The Cat Who Tailed a Thief (14 page)

“No, they filled it in a few years ago and built condominiums. I’m not superstitious, but I’d sure think twice before buying one. When will your book be published?”

“As soon as I’ve collected a sufficient number of yarns. I might have space for one of your rum-running tales at a later date, if you’d be good enough to—”

“I’d be honored!. . . More coffee?”

While drinking his second cup of coffee, Qwilleran asked, “What happened to the server who was supposed to wait on our table last night?”

“Tracy? Well, she’s a good worker, and pretty, and has a nice way with customers, but she’s a very impulsive type. She suddenly rushed into the kitchen as if she’d seen a ghost. She was hysterical, and my wife took her into our private quarters so the guests wouldn’t be disturbed. We didn’t know what kind of seizure it was, so we called 911. We also called her home, and her father came and got her. It turned out that the gentleman who just got married was supposed to be her boyfriend. Can you beat that?”

“It’s been the stuff of Greek tragedy, opera, and novels for centuries,” Qwilleran said. “The villain usually gets stabbed.”

“She has a little boy, you know, and that might be why she lost out. An elegant young man like Mr. James might not want to take on a ready-made family.”

Especially, Qwilleran thought, when the alternative is a woman with property and inherited wealth.

* * *

From the Boulder House Inn, Qwilleran drove to the Pickax community hall, where the Boosters Club was having its weekly luncheon. Ernie Kemple would be there as official greeter, and Qwilleran wanted to have a few words with him. There would be a fast lunch and an even faster business meeting, and then the members would hurry back to their stores and offices.

Kemple was welcoming them at the door with his usual hearty banter, but Qwilleran detected an undertone of anxiety. He said, “Ernie, let’s talk after the meeting.” He wanted to brace him for the newspaper coverage of the wedding. But first he had to stand in line for his soup-and-sandwich platter, which he carried to one of the long institutional tables. He sat next to Wetherby Goode and across from Hixie Rice.

“Bean soup again! Ham and cheese again!” the weatherman complained. “I thought the lunches would have more class after they let you gals join.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Next week it’ll be fruit salad and melba toast.”

During the business session it was she who gave the update on the Ice Festival:

“Need any indoor volunteers?” Wetherby Goode called out. “I can’t stand the cold.”

After the applause and the grand rush for the exit, Qwilleran and Ernie Kemple stayed behind. “How goes it?” Qwilleran asked in a warmly sympathetic tone.

“Tracy’s in the hospital. She tried to OD. Vivian’s flying home from Arizona. That Carter Lee James is a heel! He’s been trying to use Tracy to get us to sign up for his project. Last night she found out in the cruelest way. She was assigned to wait on his table at the Boulder House. It turned out to be his wedding party! He’d married the Duncan woman, who has a house on our street.”

“I know,” Qwilleran said. “I was there, and I just want to tip you off; there’ll be a big spread on the wedding in today’s paper.”

“Oh, God! I’ll be glad when Vivian gets home. She’s coming in on the five o’clock shuttle. Tracy won’t talk to me. I’d warned her, but she wouldn’t listen, so now she hates me because I was right. Can’t win!”

“They have to make their own mistakes,” Qwilleran murmured as if he were an expert on parenting.

“You don’t know how hard it is,” Kemple said, “to stand by and see them go over the cliff. This is her second disappointment. She should’ve stayed with Lenny. She’ll never get him back now. . . but here I am, dumping my woes on you again.”

“Don’t apologize,” Qwilleran said. “I’m really concerned.”

He was, too. There were increasing tremors on his upper lip.

After the Boosters’ luncheon, Qwilleran killed time until three o’clock, reading out-of-town newspapers at the public library. He was waiting for a chance to talk to Lenny Inchpot at his mother’s restaurant. At three o’clock he bought a copy of the
Something
and took it with him to Lois’s Luncheonette, where he dawdled over apple pie and the local news. The wedding was handled as a photo feature with a minimum of text:

The photos were credited to John Bushland: a close-up of the bride and groom; the wedding party in front of the fireplace; the oatcake ritual; the bride making the first cut in the wedding cake with a Scottish dirk; and a group shot of guests in tartans and Brodie with his bagpipe.

When the last customer had left and the Closed sign was hung in the window, Lenny started mopping the floor. Qwilleran went to the kitchen pass-through and shouted at Lois, “Permission requested to speak to the mop-jockey on matters of vital importance.”

“Go ahead,” she yelled back, “but make it snappy. He’s got work to do.”

“Park the mop, Lenny, and sit down for a few minutes,” Qwilleran said. “Did you hear that Tracy Kemple’s in the hospital?”

“No! What happened?”

“Nervous breakdown. Have you seen today’s paper?” He opened it to the wedding page. “The bridegroom is Carter Lee James.”

“Oh-oh!” Lenny said with a gulp. “Tracy thought she was on the inside track with that guy. I guess it was wishful thinking.”

