The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (10 page)

A business traveler came to the desk asking for a studio room with computer desk, and Qwilleran moved away until the transaction was complete. Then he asked Lenny, “Has the homicide had any effect on business?”

“It doesn't seem to bother the guests. In fact, some of them find it kind of exciting. But the staff talks about it a lot, among themselves. Yesterday the day porter saw a locksmith truck from Bixby pull up to the back door. The police took him upstairs. In half an hour he left.”

“Boze must have been on duty at the time of the crime.”

“Yeah, and he told me what he told the police. Around two or two-thirty the lobby was quiet, and he heard the elevator go from the ground floor to one of the upper floors. He thought some guest was coming in when the bars closed. A little later he heard the elevator go down again, as if somebody had just come in for a nightcap or something.”

“Or something,” Qwilleran said. “Well, good to talk with you, Lenny. Keep up the good work!” He glanced at the carpet, picked something up, and dropped it in his pocket. With amusement he remembered what Iris Cobb used to say: “A whirligig is just a whirligig, but two whirligigs are a pair, and three are a collection.”

He was now a collector. It was surprising how many pennies dropped through people's fingers or through holes in their pockets. Or were they purposely dropped by penny-droppers like Mildred?

 

At the barn he put the newfound pennies into the spalted maple box and checked his messages on the answering machine. He immediately returned Larry Lanspeak's call.

“Qwill! I've been trying to reach you all day!”

“When did you get in from—wherever you were?”

“This morning. Carol had phoned my hotel on Friday, and I couldn't believe the news! But I met a Chicago buyer at the merchandising show, and he told me something quite interesting about Delacamp. That wasn't always his name. His last name was Campau. That's spelled C-A-M-P-A-U, and he was in partnership with a French gemologist whose name was spelled F-E-Y-D-E-A-U. But it seems that Americans had a problem pronouncing the firm's name and even remembering it. So Campau became Delacamp, and F-E-Y-D-E-A-U became F-I-D-O . . . Do you follow me?”

“Woof woof!”

“Okay, wise guy! Get off the line.”

“I'll be on my best behavior. Tell me the rest of the story.”

Larry went on. “Fido accused Delacamp of embezzling money from the firm and took him to court, but he lost his case for lack of proof. There had been a lot of nasty publicity, however, so Delacamp sued Fido for libel—and won a sizable judgment! How do you like that?”

“Interesting bit of intrigue!”

“That's what I thought. I've always been curious about Delacamp's cash transactions . . . Don't forget: the genealogy club meets Wednesday night, and you're invited.”

 

It was late evening—the hour when Qwilleran had often phoned Andrew Brodie at home. The chief answered brusquely.

“It's a long time between drinks, Andy, and I happen to have some double-malt.”

“Be right there.” A few minutes later he tramped into the barn, looking grouchy.

Qwilleran said with enthusiasm, “Andy, I saw the pibroch for the first time today, and I want to tell you it's a transcendental experience!”

“Whatever that means.”

“You were superb! Polly was with me, and she said your performance put her under a spell.”

Brodie grunted. He was not accustomed to compliments.

“Was your wife there?”

“Nah. She's seen it a hundred times.”

“How about your grandchildren?”

“Nah. They're not into that stuff.”

“It must give you satisfaction to play music that gives people deep feelings.”

“Nah. It's just something I do.” Brodie flung the suggestion away with an impatient gesture.

“Who was the man with a video recorder?”

“Some fella from the Scottish Museum in Lockmaster. Thinks they can sell 'em. But it won't work with the pibroch. There has to be a direct connection between the piper and the listener.”

“Exactly what I was trying to say,” Qwilleran told him. “Take a seat and pour yourself a drink.”

His guest dropped into one of the new bar stools. “Nice stool!” He glanced around the barn. “Where's your smart cat?”

“On top of the fireplace, watching you. Don't make a false move.”

There was a thump as Koko jumped down to the surface of the library table, making the visitor wince instinctively, but Koko merely began dragging yellow pencils from the pencil holder.

Qwilleran explained, “He likes to sink his fangs in the soft wood of a pencil. I did the same thing when I was a kid, learning to write. I chewed every pencil. Arch Riker, my seatmate, wrote with his left ear down on the desk and his right hand moving the pencil four inches from his nose. The teacher thought we were a couple of weirdos.”

