost as if he knew something was going to happen.
-Scene Thirteen-
Place: Qwilleran's apartment
Time: Early Monday morning... and
TOO early Tuesday morning
Introducing: PETE PARROTT, a
paperhanger from Brrr
THE PHONE RANG early. It was Francesca. "Is Pete there yet?" she inquired.
"Who?"
"Pete, the paperhanger. He has the wallcovering for your studio, and he's going to deliver it this morning. He can install it today or hold off for a couple of days if you wish."
"The sooner the better," Qwilleran decided. "I'll be needing to use my studio the rest of the week. What's Pete's last name?"
"Parrott. Pete Parrott. He's the one who did your living room when you were out of town. He's the best in the county."
"And the most expensive, I suppose."
"You can afford it," she said, with a flippancy that irritated him. He had always disliked being told what to do with his money, whether he had much or little.
Quickly he started tidying his studio, stuffing papers into desk drawers and removing the debris of bachelor living: two coffee mugs, a tie, waste paper that had missed the basket, a pair of shoes, old newspapers, another coffee mug, a sticky plate, a sweater. He also locked up the cats in their apartment despite their vociferous objections; the busboy had not yet delivered their breakfast.
Then Qwilleran sat down to listen for the doorbell. When it finally rang at 9 A.M., it ushered in Derek Cuttlebrink, delivering chicken liver pate and two boned frog-legs for the howling Siamese. The busboy was in no hurry to return to his place of employment; he wanted to talk about the Theatre Club.
"Too bad they canceled the show just because Harley wasn't in it any more," he said. "I had a pretty good part-the policeman, you know. I even had my cop's uniform fitted. They had to lengthen the pants and sleeves."
"There'll be another play in the fall, and you can audition again," Qwilleran informed him.
"I'm thinking of going back to school in the fall and getting into law enforcement. It's a whole lot better than stacking dirty dishes. Wearing a uniform and riding around in a car all day - that's for me!"
"There's more to police work than wearing a uniform and riding around in a car, Derek, but it would be a good idea to complete your education in any event. By the way, how's our nervous waitress who dropped the tray of cheesecake Friday night?"
"Sally? She's okay. She's getting the hang of the job. But she's going to school in the fall - art school - somewhere Down Below. I wish I had her luck. Her tuition's all paid for - by Mr. Fitch."
"Harley Fitch?" Qwilleran asked with sudden interest.
"No, his father. That's why she was all shook up when he shot himself, although she's already got the money."
In his mind Qwilleran was matching up the suave, sophisticated, handsome banker with the timid, scrawny, stuttering waitress, and trying to imagine some kind of illicit connection.
As if reading his mind, the busboy explained, "Sally's dad is janitor at the bank."
"That's a unique fringe benefit," Qwilleran said. "Perhaps you should consider being a janitor instead of a cop." At 10 A.M. the paperhanger had still not arrived..
..
Eleven o'clock... One o'clock... Not until 2:30 did the white commercial van pull up to the carriage house. The driver was a burly young man in white coveralls and white visored cap, with thick blond hair bushing out beneath it. Healthy-looking young men with blond hair were in good supply in this north country.
"Sorry I'm late," he shouted from the bottom of the stairs. "Something came up, and I had to take care of it."
"I wish you had phoned."
"Tell the truth, I didn't even think of it. I was sort of messed up in an emergency."
At least he's honest, Qwilleran thought, and he has an honest face.
"Well, I'd better bring up my gear," he said. The Siamese, released from their apartment hours before, watched with interest as stepladders, a folding table, buckets, and boxes of tools came up the stairs.
Qwilleran said, "I was out of town when you papered the walls in the living room. You did a first-rate job."
"Yeah, I do good work."
"How long will it take you to do my studio?"
Pete appraised the room with a brief, professional glance. "Not long. Just short strips above the dado, and the plaster's in good shape. A little touch-up with spackle.
Pete wielded yardsticks, shears, knives, brushes, and rollers with swift assurance.
"You seem to know what you're doing," Qwilleran said in admiration. "I'm a confirmed don't-do-it-yourselfer."
"Been hanging wallpaper since I was fourteen," said Pete. "I papered some of the best houses in the county. Never had a complaint."
"That's a good track record. Did you ever paper the Fitch mansion in the Hummocks?"
Pete stopped abruptly and laid down his shears. The expression on his face was difficult to interpret. "Yeah, I been there, three or four times."
"That was a shocking incident Tuesday night."
"Yeah." Qwilleran noticed that he gulped.
"The police haven't made any arrests, but I understand they're questioning suspects."
"Yeah, they're doing their job." Pete went back to work but not as energetically as before.
"I've never seen the Fitch house," Qwilleran said. "What kind of wallpaper did they like?"
"Raw silk-very plain. I hung a lot of raw silk when Mr. and Mrs. Fitch lived there. Then they moved to Indian Village and wanted the same thing in their condo. They're got some spread!"
"Did you do any work for Harley and his wife when they moved in?"
"Yeah, I did the breakfast room in a crazy pattern with pink elephants. She liked everything jazzy. I did their bedroom, too- all red velvet."
