Read The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Online
Authors: Lilian Jackson Braun
The Cat Who Tailed a Thief (13 page)
They separated, then met again where Qwilleran was buying sliced turkey breast for the cats and some Greek olives for himself. Celia was eating cheese spread on a cracker. She slipped him something in a paper napkin and then disappeared in the crowd. It was the tape.
* * *
What he heard when he played Celia’s recording impressed him as a boy-meets-girl script for over-sixties. Her friendly voice alternated with a hoarse male twang:
“Are you Mr. Breze? Hi! I’m Celia Robinson from the manager’s office.”
“Howdy! Sit down. Have a drink.”
“How do you like this weather? Pretty cold, isn’t it?”
“No good for the rheumatiz!”
“That’s a nice-looking shirt you’re wearing. I like to see a man in a plaid shirt.”
“Wife give it to me eight years ago. ’Bout ready to be washed. Heh heh heh.”
(Female laughter.) “Oh, Mr. Breze! You’re so funny!”
“Call me George. You’re a nice-lookin’ woman. You married?”
“I’m a widow and a grandmother.”
“Have a slug o’ whiskey. I’m divorced. Wife run off with a hoedown fiddler.”
“Is that why you’re living in the Village?”
“Yep. Gotta house on Sandpit Road—too big for just me. Know anybody with ninety thou to throw away?”
“Ninety thousand! It must be quite a fine house.”
“Well, the roof don’t leak. If I find me another woman, I’ll keep the house and fix it up. There’s a feller what says I can get money from the guv’ment to fix it up. Showed me some pitchers, what it’d look like. Mighty purty pitchers.”
“That sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? Who is this man?”
“Young feller. Lives here in the Village. Don’t know his name. . . Have a snort. I’m havin’ another. What’s your drink?”
“Thanks, but I never drink on the job.”
“Don’t go away. Be right back. (Pause.) Well, here’s mud in yer eye! What’s yer name?”
“Celia Robinson. I’m substituting for Lenny Inchpot while he’s away. Do you know him?”
“Sure. He got thrown in jail for stealin’.”
“But people tell me he’s a very honest young man. He’s going to college part-time.”
“That don’t make him honest. They found the goods on ’im, di’n’t they?”
“I wonder who tipped off the police to look in Lenny’s locker.”
“Warn’t me!”
“Do you know what kinds of things were stolen?”
“Nope. Di’n’t say on the radio. Maybe it said in the paper. Don’t read the paper.”
“Why not, Mr. Breze? It’s a very good one.”
“Call me George. It’s a waste o’ time readin’ the paper. I’m a successful businessman. I don’t need to read. I can hire people to read and write.”
“Are you telling me you can’t read, Mr. Breze?. . . George?”
“Could if I felt like learnin’. Never took the time. Too busy makin’ money. Plenty o’ people can read and write, but they’re broke.”
“What kind of business are you in. . . George?”
“Any goldurned thing that’ll make money. Wanna job? Can you cook?”
(Click)
When the tape clicked off, Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. It was the old duffer he had tried to interview during the mayoralty campaign—the candidate who made news by polling only two votes. His house was an ugly, square, two-story barracks with a hip roof and a tall brick chimney rising from its center. Local wags said it looked like a plumber’s plunger. A sad piece of real estate, it had no trees or shrubs, no grass, no window shutters, not even any paint. Breze himself was either pathetically naive or arrogantly ignorant.
Koko had been listening and making gurgling noises that sounded sympathetic, and Qwilleran suddenly felt sorry for Old Gallbladder. He had suspected the despised fellow on the basis of prejudice, not evidence. In fact, the moustache that was the source of Qwilleran’s hunches had been entirely dormant during Operation Winter Breeze. . . So, if Breze didn’t steal the goods and rig Lenny’s locker and tip off the police, who did?
It was the weekend before the wedding, and Qwilleran and Polly were together again. As a peace offering he gave her the jewel box of polished horn and brass that he had been saving for February 14. For her valentine he had ordered a state-of-the-art stereo from a catalog.