Brodie chuckled. “It seems to me you turned out all right. Both of you! The worst I ever did was to try lickin' frozen railway tracks. Almost lost a tongue.”

“Lucky you didn't lose an entire head!” Qwilleran pushed the nut bowl toward him. “Try these. Absolutely fresh!”

“What are the big ones? They're big as horse chestnuts!”

“Brazil nuts. We never had them up here until the Sip 'n' Nibble Shop opened. Good, aren't they? . . . I didn't see you at the games yesterday.”

“Had to take my wife shopping.”

“When Boze Campbell tossed a perfect caber, three out of three, it was a historic moment in Moose County. It'll be all over the paper tomorrow. He's a desk clerk at the inn, you know.”

“I know. He was on duty at the time of the homicide, and all he noticed was the elevator going up and down. He's a good athlete but not smart. What can you expect? He was born with two strikes against him.”

“He was an orphan, I hear.”

“A foundling!” said Brodie. “And I'm the one that found him!”

“Is that so?”

“Yep. Twenty-five years ago when I was working for the sheriff. There was an old shack on Chipmunk Road that we had orders to keep an eye on. Kids used to hang out there. One night before Halloween I was on patrol and stopped to check it out. It was a fire hazard, what with oil lamps, candles, and smokin'. I saw no cars parked, no lights inside, but I heard a baby cryin'. I knew it wasn't some kind of bird or animal. I went in with my flashlight, and there on an old broken-down table was a soup carton with this little red thing no bigger'n a skinned squirrel, and it was yellin' its head off! There was no note—no clue—nothin'! I rushed it to old Dr. Goodwinter's house—remember him?—and got him out of bed. The mother was never identified.”

“How did he get named John Campbell? That's a prominent name around here.”

“Social Services took over, and at first he was just John Doe, but nobody wanted to adopt him and give him a name, so they took the one off the soup carton.” Brodie stopped for a chuckle. “He was a ward of the county after that, kicked around a whole string of foster homes. I kept track of him, sort of like a godfather. I saw him grow big, drop out of school, go back to play football.”

“Lois Inchpot took an interest in him.”

“Yeah, she's a good woman—tough but good-hearted. When Boze started classes at MCCC and workin' the desk at the inn, you could've knocked me over with a feather. That fella has the strength and skill of a backwoodsman.”

Qwilleran said, “It would make a good headline if his mother came forward—now that he's a hero.”

“Nah, she'd never do it. Too many unknowns! How would her son react? How would the taxpayers react, after supporting him all these years? Would she have to answer charges of infant abandonment? What kind of life is she living now? . . . Nah, she'll let sleeping dogs lie, so forget your headline.”

“Pour another drink, Andy, and I'll get out some cheese.”

Qwilleran's visitor was loosening up, and it was time to change the subject. “What do you think about the strange case at the inn, Andy? Too bad it happened on the heels of the grand opening.”

“Yeah . . . well . . . when you operate like that guy, you're just a murder waiting to happen. We can't release details till the SBI gives us the go-ahead, but between you and me—it's not a local crime. The killer drove up from Down Below, did the job, picked up the accomplice posing as the victim's niece, and drove her back where she came from. Strange thing, they left the jewel cases here but apparently took the cash—and there must've been plenty of that, considering the purchases made Thursday. Some customers said they gave him amounts up into six figures. Doesn't take many of those to make a million.”

“Why would they leave the jewels?” Qwilleran asked.

“They're a lot harder to fence if you don't have the right connection. We haven't been able to open the cases yet. They're tricky. Have you seen them?”

“Uh . . . no.”

“The local locksmith said he couldn't open 'em without an ax. The Bixby guy didn't have any more success, so they're flying up an expert from Down Below.”

“There was a rumor the girl was kidnapped. Her clothes were still in the room, and the rental car was in the lot.”

“All part of the scam. The strange thing, though, was the towels.”

“Towels?” Qwilleran smoothed his moustache.

“Yep. All the towels were gone from both bathrooms—bath towels, face towels, everything. Instead of jewel thieves, we've got towel thieves!”

Archly, Qwilleran remarked that Moose County liked to be different.

“Yow!” came a comment from the top of the fireplace cube where Koko had returned after his game with the pencils.

“I see your smart cat has to put in his two cents' worth,” Brodie observed.

“My smart cat, as you call him, unrolled two full rolls of paper toweling last night and draped it around the kitchen as if he was trying to tell me something.”

