The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell Read online

Finally Qwilleran said, “I hear there was a disturbance in North Middle Hummock yesterday.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “I was there to cover the Ogilvie-Fugtree family reunion, but by the time I got home, there was a message on my phone, canceling the story. I phoned the paper and learned someone from the party had been killed while hunting rabbits.”

  The chief took a swig of his drink before saying, “Off the record, it looks like homicide. A member of the party was arrested on suspicions. That’s all I’m tellin’.”

  Qwilleran said, “That smart Koko, who’s gobbling crumbs of cheese that you ‘accidentally’ drop, probably knows more than the sheriff does.” He referred to the cat’s death howl at five-fifteen, the day the hunter was reported missing.

  “What else does that smart cat know?”

  “That’s all I’m tellin’, Andy.”

  ELEVEN

  On Monday morning, while feeding the cats, Qwilleran received a phone call from Mitch Ogilvie. “Qwill, I owe you an apology!” “About what?”

  “You wasted a whole afternoon of your valuable time.”

  “My time is never wasted, Mitch. Everything is fodder for the ‘Qwill Pen’ or even for a future novel! Who knows? However, I’m curious to know what actually happened Saturday afternoon.”

  Mitch said, “I’m going to town for supplies. Could you meet me somewhere?”

  “How about coming to the barn? You know where it is.”

  In half an hour the goat farmer’s van pulled into the barnyard, and Qwilleran went out to welcome his longtime friend.

  Mitch handed him a foil-wrapped package. “Some goat cheese. They say it’s good for allergies and digestion.”

  Indoors, coffee was served in the living area, where two sumptuously cushioned sofas right-angled around a large square coffee table, facing the fireplace cube.

  “I don’t mind telling you,” Mitch said, “it’s good to get away from the celebrating crowd—or what’s left of it. A lot of them went home early because of the . . . incident. Did you meet the two young fellows who went rabbit hunting, Qwill? I still can’t believe what happened.”

  “Who were the two rabbit hunters? Where were they from?”

  “Well, it’s quite a story. They’re cousins, Max and Theo. Both living in Texas. They have a rich uncle, who has named them his sole heirs because other branches of the family have all the money they need.”

  “Did the rich uncle come to the reunion?”

  “No. Uncle Morry is an invalid and never travels. . . . Now Theo is dead, and Max is suspected. The police say it was homicide—not an accident—and they must have reasons.”

  Qwilleran asked, “Were they both good hunters?”

  “Well, I don’t know. It was Max’s idea, and Theo seemed to go along.”

  “How much do you know for a fact?”

  “Well, Max says they decided to split up in the woods, one on each side of the creek. They invented a code for keeping in touch. Two whistles meant got-a-rabbit. Three whistles quitting-returning-to-farm. Max never heard any signals from Theo, although he heard a lot of shotgun fire on the other side of the creek.”

  Qwilleran asked, “Is one side of the creek better hunting than the other?”

  “The west bank,” Mitch said, “and Max gave that side to Theo, who’s a less experienced hunter. When he came back alone I was ready to lead a search party, but Kristi said Theo might be hurt, and there was no time to waste, so we called the sheriff. After all, it was Saturday, and the locals would be out to bag their Sunday dinner.”

  Qwilleran asked, “How are the members of the family reacting?”

  “They’re not talking, but they all have guarded expressions, as if they know something. Kristi says Max and Theo have always been at loggerheads.”

  “Do you have an opinion, Mitch—off the record?”

  “Well, you can’t help thinking that the surviving heir will double his inheritance.”

  At that moment Koko, who had been on the balcony and listening—fell or jumped onto one of the sofa cushions next to the visitor. He landed close enough to make Mitch yelp!

  “Bad cat!” Qwilleran scolded, and Koko left the scene in a guilty scramble.

  “Sorry!” Qwilleran said. “That’s the second time he’s done that.”

  “That’s all right,” Mitch said. “He just wants to be included in the conversation. Or it’s time for his lunch. . . . I’m leaving, anyway. Errands to do.”

