The Cat Who Tailed a Thief (6 page)

First, he phoned Polly at the library, asking if there might be a book on the fine points of snowshoeing and, if so, would she bring it home? Meanwhile he gave the sport a try. He was clumsy. He tripped. His right shoe stepped on his left shoe. After he got the hang of it, he enjoyed tramping through the silent woods, although certain thigh muscles protested. When he wrote his column on the joys of snowshoeing, it began: “Did you ever try walking through snow with your feet strapped to a couple of tennis rackets?”

* * *

Qwilleran was one of those invited to join the Nouvelle Dining Club. The prospectus—signed by Mildred Riker, Hixie Rice, and Willard Carmichael—stated: “We are committed to quality rather than quantity, pleasing the palate with the natural flavors of fresh ingredients seasoned with herbs, spices, and the essence of fruits and vegetables.”

For each monthly dinner, a committee would plan the menu, assign cooking responsibilities, and provide the recipes. One member would host the event and serve the entrée. Others would bring the appetizers, soup, salad, and dessert courses. Expenses would be prorated.

Qwilleran signed up, volunteering for the wine detail, and he and Polly attended the first dinner one evening in January. It was held at the Lanspeaks’ picturesque farmhouse in West Middle Hummock. Twelve members assembled in the country-style living room and talked about food as they sipped aperitifs.

Mildred entertained listeners with an account of her first cooking experience at the age of eleven. “I was visiting my aunt and was watching her make BLT sandwiches for lunch. Just as she started the bacon, the phone rang and she left the room, saying, ‘Watch the bacon, Millie.’ I did what she told me; I watched the strips turn brown and shrink and curl up. She kept yakking on the phone, and I kept watching the frying pan, and the bacon kept getting smaller and blacker. Just as I was opening a window to let out the smoke, my aunt came running. ‘I told you to watch the bacon!’ she screamed.”

Everyone laughed, except Danielle Carmichael, who looked puzzled. Foodwise she was at age eleven, according to her husband. Since he and Carter Lee had left for Detroit, she had driven to the dinner with Fran Brodie. Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers had carpooled with the Rikers. The Wilmots lived nearby.

For the sit-down courses, three tables-for-four were set up in the family room. There were place cards, and Qwilleran found himself seated with Mildred, Hixie, and Pender Wilmot. He noted that Riker and Dwight were the lucky ones, seated with Danielle. At each place there was a printed menu:

Smoked whitefish on triangles of spoon bread with mustard broccoli coulis

Black bean soup with conchiglie (pasta shells)

Roast tenderloin of lamb in a crust of pine nuts, mushrooms, and cardamom

Purée of Hubbard squash and leeks

Pear chutney

Crusty rolls

Spinach and redleaf lettuce tossed with ginger vinaigrette and garnished with goat cheese

Baked apples with peppercorn sauce

Mildred said, “The menu is built around local products: lamb, whitefish, beans, squash, goat cheese, pears, and apples. It’s such a pity that Willard couldn’t be here. I wonder what he’s having for dinner tonight.”

“If he’s in Detroit,” Qwilleran said, “he’ll be headed for Greektown.”

Hixie asked, “Do you think Carter Lee will ever come back?”

“I hope so,” Mildred said. “He’s such a gentleman, and that’s unusual in one of his generation.”

“He has personality-plus, and he’s not married.”

“If you’re staking out a claim, Hixie, I think you’ll have to stand in line.”

“Seriously,” said Pender, “I see him as a visionary. I hope his plans for Pleasant Street come to fruition. It would be a stimulating triumph for the whole city.”

Qwilleran said, “He’s like some actors I’ve known: laid back but fired with an inner energy that produces a great performance. I’m looking forward to interviewing him when he returns.”

Pender asked about the status of the late Iris Cobb’s cookbook. The long-lost recipe book was being edited for publication by Mildred. She said, “I’m running into a problem. Only about two dozen recipes are original with her; the rest are photocopied from cookbooks by Julia Child, James Beard, and others.”

