The Cat Who Wasn't There

Seven

Back home in his own bed Qwilleran enjoyed a good night's sleep, but in the morning he was disoriented. He didn't know what day it was.

He knew only that it was Day Thirteen. After living in a tour induced limbo, where days had numbers instead of names, he had not adjusted to the standard calendar week. Consequently, the morning after Koko's macabre dance around Irma's obituary was Day Thirteen in Qwilleran's book. The sound of church bells ringing on Park Circle suggested that Day Thirteen might be translated into Sunday.

On the other hand, it might be Saturday if the bells were celebrating a wedding. He thought of phoning the city desk at the Moose County Something and asking, "Is this Saturday or Sunday?" He had answered stranger questions than that when he worked for metropolitan newspapers Down Below. The local radio station was of no help; the announcer gave the time, the temperature, the wind velocity, and the relative humidity, but not the day of the week. As for the WPKX brand of daily news casting it was a half hour of what Qwilleran called mushy news--noto less mushy on Saturday than on Sunday. If the day proved to be Saturday, that meant he had arrived home on Friday. Yet, would Mildred Hanstable have been there on a Friday morning? She taught school and would have been in the classroom unless, of course, it was a Teacher-Optional Workday, in which case she might have opted to stay home and prepare macaroni and cheese, although that was extremely unlikely for one as conscientious as Mildred. Ergo, this had to be Sunday, and the church bells were calling the faithful to worship. That was Qwilleran's cue to walk to the drug store and pick up the out-of town Sunday papers. The cats were relaxing in a patch of sunlight on the rug without a thought in their sleek brown heads. What matter to them that it was Sunday--or even Thursday? Every day was Today in their scheme of things, and there was no such thing as Yesterday or Tomorrow.

"I'm going downtown," he announced to them.

"Is there anything you want from the drug store?" They looked at him as if he were demented. Or daft, as they said in Scotland. (qwilleran had bought a glossary of Scottish terms at the Edinburgh airport.) The Siamese knew very well when he was talking nonsense. Or blethering, as they said in Scotland. A brisk walk downtown had the effect of clearing the stupefied brain he had brought home from the Bonnie Scots Tour. He did his best thinking while walking alone. Now he resumed his ruminations begun on the plane: Irma knew about Bruce's past record... She might have relived her youthful passion on the moor... She might have vented some hidden bitterness caused by her own conviction for manslaughter... She might have been Bruce's accomplice in the jewel theft! This wild scenario brought forth not so much as a tickle on Qwilleran's upper lip, but when he tried another avenue of brainstorming, his moustache bristled slightly: Irma might have been Bruce's victim. If he planned to steal the jewels, wouldn't it be logical to eliminate the one person who knew his identity? Could he have slipped her some kind of drug that would stop her heart? This was a technical detail he would have to check with Dr.

Melinda-an undertaking he hardly relished. To phone her on a Sunday afternoon would give rise to sociable invitations, such as, "Come over for a drink, and we'll discuss it," or "Let's have dinner." To visit her clinic on Monday would lead to other undesirable developments, such as, "Remove everything except your socks and shoes, and the doctor will be right with you." No, he decided, it would be safer to meet her "accidentally" in some crowded or busy place, where they could exchange a few words without getting involved in anything personal. Qwilleran found himself walking with clenched teeth. It annoyed him to be in this awkward position with Melinda after three years of an easy relationship with Polly. He resented being hounded by an overzealous female. He had terminated other liaisons without embarrassment, and he had been jilted himself without creating a rumpus. Somehow he had to get rid of that woman! Koko had never liked her. Did the cat's uncanny prescience foretell this course of events? It was not beyond the realm of imagination. At the drug store, Qwilleran picked up several out-of-town newspapers--his way of keeping in touch with the turmoil Down Below.

"How was Scotland, Mr. Q?" asked the cashier.

"Okay." "I heard about Ms. Hasselrich." "Yes, it was too bad." "Did you see the Loch Ness monster?" "No, we were there on his day off." On the way home Qwilleran's mind turned to the subject of Irma's address book.

If he could learn the whereabouts and/or phone number of the pivotal Katie, he could turn the whole matter over to Andrew Brodie and let him make a case of it, if he wished. Andy would be interested in Koko's startling reaction to the obituary, being one of the few who knew about the cat's sensitivity to the scent of crime. A detective from Down Below had told him about it in all seriousness. To the Pickax police chief, Koko was the town psychic. Qwilleran walked home with his newspapers via the back road, hoping to avoid questions from well-meaning townsfolk. There was little traffic on Trevelyan Road, but eventually a car stopped and the driver called to him, "Want a lift, Qwill?" It was Scott Gippel, the used-car dealer.

