Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 19 Who Tailed A Thief

After a Squunk water and a bourbon had been brought to the table, Qwilleran said to his companion, "I suppose you're a native, Joe."

"A native of Lockmaster County. I came from a town called Horseradish."

"In jest, I suppose."

"You think so? Look it up on the map," Wetherby said. "It's on the lakeshore. Not many people realize it was once the horseradish capital of the Midwest. That was back in the nineteenth century, of course, long before Lockmaster County became fashionable horse country. If there's any connection, I can't figure it out.

What's happened to Horseradish - it's all summer homes and country inns now. Some of my relatives still live there."

"What brought you to Moose County, Joe?"

"Well, after college I worked in television Down Below, and then I had a mid-life crisis ahead of schedule and decided to come back up north. My first thought was Lockmaster City, but then I saw what was happening to Pickax City, and I liked what I saw. So here I am, with Jet-boy. Before him I had another orange cat called Leon, with a head as big as a grapefruit, no neck, and a disposition like a lemon. We were a pair, let me tell you! But that was Down Below. My disposition improved after I came home."

Qwilleran asked the logical question. "What happened to Leon?"

"He stayed with my ex-wife. He probably reminds her of me... What are you ordering? I always get the steak sandwich on an onion roll." Then he started talking about Lynette She shocked the whole bridge club marrying so fast after being on the shelf so long."

"Do you know she s one of your greatest fans? She goes around quoting your daily quips The no wind doth blow and we shall have snow She's impressed!"

"Too bad I didn't know that!" Wetherby puffed out his chest. "What do you know about her husband?"

"Not much. I was invited to be best man because own a kilt."

Yeah I think I was invited to the reception because I play cocktail piano."

Willard Carmichael told me that Carter Lee's a highly regarded professional Down Below and could do great things for Pickax Did you know Willard?"

Only around the bridge table but he seemed like a good egg. I hated what happened to him."

The steak sandwiches were served, and Qwilleran pushed the condiment tray across the tabletop, saying, "Horseradish?" Then he asked, "Does your hometown have any local yarns or legends that make good telling? I'm working on a collection for a proposed book So far, I have stories from Dimsdale, Brrr, and Trawnto Beach."

"I have a great-uncle in Horseradish who could tell you some doozies. The town had a problem with lake pirates in the old days. It was the chief port for the whole county, and pirates would board the cargo ships and make their victims walk the plank. Bodies were always being washed up on the beach with hands tied behind their backs. They were buried, but the poor souls couldn't rest in peace, so Horseradish had a lot of ghosts. People were kept awake by the moaning and door-slamming and cold drafts... Is that the kind of thing you're interested in?"

"Keep right on going."

One day a man came into town riding on a mule, and said he had the power to de-haunt houses."

Qwilleran said, "That would make a good movie, if it already been done."

"Don't laugh! This really happened! People gave him money, and he went to work in the attics, throwing sand around and chanting mumbo jumbo. Then he suddenly disappeared, along with some of their treasures."

"How about the ghosts? Did they disappear, too?"

"No one really knows. The victims of the scam were too embarrassed to talk about it... Sorry I don't have more details."

"I'd like to meet your great-uncle, Joe. I'd like to go Horseradish with my tape recorder. Would he be willto talk?"

"Talk! You couldn't shut him up! Take plenty of tape. He's a great old fellow. And by the way, he's got a big cat called Long John Silver."

Qwilleran was pleased to find another lead for Tall Tales. He enjoyed his steak sandwich. He found Wetherby to be good company. He liked his enthusiasm and candor. It occurred to Qwilleran that a weatherman from Horseradish might have been a more suitable match for Lynette than a restoration consultant from New York.

On the way back to Indian Village, the driver was busy maneuvering the van through puddles, but at one point he turned to his passenger and said, "I shouldn't ask you this, since you were best man at the wedding - "

"I told you why I was there," Qwilleran said. "I hardly know the groom. Go ahead and ask."

"Were you surprised at the match between Lynette and Carter Lee? Was Polly surprised?"

"I won't presume to answer for Polly. They're sisters-in-law, and she was glad to see Lynette so happy. But...yes, I was surprised - as much as a veteran journalist is ever surprised."

"The reason I ask: I observed Carter Lee at the bridge club. The way he buttered her up was marvelous to behold. And it worked."

"`All's fair in love and war,' they say."

"Maybe, but I'm inclined to think of him as a fortune hunter. Although Lynette has a job and never puts on airs, we all know she inherited the whole Duncan estate. And it seems to me they got married pretty fast. `Marry in haste; repent at leisure,' as the saying goes."

"Someone should have told me that twenty years ago," Qwilleran said.

"In case you don't know, Qwill, there's another fortune hunter in the woods, and she's got her sights on you!"

"Danielle?" Qwilleran dismissed her with a shrug. "She's a little flaky. Believe me, Joe, I've learned how to deal with Lorelei Lee types. They come in all shapes, sizes, and model numbers. I appreciate your concern, though... Does Danielle still show up at the bridge club?"

"Hardly ever, which is okay with us; she's a terrible player. She's busy rehearsing a play. Can you imagine? She's doing the lead in Hedda Gabler!"

"I can't imagine," Qwilleran said quietly.

On Saturday morning another businesslike call from "the accountant's office" informed him that the "documents" he had requested were being delivered to the gatehouse at Indian Village. To pick them up he drove his van carefully through flooded lanes, between shrinking snowbanks under gray skies that were dumping even more water on the soggy terrain. The rain, it raineth every day had been the weatherman's morning adage, not a comforting one.

The clerk in the mailroom handed him a large flat package wrapped in white tissue and tied with red ribbon. "It looks like a valentine," she said. "Maybe it's a big chocolate heart."

At home the Siamese played with the ribbons while Qwilleran read the accompanying note from Celia:

Dear Chief, No problem! I didn't even have to give Red Cap any brownies. He said okay, so I called the lady and she let me pick it up. My! She's a strange one! Let me know if there's anything else I can do. Just had a letter from Clayton. He wants to know how you liked his snapshots. Celia

Qwilleran had not even glanced at Clayton's photos; they were in the Procrastination File. As for the famous Carter Lee James portfolio, it was a leather-bound scrapbook of color photographs under plastic: interiors and exteriors of old houses. They were all apparently authentic and obviously expensive. Before he could peruse them critically, the phone rang again, and he heard the booming voice of the retired insurance agent:

"Qwill, this is Ernie. Ernie Kemple. Is your condo still high and dry?"

"So far, so good. Any flooding on Pleasant Street?"

"No, knock on wood. Every house has a sump pump working overtime."

"How's Tracy?"

Kemple lowered his voice to a gruff rumble. "Do you happen to be coming downtown? I know the driving's bad, but... I don't want to talk on the phone."

Qwilleran said, "I could be lured downtown if someone wanted to have lunch at Onoosh's."

"I can meet you there anytime."

"I'll leave right away."

Ittibittiwassee Road, being a major county thoroughfare, was passable. Even so, Qwilleran silently thanked Scott Gippel for selling him a vehicle with a high axle, I as the wheels swished through large puddles and small floods, spraying rooster tails. Crossing the bridge, he stopped to observe the water level. It was higher than usual but still well below the concrete bridge-bed. Many bridges on back roads were submerged with only their railings visible, according to WPKX.

He tuned in the hourly newsbreak: "Six inches of rain fell in one hour at the official checkpoint in Brrr. Many paved secondary roads are under five inches of water, and the sheriffs department warns motorists to stay on main highways whenever possible. In the Black Creek valley, volunteer firefighters are going from door to door, warning families to move to higher ground. Emergency shelters are being set up in schools and churches."

Traffic was sparse for a Saturday, and there were few pedestrians downtown. Qwilleran and Kemple were the only customers at Onoosh's.

Her partner waited on them. "We told our girls to stay home. Onoosh is alone in the kitchen," he said.

She waved at them from the pass-through.

Qwilleran ordered stuffed grape leaves and tabbouleh. Kemple decided on falafel in a pita pocket.

"You asked about Tracy," he said, still speaking in his confidential rumble. "Her mother's home now and knows how to handle her. They can communicate."

"Did Tracy see the wedding story in the paper?"

"Not until she calmed down, but now she has an entirely new take on the situation. She feels guilty."

"How do you explain that?"

"You remember the little doll of ours that was found in Lenny's locker; we'd reported it stolen... Well, the drama unfolds! Scene One: Tracy had given it as a good-luck token to Carter Lee, without our knowledge. Scene Two: She and Lenny had a falling out, and in the heat of battle he said Carter Lee was a phoney. Scene Three: She's just confessed to my wife that she repeated Lenny's slur to Carter Lee."

"Why?" Qwilleran asked.

"It was on one of her glamorous dates with the big city dude. They were drinking margaritas at the Palomino Paddock. She was high. She didn't know what she was doing."

"Interesting," Qwilleran mused, touching his moustache.

"When the doll turned up in Lenny's locker, she was afraid to come forward. It would spoil her chances with Carter Lee. But now she hates him, and she's filled with remorse for what happened to Lenny. She wants to go to his hearing and tell the judge the truth."

"This gets complicated, Ernie. In coming to the defense of the one, she's accusing the other. If he planted the doll in Lenny's locker, one can assume he also planted the video, sunglasses, etc. And that implies he stole them. He may be a cad and a user, but is he a petty thief? He's a professional man with standing in the community; does he go around snitching sunglasses? Does it mean he also stole the bridge club's money - and his own coat at the New Year's Eve party? Before Tracy does anything, she should consult G. Allen Barter."