Or, Qwilleran thought, deliberate misrepresentation. “Do you know how she met him?”

“Sure. He was trying to sell the Kemples on signing up for his big project. It meant paying a lot of money up front, and Ernie wasn’t keen on the deal. To me, Carter Lee sounded like a sharpie, but Tracy was impressed by the houses he’d had published in magazines. . . You know, Mr. Q, I’ve been suspicious of strangers ever since that smooth talker with a bunch of flowers blew up the hotel last year. Where I made my mistake with Tracy—I told her I thought Carter Lee was a phoney. That was a dumb thing to do. I should’ve kept my big mouth shut. All it did was make her mad, and she told me to get lost. . . That’s the story. Now what?”

“It’s for you to decide. For starters, you might call Ernie and sympathize with him. He’s feeling down.”

“Yeah, I could do that. I always got along with Ernie.”

“He’s willing to appear at your hearing as a character witness. So am I.”

“Honest? That’s great, Mr. Q! And thanks for lining up Mr. Barter. He’s a super guy!”

“Okay. See you in court.”

When Qwilleran left the lunchroom, Lenny was swishing the mop around like a sleepwalker.

“Get with it!” his mother screamed. “Folks’ll be comin’ in before the floor’s clean!”

Before going home, Qwilleran bought six copies of the
Something
for Polly to give Lynette on her return. He dropped them off at the library.

“Did you know Carter Lee is from New York?” he asked.

“I know only that he’s worked in eastern cities. Lynette says his portfolio of past projects is thrilling. I’d like to see it.”

“So would I,” he said.

“I’m expecting you to come for another chicken dinner tonight. We’ve had seven of the recipes so far; only ten to go.”

“I can hardly wait,” he said ambiguously. “Any excitement at the library today? Any loud voices? Any wet boots?”

“You wouldn’t believe it, Qwill! The clerks and volunteers talk about nothing but the naming of cats! I told them Bootsie is now Brutus, and his companion will be named Catta, which is said to be Latin for the female of the species. My assistant has three cats: Oedipuss, Octopuss, and Platypuss. And the silver tabby who sleeps in the window of Scottie’s men’s shop is Haggis MacTavish.”

Soon Moose County would have something else to talk about.

Late that same afternoon, Qwilleran was pulling into his driveway, and Wetherby Goode was pulling out. The weatherman tooted his horn lightly and lowered the window. “Got a minute, Qwill?”

There was an element of anxiety in the question that made Qwilleran say, “Sure. Want to come in?”

When Wetherby saw the Siamese, who were being politely inquisitive, he said, “You’ve got two top-of-the-line cats here. Mine’s an orange tiger called Jet Stream, slight pun intended. He answers to Jet-boy.”

“Care for a drink, Wetherby?”

“No, thanks. I’m on my way to the station. Call me Joe. That’s my real name.”

“Well, sit down, Joe, and tell me what’s eating you.”

He sat on the edge of a chair. “What did you think about the Ice Festival update at the luncheon?”

“I’d say they’ve done a superlative job of organization and promotion. I’m not keen on being grand marshal, but I hope it’s a popular and financial success.”

“So do I, but—I hate to say this, Qwill—there’s a warming trend in the offing. A
real
warming trend!”

“It can’t last more than a couple of days. This is February!”

“The weather’s been weird all over the globe. An unseasonable and prolonged warm spell is not only possible but inevitable—that plus warm rain! Do you realize what it’ll do to the Ice Festival? A premature thaw could wipe out the profits expected by local business firms, not to mention disappointing thousands of people in three counties! After I give the long-range forecast tonight, I may have to leave town. Don’t they always shoot the messenger who brings bad news? A meteorologist’s lot, like that of a policeman, is not a happy one. Listeners expect forecasts to be perfect, but they don’t care about warm fronts and cold air pockets. They only want to know which jacket to wear and whether to close the car windows. . . Well, anyway, I felt like unloading the bad news on somebody. Thanks for listening.”

When Wetherby left, Qwilleran went to his office alcove to read the day’s mail and have another look at the wedding photos in the
Something,
only to find that someone . . . someone had thrown up a hairball on the newspaper. Both cats crouched nearby, waiting for him to make the discovery.

“I don’t know which of you did this,” he said, “but I consider it a new low! A breach of etiquette!”

Yum Yum squeezed her eyes, and Koko acted as if he’d lost his hearing.

* * *

While dressing to have dinner at Polly’s (flattened chicken breast with ripe olives, garbanzos, and sun-dried tomatoes), Qwilleran received another annoying phone call from Danielle. Impudently she said, “Hi, snookums! Wanna come out to play tonight?”

Stiffly he replied, “
Whom
are you calling? We have no small dogs by that name at this number.”

“Qwill, this is Danielle,” she said with the shrillness that jarred his nerves.

“I would never have guessed.”

“Oh, you’re a big kidder! My cousin’s away on his honeymoon, and I don’t have anybody to play with. Why don’t you come on over for drinks and dinner? I’ll thaw something.”

