The Cat Who Robbed a Bank Read online

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said.

  All but the white one turned away from their pigeon-watching and gave him an inquisitive glance.

  “Charlotte is deaf,” Maggie explained, “but she's an adorable little creature.”

  “Unusual curtains,” he remarked.

  “Amanda Goodwinter had them custom-made in Belgium. She's done all my decorating for forty years. Wonderful woman! And now she's going to run for mayor, and we must all support her. . . . Do sit down, and I'll bring the tea tray.”

  “I'd rather walk around and ogle your collection,” he said. “It's a museum!”

  The rosy velvet walls of the parlor were hung floor-to-ceiling with old oil paintings in ornate frames. Furniture crowded the room: heavy carved tables with marble tops; button-tufted chairs and settees heaped with needlepoint pillows; lamps with hand-painted globes; and everywhere a clutter of crystal and porcelain bric-a-brac.

  When Maggie returned with the tea, she said, “Did you know that Florence Nightingale had sixty cats? Not all at once, of course. And she named them after famous personalities: Disraeli, Mr. Gladstone, and so forth. . . . All my ladies have come from the animal shelter where I work as a volunteer.”

  They sat in carved side chairs at a carved table, and tea was poured into small porcelain cups with finger-trap handles, but—for Qwilleran—a plate of chocolate brownies made it all worthwhile.

  “Polly said they're your favorite sweet,” Maggie said. “She's such a wonderful woman! And I'm so glad she has you for a friend.”

  “It's my good fortune,” he murmured.

  Maggie chattered on: about the controversy over the library's bookmobile . . . about the failing health of Osmond Hasselrich, senior partner of the city's most prestigious law firm . . . about the Scottish Gathering. “Polly tells me that you and she are going on Sunday.”

  “Yes. Polly likes the piping and dancing. I'll attend the athletic events with Whannell MacWhannell on Saturday.”

  “Wonderful man!” she said. “He handles my tax work.”

  She had not said a word about the murder. Yet it was generally known that she intended to sell the fabulous Sprenkle necklace to the jeweler. It was a strange oversight, considering local passion for commenting on the latest news.

  As for Qwilleran, he was there for another purpose. After declining a third chocolate brownie, he drew a tape recorder from a pocket and said, “Now let's hear the story about your great-grandmother, Maggie.”

  “Do you want to ask me questions?”

  “No, just repeat what you told the genealogical club.”

  Maggie's tale was later transcribed as follows:

  This story about pioneer days in Moose County has been handed down in my family and I believe it to be absolutely true. There were heroes and villains in our history, and many of them were involved in mining.

  As you know, there were ten mines in operation—and enough coal for all—but most of the owners were greedy, exploiting their workers shamefully. My great-grandfather, Patrick Borleston, owned the Big B mine. He and another owner, Seth Dimsdale, cared about their workers' health, safety, and families, and their attitude paid off in loyalty and productivity. Their competitors were envious to the point of hostility. When Patrick was killed in a carriage accident, his workers were convinced that someone had purposely spooked his horses.

  They suspected Ned Bucksmith, owner of the Buckshot mine. Immediately he tried to buy the Big B from the widow. But Bridget was a strong woman. She said she'd operate it herself. The idea of a woman mine operator shocked the other owners, and when the mother of three proceeded to do a man's job better than they could, their antagonism grew—especially that of Ned Bucksmith. She was twice his size, being tall, buxom, and broad-shouldered. She always wore a long, voluminous black dress with a little white lace collar and a pancake hat tied under her chin with ribbons.

  Folks said it was the lace collar and ribbons that sent Ned Bucksmith over the edge. He and the other mine owners met in the back room of the K Saloon on Thursday evenings to drink whiskey and play cards, and he got them plotting against Big Bridget. One Thursday night a window was broken in the shack she used for an office. The next week a giant tree was felled across her access road. Next her night watchman put out a fire that could have burned down the office.

  One Thursday morning Bridget was sitting at her rolltop desk when she heard a frantic banging on the door. There on the doorstep was a young boy, out of breath from running. “Them men!” he gasped. “At the saloon. They be blowin' up your mine!” Then he dashed away.