Kemple, who had been hunched over the table, leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath. "That's why I wanted to bounce it off you, Qwill. That's a good idea."

"Another thing, Ernie: I hate to say this, but is it possible that Tracy is lying to get revenge on Carter Lee?"

"I admit I thought of that, Qwill. You know, my daughter used to be a sweet, innocent girl, but she got off the track, and circumstances have changed her."

"If it's true that she's lying, she could be in deep trouble. Yes... you'd better talk to Bart in a hurry."

"I appreciate your interest and your advice, Qwill." He reached for the check. "This lunch is on me, and I'll even throw in a little carved and painted wooden doll for a good-luck token."

"Keep it!" Qwilleran said. "I've got all the good luck I can use... By the way, how are the rehearsals for Hedda Gabler?"

Kemple's guffaw rattled the beaded fringe on the hanging lights overhead. "I call the play Hedda Cauliflower. Danielle isn't playing Hedda; she's playing Adelaide in Guys and Dolls. And I'm not playing Judge Brack; I'm playing the villain in The Drunkard. You should come to a rehearsal, just for laughs. Trouble is, I feel sorry for Carol. Fran Brodie, too. They're working so hard! Why did they ever give that role to Danielle?"

"Good question," Qwilleran said.

As he drove out Ittibittiwassee Road, Qwilleran was plagued by other questions: Was Carter Lee indeed the petty thief who had annoyed townsfolk in December? If so, what was his motivation? Would a man of his professional standing stoop to stealing used clothing intended for the needy? Was the petit larceny a rehearsal for the grand larceny in the Village clubhouse? A sum estimated at two thousand dollars had been taken from the money jar. As for the lambskin coat reported stolen on Year's Eve, Qwilleran had seen its like in catalogs, priced at fifteen hundred. But then he had seen Carter Lee wearing a similar, if not identical, coat when he and Lynette made their impromptu visit. Was it the same coat, or had he bought a new one? If the same, had he covered it, or had it never really been stolen?

Nothing made much sense until Qwilleran arrived home. The Siamese met him at the door, prowling restlessly. It was too early for their dinner. They were bored. No birds, no falling leaves, no dancing snowflakes. They needed action.

In one drawer of the hutch cabinet there were cat toys galore: things that bounced, rattled, rolled, glittered, or smelled like catnip. Yum Yum could entertain herself for hours with one of these, batting it under the sofa, pawing it out again. Koko, on the other hand, was too worldly-wise for such kittenish amusements. He preferred the stimulation of the chase, and he sat on his haunches gazing speculatively into the upper reaches of the living room.

"Okay, where's Mosca?" Qwilleran said, folding a newspaper and whacking his left palm.

They waited. The cat gazed upward hopefully; the man whacked his palm. Their pet housefly was conspicuously absent, and a sickening thought occurred to Qwilleran. There was a possibility that Koko had caught him and eaten him. "Disgusting!" he said as he tossed his folded newspaper into the wastebasket.

Yum Yum was on the hutch cabinet, scratching at the wrong drawer. He rapped on the front of the toy drawer.

"No! No! Over here!" It made no difference with catly persistence she pawed the wrong drawer.

"Cats!" he said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. To convince her he jerked open the drawer and showed the Procrastination File In her near-sighted way she studied the letters, sealed envelopes, brochures, and clippings for a long minute then jumped down and went to the kitchen for a drink of water.

It was a reminder to Qwilleran, however, to look at Clayton's photos: candids of the dowser, close-ups of the forked stick, shots of Cody, and one of Carter Lee measuring the mantel with a tapeline and Danielle making notes. Also in the envelope was the transcript of Clayton's tape recording. Much of the dialogue duplicated Qwilleran's tape, but there was an unexpected interlude:

MAN: Refinish floor. Strip and refinish five-foot varnished mantel. Repaper room in Victorian design... Am I going too fast for you, Danny?... Replace two panes in breakfront with crowned glass... Hello there! Who are you?

CLAYTON: I'm visiting my grandma. Mind if I take some pictures to show my mom when I get home?

MAN: On the double! We're working here...Danny, where were we?

WOMAN: (shrilly) With crowned glass.

MAN: Replace chandelier with gaslight fixture.

WOMAN:Chuck, did you see those daggers in the hall?

MAN: What about them?

WOMAN: One has a lion on the handle. MAN: Do you like it?

WOMAN: It's my sign. Leo.

MAN: Well...

WOMAN: Do you think I could?

MAN: He'll never miss it... Hey, what is it you want now, kid?

CLAYTON: Is this your dog?

MAN: Get him out of here! Both of you, evaporate!

CLAYTON: C'mon, pup. C'mon.

Qwilleran read no further. The stolen dirk had not turned up in Lenny's locker, but Danielle had given one 1ike it to Lynette as a wedding gift. The hilt was a lion rampant... Now he thought he had figured it out: Danielle was a kleptomaniac, stealing at random all over town when she first moved to Pickax. Did Willard know? Did he have the anonymous check sent from a Chicago bank to cover the theft? Did Carter Lee know her weakness and humor her? The theft of his lambskin coat on New Year's Eve may have been a playful prank, a family joke. Did she steal his good-luck doll and plant it in Lenny's locker along with the other things? Was it a woman who phoned the tip to the police hotline? That was one clue that could be checked.

-19-

By Saturday evening the pretty little bubbling brooks and picturesque gurgling streams of Moose County had become raging torrents, overflowing their banks, inundating farmlands and forests. Wooded areas were so thoroughly soaked that shallow-rooted trees toppled across highways, adding to the hazard of driving. Some washed downstream along with timbers from wrecked bridges, creating temporary dams that caused even more flooding.

As Qwilleran dressed for dinner with Polly, he tuned in the WPKX news update and heard: "The sheriff's helicopter, searching for stranded motorists in isolated areas, rescued a family of five in the Plumley Mill area an hour ago. Several vehicles are completely submerged at the camp west of Mooseville."

Polly called to see if driving would be too bad. They had a reservation at the Old Stone Mill. She said, "We closed the library at noon today and won't open Monday. The schools will be closed."

Qwilleran said, "I called the restaurant about their park-lot; no problem. And I called the sheriff about the highways; the access road to the Mill is... accessible."

The restaurant had been converted from an old grist mill; the picturesque waterwheel, almost twenty feet high, was still there, although the millstream had long since run dry. They were ushered to their favorite table and approached by their favorite server, Derek Cuttlebrink, a towering six-feet-eight.

"Hi! Guess what!" he said even before announcing the evening specials. "We may get our millstream back again. It was a branch of the Rocky Burn that dried up in the Forties. Now the Rocky Burn is running so high, it could bust right through here and start the mill wheel turning again!"

"Where would the water go from here?" Qwilleran asked.

"Through No Man's Gully and into the Ittibittiwassee...What'll it be? One dry sherry and one Squunk with a twist?"

As he loped toward the bar on his long legs, Polly said quietly, "I'm glad Derek is buckling down to some kind of life. Meeting that girl has been good for him." At various times he had wanted to be a cop, an actor, a career busboy, or just a bum. Now he was enrolled in Restaurant Management at MCCC.

Returning with the drinks, he said, "Now for the bad news. I'm not supposed to talk about this, but the Ice Festival biggies are having a secret emergency meeting in the private dining room downstairs. It doesn't look good."

In between the friendly overtures of the attentive server, the two diners managed to discuss automation for the library, the newspaper's editorial on illiteracy, the new Brutus, and Herman Melville's obsession with good and evil.

Polly said, "I have a feeling Lynette will phone again tonight. She'll have been to the parades. Have you heard if Carter Lee is getting the commission to restore the hotel and the Limburger mansion?"

"The K Fund hasn't decided. Like the mills of God, they grind slowly." He felt as if he were living a double life. He could talk to his tablemate about his Faur‚ recordings and the Rikers' new car but not about his disturbing suspicions. He avoided mention of Danielle and the silverhilted dirk, the doll found in Lenny's locker, Wetherby's opinion of Carter Lee, and his own devious scheme to get a look at Carter Lee's portfolio. Polly would only worry. Besides, Qwilleran's conclusions were based on hunches, hearsay, and idle gossip.

After poached salmon with leek sauce for her and pork tenderloin with black currants for him, they returned to Indian Village in time to receive Lynette's phone call.

"We were wondering about you," Polly said, signaling to Qwilleran to pick up the balcony phone. "What have you been doing today?"

Lynette sounded tired. "We went to the parades on Canal Street. You'd never believe the floats, music, costumes, and masks! They throw strings of beads from the floats into the crowd. Then there's the partying in the streets - jostling, screaming, drinking, and goodness knows what else! Some people take their clothes off! It's wild!"

Qwilleran asked, "Are you still doing justice to the food?"

"Oh, hello, Qwill. Well, my tummy doesn't feel too good today; that Cajun stuff is awfully spicy. Carter Lee's gone out to buy some kind of remedy."

"Be careful with shellfish," Polly admonished. "You know how you sometimes react."

With a noticeable sigh, Lynette said, "Three more days of Carnival, then everything stops and we go home. I'll be glad to see Pickax again."

Afterward Polly said to Qwilleran, "It's overindulgence that's disagreeing with her."

"Or overexcitement," he said. "Going from Moose County to Mardi Gras in a few air hours is like taking a few thousand volts of electricity."

