The Cat Who Sniffed Glue (12 page)

"Please, no soliloquy, Qwill. I called to tell you that the victims were three teenagers from Chipmunk, and one of them was Chad Lanspeak!"
Qwilleran was silent as he sorted out his reactions and groped for words.
"I know it's going to be rough on Carol and Larry," Fran went on, "but here's the significance of the accident. Dad says it winds up the Fitch case! The other two kids were the prime suspects!"
Still he said nothing. "Qwill, have you gone back to sleep?"
"Sorry, Fran, I haven't had my coffee yet. I'll have to think about this for a while. We'll talk about it later."
He replaced the phone gently and touched his moustache almost reverently. It was tingling as it did in moments of intuitive premonition. It was telling him that the car-train accident, no matter what others might say, had no bearing on the investigation of the Fitch murders.
ACT ONE-CURTAIN
INTERMISSION
FOLLOWING THE DEATH of the prime suspects, the concerned citizens of Moose County were noticeably relieved. It was over! Everyone knew the homicide detective had returned to his headquarters in the state capital.
Furthermore, it was June, and they had weddings, graduations, parades, fireworks, picnics, family reunions, and camping trips to think about. Conversation in the coffee shops returned to normal: the weather, fishing conditions off Purple Point, and the selection of a beauty queen for the Fishhook Festival in Mooseville.
Qwilleran alone failed to share their relief. The state detective, he told himself, had left town to catch the real criminals off-guard. It might take time, but someone, somewhere, would be deluded into a false sense of security. Someone would return to the scene of the crime. Someone would talk too freely in a bar. Someone would inform the police.
An uneasy sensation on Qwilleran's upper lip convinced him that the final curtain had not fallen on the Fitch murder case.
ACT TWO
-Scene One-
Place: Qwilleran's apartment; later,
Stephanie's restaurant
Time: Late afternoon on the day following the car-train accident
QWILLERAN sat at the big desk in his cork-lined studio, writing a letter of condolence to Carol and Larry Lanspeak. The Siamese were sitting on his desk in parallel poses - Yum Yum waiting to grab a paper clip and Koko hoping to lick a stamp, a quarter inch of pink tongue protruding in anticipation.
Yum Yum had leaped to the desktop first, arranging her parts in a tall, compact column. She sat on her haunches with forelegs elegantly straight, forepaws close together, tail wrapped around her toes clockwise. Koko followed suit, arranging himself alongside the female in an identical pose, even to the direction of the tail. They were almost like twins, Qwilleran thought, although Koko's strong body and noble head and intelligent eyes and imperious mien gave him a masterful aura that could not be mistaken.
"I feel sorry for the Lanspeaks," he said to the
Siamese. His voice sounded rich and mellow, thanks to the cork wallcovering, and the cats liked a rich, mellow, male voice. "I can provide Chad's alibi for the night of the murder, but the Chipmunk stigma will always link him to the killers in the public memory. As the saying goes... 'lie down with dogs; get up with fleas.' "
Koko scratched his ear in sympathetic agreement. "I'm not convinced that the Chipmunk hoodlums killed Harley; there are too many alternatives. I may be beating the drum for an unpopular cause, but I'm going to follow my instincts." He groomed his moustache with his fingertips.
"Harley disappeared for a year after graduation, and no one really knows where he went or what he was doing. He could have been mixed up in almost anything. Just because he was an admirable figure in Pickax, it doesn't follow that he played that role out of town. He was a versatile actor, and he liked to play against type. That Boris Karloff bit he was rehearsing was his kind of number."
Koko blinked in apparent acquiescence; Yum Yum maintained her wide-eyed, baffled, blue stare.
"His year of sowing wild oats, if that's what it was, could have led to blackmail. He could have made enemies. He might have experimented with drugs and become involved with a drug ring. And a sexual escapade with some questionable character, male or female, is not beyond the realm of possibility."
Both cats squeezed their eyes, as if this were heady stuff.
"There's no telling what a young man will do when he cuts loose from his family and hometown. He might have run up gambling debts that he couldn't pay. It was odd that he married Belle in Las Vegas instead of at the Old Stone Church."
Qwilleran was swiveling his chair back and forth as he spoke. Abruptly he stopped and caressed his moustache. "And another possibility! David may have been a silent partner in Harley's adventure. Their grandfather was a bootlegger. Rumrunners from Canada used to land their goods on his beach. Perhaps something else has been landing on that beach. David's house would make a good look-out station."
