The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

-2-

Qwilleran drove home to Indian Village in his four-wheel-drive vehicle, considered advisable for winter in the country. Having traded in his compact sedan for a medium-size van, he was pleased to find it convenient on many occasions, such as trips to the veterinarian with the cats' travel coop. It was almost new - only thirty thousand miles - and Scott Gippel had given him a good trade-in allowance.

Indian Village on Ittibittiwassee Road was well outside the Pickax city limits. It was debatable whether the drive was more beautiful in summer's verdure or winter's chiaroscuro, when bare trees and dark evergreens were silhouetted against the endless blanket of white. Along the way was the abandoned Buckshot mine and its ghostly shafthouse, fenced with chain-link and posted as dangerous. Just beyond was the bridge over the Ittibittiwassee River, which then veered and paralleled the highway to Indian Village and beyond.

Geographically and politically the Village was in Suffix Township; psychologically it was in a world of its own, being an upscale address for a variety of interesting residents. At the entrance, a gate gave an air of exclusivity, but it was always open, giving an air of hospitality. The buildings were rustic board-and-batten, compatible with the wooded site, summer and winter, starting with the gatehouse and the clubhouse. Apartments were clustered in small buildings randomly situated on Woodland Trail. Condominiums in strips of four contiguous units extended along River Lane, close to the water that rushed over rocks or swirled in pools. Even in winter a trickle could be heard underneath the snow and ice.

As Qwilleran neared his own condo in Building Five, he began to think about his housemates. Would they greet him excitedly? - meaning hungrily. Would they be dead asleep on the sofa, curled together in a single heap of fur? Would they have pushed the phone off the hook, or upchucked a hairball, or broken a lamp during a made chase?

Before unlocking his own door, he delivered the groceries he had picked up for Polly. He had a key to her unit at the other end of the row. Even while unlocking her door he began talking to her watchcat, Bootsie, explaining that he was there on legitimate business and would simply refrigerate the perishables and leave.

His own Siamese were in the window overlooking the riverbank, laying contentedly on their briskets, listening to the trickle beneath the snow and ice. The wintry sun bounced off the white landscape, making a giant reflector that illuminated their silky fawn-colored coats and accentuated their seal-brown points. "Hello, you guys," Qwilleran said. "How's everything? Any excitement around here? What's the rabbit count today?"

Languorously, both cats stood up, humped their backs in a horseshoe curve, and then stretched two forelegs and one hind leg. The male was Kao K'o Kung (Koko, for short) - the "smart cat" in Brodie's book. He was sleek and muscular with a commanding set of whiskers and intense blue eyes that hinted at cosmic secrets. Yum Yum, the female, was delicate and outrageously affectionate. Her large, limpid blue eyes were violet- tinged. Being Siamese, they were both highly vocal, Koko yowling a chesty baritone and Yum Yum uttering a blood- chilling soprano shriek when it was least expected.

Qwilleran brought in the gift-wrapped packages from his van, read the mail picked up at the gatehouse, made some phone calls, fed the cats, and changed into a tweed sports coat over a turtleneck jersey. Polly had told him he looked particularly good in turtlenecks; their simplicity was a foil for his handsome moustache. He was half pleased and half annoyed by everyone's preoccupation with his unique facial adornment. Fran Brodie called it a Second Empire moustache, as if it were a piece of furniture.

What no one knew, of course, was its functional significance to its owner. Whenever Qwilleran suspected that something was false or out-of-order in any way, he felt a tingling sensation on his upper lip. Experience had taught him to pay attention to these signals. Sometimes he would tamp his moustache, pound it with his fist, comb it with his knuckles, or merely stroke it thoughtfully, depending on the nature of the hunch.

Polly, who was in the dark about this phenomenon, would say, "Are you nervous about something, dear?'

"Sorry. Only a silly habit," he would reply. He did, however, heed her suggestion about turtlenecks.

Tonight, Qwilleran took one last look in the full-length mirror, said good-bye to two bemused animals, and drove to Onoosh's Mediterranean Caf‚ in downtown Pickax.

Onoosh Dalmathakia and her partner had come from Down Below to open their restaurant, and it had received good coverage from the Moose County Something and the Lockmaster Ledger in the adjoining county. According to the publicity, the atmosphere was exotic: small oil-burning lamps on brass-topped tables. Mediterranean murals, and hanging lights with beaded fringe. In the kitchen Onoosh herself was training local women to roll stuffed grapeleaves and chop parsley - by hand - tabbouleh. The reporter who interviewed her for the Something said she spoke with a fascinating Middle-Eastern accent that seemed just right with her olive complexion, sultry brown eyes, and black hair. Her partner had a Middle American accent, being a sandy-haired native of Kansas.

