Read The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Online
Authors: Lilian Jackson Braun
The Cat Who Tailed a Thief (8 page)
“Don’t let your whimsical sense of humor get you into trouble,” Qwilleran advised him.
A loud voice from the kitchen interrupted. “Lenny! Who’s that you’re gabbin’ with? Get off your duff and mop that floor! Folks’ll be comin’ in for supper.”
Lenny yelled back, “It’s Mr. Q, Mom. He wants to talk about the case.”
“Oh!. . . Okay. . . Give him the other mop and put him to work. He can talk at the same time.”
“I’m leaving,” Qwilleran shouted.
“Want a doggie bag? I’ve got some meatballs left over from lunch.”
* * *
Back in Indian Village the Siamese were sleeping in Qwilleran’s reading chair. They had cushioned baskets, windowsills, and perches in their own room on the balcony. Yet, with feline perversity they preferred a man-size lounge chair with deep cushions and suede covering.
While they were waking and yawning and stretching and scratching their ears, Qwilleran phoned Don Ex-bridge at home and caught him in the middle of the happy hour.
“Something’s screwy somewhere!” Exbridge said. “If Lenny’s guilty, I’m a donkey’s uncle! Come on over for a drink! Bring Polly!”
“Wish I could, but I’m working tonight,” Qwilleran said. “I just want you to know G. Allen Barter is representing him.”
“Great! Great! And his job will be waiting for him when it’s all over.”
“Have you had any applicants for it?”
“Some other students. We’ve taken applications, that’s all. We’re waiting to see which way the wind blows. The manager at the gatehouse is working two jobs.”
“Well, you know, there’s no telling how long Lenny will have to wait for a hearing, and I could recommend a temporary substitute who’d be perfect in the interim—an older woman, very responsible, cheerful—used to working with people. And she doesn’t want to earn much money; it might affect her Social Security.”
“Who is she?”
“Celia Robinson. You wouldn’t be disappointed. Why don’t I tell her to apply for the job?”
“She’s got it! She’s got it already!. . . Sure you don’t want to come over for a drink?”
Feeling smug, Qwilleran hung up the phone and called Celia at her apartment in town.
“Hi, Chief!” she greeted him. “Happy New Year! Or is it too late?”
“It’s never too late. Happy New Year! Happy Mother’s Day!”
She screamed with laughter, a chronic overreactor to his quips.
“Seriously, Celia, have you heard about Lenny Inchpot’s trouble?”
“Have I? It’s all over town. His mother must be out of her mind.”
“We’re all concerned, and I personally suspect dirty work.”
“Do I smell something cooking, Chief?” she asked eagerly.
“Just this: Lenny’s position at Indian Village needs to be filled, quickly, by a temporary substitute. It’s part-time, managing the social rooms at the clubhouse. I suggest you apply. Don Exbridge is expecting your call. I’ll explain later.
It’s your kind of job,
Celia.”
“Gotcha, Chief!” she said knowingly and with a final peal of laughter.
Two cats were watching Qwilleran closely when he replaced the receiver, as if to say, What about those meatballs? He crumbled one, and they gobbled it with gusto, spitting out the onion fastidiously. Then, while he was watching them do their ablutions, Koko deliberately walked over to Yum Yum and rapped her on the nose. She cowered.
“Koko! Stop that! Bad cat!” Qwilleran scolded as he picked up the little one and nuzzled her head under his chin. “What’s that monster doing to my beautiful little girl? Why don’t you hiss at him—scare the daylights out of him?”
To Koko he said, sharply, “I don’t like your behavior, young man! What’s wrong with you? If this continues, we’ll have to find a cat shrink.”
He reported the incident to Polly that evening when he went to her place for dinner. The Siamese were curled up blissfully together when he left. Polly thought Koko was frustrated by some new development in his life. It might have something to do with hormones. The veterinarian could prescribe something. Bootsie was taking pink pills.
