“Yeah… well… when you operate like that guy, you’re just a murder waiting to happen. We can’t release details till the SBI gives us the go-ahead, but between you and me – it’s not a local crime. The killer drove up from Down Below, did the job, picked up the accomplice posing as the victim’s niece, and drove her back where she came from. Strange thing, they left the jewel cases here but apparently took the cash – and there must’ve been plenty of that, considering the purchases made Thursday. Some customers said they gave him amounts up into six figures. Doesn’t take many of those to make a million.”
“Why would they leave the jewels?” Qwilleran asked.
“They’re a lot harder to fence if you don’t have the right connection. We haven’t been able to open the cases yet. They’re tricky. Have you seen them?”
“Uh… no.”
“The local locksmith said he couldn’t open ‘em without an ax. The Bixby guy didn’t have any more success, so they’re flying up an expert from Down Below.”
“There was a rumor the girl was kidnapped. Her clothes were still in the room, and the rental car was in the lot.”
“All part of the scam. The strange thing, though, was the towels.”
“Towels?” Qwilleran smoothed his moustache.
“Yep. All the towels were gone from both bathrooms – bath towels, face towels, everything. Instead of jewel thieves, we’ve got towel thieves!”
Archly, Qwilleran remarked that Moose County liked to be different.
“Yow!” came a comment from the top of the fireplace cube where Koko had returned after his game with the pencils.
“I see your smart cat has to put in his two cents’ worth,” Brodie observed.
“My smart cat, as you call him, unrolled two full rolls of paper toweling last night and draped it around the kitchen as if he was trying to tell me something.”
Brodie, not known for hearty laughing, laughed until he almost choked. Qwilleran handed him a glass of water. “It would help,” the chief said, “if Old Gumshoe here would tell us something we don’t know already.”
“Such as?” Qwilleran asked lightly.
“Who’s the girl? She registered at the inn as Pamela North. An alias, of course. She probably has several, now that IDs are a dime a dozen.” He lowered his voice. “This is strictly off the record, of course, but the SBI has found a pattern in her M.O.”
“You speak as if she’s the brain of the operation, and yet she was meek as milk when I met her at the dinner party.”
“Did your smart cat meet her?”
“No, he never had the pleasure, but I’ll tell you one thing he did, Andy: He howled in the middle of the night at the precise time of Delacamp’s death.”
Brodie grunted. “Dogs do that.”
“But only when it’s someone they know. I’ll show you something else dogs don’t do. I’m going to play a piano recording of Flight of the Bumblebee. Watch Koko!”
He slipped the disc into the stereo, setting it for track three. The pianist’s fingers started to fly. From his lofty perch Koko looked down on the men and the machine. They waited. The cat did nothing.
“I don’t get it!” Brodie said. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s making a fool of me – that’s what he’s doing. It’s his favorite hobby.”
Nine
Monday, September 14 – ‘A cat in gloves catches no mice.’
WHILE BRUSHING THE CATS’ coats that morning, Qwilleran kept up a running patter to relax them. He said, “Culvert’s calendar tells us it’s Monday, but what do you care? All days are alike to you guys. No Saturday night dates. No Monday blues. No Tuesday deadlines.” After the grooming they liked a reading session, and he chose Mark Twain’s story about the jumping frog. Koko wanted ‘Oedipus Rex’ but Qwilleran said it was too tragic for their tender ears.
His own day started with a visit to the public library, where he was greeted warmly by Mac and Katie, the feline mascots. They knew he always brought a pocketful of crunchy treats. On the mezzanine he found Polly in her glass-enclosed office, eating her lunch – a tuna sandwich and carrot sticks. “Good news!” she said. “Our bookmobile will be back in circulation by the end of the week!”
The vehicle had been acquired through private donations and a matching grant from the K Fund. Manufactured by a maker of school buses, it looked like a school bus without windows. The interior had bookshelves instead of seats, and hundreds of books could be circulated to communities that were without libraries. Unfortunately, it was painted white, giving rise to a public outcry. Letters to the newspaper said it looked like a milk truck, an ambulance, a laundry van. To settle the unrest, readers were invited to suggest ideas. The best was selected by a panel of civic leaders, Polly included, and the bus was sent to a commercial art studio in Lockmaster to be repainted. The panel’s selection was top secret. And now it was returning to Pickax, shrouded in a tarpaulin until the Thursday unveiling.
Qwilleran said to Polly, “How about telling me, off the record, what the new design is.”
“My lips are sealed,” she said smugly.
“Could I sneak a peek under the tarp? Or do you have armed guards?”
