The Cat Who Played Post Office

15

It was six o'clock, but Qwilleran already was awake when the telephone startled him with its early-morning ring of urgency. His curiosity had been working overtime and disturbing his sleep ever since Penelope's unexpected visit and Koko's unexplained antics. Was the nocturnal howl a protest? A warning? Or was it something that cats do in the light of a full moon?

Then the telephone rang, and a familiar voice said in an ominous minor key, "Qwill, did I wake you? I thought you'd want to know — Penelope has taken her life!" He was stunned into silence. "Qwill, this is Melinda." "I know. I heard you. I can't believe it! Yes, I can believe it. I knew she was on the brink of something. What a bloody shame! What a waste of brains and gorgeousness! Was there any explanation?" "Just the usual-she'd been depressed lately. Dad is over at their house now. Alex called him first, then the police.

The medical examiner is there, too." "Did she O.D.?" "She took a bottle of Scotch to the garage and sat in the car with the motor running. I'm due at the hospital now. I'll call you later." "How about dinner tonight?" "Sorry, lover. I have to attend a baby shower, but I'll drop in beforehand and you can fortify me with a gin and tonic. I may have more information by then." When he broke the news to Mrs. Cobb, she said, "I feel terrible about it! She was such a lovely person." Qwilleran said, "Now would be the time for me to type some catalogue cards for you. I'd welcome the distraction." The task required even more concentration than he expected. First he had to decipher the registrar's notes.

Someday he would compose a magazine piece on the subject, titled "How Not to Write Right; or, Seven Easy Ways to Total Obfuscation." It was like cracking a secret code. As soon as he discovered that a "habimeon glooo luptii" was actually a Bohemian glass luster, the rest was easy. On each card he had to type the file number of the artifact, its name, date, description, provenance, and value. The four-digit and five-digit evaluations kept him in a state of fiscal shock.

Naturally the Siamese were on the desk, assisting in their own unhelpful way. Yum Yum was stealing pencils and pushing paper clips to the floor. Koko, friendly once more after Qwilleran's apology, was nosing about the desktop like a bloodhound. At one point he flushed out Penelope's thank-you note written after the dinner party, and Qwilleran noted her mannered handwriting and the affected e, rand s that somehow implied a classical education.

When Melinda arrived after office hours, she explained, "I'd rather go to dinner with you, lover, but my generation is always getting married or pregnant, and I have to go to cute showers with cute invitations, cute guessing games, cute table decorations, and cute refreshments. When I marry, I'm going to elope. Would you care to elope, lover?" "Not until they take out my itching stitches. Sit down and tell me how Alexander is reacting." Melinda curled up in one of the solarium's big wicker chairs. "Dad had to sedate him. Alex got terribly emotional. He and Penny were very close — only a year apart-and they grew up like twins. He feels guilty for spending so much time out of town. He wishes he'd stayed home last night instead of going to a bachelor party at the club. Did you know he's getting married?" "I heard a rumor." "She's an attorney — young — graduated top of her class." "Do you know her name?" "Ilya Smfska." Qwilleran nodded. That much checked out; Penelope hadn't been merely garbling her diction. "Who found the body?" "Alex got home just before daylight, drove into the garage, and there she was." "Did they establish the time of death?" "Two A.M." "Any suicide note?" "Not as far as I know. Everyone knows she's been overworked, but the ironic fact is that Alex's fianc‚e could have relieved her caseload. But it's too late now." She finished her cool drink, declined another, and prepared to leave for her social obligation. "Anyway," she said with a cynical smirk, "Penelope won't have to attend any more showers." After dinner Qwilleran went for a slow, thoughtful walk down Goodwinter Boulevard. The old family mansion that Penelope and Alexander had shared was partly obscured by twelve-foot hedges, but several cars could be seen in the driveway. Beyond them was the five-car attached garage, obviously a modern addition to the turreted, gabled, verandaed house. Next door was another Goodwinter residence, much less pretentious, where Dr. Halifax lived with his invalid wife.

It had been Melinda's childhood home.

A raucous blast from a car horn alerted Qwilleran, and he saw Amanda turning into a driveway across the boulevard.

"Come on in for a shot," she called out with gruff heartiness.

"Make it ginger ale, and I'll take two," he said.

The interior of the designer's house appeared to be furnished with clients' rejects. (He wondered if the Hunzinger chair and Pennsylvania schrank had been headed for this eclectic aggregation.) The furniture was cluttered with design magazines, wallpaper books, and fabric samples.

"Move those magazines and sit down," Amanda said. "Had a little excitement in the neighborhood last night." "Her act was unthinkable!" Qwilleran said.

