The Cat Who Blew The Whistle

-7-

After the ballgame and the Panama Canal session, Qwilleran phoned Polly at her apartment. "Did you read the front page today?" he asked. "Did you see the item about the Trevelyan dog?"

"Wasn't that a senseless, uncivilized thing to do?" she replied vehemently. "What did they hope to accomplish? It won't bring the fugitive back! It won't compensate them for their financial losses!"

"And it wasn't even Floyd's dog," Qwilleran told her. "It belonged to his son, your builder."

"That's even worse!"

"He's the chow who came to work with the crew every day - a beautiful animal, friendly and well-behaved."

"Are there any suspects, have you heard?"

"Not as yet, I guess. Police are investigating."

"Oh, dear," Polly sighed. "One evil only leads to another."

Qwilleran changed the tone of his voice from objective to warmly personal. "And how is everything with you and Bootsie?"

"We're well, thank you. And what did you do today, dear?"

"Well, this evening I watched the Tubes trounce the Typos in the annual ballgame. I knew you'd be too busy to go, but everyone wanted to know where you were." This was stretching the truth; there had been only two inquiries, although everyone was probably wondering why the richest bachelor in the northeast central United States was alone. Hope sprang eternal in the breasts of several hundred single and soon-to-be-single women in Moose County.

"I'm sorry, dear," Polly said. "I know I haven't been good company recently. I've had so much on my mind."

"That's all right," he said and then added naughtily, "Celia Robinson arrives tomorrow, and I feel obliged to spend some time with her. She doesn't know anyone up here."

There was an eloquent pause before Polly said coolly, "That's very hospitable of you."

"You'll meet her sooner or later, although I think she's not your type. She splits infinitives."

"I'll look forward to meeting her." Polly's voice dripped icicles.

"Well, I'll let you get back to your blueprints."

"Thank you for calling... dear."

"I'll keep in touch. Don't let the house get you down, Polly."

Qwilleran hung up with a pang of misgiving. He had deliberately irked Polly by mentioning Celia, and he recognized it as an act of unkindness to vent his own frustration. It was like shooting the embezzler's dog, he realized.

Tomorrow, he told himself, he might call and apologize; then again, he might not.

The next day was sunny with little breeze and temperatures higher than usual. An Anvil Chorus of ringing hammers at the end of the trail indicated that the carpenters were working feverishly. After coffee and a roll, Qwilleran walked down to the building site. There were now three men on the job, all wearing sweat- bands and no shirts. Their perspiring' backs glistened in the sun.

Qwilleran called to them, "Could you guys use some cold drinks? I live at the end of the trail. Be glad to bring a cooler down here."

"Got any beer?" asked the helper with a ponytail.

"No beer!" Eddie ordered. "No drink in' on the job when you work for me... Benno!" The way he spoke the man's name was a reprimand in itself.

Qwilleran went home and loaded a cooler with soft drinks, which he delivered by car. The trio of workers removed their nail aprons and dropped down under a tree - Zak's tree - and popped the cans gratefully.

After a couple of swallows, Eddie set down his drink and started sharpening a pencil with a pocketknife.

Qwilleran said, "I notice you sharpen that pencil a lot."

"Gotta have a sharp pencil when you measure a board," the carpenter said, "or you can be way off."

"Is that so? It never occurred to me.... Where's your dog? Is it too hot for him today?"

The two helpers looked at their boss questioningly, and Eddie said with a glum scowl, "He won't be comin' with me no more. Some dirty skunk shot him, night before last."

"You don't mean it!" Qwilleran said in feigned surprise. "Sorry to hear it. Was it a hunter, mistaking him for a wild animal?"

Furiously Eddie said, "Wasn't no accident! I could kill the guy what done it!"

Qwilleran commiserated with genuine feeling and then said he'd leave the cooler and pick it up later.

Eddie followed him to the car. "D'you live in the barn up there? Somebody in my family built it, way back. This was his orchard. I see you fixed up the barn pretty good. I poked around one day when there wasn't nobody home, 'cept a cat lookin' at me out the window. At first I I thought it was a weasel."

"Would you like to see the inside of the barn when you've finished work today?" This was a rare invitation. Qwilleran discouraged ordinary sightseers.

"Would I! You bet!" the young man exclaimed. "We quit at four-thirty. I'll drive up and bring your cooler back."

