"Qwill! What makes you say that? Who would do such a thing? And why?" "How well did you really know Irma?" She hesitated.
"She was just a casual acquaintance until recently, when we started to go birding together. Out there on the riverbank or in the wetlands, where it was quiet and peaceful, it was easy to exchange confidences--was "Did she ever tell you what she did on her frequent trips to Scotland?" "Not in detail. I know she went birding in the islands. She always mentioned puffin birds and the red-necked phalarope--was "Hmmm," he murmured cynically, thinking that birdwatchers on the islands would make good lookouts, especially if equipped with radios.
"I hate to say this, Polly, but I always received the impression that Irma was hiding something behind a somewhat artificial facade, and now it occurs to me that the Bonnie Scots Tour may have been a cover for something else--a scam that backfired." "What!" Polly's throat flushed.
"What in God's name are you talking about?" She pushed her sherry away in an angry gesture.
"For centuries the Scottish coastline has lent itself to smuggling.
Today the contraband is probably drugs." Shocked, Polly demanded, "Are you suggesting that Irma was involved in smuggling drugs? Why, that's unthinkable!" Qwilleran thought, Irma was fanatically devoted to raising money for charity, and fanaticism makes strange bedfellows. He said, "She never told you anything about her friends in Scotland. What about this man she sneaked away with every night-always in wild, secluded country where the inns had no names? What were they doing?
And did something go wrong? He could have slipped her a drug because she became a threat. He had a police record.
Obviously he was planning to steal the jewels. Did Irma know about that?" Polly snatched the napkin from her lap and threw it on the table.
"How can you make such malicious assumptions when she's not here to defend herself? It was a heart attack! Melinda said so!" "Melinda could be wrong." "I refuse to listen to this assault on Irma's integrity!" "I'm sorry, Polly. Perhaps Irma was an innocent victim, murdered because she could identify Bruce after he committed his crime.
Finish your drink, and we'll ask for the soup course." "No!" she said bitterly.
"You have your dinner. I'll wait in the lobby." He signaled the waitress.
"Check, please, and cancel our order." They drove back to town in silence, but he could feel the waves of anger emanating from the passenger seat. When they reached the library, Polly stepped out of the car and said a curt thank you.
At the barn, he was met by two alert Siamese with questioning tails, as if they felt the tension in the air. Now Qwilleran felt hungry, as well as uneasy about the scene with Polly and indignant about his suede coat. He threw it on a kitchen chair and searched the refrigerator for the makings of a sandwich. Yum Yum, as if she wanted to comfort him, presented him with an emery board.
"Thank you, sweetheart," he said. As he swallowed his sandwich and gulped his coffee, he admitted to himself that he had been tactless in linking Polly's friend with illegal activity. Yet, there was something about the events in the Highlands that made his moustache bristle, and he was floundering in his search for a clue. He played some more tapes, hoping for enlightenment: "At the inn where we're lodged tonight, the fireplace mantel is draped with a fringed scarf; the lamp shades are fringed; and there are rugs thrown over the sofas--all very cozy. Blankets are used for draw draperies over the windows, which should say something about winters in the Highlands. The mantel shelf is adorned with the usual clock, some pieces of china, and a live but apathetic cat. The cats in the Scottish Highlands are not as nervous as American cats. They walk in slow motion, stretch lazily instead of purposefully, and spend their time resting on wharf pilings, fences, doorsteps, windowsills, rooftops, or fireplace mantels." It surprised Qwilleran that the Siamese failed to respond to this segment of the tape. There was something about the sound of the word "cat" that usually commanded their immediate attention. When they were sleeping, he had only to whisper "cat" and their ears would twitch. The tapes rolled on: "Today I did my neighborly duty on the bus, sitting with Zella in the morning and Grace in the afternoon. When we're on the road, Zella looks out the window and enjoys the scenery. Grace never stops talking about life back home. She's an encyclopedia of Pickax scandal, and what she doesn't know, she invents. That, at least, is her reputation.
It appears that the only Moose County families without skeletons in the closet are the Chisholms and the Utleys, and even the Utleys have a few bones rattling under the stairs." Qwilleran kept glancing at his watch. He half expected Polly to phone and say, "Qwill, I'm afraid I overreacted." He thought she would call about nine o'clock, after the committee meeting, but the telephone was exasperatingly silent.
"After dinner tonight Irma did her usual vanishing act, and Larry, Melinda, and Dwight went into the garden to work on Macbeth. I'd hear Larry's magnificent voice: "Is this a dagger which I see before me?" He'd repeat it several times with different emphasis. Or I'd hear Melinda screaming, "Out, damned spot! Out, I say!" How do these intrepid actors endure the midges that swarm up out of the bushes in millions?" It was a disappointing session for Qwilleran, with no clues on the tapes and no pertinent comments from Koko. Neither cat, he now realized, had been in evidence for some time--not, in fact, since he had returned home. Where were they? Reluctant to overdo the T word, he wandered about the barn, searching all levels, calling their names, hoping to find one or the other. No luck! And where, he asked himself, was his suede coat?
Ten
When Qwilleran found his suede sports coat, he had a wild impulse to phone Polly and relate the incredible circumstances: how he had found it under a kitchen chair... how the suede surface was furred with cat hair... and how the streak of melted butter had completely disappeared. There was not even a trace of it! The left-hand lapel was now more roughly sueded than the right, but the grease spot was gone. Before he could pick up the phone, however, he thought about their disagreement at the restaurant. They'd had spats in the past, which were always resolved when one or the other decided the triumph was not worth the battle. This time he was in no mood to wave the white flag. She should have been more understanding, he thought. She should have known he was blowing off steam after the infuriating chicken episode. She was well acquainted with his reckless surmises when faced with unanswered questions. Furthermore, he had apologized-somewhat--in the restaurant, and he was in no hurry to make further amends. Perhaps there was an element of suppressed guilt lurking under his rationalizations, calling for atonement, and that was why he telephoned the Chisholm sisters the next morning with such a pretense of bonhomie. Grace Utley answered.
"Good morning," he said in his most ingratiating tone.
"This is your erstwhile traveling companion, Jim Qwilleran. I trust you two lovely ladies had a pleasant journey home." "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran! It's so nice of you to call!" she said, with excitement heightening the rasp in her voice.
"We had an enjoyable flight. Mr. Riker was our seatmate, and he's a most interesting man." "He enjoyed your company, too. That's why he asked me to call. He says you have an idea for a book that you want to discuss." "About our teddy bear collection... yes! He was quite excited about the idea. Would you be willing to help us? I know you're a very busy man..." "Not so busy that I'd turn down a stimulating challenge! I'd like to explore the possibilities--perhaps this afternoon." "So soon?" she crowed with delight.
"Then you must come for lunch, dear heart. Zella is a wonderful cook." "I'm sure she is," he replied, "but I have a previous engagement. How about two o'clock?" "Then we'll have tea," she said with finality.