All together it was a successful weekend of reading aloud at her place, listening to music at his place, arguing about Jane Austen, doing all the things they enjoyed. Through it all Brutus behaved like a noble Roman. "See? I told you so!" That was what Qwilleran wanted to say, but he held his tongue. Even the breakfast omelette was made with real eggs and real cheese; no substitutes.

It was late Sunday afternoon when Qwilleran finally returned to Unit Four. Yum Yum was happily engaged with a crocheted mouse from the toy drawer, but Koko was nervous and unfocused. He prowled aimlessly, sniffed numerous invisible spots, jumped on and off the coffee table, peered at the ceiling.

"If you're looking for Mosca, he doesn't live here any more," Qwilleran told him. "You can't eat your cake and have it, too."

Whatever was bothering the cat was bothering him as well. All the concerns suppressed during the last twenty-four hours were resurfacing. Dejectedly he sprawled in his big chair and listened to the rain - more rain! - pattering on the deck and splashing on the windows. Indoors there was only the sound of Yum Yum scurrying after her prey and Koko murmuring to himself. Now he was on the coffee table, examining the leather-bound scrapbook; he was a fiend for leather!

On an impulse, Qwilleran leaped out of his chair and went to the telephone to look up a number. She lived in the Village. She had opinions. She was hard-headed and I not afraid to speak her mind. Sometimes she could be a little crazy. She was perfect! He knew she would be home. She was not one to go splashing around flooded highways except for financial gain, and this was Sunday.

The throaty voice that answered had an added note of impatience. "Yes? Now what, dammit."

In his most mellifluous tone he said, "Amanda, this is one of your admiring constituents and a frequent customer of your studio."

"Oh! It's you! You scoundrel!" she said. "I thought it was the city attorney again. He's been calling me all day. There's a class-action suit against Pickax on account of the flooding. The stupid voters keep voting down millage to improve the storm sewers, but they forget that when it rains. Arrrgh!"

"You have my sympathy, Amanda. It's generous of you to keep serving on the council as you do." What he thought was: You keep running for re-election because it's good for your design business.

"So what's your complaint?"

"No complaint. Only a request for three minutes of your valuable time. Do you mind if I drive over? And would you be offended if I brought a pint of very fine brandy?"

A few minutes later she admitted him to her condo, which was piled to the ceiling with furnishings from the old Goodwinter mansion.

"Be my valentine!" he said, handing her a bottle tied with red streamers from Celia's package. She would never notice that they were punctured with fang marks.

"Pretty good stuff," she said, looking at the label. "Sure you can afford it?... Sit down, if you can find a place. Throw those magazines on the floor. Care for a drink?"

"Not this time, thanks. I just want you to look at this scrapbook."

She accepted it questioningly and scowled at the color photos. "Is this your new hobby? Cutting out pictures from magazines?"

"What you're looking at," he replied, "is the portfolio Carter Lee James shows to prospective clients. I borrowed it without his knowledge."

"Does he pretend he did all these restoration jobs?"

"Clients get the impression that he did."

"Well, I get the impression he's a royal fakeroo! You notice they're not identified - who or where - and look at this one! A Queen Anne Victorian. It was done by a friend of mine down south, and her name isn't Carter Lee James! I've been in this house! I recognize the gasolier, the stencils on the ceiling, the parlor set! Why, I even know the bear rug in front of the fireplace!"

Qwilleran was aware she had resented Carter Lee from the beginning. "Have you done any business as a result of his recommendations, Amanda?"

"Not a penny! Two council members live on Pleasant Street. They've each paid him twenty thousand up front. How come my clients never pay me up front?"

"He's a professional charmer. You should try being more sweet-natured."

"Arrrgh! I noticed there hasn't been any publicity on Pleasant Street in your paper. How d'you explain that?"

"He doesn't want publicity until the whole neighborhood is signed up. Lynette Duncan will be promoting it for him when they return from their honeymoon."

"Poor girl! She should have stayed single!"

When Qwilleran drove into his own driveway, his neighbor rushed out of Unit Three, waving an envelope. Qwilleran lowered the car window.

"This letter belongs to you," Wetherby said. "It was in my mailbox. I just picked up my Saturday delivery. Sorry it's a day late."

"Thanks. No problem." It was a manila envelope from Hasselrich, Bennett & Barter, often bad news and always a nuisance. "Would you like to come in for a drink - and a long talk about precipitation and warm fronts?"

"I'll take the drink. Wait till I feed the cat." When Wetherby arrived and was pulling off his boots, Qwilleran asked, "Bourbon?" They filed into the kitchen: host, guest, male cat, female cat - in that order.

"Do you like these closet doors?" Wetherby asked, indicating the lightweight louvered bi-folds. A wall of them covered the broom closet, laundry alcove, and pantry.

"Jet-boy opens them with his nose. He's learned exactly where to push to make them buckle. When I come home, every door in the house is ajar."

"I think Don Exbridge got a special deal on bi-folds," Qwilleran said. "They're in every room and hail in the house!"

"Not only that, but they have springs that squawk like a strangled chicken, usually when Jet-boy is making his rounds at night."

"Let's not discuss this in front of the Siamese," Qwilleran said. "They'll get ideas."

They carried their drinks into the living room and discussed the latest news: After an all-night crisis meeting, the promoters of the Ice Festival were forced to cancel the event. It was a tortured decision, but snow was turning to water, and ice was turning to slush. Ice-fishing shanties were falling through into the lake. It meant disappointment for all, loss of business for many, and embarrassment for the community.

Qwilleran said, "The newspaper is committed to covering expenses, but I feel sorry for Hixie Rice. It was her brainchild. Still, she's indomitable. Even now she's probably devising a brilliant way to utilize fifteen thousand polar-bear buttons."

"Want to hear some really surprising news?" Wetherby said with enthusiasm. "The bridge club found out who sent the anonymous check to cover the two-thousand-dollar theft."

"Who?" Qwilleran asked, expecting it to be Willard Carmichael.

"A nice little lady who lives in the Village and doesn't even play bridge. She's from an old family and gives a lot to charity. Sarah Plensdorf."

"I know her! How did you find out?"

"That's the best part. Her accountant is Mac MacWhannell, who's a guest-member of the bridge club. In doing her tax return he found a two-thousand-dollar item paid to the bridge club. Mac said the item was actually a tax-deductible donation to the Youth Center."

"Good for Big Mac!" Qwilleran said. "May I refresh your drink?"

When he returned, Yum Yum was sitting on the visitor's lap, doing her amorous act: purring, rubbing, and gazing soulfully into his eyes.

"Nice cat," Wetherby said. "Are you still getting postcards with cat names? I know a girl in Horseradish who calls her cats Allegro and Adagio. One's lively; the other's quiet. What are you going to do with the postcards?"

"I envision a large bonfire in the newspaper parking lot."

"Has anyone had a postcard from the honeymooners?"

"I don't know. Lynette called Polly last night and is eager to come home. She's going to work with Carter Lee, promoting restoration jobs around the county."

Wetherby said, "I hope, for her sake, his project is on the up-and-up."

"You have doubts?"

"I'm a professional doubter. Plenty of suckers in Pickax seem to have twenty thousand to gamble. I suppose that's not much if you consider the total value of the property in today's market, but what do they get for their investment?"

"Expert advice, supervision of the work, and access to the National Register."

Wetherby was on his way to a dinner party, and after he had left, Qwilleran pulled out the government printout borrowed from Mitch Ogilvie. Unfolded and spread on the floor, it did indeed measure six yards. He read it all, frequently tapping his moustache and sometimes shooing Koko away.

Next he opened the manila envelope from the law office, saw the papers to be signed, grunted an objection, and tossed them into the Procrastination File. He was in no mood for tedious work. He fed the cats, made a sandwich for himself, and determined to spend the evening on his Melville project. It would take his mind off the can of worms that had been opened when Willard Carmichael came to town. Many peculiar things had happened since then. Tomorrow he would go to see Brodie and lay it all out: weird incidents, suspicious developments, hearsay, his own qualms, and even Koko's recent idiosyncrasies. Meanwhile, he would read.

Qwiileran was reading the Melville novels in chronological order, hoping to trace the author's development. First, there were the adventure tales, then a comic pot-boiler, then the advent of symbolism in Moby-Dick, then the creeping pessimism and cynicism. Koko was equally fascinated by the books; he knew a good binding when he smelled one! But the cat had his own ideas about the reading sequence. Qwilleran was ready to start volume seven, a story about a writer, titled Pierre; Koko wanted him to read volume ten, pushing it off the shelf with his nose. "Thanks, but no thanks," Qwilleran told him as he opened volume seven. The cat lashed his tail like a bad loser.

At eleven o'clock the Siamese had their bedtime treat. Then the three of them trooped to the balcony, and Qwilleran continued reading in his bedroom. It was about one-thirty when his phone rang - an ungodly hour for anyone to call in Moose County.

His apprehension turned to anger when he heard the voice that he loathed. "Qwill, this is Danielle. I just got a call from Carter Lee. He's terribly worried, and - "

"What's wrong?" Qwilleran interrupted gruffly as he felt the unwelcome sensation on his upper lip.

"It's about Lynette. She's real sick. He thought it was too late to call Polly, so - "

"How ill is she?" he demanded.

"She's in the hospital. He took her to Emergency."

"Which hospital? Do you know? There must be several."

"He didn't tell me. If he calls back - "

"Did he tell you the nature of the illness?"

"It's her stomach."

"Do you have a phone number for your cousin?"

"Well, he was calling from the hospital, and I guess he's still there. If he calls back - "

"How about the inn where they've been staying?" Qwilleran asked impatiently.

