The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Read online

  Qwilleran ordered baba ghanouj and said to the server, “Would you ask Onoosh if she can make meatballs in little green kimonos?”

  In less than a minute she came rushing from the kitchen in her white apron and chef’s toque. “Mr. Qwill!” she squealed. “It’s you! I knowed it was you!”

  He had risen, and she flung her arms around him. A radiant smile transformed her plain face, and her tall hat fell off. It was an emotional scene, and—in Pickax style—the other diners applauded.

  “Just an old friend,” Qwilleran explained after she had returned to the kitchen.

  The banker asked, “Do you think a Mediterranean restaurant will go over in a town like this?”

  “I hope so. It’s backed by the Klingenschoen Foundation as part of the downtown improvement program. Also, Polly Duncan tells me that Middle Eastern cuisine is on-target healthwise.”

  “I’ve met your Polly Duncan, and she’s a charming woman,” Willard said with a note of envy. “You’re a lucky man. She’s attractive, intelligent, and has a beautiful speaking voice.”

  “It was her voice that first appealed to me,” Qwilleran said. “ ‘Soft, gentle, and low,’ to quote Shakespeare. And it’s the first time in my life that I’ve had a friend who shared my literary interests—a great feeling! Also, I’m constantly learning. Jazz used to be the extent of my music appreciation, but Polly’s introduced me to chamber music and opera.” He stopped to chuckle. “She hasn’t converted me to bird-watching, though, and I haven’t sold her on baseball—or Louis Armstrong.”

  “I understand you’ve bought separate condos in the Village. Have you ever thought of—”

  “No,” Qwilleran interrupted. “We like our singlehood. Besides, our cats are incompatible.”

  “While I’m asking nosey questions, mind if I ask another?. . . The Klingenschoen Foundation seems to have poured millions into Moose County—schools, health care, environment, and so on. What’s the source of their wealth?”

  Qwilleran explained simply: “The K family made their fortune here during the boom years of Moose County—in the hospitality business, you might say. A later generation invested wisely. The family has died out now, and all the money has gone into the K Foundation.”

  “I see,” said the banker, eyeing Qwilleran dubiously. “My next nosey question: Is it true that you are the K Foundation?”

  “No, I’m just an innocent bystander.” How could a journalist explain to a banker that money is less interesting than the challenge of deadlines, exclusives, and accurate reporting?

  Their dinner orders were taken, and both men chose the lentil soup with tabbouleh as the salad course, followed by shish kebab for Will and stuffed grapeleaves for Qwill.

  The conversation switched to the gourmet society that was being organized. “Cooking is my chief pleasure,” the banker said. “It’s relaxing to come home from the play-it-cool bank environment and start banging pots and pans around. Danielle hates the kitchen, bless her heart. . . She’s bugging me to grow a moustache like yours, Qwill. She says it’s sexy, but that isn’t exactly the bank image. . . Have you ever been to Mardi Gras? She talked me into making reservations, although I’d rather take a cruise.”

  Qwilleran, as a journalist, was a professional listener, and he found himself practicing his profession. Willard seemed to need an understanding and sympathetic ear. Willard said, “When we move into our house, we want to get a couple of Siamese like yours—that is, if I can talk Danielle into it. The Village doesn’t allow cats in apartments.”

  “I know. That’s why I bought a condo.”

  “I’ll bet your cats miss the barn.”

  “They’re adaptable.”

  “Are they a couple?”

  “No, just friends.”

  Willard said, “I have two grown sons in California, but I’d like to start a second family. At my age I think I could father some smart offspring, but Danielle isn’t keen about the idea.” He shrugged in resignation.

  The conversation slowed to a desultory pace after the entrées were served. Once in a while Willard would ask a question. “Were you ever an actor? You’ve got a trained voice.”

  “In college I did a few plays.”

  “Fran Brodie wants Danielle to join the theatre club. Fran’s a good-looking woman. Why isn’t she married?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Amanda Goodwinter’s an oddball.”

  “More bark than bite. The voters love her.”

  “And how about George Breze? What do you know about him?”

