The Cat Who Sniffed Glue (6 page)

"What happened at the dental clinic this morning?"
"They were apparently looking for narcotics and cash, and when they were disappointed they trashed the office and started a fire."
"I envy you guys. It's tough to be on the outside, looking in."
"I told you we could use your skills, Qwill," said Riker, "but you're busy writing that damned novel."
Qwilleran smoothed his moustache regretfully. "I'm beginning to think I'm miscast as a novelist. I'm a journalist."
"I could have told you that, you donkey!"
"And I don't have the temperament for free-lance work. I need the discipline of assignments and deadlines."
"Do you want to come on in?"
"What could I do?"
"Features. The kind of meaty, informative stuff you did for the Fluxion. We have a lot of space to fill and a lot of amateurs writing for it. We need all the professionalism we can get."
The front door slammed, and Hixie Rice suddenly appeared. "Quick, you guys! I need a beer, coffee, anything! I'm punchy! I've been hitting the restaurants allover the county. They all want to buy ads in the food section. These flat heels are killing me!" She kicked off her skimmers and turned to Qwilleran. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be rehearsing or writing a novel or feeding your cats."
"If I haven't forgotten how," he said, "I'm going to write a column about interesting people who do interesting things."
"We're assuming," said Riker, "that such individuals exist in this outpost of civilization."
"There are no dull subjects," Qwilleran reminded him. "Only dull reporters who ask dull questions."
"Okay, so that's all settled! Now all we need is some hot-breaking news for page one. The opening issue is going to be a collector's item, and I want it to look like a newspaper."
Junior said, "Roger's at city hall covering the zoning-board meeting tonight, and if we're lucky, it'll break up in a fistfight, or something good like that."
"Don't you guys ever try any creative journalism?" Hixie taunted them. "Kidnap the mayor! Bomb city hall! Pull the plug on the Ittibittiwassee dam and flood Main Street!"
The three serious journalists scowled at her. Qwilleran said to Riker, "What name have you picked for the paper?"
"That's got me stymied. I want it to be something like Moose County Chronicle or Clarion or Crier or Caucus. We've got to make a decision fast."
"You newspaper types have no imagination," Hixie objected. "Why not the Moose County Cannonball or Crowbar or Corkscrew?"
The three serious journalists groaned.
Qwilleran suggested, "Let the readers pick the name. Print a ballot on page one."
"But we've got to have some kind of flag for the first issue," Riker insisted. "We've got to call it something."
"Call it the Moose County Something," Hixie said. "I dare you!"
The front door slammed again.
"That's Roger," Junior guessed.
A young man with a camera bag slung over his shoulder burst into the office. Roger had a pale complexion and stark black beard, and tonight he was paler than usual. He was also breathing hard. He stared at the four waiting staffers.
"What's the trouble, Roger?" asked Riker.
He gulped. "Murder!" His voice cracked on the word.
"Murder?!" Riker took his feet off his desk.
"Who?" demanded Junior, jumping to attention.
"Where?" Hixie put her shoes on quickly.
"At city hall?" Qwilleran asked, touching his moustache nervously.
Roger gulped again. "In West Middle Hummock! Two people shot! Harley Fitch and his wife!"
-Scene Six-
Place: The newspaper office
Time: The afternoon following the
Fitch murder
Cast: Staff members
THE FIRST COPIES of the Moose County Something were coming off the press, and it should have been a time of hilarity and popping champagne corks in the city room, but the front-page news had deadened everyone's spirit. In a small town like Pickax, murder could not be an impersonal tragedy. Everyone was a friend or neighbor or relative or customer of the victim. Even Arch Riker, relatively new in town and a veteran of a thousand, big-city murder stories, was gloomy. "I wanted a sensational banner for page one," he said, "but I didn't want it that bad."
A bundle of papers arrived from the job-printer and the staffers grabbed. Blazoned across the front page was the grim news: HARLEY FITCH AND WIFE FOUND SHOT TO DEATH.
In the cities Down Below, Qwilleran reflected, the public would immediately assume it to be a drug-related execution. In Pickax, 400 miles north of everywhere, there was no glimmer of such a thought. Suspicion might come later - in the coffee shops and over back fences - but at this moment the reaction was one of shock and sadness and reluctance to believe it could happen in Moose County.