"No, thanks. I'm walking for my health," Qwilleran said with a comradely salute.

"How was Scotland?" "Fine." "Sorry about Irma Hasselrich." "Very unfortunate." "Bring back any Scotch?" Arriving home with several pounds of newsprint under his arm, Qwilleran all but stumbled over a moving hump in the foyer rug. It was a familiar occurrence, meaning that a cat had hidden stolen goods and was trying to retrieve the loot. He threw back a corner of the rug and exposed Yum Yum huddled over a playing card. It was face down, and when he turned it over, he recognized a card from Mildred's tarot deck. He also recognized the two perforations in the corner. Koko had been the thief; he always left his mark, like the Black Hand.

The picture on the card was a pleasant scene: a grape arbor with a woman in flowing robes, a bird perched on her wrist. They were surrounded by nine gold circles, each with a five-pointed star in the center. Qwilleran remembered the card from Mildred's reading prior to the Scottish venture. Dropping his stack of newspapers, he found his recording of the episode and slipped it into a player. The following familiar dialogue unreeled: "Do you mind if I tape this, Mildred?" "Not at all. I wish you would.

" "What did you learn?" "Strangely, when I asked the cards about you, the answers concerned someone else--someone in danger." "Man or woman?" "A mature woman. A woman with strict habits and upright values." "What kind of danger?" "Well, the cards were rather vague, so I brought the pack with me, and I'd like to do another reading-in your presence." (pause.) "Yowl" "Want me to lock him up, Mildred?" "No, let him watch. (pause.) I'm using the Celtic pattern for this reading. This card is the significat or (pause.) I see a journey.

a journey across water... with stormy weather ahead." "Glad I packed my raincoat." "Stormy weather could stand for dissension, mistakes, accidents, or whatever." "Too bad I didn't know before I paid my money." "You're not taking this seriously, Qwill." "Sorry. I didn't mean to sound flippant." "This final card.. is not auspicious... You might consider it a warning." "Looks like a happy card to me." "But it's reversed." "Meaning..." "Some kind of fraud... or treachery." "Yowl" "In conclusion... I urge you to be prepared... for the unexpected." (pause.) "Very interesting. Thank you." Click.

As the tape slowly unreeled, the Siamese were alerted, having heard another cat inside the black box, and both of them circled the player with curiosity. Perhaps they also recognized the voices of Qwilleran and Mildred. It was significant that Koko had yowled at her mention of treachery. At the time of the reading, Qwilleran had thought the cards referred to Polly. Now it was obvious that Irma was the woman in danger; it was she who would be the victim of treachery... That is, Qwilleran reminded himself skeptically, if one took the cards seriously. He looked up Mildred Hanstable's number. It was Sunday morning, and she would probably be at home, cooking or quilting.

"Good morning," he said.

"The meatloaf was delicious. The Siamese let me have some of it for dinner last night.

" "There's beef stew in the freezer for you, don't forget," she said.

"I feel twice blessed. I'm calling, Mildred, to ask if you've lost one of your tarot cards. I'd hate to see you playing with a short deck." "I don't know. Let me check." In a moment she returned to the phone.

"You're right. There are only seventy-seven." "I'm afraid Koko stole one. He left his fang marks in it. I hope that doesn't affect the--ah--authority of the deck." "Where did you find it?" "Hidden under a rug. It's a card I remember from your reading before I left for Scotland." He described the woman in the grape arbor.

"Yes, I recall. It was reversed when I read for you, and I predicted treachery." "And you were right! Grace Utley's jewels were stolen by a trusted bus driver." He avoided mentioning his suspicions about Irma's death.

"Grace was crazy to take them on the trip," Mildred said, "but no one ever said that woman was in her right mind." "Shall I mail the card to you?" he asked.

"Or shall we have dinner some evening--soon." "I'd love it!" Her voice rang with pleased surprise.

"We'll include Polly and Arch," he added hastily, "and the three of us will tell you all about Scotland." "Say when. I'm always free. Just hang on to the nine of pentacles until then." "What is the significance of pentacles?" he asked.

"They correspond to diamonds in regular playing cards." An odd coincidence, Qwilleran thought as he hung up. The nine of diamonds!

The Curse of Scotland!

Now he was impatient to talk with Polly about the address book. He waited until he thought she would be home from church, but there was no answer when he called. She might have gone to Sunday brunch with her sister-in-law, or she might be visiting the Hasselriches. A few hours later Polly called in great excitement.

"I have it! I have the address book!" she cried.

