Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Talked Turkey

“Do you have any guess what happened to the contents?”

Brodie replied, “If there was anything in it when Eddington inherited, I say he converted it into government savings bonds and lived on them for the rest of his life. He sure didn’t make enough money in the book business to keep his cat in sardines.”

“But he was an astute bookman, Andy, despite his modest personality. Once in a while he probably bought a book for a dollar and sold it for a thousand. And he had a bookbinding business in the back room.”

Qwilleran asked, “Well, anyway, what did you want to talk about?”

“The beach property you inherited from Fanny Klingenschoen. How far does it extend?”

“Half a mile—from Top o’ the Dunes Club on the east to Cooper’s Lane on the west. That’s the dirt road with a boat launch at the end.”

“Yeah. Used to be a hangout for kids until the sheriff cracked down.”

“The entire K property is being placed in conservancy, but it hasn’t been posted as yet. Why do you ask?”

The chief cut another wedge of cheese and poured another drink. “Mighty good cheese! . . . Well, a sheriff’s deputy on patrol last night, just before dark, saw buzzards circling a patch of woods. She investigated and found a dead body on your property, about a hundred yards in from Cooper’s Lane. Well-dressed male, shot in the back of the head, stripped of all ID. It’ll be in the paper tomorrow, but I thought you’d like to know.”

Qwilleran felt a familiar prickling sensation on his upper lip. “Any idea as to the time of death?”

“Interesting point. It was late afternoon, when everybody was at the groundbreaking, and all three police agencies were handling traffic.”

“What are you implying, Andy? That it was a local job?”

“Or someone from Down Below trying to make it look like a local job. The SBI was called in. Don’t say a word about this. What’s the name of this cheese?”

“Port Salut, from the Sip and Nibble Shop.”

Brodie grunted ambiguously. He gave Koko some morsels of cheese and was letting Yum Yum untie his shoes. The three of them had come a long way since their first awkward meeting.

Then, as the chief left, he said, “Let me know if your smart cat has any clues about this crime.”

Brodie left, and Qwilleran realized that Koko’s ghastly howl the previous afternoon really had been a death howl, and it signified wrongful death. It was happening thirty miles away! How did he know?

Qwilleran shook his head. One could go mad trying to figure out that cat! Was there a connection with something else? It was usually the case.

TWO

The town of Brrr was not only the oldest in Moose County but also the coldest. (Visitors were warned not to go swimming or fall out of their boats.) It was also the most glamorous, in natural beauty and antiquity. There was a natural harbor, at the head of which soared a noble cliff, and on the cliff was a historic building with the unlikely name of Hotel Booze. Across its roof was a sign in letters that could be seen a mile into the lake: FOOD . . . ROOMS . . . BOOZE.

The Black Bear Café in the hotel served the best burgers in the county. At the entrance was a mounted bear rising menacingly on hind legs, and the proprietor had an ursine appearance himself, with his shuffling gait and shaggy black hair and beard.

On Monday morning Qwilleran phoned the innkeeper, Gary Pratt, to talk about Brrr’s birthday party, and was not surprised to be invited to lunch. The café had a down-to-earth shabbiness that appealed to boaters, fishermen, and campers, and the high stools at the long bar were appropriately rickety.

Gary was behind the bar. “Want to have your burger at the bar, Qwill? Then we can talk.”

“It’s smart of you to call it a birthday party instead of a bicentennial,” Qwilleran said. “It’s in keeping with the personality of the town and will appeal to your kind of tourists.”

“It’s crazy, but we can get away with it because we’re fifty years older than Pickax. Their shindig’ll be pretty grand, I hear. We can do things they can’t—like a parade of two hundred cabin cruisers, each flying an American flag. It’s gonna be a fantastic spectacle. The TV crews will be up here from Down Below.”

“Do you have that many cabin cruisers?”

“Sure do! They’re signing up already—from towns all along the beach. And for the kids, we’re building a ten-foot wooden birthday cake with two hundred electric candles—make a wish and blow, and the candles go out! Thing of it is, we can do stunts like this that would be too crazy for Pickax.”

For a while Gary left to tend bar, and Qwilleran enjoyed the burger called “bear burger” by the regulars. Then they discussed the show on the Great Storm. It would be staged in the hotel ballroom, same as the show on the Big Burning.

“You may remember, Gary, that I had an assistant to handle the tape recorder and bring in music or voices on cue. Can we get Nancy Fincher to do it again? She was very good.”

“Too bad,” Gary said. “Nancy married a dog-sledder who races in the Iditarod, and she moved to Minnesota with her thirty Siberian huskies. But I know a guy who could do a good job for you.”

“A woman is better, Gary—for visual balance and interest. She’d have to be available for rehearsals—to get the timing down pat. Timing is everything.”

“Excuse me a minute.” Gary moved down the bar and served an early luncher and two early drinkers.

Qwilleran was drinking Squunk water, a mineral water from a local spring.

When Gary shuffled back with a plate of apple pie, he said, “Did you ever happen to meet Lish Carroll? I think she left town before you came up here.”

Qwilleran said, “I can safely say I’ve never in my life met anyone called Lish.”

“Short for Alicia,” the barkeeper said. “She’s my age. I knew her in high school. A sharp cookie—into science, math, computers—all A’s. I steered clear of that type.”

Gary said, “Funny thing, I remember that she had very small feet, and when the guys teased her about it, she said that people with small feet have large brains, and she looked pointedly at the gunboats they were wearing. Lish was never subtle!

“She left town after high school, but she’s back now, visiting her grandmother. Don’t know how long she’ll be here, but she’d be the right one to press buttons on cue for your show.”

“Where does she live?”

“Milwaukee, I think.”

“Milwaukee?” Qwilleran had a suppressed desire to talk with a Milwaukeean and ask some questions—just to satisfy his curiosity. Nothing serious.

“What is this smart cookie’s profession, may I ask?”

“I don’t know exactly. There’s always been a lot of gossip about her. Excuse me.” Gary signaled to a waitress who was setting up tables and pointed to the customers at the bar. Then he said to Qwilleran, “Let’s go into my office.”

Qwilleran’s interest was piqued. Lish sounded promising.

Gary shut the door and poured two mugs of coffee from his personal carafe. It proved to be somewhat better than the brew served in the restaurant. In Qwilleran’s book “stronger” meant “better.”

“The thing of it is,” Gary began, “Lish lived with her grandma in Brrr while she was in high school. She even took her grandmother’s last name. Perhaps you know old Mrs. Carroll who lives in the house that looks like Mount Vernon. No? There was a scandal, you see, in Lockmaster, where Lish had grown up. Her father was a big-shot landowner, and her mother was a social snob. Then he went to prison for land fraud—on a grand scale!—and a female employee was involved, one way or another. His wife was so stunned or embarrassed or something that she overdosed. And Lish landed in Brrr with her grandmother.”