"Good! We'll have a drink." Qwilleran knew how to play the genial host. Before driving back up the trail, he picked up his mail and noticed with foreboding a bulky envelope from the accounting firm. It suggested tax complications with pages of obscure wordage in fine print. When he opened it, however, out fell a large swatch of plaid cloth in bright red - the Mackintosh tartan. He felt the quality. It was a fine wool, and the red was brilliant. An accompanying note from Gordie Shaw stated that custom-made kilts could be ordered from Scottie's Men's Store. There was also an application for membership in the Clan Mackintosh of North America. It was simple enough; the dues were low; his mother's clan affiliation qualified him for membership. It was something he would have to think about seriously - the membership, not the kilt. He left the envelope on the telephone desk where it would catch his eye and jog his decision.

Qwilleran planned to stay home all day, waiting for an important phone call. Celia Robinson was driving up from Illinois and was instructed to telephone upon reaching Lockmaster.

Throughout the day there were frenzied sounds of building at the end of the trail: the clunk of two-by-fours, the buzz of a tablesaw, the syncopated rhythm of hammers. Qwilleran admired a carpenter's skill in sinking a nail with three powerful blows. His own attempts started with a series of uncertain taps, a smashed thumb, and a crooked nail, which he tried to flatten by beating it into the wood sideways.

At about two o'clock the phone rang, and Koko's uncanny sense knew it was important; he raced to the telephone and jumped on and off the desk. Qwilleran followed, saying, "I'll take it, if you don't mind."

A cheery voice said, "I'm in Lockmaster, Chief, and I'm reporting like you said. Permission requested to proceed." This little charade was followed by a trill of laughter.

"Good! You're thirty miles from Pickax, which is straight north," he said crisply. "When you reach the city limits, it's three more blocks to a traffic circle with a little park in the center. Look for the K Theatre on your right. It's a big fieldstone building. Turn into the driveway. I'll be watching for you. Red car, did you say?"

"Very red, Chief," she said with a hearty laugh.

Qwilleran immediately jogged through the woods to the carriage house to check its readiness. The windows were clean, the phone was connected, and the rooms had been brightened with framed flower prints, potted plants, and colorful pillows. He added a copy of the Moose County Something to the coffee table. The kitchen was miraculously complete, even to red-and-white checked dishtowels. In the bedroom there was a floral bedspread; in the guestroom, a Navajo design. He thought, Nice going, Fran!

Qwilleran went downstairs, just in time to see a red car pulling into the theatre parking lot. The driver rolled down her window and gave him a wide, toothy smile. "We made it!"

"Welcome to Pickax," he said, reaching in to shake her hand.

She was a youthful-looking, gray- haired woman whose only wrinkles were laugh lines around the eyes and smile creases in the cheeks.

"You look just like your picture in the paper, Chief!"

He grunted acknowledgment. "How was the trip?"

"We took it easy, so as not to put a strain on Wrigley. Most of the way he was pretty good." In the backseat a black- and-white cat peered mutely through the barred door of a plastic carrier. "One motel in Wisconsin didn't take pets, but I told them he was related to the White House cat, so they let him stay."

"Quick thinking, Celia."

"That's something I learned from you, Chief - how to make up a neat little story.... Where shall I park?"

"At the doorway to the carriage house - over there. I'll carry your luggage upstairs, but first we'll show the apartment to Wrigley, to see if it meets with his approval."

Celia laughed merrily at this mild quip. "I'll carry his sandbox and water dish."

As they climbed the stairs, Qwilleran apologized for the narrowness of the flight and the shallowness of the treads. "This was built a hundred years ago when people had narrow shoulders and small feet." This brought another trill of laughter, and he thought, I've got to be careful what I say to this woman; she's jacked up.

Upstairs she gushed over the spaciousness and comfort of the rooms, while Wrigley methodically sniffed the premises that had once been home to two Siamese.

"Now, while I'm bringing up your luggage," Qwilleran instructed Celia, "you sit down and make a list of what groceries you need. Then I'll do your shopping while you take a rest."

"Oh, that's too much trouble for you, Chief!"

"Not at all. I have an ulterior motive. Did you bring your recipe for chocolate brownies?"

She laughed again. "I brought a whole shoebox of recipes!"

He had a reason for wanting to shop alone. Otherwise it would be allover town that Mr. Q was buying groceries in the company of a strange woman who laughed at everything he said and was not at all like Mrs. Duncan.

"This evening," he said in a businesslike way, "it will be my pleasure to take you to dinner, and tomorrow a pleasant woman by the name of Virginia Alstock will drive you around and give you a crash course in what Pickax is all about."

"Oh, Chief! I don't know what to say. You're so kind!"