  “He always wears a red feed cap, and no one knows what’s underneath it, if anything,” Qwilleran said. “A few years ago he had the gall to run for mayor. The locals call him Old Gallbladder. He polled only two votes.”

  “He seems to make money,” the banker said, “but he strikes me as a shady character. And he’s just taken an apartment in the Village!”

  “There goes the neighborhood!”

  “The apartments aren’t very well built. How are the condos?”

  “Ditto. I tell the cats not to go around stamping their feet.”

  After a while, Willard said, “I’d like to get your opinion, Qwill, on an idea that Danielle’s cousin and I have been kicking around. We think those old houses on Pleasant Street could and should be restored for economic purposes and the beautification of the city.”

  “Does she have an interest in preservation?” Qwilleran asked in some surprise.

  “My dear wife couldn’t care less!”

  “I mean her cousin.”

  “Danielle’s cousin is a guy. He’s a restoration consultant Down Below, and he’s amazed at the possibilities here. Do you know the Duncan property on Pleasant Street?”

  “Very well! Lynette Duncan is Polly’s sister-in-law. She recently inherited the house, an unspoiled relic of the nineteenth century.”

  “Right! We met Lynette at a card party in the Village, and she invited us to Sunday brunch. She has a fabulous Victorian house! In fact, the entire street is a throwback to the late 1880s. ‘Carpenter Gothic’ is what Danielle’s cousin calls it.”

  “ ‘Gingerbread Alley’ is what the local wags have named Pleasant Street,” Qwilleran said.

  Will Carmichael put down his knife and fork and warmed to his subject. “What’s good is that the property owners haven’t modernized with vinyl siding and sliding glass doors. The way we see it, Pleasant Street could become a mecca for preservation buffs, with houses operating as living museums or bed-and-breakfasts. There’s money to be made in that field today. My bank would offer good deals on restoration loans. . . How does it strike you?”

  “It strikes me as a huge undertaking,” Qwilleran said. “Exactly what does a restoration consultant do, and what is his name?”

  “Carter Lee James. Perhaps you’ve heard of him or seen his work in magazines. He appraises the possibilities, supervises the restoration, and helps get the houses registered as historic landmarks. He knows the techniques, sources, and—most important—what not to do! Can you imagine Pleasant Street with a bronze plaque in front of every house? It would be a unique attraction—not for hordes of noisy tourists but for serious admirers of nineteenth-century Americana.”

  They ordered spicy walnut cake and dark-roast coffee, and the banker continued. “Lynette has a fortune in antiques in her house—all inherited, she says.”

  Qwilleran, whose personal preference was for contemporary, remembered the ponderous furniture, dark wall coverings, velvet draperies, ornate picture frames, and skirted tables at Lynette’s house. Polly had recuperated there after her surgery. He tried to find something upbeat to say. “Lynette is the last of the Duncans-by-blood. It’s a highly respected name around here. The Duncans were successful merchants in the boom years, and they prospered without exploiting the mineworkers.”

  “That’s to their credit.” Willard was gazing thoughtfully into his coffee. “I imagine she doesn’t have to work. . . yet she tells me she holds down a nine-to-five job.
”

  “Lynette likes to keep busy. She’s also active in volunteer work. Volunteerism is big in Pickax. You should get Danielle involved.”

  With a humorous grimace her husband said, “If it means visiting the sick, I don’t think my dear wife would qualify.” For a few minutes he occupied himself with the check and a credit card, then said, “We’ll have to get together during the holidays. You should meet Carter Lee. You’ll be impressed. Personable guy. Fine arts degree. Graduate study in architecture. . . Do you play bridge?”

  “No, but Lynette has told me about the Village bridge club and the big glass jar.”

  It was an antique apothecary jar about a foot high, with a wide mouth and a domelike stopper. At Village card parties each player dropped a ten-dollar bill into the jar and rubbed the stopper for luck. Bridge players, Qwilleran had reason to believe, ranked with athletes, sports fans, actors, sailors, and crapshooters as creatures of superstition. To the credit of the bridgehounds at Indian Village, they also contributed their winnings to the jar, and when it was full, the total sum was donated to the Moose County Youth Center. He remarked to Willard, “I hope you’ve contributed generously to the jar.”

