The Cat Who Tailed a Thief Read online

  For several years Qwilleran had been the pick of Pickax, as far as eligible bachelors were rated. One woman had donated fifteen hundred dollars to charity for the privilege of having dinner with him. Although he appreciated compliments on his writing, the adulation centering around his moustache was cloying. He would be glad to share his lionization with the new fair-haired boy in town.

  When Lynette pointed him out, Qwilleran recognized him as the man who had been measuring the MacMurchie house; his voice was indeed ingratiatingly pleasant. He had blond hair, medium good looks, and a relaxed way with strangers, young and old, men and women. Compared to his blockbuster cousin, he seemed quite acceptable by Pickax standards.

  “His hair’s bleached,” Amanda muttered to Qwilleran.

  Polly said, “He has a frank, boyish way of looking at one that’s quite disarming.”

  Lynette said, “All his shirts and sweaters are monogrammed.”

  “How do you know?” Qwilleran asked.

  “He’s been playing bridge with us, and I had the three of them to Sunday brunch once. Carter Lee is crazy about my house!”

  Danielle was in a giddy mood. Her electronic laugh frequently pierced the even level of background conversation.

  Her husband, too, was in high spirits, saying, “That suit looks fabulous on you, Polly!. . . Hixie baby, we’ve gotta do lunch. . . Qwill, my wife wants me to grow a moustache like yours. Don’t you think I’m more the Charlie Chaplin type?”

  Hixie Rice grabbed Qwilleran’s arm. “An anonymous donor has sent a check for fifteen hundred to cover the theft from the money jar! It’s drawn on a Chicago bank. Does that mean it’s from the Klingenschoen Foundation?”

  “Don’t ask me,” he said. “They never tell me anything.”

  She was circulating with a tape recorder, collecting New Year’s resolutions for the monthly newsletter, The Other Village Voice. Qwilleran told her he was going to write a book. Mildred declared she would lose thirty pounds. Polly resolved to find a playmate for Bootsie. Lynette, the confirmed single, amused bystanders by saying, “This is the year I get married.” Danielle was determined to buy a kinkajou. Her husband said he was determined to get his wife pregnant.

  Then Wetherby Goode surprised the crowd by sitting down at the piano and playing cocktail music, while Danielle surprised them further by singing ballads.

  Lynette said, “I didn’t know Wetherby could play.”

  Polly said, “I didn’t know Danielle could sing.”

  “She can’t,” Qwilleran muttered as he returned to the buffet for seconds. Standing in line behind Amanda, he said, “I didn’t hear your New Year’s resolution.”

  “They wouldn’t print mine,” she said grouchily. “I’m campaigning to eliminate those family newsletters that people do on home computers and send out instead of Christmas cards! Whatever happened to those beautiful reproductions of Raphael and Murillo? All we get is a long, sickening report on family reunions, weddings, scholarships, vacations, holes-in-one, and new babies! Who cares if Uncle Charlie was elected president of the bowling club? I never even heard of Uncle Charlie!”

  “You’re absolutely right!” Qwilleran liked to encourage her tirades. “They never tell you that Junior was kicked out of college for cheating, and Daddy lost his job, and Cousin Fred was arrested for driving while impaired.”

  “Next year,” she said, with a conspiratorial punch in his ribs, “you and I will make up a phoney newsletter that’s nothing but bad news, and we’ll send it to every name in the Pickax phone book!”

  “We’ll sign it: Ronald Frobnitz and family,” he said.

  Later, Riker asked him, “What were you two talking about? No one’s seen her laugh since George Breze ran for mayor and got two votes!”

  “Just nonsense,” Qwilleran said. “You know Amanda.”

  Then Willard Carmichael approached him. “Qwill, have you met Danielle’s cousin yet?”

  “I’ve been watching for an opportunity, but he’s always surrounded.”

  “Come with me. We’ll bust in.”

  The visiting celebrity stood with his back to the fireplace, answering questions calmly and modestly.

  “Excuse me,” Willard said loudly. “Carter Lee’s visit won’t be complete until he shakes hands with the hand that writes the ‘Qwill Pen’ column.”