Qwilleran had not tried the restaurant before suggesting it to the banker. When he arrived, he felt transported halfway around the globe by the aroma of strange spices and the twang of ethnic music. Two waitpersons were hurrying about, wearing European farmer smocks but looking like students from the community college.

Carmichael waved from a corner booth, where he was sipping a Rob Roy. "Hard day!" he said. I needed a head start. You're my guest tonight. What would you like to drink?"

Qwilleran ordered his usual Squunk water on the rocks with a twist, explaining that it was a local mineral water, said to be the fountain of youth.

"It must be true," Carmichael said, "because you certainly look fit. How dies it taste?"

"To tell the truth, Willard it could be improved by a shot of something, but I've sworn off shots of everything."

"Call me Will," the banker said. "I should give up the hard stuff myself. I gave up smoking two years ago, but do you want to hear something stupid? I never travel in a plane without two packs of cigarettes in my luggage - for luck."

"If it works, don't apologize."

"Well, I haven't been in a plane crash, and they never lost my luggage!"

"How's your lovely wife?" Qwilleran asked. It was the polite thing to say and in no way reflected his personal opinion.

"Oh, she's all involved in decorating the new house, and Fran Brodie is really taking her for a ride. That's okay with me. Anything to keep peace in the family!"

"A wise attitude!" Qwilleran gave the sober nod of one who has been there.

"Were you ever married, Qwill?"

"Once, Period... You bought the Fitches' contemporary house, as I recall."

"I'm afraid I did - the one that looks like the shafthouse of an abandoned mine. No wonder it was on the market for three years! It's ugly as sing, but Danielle likes anything that's modern and different, so I acquiesced."

Qwilleran thought, She's spoiled; she has a mouth made for pouting, and a voice made for complaining. He asked, "How long have you two been married?"

"Not quite a year. My first wife died three years ago, and I was living alone in a big house. Then I went to Baltimore on business and met Danielle in a club where she was singing. It was love at first sight, let me tell you. She doesn't have a great voice, but she's one gorgeous woman! So I brought her back to Michigan."

"What made you move up here?"

"That's a story! I'd been wanting to get away from the fast track and the pollution and the street crime. I'd been mugged twice and had my car hijacked once, which was par for the course. But then I was robbed by a fast-food restaurant, and that was the clincher. I was ready for River City, Iowa."

"Robbed by the restaurant on in the restaurant?" Qwilleran was a stickler for the right word.

"By the restaurant, I'm telling you. It was Sunday, and Danielle had gone to Baltimore for a visit. In the evening I went out to get a burger and fries but forgot by bill clip, so I stopped at an ATM across from the restaurant. When I ordered my burger, I paid with a twenty but got change for a five. I pointed out the error. The counter girl called the manager. He took the cash drawer away to count it and brought it back faster than you could count your fingers. He said the cash box showed I'd paid with a five. All I had on my person that night was a twenty from the ATM, but how could I prove it?"

Willard stopped to finish his drink.

Qwilleran said, "Don't stop now. What did you do?"

"Nothing I'm particularly proud of. I called him a crook and threw the whole tray at him. I hope the coffee was scalding hot!... That's the story! The next day I contacted an executive placement agency, and here I am!"

"You're safe here. We don't have fast fooderies."

"That puzzles me," the banker said. "There's money to be made in this county if you wanted to build a mall and bring in fast foods... But look here! I'm gassing too much. Let's order some appetizers and another drink." He ordered hummus and asked to have the pita served warm.

Qwilleran ordered baba ghanouj and said to the server, "Would you ask Onoosh is she can make meatballs in little green kimonos?"

In less than a minute she came rushing from the kitchen in her white apron and chef's toque. "Mr. Qwill!" she squealed. "It's you! I knowed it was you!"

He had risen, and she flung her arms around him. A radiant smile transformed her plain face, and her tall hat fell off. It was an emotional scene and - in Pickax style - the other diners applauded.

"just an old friend," Qwilleran explained after she had returned to the kitchen.

The banker asked, "Do you think a Mediterranean restaurant will go over in a town like this?"

