The Cat Who Played Post Office

13

Before Qwilleran was released from Pickax Hospital, he had a consultation with Dr. Melinda.

"All your tests turned out fine," she said. "You're a very healthy guy — for your age." "And for a young chick you're a very smart doctor." "I'm so smart, lover, that I sneaked in a Wassermann test in case you want to apply for a marriage license. I'm also writing you a prescription for a crash helmet. With your head injury you could have drowned in that drainage ditch." "I'm sure the hit-runner thought he was leaving me for dead." "Some strange things are happening in Moose County," Melinda said. "Amanda may be right about the tourist invasion. You should report it to the police." "On the strength of what? My dream? Brodie would think I damaged something else besides my bicycle. No, Melinda, I'm merely going to keep a sharp lookout for a certain truck. In my dream I could see it clearly, coming at me fast, a rusty grille grinning at me, towering over me, It was one of those terrain vehicles." "Junior was one scared kid when he brought you in, He though you were a zombie." "It was a strange experience, Melinda. When I opened my eyes in a hospital bed and didn't know where I was or who I was, it didn't disturb me at all. It was simply a puzzle that aroused my curiosity. Glad you got Arch Riker up here to straighten me out." Riker picked Qwilleran up at the hospital in a rental car from the airport. "I have time for a cuppa, Qwill, before I catch my plane." "Then head north at the traffic light and we'll tune in the coffee hour at the Dismal Diner, If you think the Press Club is a gossip mill, wait till you hear the boys up here." "What did your tests show? Everything okay?" "Everything's fine, but I have some ugly suspicions about my bike mishap, It was no accident, Arch! It was a hit-run attempt on my life." "I warned you! Why do you get mixed up in criminal investigations that are none of your business? Leave it to the authorities." "This has nothing to do with the missing housemaid. It's something else entirely. I came to that conclusion when I was lying in that hospital bed. You know the conditions of the Klingenschoen bequest: I have to live in Pickax for five years or the estate goes to a syndicate in New Jersey. Well, what happens if I die before the five years are up?" "Without knowing anything about probate law," Riker said, "I'd guess that the dough goes to New Jersey." "So it's to their advantage if I fade out before the five years are up. In fact, the sooner the better." Riker gave his passenger an incredulous glance. "That's a jarring thought, Qwill, Why do you suspect them?" "It's a so-called foundation involved in some dubious venture in Atlantic City. I don't trust those people." The editor said, "When I first heard about the Old Lady's will, I knew it was too good to be true. Forget the inheritance, Qwill. You never wanted a fortune anyway. You know you can have your job back at the Fluxion." "Then the money will leave Moose County." "Don't try to be a hero. Get out of here and save your skin. Let those forty-seven affluent Goodwinters buy some new books for the library." Qwilleran fingered his moustache with uncertainty. "I'll figure out something. I've got an appointment with the attorney this afternoon. And maybe we'll hear some scuttlebutt at the diner." The coffee hour was effervescing in a haze of blue smoke. A few men in feed caps nodded to Qwilleran as he and Riker helped themselves to coffee and doughnuts. The two newsmen sat at a side table, listening.

"He's handin' out cigars, but he ain't the father." "I butcher my own hogs, make my own sausage. Only way to go." "It says in the Bible that a fool's voice is known by its multitude of words, and that fits him all right!" "Birds! That's my bag, and I always limit out." "If she's a lawyer, why would she want to get married?" "They had to shoot the whole herd. Damn shame!" "All she wants is his dough, I betcha." "Man, my wife makes the best rabbit stew you ever tasted." "Never heard the name. Is it Russian or something?" "My mother-in-law's been here goin' on three weeks." Before heading for the airport Riker dropped Qwilleran off at his house. "Did you get any clues from all that bull?" he asked.

Qwilleran shook his head. "They know who I am. They clammed up." If he was expecting a joyous welcome from the Siamese, he was disappointed. They could smell the hospital, and they circled him with distaste, Yum Yum hissing and Koko producing a chesty rumble that sounded like distant thunder.

The situation was still a standoff when he left for his one o'clock appointment.

He walked into the law office slowly, still hampered by the wrappings on his sutured knee. Penelope also lacked her usual verve. She was wearing dark glasses and looking pale. In a shaky voice she said, "You look a trifle battered, Mr.

Qwilleran, but we are all thankful it was no worse. What can I do for you?" He stated his question about the Klingenschoen will.

"As you know," Penelope reminded him, "it was a holographic will. The dear lady insisted on writing it herself, without an attorney and without witnesses, to protect her privacy. Let me review the document again to refresh my memory." The clerk brought the handwritten will, and Penelope read it carefully, shaking her head. "You are justified in being concerned. In the event of your death the estate would go to the alternate heirs in New Jersey. But surely you have nothing to worry about. Except for your temporary injuries, you seem extraordinarily healthy." "Then brace yourself," Qwilleran said.. He repeated his suspicion about the so-called accident and his distrust of the East Coast heirs. "Is there anyone in town who comes from that part of the country or has connections there?" "Not to my knowledge," she said, looking pensive and withdrawn.