Early that morning Francesca had phoned. "Oh, Qwill! Isn't it a beast! I've been nauseated all night. I heard it on the midnight news. Dad wouldn't talk about it. I suppose the paper will be out this afternoon with more details. I'd like to call David and Jill, but I'm afraid. They must be horrified."
"It's going to be on the front page," Qwilleran said. "It's the banner story with a picture of Harley. No one could find a photo of his wife - at least, not on such short notice."
"Downtown is crowded with people, all standing around talking about it. Nobody can believe it! With them expecting a baby and everything! Nobody can settle down to business."
"It's hard to take. Who could possibly have done it?"
"It's got to be the Chipmunk gang. The tourist season hasn't started yet; we don't have those crazies wandering around the county looking for something to shoot. Yes, it's definitely those punks from Chipmunk."
Qwilleran touched his moustache with his knuckles. "When everything went wrong at rehearsal last night I had a feeling there was something in the air. Wally said it was because of the full moon."
With a whimper Fran said, "And I was cursing Harley and David and Jill for being absent without explanation. Now that I know the reason, I could cut out my tongue. We'll cancel the show, of course. No one will have the heart to go on with it. God! I can't work. I can't do anything! I think I'll go home and drink up Dad's supply of Scotch. Do you want to come with me?"
The story on page one was subheaded: BURGLARY OBVIOUS MOTIVE. It carried the byline of Roger MacGillivray.
The scion of a prominent Moose County family and his bride of a few months were found shot to death Tuesday evening at their home in West Middle Hummock. Harley Fitch, 24, and his 21-year-old wife, Belle, were victims of a gunman whose apparent motive was robbery, according to the sheriff's department. The couple were preparing to leave the house for a Theatre Club rehearsal in Pickax, family members said. The time of death was between 6 and 7 P.M., according to the coroner.
David and Jill Fitch, Harley's brother and sister-in-law, discovered the bodies at 7:15 P.M., when they arrived to pick up the couple for the drive to Pickax. They live a quarter mile from the Fitch mansion, recently occupied by the newlyweds who were reported to be expecting a child.
Jill Fitch told police, "We've been rehearsing five nights a week for a play. We usually share the ride, leaving at 6:30. I tried to phone Harley to say we'd be a little late because of a plumbing problem, but there was no answer. I thought they were probably outdoors and couldn't hear the phone, so we just hurried as much as we could. When we finally drove up to their house, we tooted the horn, but no one came out, so David went in, and that's when he found them."
A spokesman for the sheriff's department noted that Harley's body was found lying in the rear entrance hall; his wife's body was in an upstairs bedroom. There was no sign of a struggle, the spokesman said. The two were wearing jeans and sweat shirts, described as "rehearsal clothes" by family members.
There was evidence, according to the spokesman, that the murderer or murderers had started to ransack the house and either found what they wanted or were interrupted by the arrival of the other couple. Jill Fitch informed police, "I remember seeing a vehicle pulling away as we approached. It was going fast down the dirt road and throwing up a cloud of dust." There are no other residences on the road in question.
The 22-room house was the ancestral home of the Fitch family, built in the 1920s by Harley's grandfather, Cyrus Fitch, and noted for its valuable collection of art objects, books, and curios.
Harley was the son of Nigel and Margaret (Doone) Fitch of Indian Village. Following his graduation from Yale university and a year of travel, he joined the Pickax bank where his father is president. Harley and his brother, David, were recently named vice presidents.
Harley graduated from Pickax high school before attending Yale. He maintained a better-than-average scholastic record in high school while playing on the tennis team, participating in student government, and acting in student plays. In college he majored in business administration and continued his interest in the dramatic arts.
Upon returning to Pickax he was active in the Boosters Club and the Theatre Club, where he was last seen as Dromio in The Boys from Syracuse. He was an avid sailor, who skippered the 27-foot Fitch Witch to several trophies. A builder of model ships since the age of 10, he exhibited his handiwork frequently, winning numerous prizes.
Harley married Belle Urkle in October of last year in Las Vegas.
A sidebar carried comments from persons who had known Harley Fitch: the high-school principal, the tennis coach, schoolmates, the president of the Boosters, bank personnel, and Larry Lanspeak, representing the Theatre Club. "A model student... always enthusiastic and cooperative... fun to be with... talented actor... a 100-percent team player... wonderful to work for... always so thoughtful... upbeat all the way."
