The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

-8-

The first contributor to Short and Tall Tales was to be Homer Tibbitt, official historian of Moose County, who knew the story of the Dimsdale Jinx. The retired educator, now in his late nineties, was still researching and recording local history, and his fantastic memory made him a treasure. He might not remember where he left his glasses or what he had for breakfast, but events and personages of the distant past could be retrieved on demand. He lived with his sweet eighty-five-year-old wife in a retirement village, her responsibilities being to find his glasses, watch his diet, and drive the car - in good weather. In winter they both welcomed visitors.

"How were your holidays?" Qwilleran greeted them. "Was Santa good to you? Did he bring you a few more books?" Their apartment was cluttered with books and memorabilia.

Rhoda touched her ears prettily. "Homer gave me these garnet earrings. They were in his family."

Her husband, a bony figure sitting in a nest of cushions, was wearing a maroon shawl. "Rhoda gave me this. Gloomy color! Makes me feel like an old man."

"I knitted it," she said. "He's forgotten that he chose the color... Shall I refill your hot water bottle, dear?"

While she was out of the room, Qwilleran said, "She's a lovely woman, Homer. You're lucky to have her."

"She chased me for twenty-five years before she caught me, so I'd say she's lucky to have me! What's news downtown?"

They were discussing the murder of Willard Carmichael and the arrest of Lenny Inchpot when Rhoda returned with the towel-wrapped bottle. "Terrible things are happening these days," she said, shaking her head. "What is the world coming to?"

"Terrible things have always happened everywhere," her husband said with the stoicism of age."

"Like the Dimsdale Jinx?" Qwilleran suggested, turning on the tape recorder. "What brought it about?"

"It started about a hundred years ago, when the mines were going full blast, and this was the richest county in the state. This isn't a tall tale, mind you. It's true. It isn't short either."

"Fire away, Homer. I won't ask questions. You're on your own."

The old man's account, interrupted only when his wife handed him a glass of water, was later transcribed as follows:

Thee was a miner named Roebuck Magley, a husky man in his late forties, who worked in the Dimsdale mine. He had a wife and three sons, and they lived in one of the cottages provided for workers. Not all mine owners exploited their workers, you know. Seth Dimsdale was successful but not greedy. He saw to it that every family had a decent place to live and a plot for a vegetable garden, and he gave them the seed to plant. There was also a company doctor who looked after the families without charge. Roebuck worked hard, and the boys went to work in the mines as soon as they finished eighth grade. Betty Magley worked hard, too, feeding her men, tending the garden, and making their shirts. But somehow she always stayed pretty. Suddenly Roebuck fell sick and died. He'd been complaining about stomach pains, and one day he came home from work, ate his supper, and dropped dead. Things like that happened in those days, and folks accepted them. Men were asphyxiated in the mines, blown to bits in explosions, or they came home and dropped dead. Nobody sued for negligence. Roebuck's death certificate, signed by Dr. Penfield, said "Heart failure." Seth Dimsdale paid Mrs. Magley a generous sum from the insurance policy he carried on his workers, and she was grateful. She'd been ailing herself, and the company doctor was at a loss to diagnose her symptoms. Well, about a month later her eldest son Robert died in the mineshaft of "respiratory failure," according to the death certificate, and it wasn't long before the second son, Amos, died under the same circumstances. The miners' wives flocked around Betty Magley and tried to comfort her, but there was unrest among the men. They grumbled about "bad air." One Sunday they marched to the mine office, shouting and brandishing pickaxes and shovels. Seth Dimsdale was doing all he could to maintain safe working conditions, considering the technology of the times, so he authorized a private investigation. Both Robert and Amos had died, he learned, after eating their lunch pasties underground; Roebuck's last meal had been a large pasty in his kitchen. The community was alarmed. "Bad meat!" they said. Those tasty meat-and-potato stews wrapped in a thick lard crust were the staple diet of miners and their families. Then something curious happened to Alfred, the youngest son. While underground, he shared his pasty with another miner whose lunch had fallen out of his pocket when he was climbing down the ladder. Soon both men were complaining of pains, nausea, and numb hands and feet. The emergency whistle blew, and the two men were hauled up the ladder in the "basket," as the rescue contraption was called. When word reached Seth Dimsdale, he notified the prosecuting attorney in Pickax, and the court issued an order to exhume the bodies of Roebuck, Robert, and Amos. The internal organs, sent to the toxicologist at the state capital, were found to contain lethal quantities of arsenic, and Mrs. Magley was questioned by the police. At that point, neighbors started whispering: "Could she have poisoned her own family? Where did she get the poison?" Arsenic could be used to kill insects in vegetable gardens, but people were afraid to use it. Then the neighbors remembered the doctor's visits to treat Mrs. Magley's mysterious ailment. He visited almost every day. When Dr. Penfield was arrested the mining community was bowled over. He was a handsome man with a splendid moustache, and he cut a fine figure in his custom- made suits and derby hats. He lived in a big house and owned one of the first automobiles. His wife was considered a snob, but Dr. Penfield had a good bedside manner and was much admired. It turned out, however, that he was in debt for his house and car, and his visits to treat the pretty Betty Magley were more personal than professional. He was the first defendant placed on trial. Mrs. Magley sat in jail and awaited her turn. The miners, or convinced of the integrity of the doctor, rose to his support, and it was difficult to seat an unbiased jury. The trial itself lasted longer than any in local history, and when it was over, the county was broke. Twice its annual budget had been spent on the court proceedings. The story revealed at the trial was one of greed and passion. Dr. Penfield had supplied the arsenic - for medical purposes, he said, and any overdose was caused by human error. Mrs. Magley had baked the pasties and collected the insurance money, giving half to the doctor. He was found guilty on three counts of murder and sentenced to life in prison. Mrs. Magley was never tried for the crime because the county couldn't afford a second trial. The commissioners said it wasn't "worth the candle," as the saying went. It would be better if she just left town, quietly. So she disappeared, along with her youngest son, the only one to survive. Seth Dimsdale retired to Ohio and also disappeared. The Dimsdale mine disappeared. The whole town of Dimsdale disappeared. It was called the Dimsdale Jinx.