  “I’ve had a little luck,” he admitted. “Lynette is a consistent winner, though. And Carter Lee’s pretty good. . . Danielle should stay home and watch TV.”

  It was time to say goodnight. Qwilleran had genuinely enjoyed the conversation and the food. He thanked his host and added, “It’s my turn to treat—the next time you’re baching it.” The qualifying clause was tacked on casually, but he hoped it registered.

  The two men drove home in their respective vehicles, both of them vans. On the way, Qwilleran recalled the banker’s remarks about his “dear wife” and feared the marriage was doomed. It had been too hasty. Too bad. . . Willard was interesting company, although nosey. He was certainly enthusiastic about Pleasant Street. . . The country club situation was unfortunate. No doubt he was a golfer. It was good news about the gourmet society, however.

  Qwilleran glanced at the clock on the dashboard and tuned in the hourly newsbreak on WPKX. First he heard the high-school basketball scores. Then came Wetherby Goode with his forecast and usual silliness:

  “Boots—boots—boots—boots—sloggin’ through the snow again.” He always had a parody of a song or nursery rhyme or literary work to fit the occasion. Some of his listeners, like Lynette Duncan, thought he was terribly clever; others wished for better forecasts and fewer cultural allusions.

  After Wetherby’s prediction of more snow, the newscaster came in with a bulletin:

  “A disturbing incident has just been reported in Indian Village. A sum of money estimated at two thousand dollars has been stolen from an unlocked cabinet in the clubhouse. It was being collected in a large glass jar by members of the bridge club, for donation to the Moose County Youth Center. Police are investigating.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache and snapped off the radio, thinking, Brodie was right; it’s escalating. . . The editorial was right; it’s time to lock up!

  THREE

  On December 24, Qwilleran went downtown at noon to celebrate with the staff of the Moose County Something. They were having the afternoon off, but first there was the office party. It featured ham sandwiches from Lois’s Luncheonette, a sheet cake from the Scottish bakery, coffee, and year-end bonuses. Arch Riker was beaming as he handed out the envelopes with a ho-ho-ho.

  Qwilleran said to him, “This is a far cry from the wild office parties we had Down Below. They were all booze, no bonuses.”

  “Don’t remind me!” Riker protested. “I’ve been twenty-five years trying to forget my first one at the Daily Fluxion. Rosie and I were just married, and the whole Riker family was celebrating Christmas Eve at our house—with a potluck supper and me in a Santa suit handing out presents. That was the plan, anyway. I had to work all day, but it got whispered around that every department was holding open house. Bring your own glass! At five o’clock we all started making the rounds to Editorial, Sports, Women’s, Photo Lab (that was the worst), Advertising, Circulation—the whole shebang! Everyone was wallowing in holiday cheer, and I completely forgot my wife and family! By the time some guys took me home in a cab, I flaked out and woke up the next morning. Oh, God! I was in the doghouse for a year!”

  Qwilleran said, “You weren’t the only heel. That’s why firms outlawed office parties. There’s nothing like a lawsuit to grab the corporate attention.”

  Then Hixie Rice, the promotion director and a resident of Indian Village, pulled him aside. “Did you hear about the theft?” she whispered.

  “The Pickax Picaroon strikes again! When was the money last seen?”

  “The night before. We’d had our Christmas bridge party, and everyone was extra generous. Then we put the jar away in the manager’s office as usual, camouflaged with a shopping bag.”

  “But all the players know where it’s kept—right? Someone was waiting for it to fill up. Who are these players?”

  “Mostly residents of the Village, but a few guest-players as well, who drive out from Pickax or wherever. Ironically, the shopping bag was gone, too. They must have used it to carry the money. According to the denomination of the bills, it could be as much as two thousand. . . Do you have a noodle, Qwill?”

  “Yes. Let’s get some ham sandwiches before the vultures from the city room eat them all.”

  * * *

  After the camaraderie of the office party, Qwilleran was reluctant to leave the festive downtown scene, where shoppers were hurrying faster and carolers were singing louder. He picked up a few extra gifts: perfume for Polly, a scarf for Mildred, and a few small cans of smoked turkey pâté and gourmet sardines for the cats he knew.

