The Cat Who Talked Turkey

FIFTEEN

The dedication of the Carroll Memorial Museum had not been planned as a public spectacle; it was more of a symbolic ceremony and news event. When Qwilleran arrived in answer to Susan Exbridge’s urgent call, he found cars parked on both sides of the Parkway, including photographers’ vans and the airport limousine rented by the TV crew from Down Below, but there were few persons in sight. They were indoors, as he later learned. But Susan was on the sidewalk in front of the building, ready to flag down Qwilleran’s SUV.

When he pulled up, she opened the door and jumped in. “Park over there,” she said.

“Where’s Edythe? Is she all right?”

“For publication . . . she’s all right. In the ceremony on the portico she handed over the key to the mayor and accepted an armful of roses, and a clergyman said a blessing, and now they’re indoors—with officers of the historical society—having tea, but when it’s over and I take her home . . . I’ll need your advice, Qwill.”

“You’ll have to fill me in. Wait until I park properly.”

He found a spot from which they could see the dignitaries leaving the building, and his hand went briefly into his jacket pocket as Susan began to talk.

“Well, to begin with . . . Edythe has always avoided the glare of publicity, and her husband shielded her from it. They had fifty beautiful years together—Dr. Dell and the ballerina! It was a real romance. Knowing this, I was sure she’d be nervous before the dedication, so I offered to stay with her. We had dinner last night in the residents’ dining room, and I spent the night on a rather uncomfortable daybed in the spare room where she has her weaving loom and Dr. Dell’s stationary bicycle, which she can’t bear to part with.

“This morning we were having a pleasant continental breakfast in the apartment, when the reception desk in the lobby called and said that someone claiming to be Mrs. Carroll’s granddaughter was there, and would it be all right to send her upstairs?

“Edythe gave the okay but looked worried. She said, ‘What could I do? She’s my own flesh and blood.’ Older people around here are always talking about flesh and blood as an excuse for anybody doing anything. I hate that expression. But the doorbell rang, and there stood Edythe’s flesh and blood, looking like a hobo and carrying a shabby duffel bag. Edythe gave her a grandmotherly hug that didn’t seem genuine, and asked how she got here.

“Alicia said, ‘I hitched a ride. I was tired of camping out. I want to stay here. I’ll sleep on the floor if you don’t have a bed.’ Edythe showed her to the spare room and the shower, and gave her some towels.

“After a shower and change of clothes, the young woman still looked like a hobo, and I was sure she’d attend the dedication and embarrass her grandmother.

“Alicia said, ‘No, I’ll just stay here and pedal Gramps’s bike and cry—while you’re giving away my inheritance to this dump of a town.’

“Edythe said, ‘You don’t need a six-bedroom house; you’ll have two trust funds and other property.’ I found it appalling and excused myself, saying I’d be back at two o’clock to take her to the dedication. I had customers in the building who had heirloom furniture to sell. When I returned, Edythe was dressed and ready to go—wearing her lavender silk that looks so good with her silvery gray hair and alabaster complexion. To my shocked surprise, her face looked gray and drawn. No wonder! Alicia had just concocted a horrendous lie—that Dr. Dell had abused her while she was in high school, and that’s why she left right after graduation.

“It was so untrue, Qwill, but that wicked girl knew how to hurt her grandmother. No intelligent person in Brrr would believe it, but there are always malicious gossips who enjoy spreading nasty rumors.”

He turned off the tape recorder and said doubtfully, “Is there anything at all I can do? I certainly feel bad about it.”

“Yes! Would you come home with us after the dedication? Supposedly to have a cup of tea, but really because you’re an important person, and your presence might do some good. Edythe isn’t asking this, I’m asking this.”

Qwilleran “shifted gears,” as he liked to say. He became an important person instead of a somewhat tired actor. “Let’s go indoors here and shake some hands!” Hand shaking was part of his job at the Moose County Something.

Everyone in the drawing room was well dressed, and Qwilleran was wearing rehearsal clothes, but there were no rules for important persons. Casually he let it be known that he had just come from doing a matinee of the Great Storm show. Everyone had heard that it was wonderful.

A dozen persons were standing about the drawing room, holding teacups, when he strode into the room. There were gasps! They recognized the moustache of the author of the “Qwill Pen” column.

First he clasped Edythe’s right hand in two of his, said she looked lovely, and complimented her on her magnificent gesture in donating a historic treasure to the community. No town could be more deserving!

He shook hands with the mayor, a hearty fellow with a grip like a vise, who said, “You should have made the speech—it would have been a heck of a lot better than mine!”

He shook hands with the pastor, who said, “My wife and I take turns reading your column aloud—she on Tuesday, me on Friday!”

He shook hands with the president of the local historical society, who begged him to speak at one of their meetings.

He even drank a cup of tea!

When it was over, he offered his arm and asked, “May I escort you to Ittibittiwassee, where all the best people live? That color you’re wearing looks especially good on you.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Lavender is my birthday color—November, you know.”

“Do you also have a birthday poem?”

“I never did until you wrote about the idea in your column. Now I’m going to adopt my husband’s favorite poem—Shakespeare’s thirtieth sonnet. Dell loved the last two lines!”

