The Cat Who Talked Turkey

SIXTEEN

Qwilleran went to meet the weary traveler. “Clarence! Where did you come from?”

“The camp,” the young man gasped, as if with his last breath.

“Great Oaks? That’s ten miles from here! I hope you were able to hitch a ride.” It was not likely; local drivers were not prone to pick up hitchhikers with haircuts different from their own.

“Have you had food, Clarence?”

The young man shook his head. “Couldn’t pay for any. She’s gone. Didn’t leave no money.”

“Well, come into the gazebo and have a bowl of soup and a ham sandwich.” He showed Clarence to a lounge chair. “Stretch out here. Take off your boots. Munch on these nuts while you’re waiting. Would you like some fruit juice?”

“Any beer?”

“Sorry. No beer.” There was beer—and everything else—in the bar, but Qwilleran preferred to keep the party dry.

In the barn he gave the soup another shot of heat and slipped another slice of ham into the sandwich. The cats watched—Yum Yum bemused, Koko mystified; the male cat always wanted to know the who, why, and what. Qwilleran was wondering how to break the news of the car accident. Lish was simply “gone,” as far as her driver knew . . . and how indeed could he hold a conversation with this man of few words?

Back in the gazebo the guest wolfed down the repast that the host had intended for himself, but that was simply one of the quiddities in the life of the Klingenschoen heir.

Qwilleran kept the questions casual. “How long have you worked for Lish?”

After a pause, “I dunno.”

“It’s hard to remember, isn’t it? Time flies. Did she leave you a note?”

He shook his head while chewing.

“Do you have any idea where she would go?”

“Nope.”

“Where’s your own home, may I ask? If I’m not being too nosy.”

“Don’t have none.”

“Do you just hang out?”

He nodded.

“Yes. I guess young people like that lifestyle,” Qwilleran added, trying not to sound too judgmental.

“Lish is a smart woman. She said you were a good driver. Do you like your work?”

Another nod.

“What other jobs do you do for her?”

“I’m her shooter.” He said it with pride, it seemed.

“You mean, with a camera? Is she into photography?”

For an answer, the “shooter” opened his loose jacket and showed something shiny in a holster, close to his rib cage.

“Neat!” Qwilleran commented, for want of a better reaction.

He pondered the next question. “How about a dish of ice cream, and I’ll have one, too. Would you like chocolate sauce?” The host brought two dishes, saying genially, “Nothing like a big dish of ice cream at the end of a hard day. Now tell me about your shooting. It must be interesting.”

“I only did it twice.”

“Do you remember where?”

“Once down on the beach, somewhere around here, and once up north.”

“Who were the guys? Do you know?”

The answer was a shrug.

“I hope your boss was pleased with your work. I suppose you came back up here for the celebration.”

“Nah. She was mad at her grandma. I thought she’d want another shootin’, but she didn’t.”

Qwilleran thought, This could be a comedy turn, if it weren’t so tragic. “What will you do now that she’s taken the car?”

“She’ll come back.”

“I don’t think so, Clarence. She had an accident this afternoon. It was on the radio. She was killed.”

The young man stared.

“Did you hear me? She was killed—instantly—and the car was smashed.”

With what seemed like regret, Clarence said, “And I always kept it so clean!”

The fellow’s remark struck Qwilleran as revealing. The boss was dead, the car was totaled, and he was grieving over the polish he kept on it. There was the look in his eyes, the dilation of his pupils that indicated he was “messed up” on drugs. Qwilleran had once been “messed up,” but on alcohol—homeless, penniless, jobless, and friendless. Then strangers had snatched him back from the Valley of Death—literally. And the incident had turned him around. But he had not murdered anyone; Clarence had shot that man down on the beach. Lish had staged the event, finding the victim and possibly disappearing with the loot. All that was canceled out by her head-on collision with the Bixby Airport bus, leaving Clarence to face the music. Whether he was high on crack or simply dull-witted, the situation was the same: He had been the shooter, and he was in trouble.

Qwilleran asked, “What will you do now that Lish is gone? You were the shooter, and you’ll have to take the blame for the murders. Do you realize you’ll be arrested, put on trial, sent to prison?”

The black pupils that passed for eyes in the pathetic face darted back and forth.

“I’ll phone my lawyer. He’ll do the best he can for you. I’ll have to go inside to get his number and try to track him down. I’ll send my friend Koko out to keep you company. Do you like cats?”

He nodded without enthusiasm.

Qwilleran returned with the cat in his tote bag, tipping him out gently on the table at Clarence’s elbow. The two were regarding each other questioningly as Qwilleran hurried back into the barn.

First he did his civic duty by calling Andrew Brodie. The police chief was always at home, watching TV, on Sunday evenings. “Andy, police news! The man who shot the victim on my beach property is in my gazebo, playing with Koko. He’s a sad sack, and I feel bad about turning him in. I think his partner has kept him in a drugged state to make him follow orders. His partner was killed in that airport-bus crash.”

Qwilleran froze as he heard a gunshot! “Oh, my God! Has he shot Koko?”

Dropping the phone with a crash, Qwilleran rushed out to the gazebo . . . There was the cat, standing on the table, arching his back to twice its usual height, and bushing his tail to four times its usual size. In the chair slumped Clarence, with blood running from a bullet hole in his temple.

Qwilleran ran back to the phone. He spluttered, “Andy . . . Andy. There’s a new development—”

“Be right there! Don’t let him get away!” the chief said.

“He’s not going anywhere. Bring the body wagon,” Qwilleran shouted.