Once a week Polly invited Qwilleran to what she laughingly called a “chicken dinner.” The dietician at the hospital had given her seventeen low-calorie, low-cholesterol recipes for glamorizing a flattened chicken breast: with lemon and toasted almonds, with artichoke hearts and garlic, and so forth.
“Think of it as
scaloppine di pollo appetito,”
Polly suggested. To Qwilleran it was still flattened chicken breast—in fact,
half
a flattened chicken breast. He always thawed a burger for himself when he went home. On this occasion the week’s special was FCB with mushrooms and walnuts.
Upon arrival, Qwilleran had first checked the whereabouts of Polly’s Siamese. Now he noticed that Bootsie was watching him and crouched as if ready to spring.
Qwilleran inquired, “Why doesn’t he lay comfortably on his brisket, the way other cats do?”
“He’s not relaxed in your presence, dear,” she explained.
“Bootsie
’s not relaxed?” he exploded. “What about Qwilleran? Did I ever pounce on his back and refuse to get off? Did I ever ambush him from underneath a table?”
“I’ll put him upstairs in his room,” she said, “or all three of us will have indigestion.”
They had much to talk about. Qwilleran described his forthcoming book: a compilation of Moose County legends, anecdotes, and scandals, to be titled
Short and Tall Tales.
All would be collected on tape, and it might be possible to produce a recorded book, as well as a print edition. Homer Tibbitt would kick off with the story of the Dimsdale Jinx. Suggestions would be welcome.
“Try Wetherby Goode,” she said. “He has stories about lake pirates that he tells to children at the library once in a while. Do you ever see him?”
“Only when he’s shoveling his sidewalk. He has a cat, so he can’t be too bad. It’s a technocat who operates an electronic device that plays only Sousa marches.”
“That reminds me, Qwill. You haven’t mentioned how you like
Adriana Lecouvreur.
I’ve never heard it myself and don’t know anything about the composer.”
He had forgotten to listen to his Christmas gift, but he had read the brochure and spoke convincingly. “Francesco Cilea was born in Italy in 1866 and had already composed works at the age of nine.
Adriana
is an interesting opera with good female roles and some lush melodies. We’ll listen to it together, some Sunday afternoon.” He had handled that rather well but took the precaution of changing the subject. “Have you and Lynette made your annual pilgrimage to the hill?”
Lynette had a driving desire to visit the Hilltop Cemetery once every winter. The gravestones on the crest of the hill, rising from the snow and silhouetted against the sky, were a moving sight when viewed from the base of the slope. Her ancestors were among them, and one gravesite was reserved for “the last of the Duncans-by-blood.”
Polly said, “I don’t mind going with her. On a good day it’s a beautiful sight. It would make a poignant painting. . . Incidentally, Lynette is on cloud nine; Carter Lee phoned her from Detroit. He’s coming back and wants her to be cheerleader for the Pleasant Street project.”
“Is this a paid position?”
“I don’t think so, but Lynette enjoys working for a cause, and she’s very enthusiastic about the project. He took her to dinner several times before he left, and she was the first property owner to sign a contract. . . By the way, her birthday will be soon, and I’d like to give a party. Would you join us?”
“If you’ll let me provide the champagne and birthday cake.”
“That would be nice. But no candles! It’s her fortieth. I’d invite Carter Lee, of course, and that would mean inviting Danielle, and that would mean inviting another man.”
“How about John Bushland?” Qwilleran said. “He’ll bring his camera.” It occurred to him that the presence of a professional photographer might distract the photogenic young widow.
They had dined on
petti di pollo con funghi e noci
and were now having decaffeinated coffee in the living room when Qwilleran felt he was being watched again. Bootsie was staring at him between the balustrade of the balcony railing.
“Oh, dear! He got out!” Polly said. “He’s learned to stand on his hind legs and hang on the lever-type door handle. Does Koko do that?”
“Not yet,” Qwilleran said with some disquietude. “Not yet!”