"Not to me! I knew that unholy situation was headed for an explosion, but I didn't figure on suicide. I thought she'd blow her brother's brains out, if he has any." "Do you think it was really suicide?" Amanda put down her glass on a porcelain elephant table and stared at her visitor. "Golly, that's something I never thought of. Murder, you mean? You can't pin it on Alex. He was at the club all night, playing cards with Fitch and Lanspeak and those other buzzards. Or so the story goes. Now you've got me wondering." Qwilleran stood up and looked out the front window. "You can see their driveway from here. Did you notice any other vehicle there last night?" "Can't say that I did. What do you think could have happened?" "Someone could have drugged her drink and then carried her out to the garage and turned on the ignition, leaving a Scotch bottle for evidence. It's an attached garage. It could be done under cover." "Say, this is hot stuff!" Amanda said with evident relish. "Wait till I pour another." "Of course," Qwilleran went on, "the killer would most likely park elsewhere and arrive on foot. Is there any access to the property from the rear?" "Only through Dr. Hal's garden." "Don't mention this to anyone," Qwilleran requested, "but let me know if you come up with a possible clue." "Hot damn! Just call me Nora Charles." Qwilleran walked home slowly, and as he approached the K mansion he saw a terrain vehicle pulling away and heading north. "Whose truck was that in the drive, Mrs. Cobb?" She was looking radiant. "Herb Hackpole was here. He Went fishing this afternoon and brought us a mess of perch, boned and everything." "You seem to have made a hit with that guy." "Oh, he's very nice, Mr. Q. He wants to take me fishing someday, and he offered me a good trade-in on my van, if I want to switch to a small car. He even wants to take me hunting! Imagine that!" Qwilleran grumbled something and retired to his Chippendale sitting room, taking a volume of Trollope that Koko had knocked off a library shelf, but even the measured prose of He Knew He Was Right could not calm an underlying restlessness. His moustache was sending him signals so violent and so bothersome that he considered shaving it off.

Only a critical examination in the bathroom mirror forestalled the rash action.

After a night of fitful sleep he again busied himself with the catalogue cards, but the morning hours dragged by. He glanced at his watch every five minutes.

At long last Mrs. Cobb announced a bit of lunch in the kitchen. "Only leftover vichyssoise and a tuna sandwich," she said.

"I can eat anything," Qwilleran told her. "Leftover vichyssoise, leftover Chateaubriand, leftover strawberry shortcake — anything. I wonder how many Castilian monks sat at this table four centuries ago and had broiled open-face tuna sandwiches with Dijon mustard and capers. They're delicious, Mrs. Cobb." "Thank you. How are you getting along with the typing? Are you getting bored?" "Not at all. It's highly educational. I've just learned that the chest of drawers in the upstairs hall is late baroque in lignum vitae with heartwood oystering. The knowledge will enrich my life immeasurably." "Oh, Mr. Q! You're just being funny." "Where are the cats? They're suspiciously quiet. Can't they smell tuna?" "When I called you for lunch, they were both in the vestibule, waiting for the mail." "Crazy guys!" Qwilleran said. "They know it's not delivered until midaftemoon." Yet, he had to admit that he too was waiting for something to happen.

After lunch he returned to his typewriter and was translating "johirgi fiwil hax" into "Faberg‚ jewel box" when the pitter-patter on the marble floor announced the arrival of the post. An influx of get-well cards was now added to the daily avalanche pouring through the mail slot. Next he heard sounds of swishing, skittering, and scrambling as the Siamese pounced on the pile, sliding and tumbling with joy and talking to themselves in squeaks and mumbles.

Qwilleran let them have their fun. He was busy recording a pair of Hepplewhite knife boxes with silver escutcheons, worth as much as a cabin cruiser, when Koko labored into the library lugging a long envelope in a rich ivory color.

Qwilleran knew that stationery, and his moustache sprang to attention. Feverishly he ran a letter knife across the top of the envelope. There were three pages of single-spaced typing on the Goodwinter and Goodwinter letterhead. It was dated two days before, and the signature had the eccentric e and r that he recognized.

He read the letter and said to himself, She was right; she should have been a writer; she could have written gothic romances.

Dear Qwill, If I disgraced myself last evening, please be understanding, and I implore you to read this letter with the sympathy and compassion you evinced during my visit.

As I write this I am of sound mind — and perfectly sober, I assure you. I am also bitter and contrite in equal proportions. Obviously I am still among the living, but such will not be the case when you receive this letter. Mrs. Fulgrove; has instructions to drop it in the mail in the event of my sudden demise. She is the only person I can trust to carry out my wishes. And if I seem calm and businesslike at this moment, it is because I am endeavoring to emulate you. I have, and always have had, a great deal of admiration for you, Qwill.

In writing this painful confession, my only hope is that you are alive to read it. Otherwise a great misfortune will f befall the people of Moose County. If I can save your life and prevent this — by accusing certain parties — I shall have done penance for my transgressions.