  That evening Bridget went to the saloon in her tentlike black dress and pancake hat, carrying a shotgun. She barged in, knocked over a few chairs, and shouted, “Where are those dirty rats?” Customers hid under tables as she swept toward the back room. “Who's gonna blow up my mine?” she thundered and pointed the gun at Ned Bucksmith. He went out the window headfirst, and the other men piled out the back door. She followed them and unloaded a few warning shots.

  There was no more trouble at the Big B. Now if you're wondering about the youngster who tipped her off, he was Ned Bucksmith's boy, and he had a crush on Bridget's daughter. When they grew up, they were married, and that young boy became my grandfather.

  • • •

  Qwilleran turned off his tape recorder. “You tell the story well, Maggie.”

  “That's how I told it at the genealogy club. One man came up afterward and said his ancestors knew Bridget. They worked for her.”

  “It must be gratifying to know who your forebears are. I never knew my grandparents. How do you know details like the lace collar and pancake hat?”

  “The historical society has a daguerreotype of her. She looks like a king-size Queen Victoria.”

  “You've inherited some of her fine qualities, Maggie.”

  “And some of Bucksmith's bad ones. That was my maiden name, and I was glad to get rid of it when I married Mr. Sprenkle. He was a gentleman and a gentle man. He grew prize roses. Do you like the roses in this carpet? They remind me of him. Have another brownie, Qwill.”

  “You talked me into it. By the way, I think the Big B shafthouse is the most dramatic.”

  “They say it has a subterranean lake at the bottom of the shaft.”

  Qwilleran walked to the window to say goodbye to the ladies and look at the windows of the inn. He said, “There was a murder in that room on the third floor early this morning.”

  “I know. Poor Mr. Delacamp! He was kind of silly, but we liked him. He was supposed to make me an offer for the Sprenkle torsade today.” She shrugged. “Perhaps I'll have it made into five collars for my ladies. . . . Incidentally, Qwill, I saw something last night, and I'm wondering if I should report it to the police.”

  “It depends what it was.”

  “Well, Carrie was unwell, and I was sitting up with her—just to make her feel cared for and loved. We sat in the dark. It was late, and there were no lights in any of the guestrooms across the street. The windows have those narrow-slat blinds, you know, and suddenly I saw streaks of light behind the blinds in two of the windows on the third floor—like the beams of a flashlight moving around.”

  “How long did the light show last?”

  “Only a minute or two.”

  “It wouldn't hurt to report it,” Qwilleran said. “You never know if some small observation will develop into a clue. Do you know what time it was?”

  “Well, the bars close at two, and there's a brief rush of traffic, and then it's quiet. About two-thirty, I'd say.”

  “Do you know anyone at the police department?”

  “Andrew Brodie—I know him very well. He played the bagpipe at Mr. Sprenkle's funeral.”

  When Qwilleran left the Sprenkle building he crossed the street to pick up Friday's paper in the lobby of the inn, and he was disappointed to find that the Something knew of no more about the murder than did WPKX. He did, however, see Roger MacGillivray in the parking lot. “Are you on the D
elacamp story?” Qwilleran asked him.

  “I was, but they're not releasing any more details. I'm on my way to cover a meeting of the Interact Club at the school.”

  Knowing that reporters always know more than they're at liberty to write, he asked, “Any off-the-record dope on the girl?”

  “She's gone, but her clothes and things are still in her room, and the rental car's still here on the lot. And here's the twist: The jewel cases are still in the manager's safe. Figure that!”

  “Why are the authorities being so cagey?”

  “The PPD is waiting for the SBI to release information.”

  “Do you know the time and cause of death?”

  “Oh, sure. Suffocation, probably with a bed pillow. Between two and three a.m.”

  SEVEN

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 12—To a man with a rifle, everything looks like a squirrel.

  As Qwilleran watched the Siamese gobble their breakfast and then groom themselves in the age-old style practiced by felines around the world, he shook his head in wonder. Here were two cats doing what cats do, and yet . . . one of them had yowled officiously when a character in the play was suffocated with a pillow! Something had clicked in his little brain, connecting the drama with the real-life incident at the inn. There was no doubt about it: Koko was gifted with a rare intellect.