When Homer finished telling his tale, Qwilleran clicked off the tape recorder and said, "Great story! Is any of this on public record?"

"Well, the Pickax Picayune never printed unpleasant news, but other newspapers around the state covered it," the historian said. "Those clippings are on file in the public library." "On microfilm, thanks to the K Fund," said Rhoda, smiling and nodding.

Homer said, "You should be able to get a transcript of the trial at the courthouse, but there was a fire some years back, and I don't know if the Penfield file was saved. Mostly, the story has been handed down by word of mouth. My relatives still talk about it and take sides, sometimes violently... I warn you, Qwill, never argue with a fellow whose grandfather told him the doctor was innocent!"

It had been a strenuous recital, and the old man's energy was flagging. It was time for his nap, his wife said. Qwilleran thanked him for a well-told tale and squeezed Rhoda's hand.

On the way home he drove through the scene of the crime: the ghost town called Dimsdale. The only landmark was a dilapidated diner, surrounded by weeds that choked the stone foundations of miners' cottages. Back in the woods was a slum of rusty trailer homes occupied by squatters, and a side road led to a high chain-link fence around the abandoned mineshaft. A sign said "Danger - Keep Out." A bronze plaque created by the historical society said: SITE OF THE DIMSDALE MINE, 1872 - 1907.

It was January 25, and Qwilleran phoned the public library. While waiting to be connected with the chief librarian, he could visualize her in her glass cubicle on the mezzanine, reigning like a benevolent despot over the paid staff, the unpaid volunteers, and the obedient subscribers who never, never brought food, beverages, radios, or wet boots into the building.

"Polly Duncan here," she said pleasantly.

"What's today's date?" he asked, knowing she would recognize his voice.

"January twenty-fifth. Is it significant?"

"Birthday of Robert Burns. Tonight's the night! Point of no return!"

Gleefully she exclaimed, "It's Scottish Night! You're going to wear your kilt! I wish I could see you before you leave. What time is the dinner?"

"I leave at six-thirty, with trepidation," he admitted.

Polly said she would stop on her way home from work, to bolster his courage.

Qwilleran was allowing two hours to dress for Scottish Night at the men's lodge. He fed the cats early, then disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door. There he faced the unfamiliar trappings: the pleated kilt, the sporran, the flashes, the bonnet, the dubh. Bruce Scott, owner of the men's store, had told him the evening would be informal: no Prince Charlie coatees, no fur sporrans, and no fringed plaids thrown over the shoulder and anchored with a poached egg. Bruce had sold him a leather sporran and a correct pair of brogues and had given him a booklet to read.

The trick, according to the helpful text, was to develop an attitude of pride in one's hereditary Scottish attire. After all, Qwilleran's mother had been a Mackintosh, and he had seen movies in which the kilt was worn by brave men skilled with the broadsword.

