The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

-9-

When Qwilleran returned home after Scottish Night, there were messages on the answering machine from friends who had heard about his honor on the eleven o'clock newscast, and there were phone calls the next morning. John Bushland was one who called with congratulations. Qwilleran said, "I saw you taking pictures at the dinner. Was that for the newspaper or the lodge?"

"Both. I'm doing a video for lodge members: Brodie playing the pipe, MacWhannell reading Burns's poetry, and everybody whooping it up."

"Did Polly call you about Lynette's birthday party?"

"Yes, and I've got an idea for a gift. See what you think...On New Year's Eve I got a great full-face color shot of her, talking with two guys - wineglass in hand, eyes sparkling, nice smile. The light balance was just right, and she looked young and happy."

"Who were the guys?"

"Wetherby Goode and Carter Lee James. I could blow it up and put it in a neat frame. Do you think she'd like it?"

"She'd be thrilled. Do it!" Qwilleran said.

Then Carol Lanspeak phoned congratulations and said, "You deserve a monument on the courthouse lawn, but that will come later."

"Much later, I hope," he said.

"Are you and Polly free on Sunday? I want to give a quiet little dinner for Danielle. I know it's short notice." When he hesitated, she added, "She thinks you're a super guy, and it would do her a world of good if you could be there. You always know exactly the right thing to say."

Qwilleran was thinking fast. Danielle would be at Lynette's birthday party, and one evening with Goggly Eyes would be enough in one week, if not too much. He said, "You're right about the short notice, Carol. I've invited guests for Sunday and couldn't possibly cancel."

"I wouldn't ask you to do that," she said, "but we'll do it another time, won't we?"

"How is Danielle?" He thought it only civil to inquire.

"She's holding up very well, and Carter Lee is coming back, so she won't be lonely. It's important for her to do something constructive, and the lead in Hedda Gabler is a real challenge."

Qwilleran thought, It's a disaster waiting to happen.

"She's a quick study. I wish the whole cast could learn lines as fast." Carol was directing the play. "The main problem is that she doesn't like the actor that we cast for Judge Brack. It's a personality clash."

"Who's playing Brack? George Breze? Scott Gippel? Adam Dingleberry?" Gippel weighed three hundred pounds; Dingleberry was about a hundred years old; Breze was a mess.

Carol was not amused. "We have the drama and debate coach from the high school, and he's good, but he's dropping out. Danielle would rather play opposite you."

"It's out of the question." He thought, She's used to having her own way because she's gorgeous.

"I understand, Qwill. Sorry you and Polly can't be with us on Sunday."

Qwilleran had some errands to do downtown. He always did Polly's grocery shopping on days when she was working at the library, in return for which she invited him to dinner frequently. It was one of the mutual advantages in living only three doors apart. He rolled her trash container to the curb once a week; she sewed on buttons for him; they fed each other's cats when necessary.

While downtown he stopped at the office of the Moose County Something to pick up a free newspaper. The day's edition had just been delivered from the printing plant, and he found the whole staff in a state of jocosity, grinning in slyly and making abstruse quips. The reason soon became clear.

On the front page was a full-length photo of Qwilleran in Scottish Highland attire. He groaned. Did they have to print it four columns wide and eighteen inches high? Did they have to headline it "Lady from Hell"? The ribbing from fellow staffers did nothing to ease his embarrassment:

"Hey Qwill, you look like an ad for Scotch!"

"Look at those knees!"

"What's that thing in his sock?"

"All he needs is a bagpipe!"

"Are you available for films and commercials, Qwill?"

He said, "Obviously it was a slow day on the newsbeat." He picked up an extra copy for Polly and left the building, briefly considering a week's vacation in Iceland. But then he drew upon the qualities that life had bestowed upon him: the aplomb of a journalist, the spirit of an actor, and the confidence of the richest man in northeast central United States. He parked in the municipal lot and entered Amanda's Design Studio through the back door, carrying a newspaper-wrapped package.

Fran greeted him, waving that day's edition of the Something. "Qwill! Your picture on the front page is fabulous! Marry me!"

"You'll have to wait your turn. Take a number."

"Dad even called me about it! He was all choked up with emotion - something that never happens. Everyone's talking about it."

"I'm afraid so. I'm thinking of leaving the country until it blows over."

"What do you have wrapped in newspaper?" she asked. "Fresh fish?"

He showed her the four dirks he had bought and asked how to display them on the wall. "I don't want them under glass. I want instant access in case of attack by the Pickax pilferer. He, or she, stole a dirk from Gil MacMurchie."

She unwrapped the dirks, frowned at them silently, then vanished into the stockroom, leaving Qwilleran to wander around the shop and look for a valentine gift for Polly. He found an oval jewel box shaped from natural horn and inset with a sunburst of brass.