Brodie, not known for hearty laughing, laughed until he almost choked. Qwilleran handed him a glass of water. “It would help,” the chief said, “if Old Gumshoe here would tell us something we don't know already.”

“Such as?” Qwilleran asked lightly.

“Who's the girl? She registered at the inn as Pamela North. An alias, of course. She probably has several, now that IDs are a dime a dozen.” He lowered his voice. “This is strictly off the record, of course, but the SBI has found a pattern in her MO.”

“You speak as if she's the brain of the operation, and yet she was meek as milk when I met her at the dinner party.”

“Did your smart cat meet her?”

“No, he never had the pleasure, but I'll tell you one thing he did, Andy: He howled in the middle of the night at the precise time of Delacamp's death.”

Brodie grunted. “Dogs do that.”

“But only when it's someone they know. I'll show you something else dogs don't do. I'm going to play a piano recording of
Flight of the Bumblebee
. Watch Koko!”

He slipped the disc into the stereo, setting it for track three. The pianist's fingers started to fly. From his lofty perch Koko looked down on the men and the machine. They waited. The cat did nothing.

“I don't get it!” Brodie said. “What's he doing?”

“He's making a fool of me—that's what he's doing. It's his favorite hobby.”

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 14—
A cat in gloves catches no mice
.

 

While brushing the cats' coats that morning, Qwilleran kept up a running patter to relax them. He said, “Culvert's calendar tells us it's Monday, but what do you care? All days are alike to you guys. No Saturday night dates. No Monday blues. No Tuesday deadlines.” After the grooming they liked a reading session, and he chose Mark Twain's story about the jumping frog. Koko wanted
Oedipus Rex
but Qwilleran said it was too tragic for their tender ears.

His own day started with a visit to the public library, where he was greeted warmly by Mac and Katie, the feline mascots. They knew he always brought a pocketful of crunchy treats. On the mezzanine he found Polly in her glass-enclosed office, eating her lunch—a tuna sandwich and carrot sticks. “Good news!” she said. “Our bookmobile will be back in circulation by the end of the week!”

The vehicle had been acquired through private donations and a matching grant from the K Fund. Manufactured by a maker of school buses, it looked like a school bus without windows. The interior had bookshelves instead of seats, and hundreds of books could be circulated to communities that were without libraries. Unfortunately, it was painted white, giving rise to a public outcry. Letters to the newspaper said it looked like a milk truck, an ambulance, a laundry van. To settle the unrest, readers were invited to suggest ideas. The best was selected by a panel of civic leaders, Polly included, and the bus was sent to a commercial art studio in Lockmaster to be repainted. The panel's selection was top secret. And now it was returning to Pickax, shrouded in a tarpaulin until the Thursday unveiling.

Qwilleran said to Polly, “How about telling me, off the record, what the new design is.”

“My lips are sealed,” she said smugly.

“Could I sneak a peek under the tarp? Or do you have armed guards?”

“You declined an invitation to serve on the panel, so you'll have to wait, along with the other citizens. . . . Have some carrot sticks.”

“No thanks.”

“They're good for you.”

“I know. That's why I don't want any.”

 

Qwilleran's next stop was the newspaper office, where he handed in his copy to Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor.

“Is something wrong?” asked the editor. “You're a day early!” Usually the “Qwill Pen” met its deadline with only minutes to spare. Then Junior said, “Wait till you see today's edition! On page one the Highland Games are the banner story, with some great shots of the caber cavorting in midair and Campbell getting his gold medal—plus a sidebar on Brodie and the pibroch. On the picture page we have the dancers, fiddlers, pipe-and-drum bands, and a candid of a couple of stalwart Scots in kilts, eating bridies. On page two we congratulate Homer Tibbitt on his ninety-eighth birthday. And on the editorial page we have some interesting letters to the editor.”

“Interesting-good? Or interesting-bad?”

“Wait and see.”

“By the way, Junior, do you know anything about an old shack on Chipmunk Road near the Big B minesite? It's said to be a hangout for kids.”

“Oh, that! It was torn down during the roadside beautification campaign, but there was so much public sentiment attached to it, the county salvaged the boards and auctioned them off. There are plenty of stories about that dump.”

“Do you have time for lunch? I'll treat at Rennie's.”

“Can't. Arch has called an emergency meeting during the lunch hour.”

“What happened?” Qwilleran asked. “Did the watercooler spring a leak? Did somebody cancel a subscription?”