"I hope so. It's backed by the Klingenschoen Foundation as part of the downtown improvement program. Also, Polly Duncan tells me that Middle Eastern cuisine is on-target healthwise."

"I've met your Polly Duncan, and she's a charming woman," Willard said with a not e of envy. "You're a lucky man. She's attractive, intelligent, and has a beautiful speaking voice."

"It was her voice that first appealed to me," Qwilleran said, " `Soft, gentle, and low,' to quote Shakespeare. And it's the first time in my life that I've had a friend who shared my literary interests - a great feeling! Also, I'm constantly learning. Jazz used to be the extent of my music appreciation, but Polly's introduced me to chamber music and opera." He stopped to chuckle. "She hasn't converted me to bird-watching, though, and I haven't sold her on baseball - or Louis Armstrong."

"I understand you've bought separate condos in the Village. Have you ever thought of - "

"No," Qwilleran interrupted. "We like our singlehood. Besides, our cats are incompatible."

"While I'm asking nosey questions, mind if I ask another?... The Klingenschoen Foundation seems to have poured millions into Moose County - schools, heath care, environment, and so on. What's the source of their wealth?"

Qwilleran explained simply : "The K family made their fortune here during the boom years of Moose County - in the hospitality business, you might say. A later generation invested wisely. The family has died out now, and all the money has gone into the K Foundation."

"I see," said the banker, eyeing Qwilleran dubiously. "My next nosey question: Is it true that you are the K Foundation?"

"No, I'm just an innocent bystander." How could a journalist explain to a banker that money is less interesting than the challenge of deadlines, exclusives, and accurate reporting?

Their dinner orders were taken, and both men chose the lentil soup with tabbouleh as the salad course, followed by shish kebab for Wil and stuffed grapeleaves for Qwill.

The conversation switched to the gourmet society that was being organized. "Cooking is my chief pleasure," the banker said. "It's relaxing to come home from the play-it-cool bank environment and start banging pots and pans around. Danielle hates the kitchen, bless her heart... She's bugging me to grow a moustache like yours, Qwill. She says it's sexy, but that isn't exactly the bank image... Have you ever been to Mardi Gras? She talked me into making reservations, although I'd rather take a cruise."

Qwilleran, as a journalist, was a professional listener, and he found himself practicing his profession. Willard seemed to need an understanding and sympathetic ear. Willard said, "When we move into our house, we want to get a couple of Siamese like yours - that is, if I can talk Danielle into it. The Village doesn't allow cats in apartments."

"I know. That's why I bought a condo."

"I'll bet your cats miss the barn."

"They're adaptable."

"Are they a couple?"

"No, just friends."

Willard said, "I have two grown sons in California, but I'd like to start a second family. At my age I think I could father some smart offspring, but Danielle isn't keen about the idea." He shrugged in resignation.

The conversation slowed to a desultory pace after the entr‚es were served. Once in a while Willard would ask a question. "Were you ever an actor? You've got a trained voice."

"In college I did a few plays."

"Fran Brodie wants Danielle to join the theatre club. Fran's a good-looking woman. Why isn't she married?"

"Who know?"

Amanda Goodwinter's an oddball."

"More bark than bite. The voters love her."

"And how about George Breze? What do you know about him?"

"He always wears a red feed cap, and no one know what's underneath it, if anything," Qwilleran said. "A few years ago he had the gall to run for mayor. The locals call him Old Gallbladder. He polled only two votes."

"He seems to make money," the banker said, "but he strikes me as a shady character. And he's just taken an apartment in the Village!"

"There goes the neighborhood!"

"The apartments aren't very well built. How are the condos?"

"Ditto. I tell the cats not to go around stamping their feet."

After a while, Willard said, "I'd like to get your opinion, Qwill, on an idea that Danielle's cousin and I have been kicking around. We think those old houses on Pleasant Street could and should be restored for economic purposes and the beautification of the city."

"Does she have an interest in preservation?" Qwilleran asked in some surprise.

"My dear wife couldn't care less!"

"I mean her cousin."

"Danielle's cousin is a guy. He's a restoration consultant Down Below, and he's amazed at the possibilities here. Do you know the Duncan property on Pleasant Street?"

"Very well! Lynette Duncan is Polly's sister-in-law. She recently inherited the house, an unspoiled relic of the nineteenth century."

"Right! We met Lynette at a card party in the Village and she invited us to Sunday brunch. She has a fabulous

Victorian house! In fact, the entire street is a throwback to the late 1880s. `Carpenter Gothic' is what Danielle's cousin calls it."

