The Cat Who Wasn't There

Seventeen

As the Siamese and the rest of Pickax slept, Qwilleran wrote his review of Macbeth, praising Larry and being kind to Melinda.

Kindness, he had learned, was a large consideration in writing drama criticism for a small town. To maintain some semblance of integrity, however, he expressed his opinion that it was redundant to project the image of a dagger on the back wall of the stage when Macbeth said, "Is this a dagger which I see before me?" He wrote, "It distracts audience attention from Shakespeare's great words, although modern grammarians--with their rules about whiches and th ats may be uncomfortable with the famous line." Convinced that his review was sufficiently charitable, he retired for the night, taking care to set his alarm clock. He had to drive Polly to the library the next morning. Even though the Boulevard Prowler had been apprehended, her car was still at Gippel's garage, awaiting a rebuilt carburetor.

"I was concerned about your sudden exit last night," she said when he called for her, "but Arch said it was a bit of theatricality indulged in by drama critics." "There's an element of truth in that," he replied evasively.

"I'll tell you the whole story when we both have more time. Meanwhile, I'd like you to do me a favor--with no ifs, ands, or buts. Yours not to reason why! Just do it!" "Well!" she said warily.

"Is it so very terrible?" "Ask your sister-in-law to sneak a look at Irma's medical records in the clinic office; I'm curious about her heart condition and the prescribed medication." "You're like a dog with a bone, Qwill; you simply won't let go of the matter. I'm not sure it would be ethical, but I'll ask her at church Sunday." "Ask her today. Phone her and take her to lunch at Lois's. Charge it to me... But don't eat too much," he added to lighten the serious aspect of his request.

"I'm overwhelmed by your generosity!" "Are you going to the women's banquet tonight? I'll take you there and pick you up, and you can tell me her reaction. If it's unethical, ask her to do it anyway. I won't tell." "Under protest, dear," she sighed as she stepped out of the car.

"Have a nice day. Issue lots of new-reader cards!" From there he drove to the Moose County Something to hand in his breathlessly awaited copy, and Arch Riker beckoned him into his private office.

"Man, have we got a story!" said the publisher, waving a galley proof.

"It's set up in type and ready to go, and we'll break it as soon as your burglar is arraigned. Is this why you ran out of the theatre last night? You must have some kind of burglar alarm implanted under your skin! Or did Koko alert you via mental wireless?" Riker never missed a chance to make a mocking reference to the cat's remarkable abilities, which were beyond his understanding. He handed over the galley: BREAK-IN EXPOSES GOOD WINTER HOAX A suspect has been charged with breaking into the Pickax residence of James Qwilleran Wednesday night, bringing to light a six-year-old hoax.

The suspect, Charles Edward Martin of Charlestown, MA, is in fact Emory Goodwinter, allegedly killed six years ago in a car crash on the New Jersey Turnpike. Records show his name was legally changed at that time. He is the son of the late Dr. Halifax Goodwinter. Articles stolen from the Qwilleran residence have been retrieved. The cost of damage is not yet known. Stolen articles in the suspect's possession have been identified as those taken from Purple Point cottages in the last week, total value $7,500.

Loitering and shoplifting charges also have been brought. The suspect is a police prisoner at the Pickax Hospital, where he is being held for treatment of injuries incurred during Wednesday night's break-in.

Qwilleran taunted Riker in return by saying scornfully, "Is that all the information you were able to get?" "Why? Do you know something we don't?" "Plenty!" he said, looking wise. Junior appeared in the doorway.

"How'd you like my headline, Qwill? I hated to do that to cousin Melinda, but this is the biggest news since Van Brook We've been trying to reach her for further details. Can't find her. Emory had a police record before he left town, so the burglaries won't surprise her." Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought.

"He was running with a gang of vandals from Chipmunk while he was still in high school. The big surprise was to find him alive after his father insisted for six years that he was dead. Do you think she was a party to the hoax, or an innocent dupe like the rest of us?" Riker said, "Do you have something you want to tell your old buddies, Qwill?" "Not yet." He had no desire to relive the painful moments of Yum Yum's abduction.

As for the identity of Emory's partner, that was something for Emory to disclose.

"See you later!" he said with a debonair wave intended to confound them. He was eager to talk to the police chief. Brodie hailed him as soon as he crossed the threshold at headquarters.

"I see you're gonna get your name in the paper again!" "You should be thanking me for doing your work!" Qwilleran retorted.

"How'd you find him?" "Nick Bamba, who has an eye like an eagle, had tracked the Boulevard Prowler to the Dimsdale area, and I'd already decided he was Emory.