Pender said, “You’ll have to get permission to reprint, or risk being sued for plagiarism.”

Hixie had an idea. Hixie always had an idea. “Make it a coffee-table book with large color photos on slick paper—large format, large print, and only her own creations. If it’s going to be a memorial to Iris, make it spectacular.”

Mildred said she would be happy to prepare the dishes. “Do you think John Bushland could shoot them?”

“It would be better to hire a specialist. I used to work with food accounts Down Below, and we’d fly in a photographer and food stylist from Boston or San Francisco. They’d use real food, but they’d glue it, oil it, paint it, sculpture it, spray it, pin it, sew it. . . ”

“Stop!” Qwilleran said. “You’re ruining my appetite!” He uncorked the wine and poured with an expert twist of the wrist when the lamb was served.

Pender complimented him. “Done like a professional sommelier!”

“I worked as a bartender when I was in college,” Qwilleran explained. “I’m still available for private parties.”

Before the forks could be raised, Larry stood and proposed a toast to Willard Carmichael. “To our absent friend and mentor! May he live all the days of his life!”

The entrée was a taste sensation, especially the vegetable accompaniment. “I’ll never eat mixed peas and carrots again!” said Qwilleran. At his table they began to talk about the best food they had ever eaten—and the worst.

Hixie said, “My worst was at a place between Trawnto Beach and Purple Point. I was driving around the county on ad business and hadn’t eaten, so I stopped at a real
shack
that advertised pasties and clam chowder. It was mid-afternoon. The place was empty. A heavy woman came from the kitchen, and I ordered the chowder. She waddled back through the swinging doors, and I waited. Pretty soon a school bus stopped, and a young boy rushed through the door and threw his books on a table. Right away a voice yelled, ‘Baxter! Come in here!’ He rushed into the kitchen and rushed out again, and I saw him running down the highway. Still no chowder.

“Baxter returned with a bag of something which he tossed through the swinging doors before sitting down to do his homework. I began to hear cooking noises, so that was reassuring. In a while, the woman screamed for Baxter again, and he rushed into the kitchen and came out carrying a bowl with a spoon in it. He carried it very carefully with two hands and set it down in front of me. I looked at it and couldn’t believe what I saw. It was watery, dirty gray, and appeared to be curdled, and there were lumps in it that looked like erasers from old lead pencils. . . I rushed from the premises.”

Qwilleran said, “Too bad you didn’t get the recipe.”

“I think it was a quart of water, a package of instant mashed potatoes, and a can of minced clams,” she said. “Serves four.”

Just as the dessert course was being served, the telephone rang, and Carol went to the kitchen to answer it. She returned immediately with a look of anxiety and whispered to Fran Brodie, who jumped up and left the room.

Qwilleran stroked his moustache. There was something about this pantomime that worried him. Glancing toward the kitchen door, he saw Fran beckoning him. Now it was his turn to excuse himself and leave the table. She said a few words to him before he went to the phone.

In the family room the baked apples with peppercorn sauce were untouched. There was a murmur of concern.

Qwilleran returned and touched Larry’s shoulder, and the two of them went to the foyer. Carol joined them for a moment of conference. Then the Lanspeaks together went to Danielle and led her across the foyer to the library.

“What’s the trouble, Qwill?” Mildred asked when he sat down again.

“Andy Brodie called. He knew Fran was here with Danielle. It’s bad news. Very bad! The Detroit police got in touch with him. You know Willard left yesterday to attend a conference—”

“An air crash?” Mildred asked, clutching her throat.

“No, he arrived safely and was registered at a hotel. Apparently he was walking to a restaurant when he was mugged. And shot. . . ”

“Fatally?” Pender asked under his breath.

“Fatally.”

“Oh, my God!” Mildred said in a horrified whisper.

“They’re trying to break the news to her gently.”

At that moment there was a shriek from the library.

Larry returned to the room and faced the diners. “Friends,” he said, “you won’t feel like eating your dessert.”

