“I’ll be much in your debt, Susan.”
“How about selling me the martini pitcher?”
“Not that much in your debt.”
In a few minutes the manicurist arrived with her businesslike black kit. “Susan says you have a problem, Mr. Q.”
“Yes. It’s very good of you to come on short notice.”
“Where shall we work? At the kitchen table?”
Sitting across from her, he first grasped her hands and said with sincerity, “Before we begin, let me extend my deep sympathy to you and Mrs. Young.”
She lowered her eyes. “Thank you. I feel so sorry for Jeffa-losing her husband, moving to a strange town to be with her son, then losing him so tragically.”
They observed a moment of respectful silence. Then she said, “You have spatulate fingers, Mr. Q. They make a strong hand for a man.”
In a flashback he recalled acting in college plays and gloating over critics’ praise of his “strong gestures.” Was it only a matter of spatulate fingers?
“Now what’s the problem, Mr. Q?” H
“My problem, Robyn, is in accepting Cass’s death as an accident. I feel strongly about it.”
She looked up hopefully. “I do, too! I don’t know what to do.”
“Did he have enemies?”
“Well… Don blamed Cass for breaking up our marriage, but it was doomed long before I met Cass.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Well… XYZ executive meetings were held at our house, and I was supposed to serve the drinks and then disappear, but Cass liked to talk to me about nature and the environment. I love the outdoors…. After what happened at Breakfast Island, Cass and Doctor Zoller disagreed with Don a lot. I knew about their fights because the walls of these condos are thin. They had a violent argument over the payday loan company that Don wanted XYZ to start. Don said it was legal, and he could get a permit. Dr. Zoller said it was unethical and immoral, it exploited working people. That’s when he and Cass resigned.”
“Who are Don’s new associates? Do you know?”
“No. I’d checked out by then. But strange things are happening. The doctor told Cass they should both get out of town while they were still healthy. Cass didn’t take him seriously.”
“Before you leave,” he said, “look at the wall hanging over the fireplace.”
“Robins!” she cried. She pulled up a pantleg to show a small robin tattoo on her ankle. “An artist in Bixby does butterflies, squirrels, anything you want. It’s a permanent symbol of your commitment to the environment. As soon as I filed for divorce, I got this tattoo and dyed my hair the reddest red there is! I’ll give you the artist’s number, if you’re interested.”
She left, and the Siamese jumped down from the refrigerator. They had been listening, concerned about what she was doing to him.
Qwilleran hoped Polly was not looking out the window when the striking redhead walked past. He hoped she was still putting away summer cottons and getting out winter tweeds. If she saw Robyn, she would not recognize her as the colorless Mrs. Exbridge.
Polly would ask, “Who was that striking redhead?” If he said, “My manicurist,” she would not believe it. He would say, “She was collecting for homeless cats and dogs, and when you didn’t answer your doorbell, I gave her a generous donation in your name.” That she would believe.
seventeen
Koko was a cat of many interests-most of them short-lived, all of them intense. Now it was the glove box! Earlier he had spent hours investigating the highlights and shadows within the crystal martini pitcher. He had played fast and loose with a bowl of wooden apples, as if pointing out that they were not the real thing: that cat knew right from wrong. He had rubbed his jaw on the sharp corners of the pyramid lampshade tilting it or twisting it. Why? Only a cat would know… . Now his obsession was the glove box.
“What’s going on with you and that box, young man?” Qwilleran asked, and Koko squeezed his eyes. He could contract his long, sleek body into a pouf of fur to fit the five-by-fourteen surface exactly, looking like an Egyptian sphinx from the book on the coffee table. Sometimes he exercised his footpads on the carving or sniffed the hinges or pawed the latch.
“There’s nothing inside but gloves!” Qwilleran told him. Then he thought, We’re not connecting… . What does he want?… He’s trying to tell me something… . Does he want to get into the box?
Qwilleran was well aware that cats like to hide in boxes, wastebaskets, drawers, cabinets, bookcases, closets, and stereo systems-not to mention abandoned refrigerators and packing cases about to be shipped to Omaha.
“Okay, have it your way, you rascal!” He lifted the cat unceremoniously from his perch, opened the lid, and removed three pairs of winter gloves. “It’s all yours!”
It was a heavy box, the boards being oak and an inch thick. The lid tilted back on its hinges like a shelf. Koko approached cautiously, first studying the interior, then sniffing the surfaces, corners, and joinings. One would be led to wonder what esoteric secrets, or priceless treasures, or illegal substances had been stored there.
Qwilleran himself could detect nothing. “Enough of this nonsense! … Treat!”
It was the magic word. Yum Yum suddenly appeared from one of the lairs where she made herself invisible; Koko strolled nonchalantly to the feeding station. And that was the end of the glove box… . That is, until the next morning.
After Koko had finished his breakfast, he walked directly to the glove box as if it were his assignment for the day. It was still open, and he jumped in, settling down in a huddled posture to fit the space: back humped, head and ears alert, tail drooping over the outside of the box.
It was obvious to Qwilleran that the cat’s body seemed elevated as if on a cushion. He brought a ruler from his desk and measured the height of the box and the depth of the interior. It was six inches outside, four inches inside.
“A false bottom!” he said aloud. “Sorry to disturb you, old boy.”
He closed the lid and turned the box over for examination. As he did so, there was an unexpected sound from within-not a rattle but a swish. He grasped the box firmly and shook it hard. Something was sliding about inside: an old love letter? A deed to the old homestead? A forgotten stock certificate now worth millions? Whatever it was, Koko had known that something was entombed. It might be the skeleton of a mouse or the turnkey from a sardine can. Chuckling, Qwilleran tackled the secret compartment-pressing, prying, pounding while Koko yowled at his elbow. The more vigorous the attack, the more active the contents and the louder the yowls. Attracted by the excitement, Yum Yum was adding her shrieks.
“Shut up!” the man yelled, and the cats turned up the volume.
Qwilleran had an urge to take a hatchet to the stubborn chunk of wood but was saved by the telephone bell.
“Good morning, dear,” said Polly. “I’ll be chained to my desk all day and would appreciate some oranges and pears, if you’re coming in to Toodle’s.”
He agreed and at the same time solved his own problem. Susan Exbridge had a desk in her shop with a secret compartment; she would have a suggestion. The box he would leave at home, however. He was not supposed to have it. Polly would not want it known that she had given away Kirt’s heirloom, and Susan would be too curious about what came out of it.
Her store hours were eleven maybe to five-maybe. He dressed and drove downtown at eleven. Of course, she was not there. He stood on the street corner trying to decide where to go for coffee.
The center of town seemed unusually crowded. It looked as if a parade were scheduled. There were two PPD patrol cars in evidence. Qwilleran went to investigate.