He refrained from mentioning his private list of suspects. Hackpole had worked in Newark. The gardener was a Princeton man. Qwilleran's own former in-laws — an obnoxious crew — pursued some questionable profession in the Garden State.

To the attorney he said, "In any event I feel strongly that the money should stay in Moose County. It belongs here, and it can do a lot of good. How can we circumvent the present situation? Are there any loopholes? May I write a will myself, assigning my claim to the Klingenschoen Foundation?" "I'm afraid not," Penelope said. "The language of the original will fails to grant you that power… Let me think…

This is really an unfortunate development, Mr. Qwilleran. I can only hope you are wrong in your suspicions." "Then be advised," he said, "that I'm going to write the will anyway. If anything happens to me, you'd better demand an investigation into the cause of my death." "I must say, Mr. Qwilleran, you are very calm and businesslike about a distressing possibility." "I've been in hot spots before," he said, waving her comment aside. "I'll write a holographic will, so Goodwinter and Goodwinter cannot be faulted for giving me bad advice. And I'll see that all the bases are covered — the police, the prosecutor's office, the media…" "What can I say?… Except that I'm quite upset about your allegations." "So be it. Discuss it with your brother, if you see fit, but right or wrong, that's going to be my course of action." As he hobbled from the office he thought, She's hung over; she needs a hair of the dog. So he hobbled back into Penelope's presence. "Your rain check is still good, Miss Goodwinter. I'd like to suggest cocktails and dinner at the Old Stone Mill tonight, if you don't mind dining with a walking accident statistic." She hesitated briefly before saying, "Thank you, Mr. Qwilleran, but not tonight, I'm afraid." Her telltale physiological condition surprised him more than her refusal of his invitation. Regarding the latter he decided she just didn't like frozen ravioli.

At breakfast the next morning Mrs. Cobb had more Goodwinter gossip to report.

"Sorry to be late," Qwilleran apologized as he sat down to a plate of real buttermilk pancakes and real Canadian peameal bacon. "I seem to require more sleep since my accident." He sniffed critically. "I smell lavender." "That's English wax," the housekeeper said. "Mrs. Fulgrove is working on the dining room furniture." She tiptoed to the door of the breakfast room and closed it gently. "'She told me the Goodwinters had another fight when he got home from Washington. Miss G was shouting about mosquitoes — and a woman — and a dead body, whatever that means. None of it was very clear to me. Mrs. Fulgrove is hard to understand. She also said something about a cow opening a restaurant in Pickax." "It can't be any worse than the restaurants we've got," he said. "It might even be better. Any phone calls?" "Lori Bamba called. She said her husband will drop off the first batch of letters for you to sign. Mrs. Hanstable phoned to say she's picking wild blueberries and asked if we wanted any. She sells them to raise money for the hospital." "I hope you placed an order." "I told her two quarts. She'll drop them off tomorrow when she comes in town to have her hair done." "You women," he said, "structure your lives around your hair appointments." "Oh, Mr. Q," she laughed, admonishing him with her eyes. She was acting girlish, he thought, and he soon found out why. "I've been invited out to dinner tonight," she said. "A man I met at the Historical Society." "Good! I'll grab a hamburger somewhere." "You don't need to do that, Mr. Qwilleran. I bought four beautiful loin chops and some big Idaho bakers, and I could put them in the oven before I go. I thought maybe you'd like to ask someone over." "Good idea! I'll invite Junior. I owe him one." In the afternoon Nick Bamba arrived with seventy-five beautifully typed letters. He said proudly, "Lori makes each reply a little different, so it won't seem like a form letter. She's good at writing." Qwilleran liked the young engineer from Mooseville. He had a healthy head of black curly hair and eyes like black onyx that shone with enthusiasm, and he always had some choice tidbit of information to impart.

"Glad you weren't seriously hurt, Qwill. Lori was praying for you." "Tell her I need all the prayers I can get. How's she feeling? " "Okay, except mornings, but that's natural." "Would you like a beer?" "Got anything stronger? Lori's on the wagon for the duration, so I do my drinking away from home." "Spoken like a considerate husband," Qwilleran remarked.

They sat in the solarium with their drinks and discussed the Trotter case, bicycles, dogs, and the coffee crowd at the Dimsdale Diner.

"On the way down here," Nick said, "I stopped at the diner for lunch, and I saw something unusual. Is Alex Goodwinter your attorney?" "Actually his sister is handling the estate." "I hear she's pretty sharp. I wish I could say the same for Alex. He gave a talk to the Mooseville Boosters a while back, and he's the dullest speaker I ever heard. He makes a good appearance, and a good presentation, but when it's allover, what has he said? Nothing!" "What happened at the diner?" Qwilleran asked casually, although his curiosity was rampant.