The WPKX bulletin about the homicide sent the entire county into shock and rage, and individuals wanted to share their feelings with others. When thwarted by busy signals on the phone, they went out in the snow and cold to gather in public places and bemoan the loss of Willard Carmichael, who had died in such an unthinkable way. Qwilleran, with his usual compulsion to take the public pulse, joined them and listened to their comments:

“Those cities Down Below are jungles! He shouldn’ta went there!”

“We’ve lost a good man. He would have been an asset to the community. He attended our church.”

“What’ll happen now? He was married to that young girl. They’d bought the Fitch house.”

“I feel sorry for his wife. We shoulda been nicer to her, even though she didn’t fit in.”

“If she moves back Down Below, she’s nuts!”

“The church’ll send their Home Visitors to call on her and try to give her some comforting thoughts.”

With grim amusement Qwilleran visualized Danielle receiving these well-intentioned visitors with their “comforting thoughts.” That alone would drive her back Down Below, where her citified wardrobe would be appreciated, and where she could buy a kinkajou. No doubt Willard had provided for her generously.

While downtown he stopped at the design studio, expecting Fran Brodie to be up-to-date on developments. The husky delivery man was there alone. “She flew Down Below with that woman,” he said. “I’m mindin’ the store till the boss gets back from a call, if that’s what she’s doin’. I think she’s goofin’ off.”

Qwilleran went to the department store for more details and found the compassionate Carol Lanspeak still distraught. “Fran took Danielle home last night and stayed with her, and my daughter went over and gave her a sedative. Danielle’s a good customer of Fran’s and feels comfortable with her, so we thought Fran should be the one to take her to Detroit. We got in touch with Carter Lee James, and he’s meeting them at the airport and taking care of everything. Fran will stay in the airport hotel tonight and come right home tomorrow. We don’t want her wandering around in that city!”

“I predict Danielle won’t return,” said Qwilleran, influenced by wishful thinking.

“Well, maybe not, but if she does, we want to have a quiet little dinner for her, and we want you and Polly to be there. Danielle likes you, Qwill.”

He hoped the day would never come. He had always disliked women who were sexually aggressive. Melinda Goodwinter, broke and in need of a rich husband, had been a problem. Now he feared he would have a merry widow on his trail, winking and pouting and remarking about his moustache. Danielle was not one to wear black for very long, if at all.

His next stop was the newspaper office. It was late morning, and the staff was on deadline. Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor, was writing an editorial in the nature of a tribute to Willard. Roger MacGillivray was punching out a piece on the banking improvements instituted by the victim. Jill Handley was on the phone collecting laudatory quotes to be used in a human interest feature.

Qwilleran found the publisher at his massive executive desk, juggling two phones. “What’s the latest?” he asked when Riker had a breathing space.

“I talked to Brodie. He’s in touch with the Detroit police, but I’m afraid Willard is just another statistic. Thousands of homicides go unsolved Down Below.”

Qwilleran said, “He had wanted Danielle to go with him. If she had been along, no doubt they would have taxied to the restaurant, and this wouldn’t have happened—or, at least, the odds would have been better. If she’s sensitive enough or smart enough to figure that out, she could feel guilty.”

“Well, we’ll never know. She won’t come back,” Riker predicted, shaking his head soberly.

On his way out of the executive suite, Qwilleran was hailed by Hixie Rice. He went into the promotion office and sat down.

“What do you know?” she asked.

“No more than you do.”

“It was a shocker. Willard was a nice guy—cocky but kind of sweet. He worked with Mildred and me on the organization of the club and the dinner menu. What did you think of it?”

“Everything was excellent. I don’t know about the dessert. No one felt like eating dessert.”

“And wouldn’t you know. The dessert was my contribution!” Hixie had a long history of major and minor disappointments, yet she always bounced back. “How about lunch, Qwill? I’ll buy and put it on my expense account.”

“Those are the words I love to hear.”