"Don't say anything. Get to work on that list. I have a four-thirty appointment."

"Yes, sir!" she said with a stiff salute and torrents of laughter.

Qwilleran himself was a chuckler, not a laugher, and on the way to Toodles' Market he began to wonder how much of Celia's merriment he could stand. He pushed a cart up and down the aisles briskly, collecting the fifteen items on her list. At the checkout counter the cashier expressed surprise.

"Gonna do some cooking, Mr. Q?"

Ordinarily he checked out a few ounces of turkey or shrimp and a frozen dinner. Tonight he was buying unusual items like flour, potatoes, bananas, and canned cat food. "Just shopping for a sick friend," he explained.

He delivered the groceries to the carriage house and returned to the barn just as Eddie Trevelyan's pickup came bouncing up the trail. The young man, in jeans and a tank top, jumped out of the cab and gestured toward the decrepit orchard. "Y'oughta do somethin' about them weeds and rotted trees."

"What would you suggest?" Qwilleran asked amiably. "I could clean 'em out with a bulldozer and backhoe, pave the road, and build a string of condos." He glanced toward the front window. "There's the weasel again. You sure he's a cat?"

"Sometimes.I'm not sure what he is" was the truthful answer. "'Hey, this is some barn, ain't it?"

"Wait till you see the interior. Come in and have a drink."

As soon as they went indoors, Koko came forward with mouth open and fangs bared, emitting a hostile hiss. His stiffened tail was straight as a fencer's sword.

"Does he bite?" the visitor asked, drawing back.

"No, he's overreacting because you think he's a weasel. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Sit anywhere," he added, noting the young man's reluctance to step on the unbleached Moroccan rug or sit on the pale, mushroom-tinted furniture. "What's your drink?"

"Shot On' a beer's okay." He sank into a capacious lounge chair and stared in awe at the balconies, catwalks, ramps, and giant fireplace cube.

"How do you like it?" Qwilleran called from the bar.

"Piece o' work, man!"

"I heard about the house you built for the Alstocks in Black Creek. It's been highly praised."

"Yeah... well..." Eddie was uncomfortable with the compliment.

At the barn the drinks were usually served on a tray, but on this occasion Qwilleran carried the beer can and shot glass by hand. "How are you getting along with Mrs. Duncan?" he asked.

"She's okay, but she worries too much. She's always on my back about somethin'." He downed the whiskey. "Hey, I don't know your name."

"Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran."

"I think I heard it somewheres."

"Could be.... I noticed you had an extra helper today."

"The job'll go faster now."

"Who's your regular man? You two seem to work well as a team."

"Benno. He's from Chipmunk. I knew him in high school. We both took Vocational. What do you do?"

"I'm a writer. I write books... about...baseball." It was the whitest lie Qwilleran could devise on the spur of the moment. He could get away with it because Eddie obviously did not read the Moose County Something.

"I like soccer," Eddie said, and Qwilleran became an instant soccer enthusiast.

After the builder's second shot of whiskey, he seemed more relaxed. "Wotcha think of my dog?"

"Beautiful chow! Friendly personality! What was his name?"

"Zak."

"Good name. Who came up with that?"

"My sister."

"Did she get along with Zak, or was he strictly a man's dog?" "Zak liked everybody. But him and me, we were like buddies. He was a joker, too. I'd take him out on a job, and he"d hang around all day till I started to pack up. Then he'd take off, and I'd hafta chase him. The louder I yelled, the faster he'd run, like he was laughin' at me. He liked to run, di'n't like to be chained. He had a long dog run at my folks' house. That's where they got 'im. Right between the eyes. Musta come outa the kennel to see who was prowlin' around."

"Did he bark? Shouldn't he have barked?"

"Di'n't nobody hear any barkin'."

"Where was his body found?"

"Right near the fence."

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "So he was evidently shot at close range, and he didn't bark. Sounds as if the shooter was someone he knew."

Eddie's delayed response and nervous eyeballs gave the impression that he knew more than he was telling. "Zak knew lotsa people."

Qwilleran was at his sympathetic best: the concern in his eyes, the kindly tilt of his head, the way he leaned toward his listener, the gentle tone of his voice. "How's your mother feeling these days?"

Eddie looked startled. "D'you know her?" "We've met, and I feel very bad about her illness. Does she have good medical care?"

"Aw, the doctors don't know nothin'. There's one doctor that has a cure, but he's in Switzerland."

"Is that so? Have you thought of taking her there?"

