The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell Read online

  Then the Downtown Beautiful Committee planted the window boxes with . . . pansies! Yellow pansies! The jokers in the coffee shops had a field day with the pansies and there were waggish letters to the editor. But the pansies flourished.

  Three parades were announced with the first being on Memorial Day, with the theme Pickax Then. All signs pointed to good weather, according to the WPKX meteorologist.

  Then Qwilleran received a troubling message:

  “Qwill, I need to talk to you, but I don’t want Gary to know. Don’t return the call—Maxine.”

  She was the wife of the owner of the Hotel Booze in Brrr. They had been married only a short time. She had long owned and operated the Harborside Marina.

  The message gave Qwilleran a sudden desire for one of the burgers for which the Hotel Booze was famous. Grabbing his car keys and orange baseball cap, he said goodbye to the Siamese, who followed him to the door. In leaving, it made no difference what he said. It might be a little Shakespeare in a sonorous voice, like “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,” or it might be “Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle” in a falsetto that made their ears twitch. To him it was never clear whether they were reluctant to see him go or glad to have the premises to themselves for feline shenanigans.

  On his way to Brrr Qwilleran reviewed what he knew about the town, founded two centuries ago because of its superb natural harbor. The hotel had been built on a cliff overlooking the bay. It had the proportions of a shoebox, and a sign running the length of the roof could be seen far out in the lake. In large block letters it said: ROOMS FOOD BOOZE. No one knew the sign’s date of origin, but it gave the hotel its nickname.

  When Qwilleran first arrived in the north country, Gary Pratt had just inherited the hotel from his insolvent father but could not operate it because of too many code violations. The elder Pratt had been able to get by on the grandfather clause in the building code, but young Pratt needed to make extensive improvements—or else. Yet banks would not lend him the money because of youthful indiscretions.

  Enter: Qwilleran. He saw something promising in Gary Pratt, and the K Fund backed the improvements.

  Actually, the hotel retained its scruffy appearance, because that was preferred by boaters, fishermen, and vacationers looking for something different.

  The Black Bear Café at the hotel was distinguished by the huge mounted beast rearing on hind legs, the comfortable shabbiness, the cracks in the mirror behind the bar, and the appetizing aroma of grilling bear burgers.

  Qwilleran sat on the last stool at the end of the bar, knowing it was less apt to collapse and deposit him on the floor.

  A lively waitress approached. “Hi, Mr. Q! Haven’t seen you all winter. The boss is out shopping. Squunk water as usual? Burger medium rare with fries?”

  Without Gary Pratt for chitchat Qwilleran soon finished his lunch and strolled down the hill to the Harborside Marina. Maxine came out of the office and led him down the pier that offered boats for sale. To all appearances she was selling him a cabin cruiser, but she was saying in hushed tones:

  “It’s like this: Gary was behind the bar last night and heard two customers making plans to steal the historic pickax before the parade! There’s a certain element down here looks for ways to make trouble. When Gary told me about it last night, I said he should warn the Pickax authorities but he said it was unethical for a barkeeper to reveal his customers’ conversations. Also bad for business. So I took it on myself to call you. Did I do right?”

  “Certainly not wrong. Of course, there’s always the possibility that a couple of drunks were indulging in barblab. Even so, it won’t hurt to check the security at City Hall. I’ll drop a flea in the correct ear.”

  Much relieved, she invited Qwilleran into the marina office for coffee, and they talked about forthcoming boat races and marine weather predictions.

  That evening, Qwilleran phoned Andrew Brodie, Pickax police chief, at home—at an hour when a nightcap would be appropriate. “Andy, I happen to have some Gouda cheese—and what goes with it. Also a couple of hot tips. Put on your shoes and come on over.”

  A few minutes later, the big burly Scot burst through the kitchen door. The bottles were on the bar top; the cheese board was on the snack bar.

  “Where’s that smart cat? I’ve got a couple of investigations for him to do!”

  Both cats were waiting with whiskers twitching in anticipation; Koko knew when he was being complimented, and Yum Yum knew when there was a good shoelace to untie.