" `Gingerbread Alley' is what the local wags have named Pleasant Street," Qwilleran said.

Will Carmichael put down his knife and fork and warmed to his subject. "What's good is that the property owners haven't modernized with vinyl siding and sliding glass doors. The way we see it, Pleasant Street could become a mecca for preservation buffs, with houses operating as living museums or bed-and-breakfasts. There's money to be made in that field today. My bank would offer good deals on restoration loans...How does it strike you?"

"It strikes me as a huge undertaking," Qwilleran said. "Exactly what does a restoration consultant do, and what is his name?"

"Carter Lee James. Perhaps you've heard of him or seen his work in magazines. He appraises the possibilities, supervises the restoration, and helps get the houses registered as historic landmarks. He knows the techniques, sources, and - most important - what not to do! Can you imagine Pleasant Street with a bronze plaque in front of every house? It would be a unique attraction - not for hordes of noisy tourists but for serious admirers of nineteenth-century Americana."

They ordered spicy walnut cake and dark-roast coffee, and the banker continued. "Lynette has a fortune in antiques in her house - all inherited, she says."

Qwilleran, whose personal preference was for contemporary, remembered the ponderous furniture, dark wall coverings, velvet draperies, ornate picture frames, and skirted tables at Lynette's housel. Polly had recuperated there after her surgery. He tried to find something upbeat to say. "Lynette is the last of the Duncans-by-blood. It's a highly respected name around here. The Duncans were successful merchants in the boom years and they prospered without exploiting the mineworkers."

"That's to their credit," Willard was gazing thoughtfully into his coffee. `I imagine she doesn't have to work... yet she tells me she holds down a nine- to-five job."

"Lynette likes to keep busy. She's also active in volunteer work. Volunteerism is big in Pickax. You should get Danielle involved."

With a humorous grimace her husband said, "If it means visiting the sick, I don't think my dear wife would qualify." For a few minutes he occupied himself with the check and a credit card, then said, "We'll have to get together during the holidays. You should meet Carter Lee. You'll be impressed. Personable guy. Fine arts degree. Graduate study in architecture... Do you play bridge?"

"No, but Lynette has told me about the Village bridge club and the big glass jar."

It was an antique apothecary jar bout a foot high, with a wide mouth and a domelike stopper. At Village card parties each player dropped a ten-dollar bill into the jar and rubbed the stopper for luck. Bridge payers, Qwilleran had reason to believe, ranked with athletes, sports fans, actors, sailors, and crapshooters as creatures of superstition. To the credit of the bridgehounds at Indian Village, they also contributed their winnings to the jar, and when it was full, the total sum was donated to the Moose County Youth Center. He remarked to Willard, "I hope you've contributed generously to the jar."

"I've had a little luck," he admitted. "Lynette is a consistent winner, though. And Carter Lee's pretty good... Danielle should stay home and watch TV."

It was time to say goodnight. Qwilleran had genuinely enjoyed the conversation and the food. He thanked his host and added, "It's my turn to treat - the next time you're baching it." The qualifying clause was tacked on casually, but he hoped it registered.

The two men drove home in their respective vehicles, both of them vans. On the way, Qwilleran recalled the banker's remarks about his "dear wife" and feared the marriage was doomed. It had been too hasty. Too bad... Willard was interesting company, although nosey. He was certainly enthusiastic about Pleasant Street...The country club situation was unfortunate. No doubt he was a golfer. It was good news about the gourmet society, however.

Qwilleran glanced at the clock on the dashboard and tuned in the hourly newsbreak on WPKX. First he heard the high-school basketball scores. Then came Wetherby Goode with his forecast and usual silliness:

"Boots - boots - boots- boots- boots- sloggin' through the snow again. He always had a parody of a song or nursery rhyme or literary work to fit the occasion. Some of his listeners, like Lynette Duncan, thought he was terribly clever; others wished for better forecasts and fewer cultural allusions.

After Wetherby's prediction of more snow, the newscaster came in with a bulletin:

"A disturbing incident has just been reported in Indian Village. A sum of money estimated at two thousand dollars has been stolen from an unlocked cabinet in the clubhouse. It was being collected in a large glass jar by members of the bridge club, for donation to the Moose County Youth Center. Police are investigating."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache and snapped off the radio, thinking, Brodie was right; it's escalating... The editorial was right; it's time to lock up!