"He never told me the name of it."

"Great!" he said with edgy sarcasm. "Let me know if you hear anything further, at any hour of the day or night. And now hang up so I can do some investigating."

Qwilleran sat with his hand on the cradled receiver as he planned his next call. He would not disturb Polly; it would serve no purpose and would only keep her awake all night. He remembered Lynette's last phone call: the spicy food, the upset stomach, the remedy that Carter Lee had gone out to buy. Had it worsened her condition? Or did it make her feel good enough to go out and mingle with the mob and eat God-knows-what?

He thought of calling Dr. Diane, but first he phoned the night desk of the New Orleans newspaper and identified himself as a reporter for the Milwaukee Journal; it sounded more legitimate than the Moose County Something. He said his editor wanted him to track down an emergency case - a Milwaukee citizen attending Mardi Gras. He said he needed names and phone numbers of hospitals.

"On the fax?"

"No. I'll hold."

A minute later a night deskman was reading off the information.

"Thanks. Sorry to bother you," Qwilleran said. "My editor is a bleepin' tyrant."

"Aren't they all? How's the weather in Milwaukee?"

"Not as good as in New Orleans."

"Hope you find your case. The ER in every hospital's busy tonight."

Only then did Qwilleran call Dr. Diane - with apologies - and tell her the story. He said, "If I call the hospital, they won't even talk to me. As the personal physician of a prominent Pickax citizen, you can ask the right questions. I have the phone numbers of all the medical facilities. Can you do it? Can you locate her and find out her condition?"

"Of course. I'll be glad to do it." Diane had the neighborliness of a Lanspeak. "It could be something routine, like an allergy. I'll call you when I have something definite.

Qwilleran stretched out on his bed and waited. He had lost interest in reading. He may have dozed, because he suddenly found himself catapulted out of bed by a roar and clatter overhead. Enormous hailstones were pounding the roof and bouncing off the deck. They bothered the Siamese, too, who complained until they were admitted to his own bedroom. They were quiet then, except for one violent outburst from Koko for no apparent reason.

It was four-thirty before the phone rang. Dr. Diane's voice was ominously solemn. "I found her, Qwill. She was in critical condition. I called the hospital several times, at intervals, and..."

"She's gone?" Qwilleran gasped.

"She died an hour ago."

"What was given as the cause?"

"Gastrointestinal complications, aggravated by alcohol abuse."

"No!" he said. It was impossible, he thought. She had hardly sipped her champagne at her birthday party, and she never touched hard liquor. Had Carter Lee coaxed her to try a Sazerac or some other exotic drink?... Then he remembered Koko's anguished howling about an hour before.

"Qwill! Are you still there?"

"I'm here, Diane. I don't know what to say. How am I going to break the news to Polly?"

"Would you like me to do it?"

"Thanks, but I think I should handle it - but not until her normal wake-up hour. I'll go to her house and tell her iii person... Yes, that's the best way. Diane, you have no idea how much we appreciate your cooperation."

"That's what I'm here for," she said.

After hanging up, he paced the floor and tried to sort out his reactions. He was shocked by the suddenness of it all... saddened by the loss of a young, productive, generous, well-loved daughter of Pickax... overcome with sympathy for Polly, who was losing her last link with "family"... and he was angry, too. It was not yet five o'clock, but he called Danielle's number. The line was busy. He continued pacing the floor, and Koko watched with the anxious look that can widen a cat's eyes. Who but Carter Lee could be calling her at this hour? After a few minutes he tried the number again and heard another busy signal. What could they be saying to each other that would take so long? Or did she have the phone off the hook? He went downstairs to start the coffeemaker and then called again.

When her number started tinging, he was in a mood to shout at her: Where's your cousin? Why is he so secretive about his whereabouts? Have you been talking to him? Your line's been busy for an hour! What have you been saying to each other, for God's sake?

When she answered in her ridiculous voice, he said calmly, "Danielle, I've just heard the terrible news. We've lost Lynette. Did Carter Lee call and tell you?"

"Yes, just now. How did you find out?"

"Our local doctor was in touch with the New Orleans hospital."

"Isn't it awful? My cousin's a basket case. I was trying to buck him up."

"I'd like to call him and express my sympathy. I'm sure any kind words will help at a time like this. Did you get his phone number at the inn?"

"He's checked out already! He's coming home. I told him to get here before the airport shuts down. He's flying in today. He said he'd leave as soon as he made all the arrangements."

"I'd be glad to meet the five o'clock shuttle - "

"He wants me to pick him up. There are some things he wants to tell me. Before she died, Lynette told him to carry on the work. He wants to make Pleasant Street kind of a memorial to her."

"Did he say anything about funeral arrangements? There's a beautiful place where four generations of Duncans have been laid to rest, and the last gravesite has been waiting for the last Duncan. Does he know about it?"

" I don't know," she said.

"Important funerals for important people are a Pickax tradition."

"He didn't say anything about that."

"I see. Well, call me if there's anything I can do."

"He told me to break the news to Polly, but I don't know how."

"That's all been taken care of," Qwilleran said hastily and untruthfully. "You don't need to worry about it."

Fortified by this assortment of half-truths and white lies, Qwilleran squared his shoulders, planned his day, drank his coffee, fed the cats, brushed their fur, showered and shaved, and waited for seven o'clock.

At that hour he called the Riker residence, and Mildred said Arch was in the shower.

"Tell him to grab a towel and rush to the phone. This is important!"

Riker came on the line grumbling but curious. Qwilleran said, "Save today's front page for a major newsbreak."

"It'd better be good," Arch said. "I'm standing here dripping."

"It's not good. It's bad. We've just heard from New Orleans. Lynette was rushed to the hospital last night, and she died this morning."

"What! What did you say?... What happened to her?"

"Gastrointestinal complications. Dr. Diane talked to the hospital down there."

"In other words, food poisoning," Riker said cynically. "They don't call it that in the City of Gastronomy. Do you have any details?"

"Only that she phoned Polly a couple of times and said the food was too rich and spicy for her."

"How can we reach Carter Lee?"

"He's flying back. Danielle will meet the five o'clock shuttle."

"I hope WPKX doesn't get wind of it. I'd like to have a clean newsbreak for once."

"Right! Now go back to your shower, Arch. I hope you're not dripping on Mildred's new carpet."

That was easy. Breaking the news to Polly would be tough.

-17-

"Okay if I come over for a few minutes?" Qwilleran asked Polly on the phone. "I have something to discuss."

"Would you like breakfast?" she offered. "The library's closed today. I have time."

"No, thanks. I have a column to finish."

On the way there he considered his approach: how to lead up to the bad news in some non-frightening way.

She met him at the door, looking keenly interested but not anxious.

"Let's sit on the sofa," he said. "I have a confession to make." They went into the living room, and he took her hand fondly. "I've been guilty of trying to save you from worry and loss of sleep, and in doing so, I've not kept you fully informed."

"Is that such a transgression?" she asked lightly.

"Well... maybe. When Lynette called Saturday night, she complained of a stomach upset. It was worse than she thought. Carter Lee had to take her to the hospital."

"Oh dear!" she said in alarm. "How did you find out?"

"He called Danielle and asked her to notify us. It was after one A.M., too late to bother you, so I called Dr. Diane and enlisted her help. She called the hospital and found Lynette in critical condition with gastrointestinal complications. Diane kept calling for updates during the night, and the last time she was given the bad news."

"Oh, Qwill! What are you telling me?" Polly cried with her hands to her cheeks.

"She died about three-thirty this morning."

Polly groaned. "She was only forty! She was healthy! Is there something else they're not telling us?"

"I don't know." He had no intention of mentioning alcohol abuse now; that would come later. "You can lose your mind trying to figure it out," he said gently, hoping to steer her away from his own growing suspicions. "Just remember how happy she was in her last few weeks, and what a kind, helpful person she's been all her life."

"You're right," Polly said, taking a deep breath. "After her shattering disappointment twenty years ago, she never wallowed in self-pity but went on doing things for others and enjoying life, but..." Her voice wavered. "I can't talk about it now, Qwill. I need to be left alone for a while."

There was a call on his answering machine when he returned. He phoned Dr. Diane at her office.

"I had a suspicion about something," she said, "so I came to the office early to pull Lynette's file. She had signed a living will, bequeathing her eyes and body tissues for transplantation. I called the hospital, and they'd not been advised that she was an organ donor. The body had been released to a mortuary as authorized by the next of kin. I called the mortuary. It was too late even for an autopsy. They said the next of kin had signed for cremation!"

Qwilleran said, "That's not what Lynette wanted at all! Even I know that she wanted to be buried at Hilltop in the Duncan plot - with a full funeral, like her brother's."

"Apparently her husband wasn't aware of any of this," Diane said.

He thought, It's not usually discussed on honeymoons. What he said was: "Diane, I've broken the news to Polly, and she asked to be left alone for a while, but this new development is something that I think you should discuss with her."

"I'll be glad to," she said. "I don't know exactly how or when, but I'll work something out. My parents will be devastated when they hear about this."

"A lot of people will be."

"Where is her husband? I wonder."

"Flying home today. I plan to call him this evening. Perhaps I can get his explanation. Meanwhile, there'll be a front-page story in today's paper."

Qwilleran needed sleep. Two or three hours would tide him over, with his answering machine fielding calls. By ten-thirty he was awake and ready to go. He had a column to write, but the topic he had planned seemed inappropriate. It was to be a dissertation on breakfast cereal, pro and con, yesterday and today, hot and cold, with and without raisins. He phoned Polly.

