The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-17-

In the days following the Pennant Race, Pickax could I talk of nothing else - in the coffee shops, on street corners, at the supermarket:

“Tell you why the Hams won. They’re young, and they’ve got good memories, and they’re used to learnin’ lines.”

“Nab! They’re used to the bright lights, and they didn’t have stage fright.”

“You’d think the head of the college would’ve done better.”

“He never saw the wordlist, Everybody else knew the words on the list.”

“Who said college presidents have to know how to spell those big words? He just runs things.”

“He was subbin’ for the Butterfly Girl. Wonder why she didn’t show?”

” ‘Cause she’s the type that dances to her own music, ever since she went to that school in Lockmaster.”

“How d’you like that crazy bike they gave Mr. Q? I’ll tell ya, I wouldn’t ride it!”

“My wife won the office pool at Toodle’s - ten bucks.”

“I was bettin’ on the Chowheads! My cousin was spellin’ for’ em.”

“Think we’ll be able to beat Lockmaster in the World Series?”

“If it’s fair and square. I don’t trust that bunch down there.”

The morning after the spell game Qwilleran had an early appointment with G. Allen Barter. He was showering and shaving when the eight o’clock news was broadcast:

“Last night’s Pennant Race spell-off raised an estimated ten thousand dollars for the Moose County literacy effort, according to backers. Winners of the silver pennant were the Hams, a team sponsored by the Pickax Theatre Club. Along with four runner-up teams the Hams will compete in the World Series in September, facing champion spellers from Lockmaster.”

Qwilleran made note of the fact that WPKX referred j to “backers.” They never gave the Something credit for anything - at least, not since the controversy over radio listings in the paper. The next item gave him a chuckle:

“A truckload of sheep escaped on Main Street late yesterday afternoon when the transport vehicle stopped for a red light and the tailgate popped open. According a to a witness, one animal jumped out, and the rest followed - like sheep. Main Street traffic was rerouted for two hours while Pickax police and state troopers rounded up the flock. One animal is still at large. The driver of the truck was ticketed. Baaaaaaaaad trip!”

So that was the reason for the downtown detour! It had happened once before, only the last time it was pigs. Other newsbites mentioned a fire in a trailer home that resulted in one death… another single-car accident at the Bloody Creek bridge, in which the driver was killed … resumption of talks concerning a ring road for Pickax, routing heavy traffic north on Trevelyan and south on Sandpit Road. Qwilleran could picture Beverly Forfar’s reaction to eighteen-wheelers, tankers, and dump trucks roaring past the Art Center all day.

Promptly at nine o’clock he reported to the offices of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter. Bart was waiting for him with mugs of coffee and some sweet rolls. He knew his client.

“How was the trip?” Qwilleran asked.

“I covered all the bases, and they took me to some great restaurants. Fran Brodie had been there, presenting her design theme for the hotel renovation.” The hotel, as well as the Limburger mansion, had been purchased by the K Fund, and Amanda’s studio had the commission. “It appears that Fran made a big hit, professionally and personally. I’d venture to say we’re in danger of losing her.”

“I hope not.” Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. Fran, as daughter of the police chief, had occasionally leaked privileged information. “We need her talent in this town - in the theater club as well as the design business. If Amanda retires - “

“She’ll never retire.”

“But if Amanda should be struck by lightning, Fran would be the logical one to take over.”

“Does she have any personal attachment up here?” the attorney asked.

“She’s been seen frequently with Dr. Prelligate.”

“Not a bad duo,” Bart said. “What did you think of the show last night? I hear you raised ten thousand. The K Fund will match it, of course. My wife took the boys, and now they both want to be champion spellers instead of champion gymnasts. They change their life goals once a week… So what’s on your mind, Qwill? Your message was provocative, to say the least.”

“While you were away, I did some thinking. At first I thought there were grounds for a civil suit; now it looks like a criminal case… You remember the farmhouse fire that killed the ninety-three-year-old Maude Coggin. It was blamed on a kerosene heater. Well… earlier in the year she had sold her hundred acres to Northern Land Improvement - “

“Never heard of them.”

“They told her they were a Lockmaster company. The selling price was a thousand an acre, about one-sixth of the going rate, with the understanding that it would be used for agricultural purposes. Now four acres of that purchase have been sold to the City of Pickax for a cemetery - at six thousand an acre! Furthermore, the company is about to lease twelve acres to the county for a workyard, according to my sources. What’s your reaction ?”

“That it’s morally wrong to cheat such a woman, but it’s actually only a sharp business practice, with no laws broken. She agreed to sell. She was apparently satisfied with that bundle in the coffee can.”

“Be that as it may, this nosey journalist had to investigate the Lockmaster profiteers. I was curious about who they really were. And guess what! There’s no such company! The purchaser was one of our esteemed county commissioners, operating under an assumed name that was not registered in either county.”

“Which commissioner?”

“Ramsbottom.”

Bart wagged his head. “Might have guessed!”

