The Cat Who Sniffed Glue (9 page)

"I know why," said Fran. "Last year he was reprimanded for talking about a case under investigation. Poor Dad! He loves to talk. I can probably find out for you. Why do you want to know?"
"Chad came to my apartment at 6:15 P.M. to sell me some handmade snowshoes. The transaction took longer than I expected, so it was 7:30 before he dropped me off at the community center. I know, because I looked at my watch and figured you'd give me hell for being a half-hour late. According to the newspaper account, David and Jill found the bodies at 7:15. Assuming Chad had put in a full day at the store, he couldn't be implicated."
"You should phone Carol and Larry and tell them that," said Fran.."They've called in their attorney. Do you know Hasselrich?"
"He's the attorney for the Klingenschoen Fund."
"Call Carol and Larry right away. It'll relieve their minds."
Qwilleran punched the number of the Lanspeak residence, visualizing their attractive country house as he waited for them to answer: split-rail fences, cedar shake roof, picturesque barn. "Hello, Larry? This is Qwill. I have some information for you that may be vital... Yes, I know. Fran told me, but assuming Chad worked a full day in the store, he's in the clear. He was with me from 6:15 to 7:30 and supposedly came directly from work. What time did he check out?... Well, then, he should be covered. You remember I told you he was selling me snowshoes. That's why I was late for rehearsal... That's right. He drove me downtown in his rattletrap truck and dropped me off at the rehearsal hall at 7:30... Yes, I thought it might help. I even have a pair of Beavertails to prove it. Tell Hasselrich, and let him take it from there. I'm standing by if he wants me to do anything... So long, Larry. Chin up!"
As he poured Scotch for Fran, she walked around the living room, appraising it with a professional eye-moving a table three inches to the left, adjusting the blinds, straightening the picture of the 1805 gunboat. "How did this print get so crooked?" she asked. "We haven't had any earthquakes or sonic booms."
"Blame it on Koko," QwiJ!eran said. "He likes to rub his jaw against the comers of picture frames, and that one is easy to reach from the back of the sofa. If you knew anything about cats, that would be perfectly obvious."
She settled down with her drink. "I still can't believe we've lost Harley."
"No one says much about his wife. Did you know her very well?"
Fran shifted her eyes. "I met her a few times."
"Did she come from Chipmunk?"
"Somewhere out in that direction."
"What did people think about their marriage? Why were they married in Las Vegas?"
"Honestly, Qwill, I don't feel like talking about it. Harley isn't even buried yet. It's too painful. Mind if I smoke?" With gestures that had a practiced grace she shook out a cigarette, flicked the silver lighter he had given her for Christmas, and inhaled deeply.
Qwilleran waited for her to enjoy a few puffs before saying, "You and David were close friends, weren't you?"
"How did you know? It was just a high-school crush."
"Did you ever think you might marry him?"
"Did you ever think you might be a nosey bastard... darling?"
Archly he said, "I have a compassionate curiosity about my fellow beings. It's one of my noble traits." He produced a bowl of cashews and watched her gobble them hungrily. "Seriously, Fran, do you suppose the local investigators are competent to solve this case?"
"The state police have sent a detective up here, Dad says. A homicide expert. But don't underestimate our local cops. They've grown up here, and they know everyone. You'd be surprised how much they know about you and me and Chad and everyone else. They don't keep files on us; they just know."
Qwilleran poured another drink for her; her glass was emptying fast. "What's the Fitch mansion like?" he asked.
"Banana-split architecture at its gooiest!" she said. "A mix of Victorian Gothic, art deco and Italian. But it has a certain country charm. All those chimneys! All those rambling stone walls around the property!"
"I wonder if the killer or killers had time to find what they wanted before being interrupted. No doubt they had a lookout in their vehicle - someone who alerted them when David and Jill were approaching. What do you think they were looking for?"
"Money and jewelry, I suppose. They started ransacking the desk in the library and the dresser drawers upstairs. Harley's grandmother left jewelry in trust for Harley and David to give to their wives when they married. Belle had some pretty good things."
"What about books? Might they be looking for rare books?"
"Are you kidding? They were probably dropouts from Chipmunk who wouldn't know a rare book from a telephone directory."
"What kind of firearm did they use?"
"A handgun that's very common around here for hunting... Hey, don't let Dad know I'm telling you this. He's not supposed to discuss it, but he and Mother have a rap session at the kitchen table after every shift, and I have big ears."
