The Cat Who Played Post Office

10

Qwilleran passed A sleepless night. He was concerned about his friend's marital breakup. He was apprehensive about hosting an ambitious dinner party. And he felt uneasy about the murder of Tiffany Trotter.

He had told Riker about her interest in Daisy, adding, "If there's a connection between her visit here and her murder, it means I'm on a hot scent." "It also means you could be on the hit list yourself," the editor had said. "Better cool it, Qwill." At an early hour the telephone rang, and Amanda Goodwinter plunged into the conversation with her usual brash- ness. "Got a problem. Got to find another painter to finish your apartment. Not easy to do these days. Nobody wants to work." "What happened?" Qwilleran asked in the early-morning stupor that followed an unsatisfactory sleep.

"Didn't you hear the news? Tiffany Trotter was shot." He was slow in putting two and two together. "Uh… yes… I heard it on the radio." "That's Steve's wife," Amanda shouted impatiently.

"Steve, my painter! He won't be back on the job for a while." "I didn't get the connection," Qwilleran said. "That's a terrible thing. We don't expect that in Moose County, do we?" "Tourists! That's what's wrong," the designer grumbled. "Coming up here in their fancy painted vans. They're all stoned, I tell you!" "Is that what the police think? I haven't heard any details." "Francesca says — that's my assistant; her father is chief of police-Francesca says they think it was a sniper — some psycho who just happened to be driving past the farm with a high-powered rifle. These kooks from Down Below have been known to shoot cows, but this is outrageous!" "Is Brodie handling the investigation?" "It's the sheriff's turf, but the Pickax police cooperate." As Amanda rambled on, conjectures raced through Qwilleran's mind: Not necessarily a tourist; everyone in the county has a hunting rifle… The husband is always the first suspect. There could be a dozen different reasons why an enemy or a neighbor or even a relative might pull the trigger… Who are these Trotters? Are they involved in anything shady?

Amanda was saying, "So I'm trying to get Steve's cousin to finish the job." "No hurry. It can wait till Steve comes back." "Shucks, I want the job finished so I can get my money! Carpet's waiting to be laid. The blinds are ready… Say, I'm all excited about your party. Hope you've got some good bourbon." Qwilleran said, "I think you'll like our visitor from Down Below. Arch Riker is an editor from the Daily Fluxion." "I'll be on my good behavior, unless my cousins provoke me, and then look out!" "May we pick you up? I'll send Arch over with the limousine." "Hot damn!" said Amanda. Qwilleran and Riker took a walk downtown during the morning hours, to view the bizarre street scene — eight centuries of Old World architecture condensed into two commercial blocks. The department store posed as a Byzantine palace. The gas station looked like Stonehenge.

At the Picayune office they introduced themselves to Junior's father, owner and publisher of the newspaper. Senior Goodwinter was a mild-mannered man, wearing a leather apron and a square paper cap made of folded newsprint.

"Is it true you hand-set most of the type yourself?" Qwilleran asked.

"Been doing it since I was eight. Had to stand on a stool to reach the typecases," Senior said proudly. "It's the best part of the business." Riker said, "The Picayune is the only paper I know that has successfully resisted twentieth-century technology and new trends in journalism." "Thank you," said the publisher. "It hasn't changed in any way since it was founded by my great-grandfather." From there the two men walked to the office of Goodwinter and Goodwinter. Qwilleran apologized to Penelope for dropping in without an appointment. "I simply wanted to introduce Mr. Riker and request some information." "Come into the conference room," she said graciously, but her automatic smiles and dimples faded when he put his question: "Do you know anything about the Trotter girl who was murdered? " "What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "Do you have any inside information about the young woman, her family, her activities? Any theories about the murder? Was it a random killing or is there some local intrigue, some shady connection?" "I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place, Mr. Qwilleran. This is a law firm — not a detective agency or a social services office." There was a sarcastic edge to her voice. "May I inquire why you ask these peculiar questions?" "Sorry. I should have explained," Qwilleran said. "My first impulse, on hearing about the murder, was to establish a scholarship for farm youth as a memorial to Tiffany Trotter. I'm assuming she was an innocent victim. If there is anything unsavory about her character or connections, my idea would not be exactly appropriate." The attorney relaxed. "I see what you mean, but I'm unable to give you an immediate answer. My brother and I will take it under advisement. We are both looking forward to your dinner tomorrow evening." Walking away from the Goodwinter office Qwilleran said to Riker, "I've never seen her quite so edgy. She's working too hard. Her brother spends half his time in Washington — doing God-knows-what-and she has to handle the practice single-handed." Exactly at noon the siren on the roof of City Hall blasted its hair-raising wail. At that signal everything in Pickax closed for an hour, allowing workers to go home to lunch. No taxes or traffic tickets were paid; no automobiles or candy bars were sold; no prescriptions or teeth were filled. Only emergency services and one small downtown restaurant, continued to operate.

