"Treat!" he shouted as he entered through the back door, his voice reverberating around the balconies and catwalks. The cats came running from opposite directions and collided head-on at a blind corner. They shook themselves and followed him to the feeding station for their first taste of haggis. As Qwilleran watched their heads bobbing with approval and their tails waving in rapture, an infuriating thought occurred to him: Is this why Koko wanted me to go to the lodge hall?
The notion was too farfetched even for Qwilleran to entertain. And yet, he realized Koko was trying to communicate. Qwilleran wondered, Am I barking up the wrong tree? ... Am I suspecting the wrong person?
... Are my suspicions totally unfounded? And then he wondered, Am I working on the wrong case? He considered Koko's reaction to Melinda's voice on the tapes... the licking of photographs in which she appeared... the whisker bristling when she called on the phone... his hostile attitude after Qwilleran had spent a mere two minutes with her at the rehearsal. It could be Koko's old animosity, remembered through sounds and smells. It could be a campaign to expose something reprehensible: a lie, a lurking danger, a guilty secret, a gross error. That was when Qwilleran dared to wonder, Did Melinda make a mistake in Irma's medication? Could it be that she--not the bus driver-was responsible for Irma's fatal attack?
Fourteen
On Saturday morning, in the hours between midnight and dawn, residents of Goodwinter Boulevard sleeping in bedrooms insulated by foot-thick stone walls became aware of a constant rumbling, like an approaching storm. If they looked out the window, they saw a string of headlights moving down the boulevard. Several of the residents called the police, and the lone night patrol that responded found scores of cars, vans, and pickups parked at the curb, leaving a single lane for moving traffic. The occupants of these vehicles had brought pillows, blankets, and thermos jugs; some had brought children and dogs. The more aggressive were on the front porch of the Goodwinter mansion, lined up on the stone floor in sleeping bags.
When the officer ordered the motorists to move on, they were unable to comply, being trapped at the curb by incoming bumper-to-bumper traffic.
Both eastbound and westbound lanes were clogged with the constant stream of new arrivals, and when the curb space was all occupied, they pulled into private drives and onto the landscaped median. The patrol car itself was unable to move after a while, and the officer radioed for help. Immediately the state police and sheriff's cars arrived, only to be faced with a vehicular impasse.
Not a car could move. By this time lights were turned on in all the houses, and influential residents were calling the police chief, the mayor, and Foxy Fred at their homes, routing them out of bed and into the chill of a late September morning. First, the police blockaded the entrance to the westbound lane and started prying vehicles from the eastbound lane until the traffic flow was restored.
Motorists who had parked in private drives or on the grassy median were ticketed and evicted. By that time, dawn was breaking, and legal parkers were allowed to stay, since the city had lifted the ban on curb parking for the duration of the tag sale. As for the evicted vehicles, they now lined both sides of Main Street, while more traffic poured into the city from all directions. Qwilleran heard about the tie-up on the WPKX newscast and called Polly.
"How are you going to get out to go to work?" he asked.
"Fortunately it's my day off, and I'm not leaving my apartment for anything less than an earthquake. Besides, my car is at Gippel's garage... You can imagine that Bootsie is quite upset by the commotion." "What's wrong with your car?" "It's the carburetor, and the mechanic is sending away for a rebuilt one. It won't be ready until Tuesday. But that's no problem; I can walk to and from the library." "I don't want you walking alone," he said.
"But... in broad daylight?" she protested.
"I don't want you walking alone, Polly! I'll provide the transportation. Is there anything I can do for you today? Need anything from the store?" "Not a thing, thank you. I plan to spend the day cleaning out closets." "Then I'll pick you up at six-thirty tomorrow night," he said.
"We have a seven o'clock reservation at Linguini's." Qwilleran lost no time in hiking to the tag sale. It was his professional instinct to follow the action. The action was, in fact, all over town. The overflow from Goodwinter Boulevard and Main Street now filled the parking lots at the courthouse, library, theatre, and two churches, as well as the parking space that business firms provided for customers only. On the boulevard excited pedestrians who had parked half a mile away were swarming toward No.
180, while others were leaving the area with triumphant smiles, carrying articles like bed pillows, boxes of pots and pans, and window shades. Foxy Fred had organized the crowd in queues, admitting only a few at a time, and the lineup extended the length of the westbound sidewalk and doubled back on itself before doing the same on the eastbound sidewalk. Persons with forethought had brought folding camp stools, food, and beverages. Across from the doctor's residence there was another stone mansion that Amanda Goodwinter had inherited from her branch of the family, and when Qwilleran arrived on the scene she was standing on her porch with hands on hips, glaring at the mob.
"The city council will act on this at our next meeting!" she declared when she saw him.
"We'll pass an ordinance against disrupting peaceful neighborhoods with commercial activities! I don't care that she's my cousin and a doctor and an orphan! This can't be allowed! She's a selfish brat and always has been!" Amanda looked fiercely up and down the street.
"The first person who parks in my drive or on my lawn is going to get a blast of buckshot!" Qwilleran pushed his way through the crowd and around to the back door, flashing his press card, and entered through the kitchen, where he scrounged a cup of coffee. In the front of the house Foxy Fred's red-coated helpers were expediting sales and handling will-calls. Portable items were carried to the row of cashiers in the foyer, and purchasers of furniture and other large items were instructed to haul them away on Monday, or Tuesday- no later. The Comptons were there, and Lyle said to Qwilleran, "If you think this is a mess, wait till the trucks start coming to pick up the big stuff next week." "We've got a will-call on that black walnut breakfront," Lisa said.
"I'd love to have the silver tea set.
" She glanced at her husband hopefully.
"At that price we don't need it," he said.
"There are no bargains here. Melinda's going to make out like gang busters on this sale. I saw a lot of vans and Station wagons with out-of-county plates, probably dealers willing to pay the prices she's asking." Lisa said, "I loved your story on the teddy bears, Qwill, and we saw Grace Utley on television. I wonder what she thinks of this madhouse." "She was smart enough to leave town on the eve of the preview." "Any news about the jewel theft?" "Not to my knowledge." Lyle said, "I'll bet she wanted them stolen so she could spend the insurance money on those damned teddy bears!" On the way home Qwilleran caught up with Dwight Somers, walking empty-handed toward Main Street.