"You have very lovely ears, if I may digress."
"Well, thank-you," she said amiably, looking surprised and pleased. "I just might go to dinner with you, if you extend the invitation."
"First I want to feed the cats," Qwilleran said. He released them and set out two bowls of the chefs specialit‚ du jour, a kind of bouillabaisse without the mussel shells. "It would be interesting to know," he said, "if Harley knew the killer. I imagine it was someone who had been in the house and knew what they had. It was someone who knew their rehearsal schedule and expected them to be gone by 6:30. That is, if they were killed between 6:30 and 7:15. On the other hand, if they were killed before 6:30, it was by someone who picked a random time for robbery and murder."
"Qwill, this is giving me a headache. Can't we discuss the wallpaper and then go to dinner? Come over here and let's look at the samples."
They sat together on the sofa, with the heavy wallpaper book on their collective knees. The Siamese, meanwhile, had declined to eat; it was the same stuff they had been served for breakfast, and soupy concoctions were not their favorites. The two cats sat across from the sofa, staring into space.
Fran said, "I'd really love to see you do your bedroom in aubergine, avocado and rose taupe."
"I like it the way it is - tan, brown, and rust," Qwilleran informed her.
"Well, if you insist! How do you like this one? It's a marvelous texture in rust."
"The color's too dull," he said. "Here's one with more life but not so much surface interest."
"Too flashy."
"How about this one?"
"Too dark."
"The wallcovering is only for the upper half of the wall," she reminded him. (The lower walls were paneled with the narrow wood beading common in nineteenth-century railway depots.) "In other words, it's simply a background for prints and watercolors that will be framed in chrome to tie in with your chromium exercise equipment. That is, if you're sure you want to keep the bike and rowing machine in your bedroom. Couldn't they go in the cats' apartment?"
Qwilleran scowled at her.
"Okay, they couldn't go in the cats' apartment. However," she went on, "I definitely think we should get rid of those ugly old-fashioned radiators. You owe it to yourself to install a completely new heating system."
"Those ugly old-fashioned radiators give good, even heat," Qwilleran said, "and they look right with the ugly, old-fashioned paneling. The plumber says they're over seventy-five years old and still in excellent operating condition. Show me any new invention that will still be good seventy-five years from now."
"You sound like my father," Fran said. "At least let me design an enclosure for the radiators - just a shelf on top and grillework in front. My carpenter can build them."
"Will it impair their efficiency?"
"Not at all. I also think we should shop for new bedroom furniture for you when we go to Chicago. The new lines are coming out, and I have some wonderful sources... Ouch!... The cat grabbed my ankle."
"I'm sorry, Fran. Are your stockings torn?"
She smoothed her leg experimentally. "I don't think so, but those claws are like needles. Which one did it?"
Qwilleran watched Yum Yum the Paw slinking guiltily from the room. "Let's go to dinner," he said.
He gathered up Fran's wallpaper samples, and she dropped her cigarette pack into her handbag. "Where's my lighter?"
"Where did you leave it?"
"I thought I put it on the coffee table."
She rummaged in her handbag, and Qwilleran searched the floor and looked behind the sofa cushions.
"It can't have wandered very far," he said. "It'll turn up, and I'll give it back to you. Meanwhile, this would be a good time to give up smoking."
"You're sounding like my father again," she said with a frown.
They drove to Stephanie's, one of the best restaurants in the county. It occupied an old stone mansion in an old residential section of Pickax, and although the exterior was forbidding, the interior had a hospitable ambience created by soft colors, soft textures, and soft lighting. Qwilleran always liked walking into a restaurant with Francesca. On this occasion, heads turned to admire the young woman with gray eyes, gray suit, gray paisley blouse, gray hose, and high-heeled gray sandals.
Perusing the menu, he suggested the herbed trout with wine sauce.
"I'd rather have the spare ribs," she said. "The trout is better for you."
"Will you stop sounding like my dad, Qwill?"
They talked about her father's virtuosity on the bagpipe, Qwilleran's fondness for things Scottish, Edd Smith's esoteric enterprise, and the future of the Theatre Club without Harley.
Qwilleran asked, "Do you know how David is reacting?"
