The Cat Who Tailed a Thief (5 page)

“Did you shoot the whole roll?” Qwilleran asked.

“No, I’ve got a few exposures left. I’m leaving tomorrow, so I’ll send you the prints. I hate to go. Grandma’s a lotta fun.”

“Did you get a look at the people from the bank?”

“Yeah, he was okay, but she was weird.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know. Just weird. Her voice—it sounded kind of electronic.”

An apt description of Danielle Carmichael, Qwilleran thought. “What were they doing?”

“He was walking around and measuring things and talking, and she was writing down what he said. I turned on my recorder. Want me to send a transcript when I get home?”

“Good idea! Did you enjoy your holiday?”

“Yeah, lotsa fun, lotsa food. Grandma remembered all my favorites. Do you think she’ll marry Mr. O’Dell?”

“I don’t know. Both have a very positive attitude. They both like to help people. They might make a good match.”

Clayton was lost for a while in deep thought as he tackled the complexities of a banana split.

Then Qwilleran questioned him about life on the farm. It was a poultry factory. There were no farm animals, just watchdogs and barn cats, but no indoor pets. Clayton had a stepmother who wouldn’t allow animals in the house.

“I’d like to come up here and live with Grandma and go to Pickax High School. It’s cool!” he said. “My stepmother wouldn’t mind, but my dad doesn’t want me to.”

As they pulled into Celia’s parking lot, Clayton said, “Thanks a lot, Chief. It was cool.”

* * *

When Qwilleran returned home, he noticed heavy vehicle tracks and large footprints in the recently fallen snow around his condo, but he was not alarmed. It meant that some long-awaited furniture had been delivered. Fran Brodie, who knew his likes and dislikes, had been able to supply the basics for his condo, but additional items were straggling in. She had bought certain items of old pine farm furniture, almost contemporary in its simplicity, and had stripped the finish to a honey color. A light interior was a good choice for a building nestled in the woods. The walls were off-white, and honey was the color of the pine woodwork.

Qwilleran’s unit had a lofty living room with large windows overlooking the river. On the opposite wall was a balcony with two bedrooms, and below it were the kitchen and dining alcove. He would use the alcove as an office, and he needed a table or desk surface large enough for typewriter, lamp, papers, books, files, and two supervisory cats.

On this day, as soon as he unlocked the door, Koko notified him that something had been added, yowling and running back and forth to the office alcove. The writing table was indeed large, and it had character. One could imagine that families had been fed on its ample surface, bread had been kneaded, tomatoes had been canned, babies had been bathed, sheets had been ironed, and letters had been written to loved ones during the Spanish American War. There was also a huge stripped-pine cupboard with open shelves above and cabinet below.

Qwilleran lost no time in loading the shelves with books recently purchased or brought from the barn. One shelf he reserved for the Melville set, volumes one to twelve, numbered in chronological order:
Typee; Omoo; Mardi; Redburn; White-Jacket; Moby-Dick; Pierre; The Piazza Tales; Israel Potter; The Confidence-Man; Billy Budd;
and
Weeds and Wildings,
the last being a book of poems. He could hardly believe his good fortune.

Koko was impressed, too. During the evening, when it was time for another reading from
The Old Wives’ Tale,
only one cat reported. Koko was curled up on the shelf with the leather-bound volumes. Had he become a literary critic? Was he saying that Melville was a better writer than Bennett?

On the last day of the year it snowed as usual, and high winds were predicted. Wetherby Goode advised New Year’s Eve celebrants to stay off the highways if possible.
Then blow ye winds, heigh-ho!
was his quotation for the day.

In Indian Village it was customary for neighbors to celebrate with neighbors, and there were numerous at-home parties. For those who liked elbow-to-elbow conviviality, there was a late-night get-together at the clubhouse: light supper, champagne at midnight, no paper hats, no noisemakers. Earlier, Qwilleran and Polly and two other couples would dine with the Exbridges.