Polly said one evening, “I always thought Lynette and Wetherby Goode might get together. She admires his whimsical weathercasting style, and they both play bridge, and he presents a good appearance, although slightly heavyset.”
Qwilleran thought Wetherby’s emcee personality might be too exuberant as a steady diet. “Carter Lee is laid-back, sophisticated, a perfect gentleman. Wetherby is the ‘Stars and Stripes Forever’ Carter Lee is Pachelbel’s
Canon.”
“Did you know, Qwill, that Wetherby’s real name is Joe Bunker?”
“That being the case, he was wise to change it,” Qwilleran said sagely.
* * *
The Tuesday-night wedding took place in the social hall of the clubhouse. A white runner on the red carpet led to the fireplace, which blazed festively. Before it, a white-draped table held red and white carnations in a brass bowl and red candles in tall brass holders. A Valentine wedding, the guests said; so romantic! They stood on either side of the runner: chiefly Lynette’s friends from the bridge club, the church, and the medical clinic, plus the Rikers and the Lanspeaks and John Bushland with his camera. Many of the men were in kilts; the women wore clan sashes draped from shoulder to hip.
When the recorded music—Scottish tunes for flute and dulcimer—suddenly stopped, the guests turned toward the entrance. The double doors opened, and Andrew Brodie in bagpiper’s regalia piped the wedding party down the white aisle with the traditional strains of “Highland Wedding.” First came the officiating clergyman, then the groom and groomsman and—after a few suspenseful moments—the bride and her attendant.
Lynette’s clan sash, predominantly green, was a column of brilliant color fastened on her shoulder and cascading down the front and back of her long white dinner dress. She wore a wreath of stephanotis in her hair. The same green tartan figured in Polly’s evening skirt and clan sash, worn with a white silk blouse. Qwilleran was resplendent in full Highland kit. Against the Duncan green and Mackintosh red, the groom’s black dinner clothes looked ominously somber.
“He looks like a waiter,” Riker later confided to Qwilleran.
The ceremony was brief and flawless. There were no sentimental tears—only happiness—as the fire crackled on the hearth and the words were said. Then Brodie piped the triumphal “Scotland the Brave” and led the wedding party and guests to the dining hall. An oatcake was broken over the bride’s head, and she made the first cut in the wedding cake with a dirk.
Champagne was poured and toasts were said and guests kissed the bride. Danielle was the first to kiss her cousin. “Give me a big hug,” she said.
Even Qwilleran was kissed by many of the women including, of all people, Amanda Goodwinter. “This is turning into an orgy,” he said to her.
“You said it!” she muttered. “Did you see how the Carmichael woman bussed her cousin? I hope Lynette knows what she’s doing. It’s bad luck to marry on Tuesday or marry in green.”
“Don’t worry,” Qwilleran said. “With a silver coin in her shoe and oatcake crumbs in her hair, she’s home safe.”
Carter Lee was his usual charming self, flashing his winning smile at the guests in between fond glances at his bride. She was brimming with the joy she had lost twenty years before. When Brodie played a lively tune, she hoisted her skirt and danced the Highland fling.
Mac MacWhannell said to Qwilleran, “Too bad she didn’t marry a Scot. Know anything about his genealogy?”
“No, but James is a good British name. You know: King James. . . P. D. James . . . and all those others.”
“When they’re back from their honeymoon,” Big Mac promised, “we’ll invite him to join the genealogy club.” And then he said, “That was an interesting column on naming cats. We have two gray ones, Misty and Foggy, and our daughter in New Hampshire has a kitten called Arpeggio. It runs up and down the piano keys.”
“The things you hear when you don’t have a pencil!” Qwilleran said. “Send the names in on a postcard.”
“No!” Arch Riker protested. “No more postcards! The mailroom is swamped! What are we supposed to do with them all?”