  “Give Kristi my best wishes. She’s looking wonderful, and the twins are a credit to you both.”

  He walked with his guest to the barnyard and then returned to face an impudent-looking Koko on the bar top with legs splayed, eyes like a pair of daggers, and tail lashing! What was he saying?

  In mid-afternoon Qwilleran’s reading was interrupted by a phone call from Clarissa: “Qwill, do you have time to see me? I could drive over after work.”

  “Of course.”

  “See you at five-thirty.”

  The car that drove into the barnyard was a green almost-new two-door sedan.

  “From Gippel’s showroom!” she announced. “Scott Gippel himself waited on me and gave me a fantastic deal when I mentioned the Something. I also dropped your name, and that didn’t hurt. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “What did you think of Scott Gippel?”

  “He’s immense! He looks like Henry the Eighth!”

  “But he’s a good citizen, involved in everything, and always speaks his mind. It’s not always printable, but it’s honest.”

  He said, “What would you like to drink? How about a glass of Moose County Madness?”

  “What is it?” she asked warily.

  “Squunk water with a jigger of cranberry juice and a sprinkle of grated lemon peel.”

  “Okay. I’m feeling reckless. . . . Where are the cats?”

  “In the gazebo. Go out and talk to them, and I’ll take the tray out there.”

  A few moments later, when he arrived with a tray, both cats were on Clarissa’s lap.

  “They’re more gregarious than Jerome,” she said.

  Qwilleran raised his glass. “Here’s to a happy career 400 miles north of everywhere! . . . Now don’t keep me in suspense; what was your first assignment?”

  “I am thrilled! I’m to research and write a four-part series on the Heirloom Auction!”

  “Congratulations! That calls for dinner at the Old Grist Mill.”

  “I’d love it! Will I be welcome in my work clothes?”

  “The press is always welcome, Clarissa—anywhere, at any time. It makes up for being underpaid. I’ll go in and phone for a table. You put the cats in that canvas totebag and bring them indoors.”

  As they drove to the restaurant in his SUV, he said, “Being from Indiana, no doubt you know what a grist mill is.”

  “A flour mill?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Yes—a big stone building with a mill wheel that used to be powered by a rushing stream, long since dried up. Now it’s owned by a young woman from Chicago; the interior design is tasteful; the menu is sophisticated; the maître d’ is six-feet-eight. His name is Derek Cuttlebrink; he’s from the town of Wildcat, and I’ve known him ever since he was a six-foot-two busboy.”

  At the restaurant they were greeted by the owner, Liz Hart, who seemed to have a particular fondness for Qwilleran.

  He made the introductions, and the two women immediately warmed up to each other, as he knew they would.

  Derek looked approvingly at the dimpled, curly-haired blonde.

  “Is he married?” she whispered to Qwilleran after Derek had handed them menus and left the table.

  “No,” was the answer, “but he and his boss are . . . a couple who share a condo in Indian Village.”

  When drink orders were taken, Clarissa ordered a Moose County Madness, which had to be explained because Qwilleran had coined the name only two hours before.

  Then food orders were placed, and Clarissa s
aid she would like something they don’t have in California.

  With a wink at Qwilleran, the maître d’ solemnly rose to his full height and with tongue in cheek recommended Bloody Creek frog legs or Wildcat stew. “They’re not on the menu, but they’re very good.”

  Clarissa ordered lamb chops. But Qwilleran called the man’s bluff and ordered the frog legs.

  “Good choice,” Derek said and wrote it on his pad. “How would you like them done?”

  Slyly, Qwilleran said, “The same way the chef prepared them the last time, Derek. They were excellent.”

  But the game was not yet over, and the ball was in Derek’s court, Qwilleran mused with satisfaction.

  Two minutes later, Derek returned, looking apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Q, but we’ve just served the last order of frog legs. They’re very popular.”

  Clarissa listened solemnly, then asked, “Why is it called Bloody Creek?”

  “No one knows, except that the bridge is the scene of auto accidents, caused by an S-curve in the highway. . . . Now tell me about your first day on the job.”