When he broke in and kidnapped my female cat--was "What! You didn't report anything like that!" "I didn't know it when I gave the report to the officers. As soon as I learned she was missing, Nick and I found Emory in Shantytown, rescued her, and radioed you. Did Emory identify his accomplice?" The chief looked at him sharply.

"You know about that?" "I knew he had to have an accomplice, and Melinda was the only person who qualified. Her behavior has been irrational ever since she returned from Boston.

Some of us suspect drugs." "I'm glad the good doctor isn't alive to face this mess. It'd kill him!" "What are you going to do about her?" Qwilleran asked.

"That'll be up to the prosecutor... If you ask me, there was bad blood on her mother's side." "I assume Emory answered questions cooperatively." "Best damned suspect we've ever had! Answered questions before we asked 'em. His sister knew about the hoax; they were in touch all the time she was in Boston, and after Dr. Hal died, she sent Emory money once a month. He didn't come for his dad's funeral last June; he came expecting to collect his inheritance in instant cash. When that didn't work out, Melinda told him another way to get rich quick: Get rid of Mrs. Duncan." So that was the plot! Qwilleran realized in horror.

Murder, not ransom!

His expression caused Brodie to say, "Sit down. Have a cup of coffee.

" Qwilleran took his advice.

"Melinda had always wanted to marry into the Klingenschoen fortune. She hounded me all summer and halfway across Scotland. Last Sunday, Emory again failed to grab Polly, as you know. The next night, Melinda showed up at the barn after rehearsal, and she was playing America's Sweetheart, without the curls. I couldn't fathom her motive. Now I know. She was plotting with Emory to kidnap one of my cats! For ransom! That woman needs help!" After his visit with Brodie he stopped at the drug store to buy a few items and chat with the pharmacist, a young man more congenial than the crabby old pill counter who used to be on duty in the prescription cage. Then he went home to brush the cats.

Only then did he realize what it would have been like to lose Yum Yum--not to have her pawing his pant leg, reaching up for his moustache, and croodling--worse still, not to know her whereabouts or her fate. Koko himself had not fully recovered from the trauma of the night before; he prowled incessantly and muttered to himself.

"Shall we listen to some tapes?" Qwilleran asked, and Koko ran to the desk, yowling with anticipation. Either he had added "tape" to his vocabulary or he was reading Qwilleran's mind. Of the tapes recorded before Melinda left Scotland, one segment in particular caught Koko's attention--a brief exchange between Polly and Melinda: "I didn't know she had a bad heart. She never mentioned her symptoms, and we were the best of friends." "She was too proud to admit to any frailty, and too independent to take my advice or even medication.

It could have saved her." Qwilleran thought, If Irma refused to take medication, there would be no prescription to foul up; we'll know more about this when Polly's sister-in-law checks Irma's records. Farther along on the same tape were the voices of, first, the Lanspeaks and then the MacWhannells: "Do you realize, folks, how lucky we are to have Melinda along on this trip?" "Irma was coming down with something at the castle today.

I told Larry it sounded like laryngitis." "I knew someone who dropped dead of a sore throat. It's a freak disease--some kind of syndrome." "Daddy, you suspected something was wrong last night, didn't you?" "You're right, Mother... It so happened we were playing a table game with Polly and Dwight, and I went upstairs to get a sweater for Glenda.

We had room No. One, and the girls had Nine and Eleven at the end of the hall. I saw Melinda come out of Eleven and scoot right into her own room. I started to speak to her, but she was preoccupied. I told Glenda right then that Irma must be ill." Qwilleran thought, Yes, but... Irma was out on the moor with Bruce and came in late, according to Polly, so Eleven was empty, because Polly was in the lounge.

"Yowl" said Koko, who seemed to enjoy MacWhannell's chesty voice. The time came to drive Polly to the Distinguished Women's banquet in the New Pickax Hotel, an event subsidized by XYZ Enterprises with proceeds going to the Pickax Hospital for an intensive care unit. She looked stunning in her blue batwing cape and peacock feather brooch, and he told her so. She wanted to know more about the burglar and the hoax, but he assured her that everything had been reported in the newspaper.

The loitering charge, he said, indicated that Emory was the Boulevard Prowler. After dropping her off, he went to the theatre to have another look at Macbeth. He wanted to see if the actors felt more comfortable in their roles and whether Dwight had taken his advice about the dagger. Aware that he could not stay for the entire performance, he slipped into an unsold seat in the back row. The lights dimmed, and an unwelcome voice came through the speakers--the anonymous voice that announces changes in the cast, usually to everyone's disappointment.