Qwilleran read the story three times, massaging his moustache as he read. There were details that aroused his curiosity. Down Below, when he was writing for the Flux- ion, such an event would have demanded a bull session at the Press Club, with fellow journalists reviewing the story, analyzing, questioning, circulating rumors, airing suspicions, outguessing the police, exchanging inside information. Unfortunately there was no Press Club in Pickax, but he asked Arch Riker if he would like to have dinner at the Old Stone Mill.
For an answer Riker unlocked a desk drawer and withdrew a small box. He was looking smug. The box contained an impressive diamond ring. "I'm giving it to Amanda tonight," he said, his ruddy face virtually bursting with joy.
Qwilleran was nonplussed. This development accounted for Riker's uncharacteristically happy mien lately. Divorced after twenty-five years, he had been morose and introspective until he moved to Pickax, and Qwilleran was glad he had found a woman he liked. But Amanda! That was the shock.
"Congratulations," he managed to say. "This comes as a surprise."
"It will surprise Amanda, too. She's never been married, and we all know she's grouchy and opinionated, but what the hell! We're right for each other."
"That's all that matters," said Qwilleran. Next he asked Junior to stay in town for dinner. "I'm not a bachelor any more," said the managing editor with a happy grin, "and Jody's parents are up here from Cleveland to celebrate the kickoff. Jody's having leg of lamb and German chocolate cake."
Then Qwilleran broached the subject to Roger MacGillivray and offered to stand treat.
"Gosh, I'd like to," said Roger. "I don't often get a freebie. But Sharon's going to her cousin's bridal shower, and I promised to baby-sit. My life has changed a lot in the last couple of months."
Once again Qwilleran was the lonely bachelor surrounded by happy couples, and he thought regretfully of his failing friendship with Polly Duncan. There were others he could invite to dinner - Francesca, Hixie, Susan, even Iris Cobb - but none equalled Polly for stimulating conversation over the duck … l'orange. And yet she had been noticeably cool since he joined the Theatre Club and hired a designer. Suddenly there had been no idyllic Sundays at her little house in the country - no berry picking, morel gathering, nutting, birding, reading aloud, or other delights. Her chilliness was made more awkward by the fact that she was head librarian, and he was a trustee on the library board.
In desperation he telephoned her at the office. "Have you heard the news?" he asked in a somber voice.
"Isn't it dreadful? Do they know who did it?"
"Not that I'm aware. No doubt the police have suspects who are being questioned, but the authorities aren't giving out any information. You can't blame them. How have you been, Polly?"
"Fine."
"Could you have dinner with me tonight?"
She hesitated. "I suppose your rehearsal is canceled on account of..."
"The show is called off altogether, and I'm not getting involved in any more plays. You were right, Polly; they're too time-consuming. I'd like very much to see you tonight."
There was a weighty pause, then: "Yes, I'd like to have dinner. I've missed you, Qwill."
His sigh of relief was audible. "I'll pick you up at the library at closing time."
He walked home with a light step, stopping at Lanspeak's store to buy a silk scarf in Polly's favorite shade of blue, which he had gift-wrapped.
Returning home to shower and shave and dress for dinner, he bounded up the stairs three at a time, but lost his exuberance when the Siamese did not come to greet him. Where were they? He knew he had not locked them in their apartment. Mr. O'Dell had not been there to clean. He peered into the living room, but Koko was not on the bookshelves with the biographies, and Yum Yum was not curled up in her favorite chair.
Had someone broken in and stolen the cats? He rushed to their apartment. They were not there! He checked their bathroom. No cats! He called their names. No answer! In a panic he searched the bedroom. They were nowhere in sight. Were they shut up somewhere? He yanked open dresser drawers. On hands and knees he examined the back comers of the closet. He called again, but the apartment was silent as death. Fearfully he approached his writing studio. It was never tidy, but this time there were signs of vandalism: desk drawers open, papers scattered about the floor, desktop ransacked, paper clips everywhere!
It was then that he noticed two silent figures - one on top of the filing cabinet and the other on a wall shelf with Roger's Thesaurus and a bottle of rubber cement. Yum Yum was crouched on the shelf in her guilty position - a compact bundle with elevated shoulders and haunches. Koko was on the filing cabinet, sitting tall but without his usual confidence.