With this attitude firmly in place, Qwilleran strapped himself into what the dictionary called "a kind of short pleated petticoat." His kilt had been custom-tailored from eight yards of fine worsted in a rich red Mackintosh tartan. On this occasion, it would be worn with a white turtleneck and bottlegreen tweed jacket, plus matching green kilt-hose and red flashes. "Not flashers," Bruce had cautioned him. These were tabs attached to the garters that held up the kilt-hose - a small detail but considered vital by the storekeeper and the author of the booklet. The kilt itself had to end at the top of the kneecap and could not be an eighth-of-an-inch longer. The leather sporran hung from a leather belt.

Then there was the bonnet. Qwilleran's was a bottlegreen Balmoral - a round flat cap worn squarely on the forehead, with a slouchy crown pulled down rakishly to the right. It had a ribbon cockade above the left temple, a pom-pom on top, and two ribbons hanging down the back. According to the booklet, they could be knotted, tied in a bow, or left hanging. He cut them off and hoped no one would notice.

Studying his reflection in the full- length mirror, Qwilleran thought, Not bad! Not bad at all! Meanwhile, the Siamese were out in the hall, muttering complaints about the closed door. After one last glance in the mirror, he opened the door abruptly. Both cats levitated in fright, turned to escape, collided headlong, and streaked down the stairs with bushy tails.

When Polly arrived, she was overwhelmed with delight. "Qwill!" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "You look magnificent! So jaunty! So virile! But I do hope you're not going to catch cold in your bad knee, dear."

"No chance," he told her. "The parking lot's behind the lodge, and we duck into the rear entrance in bad weather. I won't need boots or earmuffs - just a jacket. Also, Bruce says the knee is all gristle and doesn't feel cold, as long as you're wearing good wool socks. That may be true, or he may be a good sock salesman. You wouldn't believe what I paid for these socks!"

She walked around him and noted the straight front of the kilt - a double panel wrapped left over right. "Why isn't it pleated all around?"

"Because I don't play in a marching band and I'm not going into battle. Ask me anything. I've read the book. I know all the answers."

"What's that odd thing in your sock?"

"A knife, spelled d-u-b-h and pronounced thoob. I can use it to peel an orange or spread butter."

"Oh, Qwill! You're in a playful mood tonight! Do I know you well enough to ask what you wear under the kilt?"

"You do! You do indeed! And I know you well enough not to answer. It's known as the mystique of the kilt, and I'm not going to be the first to destroy a centuries-old Arcanum arcanorum!"

Downtown Pickax was deserted except for men in kilts or tartan trews ducking into the back door of the lodge. Qwilleran showed his knife to the doorman and was greeted by Whannell MacWhannell, who had invited him to be a guest. "I'll introduce you and mention your mother," he said. "What was her full name?"

"Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran."

Big Mac nodded. "Half my female relatives are named after Lady Anne. Let's go downstairs and look at the new exhibit."

The walls of the lower lounge were covered with maps, photographs of Scotland, and swatches of clan tartans. Qwilleran found the Mackintosh dress tartan, mostly red, and the Mackintosh hunting tartan, mostly green for camouflage in the woods. The majority of men were in kilts, and he felt comfortable among them.

Gil MacMurchie, the dowser, was wearing a lively Buchanan tartan. Qwilleran said to him, "I'm ready to buy your dirks, if you haven't sold them."

"They're still there." MacMurchie paused and looked down sadly. "But the one I was saving for myself was stolen."

"No! When?"

"While I was running those ads to sell my furniture and dishes and pots and pans. Strangers were traipsing through the house, some of them just nosey, and I couldn't keep an eye on all of them."

"Did you report it to the police?"

"Oh, sure, and after Lois's boy was arrested, I went to the station to see if my dirk turned up in his locker, but it wasn't there."

"How ironic," Qwilleran said, "that the thief should take the one your wife gave you."

"The hilt was silver," MacMurchie said. "The others have brass hilts."

The wail of a bagpipe summoned them to the dining hall on the upper level, where the walls were hung with antique weaponry. As soon as everyone was seated at the large round tables, the double doors were flung open, and in came the police chief in kilt, red doublet, towering feather bonnet, and white spats. A veritable giant, he walked with a slow swagger as he piped the inspiring air "Scotland the Brave." The skirling of the pipes, the swaying of the pleated kilt, and the hereditary pride of the piper made an awesome sight. He was followed by a snare drummer and seven young men in kilts and white shirts, each carrying a tray. On the first was the celebrated haggis; on each of the other six was a bottle of Scotch.

Bagpipe, haggis, and Scotch circled the room twice. Then a bottle was placed on each table, and toasts were drunk to the legendary pudding, which was sliced and served. Diners guffawed while old haggis jokes were told. "Did you know the haggis is an animal with two short legs on one side, for running around mountains?"