“Okay, forget the profiteering. Let’s talk about the Coggin fire. There are four interesting points: the fire occurred very soon after the land changed hands; it looked like arson to a couple of experienced firefighters; the new fire chief failed to report the fatality to the state fire marshal as required by law; and… he happens to be Chet Ramsbottom’s brother-in-law.”

Calmly Bart said, “You know, of course, that there’s a certain amount of coincidence, hearsay, and guesswork in your story.”

“Wait a minute. There’s more. I have a letter from an informant indicating the farmhouse was torched.”

“Well, I’d say you’re getting warmer. Who’s the informant?”

“The torcher’s girlfriend.”

“Would she come forward?”

“I’m afraid she’s in California by now. She wrote this: letter Tuesday.”

“Was she an accomplice?”

“No, a battered woman, running away. Actually she’s a successful artist from a good family: the Sloans of West Middle Hummock.”

“Then what the devil was she doing with an abusive bum and alleged arsonist?”

“Bart, you’ve just asked an age-old question that’s never been adequately answered. Read this letter.” Qwilleran reached in his pocket.

“One more question, if it isn’t too personal. What was your connection with her? Why was she confiding in you?”

“That’s another one that’s hard to answer. People have a tendency to confide in writers. A French author attributed it to a writer’s willingness to listen, a trait that he describes as half-tenderness and half-cannibalism… Whatever, read the letter, Bart.” Phoebe had written:

Tuesday Hi! Thank you so much for taking my butterfly box. I’m going away for a while. I’ll call you to find out how the Painted Ladies turn out. Maybe I’ll send you some Emperor caterpillars.

The attorney interrupted his reading to say, “What’s this about you and butterflies?”

“Nothing important. Just research I’m doing for a column … Read on.”

I’m going to my grandmother’s in California. No one understands me around here. They all try to tell me what to do. I admit I. made one bad mistake, but it was my own decision, and I’d never do it again. I’m ten years older than I was a week ago. But Jake was so good-looking and so exciting, and that red hair really turned me on. I thought life was going to be thrilling. One thing he promised me was a special room for painting and raising butterflies. Also there was some yellow spray paint in the garage, and I was going to paint the inside of it with huge Cleopatras and Sulphurs. But then he saw the caterpillars and freaked! He has a phobia about worms, so … no more butterfly-farming. I felt the same way about his buddies who Came after-hours and partied till daylight. So things weren’t as nice as I expected. One night when he was at work, I was poking around his video collection, looking for a movie, and I found a stack of Daphne’s figure drawings. When I asked about them, he said he bought them to give to the guys for Christmas. Suddenly I realized I hadn’t lost my key to the Art Center. He took it from my handbag! Then he got in the building after dark and helped himself to Daphne’s work - and got bitten by Jasper. He didn’t cut it on a broken bottle, the way he said. So I took them back to the Art Center, and when he found them missing, he blew up! That was the first time he got really rough. Then afterwards he’d be very sweet. Then there was the trouble at the Click Club, and I knew it was Jake’s gang who broke in to watch sex videos. Once he wanted to make a vulgar video of me, and I refused. He threw another fit, and it frightened me. My arms were already bruised, and I was wearing those ugly smocks to cover them up. I wanted to get away, but where would I go? I’d be too ashamed to go home. I thought of my grandmother in California. I had to figure something out. Why am I telling you all this? I guess it’s because you’ve been so kind. Well, anyway, last night after the rehearsal I went to the bar as usual and heard Jake asking Chet for more money. They were in the office upstairs, and I went up to use the phone - too noisy downstairs. I thought I’d call my grandmother collect. The office door was closed, but I could hear them talking. They were both angry. Chet said - You’ve had your payoff. What is this? Blackmail? And Jake said - You’re getting a million-plus from XYZ for the river frontage. I want my cut, Chet, or you’ll be in trouble. And Chet said - Who’ll be in trouble? You lit the match. That’s arson and murder. Then Jake said - You told me to torch the place, and I got it all on tape. Suddenly I felt dizzy and sick, and I rushed out to my car. I didn’t know what to do. Should I go to the police? Chet is an important man. I just couldn’t believe it. So I decided to go home to the condo and play it cool. When Jake came home, he said - What happened to you,Monkey? I said - I don’t feel well. He grabbed me and said - I’ve got a good cure for that. I pulled away from him and said - Get away from me, and don’t call me Monkey. I was furious. I lost my cool and shouted something I shouldn’t have. I said - I know where you got the money for this condo! It wasn’t from your uncle in Montana. I know where you got it, and why! As soon as I said it, I knew it was a stupid thing to do. He hit me with his fist, and I ran out of the house and drove to Sarah’s apartment. That’s where I am now. She’s at work. My eye is black. I couldn’t possibly be in the spelling bee tomorrow night. I called my grandmother, and she told me to catch the morning shuttle plane. She’s making the reservation for me. I’ll stay here until tonight, when he’s at work, and then I’ll go over and pick up my clothes and things. I’m not even telling Sarah. You can tell her if you want to, and she’ll tell my parents: I don’t know about the police. What do you think? Is it better just to forget I ever heard them talking? Chet’s such an important man, you know. I’ll leave it up to you. Thank you again for taking my butterflies. Phoebe

When the attorney finished reading, he said, “This can of worms has to be approached with circumspection. He is indeed a prominent citizen who’s just been honored for twenty-five years of public service. And as I said before, there’s hearsay involved. Could she possibly be a little wacky from being punched? How much of the story can be proved? I want to discuss it with my partners.”

