The Cat Who Tailed a Thief (15 page)

“Let’s take my van. It’s bigger and makes bigger rooster tails.”

“Apparently no one has shot the messenger as yet.”

“Not yet! But the promoters of the Ice Festival are monitoring the ice from hour to hour!. . . ”

The two men splashed down River Lane in Wetherby Goode’s van. “Some weather!” the weatherman said.

“How did the landscape liquefy so fast?” Qwilleran asked.

“Warm rain. Like pouring hot tea on ice cubes.”

“The county’s gone from a beautiful swan to an ugly duckling overnight.”

“And it’s going to get uglier,” Wetherby predicted.
“The rain, it raineth every day.”

“Is the Ice Festival doomed?”

“I’m not predicting. I’m not even opening my mouth. All I can say is: The fuzzy caterpillars knew something we didn’t know. The parking lot at the Dimsdale Diner is underwater, and the people in Shantytown are being evacuated. They’re afraid the old mine may cave in.”

“How about the Buckshot mine on our road?”

“The situation’s not so dangerous. The Dimsdale mine, you see, is in a fork between two rivers, the Ittibittiwassee and the Rocky Burn.”

Qwilleran said, “Our river seemed to be rushing faster and making more noise, but I don’t see much rise in the water level. In any case, I suppose the bank is high enough to protect us. And we have all those cats in Building Five; if they can predict an earthquake, they should be able to predict a simple flood.”

“The only bad thing would be if a freak wave in the lake sent a surge up the river. It might reach Sawdust City, but it wouldn’t reach us. You don’t need to give your cats swimming lessons yet.”

“The schools will have to close if the buses can’t get through the mud on the back roads. Perhaps we should lay in a supply of emergency foods. My barn was prepared for power outages—with canned goods, a camp stove, bottled water, and batteries—but I have nothing here. I should buy for Polly, too.”

Wetherby said, “We can shop at the Kennebeck Market after lunch, if there’s anything left.”

“I suggest we shop before lunch,” Qwilleran countered.

The town of Kennebeck was situated on a hummock, and Tipsy’s Tavern was high and dry on the summit. The restaurant had started in a small log cabin in the 1930s, named after the owner’s cat. Now it was a sprawling roadhouse of log construction, with dining rooms on several levels. In one of them hung an oil portrait of the celebrated white cat with black markings. The food was simple and hearty; rustic informality prevailed; and the servers were older women who called customers by their first names and knew what they liked to drink.

After a Squunk water and a bourbon had been brought to the table, Qwilleran said to his companion, “I suppose you’re a native, Joe.”

“A native of Lockmaster County. I came from a town called Horseradish.”

“In jest, I suppose.”

“You think so? Look it up on the map,” Wetherby said. “It’s on the lakeshore. Not many people realize it was once the horseradish capital of the Midwest. That was back in the nineteenth century, of course, long before Lockmaster County became fashionable horse country. If there’s any connection, I can’t figure it out. What’s happened to Horseradish—it’s all summer homes and country inns now. Some of my relatives still live there.”

“What brought you to Moose County, Joe?”

“Well, after college I worked in television Down Below, and then I had a mid-life crisis ahead of schedule and decided to come back up north. My first thought was Lockmaster City, but then I saw what was happening to Pickax City, and I liked what I saw. So here I am, with Jet-boy. Before him I had another orange cat called Leon, with a head as big as a grapefruit, no neck, and a disposition like a lemon. We were a pair, let me tell you! But that was Down Below. My disposition improved after I came home.”

Qwilleran asked the logical question. “What happened to Leon?”

“He stayed with my ex-wife. He probably reminds her of me. . . What are you ordering? I always get the steak sandwich on an onion roll.” Then he started talking about Lynette. “She shocked the whole bridge club by marrying so fast, after being on the shelf so long.”

“Do you know she’s one of your greatest fans, Joe? She goes around quoting your daily quips:
The north wind doth blow, and we shall have snow.
She’s impressed!”

“Too bad I didn’t know that!” Wetherby puffed out his chest. “What do you know about her husband?”

“Not much. I was invited to be best man because I own a kilt.”