  The men sat at the snack bar and talked about Pickax Now: the expected crowds, the number of family reunions, and the ambitious schedule of parades.

  “And that’s one of the reasons I called you, Andy,” said Qwilleran. “It’s well known that the famous pickax that started it all will be featured in the first parade on the Number One float—with blinking lights, banners, a drum tattoo, and a lineup of armed guards.” (It was a bit of fabrication on Qwilleran’s part, but intended to dramatize the situation.) “Now—get this, Andy—my spies around the county tell me there is a plot among an anti-Pickax element to steal the ax from the council chamber. Apparently they have an inside accomplice at City Hall!”

  Brodie almost choked on a swig of Scotch. “Where’d you hear this?”

  “I protect my sources.”

  The chief recovered. “Let them steal it! It’s a fake! The real thing is in the bank vault!” Then, with hoots and guffaws he added, “I can see the newspaper headline: ‘Crazies Steal Fake Pickax!’ It’ll make them look like fools!”

  Qwilleran asked, “How long has the fake pickax been on display?”

  “From way back. A collector on Purple Point offered the city the real one. He had a kind of local history museum. Stuffed animals and birds. Never saw it myself, but when I was in the sheriff’s department, there was some talk about it.”

  “Do you know the name of the family involved?”

  “Sure! Ledfields. Made their money in the mines.”

  Qwilleran said, “I often wondered why the pickax was not in a locked case. The sign even calls it the original pickax. I suppose it was the pioneer sense of humor at work. They always liked a good joke.”

  Brodie said, “I hope the rowdies don’t retaliate with acts of vandalism. Ever hear of the teller that daubed profanity on the side wall of the city hall—and signed his name? That’s no joke! He was from the town of Brrr!”

  Qwilleran said, “How are they going to make the parade any different, any more spectacular than any similar event?”

  “One thing I can tell you,” Brodie said, “is strictly under the table. One float is gonna honor the first inhabitants of Moose County.”

  “American Indians?”

  “Nope.”

  “Prehistoric tribes?”

  “Nope.

  At this point in the conversation Koko started “looking at his wristwatch” as Qwilleran always described it. The cat would suddenly appear where and when least expected, drawing attention to himself in some unusual way. (It was after eleven o’clock.) Finally he hopped onto the bar top in full view of the snack bar and started giving himself a bath—a thorough bath!

  “Down!” Qwilleran shouted, and he obeyed, but his ploy was effective.

  Brodie drained his glass and stood up.

  “Good grog! Good cheese! Gotta get home before m’ wife calls the police.”

  Qwilleran floodlighted the barnyard and walked with him to his car. “Who’s in charge of the parades? Do you know?”

  “Gil MacMurchie. A Good Scot, he is.”

  That was all Qwilleran needed to know.

  FOUR

  Everyone liked Gil MacMurchie. The best way to make friends, he often said, is to be in the plumbing business, on twenty-four-hour call.

  After retirement, and now widowed, he lived at the Ittibittiwassee Estates.

  Qwilleran phoned him there one morning.

  “Gil, I hear you’re masterminding the Memorial Day parade. They cou
ldn’t have chosen a better brain. Is there anything the ‘Qwill Pen’ can do to help?”

  “Sure would like to bounce some ideas off you, Qwill.” “Your place or mine?”

  He knew Gil had never visited the barn, even for a plumbing emergency. “I happen to have some scones and marmalade.”

  “No contest! I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  Qwilleran met him in the barnyard and calmly observed the amazement of a first-time visitor: first, seeing the lofty exterior; next the interior complexity of balconies and ramps; and then the friendly welcome from two Siamese cats, who had never met a plumber they didn’t like.

  Since the weather was agreeable, the men decided to have their coffee in the octagonal gazebo that was screened on all eight sides and close to nature. The guest had the honor of transporting Koko and Yum Yum in the canvas tote bag reserved for that purpose while Qwilleran carried the tray.

  “Who did your plumbing?” Gil asked when they were settled down.