"Would you like a cup of coffee or a cold drink or beer?" Qwilleran asked.
"I wouldn't mind something to drink. Coffee, I guess. Gotta stay sober on this job, even if it isn't all stripes."
Qwilleran thawed some frozen coffee cake in the microwave, pressed buttons on the computerized coffeemaker, and served the repast in the studio, among the ladders and paste buckets. Pete sat on the floor with the plate between his legs. Koko watched him with whiskers curled forward and then applied his nose to the man's shoes and pantlegs with the concentration of a bloodhound on a hot scent.
"Shove him away," said Qwilleran, who was also sitting on the floor with his coffee.
"He's okay. I like animals. This is good coffee cake."
" A friend of mine made it. Iris Cobb. She manages the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum."
"Yeah, I know her. I did some work for the museum. She's a good cook. I gained about ten pounds before the job was done.'"
"I wonder if they'll make the Fitch mansion into a museum now," said Qwilleran, edging back into the topic that interested him. "I doubt whether David Fitch wants to live there."
"Yeah, he has that crazy house up on the hill. I can't figure it out, but I guess they like it. They don't go in for wallpaper."
"Harley will be missed at the Theatre Club. He was a good actor and always high-spirited. I never met his wife. What was she like?"
Pete shook his head slowly in silent awe. "She had everything!" When Qwilleran registered surprise, he added, "She used to be my girl." There was another gulp.
Qwilleran waited for details, but none was forthcoming, so he said, "You knew her for quite a while?"
"Ever since she went to work for the Fitches - housework, you know. She lived there at the house. That's when I was I hanging the raw silk."
"Then you have a personal reason to resent this crime."
"Yeah," he said moodily.
"Why did you let her get away?"
"She didn't want a paperhanger, although I make good money. She wanted a rich man-someone to take her to Vegas and Hawaii and places like that. Well, she got him, but it didn't do her any good."
"A damn shame, Pete."
"Yeah, I really went for that girl." He turned an unabashed face to Qwilleran. "The reason I was late today - the police wanted to ask some questions."
"I'm sure they're questioning everyone who knew Belle. That's the way it's done."
"Yeah, but I guess they thought I had reasons for... killing them both."
After the work was finished and Pete had cleared out his ladders and buckets, it was late. Qwilleran had no desire to go out to a restaurant, so he thawed some frozen stew for himself and gave the cats the rest of their chicken liver pate. Yum Yum nibbled it daintily, but Koko lacked appetite. He prowled the living room nervously, as if a storm might be brewing, although nothing but fine weather was predicted.
"You liked the paperhanger, didn't you?" Qwilleran said to him, "and I think he liked you. He seems like a decent guy. I hope the police don't find a way to pin something on him."
Qwilleran was restless, too. He tuned in and rejected I four out-of-county radio stations before settling on WPKX for the local news:
A North Kennebeck motorist driving west on Ittibittiwassee Road narrowly escaped injury when a vehicle behind him, which had been speeding and weaving across the yellow line, passed recklessly, forcing him off the pavement. Following this and other similar incidents, the sheriff's department has announced a new war on drunk driving... In other news: Pickax will have posies this summer. Fifty flower boxes on Main Street have been planted with petunias... Sports news at this hour: The Pickax Miners beat the Brrr Eskimos in softball tonight, eight to three.
Next Qwilleran tried the out-of-town newspapers, but even the Daily Fluxion and Morning Rampage failed to capture his attention. He made a cup of coffee and drank only half of it. He wanted to phone Polly but was reluctant to do so; he would have to explain the female architect.
In desperation he pulled Moby-Dick off the shelf - a book he had not read since college days - and the first three words grabbed his attention: "Call me Ishmael." Halfway through the first paragraph he settled down with enjoyment. This was the kind of literature that he and Polly used to read aloud during lazy weekends in the country. He was still reading when the 2:30 A.M. freight train sounded its mournful whistle on the north side of town. The Siamese had long since fallen asleep.
And he was still reading when a succession of sirens screamed up Main Street. It sounded like three police cars and two ambulances. A major accident, he told himself. Another drunk driver leaving a bar at closing time. Reluctantly he closed the book and turned out the lights.
Qwilleran slept well that night and dreamed richly. He was embarking on a whaling voyage... seeing the watery part of the world... a sailor aloft in the masthead jumping from spar to spar like a grasshopper. He was not ready to give up his dreaming when the telephone jolted him awake.
"Qwill, have you heard the news on the radio?" It was Francesca. She and her father had a habit of phoning at an unreasonable hour.
"No," he mumbled. "What time is it?"
"Seven-thirty. There was a car-train accident last night."
"Did you wake me up to tell me that?"
"Wake up, Qwill, and listen to me. Three youths were killed when they rammed their car into the side of a moving freight train."
Qwilleran grunted. "Someone's going to get sued if they don't do something about those dark crossings: no street lights; no red Warning lights; no barricades." He was fully awake now. "Kids get a few beers, drive seventy in a forty-five-mile zone, with the radio blasting so they can't hear the train whistle. What does anyone expect?"