The Cat Who Tailed a Thief (17 page)

Next he opened the manila envelope from the law office, saw the papers to be signed, grunted an objection, and tossed them into the Procrastination File. He was in no mood for tedious work. He fed the cats, made a sandwich for himself, and determined to spend the evening on his Melville project. It would take his mind off the can of worms that had been opened when Willard Carmichael came to town. Many peculiar things had happened since then. Tomorrow he would go to see Brodie and lay it all out: weird incidents, suspicious developments, hearsay, his own qualms, and even Koko’s recent idiosyncrasies. Meanwhile, he would read.

Qwilleran was reading the Melville novels in chronological order, hoping to trace the author’s development. First, there were the adventure tales, then a comic potboiler, then the advent of symbolism in
Moby-Dick,
then the creeping pessimism and cynicism. Koko was equally fascinated by the books; he knew a good binding when he smelled one! But the cat had his own ideas about the reading sequence. Qwilleran was ready to start volume seven, a story about a writer, titled
Pierre;
Koko wanted him to read volume ten, pushing it off the shelf with his nose. “Thanks, but no thanks,” Qwilleran told him as he opened volume seven. The cat lashed his tail like a bad loser.

At eleven o’clock the Siamese had their bedtime treat. Then the three of them trooped to the balcony, and Qwilleran continued reading in his bedroom. It was about one-thirty when his phone rang—an ungodly hour for anyone to call in Moose County.

His apprehension turned to anger when he heard the voice that he loathed. “Qwill, this is Danielle. I just got a call from Carter Lee. He’s terribly worried, and—”

“What’s wrong?” Qwilleran interrupted gruffly as he felt the unwelcome sensation on his upper lip.

“It’s about Lynette. She’s real sick. He thought it was too late to call Polly, so—”

“How ill is she?” he demanded.

“She’s in the hospital. He took her to Emergency.”

“Which hospital? Do you know? There must be several.”

“He didn’t tell me. If he calls back—”

“Did he tell you the nature of the illness?”

“It’s her stomach.”

“Do you have a phone number for your cousin?”

“Well, he was calling from the hospital, and I guess he’s still there. If he calls back—”

“How about the inn where they’ve been staying?” Qwilleran asked impatiently.

“He never told me the name of it.”

“Great!” he said with edgy sarcasm. “Let me know if you hear anything further, at any hour of the day or night. And now hang up so I can do some investigating.”

Qwilleran sat with his hand on the cradled receiver as he planned his next call. He would not disturb Polly; it would serve no purpose and would only keep her awake all night. He remembered Lynette’s last phone call: the spicy food, the upset stomach, the remedy that Carter Lee had gone out to buy. Had it worsened her condition? Or did it make her feel good enough to go out and mingle with the mob and eat God-knows-what?

He thought of calling Dr. Diane, but first he phoned the night desk of the New Orleans newspaper and identified himself as a reporter for the
Milwaukee Journal;
it sounded more legitimate than the
Moose County Something.
He said his editor wanted him to track down an emergency case—a Milwaukee citizen attending Mardi Gras. He said he needed names and phone numbers of hospitals.

“On the fax?”

“No. I’ll hold.”

A minute later a night deskman was reading off the information.

“Thanks. Sorry to bother you,” Qwilleran said. “My editor is a bleepin’ tyrant.”

“Aren’t they all? How’s the weather in Milwaukee?”

“Not as good as in New Orleans.”

“Hope you find your case. The ER in every hospital’s busy tonight.”

Only then did Qwilleran call Dr. Diane—with apologies—and tell her the story. He said, “If I call the hospital, they won’t even talk to me. As the personal physician of a prominent Pickax citizen, you can ask the right questions. I have the phone numbers of all the medical facilities. Can you do it? Can you locate her and find out her condition?”

“Of course. I’ll be glad to do it.” Diane had the neighborliness of a Lanspeak. “It could be something routine, like an allergy. I’ll call you when I have something definite.”

Qwilleran stretched out on his bed and waited. He had lost interest in reading. He may have dozed, because he suddenly found himself catapulted out of bed by a roar and clatter overhead. Enormous hailstones were pounding the roof and bouncing off the deck. They bothered the Siamese, too, who complained until they were admitted to his own bedroom. They were quiet then, except for one violent outburst from Koko for no apparent reason.

It was four-thirty before the phone rang. Dr. Diane’s voice was ominously solemn. “I found her, Qwill. She was in critical condition. I called the hospital several times, at intervals, and. . . ”

“She’s gone?” Qwilleran gasped.

“She died an hour ago.”

“What was given as the cause?”

