"Drop that!" Qwilleran shouted. "Bad cat! How did you get it?" Koko dropped the envelope, stepped over it with unconcern, and went to sit on the third stair of the staircase. In the library Qwilleran found scratches on the front edge of the drawer. It was a heavy drawer, and Koko had gone to some trouble to open it. Why?
Ever since the accident on Ittibittiwassee Road, Koko had been acting strangely. Prior to that episode he and Qwilleran had been good companions. They treated each other as equals. The man talked to the cat, and the cat listened and blinked and looked wise, then answered with a «yow» that signified tolerant interest or hearty agreement or violent disapproval. They had played games together, and since moving into the K mansion Koko had been particularly attentive.
Suddenly all that had changed. Koko's attitude was one of scornful aloofness, and he committed annoying misdemeanors — like pushing his commode around the kitchen, knocking fine books off the shelf, and — now — stealing money. Something was wrong. A personality change in an animal usually signified illness, yet Koko was the acme of health. His eyes sparkled; his appetite was good; his lithe body was taut with energy; he romped with Yum Yum. Only with Qwilleran was he reserved and remote.
There were no ready answers, and Koko committed no further mischief that day, but late that night Qwilleran was reading in his upstairs sitting room when he heard prolonged wailing, shrill and mournful. Hurrying downstairs as fast as the injured knee would permit, he followed the eerie sound to the back of the house. There, in a shaft of moonlight that beamed into the solarium, was an alarming performance. Koko, his fur unnaturally ruffled, was half crouched, with his head thrown back, and he was howling an unearthly lament that made the blood run cold.
The tall case clock in the foyer bonged twice. Approaching the cat cautiously, Qwilleran spoke to him in a soothing voice and then stroked his ridged fur until he calmed down.
"You're a good cat, Koko, and a good friend," Qwilleran said, "and I'm sorry if I've been preoccupied or cross. You've been trying to get my attention. You're smarter than I am sometimes, and I should read your messages instead of flying off on a wild hunch. Will you forgive me? Can we be friends again? You and Yum Yum are all the family I've got." Koko blinked his eyes and squeaked a faint "ik ik ik." It was two o'clock. Four hours later Qwilleran found out what it was all about.
15
It was six o'clock, but Qwilleran already was awake when the telephone startled him with its early-morning ring of urgency. His curiosity had been working overtime and disturbing his sleep ever since Penelope's unexpected visit and Koko's unexplained antics. Was the nocturnal howl a protest? A warning? Or was it something that cats do in the light of a full moon?
Then the telephone rang, and a familiar voice said in an ominous minor key, "Qwill, did I wake you? I thought you'd want to know — Penelope has taken her life!" He was stunned into silence. "Qwill, this is Melinda." "I know. I heard you. I can't believe it! Yes, I can believe it. I knew she was on the brink of something. What a bloody shame! What a waste of brains and gorgeousness! Was there any explanation?" "Just the usual-she'd been depressed lately. Dad is over at their house now. Alex called him first, then the police.
The medical examiner is there, too." "Did she O.D.?" "She took a bottle of Scotch to the garage and sat in the car with the motor running. I'm due at the hospital now. I'll call you later." "How about dinner tonight?" "Sorry, lover. I have to attend a baby shower, but I'll drop in beforehand and you can fortify me with a gin and tonic. I may have more information by then." When he broke the news to Mrs. Cobb, she said, "I feel terrible about it! She was such a lovely person." Qwilleran said, "Now would be the time for me to type some catalogue cards for you. I'd welcome the distraction." The task required even more concentration than he expected. First he had to decipher the registrar's notes.
Someday he would compose a magazine piece on the subject, titled "How Not to Write Right; or, Seven Easy Ways to Total Obfuscation." It was like cracking a secret code. As soon as he discovered that a "habimeon glooo luptii" was actually a Bohemian glass luster, the rest was easy. On each card he had to type the file number of the artifact, its name, date, description, provenance, and value. The four-digit and five-digit evaluations kept him in a state of fiscal shock.
Naturally the Siamese were on the desk, assisting in their own unhelpful way. Yum Yum was stealing pencils and pushing paper clips to the floor. Koko, friendly once more after Qwilleran's apology, was nosing about the desktop like a bloodhound. At one point he flushed out Penelope's thank-you note written after the dinner party, and Qwilleran noted her mannered handwriting and the affected e, rand s that somehow implied a classical education.