  Sitting in the kitchen observing the grooming ritual, Qwilleran asked himself, What does Koko have that other cats do not? The answer was: sixty whiskers, eyebrows included, and counting both sides of his noble head. His reverie was interrupted by the telephone, which seemed to be ringing more urgently than usual. Polly was on the line, speaking with the breathlessness of one who is late for work.

  “Any news about the murder?”

  “Only rumors,” he mumbled, still lost in his own profound thoughts about Koko.

  “Well, I have something to report. Didn't have time to call you last night. Bird Club, you know. Exciting meeting!”

  I'll bet, he thought. “What's your news?”

  “The police came to the library yesterday, to talk to me.”

  Qwilleran snapped to attention. “About what?”

  “About the purchase of my ring. They had the appointment book with a list of prospective purchasers. They knew I was interested in a ring for seven-ninety-five. They wanted to know if I'd bought it with credit card, personal check, or bank check. When I said the jeweler required cash, the officer's Adam's apple wobbled.”

  “Mine wobbled, too,” Qwilleran admitted, “when I first heard about the cash-only policy. Was he embezzling from his firm or defrauding the government?”

  “I must hang up now and go to the library. See you tonight. Enjoy the games!”

  Whannell MacWhannell called for Qwilleran at the barn, and they drove to the fairgrounds in the accountant's car. Both men were in Highland dress: kilts, sporrans, knee-hose, garters with flashes, brogues, white sports shirts, and Glengarry caps tilted rakishly over the right eyebrow. And it must be said that both men had the commanding stature and swagger to carry it off.

  Big Mac's first words were predictable: “I can't believe it! I can't believe the new inn opened with a murder! I never met Delacamp, but I was always aware of the social and economic waves he made during his visits. But why now? And why here?”

  “Times are changing—even in Pickax,” Qwilleran muttered.

  “Jewel thieves are the prime suspects, I suppose,” said the accountant with a chuckle, “but I have a client who would qualify for the honor. Five years ago his wife drew ten thousand from their joint bank account and bought some earrings.”

  “I suppose you know purchasers have to pay in hard currency.”

  Big Mac chuckled again. “Can't you picture the local ladies lined up at the teller's window with suitcases and shopping bags to fill with twenties? Plenty of folks in the north country don't recognize anything larger than a twenty as negotiable.”

  It was the first time Qwilleran had attended a Scottish Gathering and the first time one had been held in Moose County. Bixby County usually excelled in athletic events, and Lockmaster in music and dance. This year the idea of a local venue had charged Moose Countians with the will to win.

  There was more to the annual Scottish Gathering than competition, of course. It was a gathering of clans, a renewal of friendships, a scene of festivity. There were crowds of happy celebrators, Scottish food and drink, hospitality tents in bold colors, pennants flapping in the breeze, fiddlers fiddling, bagpipers piping.

  Qwilleran and Big Mac pushed through the crowds to an open field where a sheepherding demonstration was scheduled. A flock of a dozen sheep was being unloaded from a stake-truck belonging to the Ogilvie Ranch and herded into a temporary corral divided into a maze of miniature pastures. The shepherd was Buster Ogilvie himself, carrying a crooked staff. Qwilleran knew the whole family. The shepherd grew the wool; his wife spun it into yarn; their daughter knitted it into sweaters and socks.

  “From ewe to you!” the Ogilvies quipped.

  A crowd had gathered, and Ogilvie made an announcement in the relaxed, gentle manner typical of persons who deal with sheep: “Folks, we've brought a five-year-old Border collie to show you how he does his job. The breed was developed many centuries ago on the border between Scotland and England. This breed of dog is not only intelligent but born with the sheepherding instinct. Also, they're workaholics. Here's . . . Duncan!”

  A rough-coated black-and-white dog with tail carried low came bounding from the truck cab, right on cue. He went directly to the penned sheep, rounded them up in businesslike fashion, and herded them into the next small pasture. They moved obediently and placidly in a close-order cluster of woolly backs.