"How are you feeling?" he asked kindly.

She replied wearily, like one who has survived a crying jag. "I feel more in control now. Is there something I should be doing? I'm no longer next of kin, am I? Diane phoned me. None of Lynette' s last wishes have been respected. Perhaps he didn't know."

"There is something you could do, Polly, that would be very useful. Help me write a column about the Lynette that everyone remembers: dancing the Highland fling, visiting patients at the hospital, winning bridge tournaments, hostessing at the church bazaar, making her winter pilgrimage to Hilltop, tracing her ancestors back to the eleventh century."

"I could do that," she said. "I'd have to think about it, though."

"Think fast. I'm on deadline. I'll be over with my tape recorder at one o'clock."

He knew it would do her good to participate in something constructive. For him it was an easy way to grind out a column in a hurry. As it evolved, her reminiscences were so interesting, and Polly was so well-spoken, that he had nothing to do but transcribe them on his typewriter. All interviews, he thought, should be such a cinch!

While he was transcribing, there was action on the hutch cabinet, Yum Yum scratching at the toy drawer, Koko pawing the other. It was the first time he had taken an interest in that particular part of the cabinet, and Qwilleran felt a twinge on his upper lip that led him to investigate. The Procrastination File contained all kinds of clutter, but on top of the pile was the manila envelope from the attorneys. Taking time out from his typing to examine the contents, he found what he expected: papers to be signed and mailed in the enclosed envelope. Bart always made it easy for him, but it could be done later, and he tossed everything back into the drawer.

"Yow-ow-ow!" came a scolding command from Koko, who was sitting on the cabinet and punishing it with his tail. It signified urgency.

Qwilleran was prompted to take a closer look at the documents and Bart's hand-scribbled instructions.

Qwill - Don't neglect to initial paragraphs G, K, and M. Mail soon as possible... Leaving for St. Paul while airport still open. Back Wednesday to discuss CU's credentials. K Fund investigators find no connection whatever with preservation/restoration field. May have to swim home. - Bart

Qwilleran phoned the Pickax police station and asked the chief, "When do you quit today?"

"Four o'clock."

"Don't leave! I'll be there. It's important."

When Qwilleran went to the newspaper office to hand in his copy, he picked up the Monday edition with the front page news story, illustrated with file photos.

The young managing editor was gloating. "For once we broke the news before WPKX. I don't know how we kept it from leaking."

"My column's a follow-up," Qwilleran said. "Polly gets all the credit." He took a few extra copies of the Monday paper for her. It was the lead story:

LAST DUNCAN DIES AT 40 Lynette Duncan of Pickax, the county's last of 40, less than a week after her marriage to Carter Lee James. The couple were honeymooning in New Orleans when she succumbed to "gastrointestinal complications," according to the death certificate. She is survived by her husband, who was at her bedside in her last hours, and by her sister-in-law, Polly Duncan, widow of William Wallace Duncan. Following Scottish custom, Ms. Duncan retained her maiden name when she married out of her clan. She was intensely proud of her heritage, representing the fourth generation of a family who migrated to Moose County in the 1850s and prospered as merchants. Their gravesites in the Hilltop Cemetery adjoin the meditation garden originated by the Duncan family as a place of solace for all mourners of the community. After being graduated from Pickax High School, Ms. Duncan attended the Lockmaster Business Academy and embarked on a career in accounting. For the last five years she has been employed by the Goodwinter Medical Clinic, handling patients' health insurance claims. Upon the death of her brother, Cameron, a year ago, she inherited the Duncan homestead on Pleasant Street and was the first homeowner to enlist in the Pleasant Street restoration project. Community service was a way of life for Ms. Duncan, who was honored last year after serving a total of ten thousand hours of volunteer work at the hospital, public library, historical museum, and other facilities. She was an active member of the Old Stone Church. "She was a selfless, compassionate woman," said the Rev. Wesley Forbush, "always willing to help, and never stinting of her time." Mayor Gregory Blythe said, "She was a role model for the community and will be missed even by those who never met her." At the time of her death Ms. Duncan was president of the Pickax Bridge Club, which she helped to found, and treasurer of the Moose County Genealogy Society. Funeral arrangements have not been announced.

As Qwilleran finished reading the news account, two thoughts occurred to him: Lynette would be appalled to have her age printed in the headline... and Mayor Blythe was one of the few persons she totally disliked. Then he wondered: How will Ernie Kemple's daughter react when she finds Carter Lee is back in the running as a bachelor? Will she still come forward in Lenny Inchpot's defense? Is it too late not to come forward? She has confessed her complicity to her mother, but she cannot have confessed to G. Allen Barter; he left for St. Paul Friday. There was still time to retract her confession; she could tell her mother she lied in an insane fit of revenge... All of this was brainstorming on Qwilleran's part. To be continued, he told himself, as he sloshed through the puddles to city hall.

Brodie was waiting for him, with the Moose County Something on his desk. "Terrible news!" he said, tapping the front page. In the Pickax hierarchy, the Brodies had always been respecters of the Duncans, and he had piped at Lynette's wedding. "How must her new husband~ feel?"

"We'll soon find out," Qwilleran said. "He'll be here when the shuttle splashes down at five o'clock."

"I'll pipe at the funeral if he wants me to. I piped at Cameron's funeral. More than fifty cars went to the cemetery. Is the body being shipped in today? The airport's closing down."

"Her husband opted for cremation."

"What! Did I hear you right? When Cameron died, Lynette told me there was one more gravesite waiting for her. She said she'd be proud to join her ancestors on the hill. She was sentimental where her clan was concerned... Nice lady!"

"She can still have her funeral," Qwilleran said,~ "starting with a memorial service at the church, a procession of cars to the cemetery, and interment of her ashes on the hill with the traditional ceremony." He could tell by the chiefs silence that he was not quite sold on the idea.

Finally Brodie said, "You must know the James fellow pretty well; you were his best man. Why wouldn't he comply with her wishes?"

"Do you think it's something that's discussed in the first week of marriage?" So far, Qwilleran had been going with the flow; now he changed course. "I don't know Carter Lee James at all! I was pressed into service at Lynette's request. Willard Carmichael first invited him up here for the holidays because his wife was homesick; they claimed to be cousins. The three of them met Lynette at the bridge club, and she invited them to see her house. That was the beginning of the Pleasant Street project, as it's called."

"I've heard about it," Brodie said, "but there hasn't been anything in the paper."

"It's been growing by word of mouth, which Carter Lee says is the healthy way to go. Property owners pay him twenty thousand up front for consulting services, supervision of the actual work, and the possibility of being nominated for the National Register of Historic Places. Everyone who signs up is enthusiastic - and those who don't are virtually blackballed by their neighbors. The guy has a winning personality and a manner that inspires confidence."

The chief nodded. "I talked to him at the wedding. Seemed like a decent fellow."

"I even suggested that the K Fund hire him to restore the hotel and the Limburger mansion... and that's when the wings fell off! They checked his credentials and came up with zilch. Yet he claims to have restored important landmarks all over the eastern seaboard. I've seen the portfolio he shows to prospective clients, and I doubt whether it's legitimate. I also know the procedures for getting on the National Register, and no restoration consultant can guarantee his clients anything. He can only raise their hopes."

Brodie's scowl intensified as he listened. "Sounds like a scam, all right. The prosecutor should get in on this."

"Not too fast, Andy. On Wednesday, Bart Barter comes home and can tell us more about the K Fund's investigation. And tomorrow afternoon I want to set a little trap for Carter Lee, just to see how he reacts. I'll get back to you with the results - tomorrow about this same time."

"Good luck," Brodie growled without enthusiasm. Then he allowed himself a chuckle. "What does your smart cat think about this guy?"

"Well, Koko got hold of his fur hat once and was trying to kill it, if that means anything. To a cat, it's always open season on fur and feathers."

After his conference with Brodie, he waited until suitable hour before phoning the Carmichael apartment. Danielle answered, saying that her cousin had arrived but was a wreck; he'd been without sleep for a1most forty-eight hours; he was now sleeping and couldn't be disturbed.

"That's all right," Qwilleran said. "I wanted only to express my sympathy and invite the two of you for a business discussion tomorrow - and some refreshment. He might find it heartening to hear about two major restoration projects that could use his expertise. Do you think he's willing to take on something big - at a time like this?"

"He is! I know he is! What time tomorrow?"

"How about two-thirty? I'm in the last unit in Building Five. He's been here before... And what do you both like to drink?"

"Margaritas," she said promptly.

After that masquerade of goodwill and hospitality, Qwilleran planned - with an element of elation - how to snare his prey. For bait he would use a few drinks, a lot of sympathy, and a spurious business deal. Then he would spring the trap! There was a possibility that Carter Lee would be smooth enough, slick enough, to elude it. Although he had told the theatre club he had no acting ability, he was - in Qwilleran's book - the Olivier, the Gielgud, the Alec Guiness of the confidence game.

It might or might not be a coincidence that volume ten on the Melville shelf - the one that riveted Koko' s attention - was The Confidence-Man. The cat was also greatly attracted to A. Nutt's scholarly disquisition on the Ossian hoax! Qwilleran realized now that he should have taken the cat's eccentricities more seriously.