  The first can went to the longhair at the used book store. The bookseller was overwhelmed, saying it was the first Christmas present Winston had ever received. Eddington Smith was a gentle little old man who loved books, but not for their content. He loved them for their titles, covers, illustrations, paper quality, and provenance. He slept and cooked meals and repaired books in a room at the back of the store.

  Slyly he said to Qwilleran, “I know what Santa’s bringing you!”

  “Don’t tell me. I want to be surprised.”

  “It’s an author you like a lot.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I could tell you his initials.”

  “Please, Eddington, no clues! Just show me what’s come in lately.” He never left the store without buying something.

  The bookseller puttered among opened and unopened cartons until he found a box from the estate of a professor of Celtic literature, who had spent his last years in Lockmaster; the area reminded him of Scotland. “Beautiful bindings,” he said. “Most printed on India paper. Some very old but the leather is well cared for. . . Here’s one published in 1899.”

  Qwilleran looked at it. The title was Ossian and the Ossianic Literature, and it was written by A. Nutt. “I’ll take it,” he said, thinking he might give it to Arch Riker for a gag. As he left the store, he called out, “Merry Christmas, Edd! When I die, I’m leaving you all my old books.”

  “I’ll be the first to go,” the old man said earnestly, “and I’m leaving you my whole store. It’s written in my will.”

  * * *

  He mentioned his purchase to Polly Duncan that evening. They met at her place for their traditional Christmas Eve together. “I bought a book on Ossian today at Eddington’s. The author was someone by the name of Nutt. Wasn’t there a scandal concerning Ossian in Samuel Johnson’s time?”

  “Yes, and quite a controversy,” she said. “An eighteenth-century poet claimed to have found the third-century poems of Ossian. Dr. Johnson said it was a hoax.”

  After serving a low-fat supper, she offered Qwilleran a choice of pumpkin pie or fruitcake with a scoop of frozen yogurt.

  “Is there any law against having both?” he asked.

  “Qwill, dear, I knew you’d say that!. . . B
y the way, Lynette has been chiding me for calling you ‘dear.’ She says it’s old-fashioned.”

  “You’re the only one in my whole life who’s ever called me that, and I like it! You can quote me to your sister-in-law. For someone who hasn’t had a love affair for twenty years, she hardly qualifies as an authority on affectionate appellations.”

  They listened to carols by Swiss bell-ringers and French choirs. He read Dickens’s account of the Cratchits’ Christmas dinner. She read Whittier’s Snow-Bound. In every way it was an enjoyable evening, unmarred by any hostility from Bootsie. (The husky male Siamese, who considered Qwilleran a rival for Polly’s affection, had been sequestered in the basement.) Perhaps the occasion was made more poignant by Polly’s recent crisis, when they feared they might never have another Christmas Eve together. The blissful evening ended only when the banging on the basement door became insufferable.

  * * *

  On Christmas morning Qwilleran’s telephone rang frequently as friends called to thank him for their gift baskets. One of them was a fun-loving, gray-haired grandmother: Celia Robinson. She was his neighbor when he lived in the barn and she supplied meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, and other home-cooked fare that he could keep in the freezer.

  “Merry Christmas, Chief! Thank you for the goodies! And Wrigley thanks you for the gourmet sardines. He sends greetings to Koko and Yum Yum. Are they having a good Christmas?”

  “They had some of your meatloaf, and that made their day.” This mild quip occasioned a burst of merry laughter.

  “Guess what, Chief!” She called him “Chief” for reasons that only he and she understood. “My grandson is here for the holidays.”

  “Clayton?” He knew about the fourteen-year-old science and math whiz who lived on a farm in Illinois.

  “I picked him up at the airport yesterday afternoon. Mr. O’Dell came to supper, and we all opened presents and had a good time. Then we floodlighted the yard and built a big snowman. Today Clayton went to your barn on snowshoes and checked it out. Everything’s okay. No damage. Today we’re having dinner with Virginia Alstock’s family. Her kids are about Clayton’s age.”