Both cats now had their eyes closed and were swaying slightly.
"I hope I haven't bored you," he said. "I was just airing a few theories."
He finished writing his note to the Lanspeaks. His messages of sympathy were always beautifully worded; a sincere fellow-feeling had always been one of his assets as a newspaper reporter.
As he was addressing the envelope the telephone rang, and he swiveled to reach it on the table behind him. It was a call from Iris Cobb, manager of the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum. In her usual cheery voice she asked, "Would you like to come over and see the museum, Mr. Q, before it opens to the public? You could come to dinner, and I'd make pot roast and mashed potatoes and that coconut cake you like."
"Invitation accepted, Mrs. Cobb," he replied promptly, "provided the coconut cake has apricot filling."
She had been his housekeeper when he and the Siamese lived in the big house, and the old formality of address still existed between them. It was always "Mr. Q" and "Mrs. Cobb."
"You could bring Koko and Yum Yum," she suggested, "I miss the little dears, and they'd enjoy prowling around this big place after being cooped up in your apartment."
"Are you sure they'd be welcome in the museum?"
"Oh, yes, they never do any damage."
"Except for an occasional ten thousand-dollar vase," Qwilleran reminded her. "What day did you have in mind?"
"How about Sunday at six o'clock?"
"We'll be there!" He made a mental note to buy a pink silk scarf at Lanspeak's. Pink was Mrs. Cobb's favorite color. He missed his former housekeeper's cooking. Now, as live-in manager of the museum, she had one wing of the farmhouse as a private apartment - with a large kitchen, she said. The invitation sounded promising.
Qwilleran turned back to his desk and found the desktop strewn with paper clips; the envelope he had been addressing was gone, and two cats were missing. A telltale slurping under the desk led him to Koko and a limp, sticky envelope.
"Okay, you scoundrels," he said as he crawled under the desk. "I consider this antisocial behavior. Shape up, or you'll get no pot roast on Sunday."
When the telephone rang a second time, he stowed the envelope in a drawer. It was five o'clock, and he knew who would be on the line.
"I'm about to leave the studio, Qwill. Do you mind if I drop in to check on Pete's work?"
"Sure, come along, Fran. It's a big success. The cork gives the room a good acoustical quality."
"I knew it would, and your voice sounds perfectly magnificent!" she said. "See you in five minutes." She sounded gayer than usual.
Francesca has been to lunch with a client, Qwilleran thought. To the Siamese he said, "She's coming for a drink, and I don't want anybody grabbing her ankle or stealing her personal property."
Shortly after, the designer turned her own key in the lock downstairs and bounced up to the apartment in high spirits.
"Scotch?" he asked. I "Make it light. I had a lo-o-ong lunch date with a new client. Don Exbridge! I'm doing his new condo in Indian Village."
Qwilleran huffed silently into his moustache. The recently divorced Exbridge was a developer and one of the most eligible catches in town; women melted at his smile.
They carried their drinks into the studio, and Qwilleran sat at his writing desk while Francesca curled up in the big lounge chair where he did his creative thinking and I occasionally a little catnapping. She curled up with more abandon than usual, he noted. He said, "The cork walls were a good choice for this room, Fran."
"Thank you. Pete did a great job. He always does."
"Even with mitered stripes?"
"Ah! The Brrr Blabbermouth has been telling tales!" she said with a grimace. "That stripe job was one of my early mistakes. At lunch today Don Exbridge asked for plaid wall covering in his den, and I vetoed it in a hurry. I told him his whole condo development is out-of-square. He just smiled his enchanting smile. He's very easy to get along with. We're going to Chicago to choose some things for his place."
Qwilleran frowned. "When are you and I flying Down Below to choose my bedroom furnishings?"
Fran reacted with surprise and pleasure. "How about next week? There's a new king-size four-poster I want you to see."
"I don't want anything that looks as if George Washington slept in it," he objected.
"This bed is contemporary. Stainless-steel posts with brass finials. And there are some new case pieces from Germany that you'll like-very neo-Bauhaus. Do you mind if I make the hotel reservations? I know a cozy place near the showroom district - expensive, but it'll go on your bill, and it won't hurt a bit. How about next Wednesday? If we catch the morning shuttle to Minneapolis, we can be in Chicago for lunch."
Qwilleran thought, When Polly finds out about this, it will be the coup de grace.