"Yeah, my sister and me, we thought about it, but... we di'n't have the dough. The trip, y'know.... the treatment... stayin' there a long time... outa sight! I dunno..."

"How about another drink?" Qwilleran suggested.

"Nah, I gotta hit the road."

"Some coffee? I could throw a burger in the microwave."

"Nah, I gotta meet a guy in Sawdust."

As the contractor drove away in his pickup, Koko ambled inquisitively into the room as if saying, Has he gone?

"That was impolite to hiss at a guest", Qwilleran reprimanded him, though realizing the cat had never before seen such a hairy human. He himself was pleased that he had concealed his connection with the media, while establishing a contact with the Trevelyan family that could be pursued without arousing suspicion. He made a mental list of procedures:

-Continue to take an insulated chest of cold drinks to the building site.

-Talk soccer with the crew during their; break; read the soccer news in the daily paper.

-Attend a soccer game.

-Show interest in the house construction and ask dumb questions. Qwilleran's ideas concerning the shooting of the dog were crystallizing. The perpetrator (a) had a grudge against Floyd and (b) knew where and how the dog was kenneled, although (c) he was unaware that he was shooting someone else's pet. One distasteful idea came to mind: The crime was purposely committed to encourage public sympathy for Floyd. The notion was not completely farfetched in this stronghold of dog owners.

In any case, since Zak had not barked and was shot at close range, the shooter was obviously someone he knew, and yet... that could be anyone. Zak was friendly to a fault.

Regarding the police investigation of the shooting, Qwilleran assumed that they knew all of the above but had more important matters to investigate, such as the whereabouts of the embezzler himself.

Something Eddie had said now started a new train of thought: Floyd might have stashed the stolen money in Swiss banks; he might now be in Switzerland and not Mexico as everyone assumed; he might be arranging to fly his wife there for treatment. This theory, Qwilleran realized, had its flaws, but if it were viable, why had Koko performed his death dance? Baffled, he decided to table the matter and take Celia Robinson to dinner.

First he had to feed the cats. He often reflected that he was retired from the workplace, had no family responsibilities, and was the richest man in the northeast central United States. Yet his entire life was structured around the humble routine of feeding the Siamese, brushing their coats, entertaining them, doing lap service, and policing their commode. Early in his life it would have been inconceivable!

The question now arose: Where to take the loudly gleeful Mrs. Robinson to dinner? The New Pickax Hotel was the usual choice for business dinners and social obligations; no one went there for fun. On this evening Polly would be dining there with the library board, a group of genteel older women whose voices never rose higher than a murmur. The dining room was small, furthermore, and other tables would be occupied by lone business travelers intent on their tough steak. Celia's shrieks of laughter would reverberate like a tropical bird in a mortuary.

Qwilleran's own favorite restaurant was the Old Stone Mill, but he was too well known there, and the entire staff kept tabs on his dining companions. The safest choice was a steakhouse in North Kennebeck named Tipsy's. It occupied a large log cabin; the atmosphere was informal; the patrons were noisy; and the restaurant had the distinction of being named after the owner's cat. That would please Celia.

When he called for her, she was obviously wearing her best dress, her best jewelry, and full makeup. She looked nice, although she would be conspicuous at Tipsy's.

"Where are we going?" she asked with excitement. "I saw ads in the paper for Otto's Tasty Eats and the Nasty Pasty. Such funny names! And Moose County Something is a crazy name for a newspaper! I also read about a town called Brrr; was that a misprint?"

"Brrr happens to be the coldest spot in the county," he informed her.

"That's a good one!" she exclaimed with hearty laughter. "Wait till I tell my grandson! I write to Clayton once a week, sometimes twice."

"You can plan on plenty of two-letter weeks while you're here," Qwilleran said. "People who live 400 miles north of everywhere tend to be different. It's called frontier individualism."

On the way to North Kennebeck Celia continued to be convulsed with merriment at signposts pointing to Chipmunk, West Middle Hummock, and Sawdust City. "I don't believe it!" she cried when Ittibittiwassee Road crossed the Ittibittiwassee River. "Are they for real?"

"Sawdust City is not only real but recently it's been the scene of a major financial scandal."

"I like scandals!" she cried happily.

"Virginia Alstock will fill in the details tomorrow, but briefly: The president of a financial institution has disappeared along with his secretary and millions of dollars belonging to depositors. Mrs. Alstock will also take you to meet Lisa Compton at the Senior Care Facility. Would you care for part- time work as a companion for elderly shut-ins?"

