“It’s April fifteenth trying to be New Year’s Eve, but we should make an appearance. I have to be home by ten; I’m expecting an important phone call.”
When they left the dining room, the innkeeper asked if they had enjoyed their dinner, and they were trying to say something tactful, when the young housekeeper came bouncing down the stairs again.
“Mr. Knox! The lady on the third floor wants to know if Nicodemus could spend the night with her! She’s lonesome for her five cats.”
Hearing his name, a sleek black cat slinked into their midst-a cat with eyes that burned like live coals.
“Certainly,” the innkeeper said. “Take him upstairs, and don’t forget his water dish and commode.”
Ah! Qwilleran thought. Maggie’s still here!
nineteen
When Qwilleran and Polly arrived at the party, they were greeted effusively by their neighbors: “We were afraid you weren’t coming! … Derek has written a new song… . What are you drinking?… Try some of the chicken liver pate.”
Wetherby Goode played a fanfare on the piano and announced, “And now the moment you have been waiting for! Derek Cuttlebrink plays his latest creation: ‘Pickax the Proud’!”
There were cheers as everyone’s favorite folksinger stepped to the microphone, strummed a few chords, and sang:
We’re the friendly folk of Pickax, U.S.A. We find each other’s puppies when they stray.
Our bosses give us raises
And we always sing their praises, And we’re getting better-looking every day.
If someone does us dirt we never sue. We lend the guy next door a buck or two.
We’re the first at paying taxes
And the last at grinding axes. And gossiping we never, never do!
When someone suggested making it the official anthem of Pickax City, the Villagers roared their approval. Derek winked broadly at Qwilleran, who left immediately with Polly-both of them murmuring excuses and regrets.
Around ten o’clock the Siamese were watching
Qwilleran prepare a tray of beverages and cheeses when their heads swiveled toward the foyer. An unearthly sound was coming from the street.
On the sidewalk stood Andrew Brodie in the fatigues he usually wore to rake leaves, and he was piping a wild Scottish dance.
When the last bouncing, heel-clicking notes had trailed off into silence, Qwilleran called out, “Andy! What’s that insane tune?”
“The Drunken Piper.”
“Then come in and sober up.”
He followed Qwilleran into the kitchen, dropping the bagpipe on the sofa. There the Siamese could sniff the strange animal and decide whether it was dead or alive.
“How did it go at the hospital?”
“I played his favorite hymns, and he was peaceful when I left.”
The refreshments were served in the living room, where there was a small fire crackling in the grate. The guest looked about appreciatively. “Pretty big robins, those … are those apples real?… That pitcher is some chunk of glass!” Then he asked, “How come you aren’t out having a Last Drink?”
“This is my Last Drink.”
“Are you one of those idiots who rush out into the street when snow starts to fly and stick out their tongues?”
“I can’t say I fit that description.”
“If a snowflake lands on your tongue, it’s supposed to be good luck. Downtown will be full of crazy fools running around with tongues hanging out like overheated dogs.”
The telephone rang. “Let it ring,” Qwilleran said. “I think they’ll leave a message.”
After a few rings, a man’s voice said, “Qwill, this is Kirt. The answer is yes. Tomorrow at twelve noon. You’re making a wise choice.”
“Are you ready for the Big One tonight?” Brodie asked.
“I don’t expect it as soon as the National Weather Service predicts. When my weather cat stages his meteorological catfit, it’ll be time to batten down the hatches.”
“One of my neighbor’s kids won a pencil in your contest. He wrote a poem about his cats… . Where are your chums?”
“The little pickpocket has an eye on your wristwatch. The smart one, as you call him, is staring at you from the stairs and wondering when the law agencies are going to solve a perfectly obvious case.”
“What’s his take on the situation?” Brodie asked as seriously as if consulting Hercule Poirot.
“First, let me refresh your drink,” Qwilleran said, “and help yourself to the cheese.” He took his time before answering the question. “If you’ve never heard Koko’s death howl in the middle of the night, you don’t know what cold sweat is all about. It means murder! He howled at the precise moment when Ruff Abbey was shot…. and again when Cass Young was killed. But first he howled when the thousands of books were burned. Koko considers that murder… . and by the way, arson was ruled out, but I have a theory about that.”
“Let’s hear it!”
“Some unauthorized individual let himself in the back door, and Edd’s cat escaped, thus saving his life. Winston had never wanted to go out, but his animal instinct warned him of impending evil-the same instinct that charges Koko’s batteries.”
“Assuming that the three incidents are three felonies, is Koko prepared to finger any suspects?”
“Yow!” came a comment from the stairs, as Koko heard his name.
“There’s your answer,” Qwilleran said. “Does the name Omblower mean anything to you?”
“Nope. Odd name.”
“George Omblower was one of three bad boys at Pickax High School at one time, and I think he’s back again-with an alias… . What do you know about the Donex Associates?”
Brodie harrumphed. “I’m not at liberty to talk, but there may be some interesting news in your paper tomorrow.”
“Meanwhile, Omblower is coming here for a Bloody Mary at noon tomorrow, and I plan to ask him some embarrassing questions. Depending on how he reacts, a cop on the premises might be able to make an arrest.”
“You serious?”
“Never more so! But the guy lives only two doors away, so we can’t have any police vehicles at the curb.” “We can handle that,” Brodie said.
The next morning Qwilleran phoned the concierge at the Pet Plaza. “Do you board cats by the hour?”
Lori Bamba had been his friend-in-need ever since he arrived in Moose County. “Not usually,” she said, “but …”
“I need to get them off the premises for a few hours - for reasons too complicated to describe.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“We’ll send our limousine over in half an hour. Your carrier or ours?”
Qwilleran lured the Siamese into the kitchen with a small treat, then stuffed them into their carrier. It was a loose fit for two sleek Siamese - unless they preferred not to travel. Then they puffed themselves up to resemble two porcupines on stilts.
“Consider this a mini-vacation at an exclusive resort,” he said. “Behave like patricians.” Two pairs of eyes glowered at him through the metal mesh of their prison.
Shortly after the limousine had whisked them away to the Pet Plaza, a plumber’s van pulled up, and a man approached Unit Four with a kit of plumber’s tools. “Got a leak?” he asked with a grin when Qwilleran opened the door.
“Come in, Pete,” he said, recognizing a deputy from the sheriff’s department.
Pete spoke a few words into his cell phone, and the plumbing van drove away. “What’s up, Mr. Q?”
“A guy is coming here to sell me some books, and he happens to be a suspect in a murder case. I intend to ask him some leading questions-not about books-and you’re here in case he gets nasty. The spare room on the balcony will be your observation post.”
“We’re supposed to tape the interrogation, so I’d better get set up.”