  The group moved aside, and the two men gripped hands heartily.

  “Welcome to Moose County,” Qwilleran said. “I hope you brought your snowshoes.”

  “Snow or no snow, I’m glad to be here,” the visitor said with sincerity. “I’ve been reading your column. Let me compliment you.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps we could arrange an interview in the coming week. I understand you have some interesting proposals to make.”

  “Well, I have to be in Detroit for a few days to finish up some business, but then I’ll return, and we’ll see what happens.”

  Willard said, “I’ll be down there at the same time, and I’ll make sure he comes back. We need him.”

  Mildred, overhearing them, said, “Willard, how can you miss the first dinner of the gourmet society? It was all your idea!”

  “I feel worse than you do,” he said, “but I have to attend a seminar. Technology is advancing at such a breakneck speed that bankers have to go back to school every year.”

  Danielle said, “He wanted me to go with him, but it would be so boring!”

  The conversation was interrupted by an announcement by Wetherby Goode in his radio voice: “Who wants to bring in the New Year? To guarantee good luck in the next twelve months, the first one to enter the building after the stroke of twelve has to be a male—cat, dog, or human.”

  “Bosh!” a woman’s voice shouted.

  “It’s an old custom, Amanda. You know that.”

  “Well, you brought in the New Year last January, and we had a hurricane, an explosion on Main Street, and a financial disaster!”

  “Take a vote!” Hixie yelled above the hubbub of dissension.

  “Okay,” Wetherby said, “all in favor of a female bringing in the New Year?. . . ”

  “Yea!” chorused all the women present.

  “Opposed?”

  The men thundered an overwhelming negative.

  “Why not alternate?” Qwilleran shouted.

  “Now there’s a man with some sense!” said Amanda, starting for the exit. “As a member of the city council, I consider it my duty to bring in the New Year.”

  There were protests.

  “Let her go!” said a man who had opposed her in the last election—and lost. “Maybe she’ll catch pneumonia.”

  The women booed.

  “Amanda, take your coat,” Wetherby cautioned. “The wind chill is thirty below!”

  The commotion subsided as everyone waited for the magic hour. Champagne corks were popping. The big clock over the bar was ticking. Wetherby was counting down the seconds. The hands reached twelve, and the crowd shouted “Happy New Year!”

  Wetherby Goode played “Auld Lang Syne” as the new year was ushered in by Amanda Goodwinter. And Qwilleran, with the instincts of a veteran reporter, went around asking for prognostications for the coming twelve months.

  “We’ll see a sudden end to thievery at the local level,” Riker predicted.

  “Our First Annual Ice Festival will be a whopping success!” Hixie declared.

  “Carter Lee’s plans for Pleasant Street will be a national sensation,” Willard said.

  As the guests started bundling into their stormwear and trooping out into the snow, firecrackers and gunshots could be heard in the distance. Everyone was happy, except Carter Lee James. He discovered his lambskin car coat had been taken from the coatroom.

  * * *

  The New Year’s Eve incident was reported to the police, and the residents of Indian Village were in a furor. They were embarrassed that it had happened to a visitor from Down Below—and worried that he might decide not to return—and indignant that two such incidents had
occurred in their squeaky-clean neighborhood. Qwilleran tried to discuss the matter with Brodie but was brushed off—a sure indication that the police were on the trail of a suspect.

  Qwilleran had his own suspicions. George Breze had recently moved into the Village. With his red cap, overalls, and noisy pickup truck, he was an incongruous figure in the white-collar community. On Sandpit Road outside Pickax he had an empire of marginal commercial ventures behind a chain-link fence. It was under seven feet of snow in winter, and only the “office” was accessible—a shack with a pot-bellied stove. Yet in both winter and summer it was a hangout for kids. When the police dropped in from time to time, the kids were always reading comic books and playing checkers, and Red Cap was busy at his desk. On the same property was a large Federal-style house where Breze had lived with his wife until recently, when she went off with a hoe-down fiddle-player from Squunk Corners. That was when he moved to Indian Village.