“Gastrointestinal complications, aggravated by alcohol abuse.”

“No!” he said. It was impossible, he thought. She had hardly sipped her champagne at her birthday party, and she never touched hard liquor. Had Carter Lee coaxed her to try a Sazerac or some other exotic drink?. . . Then he remembered Koko’s anguished howling about an hour before.

“Qwill! Are you still there?”

“I’m here, Diane. I don’t know what to say. How am I going to break the news to Polly?”

“Would you like me to do it?”

“Thanks, but I think I should handle it—but not until her normal wake-up hour. I’ll go to her house and tell her in person. . . Yes, that’s the best way. Diane, you have no idea how much we appreciate your cooperation.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” she said.

After hanging up, he paced the floor and tried to sort out his reactions. He was shocked by the suddenness of it all. . . saddened by the loss of a young, productive, generous, well-loved daughter of Pickax. . . overcome with sympathy for Polly, who was losing her last link with “family”. . . and he was angry, too. It was not yet five o’clock, but he called Danielle’s number. The line was busy. He continued pacing the floor, and Koko watched with the anxious look that can widen a cat’s eyes. Who but Carter Lee could be calling her at this hour? After a few minutes he tried the number again and heard another busy signal. What could they be saying to each other that would take so long? Or did she have the phone off the hook? He went downstairs to start the coffeemaker and then called again.

When her number started ringing, he was in a mood to shout at her: Where’s your cousin? Why is he so secretive about his whereabouts? Have you been talking to him? Your line’s been busy for an hour! What have you been saying to each other, for God’s sake?

When she answered in her ridiculous voice, he said calmly, “Danielle, I’ve just heard the terrible news. We’ve lost Lynette. Did Carter Lee call and tell you?”

“Yes, just now. How did you find out?”

“Our local doctor was in touch with the New Orleans hospital.”

“Isn’t it awful? My cousin’s a basket case. I was trying to buck him up.”

“I’d like to call him and express my sympathy. I’m sure any kind words will help at a time like this. Did you get his phone number at the inn?”

“He’s checked out already! He’s coming home. I told him to get here before the airport shuts down. He’s flying in today. He said he’d leave as soon as he made all the arrangements.”

“I’d be glad to meet the five o’clock shuttle—”

“He wants me to pick him up. There are some things he wants to tell me. Before she died, Lynette told him to carry on the work. He wants to make Pleasant Street kind of a memorial to her.”

“Did he say anything about funeral arrangements? There’s a beautiful place where four generations of Duncans have been laid to rest, and the last gravesite has been waiting for the last Duncan. Does he know about it?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Important funerals for important people are a Pickax tradition.”

“He didn’t say anything about that.”

“I see. Well, call me if there’s anything I can do.”

“He told me to break the news to Polly, but I don’t know how.”

“That’s all been taken care of,” Qwilleran said hastily and untruthfully. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

Fortified by this assortment of half-truths and white lies, Qwilleran squared his shoulders, planned his day, drank his coffee, fed the cats, brushed their fur, showered and shaved, and waited for seven o’clock.

At that hour he called the Riker residence, and Mildred said Arch was in the shower.

“Tell him to grab a towel and rush to the phone. This is important!”

Riker came on the line grumbling but curious.

Qwilleran said, “Save today’s front page for a major newsbreak.”

“It’d better be good,” Arch said. “I’m standing here dripping.”

“It’s not good. It’s bad. We’ve just heard from New Orleans. Lynette was rushed to the hospital last night, and she died this morning.”

“What! What did you say?. . . What happened to her?”

“Gastrointestinal complications. Dr. Diane talked to the hospital down there.”

“In other words, food poisoning,” Riker said cynically. “They don’t call it that in the City of Gastronomy. Do you have any details?”

“Only that she phoned Polly a couple of times and said the food was too rich and spicy for her.”

“How can we reach Carter Lee?”

“He’s flying back. Danielle will meet the five o’clock shuttle.”

“I hope WPKX doesn’t get wind of it. I’d like to have a clean newsbreak for once.”

“Right!. . . Now go back to your shower, Arch. I hope you’re not dripping on Mildred’s new carpet.”

That was easy. Breaking the news to Polly would be tough.

“Okay if I come over for a few minutes?” Qwilleran asked Polly on the phone. “I have something to discuss.”

“Would you like breakfast?” she offered. “The library’s closed today. I have time.”

“No, thanks. I have a column to finish.”

On the way there he considered his approach: how to lead up to the bad news in some non-frightening way.

She met him at the door, looking keenly interested but not anxious.

