Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

"Just snooping," Qwilleran said, "but since you're here, I'll ask you a couple of questions. If I write about the liquidation of your father's estate in the "Qwill Pen" column, will that be okay with you?" He knew it would be, but it was an opener.

"God, yes! Every little bit helps," she said.

"I need to sell everything. The preview will be a week from Friday.

Would you like a preview of the preview?" she asked teasingly.

"Hang around, and I'll take you over to the house when we finish here." "Thanks, but not tonight," he said.

"Wouldn't you like to see everything-without people around?" He employed the journalist's standard white lie.

"Sorry, I have to do some writing on deadline. But before I go, here's one more question. It's about Irma's death. As you probably know by now, the bus driver disappeared after you left, along with Grace Utley's jewels, and Irma was the only one who knew his name or anything about him. It occurred to me that Bruce could have given her some kind of fatal drug to conceal his identity." "No, lover, it was cardiac arrest, pure and simple," she said with a patronizing smile, "and considering her medical history and the pace of her life, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner." Qwilleran persisted.

"The police now know the driver has a criminal record, so murder is not beyond the realm of possibility, considering the size of the haul." Melinda shook her head slowly and wisely.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Qwill," she said with a tired, pitying look.

"It would have made a good story, and I know you like to uncover foul play, but this was no crime. Trust me." She brightened.

"If you would like to go somewhere afterward and talk about it, I could explain. We could have a drink at my apartment--or your barn." "Another time, when I'm not on deadline," he said.

"By the way, your Lady Macbeth is looking good." He turned and was halfway across the lobby before she could react to the weak compliment.

He walked home through the woods, swinging a flashlight and thinking ruefully, So it wasn't murder!

Now I suppose I should square things with Polly. The telephone was ringing when he unlocked the door, and Koko was racing around to inform him of the fact.

"Okay, okay! I'm not deaf!" he yelled at the cat as he snatched the receiver.

"Hello? ... Hi, Nick. I just got in the house. What's up?" "You know the Massachusetts car you told me about? I saw it!" said Nick triumphantly.

"The tan car? Forget it!

It belongs to the new chef at the hotel. He's from Fall River." "No, not the tan job, Qwill. The original maroon car! It's back in town." "Where did you see it?" "I was driving north on the highway to Mooseville, and I saw this car turn west on the unpaved stretch of Ittibittiwassee Road. You know where I mean? The Dimsdale Diner is on the corner." "I know the road," Qwilleran said.

"It leads to Shantytown." "Yeah, and the car was beat-up like the kind you always see turning into t hell hole." "Did you follow it?" "I wanted to, but I was driving a state vehicle and didn't think I should. He'd get the idea he was under surveillance. But I thought you should know, Qwill. Tell Polly to be careful." "Yes, I will. Thanks, Nick." Qwilleran hung up slowly, his hand lingering on the receiver. So the Boulevard Prowler was back in town! He punched a familiar number on the phone. It was ten-thirty P.M." and Polly would be winding down, padding around in her blue robe, washing her nylons, doing something with her face and hair. He had been a husband long enough to know all about that routine. She answered with a businesslike "Yes?" "Good evening, Polly," he said in his most seductive voice.

"How are you this evening?" "All right," she said stiffly without returning the polite question.

"Was I an unforgivable bore last night?" After a moment's hesitation, she replied, "You're never a bore, Qwill." "I'm grateful for small compliments, and I admit it was bad form to bring up a painful subject at the dinner table." "After what happened to your new coat, I believe you could be excused." She was softening up.

"Did you take it to the cleaner?" "That wasn't necessary. It was chicken-flavored butter, and the cats took care of it. You'd never know anything happened!" "I don't believe it!" "It's true." There was a pause. It was Polly's turn to say something conciliatory. Qwilleran thought he was handling it rather well.

Finally she said, "Perhaps I overreacted last night." "I can't say you weren't justified. It was my fault for pursuing the subject so stubbornly. Blame it on my Scots heritage." "I know. Your mother was a Mackintosh," she said, adding a light touch to the sober conversation. The Mackintosh connection was a running joke between them.

"Did you have a good day?" he asked.

"Interesting, at best.

One of my clerks was rushed to the hospital in labor, and Mr.