She started pulling on her boots. “We’ll drive to Mooseville and eat at the Northern Lights. That’s headquarters for the Ice Festival, and I want to fill you in on the plans. You might get a slant for your column. We’ll take my van. How do you like your four-over-four?”

“It uses more gas, and the cats find it a little bumpier.”

“Willard drove a Land-Rover, and you could probably get a good deal on it. I’m sure Danielle won’t keep it. He bought her a Ferrari.”

“She flew to Detroit this morning, and I doubt whether she’ll come back. She didn’t want to move here in the first place,” he said.

“But didn’t they buy the Fitch house?”

“That was to humor her. I doubt whether Carter Lee will return, either. The Pleasant Street project was half Willard’s idea, and the bank was going to finance it. Without him, I don’t know. . . ”

“Too bad. Carter Lee was a really neat guy. He always wore monogrammed shirts.” Then after a few moments’ silence, Hixie said, “After some serious reflection I can see why a man of Willard’s age would marry a gorgeous young woman like Danielle, but why would she marry him, except for his money?”

“Don’t forget,” Qwilleran reminded her, “Willard could cook.”

They turned onto the lakeshore drive, where beach houses were boarded-up, snowed-in, bleak and forbidding. Mooseville, a teeming fishing village in summer, was chillingly quiet in January, and relentlessly white. Piers protruded blackly from the white frozen lake. On Main Street, where most commercial enterprises were closed, the dark log cabins and pseudo-log cabins had snow in their chinks and on their rooftops. Dark evergreens drooped with their white burden. The fishing fleet and pleasure craft were somewhere else, in dry dock.

They parked at the Northern Lights Hotel, overlooking the expanse of ice that extended to the horizon. Far, far out it was dotted with a row of black fishing shanties, like dominoes. In the dining room there was one waiter and a limited menu: fried fish sandwich with lumbercamp fries and coleslaw.

Hixie said, “The Ice Festival will be a shot in the arm for the shoreline. By the end of January, the ice on the lake will be twenty inches thick at least. All of the activities will take place on the ice: races, tournaments, hospitality, and entertainment.”

“What kind of races?”

“Dogsled, snowmobile, motorcycle, cross-country ski, snowshoe, and ice skate. Plows will clear the race tracks and rinks, building up snow barriers as viewing ridges for spectators. Other areas will be cleared for hospitality tents. . . And see those fishing shanties out there? We’ll have twice that many for the tournament. They’ve signed up already. Colleges all over are sending artists to the snow sculpture competition. And there’ll be a torchlight parade on Friday night to kick off the whole exciting weekend!”

Qwilleran listened dumbly to her exuberant recital, finally asking, “How many people do you expect?”

“As many as ten thousand.”

“What! Where’ll they park, for Pete’s sake!”

“No problem. Parking will be inland at Gooseneck Creek, where there’s lots of open area, frozen solid,” she explained glibly. “Shuttle buses will transport people to the ice, where they’ll buy admission tickets and get their Festival buttons. The design is a three-inch plastic button with a polar bear on a blue background, a souvenir worth saving. We’ve ordered fifteen thousand, because people will want to buy extras to take home.”

“Where’ll they sleep?”

“Most will be day-trippers from the tri-county, but we have lodgings lined up all over Moose County, even in private homes.”

“And what are the hospitality tents?”

“They’ll sell food and drink, admissions, and tickets for prize drawings. There’ll also be a first-aid tent and two EMS ambulances.”

Qwilleran said, “I’m impressed, Hixie. Some brilliant brain has thought of all this, and I suspect it’s yours.”

She pointed to the frozen lake outside the hotel window. “Look out there, Qwill, and imagine flags flying, striped tents, portable johns painted in bright colors, and thousands of people having a wonderful time! Doesn’t it make your blood race?”

“It makes me want to move to Mexico,” he said.

She pounded his arm with a friendly fist. “I know you, Qwill. You’ll wind up loving it! You’ll want to hang out here for two days!”