The first contributor to
Short and Tall Tales
was to be Homer Tibbitt, official historian of Moose County, who knew the story of the Dimsdale Jinx. The retired educator, now in his late nineties, was still researching and recording local history, and his fantastic memory made him a treasure. He might not remember where he left his glasses or what he had for breakfast, but events and personages of the distant past could be retrieved on demand. He lived with his sweet eighty-five-year-old wife in a retirement village, her responsibilities being to find his glasses, watch his diet, and drive the car—in good weather. In winter they both welcomed visitors.
“How were your holidays?” Qwilleran greeted them. “Was Santa good to you? Did he bring you a few more books?” Their apartment was cluttered with books and memorabilia.
Rhoda touched her ears prettily. “Homer gave me these garnet earrings. They were in his family.”
Her husband, a bony figure sitting in a nest of cushions, was wearing a maroon shawl. “Rhoda gave me this. Gloomy color! Makes me feel like an old man.”
“I knitted it,” she said. “He’s forgotten that he chose the color . . . Shall I refill your hot water bottle, dear?”
While she was out of the room, Qwilleran said, “She’s a lovely woman, Homer. You’re lucky to have her.”
“She chased me for twenty-five years before she caught me, so I’d say she’s lucky to have me! What’s news downtown?”
They were discussing the murder of Willard Car-michael and the arrest of Lenny Inchpot when Rhoda returned with the towel-wrapped bottle. “Terrible things are happening these days,” she said, shaking her head. “What is the world coming to?”
“Terrible things have always happened everywhere,” her husband said with the stoicism of age.
“Like the Dimsdale Jinx?” Qwilleran suggested, turning on the tape recorder. “What brought it about?”
“It started about a hundred years ago, when the mines were going full blast, and this was the richest county in the state. This isn’t a tall tale, mind you. It’s true. It isn’t short either.”
“Fire away, Homer. I won’t ask questions. You’re on your own.”
The old man’s account, interrupted only when his wife handed him a glass of water, was later transcribed as follows:
There was a miner named Roebuck Magley, a husky man in his late forties, who worked in the Dimsdale mine. He had a wife and three sons, and they lived in one of the cottages provided for workers. Not all mine owners exploited their workers, you know. Seth Dimsdale was successful but not greedy. He saw to it that every family had a decent place to live and a plot for a vegetable garden, and he gave them the seed to plant. There was also a company doctor who looked after the families without charge.
Roebuck worked hard, and the boys went to work in the mines as soon as they finished eighth grade. Betty Magley worked hard, too, feeding her men, scrubbing their clothes, pumping water, tending the garden, and making their shirts. But somehow she always stayed pretty.
Suddenly Roebuck fell sick and died. He’d been complaining about stomach pains, and one day he came home from work, ate his supper, and dropped dead. Things like that happened in those days, and folks accepted them. Men were asphyxiated in the mines, blown to bits in explosions, or they came home and dropped dead. Nobody sued for negligence.
Roebuck’s death certificate, signed by Dr. Penfield, said “Heart failure.” Seth Dimsdale paid Mrs. Magley a generous sum from the insurance policy he carried on his workers, and she was grateful. She’d been ailing herself, and the company doctor was at a loss to diagnose her symptoms.
Well, about a month later her eldest son Robert died in the mineshaft of “respiratory failure,” according to the death certificate, and it wasn’t long before the second son, Amos, died under the same circumstances. The miners’ wives flocked around Betty Magley and tried to comfort her, but there was unrest among the men. They grumbled about “bad air.” One Sunday they marched to the mine office, shouting and brandishing pickaxes and shovels. Seth Dimsdale was doing all he could to maintain safe working conditions, considering the technology of the times, so he authorized a private investigation.
Both Robert and Amos had died, he learned, after eating their lunch pasties underground; Roebuck’s last meal had been a large pasty in his kitchen. The community was alarmed. “Bad meat!” they said. Those tasty meat-and-potato stews wrapped in a thick lard crust were the staple diet of miners and their families.