Don Exbridge, the X in XYZ Enterprises, was the developer responsible for Indian Village, and he and his new wife lived in Building One. They had a double unit, said to be quite posh, with gold faucets and all that. Qwilleran wondered if the Exbridges’ windows rattled when the wind blew,
heigh-ho,
as they did in Building Five. He wondered if the floors bounced like trampolines, and if the Exbridges could hear the plumbing next door. He enjoyed a recurring fantasy: The K Fund would buy Indian Village—the only planned, upscale community in the county—then tear it down and build it right.

* * *

The Exbridges proved to be charming hosts, and the dinner was excellent. They had a cook and houseman in addition to gold faucets. Qwilleran kept his ear tuned to the fenestration, but there was no rattle even when the wind swayed the trees frighteningly. As for the floors, they were hardwood with Oriental rugs—not plywood with wall-to-wall carpet. The plumbing was discreetly quiet.

There was much conversation about the theft of the bridge club’s money. The new clubhouse manager, Lenny Inchpot, had been questioned by the police; the money jar was kept in a cabinet in his office. Also questioned were officers of the clubhouse association and the maintenance crew of the building. All agreed there was too much casual traffic in and out. The premises were available for rental, and there were catered parties, lectures, classes, art exhibits, and the like. There was a TV lounge, and there was a room with exercise equipment. Anyone could walk in and watch a soap opera or pump a little iron. There was even a cash bar during certain hours. Locking the doors and issuing keys to members would be the first move.

When the time came to ring in the New Year, scores of residents converged on the clubhouse. The main hall had the air of a ski lodge, with a lofty wood-paneled ceiling, exposed beams, and a big stone fireplace. Windows overlooked the floodlighted woods, enchanting in winter white. Indoor trees and baskets of ferns, with all the green perfection of plastic, were banked in corners. Silver letters were strung across the chimney breast spelling H-A-P-P-Y N-E-W Y-E-A-R.

Since dress was optional, it ranged from jeans to black tie. Polly was wearing her terra-cotta suit, admired by everyone, and Qwilleran was in suit and tie. He and Arch had considered wearing their baseball ties, but their women vetoed it; the Exbridges would not be amused. Amanda Goodwinter was there in her thirty-year-old dinner dress; she considered large parties an abomination but attended for commercial and political reasons. A husky man who looked dapper in a double-breasted suit wore a large lapel button inscribed: HIT ME! I’M THE WEATHER GUY!

Willard Carmichael and his houseguest wore dinner jackets. Danielle was spectacular in a low-cut, high-cut cocktail sheath, leading Arch Riker to mumble, “You’d think a banker could afford to buy his wife something longer.”

“At least she has good legs,” Qwilleran mumbled in reply, “but she makes Lynette look like a prison matron.”

In a navy blue taffeta shirtdress with her grandmother’s jewelry, Lynette had dined with the Carmichaels. She reported that Willard had prepared a delicious beef Wellington; Danielle’s cousin was adorable; his deep voice gave her goosebumps; even his name was romantic: Carter Lee James. All the women were talking about him, she said.

For several years Qwilleran had been the pick of Pickax, as far as eligible bachelors were rated. One woman had donated fifteen hundred dollars to charity for the privilege of having dinner with him. Although he appreciated compliments on his writing, the adulation centering around his moustache was cloying. He would be glad to share his lionization with the new fair-haired boy in town.

When Lynette pointed him out, Qwilleran recognized him as the man who had been measuring the MacMurchie house; his voice was indeed ingratiatingly pleasant. He had blond hair, medium good looks, and a relaxed way with strangers, young and old, men and women. Compared to his blockbuster cousin, he seemed quite acceptable by Pickax standards.

“His hair’s bleached,” Amanda muttered to Qwilleran.

Polly said, “He has a frank, boyish way of looking at one that’s quite disarming.”

Lynette said, “All his shirts and sweaters are monogrammed.”