"I was sitting at a window table, eating some by-product of a sawmill called meatloaf, and I saw this Cadillac pull into the parking lot. Usually it's all pickups and vans, you know." "You mean you could actually see through the dirt on those windows?" "Lori says I can see through a brick wall." "So what did you see?" "It was Alex driving the Caddie, and he sat there at the wheel with the motor running until one of the owners of the place went out and got in the front seat with him." "Which partner?" Qwilleran asked.

"Not the cook. The big husky one who rides around on a motorbike. The two of them sat in the car, and it looked like they were arguing. Finally Alex got out his wallet and counted out some bills. I'd like to know what that little deal was all about." Qwilleran's suspicions were piqued, but he offered a matter-of-fact explanation. "The guy does maintenance work.

Alex could have been settling an account." "In cash? Why wouldn't he write a check?" Nick leaned forward in his chair. "You know, I've always thought they' were selling something besides food at the diner. Otherwise, how could that dump stay in business?" Qwilleran chose to taunt Nick. "Alex is a leading citizen, a pillar of the community, a genuine rockbound Goodwinter.

How can you cast aspersions?" "Alex is a genuine four-flusher," said Nick, getting a little heated. "He likes to make people think he's an important influence in Washington, but I say he's down there having a good time." "What does Lori think about him?" "You know women!" Nick said with disdain. "She thinks he's a dreamboat-that's her word for him. I have another word." Nick left, taking fifty more letters for his wife to answer, and Qwilleran visited the hardware store to look at bicycles.

When he returned he said to Mrs. Cobb, "Do you know what they're asking for a ten-speed? More than I paid for my first car!" "But you can afford it, Mr. Q." "That's not the point… You look very nice this afternoon, Mrs. Cobb." "Thank you. I had my hair done." She was wearing: more makeup than usual. "You'll never guess who invited me to dinner tonight! It's that man who objected to the forty-eight star flag." "What? Hackpole?" "Herb Hackpole. He's really very nice. He runs a garage, and he's going to find out why my van drips oil." Qwilleran huffed into his moustache and reserved comment.

While waiting for Junior to arrive, he prepared dinner for the Siamese. Yum Yum had forgiven him for smelling like a hospital and had even jumped onto his lap and touched his moustache with an inquisitive paw. It was one of her endearing gestures. Accustomed to stealing toothbrushes and paintbrushes, she had never been able to understand bristles attached to a face.

Koko, on the other hand, was giving Qwilleran the silent treatment. He had stopped hissing and growling but regarded the man with utter contempt. When the plate of boned chicken was placed on the floor, he refused to eat until Qwilleran had left the room. It was an attitude entirely without precedent.

Junior arrived promptly at six, with the ravenous hunger of a twenty-two-year-old. "Hey, you look good in bandages, Qwill. You ought to wear them all the time." They ate their pork chops at the massive kitchen table. "According to Mrs. Cobb," Qwilleran pointed out, "this is probably a sixteenth-century table from a Spanish monastery." "She's a swell cook," Junior said. "You're lucky." "She made a fresh peach pie for our dessert… Have another roll, Junior. They're sourdough… She went to dinner tonight with a guy from the Historical Society. I hope he's a decent sort. She's gullible, and I feel responsible, since I brought her up here from Down Below. Do you know Herb Hackpole?" Junior finished chewing a large mouthful. "Everybody knows that guy." "Mrs. Cobb finds him quite likable." "Oh sure. He can be likable if he wants something. Mostly he's a troublemaker, always calling the paper with some piddling complaint, and we can't get kids to deliver papers on his block because of his dogs… Pass the butter, Qwill." "Has he always lived here?" "Born and raised here, Dad says. In school everybody hated his guts. He was your standard small-town bully, you know. The whole town cheered when he went east to work. Too bad he came back… Is there another beer?" "Sure, and we've got a couple more ears of com in the pot." Over coffee and peach pie the young editor said, "I'm supposed to ask you a favor. Do you know the secretary at GandG? She's my aunt." "I noticed a family resemblance," Qwilleran said.

"She thinks Penny is headed for trouble-working long hours and worried about something and drinking, which she doesn't usually do. My aunt thought maybe you could talk her into taking a vacation — a health spa in Mexico, or something like that." "Me? I'm only a client. She won't even go to lunch with me." "But Penny admires you a lot, no kidding. She used to clip your columns when you were writing for the Fluxion. She always-" He was interrupted abruptly by the insistent sound of his beeper. He jumped up and ran to the door. "Sorry.

There's a fire. Great meal!" He barreled away in his red Jaguar as the siren at City Hall summoned the volunteer firefighters.

It had been a busy day for Qwilleran, and it was not yet over. Penelope Goodwinter phoned to ask if she could pay a visit and bring a bottle.