Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

Clarissa, who had been doing research on mold for a school assignment, said that mold found in old houses could cause illness - or even death in old people - and maybe I could use it in a story. Greg, who was in the building business, said the mold, a fungus, could be implanted in the air ducts of a building.

I said I would try using it in a story, and if it sold, I would split the commission with them. (I wrote it, but it didn't sell.)

I said I'd have to go back to poison in the soup. Bad joke, considering what happened at the Old Manse.

In case you don't know, Harvey and Greg visited the rich uncle last winter to request backing for a ski lodge, and Harvey was slapped down hard. College tuition - yes. Ski lodge - no. But Harvey didn't give up. He went to the Old Manse a second time - with a sketch pad and Clarissa. But when he mentioned the ski lodge property as an investment, Uncle Nathan vetoed it again. As the story goes, Harvey was so mad he refused to go to church when the whole household went on Sunday morning. What was he doing while the others were singing hymns?

I think - and Greg thinks - he was poisoning the air ducts. Greg says the black fungus can be scraped off old houses; it can be found under the wallpaper and in dark closets. He should know; his specialty is restoring old buildings.

At any rate, after their visit to the Old Manse, Clarissa and Harvey broke up. She got a job at the Something, and Harvey's aunt and uncle became ill. "Allergies," they said. I'm very worried about them.

Does this sound like a synopsis for a crime story, Qwill? Or what?

Vicki

Qwilleran said, "My question is: What about Nathan's will?"

"Relax, Qwill. Nathan took care of that the day after Harvey was here last winter. He's leaving everything to the community. But I'll show this letter to the prosecutor. Harvey should be apprehended on suspicion of homicide."

Qwilleran thought, While the Ledfield household, including servants, was at church on Sunday morning, Harvey was implanting fungus in the air ducts of the master suite. . . . Koko knew from the beginning that Harvey was a murderer; that's why he dropped on his head - something he'd never done before.

By Tuesday morning Moose County was in an uproar! Two members of an important family had been murdered, and their nephew was being flown back from California as a suspect - under protective custody. Everyone was listening to WPKX newsbites; the grapevine was working overtime; the coffee shops were crowded; rumours were flying.

"He'll be lucky if he ain't lynched!"

"Wasn't he the son of that no-good brother?"

"Wanted their money. They had plenty."

"But they were never stingy."

"No kids of their own."

"Did you know he played the violin? His wife played the piano. They were pretty good, they say."

"How old were they?"

"Not too old. My sister used to see them in church."

"My next-door neighbour used to work for them. She said they were good people. Mrs. Ledfield even remembered my sister's birthday. Imagine that!"

"Too bad they never had kids."

"What will happen to their big house?"

"Somebody'll make a hotel out of it."

"Nah! Not in that neighbourhood. Are you nuts?"

Qwilleran's phone rang incessantly but all calls were transferred to the answering machine, and he chose which to return - very few.

There was one he called back, Junior Goodwinter.

The young managing editor said, "How'd you like that for bad timing? No paper today! Just our Hurricane Special!"

"Could you throw together a Homicide Special?" Qwilleran suggested facetiously.

"You're not kidding. We'll do a memorial section on Thursday. Could you rustle up a ?Late Greats' column? Any other suggestions will be appreciated."

"Maggie Sprenkle was their closest friend. She can tell you plenty - all in good taste."

"Would you call her? You seem to be her fair-haired boy."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "What's the deadline?"

Moose County was mopping up. Although the storm had finished its dirty work, the sun was not exactly shining, and folks still wore the hurt expressions of citizens who had been punished for something they didn't do.

Chapter 18

Tuesday night WPKX kept the grapevine awake with hints about murder in high places. Wednesday morning the Something published an extra, announcing the deaths of Nathan and Doris Ledfield, plus a bulletin that a Ledfield heir had been arrested in California. The entire edition sold out in two hours. And for the rest of the day, all telephone lines were busy throughout the county.

Qwilleran wrote so copiously in his private journal that he had to drive to the stationery shop for another notebook. Not the classic cloth-bound hardcover suitable for preservation in the Library of Congress. Not a slick black-and-chromium looseleaf. Just an ordinary school notebook with lined pages bound into an ugly brown plastic cover.

Behind the stationer, there was a print shop that had permission to reproduce Cool Koko's wise sayings on eight-by-ten cards suitable for framing, with proceeds going to animal welfare. (It's worth noting that a manufacturer of picture frames claimed to sell more eight-by-tens in Moose County than in the rest of the entire state.)

The most recent was: "Cool Koko says: Look before you leap on the kitchen stove."

From there Qwilleran went to the department store to buy a pair of socks he hardly needed.

Larry Lanspeak was busy in the front of the store. "Go back to the office," he said to Qwilleran. "Carol wants to see you."

Carol gave him a tearful greeting. "Oh Qwill! I can't believe the dreadful thing that happened! Liz Hart was killed on the Bloody Creek Bridge last night. Liz was like a second daughter to us!"

He commiserated the best he could and then brought up the obvious question: "What will happen to the Old Grist Mill?"

"Her brothers will want to sell," Carol said, "and those sharpies in Lockmaster will want to buy, but we can't let them get a toehold in Moose County . . ." She paused and waited for a reaction. Getting none, she blurted, "Why don't you buy it, Qwill? . . . I mean, the K Fund?"

"Hmmm," he mused, aware of the feeling between the two counties. "The K Fund invests in local properties. You might suggest it to G. Allen Barter of HBB&A . . ."

"We know Bart very well!" Carol said with enthusiasm. "The Barters have a farm next to ours."

Qwilleran continued his walk through downtown, exchanging greetings with passersby - words and gestures that were more somber than usual.

On Main Street he automatically looked up at the second floor of the Sprenkle Building to see if the five "ladies" were in the five windows. This time one was missing. Was she unwell? Having a bite to eat? Or had she just excused herself? He stopped to watch, often wondering if the ladies could see him across the street, and if they would recognize his moustache. Then Maggie appeared in the window beckoning him urgently.

He crossed the street, waving thank you to the drivers who stopped to let him through the crowded traffic lanes.

At the entrance a buzzer admitted him, and he climbed the narrow stairs covered with plush carpet thick enough to turn an ankle.

As he expected, Maggie wanted to talk about the Ledfield tragedy.

Qwilleran said, "I regret sincerely that I never met the Ledfields."

"It would have been a case of mutual admiration," she cried. "Nathan admired your handling of the Klingenschoen fortune - and he always read the ?Qwill Pen' aloud to Doris. . . . Oh, Qwill!" She showed signs of another emotional outburst.

"Stay calm, Maggie. Remember and be thankful for all the years the Sprenkles and the Ledfields had together."