Mildred said, “My grandkids have a tomcat called Alvis Parsley. He likes rock and roll.”
“I believe they tune in to a rhythmic beat,” said the choir leader from the church. “Ours sits on the piano with her tail swinging to the music. We call her Metro, short for metronome.”
Everyone joined the game. Everyone knew an aptly named cat: a tom named Catsanova; a shrimp addict called Stir Fry; a pair of Burmese known as Ping and Pong.
“Send postcards!” Qwilleran reminded them.
Polly said to him, “You’ve opened a Pandora’s box. Is it going to be a blessing or a curse?”
When the piper swung into a strathspey, it was a signal that the newlyweds were leaving. Qwilleran, who was driving the getaway car, fished the car keys from his sporran and asked Riker to bring his van to the clubhouse door.
En route to Boulder House Inn, the couple in the backseat raved about the gift from the couple in the front seat, little knowing how close they had come to getting a schnauzer. Carter Lee said they would schedule a sitting with the portraitist as soon as they returned. Polly hoped they would have good weather in New Orleans. Lynette hoped not to gain any weight.
As for the driver, his moustache was giving him some uneasiness. Champagne had flowed freely at the reception, and he was probably the only one who was totally sober. He kept thinking about the X-rated kiss that Danielle had bestowed on the groom. . . and about the hints that they were not really cousins. . . and about the hasty marriage that was a topic of local gossip.
The Boulder House Inn perched on a cliff overlooking the frozen lake and was indeed built of boulders, some as big as bathtubs, piled one on top of another. Snow accented every ledge, lintel, sill, and crevice. Indoors, some of the floors were chiseled from the huge flat rock that made the foundation of the building. Four-foot split logs blazed in the cavernous fireplace, around which guests gathered after dinner to listen to the innkeeper’s stories.
Silas Dingwall was like the innkeeper in a medieval woodcut: short, rotund, leather-aproned, and jolly. Smiling and flinging his arms wide in welcome, he ushered the wedding party to the best table in the dining room. The centerpiece was a profusion of red carnations, white ribbons, and white wedding bells of plastic foam. A wine cooler stood ready, chilling a bottle of champagne, courtesy of the house.
“May I open it?” he asked.
The cork escaped from the bottleneck with a gentle
pffft!
and he poured with a flourish, while lavishing felicitations on the bridal pair. He ended by saying, “I’ll be your wine steward tonight, and Tracy will be your server.”
Involuntarily Qwilleran’s hand went to his upper lip as he saw the innkeeper speak to a pretty young blond woman. He saw Dingwall gesture toward their table. He saw her nod.
Lynette and Carter Lee were drinking an intimate toast to each other, with arms linked and eyes shining, when the blond server approached the table. She took a few brisk steps, wearing a hospitable smile, then slowed to a sleepwalker’s pace as her smile turned to shock. “Oh, my God!” she cried and ran blindly from the dining room, bumping into chairs and lurching through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
There was silence among the diners. Then hysterical screams came from the kitchen, and the innkeeper rushed through the swinging doors.
“Well!” Polly said. “What was that all about?”
Lynette was bewildered. Carter Lee seemed poised. Qwilleran looked wise. He thought he knew what it was all about.
The innkeeper, red-faced, bustled up to the table. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Tracy is not well. Barbara will be your server.”
* * *
After the wedding dinner, Qwilleran and Polly chose to drive back to Pickax without waiting for the storytelling hour around the fireplace. She had to work the next day, and he was less than comfortable with the situation as he perceived it. But he was “best man,” and he had made the best of it.
While the two sisters-in-law embraced with tears of joy, the two men shook hands, and Carter Lee thanked his best man for being witness to the ceremony.
“It’s the third time I’ve performed this role,” Qwilleran said, “and it’s the first time I’ve done it without dropping the ring, so that bodes well!”
Before leaving, he told Silas Dingwall about
Short and Tall Tales
and made an appointment for the next day to record “something hair-raising, mysterious, or otherwise sensational.” The innkeeper promised him a good one.
