The Cat Who Went Underground (22 page)

When the investigators were ready to question him, he motioned them to the pair of white sofas, but the suggestion made the occasion too social. The red-headed detective from the state police post in Pickax preferred to sit at the dining table, and the sheriffs deputy preferred to remain standing. The table was cluttered as usual with writing paraphernalia: typewriter, papers, books, files, pens and pencils, scissors, staple gun, paper clips, and rubber cement – plus the recent addition of a faded pink brocade candybox adorned with a lacy heart. It caught the detective’s attention, and Qwilleran thought, Let him make of that what he will.

Everyone in Moose County knew the Klingenschoen name, the Klingenschoen property, the identity of the Klingenschoen heir, and the size and droop of his moustache. Nevertheless, the detective asked routine questions in a polite, non-threatening way, and Qwilleran answered promptly and briefly.

“Your full name, sir?”

“James Qwilleran, spelled with a w. No initial.”

“May I see your driver’s license?” The detective accepted it and handed it back with barely a glance at the moustache on the card and the moustache on the face.

“What is your legal address?”

“Number 315 Park Circle, Pickax.”

“How long have you resided at that address?”

“Two years and one month.”

“Where did you live before that?”

“Chicago, New York, Washington, San Francisco…”

“You moved around, Mr. Qwilleran. What kind of work did you do?”

“I was a journalist assigned to various bureaus.”

“What is your occupation now?”

“Semi-retired, but I write for the Moose County Something.”

“What are you doing in Mooseville?”

“My plan is – or was – to spend the summer months here.”

“Have you changed your plans now?”

“It will depend on the weather.”

“When did you arrive?”

“About three weeks ago.”

“Is anyone else living here, Mr. Qwilleran?”

“Two Siamese cats.”

“Do you own this property?”

“I’m heir to the property, which is currently held in trust by the Klingenschoen estate.”

“What was your connection with Ignatius Small?”

“I hired him to build an addition to the cabin.”

“How long have you known him, Mr. Qwilleran?”

“About ten days.”

They were routine questions designed to put him off-guard, and Qwilleran was waiting for the old one-two. Finally it was delivered: “Who buried him under your house?”

“I have no idea,” said Qwilleran without missing a beat. “I would have preferred Mr. Small to be buried elsewhere, and I imagine your men feel the same way.”

“When was the last time you saw him, Mr. Qwilleran?”

“Tuesday morning.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“He reported for work shortly before I left to have lunch in town. He said he was going to start framing the windows, and I paid him in advance for the day’s work.”

“Did you pay him in cash?”

“Yes.”

“What was the amount?”

Qwilleran reached for a notebook on the table. “Fifty-five dollars.”

“Were you expecting any other workmen on Tuesday?”

“No.”

“And where were you between the time you left for the lunch and the time you found the body?”

“I had lunch with friends – John Bushland and Roger MacGillivray at the FOO. Then we boarded Bushland’s boat and went out to Three Tree Island. For some fishing,” he added. “But a storm came up, and we lost our boat. After being marooned for several hours, we were rescued by the sheriffs helicopter. All of this is on record in the Morning Rampage and Daily Fluxion.”

“When did you return to this house?”

“About four hours ago.”

“Where were you between the hour of your rescue and your return this morning?”

“In the Pickax Hospital under the care of Dr. Halifax.”

“Have you any knowledge of what happened in your absence?”

“I certainly have! A tornado wrecked the new addition I was building.”

“How did you happen to find the body?”

“My male cat was acting suspiciously, scratching the floor and trying to get down into the crawl space. I opened the trap door to see what was bothering him, and he jumped into the hole and refused to come out, so I left him under the floor and went to lunch.”

There was a sharp cry from the guestroom. Koko knew he was the subject of the discussion.

“How long were you gone?”

“About an hour.”

“And what happened when you returned?”

“The female was making a fuss about the male being underground, so I opened the trap door and found him digging in the sand and growling. I went after him and discovered he had disinterred a foot.”

The trooper turned to the sheriff, who exhibited a chrome flashlight in a clear plastic bag. “Have you seen this flashlight before, Mr. Qwilleran?”