“Yeah, I think I was invited to the reception because I play cocktail piano.”

“Willard Carmichael told me that Carter Lee’s a highly regarded professional Down Below and could do great things for Pickax. Did you know Willard?”

“Only around the bridge table, but he seemed like a good egg. I hated what happened to him.”

The steak sandwiches were served, and Qwilleran pushed the condiment tray across the tabletop, saying, “Horseradish?” Then he asked, “Does your hometown have any local yarns or legends that make good telling? I’m working on a collection for a proposed book. So far, I have stories from Dimsdale, Brrr, and Trawnto Beach.”

“I have a great-uncle in Horseradish who could tell you some doozies. The town had a problem with lake pirates in the old days. It was the chief port for the whole county, and pirates would board the cargo ships and make their victims walk the plank. Bodies were always being washed up on the beach with hands tied behind their backs. They were buried, but the poor souls couldn’t rest in peace, so Horseradish had a lot of ghosts. People were kept awake by the moaning and door-slamming and cold drafts. . . Is that the kind of thing you’re interested in?”

“Keep right on going.”

“One day a man came into town riding on a mule, and he said he had the power to de-haunt houses.”

Qwilleran said, “That would make a good movie, if it hasn’t already been done.”

“Don’t laugh! This really happened! People gave him money, and he went to work in the attics, throwing sand around and chanting mumbo jumbo. Then he suddenly disappeared, along with some of their treasures.”

“How about the ghosts? Did they disappear, too?”

“No one really knows. The victims of the scam were too embarrassed to talk about it. . . Sorry I don’t have more details.”

“I’d like to meet your great-uncle, Joe. I’d like to go to Horseradish with my tape recorder. Would he be willing to talk?”

“Talk! You couldn’t shut him up! Take plenty of tape. He’s a great old fellow. And by the way, he’s got a big gray cat called Long John Silver.”

Qwilleran was pleased to find another lead for
Tall Tales.
He enjoyed his steak sandwich. He found Wetherby to be good company. He liked his enthusiasm and candor. It occurred to Qwilleran that a weatherman from Horseradish might have been a more suitable match for Lynette than a restoration consultant from New York.

On the way back to Indian Village, the driver was busy maneuvering the van through puddles, but at one point he turned to his passenger and said, “I shouldn’t ask you this, since you were best man at the wedding—”

“I told you why I was there,” Qwilleran said. “I hardly know the groom. Go ahead and ask.”

“Were you surprised at the match between Lynette and Carter Lee? Was Polly surprised?”

“I won’t presume to answer for Polly. They’re sisters-in-law, and she was glad to see Lynette so happy. But. . . yes, I was surprised—as much as a veteran journalist is ever surprised.”

“The reason I ask: I observed Carter Lee at the bridge club. The way he buttered her up was marvelous to behold. And it worked.”

“ ‘All’s fair in love and war,’ they say.”

“Maybe, but I’m inclined to think of him as a fortune hunter. Although Lynette has a job and never puts on airs, we all know she inherited the whole Duncan estate. And it seems to me they got married pretty fast. ‘Marry in haste; repent at leisure,’ as the saying goes.”

“Someone should have told me that twenty years ago,” Qwilleran said.

“In case you don’t know, Qwill, there’s another fortune hunter in the woods, and she’s got her sights on you!”

“Danielle?” Qwilleran dismissed her with a shrug. “She’s a little flaky. Believe me, Joe, I’ve learned how to deal with Lorelei Lee types. They come in all shapes, sizes, and model numbers. I appreciate your concern, though. . . Does Danielle still show up at the bridge club?”

“Hardly ever, which is okay with us; she’s a terrible player. She’s busy rehearsing a play. Can you imagine? She’s doing the lead in
Hedda Gabler
!”

“I can’t imagine,” Qwilleran said quietly.

* * *

On Saturday morning another businesslike call from “the accountant’s office” informed him that the “documents” he had requested were being delivered to the gatehouse at Indian Village. To pick them up he drove his van carefully through flooded lanes, between shrinking snowbanks, under gray skies that were dumping even more water on the soggy terrain.
The rain, it raineth every day
had been the weatherman’s morning adage, not a comforting one.