“How do you know?” Qwilleran asked.

“He’s been playing bridge with us, and I had the three of them to Sunday brunch once. Carter Lee is crazy about my house!”

Danielle was in a giddy mood. Her electronic laugh frequently pierced the even level of background conversation.

Her husband, too, was in high spirits, saying, “That suit looks fabulous on you, Polly!. . . Hixie baby, we’ve gotta do lunch. . . Qwill, my wife wants me to grow a moustache like yours. Don’t you think I’m more the Charlie Chaplin type?”

Hixie Rice grabbed Qwilleran’s arm. “An anonymous donor has sent a check for fifteen hundred to cover the theft from the money jar! It’s drawn on a Chicago bank. Does that mean it’s from the Klingenschoen Foundation?”

“Don’t ask me,” he said. “They never tell me anything.”

She was circulating with a tape recorder, collecting New Year’s resolutions for the monthly newsletter,
The Other Village Voice.
Qwilleran told her he was going to write a book. Mildred declared she would lose thirty pounds. Polly resolved to find a playmate for Bootsie. Lynette, the confirmed single, amused bystanders by saying, “This is the year I get married.” Danielle was determined to buy a kinkajou. Her husband said he was determined to get his wife pregnant.

Then Wetherby Goode surprised the crowd by sitting down at the piano and playing cocktail music, while Danielle surprised them further by singing ballads.

Lynette said, “I didn’t know Wetherby could play.”

Polly said, “I didn’t know Danielle could sing.”

“She can’t,” Qwilleran muttered as he returned to the buffet for seconds. Standing in line behind Amanda, he said, “I didn’t hear your New Year’s resolution.”

“They wouldn’t print mine,” she said grouchily. “I’m campaigning to eliminate those family newsletters that people do on home computers and send out instead of Christmas cards! Whatever happened to those beautiful reproductions of Raphael and Murillo? All we get is a long, sickening report on family reunions, weddings, scholarships, vacations, holes-in-one, and new babies! Who cares if Uncle Charlie was elected president of the bowling club? I never even heard of Uncle Charlie!”

“You’re absolutely right!” Qwilleran liked to encourage her tirades. “They never tell you that Junior was kicked out of college for cheating, and Daddy lost his job, and Cousin Fred was arrested for driving while impaired.”

“Next year,” she said, with a conspiratorial punch in his ribs, “you and I will make up a phoney newsletter that’s nothing but bad news, and we’ll send it to every name in the Pickax phone book!”

“We’ll sign it: Ronald Frobnitz and family,” he said.

Later, Riker asked him, “What were you two talking about? No one’s seen her laugh since George Breze ran for mayor and got two votes!”

“Just nonsense,” Qwilleran said. “You know Amanda.”

Then Willard Carmichael approached him. “Qwill, have you met Danielle’s cousin yet?”

“I’ve been watching for an opportunity, but he’s always surrounded.”

“Come with me. We’ll bust in.”

The visiting celebrity stood with his back to the fireplace, answering questions calmly and modestly.

“Excuse me,” Willard said loudly. “Carter Lee’s visit won’t be complete until he shakes hands with the hand that writes the ‘Qwill Pen’ column.”

The group moved aside, and the two men gripped hands heartily.

“Welcome to Moose County,” Qwilleran said. “I hope you brought your snowshoes.”

“Snow or no snow, I’m glad to be here,” the visitor said with sincerity. “I’ve been reading your column. Let me compliment you.”

“Thank you. Perhaps we could arrange an interview in the coming week. I understand you have some interesting proposals to make.”

“Well, I have to be in Detroit for a few days to finish up some business, but then I’ll return, and we’ll see what happens.”

Willard said, “I’ll be down there at the same time, and I’ll make sure he comes back. We need him.”

Mildred, overhearing them, said, “Willard, how can you miss the first dinner of the gourmet society? It was all your idea!”