  Ogilvie said, “You'll notice that Duncan doesn't yap or make a fuss. He doesn't have to. They know what he wants them to do. Even rebellious sheep obey him. If something happens to make the flock nervous, Duncan can calm them down just by being there.”

  By the time the sheep had scattered in the second enclosure, Duncan rounded them up and herded them into a third.

  Big Mac muttered to Qwilleran, “The poor devils must be all confused.”

  “They're sheep. Theirs not to question why.”

  Ogilvie said, “There's a silent understanding between a Border collie and his flock. Some folks call it magic. It's a kind of mental telepathy. I think he reads my mind, too. . . . Now, in case you're wondering about all this herding, we have to move the flock from one pasture to another to give them a balanced diet, as well as periods of shade and water. If sheep gorge too much, they can get bloated, and that can be fatal.”

  Briskly and with authority Duncan moved his willing charges through the maze and back to the starting place. Watchers applauded, cameras clicked, and he trotted back to the truck.

  “Good show!” Qwilleran said to the shepherd. “He's a real pro!”

  Big Mac said, “I wouldn't mind having a dog like that.”

  “That's the problem,” Ogilvie said. “The Borders are so friendly that people want them for pets, but that's not fair to the dog and not fair to the breed. You see, for hundreds of years they've been bred as working dogs, and if they don't get enough work, they're frustrated. There's a story—whether it's true or not, I can't guarantee—but it's about a Border collie living on a farm where they didn't give him enough work to do. One day he trotted down the road to the next farm, rounded up their chickens, geese, hogs, and goats, and herded them back to his own farm.”

  • • •

  The food tents were offering mutton pies, fried herring cakes, bridies, and assorted sweets such as scones and shortbread. Qwilleran and Big Mac chose the bridies, a kind of meat-filled pastry turnover similar to Moose County's Cornish pasties but without the potato. They carried their repast to a picnic table and were bantering with Scots from Bixby when Lois Inchpot walked past their table and pointed a threatening finger at them.

  “You guys get out there in the bleachers and root for my boy, do you hear? He
's in the footraces, starting in a few minutes.”

  Big Mac mumbled, “We'd better do what she says, or we'll never get a second cup of coffee—free. Personally I prefer the heavy games to the races, although I know it's traditional for Scots to respect speed. In the early days of clan warfare they needed fast runners as messengers as well as strong men for bodyguards.”

  They went to the bleachers and roared encouragement to Lenny, while his mother stood up and waved her arms like a middle-aged cheerleader. In spite of their support he never came in better than third. Bike racing, not foot-racing, was his strong suit.

  The big men who next paraded around the field were no candidates for Mr. America's crown; they were just big, beefy heavyweights—some in kilts, some in shorts. All wore extra-extra-large T-shirts stretched tightly across their torsos. The logos on the shirts were an eight-point buck (Moose County), a raging bull (Bixby), and Pegasus (Lockmaster).

  “What I'd like to see,” said Big Mac, “is the test of strength and grit called Hauling the Bucket, but it's probably been outlawed. A guy picks up two iron buckets weighing a couple of hundred pounds apiece, and he runs—or struggles—down the track until he's forced to drop them. The longest run wins. As the saying goes, if you don't drop dead, you haven't been trying hard enough.”

  “What I want to see is called Tossing the Caber,” Qwilleran said. “Lenny says there's quite a trick to it, and there's a desk clerk at the inn who's mastered the trick.”

  The program listed five events, involving tossing, pitching, throwing, putting, and heaving.

  1. Throwing the Hammer. It was four feet long and weighed twenty pounds. The thrower stood with back to the goal and his feet planted firmly on the ground. Then he twirled and let it fly, his kilt swirling in a circle of pleats. A Bixby contender won handily.

  2. Heaving the Sheaf. A burlap sack filled with twenty pounds of hay had to be lifted with a three-pronged pitchfork and pitched over a crossbar that started at eighteen feet from the ground. It was another win for the raging bulls.