His immediate task was to prepare the trap. His idea, not yet fully developed, was to tell his listeners about Short and Tall Tales and play "The Dank Hollow" for them. After that, he would play a tall tale of his own - about a scam that victimized Pickax a hundred years ago. It would be so transparently analogous to the Pleasant Street project that the listeners would be uneasy. At least, he supposed, Danielle would be uneasy, even if her "cousin" kept his cool. Now, all Qwilleran had to do was to compose this tricky, sticky bit of fiction.

When he sat down at his typewriter, however, the events of the last twenty-four hours crowded his mind.

To clear it he needed a drastic change of thought. What would it be? He looked at Koko; the cat looked at him. Opera, the man thought.

"Yow!" said Koko.

Adrienne Lecouvreur, the man thought.

"Yow!" said Koko.

It was the compact disc album that Folly had given him for Christmas; he had never played it. Somewhat guiltily, he slipped the first disc into the player and stretched out in his lounge chair, with his crossed legs on an ottoman and a mug of coffee in his hand.

The first act was a bustling scene backstage at the Com‚die Fran‡aise, with theatre personnel and their visitors fretting, plotting, and flirting. Koko relaxed nearby, comfortable on his brisket, but Yum Yum had disappeared. No opera lover, she!

The music was lush; the voices were stirring. In the story, taking place in 1730, a glamorous actress and a spiteful princess were rivals for the love of a nobleman.

It was a tale of intrigue, passion, deceit, and revenge. It involved a pawned necklace, a bunch of violets, a lost bracelet. Koko fidgeted from time to time. Qwilleran was following the libretto in English, but the cat was hearing it in Italian. As if he knew what it was all about, he made sounds of disapproval as the tension mounted. In the last act, as Adriana was dying in the arms of her lover, Koko howled as if his body would turn inside out.

"You spoiled the finale," Qwilleran chided him afterward, as Yum Yum crawled out from her secret hiding place.

Yet, it was not an ordinary yowl; it was a hollow, tortured wail! Qwilleran replayed the fourth act, jumping tracks to the death scene: Adriana receiving the box of dead violets, thinking them a cruel message from a lost lover, burying her face sorrowfully in the wilted flowers, not knowing they came from the princess, not knowing they were poisoned. Koko howled again. He had made the same anguished response to "The Dimsdale Jinx" when the pasties were mentioned - the poisoned pasties.

-18-

After hearing Koko's response to the opera, Qwilleran sat down at his typewriter with grim purpose. Gone was his prankish cat-and-mouse approach to setting a trap for a con man. This was a different ballgame, he told himself; no more softball; now it was hardball! Koko's reaction to the poisoned violets confirmed a cynical journalist's suspicions. It also explained the increasing disturbance on his upper lip.

In the coffee houses the local jokers liked to say, "If you want to murder your wife, do it Down Below, and you can get away with it." With hindsight, Qwilleran now found recent events painfully obvious: the hurried wedding; the transfer of property to joint ownership; the swift cremation without autopsy; the secrecy about Carter Lee's whereabouts after the death, precluding interference from anyone in Pickax.

Yet was there any actual proof that he had poisoned her? The howling of a cat - hundreds of miles away - at the moment of death was hardly admissible evidence or even grounds for arrest. Koko's electrifying cry at the mention of poison was equally thin evidence. His supranormal powers of detection and communication were known to Qwilleran, but would anyone else believe them?

Of one thing he was sure: At the slightest hint that their game was up, Carter Lee and his so-called cousin would disappear, taking their fake IDs and the money from twenty trusting property owners and any amount of loot from the Duncan house.

Qwilleran called the police chief at home. "Andy, sorry to bother you. The case we discussed is more serious than I imagined. I'm going ahead with the entrapment, but I want you to stand by. Anything can happen!"

Then he sat down at his typewriter and pounded out two or three hundred words to implement his scheme. At one point the flash of headlights turning into the adjoining driveway prompted him to telephone Wetherby. Solemnly he said, "Joe, did you hear the news from New Orleans?"

"I did! I did! And I'm mad as hell! This should never have happened! I feel like kicking a door down!"

"Well, I'm going to kick that door down, and I need your help."

"What can I do?"

"Give me fifteen minutes more at my typewriter, then come over here."

Qwilleran finished writing his tall tale and had a bourbon ready for Wetherby when he arrived. "Sit down, Joe, and I'll explain." He waited until his guest had taken a sip. "Both you and I had suspicions about Carter Lee, of one kind or another, and I've been led to believe they weren't far off base. I intend to confront him in a devious way, just to see how he reacts."

"Where is he?"

"His intention was to return home before the airport shut down, and he's now at Danielle's apartment." Qwilleran described his scheme and ripped the tall tale out of the typewriter. "Read this."

Wetherby read it with astonishment. "Is any of this true?"

"Not a word."

"That last line is pretty strong stuff. How do you plan to present it?"

"It'll be on tape, like the other yarns I've collected, and I'd like it to be read by a voice other than my own."

"Want me to do it? Let me read it once aloud with a dead mike." When he reached the last line, Koko howled. "Was that applause or criticism?" Wetherby asked.

Qwilleran grabbed both cats. "We don't want any sound effects on the tape." He carried them upstairs and shut them in their apartment.

"Will they stay there? Jet-boy knows how to operate the door handles."

"So far, they haven't figured it out, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed."

After the recording was completed and played back, Wetherby said he wouldn't mind witnessing the confrontation. "I could hide in a closet."

"You wouldn't fit. They're hardly deep enough for a coat hanger. Better to be concealed in the bedroom upstairs, with the door ajar. They'll be here at two-thirty."

"I'll be here at two. Shall I bring my handgun?"

"Whatever makes you comfortable... And one more favor, Joe. Do you happen to have any tequila?"

"No. Sorry. Only bourbon."

Late that evening WPKX broadcast a flash-flood warning. The dam on the Rocky Burn had been breached by rushing water and constant battering by tree trunks, boulders, and other debris, Und the Rocky Bum was now pouring billions of gallons into the old riverbed, through No Man's Gully and into the Ittibittiwassee. The giant waterwheel at the Old Stone Mill, dry and weakened after years of disuse, had been wrecked and the timbers swept downstream.

Immediately Don Exbridge and his staff started phoning residents, assuring them there was no need for evacuation under present conditions, but the situation was being monitored by the Disaster Commission. The manager's office would be open all night to answer questions, and the clubhouse was available as a shelter for anyone desiring company in the emergency. In the event that evacuation became advisable, the siren at the gate-house would sound and state troopers would be on hand.

Qwilleran phoned Polly. She and the Cavendish sisters planned to sit up together. "Interesting women," she said. "They're natives of Moose County, but their teaching careers have taken them all over the country. What do you think of Don's handling of the emergency?"

"He does that better than he builds condos," Qwilleran said. He himself retired to his bedroom but slept halfdressed. His valuables and basic clothing were in his luggage near the front door, along with the cats' carrier and their essentials. In the emergency he left the doors open to both balcony rooms, and sometime during the night two furry bodies climbed into his bed and were not discovered until morning.

It was the roar of the water that caused him to wake. The river was turbulent but not dangerously high - as yet. Now and then a tree sailed past like a galleon with sails furled. Over his morning coffee, Qwilleran recalled how convincingly Carter Lee had postponed publicity on his endeavors and how artfully he had introduced their post-honeymoon plans. They would sit for their portraits, work together on restoration projects, visit his mother in France, buy a summer place on Purple Point... and Lynette innocently anticipated all of it.

The first mission of the day was to find ingredients for margaritas. In his lean years, Qwilleran had moonlighted as a bartender; in this, the affluent period of his life, he took pride in his well-stocked bar and ability to mix a variety of drinks. He was not prepared, however, for margaritas. He had only salt for the rim of the glasses.

Using the phone he confirmed his fear that the liquor store in Pickax was closed, along with every other establishment. The clubhouse bar was locked because the barkeeper was marooned by the Rocky Burn deluge. When Qwilleran called Hixie Rice, she referred him to Susan Exbridge, who referred him to her ex-husband. From Don Exbridge he learned the surprising information that the Cavendish sisters had lived in southern California and had brought home a fondness for margaritas. When Qwilleran rang their doorbell, he was greeted as a hero and supplied with everything he needed for the drinks.

Wetherby Goode arrived at the promised time and was sequestered in the bedroom, with the door ajar. "Try not to sneeze," Qwilleran told him. The Siamese, glutted with a substantial meal that would slow them down, were shut up in their own apartment with the television turned on, minus audio.

Shortly after two-thirty, the Land-Rover pulled up in front of the condo, and Qwilleran greeted his guests with the right mix of solemnity and hospitality. Carter Lee was subdued, but Danielle was her usual giddy self.

"Ooh! Look!" she said, pointing at the display of weaponry on the foyer wall. Her cousin turned away in a silent rebuke.

The cordial host took advantage of the situation. Craftily he said, "Those are Scottish dirks from Gil MacMurchie's collection. He had five, but the best one was stolen during that epidemic of thievery a few weeks ago." He unhooked one from the frame and continued his lecture while ushering them into the living room. "The dirk is longer than a dagger and shorter than a sword - a very useful weapon, I'm sure. It's interesting to know that the grooves in the blade are called blood grooves. This hilt has a thistle design, which is an emblem of Scotland, but the most desirable is a lion rampant." He placed it on the coffee table in its scabbard, hoping that its presence would arouse their guilt. Then, having chafed the subject long enough, he asked, "May I offer you a margarita? I've been told I make a good one."

Both faces brightened. They were sitting on the sofa, facing the windows, and Qwilleran would be able to study their countenances. He wondered if Wetherby Goode was enjoying his performance. He proposed a toast to Lynette's memory, causing the bereaved husband to nod and look down woefully. Danielle pouted and studied the salt on the rim of her glass.

