The Cat Who Went Underground (25 page)

“All I know is what I hear on the radio. The police don’t confide in me.”

“But you must have some noodles of your own.” Nick knew that Qwilleran’s suspicions had paid off in the past.

“I don’t know. I’m up a tree. Someone must have had a key to get in and bury the body. I subscribe to the Glinko service, and all their service personnel have access to my key – and God knows who else can borrow it. What do you know about the Glinko operation, Nick? Is it all legal and aboveboard?”

“As far as I know.”

“They’re raking in the dough – dues from summer people and commissions from their workers. What do they do with all their money? They live like paupers.”

“They’ve got a lot of expenses,” Nick said, “what with three kids in college, one of them in Harvard.”

Qwilleran tried not to appear stunned. “Harvard, did you say? Harvard University?”

“Those eastern schools don’t come cheap.”

Qwilleran put the bourbon bottle and ice bucket on the coffee table. “Help yourself, Nick.”

“Are you going to stay in Mooseville?” the young man asked.

“If the weather doesn’t get any worse.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the weather.”

“What’s on your mind? Out with it!”

Nick hesitated before saying, “I think you’d be wise to pack up the cats and beat it back to Pickax. We have some riffraff around here, and I’ve heard some nasty rumblings. Don’t forget, I work at the state prison, and there’s no better place to hear rumblings.”

Qwilleran stroked his moustache. Cecil had warned him; a small boulder had been aimed at him on Dumpy Road; and there had been several crank calls on the phone.

“What is this riffraff you mention?”

“They hate the summer people, because they think they have money. The chamber of commerce keeps the lid on them in tourist season, but the town has emptied out since the storm, and the troublemakers are more visible. They gang together, get a few drinks, and cut loose. I’m warning you, Qwill. Go back to Pickax tonight!”

“I have yet to run away from a situation, my boy, and I’ve lived through some hairy ones.”

“You’re isolated here. There’s only one driveway and no escape route. They can vandalize the cabin – start a fire – do something to the cats.”

At the mention of the Siamese – Koko perched on the moosehead, Yum Yum looking fragile and precious on the sofa – Qwilleran grew pensive. He was so deep in thought that he jumped when the telephone rang. “Hello?” he said warily.

“Hey, Qwill, this is Gary at the Black Bear,” said the barkeeper.

Qwilleran responded with some surprise. Gary had never phoned him before.

“How’s everything in Mooseville?”

“Apart from the rain, the mosquitoes, and the tornado, everything’s fine.”

“Sorry to hear about Iggy. He wasn’t a bad guy. Dumb, but not bad.”

“Yes, it’s unfortunate,” said Qwilleran with less than his usual verve.

“Are you moving back to Pickax?”

“I haven’t made any plans.”

“I would if I were you,” said Gary, his voice muffled as if he were cupping his hand around the mouthpiece. “A bunch of rowdies are gathering around here, and they’ve got something cooking. Take my advice and get out!… Gotta hang up now.”

Qwilleran replaced the receiver slowly, and Nick observed his mood. “Trouble?” he asked.

“Another warning – from Gary Pratt.”

“See? What did I tell you? If you don’t leave,” Nick said vehemently, “I’m staying here tonight. I’ve got a police radio, and I’m going to block the drive with my RV and sit up with my shotgun.” Without waiting for an objection he dashed out to the clearing and moved his camper. When he returned, he had a portable spotlight, a shotgun, and a rifle. “I’ve alerted the sheriff,” he said.

They ate chili and drank coffee, and Qwilleran recounted his adventure on Three Tree Island, his tribulations with the underground builder, and Koko’s discovery of the body. The sky darkened early at the end of that gloomy day, and he turned on some lamps.

“No lights!” Nick ordered. “And we’ll close the inside shutters.”

The Siamese sensed the mood of watchful waiting; they too watched and waited. As they all sat there in the dark Qwilleran asked, “What do you know about the buried treasure on this property?”

“I’ve heard that rumor all my life. Some think the old man buried jewelry or gold. Some say it was stock certificates that would be worthless now.”

“Has anyone tried to dig it up?”

“Where would they dig? You’ve got about forty acres of woodland here and half a mile of beach.”

“Wouldn’t the crawl space be a logical place to bury the stuff?”