How does one begin?

I have always loved my brother with an irrational passion. Even as a child I was enamored and possessive, yearning for his attention and flying into a rage if he bestowed it elsewhere. Eventually Alex went away to prep school and I was sent to boarding school, but we were always together weekends.

When my father begged me to study law for Alex's sake, I put aside my ambition to be a writer and attended law school gladly. My grandfather had been a chief justice; my father was a brilliant attorney respected in the entire state.

It was intended that Alex should follow in their footsteps. Unfortunately, as my father pointed out, his only son — and — heir would never be more than a third-rate lawyer. I was elected to compensate for his shortcomings and maintain the Goodwinter reputation in the legal field.

I never regretted my role, because it meant Alex and I could be together constantly. My rude awakening occurred five years ago when I discovered he was having an affair with our live-in maid. It was a knife in my heart! Not only had he betrayed me, but he had consorted with the commonest of females — a girl from the Mull tribe. I dismissed her at once.

But worse was yet to come. It was the shattering news that she was pregnant and expected to marry her. Sandy, as she impudently called him. After a brief moment of panic, I steeled myself and devised a constructive solution. I would arrange to send her away for an abortion and pay her to relocate in another state.

But no! Her mother. a woman of dubious reputation, influenced her to decline the abortion and file a paternity suit. My God! That such a calamity should happen to our branch of the family! I was infuriated by the arrogance of these people! In desperation I approached one of Alex's boyhood acquaintances and enlisted his cooperation.

Let me explain. When Alex and I were young, Father insisted that we attend public school in Pickax, expecting democratization to shape our life attitudes. On the contrary, we were harassed by the hateful middle-class children. I used my wits to keep them in their place. but Alex was weak and an easy target for their cruelty. I was obliged to go to his rescue.

I hired the school bully — with my own money — to keep Alex's tormentors in line. He continued as bodyguard and avenger until Father saw fit to send us to better schools in the East.

Five years ago — in our new hour of trouble — I begged the same man to convince the Mull girl to submit to an abortion and leave town permanently, in return for a generous financial arrangement, of course. Lest the support payments be traced to their source, it was agreed that cash would regularly be turned over to our intermediary — to be forwarded. less his commission, to the girl. This subterfuge was my idea. How clever I thought I was! Actually, how naive!

At the time of the girl's departure there was a cave-in at Three Pines Mine, on the heels of which that thoroughly amoral and despicable man gloatingly informed us that she was buried a thousand feet underground and would make no more trouble. He pointed out, however, that we were accomplices before the fact.

The deed was done! No amount of remorse would undo the crime. It remained only to avoid scandal at all costs. The cash payments continued, increasing regularly with inflation and the man's greed. But, at least, Alex and I felt safe, and we had each other.

Then, to my horror, Qwill, you arrived on the scene and raised questions about the missing housemaid — although how your suspicions were prompted, I cannot fathom. It came to our attention that you were talking freely about the matter and interviewing possible witnesses.

The two men agreed between themselves that the two witnesses should be silenced, and I reluctantly agreed. What else could I do? But when they discussed ways to stop your meddling, Qwill, I was appalled! I pointed out that your death would mean the loss of billions of dollars in Moose County. My arguments accounted for nothing. They cared only about saving their own skins.

You have suspected a plot against your life, and you were right to do so. You have misidentified the conspirators, however. Now you know the truth.

For five years [have lived with this specter of guilt and fear. [t was bearable only because I had saved the family from unthinkable scandal-and because I had Alex's love.

And then he broke the terrible news that he was bringing a «brilliant» young attorney to Pickax as a partner ill the firm and — this was the crushing blow — as a wife!

[t was more than I could bear. My lifetime of sacrifice and devotion was thrown aside in a moment. I had involved myself in heinous crime, only to have it end like this — only' to be cast aside.

What could I do? There was only one was to stop it. In a frenzy of desperation I confronted Alex and threatened to reveal his complicity in three murders. The instant the words were out of my mouth I realized I had made a fatal mistake. My God! The hatred in my brother's eyes! How can I describe the rage and vengeance that contorted my brother's features — the face that I had thought so beautiful!

Forgive me if I appear melodramatic, but I now fear for my life. I fear that every day may be my last. A bullet from the same rifle that killed the farm girl will be quick and merciful, or they will devise a means that will simulate an accident or suicide.

In any event, Mrs. Fulgrove will mail this letter, and I am following your example in preparing letters for the prosecutor and the media, naming the brute who killed the pregnant girl, burying her alive in a mineshaft, who arranged a friendly drink with her mother and drugged the whiskey, who fired a single perfect shot at a girl on a farm tractor.

You are not safe, and the future of Moose County is at stake, until these two men are apprehended and brought to justice.

Yours in good faith. Penelope Goodwinter