"Oh, yes! I'm good with old people and invalids. I cheer them up."

"I believe it!" he said sincerely.

Celia became serious. "Do you think I laugh too much, Chief?"

"How much is too much?"

"Well, my daughter-in-law says I do. My husband was just the opposite. He always expected the worst. I've always been an optimist, and I began laughing to make up for his bad humor, but the more I laughed, the worse he got, and the worse he got, the more I laughed. It was funny when you think about it. I noticed you never laugh, Chief, although you've got a terrific sense of humor."

"I'm a chuckler," he said. "My laughter is internal. I wrote a column once about the many kinds of laughter. People giggle, titter, guffaw, snicker, cackle, or roar. My friend Polly Duncan, whom you'll meet, has a musical laugh that's very pleasant. Laughter is an expression of mirth involving the facial muscles, throat, lungs, mouth, and eyes. It's usually involuntary, but one can control the volume and tone to suit the time and place. It's called fine-tuning.... My next lecture will be at 9 a.m. tomorrow."

"I never thought of that," she said. "I'm going to try fine-tuning."

"There's a hostess at the restaurant where we're going who greets customers with loud, cackling laughter. I always think, There goes another egg."

Celia tried to smother her screams of delight. "What's the name of the restaurant?"

"The Chicken Coop." She exploded again but cut it short. "No, it's really called Tipsy's." Then he explained how it was founded in the 1930s and named after a white-and-black cat whose markings made her look inebriated, and whose deformed foot made her stagger. "Her portrait in the main dining room was the subject of county-wide controversy recently," he said, "resolved only when art fakery was revealed."

When they arrived at the restaurant and were greeted by the hostess with a cackling laugh, Celia struggled to keep a straight face as she mumbled to Qwilleran, "Another egg!"

The menu was limited. Qwilleran always ordered the steak. Celia asked if the fish had bones, because she wanted to take some home to Wrigley. During the meal she had many questions to ask.

"Who is your friend with the nice laugh?"

"The administrator of the public library. It's her assistant who will chauffeur you around town tomorrow."

"Where do you live?"

"No doubt you've noticed the evergreen forest behind the theatre parking lot. Beyond that is an old orchard with a hundred-year-old apple barn. That's where I live."

"You live in a barn?"

"I've fixed it up a little. You'll see it one of these days. After you're settled, we'll have a talk. I think... I may have another assignment for you, Celia."

After dropping his dinner guest at her apartment, Qwilleran hurried to the barn to make a phone call. Just inside the kitchen door he picked up a black felt- tip pen from the floor. "Drat that cat!" he muttered as he dropped it into the pewter mug on the desk. A pen lying on a desktop was fair game to Koko, but he never filched one from the mug. He suspected Yum Yum.

It was the Compton residence that he called, and Lisa answered. "Do you want to speak to my grouchy husband?"

"No, I want to speak with his charming wife. It's about Pals for Patients."

"Sure. What can I do for you?"

"Does the Trevelyan family in West Middle Hummock ever call you for help?"

"All the time! The Pals we send out there never keep the job very long. It's a long drive for only a few hours' work, and it's an unhappy family. No one's assigned to them at the moment-not since the credit union closed. Their daughter worked there, but now she's at home, taking care of her mother herself. Why do you ask?"

"I've met the son. He's building Polly's house. It was his dog who was shot. Did you read about it?"

"Nasty business!" Lisa said.

"I agree. I have no sympathy for Floyd, but I feel sorry for his family, especially his wife, and I have a suggestion. The Celia Robinson I mentioned to you has a cheerful disposition that would do wonders for Mrs. Trevelyan, I'm sure. Mrs. Robinson will call at your office tomorrow, and I wish you'd see what you can do."

"You don't think she'd mind the drive?"

"She's just driven for three days with a cat in the backseat, and there were no complaints from either of them. She's an inspiration, I tell you! She could even make Lyle smile."

"Hands off my husband!" Lisa said. "He may be an old curmudgeon, but he's mine!... Okay, I'll see what I can do."

Qwilleran hung up slowly with a satisfied feeling of accomplishment. Already his logical mind was telling him how to brief Celia for her assignment. As he sat at the desk, making notes with a black felt-tip, he realized that neither cat had greeted him at the door. He glanced around casually, then with mounting concern. That's when he saw the blood-red splotch on a light-colored sofa.

Logic gave way to panic! He jumped up, knocking over the desk chair, and rushed toward the lounge area. "Koko! Yum Yum!" he shouted. There was no answer.