"In tonight's performance the role of Lady Macbeth will be played by Jennifer Olson, and the role of Lady Macduff will be played by Carol Lanspeak. Thank you." There were murmurs in the audience and at least one squeal of delight from some friend of Jennifer's. To Qwilleran the substitution raised an urgent question, and at intermission he went backstage to hunt down Dwight Somers.

"Where's Melinda?" he asked.

"I don't know," said the director.

"When she didn't report by seven-fifteen, I called her clinic, and the answering machine said they were closed until nine tomorrow morning.

Then I called her apartment; no answer. We both live in the Village, you know, and there's an elderly neighbor who knows everything that goes on. I phoned her, and she said that Melinda's car had been in and out of the parking lot all day, but now it was gone again. I even called the police about a possible accident. Nothing! So I decided to go ahead with Jennifer. How's she doing?" "Not bad, under the circumstances." "I heard about Melinda's brother. She must be really upset. That's the only reason I can imagine why she wouldn't show, but she should have notified us." The stage manager was calling "Five minutes," and Qwilleran returned to the auditorium. He stayed through the sleepwalking scene, then slipped out. The banquet would be over. When he picked up his passenger, she was carrying a large flat box.

"I received an award for public service," she said.

"It's a very tasteful plaque." "Congratulations! Recognition is long overdue," he assured her.

"What did they serve for dinner? Not chicken cordon bleu, I hope." "No, some other kind of chicken. It wasn't bad. Of course, the sole topic of conversation was the return of Emory Goodwinter." "Naturally. How many awards were presented?" "Ten. It was a tearful moment when Mrs. Hasselrich accepted Irma's posthumous award for volunteerism. Melinda received the health-care award, and a hospital official accepted it, since Melinda had to be at the theatre." "Correction. She was not at the theatre," Qwilleran said.

"Her role was filled by the Olson girl." "Oh, dear!" Polly said sympathetically.

"Melinda must be devastated by the unpleasant publicity!" "Mmmm," he agreed without conviction.

"Who else won a plaque?" "Oh, let me tell you the sensation of the evening," she said, laughing.

"Lori Bamba, as secretary of the auxiliary, was the presenter, and she was wearing a batwing cape just like mine, but in violet. When Fran Brodie went up for the arts award, she had the same thing in green!

Mildred Hanstable received the education award, and she was wearing one in royal blue. Finally, Hixie Rice had it in taupe. We stood on the platform in a row looking like a malapropos chorus line--tall, short, plump, thin--but all with batwing capes and peacock brooches! The whole room was in a screaming uproar that simply wouldn't stop until the hotel manager rang the fire bell." "It just proves," Qwilleran said, "that I know a lot of distinguished women." Polly invited him up to her apartment for coffee and cake, and they were welcomed by Bootsie, who had the brassy voice of a trumpet.

"How's old Gaspard?" Qwilleran greeted him.

"Really, Qwill, you treat him with such disrespect," she complained.

"He treats me with disrespect. I think he's jealous." "I think you're jealous, dear." She started the coffee brewing and cut a large wedge of chocolate cake for him and a sliver for herself.

After the first few bites he asked casually, "How did your sisterin-law feel about my request?" "She said it was highly irregular, but she agreed to bring Irma's records to me at the banquet, provided she could return them early in the morning." "And?" "Tonight she informed me that the folder has been removed from the filing cabinet." "Perhaps they have a special drawer for deceased patients." "They do, but it was neither there nor in the active file.

Why are you interested, Qwill?" "Just curious... Did Mrs.

Hasselrich ever mention any disagreement about Irma's funeral?" "Good heavens, no!" "She was buried, but Melinda said she wanted to be cremated. How come no one else knew Irma favored cremation?" "Qwill, dear, I'm afraid to ask what's on your mind." "Nothing. Just talking off the top of my head. Is there any more cake?" "Of course.

And may I fill your cup?" After a period of silence, which his hostess attributed to gustatory bliss, he said, "They say vitamin C is good for fighting colds. What kind did you take to Scotland?" "High-potency capsules, but they were too large for me to swallow comfortably." "Want me to take them off your hands?" "I'm afraid I didn't keep them, but you can buy them at the drug store," Polly said.

"Irma was complaining of a sore throat, so I offered them to her." "Did she take them?" "I don't know. I left them in the bathroom for her and never saw them again. Do you think you're catching cold, dear?" "I have a slight cough." He coughed slightly.

"This is very good cake. Did you make it?" "I wish I had time to bake. No, I bought it at Toodle's.... By the way, you didn't tell me how well the Olson girl performed." "She was scared stiff, but she knew her lines. She'll be better tomorrow night if Melinda doesn't make it." He noticed Polly glancing at her watch.

