Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

"I'll be there."

Meanwhile he fed the cats and thawed his own dinner: a freezer carton marked M-and-C. This, plus Fran's reference to C-and-GC, gave him an idea for the "Qwill Pen." Comfort food! What did prominent townsfolk crave in times of exhaustion, sadness, or frustration? Polly always prepared poached eggs on toast with the crusts cut off. He could imagine the mayor gulping red Jell-O, George Breze wallowing in mashed potatoes and gravy, and Amanda Goodwinter gorging on Oreos, Chief Brodie eating chocolate pudding.

As he swallowed his macaroni and cheese, the Siamese sat in quiet bundles on the carpet, not looking at each other, not looking at anything. Abruptly Koko rose, stretched, walked over to Yum Yum and, without apparent malice, bopped her on the head. She winced.

"Stop that!" Qwilleran shouted. "Act like a gentleman!"

Koko strolled nonchalantly from the room.

Picking up the little female and fondling her silky ears, Qwilleran murmured, "Why do you let him get away with that? Sock him on the nose!" She purred throatily.

Then it was time to visit Fran. Bundled in layers of warm clothing, he walked the length of the Village to her apartment. The young woman who opened the door wore sweats and no makeup. She looked pale and frazzled.

"Help yourself in the fridge, if you want anything," she said, flopping on the sofa. The living room was furnished with items he had seen in the design studio in times gone by - items that apparently had failed to sell: a houndstooth-check sofa, an elephant cocktail table, a lamp with a grapeleaf shade.

"Rough day?" he asked sympathetically.

"We really started the Nouvelle Dining Club with a bang, didn't we? - if you'll pardon the pun," she said.

"The timing seemed more like fiction than fact."

Danielle was lucky to be with friends. If she'd been home alone, Dad would have gone to her apartment to break the news, cop-style. Even so, she was hysterical. When we got home, Dr. Diane was waiting with a hypo, so that helped. In fact, she slept just fine, but I didn't sleep a wink. Larry lined up our tickets, and in the morning we took off. She was groggy until we boarded the jet in Minneapolis. Then she had a drink and started to talk. She'd had a hunch something would happen, because he forgot to take the cigarettes he always packed - for luck."

"Did she feel any guilt?"

"No," said Fran. "After another drink she started putting him down. He called her Danny-girl, which she hates. She'd begged him not to go to the seminar, but his work always came first. He was critical of the way she acted, the clothes she wore, the things she said, and the food she ate... Isn't it ironic, Qwill, that a fast-foodie like Danielle should marry an epicure who thinks ketchup is a mortal sin?"

"They hadn't known each other long before they married," Qwilleran observed.

"She didn't mention how he lavished money on her. He seemed to have plenty. He paid cash for the Fitch house an gave her an unlimited budget to do it over... But now I'm worried, Qwill. She ordered fabulous custom furniture and carpets for the house. Suppose... just suppose she never comes back and the studio is stuck for the order! Some of the fabric are a hundred dollars a yard!"

"What kind of deposit did they give you?"

Fran looked sheepish. "None, actually. We didn't ask for one. This is a small town; her husband was head of the bank; they were fantastic customers... When I ordered things for your barn, Qwill, did I ask for a deposit?"

"Well... no."

"So when we were on the plane and she was jabbering away, I was dying to know her plans, although I didn't want to ask her flat out. I thought about it hard and then took a deep breath and said, `Danielle, this is going to be a rough time for you, but it would help you adjust if you'd really get involved in the theatre club. You have talent. You should be playing a role in our next production.' You can see I was desperate, Qwill."

"People have been struck down by lightning for lesser lies."

"Well, it worked. Danielle perked up and asked what kind of role."

"I could suggest a couple," Qwilleran said unkindly.

Fran ignored the jibe. "We're scheduled to do Hedda Gabler, and I'm to do the title role, but I'd gladly step aside if it would convince her to stay in Pickax and finish the house." "And let her do Hedda? You're losing it, Fran. You're tired, I'll go home. You go to bed and sleep it off."

"No, I mean it! I'd coach her every step of the way. She's got a phenomenal memory for prices, style numbers, and names of fabrics. She should be able to learn lines."

"There's more to acting than learning lines. Do you want to turn a tragedy into a farce?"

Fran said, "Any port in a storm, as Dad says. Anything to keep a good customer, as Amanda says. By the time Danny-girl had tossed off her third drink, she wanted to finish the house, move in, add a swimming pool, give some parties, buy a couple of horses, and take riding lessons. She also asked about a voice coach and acting lessons. By the time we landed at Metro, she was feeling no pain. Carter Lee was waiting, and they had a tearful reunion. As soon as possible, I said good-bye and told them we looked forward to seeing them both in Pickax - soon."

Qwilleran walked home through the snow and cold, hardly noticing either. He kept stroking his frosted moustache as he pondered Fran's problem and her dubious solution. By the time he let himself into the condo, he looked like a snowman, and the hoary image frightened the Siamese.

He brushed off his outerwear and mopped up the puddles on the foyer's vinyl floor. Then he called Polly with the news.

She was equally aghast. "That tinny voice? In the role of Hedda?"

"I'm afraid so."

"And what about Carter Lee? Is he coming back? Lynette will be disappointed if he doesn't. She's dying to have her house listed on the National Register."

"Do you think it will qualify?"

"Carter Lee thinks so. And Willard Carmichael thought so." Then Polly changed the subject abruptly. "Have you heard the latest newscast?"

"No. What's happened?"

"The police have arrested a suspect in the string of robberies."

"Who?" he asked impatiently.

"The name won't be released until the arraignment."

If I were a betting man," Qwilleran said, "I'd put my money on George Breze."

-7-

"Late to bed and late to rise," was Qwilleran's motto, and he was remarkably healthy, certainly wealthy, and - if not exactly wise - he was witty. On that particular January morning at seven o'clock, he was sleeping peacefully when he was jolted awake and virtually catapulted from his bed by the crashing drums and brasses of the "Washington Post March," as if the entire U.S. Marine Band were bursting through his bedroom wall. He required a few seconds to realize where he was: on the balcony of a poorly built condominium in Indian Village, and his next-door neighbor was playing John Philip Sousa.

Before he could find Wetherby Goode phone number, the volume was toned down. One could still hear and feel the thrum- thrum-thrum of the drums, but the music itself was replaced by the sound of gushing, pelting water. Wetherby Goode was taking a shower.

Only then did Qwilleran recall the news of the night before: the arrest of a robbery suspect, name withheld. He knew he could cajole Brodie into confiding the name if he went downtown to headquarters, so he dressed, fed the cats, and left the house without coffee.

His neighbor was shoveling snow instead of waiting for the Village sidewalk blower. "Good exercise!" he shouted, puffing clouds of vapor.

"I can see that," Qwilleran said. "Good concert this morning, too, but rather short."

Wetherby paused and leaned on his shovel. "Sorry about that. I have a new Sousabox, and my cat must've rubbed her jaw against the controls. I was in the shower and didn't realize what was happening." "That's all right. What's a Sousabox?"