The clerk in the mailroom handed him a large flat package wrapped in white tissue and tied with red ribbon. “It looks like a valentine,” she said. “Maybe it’s a big chocolate heart.”

At home the Siamese played with the ribbons while Qwilleran read the accompanying note from Celia:

Qwilleran had not even glanced at Clayton’s photos; they were in the Procrastination File. As for the famous Carter Lee James portfolio, it was a leather-bound scrapbook of color photographs under plastic: interiors and exteriors of old houses. They were all apparently authentic and obviously expensive. Before he could peruse them critically, the phone rang again, and he heard the booming voice of the retired insurance agent:

“Qwill, this is Ernie. Ernie Kemple. Is your condo still high and dry?”

“So far, so good. Any flooding on Pleasant Street?”

“No, knock on wood. Every house has a sump pump working overtime.”

“How’s Tracy?”

Kemple lowered his voice to a gruff rumble. “Do you happen to be coming downtown? I know the driving’s bad, but. . . I don’t want to talk on the phone.”

Qwilleran said, “I could be lured downtown if someone wanted to have lunch at Onoosh’s.”

“I can meet you there anytime.”

“I’ll leave right away.”

Ittibittiwassee Road, being a major county thoroughfare, was passable. Even so, Qwilleran silently thanked Scott Gippel for selling him a vehicle with a high axle, as the wheels swished through large puddles and small floods, spraying rooster tails. Crossing the bridge, he stopped to observe the water level. It was higher than usual but still well below the concrete bridge-bed. Many bridges on back roads were submerged with only their railings visible, according to WPKX.

He tuned in the hourly newsbreak: “Six inches of rain fell in one hour at the official checkpoint in Brrr. Many paved secondary roads are under five inches of water, and the sheriff’s department warns motorists to stay on main highways whenever possible. In the Black Creek valley, volunteer firefighters are going from door to door, warning families to move to higher ground. Emergency shelters are being set up in schools and churches.”

Traffic was sparse for a Saturday, and there were few pedestrians downtown. Qwilleran and Kemple were the only customers at Onoosh’s.

Her partner waited on them. “We told our girls to stay home. Onoosh is alone in the kitchen,” he said.

She waved at them from the pass-through.

Qwilleran ordered stuffed grape leaves and tabbouleh. Kemple decided on falafel in a pita pocket.

“You asked about Tracy,” he said, still speaking in his confidential rumble. “Her mother’s home now and knows how to handle her. They can communicate.”

“Did Tracy see the wedding story in the paper?”

“Not until she calmed down, but now she has an entirely new take on the situation. She feels guilty.”

“How do you explain that?”

“You remember the little doll of ours that was found in Lenny’s locker; we’d reported it stolen. . . Well, the drama unfolds! Scene One: Tracy had given it as a good-luck token to Carter Lee, without our knowledge. Scene Two: She and Lenny had a falling out, and in the heat of battle he said Carter Lee was a phoney. Scene Three: She’s just confessed to my wife that she repeated Lenny’s slur to Carter Lee.”

“Why?” Qwilleran asked.

“It was on one of her glamorous dates with the big city dude. They were drinking margaritas at the Palomino Paddock. She was high. She didn’t know what she was doing.”

“Interesting,” Qwilleran mused, touching his moustache.

“When the doll turned up in Lenny’s locker, she was afraid to come forward. It would spoil her chances with Carter Lee. But now she hates him, and she’s filled with remorse for what happened to Lenny. She wants to go to his hearing and tell the judge the truth.”

“This gets complicated, Ernie. In coming to the defense of the one, she’s accusing the other. If he planted the doll in Lenny’s locker, one can assume he also planted the video, sunglasses, etc. And that implies he stole them. He may be a cad and a user, but is he a petty thief? He’s a professional man with standing in the community; does he go around snitching sunglasses? Does it mean he also stole the bridge club’s money—and his own coat at the New Year’s Eve party? Before Tracy does anything, she should consult G. Allen Barter.”