"Well, I'll pick you up tomorrow morning, same time.... What's that?" They heard sirens speeding down the boulevard, and they caught glimpses of flashing lights.

"Sounds like an accident," he said, moving toward the door like the veteran reporter that he was.

"I'll go and check... See you tomorrow!" He ran down the stairs, jogged the length of the driveway, and found neighbors standing on porches and looking westward. Walking rapidly toward the end of the street, he met a couple standing on the sidewalk--the city attorney and his wife.

"We were just coming home," said the woman, "and this car was speeding down the boulevard. There was a terrible crash." "Going eighty, at least," her husband added.

"The driver must have been crocked. Obviously didn't know this is a dead-end street, although it's posted." "Here comes the sheriff's wagon," Qwilleran said.

"They've got to cut someone out of the wreckage." He hurried toward the scene of the accident. Police floodlights were beamed on the small park, the granite monument, and the car crumpled against it.

Running back to his car, he drove home to call the newspaper. He could hear the phone ringing as he unlocked the door, and he caught it before Riker hung up.

"Qwill, I'm phoning from a gas station. If you can rustle up some Scotch, I'll be right there, with some breaking news." "Come on over," Qwilleran said.

"I've got news, too.

" Within minutes, Riker walked in, his ruddy face unusually flushed, and he was beaming. The drink was waiting for him, and the two men took their glasses to the lounge area.

"What do you think about Mildred Hanstable?" the publisher asked.

"Nice woman." "She doesn't like living alone, and neither do I. We get along very well. What do you think?" "I'd like to see you two get together," Qwilleran said with sincerity.

"It would be good `=5

" Riker tipped off the night desk in his newsroom, then said, "Any idea of the motive, Qwill? Don't tell me she died for love of you, old chum!" "I don't kid myself that it was anything like that. No, she had personal problems. Lady Macbeth was a metaphor for what was happening in her own life, in my opinion." He declined to divulge the rest of the story to the press, even though Riker was his best friend. If he discussed it with anyone, it would be with Brodie. The next morning, the opportunity presented itself. The only person in Moose County who would dare to phone Qwilleran before eight A.M. was the police chief.

He seemed to take sadistic pleasure in rousting his slow-starting friend out of bed.

"Rise and shine!" Brodie shouted into the phone.

"It's daylight in the mines! I'm on my way over to see you." Groaning and spluttering a few comments, Qwilleran pulled on some clothes, ran a wet comb through his hair, and started the coffeemaker. In short order the chief strode into the barn, looking bigger than ever as the importance of his mission added to his stature.

"Weel, laddie," he greeted his reluctant host in familiar Scots style, "the dead is risen and the mighty is fallen!

Did you hear about Dr. Melinda?" "I heard, and I saw. I was on the boulevard when the ambulance arrived. How about some coffee?" "Tell you what, pour half a cup and fill it up with hot water, and I'll be able to drink it without having a stroke... Got some more news, too.

They picked up your bus driver in London, but the loot was smuggled out of Scotland, gone to chop shops on the continent. He admitted the theft but not the murder. Do you still think he drugged her?" "No, I think Melinda was responsible for Irma's death. It was guilt that drove her over the edge." "Hmmm, interesting notion," Brodie mused.

"She left a suicide note in her apartment that didn't make much sense--all about the smell of blood and a damned spot she could never wash out." "Those were her lines in the play. It's a confession of murder." "What did she have against Irma?" "It was an accident, but she lied to cover up, saying Irma died of natural causes. She wanted the body cremated to conceal the evidence.

Then it appears that she destroyed Irma's medical records. No doubt they'd indicate that Irma did not have a heart condition." "Did you figure this out yourself? Or did your smart cat stick his nose in the case?" "Andy, you wouldn't believe what he's been doing!" "I'll believe anything after what Lieutenant Flames told me Down Below." "First, Koko let out a bloodcurdling howl at the exact moment Irma died in Scotland, and he wasn't even there! Then he shredded her obituary--another indication that something was wrong--and kept pointing his paw at Melinda. He threw a fit when he heard her voice on tape and also destroyed photographs of her. There's something else remarkable, too. Let me play you a tape if I can find it." Koko, having heard his name, came ambling out from nowhere and stationed himself between the recorder and the police chief, with an ear cocked in each direction. Fast-forwarding the tape, Qwilleran picked up fragments of his own voice: "another historic inn. I suspect.