Fran returned from the stockroom carrying an antique pine picture frame, a simple rectangle of wide flat boards mitered at the corners and waxed to a mellow golden brown. She said, "This was the base for an old ornate frame of gilded gesso, which was badly chipped. We stripped it down to the pine and gave it this nice finish. We can put a backing in it for mounting the dirks and then devise clamps or clips for holding them."

"Perfect! You're so clever, Fran."

"The bill will go out in the mail tomorrow."

"How's the play going?"

"Not splendidly. Danielle's become a temperamental star. We lost a good Judge Brack because of her. She wants someone exciting for the role, since they have so many scenes together." Fran looked at Qwilleran hopefully, and he could see where the discussion was leading.

He said, "Couldn't Larry play the judge?"

"He's playing Tesman."

"How about your friend Prelligate?"

"He's doing Lovborg."

"Why not switch Larry to the judge, let Prelligate do Tesman, and bring in Derek Cuttlebrink for Lovborg?"

"You're bonkers, Qwill. Derek is almost seven feet tall. It would be a joke."

"Derek playing Lovborg is no funnier than Danielle playing Hedda."

"Forget Derek!" she said with finality.

Qwilleran persisted. "In Macbeth he crumpled his figure so that he looked a foot shorter. That might work well for Lovborg, who has a crumpled reputation, so to speak. Furthermore, Derek is a popular actor, and you wouldn't have to worry about ticket sales. His groupies would attend every performance, and the K Fund wouldn't have to bail you out."

Fran rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Go away, Qwill. Just leave your dirks and go away! Leave the country! You need a change of climate."

Obediently he started for the back door, then returned, "Do you happen to know the family with the famous doll collection?"

"Of course I know the Kemples. I worked with Vivian Kemple on their house. It's on Pleasant Street. She and her husband are both involved in rare dolls."

"May I use your phone?" he asked, adding dryly, "You can add the charge to my bill."

A man with a particularly loud voice answered, and Qwilleran identified himself.

"Sure! We've met at the Boosters Club, Qwill. I'm Ernie Kemple." He was the Boosters' official backslapper and glad-hander, greeting members at every meeting.

"I'm calling about your doll collection, Ernie, as a possibility for the `Qwill Pen' column."

"Well, now... we don't like publicity. You know what happened to the Chisholm sisters' teddy bears."

"That was a freak situation," Qwilleran said.

"Yeah, but we had a doll stolen recently - not worth a lot in dollars but highly collectible. Makes you stop and think, you know... Tell you what: Come and see the collection for your own enjoyment. It's art; it's history; it's an investment."

"Thank you. I'll accept the invitation." It was a break for Qwilleran. He could satisfy his curiosity without having to write about... dolls.

"Tell you what," Kemple said. "Come over now, and I'll rustle up some refreshments. My wife's out of town, and I'm waiting for three o'clock so I can pick up my grandson from school. I retired January One. Sold Kemple Life and Accident to the Brady brothers."

"I'll be right there," Qwilleran said.

Pleasant Street looked particularly pleasant that afternoon. A new fall of snow had frosted the lacy wood trim on the houses, and the whole street was an avenue of white ruffles. The Kemple house, more attractive than most, was painted in two shades of taupe, reflecting Fran Brodie's educated taste.

"A most attractive house," Qwilleran said to Ernie Kemple when he was admitted. Like the exterior, the rooms showed the hand of a professional designer. Traditional furniture was arranged in a friendly contemporary manner; colors dared to depart from the historically correct; old paintings and engravings were hung with imagination. And there was not a single doll in sight!

Kemple replied in a booming voice that would make crystal chandeliers quiver. "You like it? I think it's pretty good myself. Comfortable, you know...But now my wife thinks maybe we should let Carter Lee James restore it to nineteenth-century authenticity. He and his assistant went through the house, making notes. But I hate to see it go down the drain. Vivian - that's my wife - says everybody on the street is going along with James. It's supposed to increase the value of the property, and maybe give us a tax break. What do you think, Qwill? This James fellow presents a convincing case. Of course, he's not doing it for nothing! But he seems to be knowledgeable, and people like him. What's your opinion?"

"I haven't heard his pitch firsthand, but Lynette Duncan is sold on him," Qwilleran said.

"The question is: Suppose we stick to our guns. Would we want to be the only holdout in the neighborhood?... Well, why are we standing here? Let's go in the kitchen and have some cake and coffee. I have a sweet tooth, and the Scottish bakers has this Queen Mum's cake that's unbeatable, if you like chocolate."

Qwilleran sat at the kitchen table and looked at a group of framed photos on a side wall. "Is the curly-haired blond boy your grandson? You don't look old enough to have grandchildren."