In the lobby of Ittibittiwassee Estates, he was hailed on all sides, thus adding to his acclaim as an important person.

When they arrived at the door of suite 400, Edythe gave him her keys. He unlocked it and pushed the door gently open. She walked in, and her knees buckled. Qwilleran caught her. Her face, which had regained its alabaster look at the dedication, turned gray again.

“Call the infirmary! Quick!” he said.

Medics arrived with a stretcher.

“I’ll go with her,” Susan said.

“Do you think I have her permission to call the police?”

“Absolutely!”

Only then did Qwilleran have time to assess the damage. The glass doors of the china cabinet were open, and all the miniature shoes—four shelves full—were gone. The only one remaining was on the floor, smashed.

Only the Meissen shoe on the bedside table was undisturbed.

Elsewhere, Qwilleran found Lish’s grungy duffel bag in a wastebasket. A closet door stood open, showing several small pieces of designer luggage, but no large fortnighter. That had been used to transport the loot . . . with towels? There were none in the bathroom and few in the linen closet. The porcelains could be layered between thicknesses of terry cloth.

Susan returned to the apartment. “The cardiologist is there. Are the police coming?”

“The sheriff is sending a deputy. He or she will want to know the number and value of the objects stolen.”

Susan said, “There’s a ledger in the desk drawer. Dr. Dell kept meticulous records. Edythe once told me it was almost ten thousand, and that was before inflation.”

Qwilleran said he’d stay until after the deputy’s visit. Susan said Dr. MacKenzie had ordered an ambulance from the hospital.

Qwilleran drove home via Indian Village to ensure that Polly had not drowned. She had just arrived, quite dry.

“I see you didn’t fall in,” he said. “How was it?”

“The boat ride was lovely, if you like boats. The company was congenial. The picnic lunch was superb. Janice gave me some crabmeat Roquefort sandwiches to take home. No crust. I don’t know whether you like that sort of tea-party fare.”

“Ask me!”

“We can have some celery sticks and iced tea and sit on the deck.”

He would have preferred iced coffee, but on a Fourth of July weekend, iced tea seemed more patriotic.

“Excuse me while I change into something comfortable.”

“Do you mind if I tune in the six-o’clock news?”

There were soccer scores . . . and a barn fire on Sandpit Road . . . and a fatal accident on Bixby Highway, south of the county line. A young woman driving south crossed the yellow line into the northbound lane and plowed head-on into the Bixby Airport bus. The victim had not been identified, but she was driving an out-of-state vehicle.

Polly came down the stairs from the balcony. “Did you hear that?” she demanded. “You’d expect that of an older woman having a heart attack.”

“She was calling her boyfriend on the cell phone,” Qwilleran said.

“Did your show go well today?”

“I wowed ’em! I’ll get you a ticket for next Sunday afternoon.”

“Did you attend the dedication, dear?”

“I was late for the presentation of the key, but I got there in time for the tea indoors. The cookies weren’t very good.”

There was more, but Qwilleran had to go home and feed the cats.

When Qwilleran drove into the barnyard, a furry blur in the kitchen window indicated that dinner was late. Both Koko and Yum Yum took supervisory posts on top of the bar while he arranged their food attractively on two plates, one serving larger than the other. In the midst of the chore the phone rang, and Qwilleran grabbed the handset on the wall, expecting a report from Susan.

It was Gary Pratt. “Qwill! Did you hear the six-o’clock news? Fatal accident on Bixby Highway. It was Lish Carroll!”

“How do you know?”

“A deputy I went to high school with came into the bar. We both knew her and thought she was a character.”

“How come she was driving? I thought she’d been denied a license.”

“Who knows? Nobody’s been able to figure her out since ninth grade. Well, I’ve got to get back to work. Thought you’d like to have the inside dirt.”

Qwilleran’s first reaction was: What happened to the porcelain shoes?

His second reaction was to phone Susan and tip her off about the accident. Edythe’s doctor might want to censor the news from reaching her bedside.

Susan had just arrived home from the hospital—exhausted. “I’ve been playing big sister to Edythe for twenty-four hours. I’ll call Dr. MacKenzie at once, about this new development. He calls her a brave woman. He wants her in the hospital for a week for observation. Edythe doesn’t mind; she says he’s charming. And he happens to be a widower.”

With that mission completed, Qwilleran fed the cats and prepared to satisfy his own ravenous hunger resulting from an emotional performance onstage. He started heating some beef barley soup from the deli and building a heroic ham sandwich on rye augmented by an equally heroic dill pickle.

He had no sooner turned off the burner under the soup than Koko staged a first-class tizzy. He hopped on and off the kitchen counter, pressing his nose against the window screen that overlooked the approach to the barnyard. Something important was arriving. The cat was perturbed enough to suggest that it was a fire truck or an army tank.

Qwilleran went outdoors to investigate, first covering the soup pot and hiding the sandwich in a cat-proof cabinet. When a vehicle came through the woods, one could always hear the motor and crunching of tires on crushed stone. There was none of that, but a lone walker came into view, trudging wearily through the woods. He was wearing boots, skinny jeans, a loose hip-length jacket, and shoulder-length hair. He was the remaining half of the Lish-and-Lush team.