“It’s a common style, but it looks like the one I was using in the crawl space until it suddenly blacked out. Dead battery.”

The sheriff removed the flashlight from its bag gingerly and pressed the thumb-switch; the light flashed on.

Qwilleran shrugged. “Well, that’s the way they manufacture everything these days.”

“When you came home from the hospital, Mr. Qwilleran, did you find the plywood panel nailed up as it is now?”

“Exactly.”

“Is that how you left it on Tuesday?”

“Exactly.”

“When you left on Tuesday, did you lock the door?”

“Yes. I always take great care to lock up.”

“Does anyone else have a key?”

“I subscribe to the Glinko service, so they have a key. Also, there’s a spare hidden on the screened porch in case I lose my keycase or lock myself out.”

“Where is it?”

“Follow me.”

They trooped out to the porch where Riker was waiting patiently and straining his ears to hear. Qwilleran – with a wink at the editor – reached toward the top of the doorframe.

“Don’t touch it,” said.the sheriff, and he climbed up to look. “It’s not here,”

he announced.

“Look under the doormat,” Qwilleran suggested.

“Not there either,” said the deputy.

“That’s unusual.”

The detective made a note. “Are you going to be around for a while, Mr. Qwilleran?”

“Around where?”

“Here at this address.”

“I may move back to Pickax if the weather doesn’t improve.”

“Please keep us informed of your whereabouts. You might be able to help us further. And we’d appreciate it if you’d come in for prints, to check against those we’ve found… One more thing,” he added, glancing over his shoulder at Riker. “Please don’t discuss this case with anyone.”

Taking the flashlight, beer can, mudrug, and other evidence in plastic bags, the officers left, only to be intercepted by the editor, who fired questions.

Meanwhile Qwilleran released the long-suffering animals from their prison.

“You’ve lost your rug,” he said to Koko.

He poured a double Scotch for his friend, a glass of white grape juice for himself, and a saucer of the same for Koko. “Care to wet your whiskers?” he asked as he placed the saucer on the floor.

The police cars soon pulled away, and the editor shambled into the cabin, dropping disconsolately on a sofa. “They wouldn’t talk.”

“Just tell your readers that the police are investigating.”

“You dirty rat! For this I walked half a mile up your drive in rain and mud?”

“If a dead body turned up in your basement,” Qwilleran told his old friend, “you too would keep your mouth shut.”

“They don’t suspect you, do they?”

“They suspect everyone, including the little green men in the UFOs.”

“I’m your oldest friend,” Riker continued persuasively. “You’ve always discussed cases with me.”

“Heretofore, I was never personally involved. This is the first time I’ve had a dead body of my own. But I’ll tell you one thing: Someone around here hates carpenters!”

The editor drained his glass and stood up. “How do you feel about carpenters, Qwill?”

“The same way I feel about editors. There are times when I’ve wanted to kill them!”

It was still raining, and Qwilleran drove Riker to his car parked on the highway. “How about having dinner somewhere tonight, scout?”

“Well, it’s like this,” said Riker. “My horoscope in today’s Rampage said I’d resume relations with an estranged friend, so I’m taking Amanda to dinner tonight.”

When Qwilleran returned to the cabin, he took care of one small detail. He reached into the lograck on the porch and withdrew a doorkey. After eradicating Mildred’s fingerprints and replacing them with plenty of his own, he returned the key to its niche in a hollow log. Then he telephoned Mildred. “How’s Roger?”

“He’s one sick boy. Sharon is at the hospital now, and I’m keeping the baby. How do you feel?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” The murder had not yet been announced on the radio, and Qwilleran had no intention of breaking the news. “Do you have today’s papers from Down Below?” he asked her.

“I have the Fluxion.”

“What’s my horoscope for today?”

“Hold the line. I’ll get it.” There was a rustling of newspaper pages. “Here it is. For Gemini it says, ‘Don’t complain about the lack of excitement today. Take a trip! Visit a friend! Do something you’ve been wanting to do.’ How about that?”

After thanking Mildred and hanging up, Qwilleran pondered the advice for a while and telephoned Bushy, but the answering machine said that he and Vicki had gone back to Lockmaster and could be reached there. He found the photographer’s business card and dialed the number. Bushy answered, sounding none the worse for a night on Three Tree.