Qwilleran and Riker went into the luncheonette for a sandwich and listened to the buzz of voices. There was only one topic of conversation: "They weren't married more than a year. She made her own wedding dress." "Tiff made more kills last year than anybody in the volleyball league." "My brother was Steve's best man. All the fellas wore white tailcoats and white top hats. Really cool!" When the two men returned home there was an unfamiliar truck parked near the garage, its body mounted high over the chassis.

"What's that ugly thing doing there?" Riker asked.

"Don't knock it," Qwilleran said. "A terrain vehicle up here has the ‚clat of a private jet Down Below. Farmers and sportsmen love 'em. I'll go and see whose it is." In the loft above the garage he found a substitute painter putting the finish coat on the doorframes. "Are you Steve's cousin?" "Yeah, I'm fillin' in till he gets back." "I feel very bad about Tiffany." "Yeah, it's tough. And you wanna know what? The police took Steve in for questioning! Ain't that a kick in the head?" "It's only routine," Qwilleran assured him. "The police think the sniper was a tourist." The painter looked wise and said in a lowered voice, "I could tell 'em a few things, but I know when to keep my mouth shut." Typical small-town reaction, Qwilleran thought. Everyone knows the answers, or thinks he does, or pretends to. But no one talks.

Riker had found a hammock in the backyard and was reading the Picayune. Mrs. Cobb was in the kitchen, pounding boned pheasant for the terrine.

"The police were here!" she announced. "They wanted to know if Steve was on the job yesterday afternoon, and I was able to give him an alibi. He was having a beer with me at the time of the shooting. He's a nice young man. I feel very sorry for him." "It's abnormally quiet. Where's Birch?" "Gone fishing. He's catching the salmon for the croquettes." "Is everything progressing to your satisfaction?" "Everything's getting done, but Koko's been acting funny, scratching the broom closet door and jumping up to reach the handle." "I put that musty suitcase in the closet, and he can smell it. He doesn't miss a thing. It's time I got rid of all that junk." Koko heard his name and came running, saying, "ik ik ik," in a businesslike tone.

"Okay, okay, I'm throwing the smelly things out." Qwilleran carried the large carton of Daisy's winter clothing to the trash bin in the garage and then returned for the suitcase. He was halfway to the back door when he heard an emphatic yowl. It was not the kind of cat-talk that meant "Time for dinner" or "Here comes the mail" or "Where's Yum Yum?" It was a vehement directive.

Qwilleran stopped. Why, he asked himself, had Koko suddenly resumed interest in the suitcase? Not the carton, just the suitcase. Without further hesitation he turned around and carried the piece of luggage to the library. Koko followed in great excitement.

Once again Qwilleran inspected the contents of the suitcase, examining each pathetic item, hoping to find a clue or start a train of thought. He emptied the case right down to the sleazy tom lining.

"Yow!" said Koko, who was supervising the process. Tom lining! A twinge on Qwilleran's upper lip was telling him something. Speculatively he passed a hand over the bottom of the case. There was the outline of something flat and rectangular beneath the cheap, shiny, stained cloth. When he reached into the rip it tore further and exposed an envelope — a blank white envelope. Inside it was a wad of currency — new bills — hundred-dollar bills — ten of them.

"Yow!" said Koko.

Where, Qwilleran wondered, did she get this much money? Did she steal it? Was it a payoff? A bribe to leave town?

The wherewithal for an abortion?

Daisy might not have realized the value of the ivory elephant. She might have forgotten the gold bracelet in her hurry to get away. But if she happened to have a thousand in cash, she would hardly leave town without it… that is, if she had left town.

After the dinner party, Qwilleran promised himself, he would have another chat with the police chief.