  Qwilleran had a strong desire to investigate this lead, considering Red Cap a latter-day Fagin, but he had to postpone extracurricular activity and work on the “Qwill Pen.” Finding subject matter in winter was a greater problem than in summer, and this year he had encountered a few dead ends. The dowsing story was on hold until spring thaw; a piece on mushroom-growing had hit a credibility snag; it was too soon to write about the Ice Festival; Carter Lee was not ready.

  In a quandary, Qwilleran paced back and forth across a floor that bounced more than usual. Suddenly there was a crash near the front door, and two cats fled from the foyer, either frightened or guilty. He had hung his snowshoes on the foyer wall, with their tails crossed, and the Siamese had ventured to investigate something new.

  First, he phoned Polly at the library, asking if there might be a book on the fine points of snowshoeing and, if so, would she bring it home? Meanwhile he gave the sport a try. He was clumsy. He tripped. His right shoe stepped on his left shoe. After he got the hang of it, he enjoyed tramping through the silent woods, although certain thigh muscles protested. When he wrote his column on the joys of snowshoeing, it began: “Did you ever try walking through snow with your feet strapped to a couple of tennis rackets?”

  * * *

  Qwilleran was one of those invited to join the Nouvelle Dining Club. The prospectus—signed by Mildred Riker, Hixie Rice, and Willard Carmichael—stated: “We are committed to quality rather than quantity, pleasing the palate with the natural flavors of fresh ingredients seasoned with herbs, spices, and the essence of fruits and vegetables.”

  For each monthly dinner, a committee would plan the menu, assign cooking responsibilities, and provide the recipes. One member would host the event and serve the entrée. Others would bring the appetizers, soup, salad, and dessert courses. Expenses would be prorated.

  Qwilleran signed up, volunteering for the wine detail, and he and Polly attended the first dinner one evening in January. It was held at the Lanspeaks’ picturesque farmhouse in West Middle Hummock. Twelve members assembled in the country-style living room and talked about food as they sipped aperitifs.

  Mildred entertained listeners with an account of her first cooking experience at the age of eleven. “I was visiting my aunt and was watching her make BLT sandwiches for lunch. Just as she started the bacon, the phone rang and she left the room, saying, ‘Watch the bacon, Millie.’ I did what she told me; I watched the strips turn brown and shrink and curl up. She kept yakking on the phone, and I kept watching the frying pan, and the bacon kept getting smaller and blacker. Just as I was opening a window to let out the smoke, my aunt came running. ‘I told you to watch the bacon!’ she screamed.”

  Everyone laughed, except Danielle Carmichael, who looked puzzled. Foodwise she was at age eleven, according to her husband. Since he and Carter Lee had left for Detroit, she had driven to the dinner with Fran Brodie. Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers had carpooled with the Rikers. The Wilmots lived nearby.

  For the sit-down courses, three tables-for-four were set up in the family room. There were place cards, and Qwilleran found himself seated with Mildred, Hixie, and Pender Wilmot. He noted that Riker and Dwight were the lucky ones, seated with Danielle. At each place there was a printed menu:

  Smoked whitefish on triangles of spoon bread with mustard broccoli coulis

  Black bean soup with conchiglie (pasta shells)

  Roast tenderloin of lamb in a crust of pine nuts, mushrooms, and cardamom

  Purée of Hubbard squash and leeks

  Pear chutney

  Crusty rolls

  Spinach and redleaf lettuce tossed with ginger vinaigrette and garnished with goat cheese

  Baked apples with peppercorn sauce

  Mildred said, “The menu is built around local products: lamb, whitefish, beans, squash, goat cheese, pears, and apples. It’s such a pity that Willard couldn’t be here. I wonder what he’s having for dinner tonight.”

  “If he’s in Detroit,” Qwilleran said, “he’ll be headed for Greektown.”

  Hixie asked, “Do you think Carter Lee will ever come back?”

  “I hope so,” Mildred said. “He’s such a gentleman, and that’s unusual in one of his generation.”

  “He has personality-plus, and he’s not married.”

  “If you’re staking out a claim, Hixie, I think you’ll have to stand in line.”

