"Did she report it to the police?"
"It was not... She didn't feel... that she could do that."
"Why not?"
"It was... extortion."
"How do you mean?"
"She was being... blackmailed."
"That's bad! What was it about? Do you know?"
"A family secret."
"Somebody committed a crime?"
"I don't know."
"Did she say who was blackmailing her?"
"Someone up north. That's all she'd say."
"How long did it go on?"
"A few years."
"I'd go to the police, if it was me."
"I told her to tell Claude."
"Why him?"
"She was leaving her money to the park, and... she was afraid... there wouldn't be any left."
"Is he Betty's husband?"
"Something like that."
"What did he say?"
"He told her not to worry."
"That's not much help."
"He said he could put a stop to it."
"What did she think about that?"
"She worried about it. In a few days... she was gone."
"Did she leave a suicide note?"
"Not even for me. That grieved me."
"You must have liked her a lot."
"She was a lovely lady. She liked music and art and poetry."
"I like music."
"But what kind? You young people - "
"Would you like a game of chess after supper, Mr. Crocus?"
"I would look forward to that with pleasure."
"I have to go somewhere with my grandma now. I'll see you after supper."
The attorney said, "So we know - or think we know - what happened to Mrs. Gage's money."
"We know more than that," Qwilleran said. "We know that she gave birth to a natural daughter in 1928 while her husband was in prison. In those days, and in a community like Pickax, that was an intolerable disgrace for a woman with her pride and pretensions. It's my contention that she gave her daughter - with certain stipulations and considerations - to a Lockmaster farm family, who raised her as Lena Foote. In her teens Lena went to work in the Gage household and remained there for the rest of her life. I'm guessing that Euphonia continued to pay hush money to the foster parents. Lena lost contact with them, but they came to her funeral a few years ago. Shortly afterward, Lena's widower began spending large sums of money for which there was no visible source. I say he's your blackmailer. The foster parents, being very old, may have passed on their secret to him - a kind of legacy for his daughter."
Wilmot had been listening intently to Qwilleran's fabric of fact and conjecture. "How did you acquire your information?"
"It's remarkable how many secrets you uncover when you work for a newspaper. When Mrs. Gage moved to Florida, the man I suspect of being the blackmailer obtained her address from her grandson, saying he owed her money which he wished to repay. He continued to hound her, until she confided in Claude Sprott. A few days later, Gil Inchpot was murdered, and the state detectives have neither a motive nor a suspect."
Wilmot was swiveling in his chair, a rapt listener. "Sprott had a vested interest in Mrs. Gage's estate, of course."
"What was left of it," Qwilleran added. "His sticky fingers had already been in the pie, one way and another."
"If he arranged for Inchpot's murder, who could have pulled the trigger?"
zQwilleran was ready for the question. "When you and I talked about it at the wedding, Pender, I told you that Sprott and his companion were in Pickax, incognito, for the preview of 'The Big Burning.' Now it occurs to me that they had flown up here not only to appraise the rare chandeliers. That was the weekend Inchpot disappeared. They probably rented a car at the airport and knocked on the door of his farmhouse, saying they were out of gas - after which they dropped his body in the woods and left his truck at the airport."
"Odd, isn't it, that they chose the Klingenschoen woods?"
"Not odd. Virtually unavoidable. Do you realize how many square miles of woodland belong to the Klingenschoen estate around Mooseville and Brrr?... And here's something else I've just learned," Qwilleran told the attorney. "As soon as their Milwaukee associate was arrested in my elevator and their Florida assistant was fugitive in a stolen vehicle, they skipped the Park of Pink Sunsets."
"We should see the prosecutor fast," Wilmot said. "Let's try to catch him before he goes to lunch."
-20-
AFTER A LONG session with the Moose County prosecutor, Qwilleran telephoned Celia Robinson. "I called to sing the praises of your chocolate brownies," he said. "I assume no one is listening to our conversation."
"Nobody ever came back," she said in a tone of bewilderment. "The police have been here, asking questions. Clayton and I have sort of taken charge of the office. We're trying to keep people calm, but the oldsters at the park get very upset."
"I also want to compliment your grandson on the tape. He's a smart young man."
"Yes, I'm proud of him."
"Have you been able to recall anything about the Sunday that Mrs. Gage died?"
"Well, Mr. Crocus and I put our heads together, she said, "and we remembered that the electricity went off around suppertime. There was no storm or anything, but every home on Kumquat Court lost power, and Pete came looking for a short circuit. He went to every home on the court."
"Including Mrs. Gage's?"
"Everybody's. We never found out what caused it. The power wasn't off for long, so it wasn't serious. That's the only thing we can remember."
"Good enough!" Qwilleran commended her.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Qwilleran?"
"I may have an idea to discuss with you later on... Excuse me a moment. The doorbell's ringing."
"That's all right. I'll hang up. Happy New Year!" It was Andrew Brodie at the door. "Come on in, chief," Qwilleran said. "Is this a social call, or did you come to talk shop?"
"Both. I'll take a nip of Scotch if you've got any. I'm on my way home." He followed Qwilleran into the kitchen. "A little water and no ice. What are you gonna drink?"
"Cider. Let's take our glasses into the library." Brodie dropped into a large, old, underslung leather chair. "Feels like a hammock," he said.
"You'll sag, too, when you're that old."
"That's some Christmas tree you've got." The chief was looking at Polly's wreath.
"Have a good Christmas, Andy?"
"The usual. Did you get your lights fixed downstairs?"
"Good as new."
Something was on Brodie's mind. His staccato small talk was a kind of vamp-till-ready until he came to the point. "What's happening on Goodwinter Boulevard?" he asked. "A lot of property's changing hands."
"Is that good or bad?" Qwilleran asked.
"All depends. There's a rumor that the Klingenschoen money is behind it."
"Interesting, if true."
Brodie threw him a swift, fierce Scottish scowl. "In other words, you ain't talkin'."
"I've nothing to say."
"You had plenty to say to the prosecutor's office today. I hear they even sent out for roast beef sandwiches from Lois's."
"Your operatives don't miss a thing, Andy."
"I knew Inchpot," the chief said, "and I'd never figure him for a blackmailer."
"Perhaps he had professional advice," Qwilleran suggested slyly. "Extortion consultation and one-stop money-laundering would be the kind of services George Breze might offer. His business card was found in Euphonia's files. Was he an intermediary?"
Brodie brushed the jest aside. "He serviced her Mercedes... How come you came up with all those clues in the Inchpot case when the state bureau was stymied? Did your psychic cat work on it?" He had learned about Koko's unique capabilities from a city detective Down Below.
"Well, I'll tell you this: Koko and his sidekick collaborated to catch the thief in the elevator. I don't know how many hours he'd been trapped in pitch darkness, but claustrophobia had made him a screaming maniac by the time Nick Bamba and I walked in... Freshen your drink?"