Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

"Well, there were sixteen of us on the bus traveling around Scotland," he began, "and our driver was a Scot named Bruce, a sullen fellow with red hair who spoke only to Irma.

They conversed, I believe, in Gaelic." "She knew Gaelic? That's a tough language." "They seemed to communicate all right. Then one morning she was found dead in bed by her roommate, Polly Duncan.

Cause of death: cardiac arrest, according to Dr. Melinda, who was traveling with us. The next day the bus driver disappeared, and so did Grace Utley's luggage, containing a small fortune in jewels. I suppose you know about her spectacular jewelry--and the way she flaunts it." "That I do! She's a walking Christmas tree!" "We notified the village constable and gave a description of Bruce, but no one knew the guy's last name except Irma, and she was dead!" "And Scotland is full of redheads by the name of Bruce. So what's the advice you want?" "I have reason to believe," and here Qwilleran smoothed his moustache proudly, "that the heart stoppage was drug induced We hear of young athletes dropping dead because of substance abuse. If it can happen to them, it can happen to a forty year-old woman with an existing heart condition." "You can't tell me that Irma was doing drugs. Not her! Not that woman!" "Listen, Andy.

Every night after dinner she went out with Bruce. There was a lot of gossip about it." "Why would a classy dame like her hang around with a bus driver?" "We've since found out--from correspondence in her briefcase--that he was an old flame. Also, it appears, an ex-con. If he was plotting a jewel heist, wouldn't he get rid of the one person who could identify him? I suspect he slipped her some kind of drug." Brodie grunted.

"Do the police over there know that you suspect homicide?" "No, it's a new development. But here's the good news, Andy." Qwilleran waved a slip of paper.

"We've found the name, address, and phone number of Bruce's sister in Edinburgh, and through her we learned his last name is Gow." "Give it here," said the chief, reaching across the desk.

"Also the name of the town where you reported the larceny. Do you know what we're getting into?

They'll want to exhume the body!" Then he added, partly in jest and partly because he believed in Koko's extraordinary gifts, "If Scotland Yard can't find the suspect, we'll assign your smart cat to the case." "Yes," said Qwilleran, going along with the gag.

"Too bad Koko wasn't there!" He left the police station with a light step, knowing he had contributed vital information to the investigation, and he treated himself to a good American breakfast of ham and eggs at Lois's Luncheonette, with a double order of her famous country fries. His elation was short-lived, however. When he returned home, the barn was a scene of havoc: torn newspapers everywhere, books on the floor, the telephone knocked off its cradle, and the rest of Qwilleran's morning coffee spilled on the desk and floor, while Koko was in the throes of a cat fit He raced around and around the main floor, almost faster than the eye could see, then up the circular ramp to the catwalk under the roof, where he screamed like a banshee before pelting down the ramp again, rolling on the floor, and fighting an imaginary adversary. Qwilleran watched in helpless astonishment until the cat, having made his point, sat down on the coffee table and licked himself all over. He had staged cat fits before, and it was always a desperate attempt to communicate.

"What's it all about, Koko?" Qwilleran asked as he cleaned up the mess.

"What are you trying to say?" It was Irma's obituary that had been shredded, and he was trying to convey that she had not died of natural causes; of that Qwilleran was sure. He had learned to read Koko's body language and the nuances of his yowling. The varying inflections and degrees of intensity--like the subtleties of Oriental speech--registered affirmation or negation, approval or disapproval, excitement or indifference, imperious demand or urgent warning. Now, as Qwilleran watched that rippling pink tongue grooming that snowy white breast, an idea flashed through his head.

It was a wild shot but worth trying. He would interrogate Koko! He waited patiently until the fastidious toilette was finished, then sprawled in the roomy lounge chair where the three of them always gathered for enjoyment of quality time. Yum Yum hopped onto his lap, landing weightlessly like a squirt of whipped cream, while Koko settled on the wide arm of the upholstered chair with perfect composure.

Solemnly, Qwilleran began, "This is a serious discussion, Koko, and I want you to give it your personal best." "Yow," the cat replied, squeezing his eyes agreeably. The man turned on the tape recorder, which was never far from his trigger finger.

"Are you aware of the death of Irma Hasselrich?" "Yowl" came the prompt reply, an obvious affirmative.

"Was she murdered?" Koko hesitated before saying "Yowl" in a positive way.