"You're wise to come home and plunge into your commitments," Qwilleran said in his avuncular style. "Work is said to be a great healer."

"It's painful but therapeutic in the long run," Carter Lee agreed. "I know Lynette would want me to carry on. I have dreams of making Pleasant Street a memorial to her, perhaps calling the neighborhood the Duncan Historical Park."

"A beautiful gesture," Qwilleran murmured, feeling hypocritical. He knew that neighboring property owners, though outwardly friendly, would resent such a designation. "I hope you're aware," he continued, "that this county has enough historic property to keep you busy for a lifetime. There are two projects in which I have a personal interest. A great deal of money is being budgeted for their restoration. First is the historic Pickax Hotel downtown, boarded up since an explosion last year."

"I've seen it," Carter Lee said. "What are the interior spaces?"

"Twenty guestrooms and many public areas, including a ballroom. The other project is the Limburger mansion in Black Creek, slated to operate as a country inn... May I freshen your drinks?"

So far, so good, Qwilleran thought as he mixed two more margaritas. The guests were relaxing. They talked easily about the flooding, and Danielle's role in the play, and the future of the gourmet club. They listened receptively to the plans for Short and Tall Tales and said, yes, they would like to hear one.

"I like ghost stories," said Danielle, wriggling in anticipation.

They listened to "The Dank Hollow" and called it sensational. As Qwilleran served another round of drinks, he said, "And now I'm going to play one that no one else has heard. It hasn't even a name as yet. I want your opinion."

A hundred years ago, when Moose County was booming and ten mines were in operation, the wealthy mine-owners built mansions in Pickax and lived in grand style on Goodwinter Boulevard. But they had an annoying problem. Their houses were haunted by the restless spirits of dead miners, buried in cave-ins or killed in underground explosions. Ghostly noises kept the families awake at night and terrified the children. A newspaper Down Below went so far as to send a reporter to Pickax by stagecoach; after investigating, he wrote about the moaning and coughing and constant chip-chip-chipping of invisible pickaxes. Shortly after the story was published, a man by the name of Charles Louis Jones drove into Pickax in a covered wagon, accompanied by a pretty young woman in a sunbonnet, his sister Dora. He said he possessed the gift of conjury and could rid the neighborhood of ghosts. He said he had worked the miracle for many communities Down Below. There was a sizable fee, but the harassed mine-owners were willing to give him anything. To do the job he asked for a pickax, a miner's hat, and several burlap bags filled with sand. The contracts were signed, and he and his sister went to work - at night, after the families had retired. She carried the pickax and chanted spells, while her brother wore the miner's hat and scattered sand in attics and cellars. After two weeks, clients reported the condition somewhat relieved and signed new contracts at a higher rate. All the while, the two strangers were treated royally, being a friendly and attractive pair. Charles Louis was particularly charming. No one wanted to see them leave, least of all Lucy Honeycutt. Her father owned Honey Hill mine. Though not the prettiest girl on the boulevard, she had the largest dowry. When Charles Louis asked for her hand in marriage, Mr. Honeycutt was flattered and Lucy was thrilled. With her handsome and gifted husband she would travel far and wide, helping other distressed communities. Dora would teach her the conjuring chants. So the marriage took place - rather hurriedly, the gossips said.

As the tape unreeled in the silent room, with only the sound of the rushing river to distract, Qwilleran observed the visitors. Danielle was enjoying it; her cousin was listening more critically. At the mention of Charles Louis Jones, his eyelids flickered. As the story went on - Lucy's dowry, the gifted husband, the hasty marriage - he uncrossed his knees, set down his glass, glanced at Danielle. He was gradually getting the point, Qwilleran thought. There was more to the tale:

After the wedding the nightly sand rituals continued; so did the partying and the payments, although there was grumbling about diminishing results. Then, one night, after eating a mullet stew prepared by her sister-in-law, Lucy became ill. The same night, Charles Louis and Dora disappeared in the covered wagon, along with Lucy's dowry and certain silverplate and jewelry from the haunted houses, probably in the burlap bags. It would be easy to chuckle about this tale of haunted houses, gullible countryfolk, a glib con man, a woman posing as his sister, and a clever swindle - if it were not for the tragic ending. Lucy died, and the cause of death, according to the post mortem, was not mullet stew but arsenic.

Carter Lee's jaw clenched and he stared wordlessly at Qwilleran, who said amiably, "Did you enjoy that? Would you like to hear it again?"

The man on the sofa turned to his companion and thundered, "Go to the car!"

"Why?" she whined, pouting at her unfinished drink.

"Go and get in the car! Do as I say!"

Reluctantly she went to the foyer to put on her boots. "Forget the boots! Get our of here!" Then, as the door slammed, he said to Qwilleran, "Very funny! What kind of game are you playing?"

There was a click overhead as the levered door handle of the cats' apartment unlatched. The other door squeaked.

"An old Moose County game known as `Call the Prosecutor.' "

With one swift movement Carter Lee was on his feet and reaching for the dirk.

Qwilleran jumped out of his chair. "Hold it! There's a witness up there!" He pointed to the balcony. Koko was teetering on the railing. Wetherby was coming out of the bedroom.

In the split second that Carter Lee hesitated, a flying object dropped down on him like an eagle on a rabbit. He screamed as claws gripped his head. Half blinded by trickles of blood, he staggered toward the foyer, falling over furniture, groping for the front door, with Koko still riding on his head and howling. Qwilleran was yelling at him to get down; Yum Yum was shrieking in alarm; Wetherby was bellowing as he pounded down the stairs. It was one minute of chaos until Koko swooped to the floor and Carter Lee made it out the front door.

"Let's follow him!" Qwilleran shouted.

"We'll take my van! It's in the drive!"

They grabbed their jackets and left Koko licking his claws.

The Land-Rover splashed down River Lane and turned left to the gatehouse, then left again on Ittibittiwassee with Wetherby' s vehicle not far behind.

"Where do they think they're going?" Qwilleran said as he reached for the car phone.

"She's driving. Look at that van weaving!"

On the phone he said, "Qwilleran reporting. Suspected murderer and accomplice headed west on Ittibittiwassee in white and red Land-Rover. Male suspect has head injuries. Female driving erratically. Now three miles east of bridge. This report from pursuit car. Over."

The reply was inaudible as their tires whined through floods. Plumes of spray from the car ahead hit their windshield, and the wipers worked frantically to maintain visibility.

Qwilleran shouted above the racket, "If they get across the bridge, they'll run right into the police!"

"I'm gonna hang back a bit, Qwill. This is suicide!"

They covered the next two miles without talking. Then Qwilleran shouted, "It worked! The trick worked!"

"I heard every word."

"Let's hear it for Koko!"

"The bridge is around the next curve," Wetherby said.

"Stop on the hill."

On the crest they pulled over and parked on a muddy shoulder. From there they could see the fugitive vehicle approaching a bridge submerged except for the rails. The river was churning and roaring.

"They'll never make it."

"They're gonna try."

As they watched, a surge came downstream - a huge wave bringing tree trunks, a chunk of concrete from a culvert, and timbers from the shattered mill wheel. It was the kind of debris that would collect at a crook in the river, then suddenly let loose. The surge hit the bridge like a battering ram as the Land-Rover put on speed.

"Stupid!" Wetherby yelled.

The bridge-bed cracked and heaved and pitched the white and red van over the guardrail to be swept along in the turbulent water until it snagged on the branches of a fallen oak. There it hung, trapped between the crotch of the ancient tree and an enormous boulder.

"Can you see them, Joe?"

"No sign of life. I hope their seatbelts were fastened." The flashing lights of police vehicles came into view across the river, and the far-off sirens of rescue equipment wailed above the crashing tumult. Qwilleran called his newspaper to send a reporter and photographer. Wetherby said it would take a crane to release the trapped van, but the rescue squad could probably reach the passengers with a cherry picker.

Qwilleran said, "Let's go home and see if the surge is doing any damage."

"Yeah... and I could use one of those margaritas." The water was running high past the condos, but there was still no threat to the buildings.

While Wetherby mixed himself a drink Qwilleran checked in with Polly.

"Qwill! Where have you been?" she asked anxiously.

"I've been trying to reach you!"

"I had to go out for a while."

"They just announced that a surge coming down-stream from the Rocky Burn was diverted by a cave-in at the Buckshot mine, at least temporarily. That's why we're not flooding."

"Stay tuned," he said. "You may hear some more surprising news."

Wetherby called to him, "Shall I pour you a Squunk water?"

"No, I need something stronger," Qwilleran said.

"Open a ginger ale."

-19-

Moose County's last square inch of snow melted at 2:07 P.M. on February 15, an all-time record. The rain stopped falling; the flood waters receded; and soon the farmers would be worrying about a summer drought. On the air the weatherman said, "Come, gentle spring! ethereal mildness, come!"

"Lynette would have loved that quotation," Polly said to Qwilleran.

"It sounds familiar. Who wrote it?"

"Coleridge... I believe."

Since meeting Wetherby Goode, he had stopped making needling remarks about his literary allusions. The two men now shared a secret. They had agreed not to reveal their role in the entrapment and flight of Carter Lee James. When Brodie questioned him, Qwilleran shrugged it off. "I simply confronted Carter Lee with what I thought was the truth; he threatened me; and Koko chased him out of the house."