  “The architectural designer, who was from St. Louis, brought technicians up from Down Below,” said Qwilleran. “Neither he nor I knew the political correctness of using local talent. I’ve learned a lot since then.”

  “If you ask me, your ‘Qwill Pen’ has taught all of us a lot—in many fields.”

  Then Qwilleran asked a leading question. “I didn’t know you were a parade planner, Gil. How long have you been keeping the dirty little secret?”

  “Ach, mon! I never even marched in a parade. But Hixie said plumbers know everyone, and all I had to do was pick the right assistants. Smart lassie, that Hixie.”

  The assistants who were really planning the parade were: Thornton Haggis, county historian . . . Carol Lanspeak, drama director . . . Wally Toddwhistle, designer of sets and props for the theatre club’s plays . . . and Misty Morghan, artist. They were all “idea people”—who had never worked on a parade but who were excited over the challenge, especially that of designing floats.

  “They said the parade should be designed with a theme and a color scheme. The colors will be green and white—the high school colors. Every float will have the same style of banner running the length of it, one on each side. The floats will have catchy names, done in old-fashioned lettering. They said there should be sight gags and audio gags. And there should be an element of suspense.”

  “I like it already!” Qwilleran said.

  “Yow!” said Koko, who had deserted the wildlife and was hanging around, probably looking for crumbs from the scones.

  Gil looked at the cat warily and lowered his voice.

  “I could tell you a few of the plans, but I wouldn’t want it to go any further.”

  “Don’t worry. Koko is absolutely trustworthy.”

  “Well! The parade is scheduled to start at eleven A.M. Five minutes before, a helicopter flies over the parade route streaming a banner: ‘Pickax Then!’ There are shills planted in the crowd all along the parade route to start the cheers and applause. Next there’s a boom like a bombshell. There’ll be instant silence in the crowd. Then another boom! And another. Followed by the shrieking sirens of police cars and the honking of other emergency vehicles.”

  Qwilleran said, “Eyes should be popping and mouths should be gaping by this time.”

  “Right. That’s the audio gag. Next comes the sight gag. Two street-sweeping vehicles appear. They’re draped with green-and-white streamers, and the operators are wearing green coveralls and—white tophats! And they’re sweeping the pavement. . . . Right after that comes the high school tumbling team in green-and-white tights, doing handsprings and back flips and generally jumping for joy. Then comes the first float.”

  Gil stopped to gulp coffee before continuing. “The first float has a banner—‘How It All Began’—with the historic ax and tree stump on a platform—a cube about five feet high and covered with green grass. And it’s surrounded by armed guards! Then there are drumbeats.”

  Qwilleran said, “I hope this is being filmed!”

  “It’s going to be televised.”

  “Yow!” said Koko, who had been ignored for too long.

  Gil said, “I’ll tell you about one more float, and then I’ve got to leave. The second float has a banner saying: ‘They Were Here First.’ It’s a forest scene populated with a stuffed moose, elk, wolves, a great horned owl, and a bald eagle! All on loan from the Ledfield collection.

  “Nathan Ledfield in Purple Point has a private museum in a big addition at the back of his house. His old man started it—or maybe his granddad. Anyhow, he’ll leave the collection to the city when he goes if we promise to provide a building for it. . . . Is there any more coffee in the pot?”

  Qwilleran poured.

  Koko turned abruptly and showed a sudden interest in Gil’s pocket.

  A moment later there was an odd noise in the pocket, and he reached in for a cell phone. “MacMurchie here . . . Hmmm . . . Yes, he’s here. I’ll tell him. Sorry to hear it, but we knew it was coming. Thanks for calling.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket and said to Qwilleran, “Well! Well! Well! . . . Homer Tibbitt died this morning. Too bad he won’t see the parade.”

  “Well! What can I say? He was a great man,” Qwilleran said.

  This was the day Qwilleran shopped for Polly’s groceries and stowed them in the trunk of her car in the bookstore parking lot. But all the while he was thinking about the county historian emeritus. He would be one of the “Late Greats”: the anecdotes he had told about his early life, the papers he had written for the historical collection at the public library, and the tales everyone had to tell about “The Grand Old Man,” as he was known. There would never be another. . . . No doubt Homer’s “young bride” could relate a few incidents. Rhoda was eighty when they were married a decade ago; neither had been married before. Together they bantered in true Moose County style and amused their friends.