“Let’s sit on the sofa,” he said. “I have a confession to make.” They went into the living room, and he took her hand fondly. “I’ve been guilty of trying to save you from worry and loss of sleep, and in doing so, I’ve not kept you fully informed.”

“Is that such a transgression?” she asked lightly.

“Well. . . maybe. When Lynette called Saturday night, she complained of a stomach upset. It was worse than she thought. Carter Lee had to take her to the hospital.”

“Oh dear!” she said in alarm. “How did you find out?”

“He called Danielle and asked her to notify us. It was after one A.M., too late to bother you, so I called Dr. Diane and enlisted her help. She called the hospital and found Lynette in critical condition with gastrointestinal complications. Diane kept calling for updates during the night, and the last time she was given the bad news.”

“Oh, Qwill! What are you telling me?” Polly cried with her hands to her cheeks.

“She died about three-thirty this morning.”

Polly groaned. “She was only forty! She was healthy! Is there something else they’re not telling us?”

“I don’t know.” He had no intention of mentioning alcohol abuse now; that would come later. “You can lose your mind trying to figure it out,” he said gently, hoping to steer her away from his own growing suspicions. “Just remember how happy she was in her last few weeks, and what a kind, helpful person she’s been all her life.”

“You’re right,” Polly said, taking a deep breath. “After her shattering disappointment twenty years ago, she never wallowed in self-pity but went on doing things for others and enjoying life, but. . . ” Her voice wavered. “I can’t talk about it now, Qwill. I need to be left alone for a while.”

* * *

There was a call on his answering machine when he returned. He phoned Dr. Diane at her office.

“I had a suspicion about something,” she said, “so I came to the office early to pull Lynette’s file. She had signed a living will, bequeathing her eyes and body tissues for transplantation. I called the hospital, and they’d not been advised that she was an organ donor. The body had been released to a mortuary as authorized by the next of kin. I called the mortuary. It was too late even for an autopsy. They said the next of kin had signed for cremation!”

Qwilleran said, “That’s not what Lynette wanted at all! Even I know that she wanted to be buried at Hilltop in the Duncan plot—with a full funeral, like her brother’s.”

“Apparently her husband wasn’t aware of any of this,” Diane said.

He thought, It’s not usually discussed on honeymoons. What he said was: “Diane, I’ve broken the news to Polly, and she asked to be left alone for a while, but this new development is something that I think you should discuss with her.”

“I’ll be glad to,” she said. “I don’t know exactly how or when, but I’ll work something out. My parents will be devastated when they hear about this.”

“A lot of people will be.”

“Where is her husband? I wonder.”

“Flying home today. I plan to call him this evening. Perhaps I can get his explanation. Meanwhile, there’ll be a front-page story in today’s paper.”

* * *

Qwilleran needed sleep. Two or three hours would tide him over, with his answering machine fielding calls. By ten-thirty he was awake and ready to go. He had a column to write, but the topic he had planned seemed inappropriate. It was to be a dissertation on breakfast cereal, pro and con, yesterday and today, hot and cold, with and without raisins. He phoned Polly.

“How are you feeling?” he asked kindly.

She replied wearily, like one who has survived a crying jag. “I feel more in control now. Is there something I should be doing? I’m no longer next of kin, am I? Diane phoned me. None of Lynette’s last wishes have been respected. Perhaps he didn’t know.”

“There is something you could do, Polly, that would be very useful. Help me write a column about the Lynette that everyone remembers: dancing the Highland fling, visiting patients at the hospital, winning bridge tournaments, hostessing at the church bazaar, making her winter pilgrimage to Hilltop, tracing her ancestors back to the eleventh century.”

“I could do that,” she said. “I’d have to think about it, though.”

“Think fast. I’m on deadline. I’ll be over with my tape recorder at one o’clock.”

He knew it would do her good to participate in something constructive. For him it was an easy way to grind out a column in a hurry. As it evolved, her reminiscences were so interesting, and Polly was so well-spoken, that he had nothing to do but transcribe them on his typewriter. All interviews, he thought, should be such a cinch!

While he was transcribing, there was action on the hutch cabinet, Yum Yum scratching at the toy drawer, Koko pawing the other. It was the first time he had taken an interest in that particular part of the cabinet, and Qwilleran felt a twinge on his upper lip that led him to investigate. The Procrastination File contained all kinds of clutter, but on top of the pile was the manila envelope from the attorneys. Taking time out from his typing to examine the contents, he found what he expected: papers to be signed and mailed in the enclosed envelope. Bart always made it easy for him, but it could be done later, and he tossed everything back into the drawer.