  “Well, first I interviewed Burgess Campbell in his home. They’re all gingerbread houses on Pleasant Street! I was amazed!”

  “It’s properly called Carpenter Gothic,” he corrected her, “and the street has been featured in national design magazines. The houses were built by an early Campbell, who was a builder of four-masted schooners.”

  “Everything here is so interesting,” she cried.

  “Did you meet Burgess’s guide dog?”

  “Yes, and he’s so professional! No sniffing or tail wagging. When I told him he was a good dog, he looked as if he was thinking, ‘Watch your language, lady.’

  “Burgess—he told me to call him that because there are hundreds of Campbells in the county—gave me a good interview, explaining the why, what, and who of the Heirloom Auction. Then I requested a photographer from the paper and John Bushland met me at the Feed-and-Seed building, where the donated items are being collected. The auction itself will be held in the community hall downtown.”

  Clarissa was so excited, she was forgetting her lamb chops.

  She said, “Each of my four features will have a large photo of some important item in the sale—along with my byline and mug shot, and I’m going to send my whole series to my adviser at school. She’ll be impressed. I know it’s not the Los Angeles Times, but it’s a beginning.”

  During the meal, her gaze wandered as the tall, lanky black-suited maître d’ moved among the tables.

  “Isn’t Liz Hart rather young to own a restaurant, Qwill?”

  He explained. “She was a poor-young-rich-girl in Chicago who escaped a domineering mother, discovered Pickax and Derek, the most popular bachelor in town.”

  Clarissa said that it sounded like a fairy tale.

  “It does, and everyone is waiting for the happy ending.”

  “Is Cuttlebrink Derek’s real name?”

  “Absolutely! There’s a town called Wildcat that’s full of Cuttlebrinks.”

  “Really? Where did it get its name?”

  “Railroad trains go wildcatting through small towns.”

  “Oh! What does that mean?”

  “Going too fast in a controlled-speed zone.”

  “Oh!”

  Her cryptic syllables fascinated him, and he waited for the next question. She was, after all, a journalist.

  “Before you forget, Clarissa, what did you want to tell me about the Ledfields?”

  “Yes, something strange is happening at the Old Manse. I phoned to make an appointment and return her fabulous ring, but I can’t talk to anyone except a secretary, who says they are unwell. When Harvey and I were there, they seemed in good health. Am I getting the runaround? What do you think I should do?”

  He was getting twinges of suspicion in his upper lip. Actually, Qwilleran had not been comfortable with the situation for some time—not since Koko had dropped on Harvey’s head. It was something the cat had never done before! Then, a second time, he had dropped on the sofa alongside Mitch Ogilvie. Was there a connection?

  All of this flashed through Qwilleran’s mind in answer to Clarissa’s question.

  He said, “I can understand your concern, but don’t let it interfere with your concentration on your new job. My advice would be to send Doris a handsome get-well card and enclose a note explaining what happened to your ‘engagement’ and tell her you want to return her ring. Ask how she wants you to go about it. Enclose your phone numbers at home and at the office. Send the card by motorcycle messenger.”

  When they ordered dessert—cherries jubilee for her, strawberry shortcake for him—Derek flamed the cherries at the table with a flourish that impressed Clarissa.

  “He has style,” she whispered.

  “He’s an actor in the theatre club,” Qwilleran explained. “He’s currently playing the villain in Billy the Kid. There are press passes available, if you’re interested.”

  So it went—an evening of excitement for the newcomer. On the way back to the barnyard she was quiet, however, and just before she left in her new little used car she said, “Qwill, I’ve had a wonderful time, and you’ve been so kind that I feel guilty. There are things I should explain. It’s easier to say in writing, so I left a note for you—on the top of the bar.”

  Clarissa drove away, and Qwilleran hurried indoors faster than usual. . . . There was no note, but Koko sat on the bar, looking guilty.

  It was not until Tuesday morning that Qwilleran brought the stepladder to the living room and found Clarissa’s letter, complete with fang marks, on the top of the fireplace cube.