“I feel worse than you do,” he said, “but I have to attend a seminar. Technology is advancing at such a breakneck speed that bankers have to go back to school every year.”

Danielle said, “He wanted me to go with him, but it would be so boring!”

The conversation was interrupted by an announcement by Wetherby Goode in his radio voice: “Who wants to bring in the New Year? To guarantee good luck in the next twelve months, the first one to enter the building after the stroke of twelve has to be a male—cat, dog, or human.”

“Bosh!” a woman’s voice shouted.

“It’s an old custom, Amanda. You know that.”

“Well, you brought in the New Year last January, and we had a hurricane, an explosion on Main Street, and a financial disaster!”

“Take a vote!” Hixie yelled above the hubbub of dissension.

“Okay,” Wetherby said, “all in favor of a female bringing in the New Year?. . . ”

“Yea!” chorused all the women present.

“Opposed?”

The men thundered an overwhelming negative.

“Why not alternate?” Qwilleran shouted.

“Now there’s a man with some sense!” said Amanda, starting for the exit. “As a member of the city council, I consider it my duty to bring in the New Year.”

There were protests.

“Let her go!” said a man who had opposed her in the last election—and lost. “Maybe she’ll catch pneumonia.”

The women booed.

“Amanda, take your coat,” Wetherby cautioned. “The wind chill is thirty below!”

The commotion subsided as everyone waited for the magic hour. Champagne corks were popping. The big clock over the bar was ticking. Wetherby was counting down the seconds. The hands reached twelve, and the crowd shouted “Happy New Year!”

Wetherby Goode played “Auld Lang Syne” as the new year was ushered in by Amanda Goodwinter. And Qwilleran, with the instincts of a veteran reporter, went around asking for prognostications for the coming twelve months.

“We’ll see a sudden end to thievery at the local level,” Riker predicted.

“Our First Annual Ice Festival will be a whopping success!” Hixie declared.

“Carter Lee’s plans for Pleasant Street will be a national sensation,” Willard said.

As the guests started bundling into their stormwear and trooping out into the snow, firecrackers and gunshots could be heard in the distance. Everyone was happy, except Carter Lee James. He discovered his lambskin car coat had been taken from the coatroom.

* * *

The New Year’s Eve incident was reported to the police, and the residents of Indian Village were in a furor. They were embarrassed that it had happened to a visitor from Down Below—and worried that he might decide not to return—and indignant that two such incidents had occurred in their squeaky-clean neighborhood. Qwilleran tried to discuss the matter with Brodie but was brushed off—a sure indication that the police were on the trail of a suspect.

Qwilleran had his own suspicions. George Breze had recently moved into the Village. With his red cap, overalls, and noisy pickup truck, he was an incongruous figure in the white-collar community. On Sandpit Road outside Pickax he had an empire of marginal commercial ventures behind a chain-link fence. It was under seven feet of snow in winter, and only the “office” was accessible—a shack with a pot-bellied stove. Yet in both winter and summer it was a hangout for kids. When the police dropped in from time to time, the kids were always reading comic books and playing checkers, and Red Cap was busy at his desk. On the same property was a large Federal-style house where Breze had lived with his wife until recently, when she went off with a hoe-down fiddle-player from Squunk Corners. That was when he moved to Indian Village.

Qwilleran had a strong desire to investigate this lead, considering Red Cap a latter-day Fagin, but he had to postpone extracurricular activity and work on the “Qwill Pen.” Finding subject matter in winter was a greater problem than in summer, and this year he had encountered a few dead ends. The dowsing story was on hold until spring thaw; a piece on mushroom-growing had hit a credibility snag; it was too soon to write about the Ice Festival; Carter Lee was not ready.

In a quandary, Qwilleran paced back and forth across a floor that bounced more than usual. Suddenly there was a crash near the front door, and two cats fled from the foyer, either frightened or guilty. He had hung his snowshoes on the foyer wall, with their tails crossed, and the Siamese had ventured to investigate something new.