"Well, thanks for the compliment.

Yes, that's my little Bobbie. My daughter's divorced and living with us, and she works part-time, so Vivian and I get pressed into service as baby-sitters. And Qwill, I'm here to tell you it's the greatest thing that ever happened to a retired insurance agent! I have granddaughters, too, but they're in Arizona. That's where Vivian is now, visiting our son."

The kitchen was old-fashioned in its large size and high ceiling but updated in its cabinetry, appliances, and decorating. Slick surfaces made Kemple's great voice reverberate and made Qwilleran wince. "Have you ever been on the stage, Ernie?"

"Sure! I belonged to the theatre club for years. I played Sheridan Whiteside in The Man Who Came to Dinner. I left the club when we started doing a lot of traveling... Do you drink regular or decaf? We've got both. I grind the beans fresh."

"Regular," Qwilleran requested and waited for the racket of the grinder to stop before saying, "The club is casting a play right now that has a perfect role for you. Are you familiar with Hedda Gabler?"

"Is that the one where a woman is so wrapped up in her house that she loses her husband?'

"You're thinking of Craig's Wife, by George Kelly. This is Ibsen's drama about another self-centered woman who destroys one man and falls under the power of another. The role of Judge Brack is made to order for you, and I happen to know they're looking for an actor powerful enough to carry it. How do you look in a moustache?'

"Sure, I could handle that role, and I have the time now. The moustache is no problem. I've lived with spirit gum before."

"You'd be playing opposite a very striking young woman who's new in this area."

"is that so?" Kemple said with increased interest. "Who's directing?'

"Carol Lanspeak."

"Oh, she's good! Not only talented but organized. I think I'll take your suggestion and surprise Vivian when she comes home. She's always telling me I could play Madison Square Garden without a mike."

"Are you both natives of Moose County?"

"No, we came up here from Down Below twenty years ago, because it seemed like a good place to raise kids. Also because I liked to hunt. I had mounted heads all over the place - my office, too. Then suddenly I turned off. I brought down a six-point buck one day, only wounded, and when I went to finish him off, he looked up at me with sad eyes. It was like a knife in my heart! I never went hunting again. Even got rid of the trophies."

The two men applied themselves, almost reverently, to the Queen Mum's cake, and there was little conversation for a while.

"How did you get interested in dolls?" Qwilleran asked then.

"When I gave up hunting, I needed a new hobby. History was my minor in college, and Vivian was getting into classic dolls, so I started researching historic doll-makers in England, France, and Germany - almost a hundred of them. It's good for a couple to have a hobby they can share, and it's good to be learning something."

"What did Vivian collect before classic dolls?'

"Primitives. Old Moose County dolls that the pioneers made for their kids. Carved and painted wood, stuffed flour sacks, all that type of thing."

Qwilleran remarked that he had yet to see a doll on the premises.

"All upstairs. In glass cases."

"Under lock and key?"

"Never thought it necessary, but now..." Kemple shrugged.

Qwilleran pointed to another photo in the wall grouping a pretty young blond woman. "Your daughter?"

"Yes, that's Tracy, around the time she was married."

"She looks familiar."

"You've seen her at the Old Stone Mill. She works lunches there, dinners at the Boulder House Inn. She's a waitress. Server is what they want to be called now. She could have had a nice job in the insurance office, but she likes meeting people, and she likes those big tips! And believe me, she gets them! She has a nice personality... More coffee? Or do you want to see the dolls?"

Upstairs in the six-bedroom house there were three rooms outfitted with museum-type cases. The first room contained primitives made between 1850 and 1912. One doll consisted of thread spools strung together so that the arms and legs moved. Another was carved from the crotch of a small tree, with the forked branches for legs. A stuffed stocking had crudely stitched features crossed eyes, crooked nose, upside-down mouth.

"Ugly," Kemple said, "but every one was loved by some little kid."

"Who has access to these rooms?" Qwilleran asked.

"Personal friends, serious collectors, and groups we belong to - that's all. During the holidays we had Vivian's Sunday-school class and then the historical society. In our will we're leaving the primitives to the Goodwinter Farm Museum. The classics will be sold to put our grandkids through college. They're appreciating in value all the time."

"I'd like to see the classics."

Dazzling was the word for the two rooms displaying the china, porcelain, wax, bisque, and papier-mƒch‚ beauties. Twelve to twenty inches tall, they had pretty faces, real hair, and lavish costumes. There were hoop skirts, bustles, elaborate hats, muffs, parasols, kid boots, tiny gloves, and intricate jewelry. Rich fabrics were trimmed with lace, embroidery, ruffles, buttons, and ribbons.