“How are you doing?” Qwilleran asked.

“I’m so glad to be warm and dry and alive, I’m walking two feet off the ground. How about you?”

“No more than nineteen inches.”

“That’s true, you lost part of your house, didn’t you? How were the cats when you got home?”

“They were in good shape. Mildred had fed them an epicurean menu.”

“Don’t forget, you’re going to bring them down here for a studio portrait. How about tonight? It’s only an hour’s drive. We can talk about Three Tree. It’ll do us both good to get it off our chests.”

Qwilleran agreed. After all, his horoscope had suggested it.

“How would you like to go for a ride?” he asked the Siamese as he thawed two cartons of beef stew for his dinner and theirs. “You can have your picture taken by a professional photographer and entered in a calendar contest. You’ll win hands-down.”

They approached their share of the feast fastidiously, gobbling the meat and licking up the gravy but leaving the carrot and potato and onion high and dry on the rim of the plate. Then they washed up in perfect unison like a well-rehearsed chorus line: lick-the-paw three four… over-the-nose three four… over-the-ear three four. When the wicker picnic hamper appeared, they hopped into it and settled on the down-filled cushion as if they knew they were about to pose for calendar art. By the time they reached Lockmaster they were both comfortably asleep.

The lumber barons’ mansions in Lockmaster had been lavished with turrets, gables, oriel windows, and verandas. Now they housed a funeral home, a museum, two insurance companies, three real estate agencies, a clinic, and the Bushland Photo Studio.

Bushy and his wife met Qwilleran at the door and clutched him in a triangular embrace as if the ordeal had made them old friends.

Vicki said, with tears in her eyes, “I was almost out of my mind Tuesday night.”

“At least you were warm and dry,” Qwilleran reminded her.

“It’s amazing that you and Bushy pulled through better than Roger, although he’s much younger.”

Bushy said, “Roger is anemic. He needs a good slug of red wine every day. My mother was Italian, and that was her cure for everything. Why didn’t I rub some on my head?”

“Bring the cats into the studio, Qwill,” said Vicki.

The front parlor was furnished in updated Victorian, to provide quaint settings for contemporary photos. Qwilleran set down the hamper in front of the marble fireplace and opened the lid. Everyone was quiet, waiting for the Siamese to emerge, but not so much as an ear appeared above the rim of the hamper.

Qwilleran peered into its depths and found both cats curled up like a single fur pillow with heads, legs, and tails tucked out of sight.

“Wake up!” he shouted at them. “You’re on camera!”

Two heads materialized from the fur pillow – Koko bright-eyed and instantly alert, Yum Yum groggy and cross-eyed.

Bushy said, “Let’s go in the other room and have a drink and leave them to get familiar with the place.”

For the next half hour he and Qwilleran relived the horrors of the island experience.

“Now that I recall,” Qwilleran said, “I pulled through with more fortitude than I showed when there was a dead spider in the Komfort-Heet.”

Bushy said, “I felt a kind of inner force fighting the cold.”

The more they talked, the less horrifying it became. The ironic humor of the situation emerged. They could laugh about it and probably would, for years to come. When they returned to the front parlor to start the photo session, the Siamese were still asleep in the bottom of the hamper.

“Okay, you guys, cooperate!” Qwilleran said. He reached in with both hands and grasped Koko about the middle, thinking to lift him out, but Koko’s claws hooked into the wicker and could not be dislodged.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, putting his hands gently under Yum Yum’s body, but she also had eighteen functional hooks that engaged the open weave of the hamper. “I’m going to need help,” he said.

Vicki reached into the hamper, murmuring soothing words, and carefully unhooked Yum Yum’s left paw from the wicker while Qwilleran did the same for the right paw. Then they lifted, but her rear claws were firmly anchored. By the time they disengaged the rear end, the front end was again attached to the hamper.

Qwilleran’s back was beginning to ache. He stood up, stretched his spine, and took a few deep breaths. “There must be a way,” he said. “Three intelligent adults can’t be outwitted by two cats who don’t have university degrees and don’t even have drivers’ licenses.”