When Melinda arrived after office hours, she explained, "I'd rather go to dinner with you, lover, but my generation is always getting married or pregnant, and I have to go to cute showers with cute invitations, cute guessing games, cute table decorations, and cute refreshments. When I marry, I'm going to elope. Would you care to elope, lover?" "Not until they take out my itching stitches. Sit down and tell me how Alexander is reacting." Melinda curled up in one of the solarium's big wicker chairs. "Dad had to sedate him. Alex got terribly emotional. He and Penny were very close — only a year apart-and they grew up like twins. He feels guilty for spending so much time out of town. He wishes he'd stayed home last night instead of going to a bachelor party at the club. Did you know he's getting married?" "I heard a rumor." "She's an attorney — young — graduated top of her class." "Do you know her name?" "Ilya Smfska." Qwilleran nodded. That much checked out; Penelope hadn't been merely garbling her diction. "Who found the body?" "Alex got home just before daylight, drove into the garage, and there she was." "Did they establish the time of death?" "Two A.M." "Any suicide note?" "Not as far as I know. Everyone knows she's been overworked, but the ironic fact is that Alex's fiance could have relieved her caseload. But it's too late now." She finished her cool drink, declined another, and prepared to leave for her social obligation. "Anyway," she said with a cynical smirk, "Penelope won't have to attend any more showers." After dinner Qwilleran went for a slow, thoughtful walk down Goodwinter Boulevard. The old family mansion that Penelope and Alexander had shared was partly obscured by twelve-foot hedges, but several cars could be seen in the driveway. Beyond them was the five-car attached garage, obviously a modern addition to the turreted, gabled, verandaed house. Next door was another Goodwinter residence, much less pretentious, where Dr. Halifax lived with his invalid wife.
It had been Melinda's childhood home.
A raucous blast from a car horn alerted Qwilleran, and he saw Amanda turning into a driveway across the boulevard.
"Come on in for a shot," she called out with gruff heartiness.
"Make it ginger ale, and I'll take two," he said.
The interior of the designer's house appeared to be furnished with clients' rejects. (He wondered if the Hunzinger chair and Pennsylvania schrank had been headed for this eclectic aggregation.) The furniture was cluttered with design magazines, wallpaper books, and fabric samples.
"Move those magazines and sit down," Amanda said. "Had a little excitement in the neighborhood last night." "Her act was unthinkable!" Qwilleran said.
"Not to me! I knew that unholy situation was headed for an explosion, but I didn't figure on suicide. I thought she'd blow her brother's brains out, if he has any." "Do you think it was really suicide?" Amanda put down her glass on a porcelain elephant table and stared at her visitor. "Golly, that's something I never thought of. Murder, you mean? You can't pin it on Alex. He was at the club all night, playing cards with Fitch and Lanspeak and those other buzzards. Or so the story goes. Now you've got me wondering." Qwilleran stood up and looked out the front window. "You can see their driveway from here. Did you notice any other vehicle there last night?" "Can't say that I did. What do you think could have happened?" "Someone could have drugged her drink and then carried her out to the garage and turned on the ignition, leaving a Scotch bottle for evidence. It's an attached garage. It could be done under cover." "Say, this is hot stuff!" Amanda said with evident relish. "Wait till I pour another." "Of course," Qwilleran went on, "the killer would most likely park elsewhere and arrive on foot. Is there any access to the property from the rear?" "Only through Dr. Hal's garden." "Don't mention this to anyone," Qwilleran requested, "but let me know if you come up with a possible clue." "Hot damn! Just call me Nora Charles." Qwilleran walked home slowly, and as he approached the K mansion he saw a terrain vehicle pulling away and heading north. "Whose truck was that in the drive, Mrs. Cobb?" She was looking radiant. "Herb Hackpole was here. He Went fishing this afternoon and brought us a mess of perch, boned and everything." "You seem to have made a hit with that guy." "Oh, he's very nice, Mr. Q. He wants to take me fishing someday, and he offered me a good trade-in on my van, if I want to switch to a small car. He even wants to take me hunting! Imagine that!" Qwilleran grumbled something and retired to his Chippendale sitting room, taking a volume of Trollope that Koko had knocked off a library shelf, but even the measured prose of He Knew He Was Right could not calm an underlying restlessness. His moustache was sending him signals so violent and so bothersome that he considered shaving it off.