Miraculously the fugitives had survived the rough tumble in the raging river but were still hospitalized under police arrest. The man would be charged with murder and twenty counts of fraud; the woman, an admitted kleptomaniac, would turn state's witness against him in exchange for immunity. On the gossip circuit the locals were saying: "That ain't his real name. Down Below they fake driver's licenses, credit cards, Social Security numbers - everything."

"He looked like such a gentleman! All those monogrammed shirts! I can't believe he'd commit murder!"

"Everybody said she shouldn't have married outside her clan and not so fast. She hardly knew him!"

"Well, she was forty. She didn't have time to waste."

"CLJ must be his real initials, or he'd have to buy a new bunch of shirts every time he changed his ID. That'd cost!"

One evening Qwilleran and Polly met for their weekly dinner of flattened chicken breast. This time the recipe called for shallots, lemon zest, chopped spinach, and blue cheese.

"Hail, noble Brutus!" he said when the erstwhile Bootsie met him at the door. The cat paraded back and forth with tail erect to demonstrate his nobility.

Polly said, "He can hardly wait to meet his little companion. Her name is Catta. She can't leave her mother for another two weeks... Qwill, whatever happened to all the cat names your readers were sending you?"

"There were thousands of postcards, and I finally hired Wilfred Sugbury and his girl friend to tabulate them. They turned over to me pages and pages of listings, classified according to number of syllables. One syllable names are in the minority. Apparently two syllables are more effective in getting a cat's attention."

"Will you write a column on the subject?"

"Or a scientific paper on Feline Nomenclature in Northern Climates. I just happen to have a few notes with me." He drew a folded paper from his pocket:

1. In Moose County, with its large population of barn cats as well as house pets, a large percentage are named after edibles: Pumpkin, Peaches, Sweet Potato, Butterscotch, Jelly Bean, Ginger, Huckleberry, Pepper, Marmalade, Licorice, Strudel, Popcorn, and so on. 2. Names are not always complimentary: Tom Trouble, Stinky, Lazy Bum, Hairball. 3. Cats named for famous personalities, real or fictional, are so named as a compliment to the namesake: Babe Ruth, Socrates, Walter Mitty, Queen Juliana, Maggie and Jiggs, Eleanor Roosevelt, George Washington. 4. Cats in the same family often have names that rhyme: Mingo and Bingo, Cuddles and Puddles, Noodle and Yankee Doodle.

Polly read the notes and asked him to talk on the subject at the next meeting of the Friends of the Public Library. He said he would consider it.

After dinner he asked, "Do you know anything about the dirk that Lynette used to cut her wedding cake?"

"Yes, it was a gift from Danielle. It had the lion rampant of Scotland on the hilt."

"Well I happen to know that the light-fingered Danielle stole it from the MacMurchie house when she and Carter Lee were doing their so-called appraisal of the premises Gil was very much upset It was the last gift he'd received from his late wife."

"That s terrible!" Polly said. "Lynette would have been mortified if she had known The MacMurchies were such good neighbors. In a plumbing emergency she could call Gil and he'd rush over with a wrench."

They both fell into silence. Qwilleran was thinking: Did Danielle know she'd get her wedding present back again - after New Orleans? Was she a genuine neurotic with a compulsion to steal? Or was her pilfering intended to focus public attention on minor crimes while Carter Lee committed a major swindle? The latter would explain the "theft" of his own coat, which was not missing for long As for the heist from the money jar, even a banker's wife could use a couple of thousand. But what did she do with the bag of old clothes from the church's donation box?

Polly broke the silence. "I never suspected either of them. Did you Qwill?"

"Well..." He contemplated what to tell and what not to tell. "Carter Lee's talk about the official registration of historic buildings aroused my curiosity. How does it work? I found that it involves complicated nomination forms technically and professionally correct with photographs and documented information about the architecture, materials, workmanship, and history of the building - all of which had to be approved by the state before going to national headquarters. How could he guarantee his clients anything? Yet, twenty families were convinced, and I was only a doubting Thomas... When I discovered he was a fraud, it was too late."

Polly sighed deeply. "For Lynette's sake I wish we could return the dirk to Gil MacMurchie. She would want it that way You know Qwill I have a key to her house. She asked me to keep an eye on the property while they were honeymooning Do you suppose at would be all right if I went over there and simply - "

"No, it would not be all right!" he interrupted sternly. That would be stealing - inappropriate conduct for the administrator of the public library. However... if you went over there to check up... and discovered a leak... a mysterious puddle of water under the kitchen sink... you could call Gil, and he'd rush over there with his pipe wrench It's not stealing if you take something that belongs to you."

Another evening Qwilleran was at home and his doorbell rang. On his doorstep was a man wearing a respiratory mask and holding a glass jar.

"What-what?" Qwilleran spluttered.

From the neck down, the figure was recognizable as Wetherby Goode. "Come in, you screwball! Take that thing off your head! What's in that jar?"

"Horseradish from my great-uncle in Lockmaster. He grows his own and grates it himself. One whiff is enough to kill a rhinoceros."

"I'll take a chance," said Qwilleran, who was a horseradish addict. "How about a bourbon?"

Koko made an appearance, looking regal, and Yum Yum rippled into the room in the flirty way she had.

"Do they ever catch mice?" Wetherby asked.

"It's Yum Yum's secret dream, but Koko is more of a thinking cat. He specializes in thought transference. He's telling me he'd like to move back to the barn. Is this good weather going to hold?"

"Don't ask me about the weather I'm only a meteorologist. Ask the fuzzy caterpillars."

Qwilleran said, "Polly tells me your listeners send you suggestions for your daily quotes."

"They sure do and I appreciate it Polly sends me weather quotes all the time - from Shakespeare and all those other old guys."

"She knows the Bard forward and backward," Qwileran remarked casually, but he was taken aback. Why had she not told him? True he concealed his investigations and Koko's collaborations because she would discourage one and laugh at the other. It came as a surprise however that Polly would conceal anything from him.

The garrulous weatherman rambled on. "Fran Brodie is taking over the lead in Hedda Gabler, we're all glad to know. The bad news is that Danielle didn't pay her decorating bill before all this happened. Dr. Diane says the two fugitives wouldn't be alive if they hadn't drunk all those margaritas. They were so relaxed, they were like rubber... Have you been to Lois's since Lenny was cleared and got his job back?"

"I have! And she was so happy she was handing out free apple pie."

"Everyone in the bridge club thinks it was Danielle who framed Lenny. Did you know Willard very well? I've been wondering if he was in on the scam. He brought Carter Lee up here and was pushing his project."

"That's because his bank wanted to make restoration loans. It's my belief that he didn't know the score. He met Danielle in a nightclub and hadn't known her long before they married. I'd guess that she and Carter Lee had been longtime partners in the con game and everything else, and they thought a rich husband would be a big plus."

Wetherby was watching Koko slap the floor with tail. "What's he doing?"

"Communicating," Qwilleran said. "I've been trying to read that tail for years." Then he assumed a confidential tone. "Polly gave me a set of Melville novels for Chnstmas and Koko has been obsessed with volume ten. If you want to see something weird, have a look at the title of volume ten."

Wetherby went to the hutch cabinet and looked at the Melville shelf. "It's The Confidence Man! Are you kidding me?"

"Not at all."

"Is that a coincidence - or what?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Joe."

After the weatherman had taken his gas mask and gone home, Qwilleran watched Koko lashing his tail - right, left, right, left. He was trying to convey something else; he had not told the whole story. More likely, Qwilleran had failed to read it.

"What's bothering you, old boy?" he asked.

Koko stopped the tail business and walked across the room with Siamese poise, stopping on the way to give Qwilleran a stare that could only be described as scornful. He walked to the spot where Yum Yum was laying contentedly on her brisket and hit her on the head with his paw.

"Stop that!" Qwilleran shouted. "Stop tormenting her!"

Koko looked at him impudently and hit her again, adding a contemptuous "Yow-ow-ow" in Qwilleran's direction.

Qwilleran went immediately to the phone and called Andrew Brodie at home. He heard the passive hello of a televiewer who is watching a good show and resents being interrupted.

He asked, "What's on TV, Andy?"

"Look it up in the paper," Brodie barked.

"Don't go away, Andy. I have information. Remember when Willard Carmichael attended that banking seminar in Detroit? Carter Lee was down there at the same time, on business of his own." Qwilleran pounded his moustache with his fist. "His business, I say, was hiring a hit man to eliminate Willard!"

The successful prosecution of Carter Lee James would last all spring as preliminary arguments addressed change of venue, conflict of interest, selection of jurors, and TV cameras from Down Below. Newsmedia everywhere called it a bizarre case. Only Qwilleran knew how bizarre it really was, and he took pains to conceal Koko' s input.

One sunny afternoon he was lounging in his big chair and fantasizing about the "smart cat" in the witness bog, biting the defense attorney, yowling in spite of the judge's gavel, flying around the courtroom in a caffit, swinging from the chandelier.

As a matter of fact, both Siamese were busy being ordinary cats - Yum Yum lounging in the sun and Koko prowling, sniffing invisible spots, scratching an ear, grooming a shoulder blade. He was restless. He had lost interest in Herman Melville. He looked at everything and nothing, jerking his head without reason, racing madly, staring into space.

Qwilleran thought, Koko has more whiskers than the average cat and more senses than the average human, but basically he's just a cat. At that moment, Koko leaped four feet in the air, and Qwilleran looked up. He saw a tiny black speck darting around the room in wild swoops and circles.

"Mosca!" he shouted.

The End