  Dear Qwill,

  You and Polly have been so kind and helpful that I owe you an explanation. I was never engaged to Harvey; I was part of his scam to get money from his uncle for a ski lodge. It didn’t work, and I should never have taken part in it. But if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here, working for the Something and meeting so many wonderful people.

  Clarissa

  TWELVE

  Another week! Another “Late Great” profile for the “Qwill Pen” column. Osmond Hasselrich had been the founder and majordomo of the law firm known as HBB&A. When Qwilleran inherited the Klingenschoen fortune, it was old Mr. Hasselrich who helped him establish the K Fund.

  Qwilleran still remembered how the attorney served tea before commencing any business meeting in his mahogany-paneled office. His secretary would bring teapot and cups on a silver tray, and the elderly gentleman insisted on pouring the tea with his trembling hands into his grandmother’s Victorian porcelain teacups.

  Did anyone know what had happened to those precious teacups that rattled in their saucers when the old man passed them to his clients?

  Lisa Compton had done the research on Hasselrich. Qwilleran labored to give balance to the thousand-word profile: Osmond Hasselrich had been a pioneer’s son . . . educated by the largesse of grandparents in Philadelphia . . . a struggling young lawyer in the straggling town of Pickax . . . his life included half a century of hard work and genuine concern for his clients . . . eventually he had three partners and a richly paneled office.

  A researcher’s note said, “Qwill, rumor has it that Fanny Klingenschoen had a torrid romance with Osmond before he went to law school and before she became a belly dancer in Atlantic City, but I don’t think you want to mention that.—Lisa.”

  Qwilleran filed his Tuesday copy by motorcycle messenger, leaving him time for desk chores. Then at two o’clock he walked down the trail to the back road, where there was a rural mailbox and a newspaper sleeve. Clarissa’s first feature story would be on page one. How much space would they give her? How big a byline? What position?

  He well remembered his first assignment on a Chicago paper. It was buried in a back section; the copy was butchered; his name was misspelled. But that was Chicago, and this was Pickax.

  The first of four installments on the Heirloom Auction appeared on the front page above the fold. A
nd the illustration was a large photo of an Abraham Lincoln portrait—in copper—actually a printer’s copperplate from which thousands of black-and-white prints had been pulled. There was also a teaser, saying, “Watch for another pedigreed antiquity in tomorrow’s Something.”

  Clarissa would be walking on air, and Qwilleran could enjoy her pleasure vicariously.

  He was sitting on the porch of the art center and was not surprised when volunteer Thornton Haggis burst out of the building saying, “How long have you been sitting here? We charge for parking!”

  “How much do you want for the bench? I’ll buy it,” Qwilleran retorted.

  Thorn sat down alongside him, and Qwilleran said, “Do you remember the young couple visiting me, who bought one of your wood turnings? You entertained them with local history. This is the girl. She’s living here now.”

  The historian looked at the mug shot and remembered them very well. “They are related to the Ledfields.”

  “And thereby hangs a tale, Thorn. The Ledfields have become quite reclusive, I hear.”

  “Oh, they never made the big social scene, Qwill. They’re one of the last fine-old-families worthy of the name, and I think it weighs heavily on Nathan that the Ledfields are dying out. His brother, who was killed in an accident recently, was a blight on the family name; I don’t know about the man’s son. Is he the one with all the hair who came down here and bought one of my bowls?”

  “He’s the one!”

  “Wel-l-l!” His inflections expressed plenty.

  “Doris Ledfield was on Polly’s board of directors at the library for a short time, Thorn, but she resigned.”

  “Yes, Doris is sweet but shy. She worships the ground Nathan walks on. In fact there is a story that I wouldn’t repeat to anyone but you, Qwill. When Doris found out she was barren, she offered Nathan a divorce so he could continue the bloodline elsewhere. It’s to his credit that he was appalled at the suggestion. Oh, he’s a gentleman! And he lives by a rigorous code of ethics.”

  “Have you heard him play the violin?”