  “Seriously,” said Pender, “I see him as a visionary. I hope his plans for Pleasant Street come to fruition. It would be a stimulating triumph for the whole city.”

  Qwilleran said, “He’s like some actors I’ve known: laid back but fired with an inner energy that produces a great performance. I’m looking forward to interviewing him when he returns.”

  Pender asked about the status of the late Iris Cobb’s cookbook. The long-lost recipe book was being edited for publication by Mildred. She said, “I’m running into a problem. Only about two dozen recipes are original with her; the rest are photocopied from cookbooks by Julia Child, James Beard, and others.”

  Pender said, “You’ll have to get permission to reprint, or risk being sued for plagiarism.”

  Hixie had an idea. Hixie always had an idea. “Make it a coffee-table book with large color photos on slick paper—large format, large print, and only her own creations. If it’s going to be a memorial to Iris, make it spectacular.”

  Mildred said she would be happy to prepare the dishes. “Do you think John Bushland could shoot them?”

  “It would be better to hire a specialist. I used to work with food accounts Down Below, and we’d fly in a photographer and food stylist from Boston or San Francisco. They’d use real food, but they’d glue it, oil it, paint it, sculpture it, spray it, pin it, sew it. . . ”

  “Stop!” Qwilleran said. “You’re ruining my appetite!” He uncorked the wine and poured with an expert twist of the wrist when the lamb was served.

  Pender complimented him. “Done like a professional sommelier!”

  “I worked as a bartender when I was in college,” Qwilleran explained. “I’m still available for private parties.”

  Before the forks could be raised, Larry stood and proposed a toast to Willard Carmichael. “To our absent friend and mentor! May he live all the days of his life!”

  The entrée was a taste sensation, especially the vegetable accompaniment. “I’ll never eat mixed peas and carrots again!” said Qwilleran. At his table they began to talk about the best food they had ever eaten—and the worst.

  Hixie said, “My worst was at a place between Trawnto Beach and Purple Point. I was driving around the county on ad business and hadn’t eaten, so I stopped at a real shack that advertised pasties and clam chowder. It was mid-afternoon. The place was empty. A heavy woman came from the kitchen, and I ordered the chowder. She waddled back through the swinging doors, and I waited. Pretty soon a school bus stopped, and a young boy rushed through the door and threw his books on a table. Right away a voice yelled, ‘Baxter! Come in here!’ He rushed into the kitchen and rushed out again, and I saw him running down the highwa
y. Still no chowder.

  “Baxter returned with a bag of something which he tossed through the swinging doors before sitting down to do his homework. I began to hear cooking noises, so that was reassuring. In a while, the woman screamed for Baxter again, and he rushed into the kitchen and came out carrying a bowl with a spoon in it. He carried it very carefully with two hands and set it down in front of me. I looked at it and couldn’t believe what I saw. It was watery, dirty gray, and appeared to be curdled, and there were lumps in it that looked like erasers from old lead pencils. . . I rushed from the premises.”

  Qwilleran said, “Too bad you didn’t get the recipe.”

  “I think it was a quart of water, a package of instant mashed potatoes, and a can of minced clams,” she said. “Serves four.”

  Just as the dessert course was being served, the telephone rang, and Carol went to the kitchen to answer it. She returned immediately with a look of anxiety and whispered to Fran Brodie, who jumped up and left the room.

  Qwilleran stroked his moustache. There was something about this pantomime that worried him. Glancing toward the kitchen door, he saw Fran beckoning him. Now it was his turn to excuse himself and leave the table. She said a few words to him before he went to the phone.

  In the family room the baked apples with peppercorn sauce were untouched. There was a murmur of concern.

  Qwilleran returned and touched Larry’s shoulder, and the two of them went to the foyer. Carol joined them for a moment of conference. Then the Lanspeaks together went to Danielle and led her across the foyer to the library.

  “What’s the trouble, Qwill?” Mildred asked when he sat down again.

  “Andy Brodie called. He knew Fran was here with Danielle. It’s bad news. Very bad! The Detroit police got in touch with him. You know Willard left yesterday to attend a conference—”

  “An air crash?” Mildred asked, clutching her throat.