Fran said, "What else did Big Mouth tell you?"
"About the pink elephants and red velvet that he installed for Harley and Belle. Was that one of your mistakes?"
"NO!" she thundered in her best stage voice. "My boss handled that transaction. Amanda will sell clients anything they want, whether it's bad taste or utterly impractical or illegal. She's corrupt, but I like her."
"Arch Riker is going to marry Amanda."
"I hope he has a sense of humor. He'll need it!"
"Have you heard how the bank will replace Nigel and the boys?"
"Nothing official, but the rumor is that two women officers will be elevated to VP, and a new president will come in from Down Below. I hope he'll need an interior designer."
"Where were you when you heard about the suicide?" he asked.
"At the hairdresser's. Everyone cried. People really loved Nigel. He was so suave and good-looking and charming!"
"I was having dinner at the Old Stone Mill," Qwilleran said, "and one of the waitresses dropped a tray when she heard the news. I presume Nigel was suave, good-looking, charming, and a big tipper."
"Now you're playing the cynical journalist. Bravo!" she said. "Did you hear that Margaret's place on the library board is going to be filled by Don Exbridge?"
Qwilleran grunted in disapproval. Exbridge was the developer who had tried to have the historic courthouse demolished. He said, "Exbridge will convince the city to tear down our historic public library, so he can build a new one for $9.9 million."
"Now you're being vicious as well as cynical!" There was an amused glint in her steely, gray eyes. She liked to goad him. "Don would also like to replace Nigel on the Klingenschoen board of trustees."
"Perfect!" Qwilleran said. "He can manipulate Klingenschoen grants to buy political favors, like rezoning, tax abatement, sewers, and other benefits for his private enterprises... May I freshen your drink? Then we'll go to Stephanie's for dinner." Mischievously he added, "I heard some curious news last week. I heard that Harley disappeared for a year after finishing college." He knew it would ruffle her.
"He didn't disappear! He traveled for a year. For centuries young men have taken the grand tour before settling down. Nothing unusual about that!" She was on the defensive now.
"The consensus is that he did something unconventional during his year of freedom."
"Stupid gossip!" she said testily.
"Did he travel by plane, motorcycle, or camel?"
"Frankly, I never thought it important to ask."
"Did he discuss his itinerary?"
"The Fitches would consider it tacky to bore people with their travels. And he didn't bring home any color slides or French postcards or plastic replicas of the Taj Mahal.... What am I getting? The third degree?"
"Sorry... How's David? Have you seen him, or talked with him?"
"I talk to Jill on the phone every day," Fran said, relaxing after her brief flurry of annoyance. "She thinks David's on the verge of a breakdown. They're going away for a few weeks-to a quiet place in South America where they spent their honeymoon."
"I suppose David will inherit everything."
"I really don't know." She looked at her watch. "The restaurant stops serving at nine o'clock."
"Okay, let's go... as soon as I feed the cats."
"Did you ever find my cigarette lighter?"
"No, but Mr. O'Dell has been alerted to look for it when he cleans."
The Siamese had retired to their apartment and were studiously watching birds from the windowsill. Qwilleran put a plate of tenderloin tips on a placemat in their bathroom, turned on the TV without the audio, and quietly shut the door to their apartment.
On the drive to Stephanie's he said, "Is it true that Harley's grandfather was a bootlegger?" He expected another indignant rebuttal.
"Yes!" she said with delight. "He believed people were-going to drink anyway, and if he smuggled in good stuff from Canada, they wouldn't go blind from drinking rotgut. He didn't believe in Prohibition, income tax, or corsets for women."
The draped tables at Stephanie's were placed in the original rooms of the old house, and Qwilleran and his guest were seated in the second parlor. The late sun was still beaming through the stained-glass windows, turning the beveled mirrors and wine glasses into rainbows. Over dinner they discussed the new theater.
Qwilleran said, "They're installing the seats this week. It should be available for rehearsals in August. Do you still want to open with an original revue?"
"Well..." Fran said indecisively, "under the circumstances we thought of doing a serious play and asking David to take a role. Something challenging and worthwhile might renew his interest in life. He's so depressed that Jill is afraid he'll follow his father's example."
Qwilleran thought, If David is involved in the situation that led to Harley's execution, he has good reason to be depressed. He could be the next victim. To Fran he said, "Do you have any particular play in mind? Nothing Russian, I hope; it would push him over the brink."