“Hey, man! You’ve got something there,” said Nick. “Gotta shovel?”

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. “Suppose some local person, who guessed the loot might be under the house, lured the carpenter down there with the promise of a split, got him digging for the treasure, hit him on the head after he found it, and pushed him into the hole he had dug!”

“And then left with the whole caboodle! Neat trick!” Nick said.

“If it’s true, it might explain how Iggy’s body got down there. But if it’s true, I suspect it’s only part of the story,” Qwilleran said. “It’s my guess that the murderer is a serial killer operating in Mooseville.”

“What!”

“YOW!” came a voice from the moosehead.

“Koko agrees with me. I contend that the victims were not only my builder but Clem Cottle and Buddy Yarrow and –” He was interrupted by a triple-thump as the cat came down from his lofty perch, growling a gutteral threat.

“What’s that?” Nick snapped. “He hears someone coming up the drive!”

“No, look at him! He’s sniffing the trap door. It’s the same performance he staged before he found Iggy’s body.”

Nick jumped to his feet. “There’s something else down there. Want me to go and see?”

“I’ll go,” Qwilleran said.

“No, I’ll go. I’m smaller.” Nick grabbed his spotlight, threw open the trap door, and slipped through the hole nimbly. Koko streaked after him.

Yum Yum approached the scene cautiously, but Qwilleran intercepted her and shut her up in the guestroom. “Sorry, sweetheart. This is no business for a sensitive cat.”

Down in the crawl space Nick was talking to Koko and getting an occasional “ik ik ik” in reply.

“Find anything?” Qwilleran shouted. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s at the far end,” Nick yelled. “Come on, Koko ol’ boy. Whatcha got over there?”

“YOW!”

“Is he digging?”

“No. Not digging. But excited.” Nick’s voice became more and more remote as he worked his way toward the far end of the crawl space.

The wait seemed interminable. “Any luck?”

There was no answer.

“Nick! What’s going on down there?”

“Hey, Qwill!” shouted a muffled voice. “Come on down here!”

Qwilleran lowered himself through the trap door, thrusting his legs out as he had learned to do, chinning on the edge, then rolling over. The far end of the crawl space was brightly illuminated by the high-powered light. Nick and Koko had progressed as far as they could go. They were up against the fieldstone foundation, the man staring at the floor joists above him and the cat on his hind legs, pawing the air.

Qwilleran scudded across the sand like a lizard, amazed at his own agility, ignoring the cobwebs that clung to his face, and inching through tight spots with only a twelve-inch overhead.

“Get a load of this!” Nick said as Qwilleran approached. “You have to squeeze in between the foundation and the first joist, or you can’t see it. Only a cat could have found it!”

Qwilleran twisted his body into the tight space and looked up as Nick swept his spotlight across the overhead timber. There were marks on the joist, but the wood was dark with age, and they were hard to decipher.

“It’s written in blood!” Nick said. “Koko must have smelled the blood!”

“I was right!” Qwilleran exulted as he spelled out the obscure message. “They were serial killings!”

“YOW!” said Koko, racing across the sand to the trap door and hopping out of the crawl space.

“Let’s get out of this damned hole,” Nick said. “The cobwebs make me itch all over. You bring the spotlight.”

He started to belly-crawl across the sand, and Qwilleran followed with the light, but not until he had reached up and touched the lettering on the joist.

It wasn’t blood; it was lipstick.

The two men brushed the sand off their clothing, then sprawled on the white sofas, talking and drinking coffee and listening for prowlers, their firearms close at hand. The Siamese, sensing the tension, sat on the sofas with their haunches elevated as if ready to spring. Twice the sheriffs helicopter buzzed the shoreline and searchlighted the Klingenschoen property.

At dawn Nick announced he would continue his journey Down Below if Qwilleran would promise to return to the safety of Pickax. “And when are you going to report to the police what we found?”

“As soon as I’ve put some food in my stomach and splashed some cold water on my face,” said Qwilleran, who was adept at inventing false replies when the occasion demanded.

As soon as the camper pulled away from the cabin he telephoned the Glinko night number. “Qwilleran again,” he said with the clipped speech of urgency. “We’ve got a plumbing emergency!”

“Allrighty. I’ll dispatch Ralph,” said Mrs. Glinko as if 5 a.m. emergencies were routine.