“The invitation is almost irresistible,” he said, “but I have a previous engagement.”

The brief but irritating exchange made the prospect of flattened chicken breast a gustatory delight. For the walk to Polly’s, he left his hat and gloves at home. The temperature was incredibly mild, and the sidewalk—instead of being dusted with white—was black with wetness.

“You’re not wearing your hat!” Polly greeted him.

“It seems to be a little warmer tonight,” he said, without revealing his privileged information.

“I’ve just found out the difference between friendly snow and unfriendly snow,” she said with enthusiasm. Polly collected scraps of information as avidly as the Kemples collected dolls. “Flurries and snow showers are friendly; blizzards and snow squalls are unfriendly. Do you find that interesting?”

“Very,” he replied, thinking of the forthcoming thaw. “How’s Brutus?”

“I think he’s pleased with his new name.”

“Have you heard from Lynette?”

“No, I’m sure she has other things on her mind,” Polly said. “But Mildred called about the gourmet club. They’re skipping the February meeting as a token of respect for Willard—a moment of silence, so to speak.”

“That’s appropriate. I’ll go along with that.”

“Have you heard how Danielle is doing in the play?”

“Only that tickets for all performances are selling fast. It’s my theory that Pickax audiences will eagerly pay money to see the widow of a murdered man.”

“How ghoulish!” Polly said with a shudder.

After dinner—it was the best recipe so far—they listened to the tapes Qwilleran had recorded for
Tall Tales.
He said, “Koko has heard them twice, and each time he yowls at ‘The Dimsdale Jinx.’ Either he’s uncomfortable with Homer Tibbitt’s high-pitched voice, or he knows what pasties are all about.”

“Brutus loves pasties,” Polly said over her shoulder as she went to answer the phone. “Lynette! We were just talking about you! Qwill’s here. Wait a minute . . . Qwill, would you take this phone? I’ll pick up the one on the balcony.”

“How’s New Orleans?” he said to the caller.

“Warm and wonderful!” Lynette talked fast and excitedly. “We’re staying at a charming old inn. Our room has a four-poster bed and a fireplace. Breakfast is brought up on a huge tray: croissants, fabulous preserves, and delicious hot chocolate!”

“Be careful with that hot chocolate!” Polly warned, slipping into the conversation.

“You should see the French Quarter and the lacy wrought-iron balconies! So romantic! The coffee is strange; Carter Lee says they put chicory in it. But my favorite is the Creole gumbo. It’s seasoned with something called filé powder. I’m going to buy some, so I can make it when I get home.” She hardly stopped for breath. “Everything is different here. When they drink a toast, they say, ‘Here’s to a short life and a merry one!’ The parades start Saturday. I can hardly wait!”

“Go easy on the Sazeracs,” Qwilleran advised.

“I’m so happy!” she said, almost tearfully. “Carter Lee is just wonderful! Everything is perfect!”

“Well!” said Polly when the conversation ended.

“I get the impression she likes New Orleans,” Qwilleran remarked.

“I’m so happy for her!”

* * *

At the end of the evening, as he sloshed home through the deepening puddles, he thought about Lynette and her new life. She had quit her job at the medical clinic and would assist her husband in a public relations capacity, promoting restoration. She had the qualifications. She knew everyone in town, and her enthusiasm for Carter Lee’s accomplishments was boundless. Qwilleran had a great curiosity about the portfolio of his work that everyone praised so highly. Even Old Gallbladder had referred to the “mighty purty pitchers.” Breze was no arbiter of historic design, but he might afford a way to borrow the portfolio in Carter Lee’s absence.

When Qwilleran arrived home, he typed a briefing for Celia:

The next morning Qwilleran deposited Celia’s briefing in her mailbox at the gatehouse. Snowshoeing was out of the question. The temperature was in the unbelievable fifties, and a steady rain was turning the white landscape into a porous gray blanket. Walkways and pavements hemmed in by the shrinking snowbanks were becoming canals. In the mailroom the sudden thaw was the sole topic of conversation:

“What does this do to the Ice Festival?”

“The fuzzy caterpillars were right after all. They predicted a mild winter.”

“Yeah, but their timing was off—by about ten weeks.”

“How much of this can the storm sewers take?”

Qwilleran took his mail home to open, throwing most of the communications into his Procrastination File—a small drawer in the hutch cabinet. One was a letter from Celia’s grandson, enclosing snapshots of the dowser and a transcript of a tape recording. The other was an invitation to an opening-night party at Danielle’s apartment—just a cozy little afterglow. RSVP.

When the telephone rang, he was pleased to hear the good radio voice of his next-door neighbor:

“Qwill, things are getting pretty sloppy out there, but we have to eat, and they say the road to Kennebeck is not too bad. Are you free? Are you hungry? Would you like to go to Tipsy’s?”

“I always like to go to Tipsy’s, rain or shine, with friend or foe,” said Qwilleran.