“And how does the newspaper fit into the picture?”

“We’re sponsoring it as a public service. That means advancing the money, but costs will be more than covered by admissions, contestants’ fees, and raffle tickets. All prizes are donated.” Hixie paused for a sobering thought. “Willard was all for it! The bank was donating a microwave.”

The fish sandwiches were not bad, and Qwilleran was contemplating a piece of apple pie when Hixie said, “Could I ask you a favor, Qwill?”

“I thought so,” he said. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch. What do you want me to do?”

“Well, there’ll be a couple of thousand people here Friday night, and you’re the most famous personality in three counties. Would you be noble enough to act as grand marshal of the torchlight parade?”

“What does that entail?” He remembered his traumatic experience in a Santa Claus suit the previous year. “If it means wearing a polar-bear costume—”

“Nothing like that! You simply ride in a horse-drawn sleigh with the cheering multitude lining the route. They love you, Qwill.”

“Yes, but do I love them? All it takes is one ugly kid throwing the first snowball, and then it’s avalanche time, with everyone playing hit-the-moustache. No thanks!”

Hixie was only momentarily rebuffed. “Is there any kind of conveyance you could suggest?”

“An army tank,” he said. “Or how about a county snowblower with enclosed cab? I could ride in the cab and spray the cheering multitude with snow. I might enjoy that.”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” she chided him.

“Do you know that the temperature drops at night, and the wind comes off the lake, and the wind chill is sixty below? And you’re having a parade!”

“Okay, so we have a few details to rethink, but will you be grand marshal?”

“I can’t say no, can I? You’d make me walk home. Let’s say I’ll take it under advisement.”

They drove home via Sandpit Road, past George Breze’s snow-covered empire, with only a curl of smoke coming from the “office.”

“Does Red Cap pay club dues?” Qwilleran asked. “He was conspicuously absent on New Year’s Eve.”

“He must have clubhouse privileges. He’s always in the TV lounge, but no one speaks to him.”

“How’s Lenny Inchpot working out as club manager? Lois is bursting with pride these days.”

“She should be proud! He’s very reliable and helpful and even studies at his desk in his spare time. Don Exbridge likes him because he’s clean-cut and good with people—the result of having been a hotel desk clerk, I suppose.”

“How did Lenny react to the two thefts?” Qwilleran asked.

“He was upset, but Don told him there was nothing he could have done to prevent either of them.”

“Do you suspect anyone, Hixie?”

“Yes. It’s either Amanda Goodwinter or you.”

* * *

The day Fran Brodie was due back from Detroit, Qwilleran left a message on her answering machine: “Fran, you must be bushed. Would you like dinner at the Old Stone Mill?”

Around seven in the evening she called back. “You’re right, Qwill. I’m even too exhausted to go out to dinner. I just want to take my shoes off and have a cup of cocoa and a graham cracker, but if you want to come over in half an hour, I’ll give you a report.”

“I’ll be there.”

Meanwhile he fed the cats and thawed his own dinner: a freezer carton marked M-and-C. This, plus Fran’s reference to C-and-GC, gave him an idea for the “Qwill Pen.” Comfort food! What did prominent townsfolk crave in times of exhaustion, sadness, or frustration? Polly always prepared poached eggs on toast with the crusts cut off. He could imagine the mayor gulping red Jell-O, George Breze wallowing in mashed potatoes and gravy, Amanda Goodwinter gorging on Oreos, Chief Brodie eating chocolate pudding.

As he swallowed his macaroni and cheese, the Siamese sat in quiet bundles on the carpet, not looking at each other, not looking at anything. Abruptly Koko rose, stretched, walked over to Yum Yum and, without apparent malice, bopped her on the head. She winced.

“Stop that!” Qwilleran shouted. “Act like a gentleman!”

Koko strolled nonchalantly from the room.

Picking up the little female and fondling her silky ears, Qwilleran murmured, “Why do you let him get away with that? Sock him on the nose!” She purred throatily.