Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

Qwilleran was pleased to find another lead for Tall Tales. He enjoyed his steak sandwich. He found Wetherby to be good company. He liked his enthusiasm and candor. It occurred to Qwilleran that a weatherman from Horseradish might have been a more suitable match for Lynette than a restoration consultant from New York.

On the way back to Indian Village, the driver was busy maneuvering the van through puddles, but at one point he turned to his passenger and said, "I shouldn't ask you this, since you were best man at the wedding - "

"I told you why I was there," Qwilleran said. "I hardly know the groom. Go ahead and ask."

"Were you surprised at the match between Lynette and Carter Lee? Was Polly surprised?"

"I won't presume to answer for Polly. They're sisters-in-law, and she was glad to see Lynette so happy. But...yes, I was surprised - as much as a veteran journalist is ever surprised."

"The reason I ask: I observed Carter Lee at the bridge club. The way he buttered her up was marvelous to behold. And it worked."

"`All's fair in love and war,' they say."

"Maybe, but I'm inclined to think of him as a fortune hunter. Although Lynette has a job and never puts on airs, we all know she inherited the whole Duncan estate. And it seems to me they got married pretty fast. `Marry in haste; repent at leisure,' as the saying goes."

"Someone should have told me that twenty years ago," Qwilleran said.

"In case you don't know, Qwill, there's another fortune hunter in the woods, and she's got her sights on you!"

"Danielle?" Qwilleran dismissed her with a shrug. "She's a little flaky. Believe me, Joe, I've learned how to deal with Lorelei Lee types. They come in all shapes, sizes, and model numbers. I appreciate your concern, though... Does Danielle still show up at the bridge club?"

"Hardly ever, which is okay with us; she's a terrible player. She's busy rehearsing a play. Can you imagine? She's doing the lead in Hedda Gabler!"

"I can't imagine," Qwilleran said quietly.

On Saturday morning another businesslike call from "the accountant's office" informed him that the "documents" he had requested were being delivered to the gatehouse at Indian Village. To pick them up he drove his van carefully through flooded lanes, between shrinking snowbanks under gray skies that were dumping even more water on the soggy terrain. The rain, it raineth every day had been the weatherman's morning adage, not a comforting one.

The clerk in the mailroom handed him a large flat package wrapped in white tissue and tied with red ribbon. "It looks like a valentine," she said. "Maybe it's a big chocolate heart."

At home the Siamese played with the ribbons while Qwilleran read the accompanying note from Celia:

Dear Chief, No problem! I didn't even have to give Red Cap any brownies. He said okay, so I called the lady and she let me pick it up. My! She's a strange one! Let me know if there's anything else I can do. Just had a letter from Clayton. He wants to know how you liked his snapshots. Celia

Qwilleran had not even glanced at Clayton's photos; they were in the Procrastination File. As for the famous Carter Lee James portfolio, it was a leather-bound scrapbook of color photographs under plastic: interiors and exteriors of old houses. They were all apparently authentic and obviously expensive. Before he could peruse them critically, the phone rang again, and he heard the booming voice of the retired insurance agent:

"Qwill, this is Ernie. Ernie Kemple. Is your condo still high and dry?"

"So far, so good. Any flooding on Pleasant Street?"

"No, knock on wood. Every house has a sump pump working overtime."

"How's Tracy?"

Kemple lowered his voice to a gruff rumble. "Do you happen to be coming downtown? I know the driving's bad, but... I don't want to talk on the phone."

Qwilleran said, "I could be lured downtown if someone wanted to have lunch at Onoosh's."

"I can meet you there anytime."

"I'll leave right away."

Ittibittiwassee Road, being a major county thoroughfare, was passable. Even so, Qwilleran silently thanked Scott Gippel for selling him a vehicle with a high axle, I as the wheels swished through large puddles and small floods, spraying rooster tails. Crossing the bridge, he stopped to observe the water level. It was higher than usual but still well below the concrete bridge-bed. Many bridges on back roads were submerged with only their railings visible, according to WPKX.

He tuned in the hourly newsbreak: "Six inches of rain fell in one hour at the official checkpoint in Brrr. Many paved secondary roads are under five inches of water, and the sheriffs department warns motorists to stay on main highways whenever possible. In the Black Creek valley, volunteer firefighters are going from door to door, warning families to move to higher ground. Emergency shelters are being set up in schools and churches."

Traffic was sparse for a Saturday, and there were few pedestrians downtown. Qwilleran and Kemple were the only customers at Onoosh's.

Her partner waited on them. "We told our girls to stay home. Onoosh is alone in the kitchen," he said.

She waved at them from the pass-through.

Qwilleran ordered stuffed grape leaves and tabbouleh. Kemple decided on falafel in a pita pocket.

"You asked about Tracy," he said, still speaking in his confidential rumble. "Her mother's home now and knows how to handle her. They can communicate."

"Did Tracy see the wedding story in the paper?"

"Not until she calmed down, but now she has an entirely new take on the situation. She feels guilty."

"How do you explain that?"

"You remember the little doll of ours that was found in Lenny's locker; we'd reported it stolen... Well, the drama unfolds! Scene One: Tracy had given it as a good-luck token to Carter Lee, without our knowledge. Scene Two: She and Lenny had a falling out, and in the heat of battle he said Carter Lee was a phoney. Scene Three: She's just confessed to my wife that she repeated Lenny's slur to Carter Lee."

"Why?" Qwilleran asked.

"It was on one of her glamorous dates with the big city dude. They were drinking margaritas at the Palomino Paddock. She was high. She didn't know what she was doing."

"Interesting," Qwilleran mused, touching his moustache.

"When the doll turned up in Lenny's locker, she was afraid to come forward. It would spoil her chances with Carter Lee. But now she hates him, and she's filled with remorse for what happened to Lenny. She wants to go to his hearing and tell the judge the truth."

"This gets complicated, Ernie. In coming to the defense of the one, she's accusing the other. If he planted the doll in Lenny's locker, one can assume he also planted the video, sunglasses, etc. And that implies he stole them. He may be a cad and a user, but is he a petty thief? He's a professional man with standing in the community; does he go around snitching sunglasses? Does it mean he also stole the bridge club's money - and his own coat at the New Year's Eve party? Before Tracy does anything, she should consult G. Allen Barter."

Kemple, who had been hunched over the table, leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath. "That's why I wanted to bounce it off you, Qwill. That's a good idea."

"Another thing, Ernie: I hate to say this, but is it possible that Tracy is lying to get revenge on Carter Lee?"

"I admit I thought of that, Qwill. You know, my daughter used to be a sweet, innocent girl, but she got off the track, and circumstances have changed her."

"If it's true that she's lying, she could be in deep trouble. Yes... you'd better talk to Bart in a hurry."

"I appreciate your interest and your advice, Qwill." He reached for the check. "This lunch is on me, and I'll even throw in a little carved and painted wooden doll for a good-luck token."