Kemple pointed out French fashion "ladies," character dolls, brides, and pudgy infants. Flirty dolls with "googly" eyes that moved from side to side reminded Qwilleran of Danielle; he had always suspected she was not quite real.

Ever the historian, Kemple pointed out that the older dolls had small heads, long arms, and a look of surprise. Then came plump cheeks, soulful eyes with lashes, and tiny purse lips. Parted lips showing tiny teeth were a later development.

Qwilleran was fascinated by certain facts about the wax dolls. Some had humanhair set in the wax head with a hot needle, hair by hair. Wax had a tendency to melt or crack, and kids had been known to bite off piece and chew it like gum.

"Little cannibals!" Qwilleran said. He listened patiently as Kemple discussed patent dates, dollmakers' logos, and the construction of jointed and unjointed dolls. Then he asked about the doll that had been stolen. It was carved and painted wood, eight inches tall, and very old. The paint was badly worn, and it was thought to have come from a native American village on the banks of the Ittibittiwassee River. It might have been more of a talisman than a toy.

"It was the first that ever disappeared from our collection," Kemple said. Then he lowered his voice to a rumble. "It was found in Lenny Inchpot's possession, you know."

"In his locker," Qwilleran corrected him, "while he was out of town. Police had to cut the padlock, yet Lenny says he never locked it, and I believe him. I've asked my own attorney to take the case. It's my opinion that he was framed."

Kemple looked relieved. "Glad to hear that. Tell your attorney I'll go as a character witness at the hearing if he wants me to. That boy's been in this house hundreds of times. He was Tracy's boyfriend when they were in high school. He had a reputation as a prankster, but he wouldn't do anything like stealing from people."

"Aren't we all pranksters at that age?"

"Yes, but his were clever. Let me tell you about one. Everybody knew the mayor was having an affair with a woman who worked at the post office. One night Lenny painted big yellow footprints on the pavement, leading from the city hall to the post office. The cop on the nightbeat saw him doing it, but it was such a good joke he looked the other way. It was the kind of paint that washes off, and fortunately it didn't rain till the whole town had seen it. That was our Lenny! Vivian and I considered him a future son-in-law."

"What happened?"

"Tracy eloped with a football player from Sawdust City. She's impulsive. It didn't last, and she and Bobbie came home to live with us. Then Lenny's girlfriend was killed, and he started coming to the house again."

"How did Tracy react to his arrest?'

"She was troubled. I could tell, but she wouldn't talk to me. She'll talk to her mother, though. I'll be glad when Vivian gets home." He paused to reflect on family secrets. "You see, Tracy's always one to go for the main chance, and now she's set her sights on Carter Lee James. My fatherly instinct is flashing red. I don't want her to be disappointed again. It seems to me that all the women are flipping over him."

"Understandably," Qwilleran said. "He has a likable personality, good looks, and a glamorous profession."

"That's for sure, and my daughter is a beautiful young woman. James has wined and dined her a few times, and her hopes are up. She comes home late with stars in her eyes. What can I say? She's a grown woman. She wants a husband, a father for Bobbie, and a home of her own. Nothing wrong with that."

"Not to digress, but.... how does she feel about the Pleasant Street project?"

"Oh, she's all for it! She says it'll make our neighborhood world-famous. I'm not sure that prospect appeals to me... But look! Why am I burdening you with my problems?"

"No burden. No burden at all," Qwilleran said. "I can put myself in your shoes. I know exactly how you feel. " he had an interviewer's talent for empathy, and often it was genuine.

Driving home from Pleasant Street, he was glad he had no parental responsibilities. It was mid-afternoon, and it had been a day of diffused activity, little of which really concerned him. It was his congenital curiosity that involved him in the problems of others. What he needed now was a good shower, a dish of ice cream, and an absorbing book.

The Siamese were sleeping soundly. Only when he opened the refrigerator door did they wake and report to the kitchen for a lick of French vanilla. After that, Yum Yum ran around in a joyful circles, but Koko read Qwilleran's mind. That cat knew it was booktime and stood on his hind legs at the hutch cupboard and sniffed titles.

There were favorites brought from the barn, recent purchases from Eddington Smith, and gifts from friends who knew Qwilleran's fondness for old books. Koko's nose traveled up and down each spine, moving from one to the other until it finally stopped, like the planchette on a Ouija board. It stopped at Ossian and the Ossianic Literature, the book written by A. Nutt.

Qwilleran thought, Is he expressing an uncomplimentary opinion about me? Or does he really want to hear about ancient Gaelic poetry?

Although not in the mood for a scholarly study of a centuries-old mystery, Qwilleran gave it a try. He read aloud, and after a while all three of them were asleep in the big lounge chair.