“
Goodbye
!” Junior barked. “And I'll see that they misspell your name in tomorrow's paper.”

Fellow staffers always teased Qwilleran about his personal crusade against typographical errors, and on one occasion they conspired to sprinkle his entire column with typos. Even he had to chuckle over the comic enormity of the April Fool trick.

Now it was Monday, September 14, and he liked to lunch with someone on the first day of the workweek. On the way out of the building he came face to face with a wiry, vigorous man in farmer's denims and feed cap—Sig Dutcher, the county's agricultural agent. They met often at the Dimsdale Diner, where farmers gathered for coffee, agritalk, gossip, and a few laughs.

Qwilleran said, “Sig, you mud-devil! What brings you in from the back forty?”

“Just delivering some red-hot ag news to your business editor.”

“Are you free for lunch at the Mackintosh Inn? My treat.”

“Sure. Can I go like this?”

“Of course. We'll have a burger in the coffee shop.”

It was the agent's first visit to the refurbished inn, and he was thunderstruck. When he saw Rennie's with its clean white walls and bright blue and green tables, he said, “It beats the Dimsdale Diner!”

“Anything new at the Diner?” Qwilleran asked after they took seats in the high-backed chairs. “I haven't been there for a while.”

“Well . . . Benny broke his leg in a tractor rollover . . . Calvin had a couple of cows die on him . . . Doug's daughter won a blue ribbon at the fair for a black-face ewe . . . Spencer's wife needs an operation, and their insurance lapsed . . . That's about it . . . How about you, Qwill? Are you still eating a McIntosh a day to keep the doctor away?”

“Actually, I have nothing against the medical profession, but I do like apples, and my favorite happens to be the McIntosh, if I can't get Winesaps.”

“We don't get many Winesaps around here, but we have one of the best McIntosh orchards in the state. And thereby hangs a tale that might steal its way into your column. Did you know there were no so-called eating apples on this continent before the European settlers brought them? Only crab apples. And here's another interesting fact: The millions of McIntosh trees in the U.S. are all direct descendents of a single seedling found in the Canadian wilderness.”

“How did it get there?” Qwilleran asked.

“That's the mystery! In 1832 a farmer in Ontario was clearing land when he found this seedling. He transplanted it to his farmyard, and it bore fruit for thirty years. Then his son found out about grafting fruit trees, and the rest is history.”

“It sounds like a 'Qwill Pen' story, all right.”

“That's what I thought, Qwill. If you go to my office in the county building and ask for the McIntosh file, they'll copy a lot of material for you.”

While waiting for their burgers they discussed the Highland Games, Bixby's proposal to build a gambling casino, the remarkable Border collie, and the weather.

“Any new jokes at the Diner?” Qwilleran asked.

“Did you hear the one about the two bulls in the—”

He was interrupted by the waitperson's announcement, “You didn't say if you wanted fries, so I brought you some anyway. What else can I get for you . . . gentlemen?”

Dutcher asked for red pepper sauce; Qwilleran wanted horseradish.

“Did you hear that?” the agent asked. “She called us gentlemen!”

“They've been instructed not to refer to customers as 'you guys' anymore. How do you react to being called a gentleman?”

“It comes as a shock. Maybe it'll help me keep my elbows off the table. My wife will approve.”

“How's the family?”

“All fine, thank you. The boy's going out for football. The girl enrolled at MCCC. She's decided she wants to be a large-animal vet, which is funny because she's such a little thing. . . . But let me tell you the latest! Becky's working part-time as housekeeper's aide at the inn, and she's the one who found the body Friday morning!”

“That must have been a jolt for a college freshman.”

“You're right! It doesn't happen every day! . . . You see, her instructions were to make up the 301 suite and 301A every morning between seven-thirty and eight-thirty, while the occupants were downstairs at breakfast. As usual she knocked before using her passkey, but the door was chained! She went to the other room and got right in! . . . We're not supposed to talk about this, Qwill, but I know it won't go any further.”

“Don't worry.”

“First thing, she noticed the assistant's bed hadn't been slept in. She opened the connecting door, and there he was—lying in bed with a pillow over his head! She backed out, reported to the housekeeper, told the police everything they wanted to know, and kept her cool. But then she went to pieces and had to be driven home.”

“Good for Becky! She performed like a Trojan.”

“Who do you think did it, Qwill?”

“I believe all the suspicion points to someone from Down Below.”