"How did the family react to your request?" "When I phoned about it, they were most appreciative and invited me to dinner after church. It was a painful occasion, but we talked about Irma lovingly, and they said they consider me their surrogate daughter now. I was deeply touched." "Did they know anything about Katie?" "Only that she and Irma had been in art school at the same time. When I brought the book home, I searched it for a Katie with an Edinburgh address and discovered one Kathryn Gow Mac Bean It looks as if Mac Bean might be her married name, in which case Bruce would be a Gow." Polly sounded excited about her first attempt at detection and deduction.

"Good work, Polly!" Qwilleran said.

"Give me the Edinburgh phone number, and I'll see what I can find out." He avoided mentioning Koko's death dance around the obituary or his own murder theory. She said, "I'd invite you over for coffee or something, but I need to do some laundry and get myself together for work tomorrow. Let me know what luck you have." After hanging up, Qwilleran checked his watch. It was too late to call Edinburgh, but the next morning he took his first cup of coffee to the telephone desk, locked the meddlesome Koko in the loft, and placed a call to Katie. He said, "This is Jim Qwilleran, a friend of Irma Hasselrich." He used a sincere and cordial tone of voice intended to inspire confidence.

"Yes?" the woman replied warily.

"I'd like to speak to Kathryn Gow. Or is it Kathryn Mac Bean "I'm Mrs. Mac Bean "I'm phoning from the States--from Irma's hometown of Pickax." "Where is she?" came a sharp reply.

"I mean, I expected her to ring me up." "She never reached Edinburgh, I'm sorry to say," Qwilleran said, introducing a grieved note to prepare his listener for bad news.

"I was a member of her Scots Tour, and while we were still in the Western Highlands, she suffered a heart attack and died.

" "Died! ... That's perfectly awful!" "It pains me to break the news, but her family felt you'd want to know." There was a blank silence.

"Hello? Hello?" he said. In a softer voice Katie said, "I do declare, this is a bit of a shock! I mean, she was fairly young." "Her body was flown back here, and she was buried two days ago. We're notifying a list of her friends." "Was the rest of the tour canceled? My brother was the driver. Odd that he didn't notify me." "Bruce Gow! Is he your brother?" "Ah... yes." "He's an excellent driver, and he was very courteous to a busload of crotchety American tourists." "Yes, he's... very good. What is your name, did you say?" "Jim Qwilleran. My mother was a Mackintosh. We're branches of the same clan. There was a Mac Bean a giant of a man, who fought at Culloden and killed thirteen English with his broadsword, fighting with his back to a wall." This was intended to proclaim his Scottish sympathies and win her good will.

"Ah... yes... there's a fair number of Mackintoshes about." Her attention was wandering as if she were concerned about her brother.

"When did it happen?" "Almost a week ago." "Honestly, I'm in a state! I'm not sure I know quite what to say, Mr.... Mr...." "Qwilleran. It would help to console Irma's parents if you would write them a note. How long had you known her?" "More than twenty years. We met in art school. In Glasgow." She seemed to be speaking in a guarded way.

"Do you have any snapshots or other memorabilia that you could part with? I'm sure her parents would welcome any little memento." "I expect that's the least I can do, isn't it?" "Do you have the address?" "Goodwinter Boulevard? Yes, of course." "I'll send you a clip of the obituary that ran in the local newspaper.

It has a very good photo of Irma." "That would be kind of you. If you could spare two cuttings..." "Glad to do it, Mrs. Mac Bean "And thank you for calling, Mr...." "Qwilleran." He verified her address before concluding the conversation and hung up with a strong feeling of satisfaction. Now he was ready to talk with Chief Brodie. He walked briskly downtown to the police station, and the sergeant at the desk nodded him into the inner office before a word was spoken. Brodie looked up in surprise.

"When did you get back, laddie?" "Saturday. Did you hear the bad news?" The chief nodded.

"I played the bagpipe at her funeral." "You probably heard that she had a fatal heart attack, but there's more to the story than that, and I'd like your advice." Qwilleran glanced toward the outer office and closed the door.

"Pour a cup of coffee and sit down.

How was Scotland, apart from that?" "Beautiful!" "Get your fill of bagpipes?" "Believe it or not, Andy, we didn't hear so much as a squeal, all the time we were there." "You went to the wrong places, mon. You should come to Scottish Night at my lodge. We'll show you what piping is all about... So, what's buggin' you?" Qwilleran pulled up a chair.

"Well, there were sixteen of us on the bus traveling around Scotland," he began, "and our driver was a Scot named Bruce, a sullen fellow with red hair who spoke only to Irma.

They conversed, I believe, in Gaelic." "She knew Gaelic? That's a tough language." "They seemed to communicate all right. Then one morning she was found dead in bed by her roommate, Polly Duncan.