On the way home, no mention was made of the waitress’s outburst. Polly told him he was the handsomest man at the wedding; he told her she looked younger than the bride. Both agreed that Lynette looked beatific.
“So you see, you were wrong about her jilting him, Qwill.”
“First time in my life I’ve ever been wrong,” he said with a facetious nonchalance that he did not really feel.
* * *
On the way to Boulder House Inn, the day after the wedding, Qwilleran reviewed the incident of the previous evening. The server’s name was Tracy; she was a pretty blond; she was obviously Ernie Kemple’s daughter, who had been wined and dined by Carter Lee James. Her father knew she was gullible; he feared she would be hurt again. Now Qwilleran was wondering what kind of husband Lynette had acquired. He was a suave young man who was enchanting local women, including Polly. She remarked about his engaging ways. He was being called charming, gallant, gentlemanly. What else was he?
Arriving at the inn, Qwilleran was greeted effusively by Silas Dingwall, who was excited about being “in a book.” He said, “We’ll go in the office, where it’s quiet.”
“And first tell me something about yourself,” Qwilleran said.
Over coffee he learned that Dingwall was descended from the survivors of a shipwreck more than a century before. All his life he had been fascinated by tales handed down through the generations.
“There were ghost stories, murder mysteries, rum-running thrillers and you-name-it. My favorite is the Mystery of Dank Hollow, a true story about a young fisherman who was also a new bridegroom. It happened, maybe, a hundred and thirty years ago when Trawnto was a little fishing village. Want to hear it?”
“I certainly do. Just tell it straight through. I won’t interrupt.”
As eventually transcribed, the story went like this:
One day a young fisherman by the name of Wallace Reekie, who lived in the village here, went to his brother’s funeral in a town twenty miles away. He didn’t have a horse, so he set out on foot at daybreak and told his new bride he’d be home at nightfall. Folks didn’t like to travel that road after dark because there was a dangerous dip in it. Mists rose up and hid the path, you see, and it was easy to make a wrong turn and walk into the bog. They called it Dank Hollow.
At the funeral, Wallace helped carry his brother’s casket to the burial place in the woods, and on the way he tripped over a tree root. There was an old Scottish superstition: Stumble while carrying a corpse, and you’ll be the next to go into the grave. It must have troubled Wallace, because he drank too much at the wake and was late in leaving for home. His relatives wanted him to stay over, but he was afraid his young wife would worry. He took a nap before leaving, though, and got a late start.
It was a five-hour trek, and when he didn’t show up by nightfall, like he’d said, his wife sat up all night, praying. It was just turning daylight when she was horrified to see her husband staggering into the dooryard of their little hut. Before he could say a word, he collapsed on the ground. She screamed for help, and a neighbor’s boy ran for the doctor. He came galloping on horseback and did what he could. They also called the pastor of the church. He put his ear to the dying man’s lips and listened to his last babbling words, but for some reason he never told what he heard.
From then on, folks dreaded the Dank Hollow after dark. It was not only because of the mists and the bog but because of Wallace’s mysterious death. That happened way back, of course. By 1930, when a paved road bypassed the Hollow, the incident was mostly forgotten. And then, in 1970, the pastor’s descendants gave his diary to the Trawnto Historical Society. That’s when the whole story came to light:
Wallace had reached the Dank Hollow after dark and was feeling his way cautiously along the path, when he was terrified to see a line of shadowy beings coming toward him out of the bog. One of them was his brother, who had just been buried. They beckoned Wallace to join their ghostly procession, and that was the last thing the poor man remembered. How he had found his way home in his delirium was hard to explain.
The pastor had written in his diary: “Only the prayers of his wife and his great love for her could have guided him.” And then he added a strange thing: “When Wallace collapsed in his dooryard, all his clothes were inside out.”
“Whew!” Qwilleran said when the story ended. “Is Dank Hollow still there?”