Then dinner was served: Forfar bridies, taters and neeps, and Pitlochry salad. Big Mac said to Qwilleran "I hear you interviewed Gil for you column."

"Yes, but it can't run until I've seen a dowsing demonstration. When do you think snow will melt this year?"

"My guess is April. In 1982, it was all gone by March twenty-ninth, but that was a fluke. Last year the official meltdown was three-eighteen p.m. on April fourth. My backyard was the Secret Site.

Every year the Moose County Something invited readers to guess the exact minute when the last square inch of snow would disappear from a Secret Site, usually someone's backyard. It was considered an honor, and the property owner was sworn to secrecy.

MacWhannell said, "I had to monitor the situation constantly near the finish time. When the last patch of snow was the size of a saucer, I phoned the paper, and they sent a reporter, photographer, notary public from city hall, and Wetherby Goode. They stood around, watching it shrink and holding a stopwatch. It disappeared at three- eighteen exactly."

Qwilleran said, "One wonders if the hot breath of the onlookers hastened the finish time."

"Not enough to make a difference. The nearest guess was four-twenty-two p.m. The winner was a carpenter from Sawdust City. He won a year's subscription to the paper and dinner for two at the Old Stone Mill."

The emcee rapped for attention. The evening would include the reading of Robert Burns's poems and the serious business of drinking toasts to Scottish heroes. First there was a moment of silence, however, in memory of Willard Carmichael, who had connections with the Stewart clan. Brodie piped "The Flowers of the Forest" as a dirge.

Then Whannell MacWhannell stood up and announced, "Tonight we honor someone who came to Pickax from Down Below and made a difference. Because of him we have better schools, a better newspaper, better health care, a better airport, and a column to read twice a week for entertainment and enlightenment. If you pay him a compliment, he'll give credit to his mother, who was a Mackintosh. It gives us great pleasure to add a name to our roll of distinguished Scots: the son of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran!"

Qwilleran walked to the platform amid cheers in English and Gaelic. A photographer from the Something was taking pictures.

"Officers, members, and guests," he bean. "I've long admired the Scots - with their bagpipes, kilts, and tolerance for oatmeal porridge. For hundreds of years Scottish fighting men, shepherds, and outlaws have worn the kilt and wrapped themselves in the plaid on cold nights, out on the moor. Wearing kilts they faced the muskets of English redcoats at Culloden, brandishing their swords and howling their defiance. In World War One, regiments of soldiers in tartan kilts stormed the beaches, led by intrepid pipers. They plowed through icy water, cursed the choking smoke, and fell to enemy fire, but the Scots kept on coming - screaming their battle cries and urged on by the screeching pipes. The Germans called them `Ladies from Hell.'

"Gentlemen, I confess it has taken some heavy persuasion to get me into a kilt, but here I am, wearing the Mackintosh tartan as a tribute to Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran, a single parent who struggled heroically to raise an obstreperous male offspring. Anything I have achieved - and anything I have become - can be traced to her influence, encouragement, and devotion. In her name I accept this honor, proud to be among the Ladies from Hell!"

Brodie piped "Auld Lang Syne," and the audience stood up and sang, "We'll take a cup o' kindness yet."

Later in the evening, after circulating in the lounge and accepting congratulations, Qwilleran said to Gil MacMurchie, "If you're going home from here, I'll meet you there and write a check." In short while he was on Pleasant Street, and Gil was admitting him to a house that was emptier than before. Qwilleran followed him to the glass- topped display table, hopping aside to avoid stepping on Cody.

"Sorry. I thought she was a black rug," he said. The dog was flat out on the floor, belly on the floorboards, and all four legs extended.

"That's her froggy-doggy trick. I don't suppose you've found a home for her, have you?"

"Not yet, but I'm working on it."

The four dirks with scabbards and brass hilts were under the glass in the curio table, along with the two brooches.

"Was the table not locked?" Qwilleran asked.

"Hasn't been locked for years! The lock's broken. The key's lost." He wrapped the dirks and brooches in newspaper while Qwilleran wrote a check for a thousand.

The Siamese recognized the sound of the car motor when he drove into the attached garage, and they knew the sound of his key in the lock. They had forgotten their original scare at the sight of the kilt and bonnet. Their greeting was positive without being effusive.

When he unwrapped his purchases on the kitchen counter, both cats jumped up to investigate the large round stones in the brooches, the brass hilts of the dirks, and the brass-mounted scabbards. Qwilleran withdrew one dirk from its scabbard, and Koko went into paroxysms of excitement over the blade, baring his fangs and flattening his ears as he moved his nose up and down the blood grooves.