Cause of death: cardiac arrest, according to Dr. Melinda, who was traveling with us. The next day the bus driver disappeared, and so did Grace Utley's luggage, containing a small fortune in jewels. I suppose you know about her spectacular jewelry--and the way she flaunts it." "That I do! She's a walking Christmas tree!" "We notified the village constable and gave a description of Bruce, but no one knew the guy's last name except Irma, and she was dead!" "And Scotland is full of redheads by the name of Bruce. So what's the advice you want?" "I have reason to believe," and here Qwilleran smoothed his moustache proudly, "that the heart stoppage was drug induced We hear of young athletes dropping dead because of substance abuse. If it can happen to them, it can happen to a forty year-old woman with an existing heart condition." "You can't tell me that Irma was doing drugs. Not her! Not that woman!" "Listen, Andy.

Every night after dinner she went out with Bruce. There was a lot of gossip about it." "Why would a classy dame like her hang around with a bus driver?" "We've since found out--from correspondence in her briefcase--that he was an old flame. Also, it appears, an ex-con. If he was plotting a jewel heist, wouldn't he get rid of the one person who could identify him? I suspect he slipped her some kind of drug." Brodie grunted.

"Do the police over there know that you suspect homicide?" "No, it's a new development. But here's the good news, Andy." Qwilleran waved a slip of paper.

"We've found the name, address, and phone number of Bruce's sister in Edinburgh, and through her we learned his last name is Gow." "Give it here," said the chief, reaching across the desk.

"Also the name of the town where you reported the larceny. Do you know what we're getting into?

They'll want to exhume the body!" Then he added, partly in jest and partly because he believed in Koko's extraordinary gifts, "If Scotland Yard can't find the suspect, we'll assign your smart cat to the case." "Yes," said Qwilleran, going along with the gag.

"Too bad Koko wasn't there!" He left the police station with a light step, knowing he had contributed vital information to the investigation, and he treated himself to a good American breakfast of ham and eggs at Lois's Luncheonette, with a double order of her famous country fries. His elation was short-lived, however. When he returned home, the barn was a scene of havoc: torn newspapers everywhere, books on the floor, the telephone knocked off its cradle, and the rest of Qwilleran's morning coffee spilled on the desk and floor, while Koko was in the throes of a cat fit He raced around and around the main floor, almost faster than the eye could see, then up the circular ramp to the catwalk under the roof, where he screamed like a banshee before pelting down the ramp again, rolling on the floor, and fighting an imaginary adversary. Qwilleran watched in helpless astonishment until the cat, having made his point, sat down on the coffee table and licked himself all over. He had staged cat fits before, and it was always a desperate attempt to communicate.

"What's it all about, Koko?" Qwilleran asked as he cleaned up the mess.

"What are you trying to say?" It was Irma's obituary that had been shredded, and he was trying to convey that she had not died of natural causes; of that Qwilleran was sure. He had learned to read Koko's body language and the nuances of his yowling. The varying inflections and degrees of intensity--like the subtleties of Oriental speech--registered affirmation or negation, approval or disapproval, excitement or indifference, imperious demand or urgent warning. Now, as Qwilleran watched that rippling pink tongue grooming that snowy white breast, an idea flashed through his head.

It was a wild shot but worth trying. He would interrogate Koko! He waited patiently until the fastidious toilette was finished, then sprawled in the roomy lounge chair where the three of them always gathered for enjoyment of quality time. Yum Yum hopped onto his lap, landing weightlessly like a squirt of whipped cream, while Koko settled on the wide arm of the upholstered chair with perfect composure.

Solemnly, Qwilleran began, "This is a serious discussion, Koko, and I want you to give it your personal best." "Yow," the cat replied, squeezing his eyes agreeably. The man turned on the tape recorder, which was never far from his trigger finger.

"Are you aware of the death of Irma Hasselrich?" "Yowl" came the prompt reply, an obvious affirmative.

"Was she murdered?" Koko hesitated before saying "Yowl" in a positive way.

"Hmmm," Qwilleran said, patting his moustache.

"Did the bus driver cause her to ingest a substance that stopped her heart?" Koko gazed into space.

"I'll rephrase that. Did the bus driver slip her a drug that killed her?" Koko was mute. He looked from side to side, and up and down, with convulsive movements of his head.

"Pay attention!" Qwilleran rebuked him, and he repeated the question.

"Did the bus driver--was "Yow," Koko interrupted but without conviction. It was not the definitive response that Qwilleran had hoped for, and he thought it wise to ask a test question: "Koko, is my name Ronald Frobnitz?" "Yowl" said the town psychic as he leaped to catch the fruit fly he'd been tracking.