Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

"I warned you it would turn into a farce," Qwilleran said. "The only Ibsen drama ever played for laughs!"

"Don't panic! We'll work it out. Unfortunately, she doesn't like the man who's playing Judge Brack. She'd rather play opposite you, Qwill."

"Sure. But she's not going to play opposite me. I'm the drama critic for the paper, remember? I can't have one leg on the stage and the other in row five."

"But she's right. You'd be a perfect Brack, and you have such a commanding voice. Also, to be grossly mercenary about it, your presence in the cast would sell tickets."

"If you're chiefly interested in the box office, the K Fund will be glad to buy out the house for all nine performances."

"Forget I mentioned it," Fran said.

The four o'clock lull at Lois's Luncheonette would be an auspicious time to visit the suspect's mother, Qwilleran thought. Would she be fighting mad or pained beyond words? To his surprise, Lenny himself was the only one in sight. He was mopping the new vinyl floor, a hideous pattern of flowers an geometrics that had been donated to the lunchroom and installed by devoted customers.

"Mom's in the kitchen, prepping dinner," Lenny said. Though in work clothes, he looked more like a club manager than a mop-pusher.

"Don't disturb her," Qwilleran said. "It's you I want to see. Let's sit in a booth." He indicated a corner booth behind the cash register. "Did G. Allen Barter contact you?"

"Yeah. Do you think I need him?"

"You certainly do! Don't worry about the expense. The K Fund is interested in your case. Bart will see that you're exonerated."

"But what if I'm guilty?" the young man said with a mischievous grin.

"We'll take that chance, smart-ape! Even Brodie thinks the allegations are preposterous, but he had to follow the letter of the law. You'll notice they didn't keep you in jail or ask you to post bond. Now... would you like to tell me what you know? I'd like to find the real culprit, not that it's any of my business. How long have you been working at the clubhouse?"

"About six weeks. Don's a good boss. All the members are fun. It's better than desk clerk at the hotel, plus I get a nice office."

"Where was the money jar kept?"

"In my office, in a cabinet with pencils, tallies, nut dishes, and other stuff. There wasn't any lock on the cabinet, but the jar was covered with a paper bag."

"What did you think when the money was stolen?"

"I couldn't understand it. Nobody knew the jar was there except the bridge club."

"Who else had access to your office?"

"Anybody who wanted to pay their dues or see the schedule of events - plus there were maintenance guys, cleaning crew, caterers."

"Where was your locker?" Qwilleran asked.

"In the back hall with all the other employee lockers." "Do they have locks?"

"Padlocks are supplied, but nobody uses them. I just put my boots and jacket in there."

"Is your name on your locker?"

"Sure. They all have names."

"Why did you go to Duluth?"

"Well, I had to study for exams, you see, and in Pickax I've got too many friends who like to party, so I went to my aunt's house in Duluth. I no sooner opened my books than a couple of deputies knocked on the door. They were guys I went to school with, and they were embarrassed because they thought I really stole the stuff. I knew I hadn't... At least, I don't think I did," Lenny said with a wicked grin."

"Don't let your whimsical sense of humor get you into trouble," Qwilleran advised him.

A loud voice from the kitchen interrupted. "Lenny! Who's that you're gabbin' with? Get off your duff and mop that floor! Folks'll be comin' in for supper."

Lenny yelled back, "It's Mr. Q, Mom. He wants to talk about the case."

"Oh!... Okay... Give him the other mop and put him to work. He can talk at the same time."

"I'm leaving," Qwilleran shouted.

"Want a doggie bag? I've got some meatballs left over from lunch."

Back in Indian Village the Siamese were sleeping in Qwilleran's reading chair. They had cushioned baskets, windowsills, and perches in their own rooms on the balcony. Yet, with feline perversity they preferred a man-size lounge chair with deep cushions and suede covering.

While they were walking and yawning and stretching and scratching their ears. Qwilleran phoned Don Exbridge at home and caught him in the middle of the happy hour.

"Something's screwy somewhere!" Exbridge said. "If Lenny's guilty, I'm a donkey's uncle! Come on over for a drink! Bring Polly!"

"Wish I could, but I'm working tonight," Qwilleran said. "I just want you to know G. Allen Barter is representing him."

"Great! Great! And his job will be waiting for him when it's all over."

"Have you had any applicants for it?"

"Some other students. We've taken applications, that's all. We're waiting to see which way the wind blows. The manager at the gatehouse is working two jobs."

"Well, you know, there's no telling how long Lenny will have to wit for a hearing, and I could recommend a temporary substitute who'd be perfect in the interim - an older woman, very responsible, cheerful - used to working with people. And she doesn't want to earn much money; it might affect her Social Security."

Who is she?"

"Celia Robinson. You wouldn't be disappointed. Why don't I tell her to apply for the job?'

"She's got it! She's got it already!... Sure you don't want to come over for a drink?"

Feeling smug, Qwilleran hung up the phone and called Celia at her apartment in town.

"Hi, Chief!" she greeted him. "Happy New Year! Or is it too late?"

"It's never too late. Happy New Year! Happy Mother's Day!"

She screamed with laughter, a chronic overractor to his quips.

"Seriously, Celia, have you heard about Lenny Inchpot's trouble?"

"Have I? It's all over town. His mother must be out of her mind."

"We're all concerned, and I personally suspect dirty work."

"Do I smell something cooking, Chief?" she asked eagerly.

"Just this: Lenny's position at Indian Village needs to be filled, quickly, by a temporary substitute. It's part-time, managing the social rooms at the clubhouse. I suggested you apply. Don Exbridge is expecting your call. I'll explain later. It's your kind of job, Celia."

"Gotcha, Chief!" she said knowingly and with a final peal of laugher.

Two cats were watching Qwilleran closely when he replaced the receiver, as if to say, What about those meatballs? He crumbled one, and they gobbled it with gusto, spitting out the onion fastidiously. Then, while he was watching them do their ablutions, Koko deliberately walked over Yum Yum and rapped her on the nose. She cowered.

"Koko! Stop that! Bad cat!" Qwilleran scolded as he picked up the little one and nuzzled her head under his chin. "What's that monster doing to my beautiful little girl? Why don't you hiss at him - scare the daylights out of him.?"

To Koko he said, sharply, "I don't like your behavior, young man! What's wrong with you? If this continues, we'll have to find a cat shrink."

He reported the incident to Polly that evening when he went to her place for dinner. The Siamese were curled up blissfully together when he left. Polly thought Koko was frustrated by some new development in his life. It might have something to do with hormones. The veterinarian could prescribe something. Bootsie was taking pink pills.

Once a week Polly invited Qwilleran to what she laughingly called a "chicken dinner." The dietician at the hospital had given her seventeen low-calorie, low- cholesterol recipes for glamorizing a flattened chicken breast: with lemon and toasted almonds, with artichoke hearts and garlic, and so forth.

"Think of it as scaloppini di pollo appetito," Polly suggested. To Qwilleran it was still flattened chicken breast - in fact, half a flattened chicken breast. He always thawed a burger for himself when he went home. On this occasion the week's special was FCB with mushrooms and walnuts.