Qwilleran stroked his moustache. “I’d like to do a little discreet snooping myself. Do you remember the Campbell scandal? Or did that happen before you came to Moose County? Ramsbottom paid his way out of a misdemeanor, and he could pay his way out of a felony. I’ll call you, or you call me.”

On the way home Qwilleran stopped at the florist shop for two more carnations.

“Again?” asked the young woman with the limpid gaze. She turned down the volume on the radio that was twanging country music. “What color this time?”

“Red. And you’d better make it three.”

“Gee!” she said with a “big spender” inflection. Qwilleran decided to stop tormenting her. He explained, “I’m doing research for a column, raising a crop of butterflies in captivity. They have to be fed sugar-water, sprinkled on fresh flowers. So far, only two have hatched, but I’m expecting more… What’s that?”

A radio announcer had interrupted the music with a news bulletin. Claudine turned up the volume:

“The name of the motorist killed in the Bloody Creek gorge has just been released. The victim is a twenty-three-year-old woman, Phoebe Sloan, a local artist known as the Butterfly Girl and daughter of Mary and Orville Sloan of West Middle Hummock. The single-car accident was reported by a truck driver who noticed skid marks on the pavement early this morning and stopped to look into the gorge. The bridge over the creek at that point has been the scene of several accidents, but petitions to have the hazardous crossing improved have resulted only in cautionary road signs.”

Qwilleran threw down some money, grabbed his carnations, and hurried back to Hasselrich Bennett & Barter.

The receptionist said, “Mr. Barter isn’t seeing anyone this morning. He’s just returned from several days out of town.”

“He’ll see me! Send in my card.”

In a matter of seconds the attorney appeared and ushered Qwilleran into his office. “I didn’t expect you back so soon. Another cup of coffee?”

Qwilleran dropped into a chair. “Skip the coffee this time. My informant - who was supposed to be in the spelling competition last night and wasn’t and who was supposed to leave for California this morning and didn’t - is Phoebe Sloan. It was her body that was found in Bloody Creek this morning, victim of a single-car accident.”

“Do you suppose she was speeding to catch the shuttle?”

“The airport is southwest of Indian Village, where she’s been staying; the Bloody Creek bridge is northeast. What was she doing up there in the woods? As of this minute it’s my contention that the medical examiner will find evidence of violent death prior to the car crash. I say she was murdered elsewhere and her body driven to the bridge. The obvious suspect: the guy she was living with - the bartender. You read her letter. I could reconstruct a scenario.”

“Go ahead. What’s his name?”

“Jake Westrup. After he blackens her eye and she flees to a friend’s house, she calls her grandmother and makes arrangements to fly to California. All she has to do is wait until he’s at work and then go over and pick up her clothes and other belongings. She doesn’t know he’s been fired and will be there!”

“How do you know?”

“I get around. I hear things… So there they are, face to face. She knows too much, and he knows that she knows. There’s only one thing to do, and he does it. He has to make it look like a car accident, and he has to wait till the following night. Who knows why? I can think of several reasons… Whatever, he drives the body to the Bloody Creek bridge, straps it into the driver’s seat, then rolls the car into the gorge. From there he can easily cut through the woods and get home before daylight… I could tell you more, but the police should pick him up before he heads back to Montana. I’ll leave it up to you and the prosecutor and the medical examiner. You can take Phoebe’s letter, but leave me out of it.”

Walking away from the law office, Qwilleran experienced a singular reaction: suddenly he wanted nothing more to do with butterflies. He would set them free immediately, ready or not. There would be no celebration, no excited audience, no dissertation in the “Qwill Pen” column. He was still clutching the three carnations wrapped in green tissue, and his impulse was to toss them in the nearest trash receptacle. On second thought he drove home and left them on Celia Robinson’s doorstep; she would spend the rest of her life wondering who left them.

The Siamese were awaiting their noon treat impatiently, but he ignored them and ran up the ramp to the guestroom. All five Painted Ladies were now flying deliriously around their enclosure. He carried the box outdoors and opened it without ceremony. One of them could hardly wait to test the great outdoor world. The others followed cautiously, one by one, until all were joyously on the wing.

Qwilleran was neither glad nor sorry to see them go. He had a sense of desperation that he could not explain. The box he threw into the trash in the toolshed. Indoors he consigned all butterfly notes to the wastebasket and would have tossed the butterfly guidebook after them, but it had been borrowed from the library.

Was it anger? Or was it grief? The so-called Butterfly Girl had been just another interview subject, another - newsworthy character, yet she had told him more about herself than he wanted to know. With an artist’s instincts she had wanted to carve her own career and design her own lifestyle. One of her major decisions had been wrong, only to be followed up by impulses of equal mischance. One recollection that infuriated Qwilleran was that jackass’s rude way of calling her Monkey. And she liked it!