“Couldn’t you dispatch Little Joe? She knows the plumbing setup here.”

“Oh, so you want Little Joe, do you?” the woman said with a leering laugh. “You want her in a hurry, eh?”

“The toilet’s backed up,” Qwilleran said sternly.

“Okay, I’ll try to find her. No tellin’ where that babe is shackin’ up now.”

By the time Qwilleran had pacified the Siamese with an early breakfast and had started a blaze in the fireplace to dispel the dawn chill, Joanna’s van pulled into the clearing. Although her attire was never neat, at this hour it looked slept-in, and her eyes were bleary. “Toilet backed up?” she asked with a yawn.

“I have to apologize,” he said. “It was a false alarm. It corrected itself, but I appreciate your quick response, and I’ll pay your bill for an after-hours housecall.”

“I was sleepin’ in my van on the Old Brrr Road when she buzzed me. My house washed out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Will you rebuild?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna build a nice place like this.” She swept admiring eyes over the cabin interior.

“May I offer you some breakfast? Coffee and a cinnamon roll?”

“Sure,” she said, suddenly more awake.

“Or would you prefer an apple turnover?”

“Can I have both?”

“Why not? I can make them in a jiffy. How do you like your coffee?”

Joanna was fascinated by the microwave oven and computerized coffeemaker, and Qwilleran knew how to play the gracious host. They ate at the bar, and she talked about the tornado, and her animals, and how the flood had swept away their cages. When he suggested a second cup of coffee in front of the fire, she hesitated, looking at the white linen sofas and then down at her work clothes.

“I’m too dirty.”

“Not at all. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. And prepare for a surprise.” He handed her Emma Wimsey’s valentine box. “This belonged to your grandmother. Perhaps she never visited you, but she loved you very much. It contains some keepsakes she would want you to have.”

She examined the trinkets and souvenirs in the box and glowed with pleasure. If she found Qwilleran’s sudden hospitality a suspicious right-about-face, she gave no indication. After all, she was having breakfast with the richest man in the county – in a setting that was the epitome of glamor to a resident of Hogback Road.

Qwilleran, on the other hand, dreaded the confrontation that was coming and deplored the means he had taken to accomplish it. Finally he said, “I’m not going to rebuild my new addition. My carpenter was murdered. Did you know he was murdered?”

“Iggy?” she said without surprise.

“Ignatius K. Small was his name. And a few days before that, Clem Cottle disappeared. Yesterday I hiked out Hogback Road to look at the flood damage, and I found Clem’s jacket in the mud near your house.” When she looked bewildered, he added casually, “Clem’s red softball jacket with the rooster on it. How do you suppose it got there?”

“Mmmm… Clem was going to… build a new house for me,” she said uncertainly. “He came out to tell me… how much it would cost.”

In the same conversational tone Qwilleran went on. “Well, I’m afraid you’ve lost a good carpenter. I’m sure Clem is dead. Buddy Yarrow was another fine young man who was killed; he fell in the river near your house. And then there was a carpenter named Mert who disappeared, although they found his truck in a junkyard. And didn’t you tell me your father was a carpenter?” He waited for a reaction but none came. Altering his tone to one of accusation and looking steadily into her eyes, he said, “Doesn’t it seem strange, Joanna, that so many carpenters have died or disappeared? How do you explain it?”

Her eyes shifted as she tried to find an answer. “I don’t know,” she said in a small voice.

“I think you know how Clem’s truck ended up in a ditch on the Old Brrr Road. Did you bury his body on your property?”

Joanna gazed at him, paralyzed with shock.

“And how about Mert? Did you invite him home for a beer and hit him on the head with a lead pipe?”

“NO!” She was looking frightened.

“Did you have the hardware store make a duplicate key to my cabin so you could go down into the crawl space? I think you got Iggy to go down there during the tornado – for safety – and he never came out.”

Her expression changed from fright to menace – she was a big strong girl – and Qwilleran thought it wise to move toward the fireplace in reach of the poker. As he paced back and forth on the hearth he said, “You know all about this, Joanna! Down in the crawl space there’s a list of all five carpenters and the dates they were murdered.”

Her eyes were moving wildly. “I didn’t do it!”

“But you know something about it. Did you have a partner?”

“I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it!”

“The police are going to suspect you because the names in the crawl space are written with your lipstick.”