“Yeah,” said the agent. “That's the consensus at the Diner.”

 

Before leaving the inn, Qwilleran bought a newspaper in the lobby and sat in the Stickley alcove to peruse it. Alternately he approved of the coverage and huffed into his moustache with adverse reactions. He approved generally of the handling of the Scottish Gathering and Homer Tibbitt's ninety-eighth birthday, but did they have to continue using a thirty-year-old photo of the old gentleman? And were they overdoing the praise heaped on the gold medal winner? Boze was a naive young man, and it could go to his head. And did they have to use that photo of “two unidentified Scots eating bridies”? Everyone in the county knew the faces of Qwilleran and Mac Whannell; it was all too coy. They should have given more space to Andrew Brodie and the pibroch. And why was the lone male dancer overlooked? Even the editorial was too soppy in Qwilleran's opinion—about the youth who lacked family advantages but had persevered to finish school, hone his athletic skills, enroll in college, and take a responsible part-time job. . . . Still. It was not a columnist's privilege to edit the paper. Qwilleran went on to read the letters to the editor:

 

To the Editor—Come November, another election . . . with voters staying home as usual. Do you know why? Because they're used to being served refreshments in public places: at meetings and exhibits, in banks and stores, at church and funerals. To get a good turnout on Election Day, just advertise: “Vote Tuesday—Refreshments Served.” All you need are a few cookies and some weak punch.—Herbert Watts

 

To the Editor—Bixby County wants to build a “gaming” casino to bolster its economy and create jobs. Is that a euphemism for “gambling” or is it true that Bixbyites can't spell? Whatever, they plan to build it half a block from the county line. Since gambling establishments are prohibited in Moose County, our good folk will beat a path to the “gaming” casino, and it will be Moose County money that bolsters the Bixby economy. Smart thinking, guys!—Mitch Campbell.

 

To the Editor—I am a woman 40 years old. I have just learned to read and write. It gives me a wonderful feeling. I hope I will get better jobs now. I always tried to hide my secret. I was afraid to get married because my husband would find out. I want to thank my tutor for being so kind and helpful. (Name withheld.)

Qwilleran's last scheduled stop for Monday was Ittibittiwassee Estates, where he would pay his annual birthday visit to the county's most prominent nonagenarian. The development was nowhere near the picturesque river after which it was named. It occupied a ridge between Chipmunk Road and Bloody Creek, neither of which would make an appealing name for a retirement community. The main building was a large four-story structure with a steeply pitched roof that gave the impression of a resort hotel in Switzerland or the Rockies.

Homer Tibbitt and his wife, Rhoda, had moved there in order to have assisted care, when and if necessary. Qwilleran found them on the top floor. Rhoda—a sweet-faced, white-haired octogenarian with a hearing aid—greeted him warmly. “It wouldn't be a birthday without a visit from you, Qwill. Homer is waiting for you in his lair.”

A sneeze came from an adjoining room. “Come into my library,” came a reedy, high-pitched voice, “if you're not allergic to dust!” Scrawny and angular, Homer sat like a potentate in a pile of soft pillows cushioning his bony frame. His face had the furrows and wrinkles of his age, but his spirit was still lively. Now official historian for Moose County, he had been a high school principal—and a lifelong bachelor—when he retired. Not too long ago he had married a retired teacher ten years his junior.

“He married me because I still had a driver's license,” she said sweetly.

“She married me because she thought I had a future,” said Homer. “She was a wild thing at eighty-two. I tamed her.”

“Shall we have tea?” she asked with her gentle smile.

When she left the room, Qwilleran set up his tape recorder on the tea table. “Well, Homer, do you have any profound thoughts to share on the occasion of your natal day? Anything fit to print?”

The old man cleared his throat at great length before saying, “Glad you asked. It so happens I came upon my childhood bankbook a few days ago, and it loosed a flood of memories. I was born in the town of Little Hope, but I had the grand hope of becoming rich and having my own horse and saddle. My father could afford to give me spending money—ten cents a week—and I always took a penny to the general store and bought a week's supply of candy. The rest went into my cast-iron bank. It was like an apple, with a cork in the bottom, which I removed twice a week in order to count my growing fortune. When I had amassed fifty pennies, I deposited them in my bank account. The teller would write the total in the right-hand column—so I could always see my net worth at a glance. Sometimes the bank added a few pennies interest. I was always amazed and overjoyed to get something for nothing.”