"I talked to Jill on the phone, and she said he's a basket case. Nigel, too. I wonder if they're resilient enough to cope. They'll need counseling, that's for sure. To lose someone through illness or accident is traumatic, but murder is so evil!"
"Are you a good friend of Jill's?" He had observed a remarkable similarity between the two young women - their figures, their manner of walking and talking, their stagey Theatre Club gestures and attitudes.
"We were clubby in high school," she said. "We double-dated, played basketball, went in for art. She's very clever. I'm smart, I think, but Jill is clever."
"Is her family well-heeled?"
"Not any more. They lost everything in 1929. Her great- great-grandfather owned a string of sawmills. Her great- grandfather was a Civil War hero. Her grandfather was mayor of Pickax for twelve years. Her maternal grandmother..."
As Francesca related Jill's family history, a scenario began to take shape in Qwilleran's mind. He waited a suitable interval before saying, "That was bad news about Harley's mother. Have you heard any more details?"
"No." The brevity of reply confirmed what he was thinking.
"If Mrs. Fitch doesn't pull through, it will be a great loss to the community. She's done so much for the public library, the hospital, the school, and other good causes."
Francesca's attention suddenly centered on her dinner plate.
"I've met Mrs. Fitch at library board meetings, and she impresses me as a very gracious woman - certainly generous with her time and cooperation."
Francesca raised her wrist and tapped her watch. "Do you realize what time it is? I've got to go back to the studio and write up some orders."
"And I have to buckle down to work on the Edd Smith profile." Later, as they said good night and she gave him a theatrical kiss, he presented her with the gift-wrapped silk scarf he had bought for Polly. "I know I'm a difficult client," he apologized, "but here's a small thank-you for your patience. And I'll have a good look for your cigarette lighter."
Upstairs in his apartment he found that the few remaining cashew nuts had been fished out of the bowl and batted around the room. "Is this your work, madame?" he asked Yum Yum, who was licking her right paw. "And do you know anything about a missing cigarette lighter?"
To Koko he said, "Fran wouldn't comment on Margaret Fitch, and she didn't want to talk about her relationship with David. Put two and two together and what do you get? A manipulative mother who stopped her son from marrying a policeman's daughter?"
"Yow!" Koko replied.
-Scene Ten-
Place: Qwilleran's apartment; later, the newspaper office
Time: The day of the Fitch funeral
IT WAS A PRIVATE FUNERAL in accordance with the wishes of the family. The obsequies were held in the Old Stone Church across the park from Qwilleran's property, and the police kept traffic moving and discouraged loitering in the vicinity. There were no photographers waiting on the sideiwalk or lurking in the trees with their telephoto lenses.
Riker had wanted to give the event coverage, saying that Fitch was an important name in the county, the deaths were shocking, and the funeral was newsworthy.
Junior Goodwinter disagreed. "It's different in a town like this. We respect their feelings."
Riker insisted, and the argument became heated until Qwilleran was asked to mediate.
He agreed with Junior. "The public's right to be nosey won't be violated. Within an hour of the burial all the details of the funeral will be common knowledge. Telephones will be busy; the coffee shops will be buzzing. The Pickax grapevine is more efficient than any newspaper that publishes twice a week. So cool it, Arch."
On the morning of the funeral Qwilleran was typing the last paragraph of the Eddington Smith story and the Siamese were sitting on his desk when the telephone rang.
Yum Yum flew away to parts unknown, while Koko jumped to the phone table and scolded the instrument. "Qwill, this is Cokey," said the voice on the phone. Alacoque Wright, the young architect, sounded more mature than she had been during their brief fling Down
Below. "I'm phoning from the construction shed on your front lawn."
"Good to hear your voice, Cokey. When did you arrive? How does the theater look?" Koko was now standing with his hind feet on the table and his forepaws on Qwilleran's shoulder, and he was snarling into the mouthpiece. Qwilleran pushed him away.
"The job is looking good. They've been following the specs more closely this time. Only one problem: the wall color in the dressing rooms doesn't match the sample. It was supposed to be a rose ochre of low saturation to flatter the actors and elevate their mood. It will have to be repainted at the contractor's expense."
"How long are you going to be here, Cokey?" Koko was biting the phone cord, and Qwilleran gave him another shove.
"Until tomorrow noon. I'm staying at the Pickax Hotel. It's not exactly the Plaza, but my room has a bed and indoor plumbing, for which I'm grateful."