hundreds of pictures on this trip... medical school at Glasgow..." He said, "Okay, Andy. Listen to this: his... the infamous Dr. Cream was a Glaswegian. He was the nineteenth-century psychopath who became a serial killer in England, Canada, and the United States--not as legendary as Jack the Ripper but noted for pink pills..." Koko interrupted with a stern "Yow-will-will" like a yodel, and Qwilleran snapped off the recorder, saying, "Now let me play another tape recorded on the eve of Irma's death, when Melinda came to my room, uninvited." After a few stops and starts, the following dialogue was heard: his... So I'll make you a proposition-since one has to be conventional in Moose County. If you will marry me, you can have your freedom at the end of three years, and our children will resume the name of Goodwinter. We might even have a go-o-od time together." "You're out of your mind." "The second reason is... I'm broke! All I'm inheriting from my dad is obligations and an obsolete mansion." "The K Foundation can help you over the rough spots. They're committed to promoting health care in the community." "I don't want institutional support. I want you!" "To put it bluntly, Melinda, the answer is no!" "Why don't you think about it? Let the idea gel for a while?" "Let me tell you something, and this is final. If I marry anyone, it will be Polly. Now, if you'll excuse me..." Qwilleran pressed the stop button, relieving Koko's anguish. He had accompanied the dialogue with a coloratura obbligato particular to Siamese vocal cords.

"On this same evening," Qwilleran told Brodie, "while Polly and Irma were occupied elsewhere, Melinda was seen going into their the empty room. It's my theory that she tampered with some vitamin capsules that Polly had taken to Scotland, substituting a drug that would stop the heart. I checked with our pharmacist here, and he said it could be done--in several ways.

Melinda didn't realize that Polly had stopped taking the vitamins and had turned them over to Irma, who was catching cold.

Inadvertently, Melinda killed one of her best friends." Brodie grunted a wary acceptance of the story, but Qwilleran had not finished. From a desk drawer he produced a small bottle, uncapped it, and poured a few capsules into the palm of his hand.

"These are similar to the vitamins Polly took to Scotland. They're pink, Andy!

Pink pills!" The chief shook his head.

"The rest of Koko's shenanigans I'm willing to buy, but this... I don't know. It's a little hard to swallow." "Lieutenant Flames would swallow it." "That he would! Hook, line, and sinker!" He stood up and groped in his pockets.

"I'm forgetting what I came here for... Here! This is for you." He handed over a square envelope with Qwilleran's name in a familiar handwriting.

"It was in Melinda's apartment along with the suicide note. I've got to get back to the station." Glancing at the envelope with a mixture of curiosity and dread, Qwilleran dropped it on his desk while he accompanied Brodie to the police car parked at the back door, and after the chief had driven away with a wave of the hand, he walked around the barn three times before going indoors.

He was in no hurry to read Melinda's last missive. No matter what the gist of it--remorse, apology, passionate outburst, or bitter accusation--it would be painful reading. As he walked he pondered Koko's incredible involvement in the case. There was no knowing how much of it was coincidence, how much was serendipity, and how much was his own imagination. The cat's tactics in revealing clues ranged from the significant to the purely farcical. Even Qwilleran had to admit that the pink-pill business was far-fetched. So was Koko's sniffing of the spot on the rug, as if he knew Shakespeare and, more particularly, Macbeth. And then he thought, I owe Irma an apology.

She was a wonderful woman-unapproachable, perhaps, and annoyingly private, but she had her reasons, and she did a tremendous amount of good for the community. She went out on the moor with Bruce every night to try to straighten him out, the way Katie wanted her to do.

It didn't work. Suddenly he remembered he had to drive Polly to work.

But first he would read Melinda's farewell note, his curiosity having overcome his apprehension. He let himself in the front door, and the moment he stepped into the foyer he sensed complications. He experienced that oh-oh feeling that always swept over him when bad news was impending--which enough a cat had thrown up on the white rug, or had broken a tray of glasses, or had stolen the shrimp Newburgh.

There was a guilty stillness in the place. Slowly he moved through the foyer, looking to left and right. In the lounge area his experienced gaze skimmed every surface, every corner, in search of disaster. In the kitchen, scene of many a catly crime, everything was in order. Then he turned toward the area where he had his desk and telephone, his bookshelves and comfortable reading chair. There, on the desktop and the floor beneath, was a shower of confetti.

Minute scraps of paper, some of them chewed into tiny wads, were all that remained of Melinda's note.

"Koko!" he shouted.

"You did this, dammit! You fiend!" Qwilleran glanced quickly around.

"Where the devil are you?" Yum Yum was on top of the fireplace cube, looking down on the scene like an innocent bystander, sitting on her brisket, her whiskers upturned as if smiling... but Koko wasn't there.

The End

2'>2'>