Then something curious happened to Alfred, the youngest son. While underground, he shared his pasty with another miner whose lunch had fallen out of his pocket when he was climbing down the ladder. Soon both men were complaining of pains, nausea, and numb hands and feet. The emergency whistle blew, and the two men were hauled up the ladder in the “basket,” as the rescue contraption was called.
When word reached Seth Dimsdale, he notified the prosecuting attorney in Pickax, and the court issued an order to exhume the bodies of Roebuck, Robert, and Amos. Their internal organs, sent to the toxicologist at the state capital, were found to contain lethal quantities of arsenic, and Mrs. Magley was questioned by the police.
At that point, neighbors started whispering: “Could she have poisoned her own family? Where did she get the poison?” Arsenic could be used to kill insects in vegetable gardens, but people were afraid to use it. Then the neighbors remembered the doctor’s visits to treat Mrs. Magley’s mysterious ailment. He visited almost every day.
When Dr. Penfield was arrested, the mining community was bowled over. He was a handsome man with a splendid moustache, and he cut a fine figure in his custom-made suits and derby hats. He lived in a big house and owned one of the first automobiles. His wife was considered a snob, but Dr. Penfield had a good bedside manner and was much admired.
It turned out, however, that he was in debt for his house and car, and his visits to treat the pretty Betty Magley were more personal than professional. He was the first defendant placed on trial. Mrs. Magley sat in jail and awaited her turn.
The miners, convinced of the integrity of the doctor, rose to his support, and it was difficult to seat an unbiased jury. The trial itself lasted longer than any in local history, and when it was over, the county was broke. Twice its annual budget had been spent on the court proceedings.
The story revealed at the trial was one of greed and passion. Dr. Penfield had supplied the arsenic—for medical purposes, he said, and any overdose was caused by human error. Mrs. Magley had baked the pasties and collected the insurance money, giving half to the doctor. He was found guilty on three counts of murder and sentenced to life in prison.
Mrs. Magley was never tried for the crime because the county couldn’t afford a second trial. The commissioners said it wasn’t “worth the candle,” as the saying went. It would be better if she just left town, quietly.
So she disappeared, along with her youngest son, the only one to survive. Seth Dimsdale retired to Ohio and also disappeared. The Dimsdale mine disappeared. The whole town of Dimsdale disappeared. It was called the Dimsdale Jinx.
When Homer finished telling his tale, Qwilleran clicked off the tape recorder and said, “Great story! Is any of this on public record?”
“Well, the
Pickax Picayune
never printed unpleasant news, but other newspapers around the state covered it,” the historian said. “Those clippings are on file in the public library.”
“On microfilm, thanks to the K Fund,” said Rhoda, smiling and nodding.
Homer said, “You should be able to get a transcript of the trial at the courthouse, but there was a fire some years back, and I don’t know if the Penfield file was saved. Mostly, the story has been handed down by word of mouth. My relatives still talk about it and take sides, sometimes violently. . . I warn you, Qwill, never argue with a fellow whose grandfather told him the doctor was innocent!”
It had been a strenuous recital, and the old man’s energy was flagging. It was time for his nap, his wife said. Qwilleran thanked him for a well-told tale and squeezed Rhoda’s hand.
On the way home he drove through the scene of the crime: the ghost town called Dimsdale. The only landmark was a dilapidated diner, surrounded by weeds that choked the stone foundations of miners’ cottages. Back in the woods was a slum of rusty trailer homes occupied by squatters, and a side road led to a high chain-link fence around the abandoned mineshaft. A sign said “Danger—Keep Out.” A bronze plaque erected by the historical society said: SITE OF THE DIMSDALE MINE, 1872–1907.
* * *
It was January 25, and Qwilleran phoned the public library. While waiting to be connected with the chief librarian, he could visualize her in her glass cubicle on the mezzanine, reigning like a benevolent despot over the paid staff, the unpaid volunteers, and the obedient subscribers who never, never brought food, beverages, radios, or wet boots into the building.
“Polly Duncan here,” she said pleasantly.
“What’s today’s date?” he asked, knowing she would recognize his voice.
