Amanda made an unpleasant noise.
Qwilleran said, “Irma is a mystery to me. I wish I knew what she’s all about.’”
“I’ll tell you what she’s all about,” said Amanda with her usual belligerence.
“When she was eighteen she killed her boyfriend, and old Judge Goodwinter-before he went off his rocker completely-sentenced her to twenty years in prison, but the Hasselriches made it worth his while to reduce the sentence. She got probation in the custody of her parents, plus orders to do ten years of community service. She’s been serving the community ad nauseam every since!”
Riker glanced at Qwilleran and rolled his eyes expressively. “So, let’s have the latest news on the Mooseville murder beat, Qwill. As usual it happened after our weekend issue had gone to press. I’ll be glad when the new building’s finished and we can start printing five days a week.”
“First I’ll let the cats out of their apartment. Otherwise Koko will raise the roof when he hears us talking about him.” He opened a door at the end of a hall, and two proud Siamese paraded into the living room with tails and whiskers perpendicular. Yum Yum commenced an investigation of shoelaces. Koko rose effortlessly to a bookshelf six feet off the floor and settled down between Simenon and Conan Doyle.
“Well, Nick Bamba came over Friday night,” Qwilleran began, “and we were having a quiet evening with the lights out and loaded firearms across our knees, in case anything happened, when Koko suddenly started making an ungodly fuss. He wanted to go underground! We let him go, and he led us to the names of the five carpenters who are alleged murder victims: Joe, Mert, Buddy, Clem, and Iggy-together with the dates of their demise. Captain Phlogg wasn’t included; apparently the old soak really drank himself to death, as everyone thought.”
“Where were the names?” Riker asked.
“Daubed on a floor joist in a tight spot where only a cat would find them. Nick thought the names were written in blood, but it was lipstick. That’s when I knew the killer was Joanna Trupp.”
Amanda snorted in disdain. “What’s to stop a man from buying a lipstick if he wants to write on joists?”
“True,” said Qwilleran, “but the first three names matched the purplish-red lipstick that Joanna lost in my cabin. Yum Yum had hidden it under the sofa. The last two names, apparently written after she bought a new lipstick, were in a different color-more orange.”
“Why do you suppose she wrote with lipstick?” Riker asked. “Or is that question too naive?”
“For the same reason that people use lipstick to write farewell messages on bathroom mirrors: It’s handy. If Little Joe were a house-painter instead of a plumber, she might have used red enamel. Don’t overlook the significance of the color … The question next arises: Why did she keep a tally of her victims?’”
“Because women like to make lists,” Riker said archly, and Amanda scowled at him.
“Because each murder boosted her ego. It was a scorecard of her victories in a private war she was waging.”
Riker said, “I’ll bet she conked those guys with a lead pipe or a monkey wrench.”
“We can assume she conked her father with the tailgate of a dump truck. Mert and Clem are unaccounted for; there’ll be a search for their buried bodies on her property when the water recedes. Their trucks were found within walking distance of her private graveyard. Likewise, the mudslide where Buddy Yarrow went into the river was nearby.”
“Question!” said Riker. “Since the first four were reported as accidents or missing persons, when did you first suspect murder?”
“Subliminally, I suppose, when Koko started tapping his tail. He’d been watching the carpenter drive nails bang bang bang, and when the man failed to report for work, Koko’s tail started going tap tap tap.”
“Sounds like hogwash to me,” Amanda muttered. “How about a refill, Sherlock? The Squunk water was delicious, but don’t forget the bourbon this time.”
Qwilleran refreshed her drink but not without a wink at Riker. “Perhaps it was none of my business,” he said, “but I went around asking questions yesterday.
Cecil Huggins remembers making a duplicate key for Joanna; it could have been a key to my cabin. The guys at the lumberyard remember Clem saying he was going to build a house on Hogback Road. The night bartender at the Shipwreck Tavern remembers the last time Mert came into the bar; Joanna was buying his drinks.”
“Convenient recall!” Amanda protested. “Hearsay! Circumstantial evidence!”
“I admit it, but you can be sure that the mortality rate for carpenters will decline now that Joanna-and Louise-are in custody.”
“Louise! Who’s Louise?” Riker asked.
“Ah! Now we come to the curious part. Little Joe didn’t know she was killing.
She had invented another self-another girl-to do the dirty work. No doubt it was the only way she could cope with her intolerable homelife. For years both she and her sister were sexually abused by their father. When the younger girl killed herself-out of desperation, guilt, self-loathing, or whatever-it must have triggered a murderous hate in Joanna. Shortly after, “Louise” engineered the tailgate accident that killed Big Joe. Little Joe’s twisted reasoning would go something like this: Big Joe was a carpenter; he was a bad man; therefore all carpenters are bad men. It became the holy mission of “Louise” to wipe them out, one by one.”
“Shocking!” said Riker.
“That’s what serial killers are all about,” Qwilleran said. “Their motivation doesn’t make sense. That’s why they’re so hard to catch.”
“YOW!” came a loud voice from the bookshelf, and three heads turned to look.
Qwilleran said, “Koko no longer taps with his tail, now that the carpenter-killer has been apprehended. And I’m glad it’s over. My only regret is that the murderer turned out to be Little Joe.”
“What will happen to her?”
“Her fate now, I suppose, is in the hands of the courts and the doctors. It will take a lot of psychiatric treatment to straighten her out and get some answers to questions.”
In the moment of silence that followed, a faint but distinct sound came from the Conan Doyle shelf: tap tap tap.
Amanda crowed with delight. “I always knew you were a windbag, Qwill, but I like your moustache.”
After his guests had gone, Qwilleran made coffee for himself, poured a saucer of white grape juice for Koko, and gave Yum Yum a crumb of cheese. Then he sprawled in the big chair in his writing studio, while the Siamese arranged themselves on his desk in photogenic poses, waiting for the conversation to begin.
“Now that we’re back in Pickax,” he said, “I can’t believe we spent those three lunatic weeks in Mooseville. There’s something intoxicating about the atmosphere up there that distorts reality. It should be investigated by the narcs … Or even the EPA; it could be radioactivity from those UFOs.”
Koko squeezed his eyes in agreement.
“And the behavior of you two was enough to unhinge a rational mind. When you staged your catfit, were you really alarmed by the ringing phone? Or were you trying to distract the inspector in a tense moment?”
Koko blinked innocently, and Yum Yum yawned.
“I’d also like to know, young man, why you reacted to Russell Simms in such an ungentlemanly manner. You embarrassed me! It’s true there was something weird about her; she moved like a cat and had eyes like a cat, and she seemed to have a sixth sense … Hey, where are you going? Come back here!”
Koko had jumped down from the desk and was walking from the room with that particular stiff-legged gait that denoted supercilious disapproval. He paused in the doorway only long enough to switch his tail contemptuously-twice- before completing his haughty exit.