“Yow-ow-ow!” came a scolding command from Koko, who was sitting on the cabinet and punishing it with his tail. It signified urgency.

Qwilleran was prompted to take a closer look at the documents and Bart’s hand-scribbled instructions.

Qwilleran phoned the Pickax police station and asked the chief, “When do you quit today?”

“Four o’clock.”

“Don’t leave! I’ll be there. It’s important.”

* * *

When Qwilleran went to the newspaper office to hand in his copy, he picked up the Monday edition with the front page news story, illustrated with file photos.

The young managing editor was gloating. “For once we broke the news before WPKX. I don’t know how we kept it from leaking.”

“My column’s a follow-up,” Qwilleran said. “Polly gets all the credit.” He took a few extra copies of the Monday paper for her. It was the lead story:

As Qwilleran finished reading the news account, two thoughts occurred to him: Lynette would be appalled to have her age printed in the headline. . . and Mayor Blythe was one of the few persons she totally disliked. Then he wondered: How will Ernie Kemple’s daughter react when she finds Carter Lee is back in the running as a bachelor? Will she still come forward in Lenny Inchpot’s defense? Is it too late
not to come forward?
She has confessed her complicity to her mother, but she cannot have confessed to G. Allen Barter; he left for St. Paul Friday. There was still time to retract her confession; she could tell her mother she lied in an insane fit of revenge. . . All of this was brainstorming on Qwilleran’s part.
To be continued,
he told himself, as he sloshed through the puddles to city hall.

Brodie was waiting for him, with the
Moose County Something
on his desk. “Terrible news!” he said, tapping the front page. In the Pickax hierarchy, the Brodies had always been respecters of the Duncans, and he had piped at Lynette’s wedding. “How must her new husband feel?”

“We’ll soon find out,” Qwilleran said. “He’ll be here when the shuttle splashes down at five o’clock.”

“I’ll pipe at the funeral if he wants me to. I piped for Cameron’s funeral. More than fifty cars went to the cemetery. Is the body being shipped in today? The airport’s closing down.”

“Her husband opted for cremation.”

“What! Did I hear you right? When Cameron died, Lynette told me there was one more gravesite waiting for her. She said she’d be proud to join her ancestors on the hill. She was sentimental where her clan was concerned. . . Nice lady!”

“She can still have her funeral,” Qwilleran said, “starting with a memorial service at the church, a procession of cars to the cemetery, and interment of her ashes on the hill with the traditional ceremony.” He could tell by the chief’s silence that he was not quite sold on the idea.

Finally Brodie said, “You must know the James fellow pretty well; you were his best man. Why wouldn’t he comply with her wishes?”

“Do you think it’s something that’s discussed in the first week of marriage?” So far, Qwilleran had been going with the flow; now he changed course. “I don’t know Carter Lee James at all! I was pressed into service at Lynette’s request. Willard Carmichael first invited him up here for the holidays because his wife was homesick; they claimed to be cousins. The three of them met Lynette at the bridge club, and she invited them to see her house. That was the beginning of the Pleasant Street project, as it’s called.”

“I’ve heard about it,” Brodie said, “but there hasn’t been anything in the paper.”

“It’s been growing by word of mouth, which Carter Lee says is the healthy way to go. Property owners pay him twenty thousand up front for consulting services, supervision of the actual work, and the possibility of being nominated for the National Register of Historic Places. Everyone who signs up is enthusiastic—and those who don’t are virtually blackballed by their neighbors. The guy has a winning personality and a manner that inspires confidence.”

The chief nodded. “I talked to him at the wedding. Seemed like a decent fellow.”

“I even suggested that the K Fund hire him to restore the hotel and the Limburger mansion. . . and that’s when the wings fell off! They checked his credentials and came up with
zilch.
Yet he claims to have restored important landmarks all over the eastern seaboard. I’ve seen the portfolio he shows to prospective clients, and I doubt whether it’s legitimate. I also know the procedures for getting on the National Register, and no restoration consultant can guarantee his clients anything. He can only raise their hopes.”

Brodie’s scowl intensified as he listened. “Sounds like a scam, all right. The prosecutor should get in on this.”

“Not too fast, Andy. On Wednesday, Bart Barter comes home and can tell us more about the K Fund’s investigation. And tomorrow afternoon I want to set a little trap for Carter Lee, just to see how he reacts. I’ll get back to you with the results—tomorrow about this same time.”

“Good luck,” Brodie growled without enthusiasm. Then he allowed himself a chuckle. “What does your smart cat think about this guy?”

“Well, Koko got hold of his fur hat once and was trying to kill it, if that means anything. To a cat, it’s always open season on fur and feathers.”