“January twenty-fifth. Is it significant?”
“Birthday of Robert Burns. Tonight’s the night! Point of no return!”
Gleefully she exclaimed, “It’s Scottish Night! You’re going to wear your kilt! I wish I could see you before you leave. What time is the dinner?”
“I leave at six-thirty, with trepidation,” he admitted.
Polly said she would stop on her way home from work, to bolster his courage.
Qwilleran was allowing two hours to dress for Scottish Night at the men’s lodge. He fed the cats early, then disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door. There he faced the unfamiliar trappings: the pleated kilt, the sporran, the flashes, the bonnet, the dubh. Bruce Scott, owner of the men’s store, had told him the evening would be informal: no Prince Charlie coatees, no fur sporrans, and no fringed plaids thrown over the shoulder and anchored with a poached egg. Bruce had sold him a leather sporran and a correct pair of brogues and had given him a booklet to read.
The trick, according to the helpful text, was to develop an attitude of pride in one’s hereditary Scottish attire. After all, Qwilleran’s mother had been a Mackintosh, and he had seen movies in which the kilt was worn by brave men skilled with the broadsword.
With this attitude firmly in place, Qwilleran strapped himself into what the dictionary called “a kind of short pleated petticoat.” His kilt had been custom-tailored from eight yards of fine worsted in a rich red Mackintosh tartan. On this occasion, it would be worn with a white turtleneck and bottlegreen tweed jacket, plus matching green kilt-hose and red flashes. “Not flashers,” Bruce had cautioned him. These were tabs attached to the garters that held up the kilt-hose—a small detail but considered vital by the storekeeper and the author of the booklet. The kilt itself had to end at the top of the kneecap and could not be an eighth-of-an-inch longer. The leather sporran hung from a leather belt.
Then there was the bonnet. Qwilleran’s was a bottlegreen Balmoral—a round flat cap worn squarely on the forehead, with a slouchy crown pulled down rakishly to the right. It had a ribbon cockade above the left temple, a pom-pom on top, and two ribbons hanging down the back. According to the booklet, they could be knotted, tied in a bow, or left hanging. He cut them off and hoped no one would notice.
Studying his reflection in the full-length mirror, Qwilleran thought, Not bad! Not bad at all! Meanwhile, the Siamese were out in the hall, muttering complaints about the closed door. After one last glance in the mirror, he opened the door abruptly. Both cats levitated in fright, turned to escape, collided headlong, and streaked down the stairs with bushy tails.
When Polly arrived, she was overwhelmed with delight. “Qwill!” she cried, throwing her arms around him. “You look magnificent! So jaunty! So virile! But I do hope you’re not going to catch cold in your bad knee, dear.”
“No chance,” he told her. “The parking lot’s behind the lodge, and we duck into the rear entrance in bad weather. I won’t need boots or earmuffs—just a jacket. Also, Bruce says the knee is all gristle and doesn’t feel cold, as long as you’re wearing good wool socks. That may be true, or he may be a good sock salesman. You wouldn’t believe what I paid for these socks!”
She walked around him and noted the straight front of the kilt—a double panel wrapped left over right. “Why isn’t it pleated all around?”
“Because I don’t play in a marching band and I’m not going into battle. Ask me anything. I’ve read the book. I know all the answers.”
“What’s that odd thing in your sock?”
“A knife, spelled d-u-b-h and pronounced
thoob.
I can use it to peel an orange or spread butter.”
“Oh, Qwill! You’re in a playful mood tonight! Do I know you well enough to ask what you wear under the kilt?”
“You do! You do indeed! And I know you well enough not to answer. It’s known as the mystique of the kilt, and I’m not going to be the first to destroy a centuries-old arcanum arcanorum!”
* * *
Downtown Pickax was deserted except for men in kilts or tartan trews ducking into the back door of the lodge. Qwilleran showed his knife to the doorman and was greeted by Whannell MacWhannell, who had invited him to be a guest. “I’ll introduce you and mention your mother,” he said. “What was her full name?”