  His weekly shopping for Polly entitled him to dinner at her condo—a pick-up meal, she called it, since she had been working all day.

  Tonight, Polly mentioned, “You and I are invited to view the parade from the second-floor windows of the department store.”

  “I hope you accepted,” he said. “And Sunday afternoon is the first performance of the Fire Show on the stage of the opera house. I’ll see that you get tickets.”

  “Oh, I’m so thrilled! I’ve seen it twice, but that was how many years ago? Will Hixie be handling the sound effects?”

  “Yes, if I can get her to come down to earth for a rehearsal.” And then he said, “Do you know a woman in Kennebeck who does hand knitting? Bart was wearing one of her sweaters yesterday, and it looked pretty good.”

  “She sings in the choir at our church. Would you like one of her sweaters? What did you have in mind? It can be your birthday present.”

  He protested, but not strongly.

  Polly went on. “She’s fairly young. She went from bride to widow in a few hours. Her husband was a lineman with the power company, and on the first day after their honeymoon he was killed by a falling tree while he was looking for downed wires. The shock affected her mind somehow; she developed second sight; she can predict calamities—like hurricanes, lightning strikes, and so forth. The doctors at the state hospital are interested in her case. I’ll make an appointment for you!”

  During the dessert course (some apple tarts baked by one of the bookstore’s Green Smocks) Polly remembered the news from Purple Point:

  “The Ledfields’ nephew is coming for the Memorial Day weekend and bringing his fiancée! Doris and Nathan are delighted, having visions of the Ledfield name being continued.”

  “Did they mention the sketching of the barn?” Qwilleran asked, considering it of more importance than family bloodlines.

  “Yes. The young man—I think his name is Harvey—said all he needs is an afternoon. Doris suggested Saturday afternoon, and I wanted her to call you and make the arrangements, but she’s such a shrinking violet.”

  Qwilleran said, “I didn�
��t know they had any of those on Purple Point.”

  Polly overlooked the pun. “She’s a respector-of-persons and quite daunted by your connection with the K Fund and your ‘Qwill Pen’ column and your fierce moustache. Do you want to call her and confirm the date?”

  “I wouldn’t want to give the dear lady a heart attack,” he said. “Why don’t you call her and confirm it for Saturday afternoon? Then perhaps you and I could take the young couple to dinner at the Nutcracker Inn.”

  Polly said, “I think that’s very gracious of you, Qwill.”

  “I’m only making sure I get a set of the sketches.”

  Then he brought up a subject that had long mystified him: Why do some persons live on Purple Point and others live in Purple Point?

  The explanation: The long narrow peninsula extending into the lake was originally the location of shipyards where tall sailing ships were built, using 120-foot masts from the towering pine forests inland. When steamboats came in, the shipyards disappeared, and twentieth-century families built beach houses on the sandy peninsula. The occupants said they spent summers “on Purple Point.” Around 1900, when fortunes were being made in mining and lumbering, wealthy families built mansions on the mainland within sight of the purplish haze that frequently shrouded the peninsula. They lived in the community of Purple Point.

  Polly said, “There was—and still is—some class distinction between living in and living on. The Ledfields live in the community of Purple Point. I’ve never seen their house, but I’m told it’s magnificent. Doris invited me, but when I was working at the library I never had time to socialize with my board members. Having dinner with the dear ladies once a month was all I felt obliged to do.”

  “Interesting!” he said. “Do you have any more of these tarts?”

  When Qwilleran returned to the barn, he was greeted by an exuberant demonstration designed to attract attention. Koko chased Yum Yum up the ramp and down again, after which he fought a battle with a scrap of newspaper. He clutched it, drooled over it, and tore it with his fangs—all in good fun, apparently. When Qwilleran finally retrieved the soggy wad of paper, it proved to be the missing photo of Harvey Ledfield.