After reading this, Qwilleran was hardly surprised to hear from Lenny, phoning from the kitchen of the lunchroom, against a clatter of pots and pans and his mother’s shouted commands.
“Did you read it?” Lenny asked abruptly.
“Yes. Your mother’s statement was very touching. She’s a goodhearted woman, Lenny.”
“They didn’t tell how Boze was tricked into doing it!”
“The paper printed information released by the police. Use your common sense! Don’t you suppose the authorities are on the trail of the woman who duped him? She’s done it before! She’s a menace! Sit tight, and see what they discover.”
“There’s another thing, Mr. Q. When we heard the gunshot last night. I thought Boze had shot himself, but today… I’m wondering if… he tripped and fell and the gun went off accidentally. What do you think?”
“Good question. We’ll never know, will we? Whatever makes you comfortable in your mind, it seems to me, that’s what you should believe.”
Qwilleran was struggling with questions of his own – about Koko’s recent behavior. All cats, he knew, are psychic to a degree, but Koko, who had more than the normal number of whiskers, was exceptionally prescient. It was his system of communication that baffled one.
He howled in the night. He knocked books off the shelf. He tossed pencils around like Boze tossing the caber. He licked photographs He dug up clues and hid others.
Who could say how much was pertinent evidence and how much was catty playfulness? And how much was strictly coincidence?
When Koko pilfered Brazil nuts from the nut bowl, did his actions have anything to do with a cruel trick played on Boze Campbell? Or had he found something deliciously oily into which he could sink his fangs?
Qwilleran would have liked a confidant with whom to discuss such arcane matters, but even his close friends were unreceptive. The least likely candidate happened to be the best prospect, and he was coming to the barn for a drink at ten o’clock. Chief Andrew Brodie had scoffed at Qwilleran’s “smart cat” at the beginning, but he was gradually coming around.
In the evening the temperature dropped and a west wind arose. Qwilleran put on a wool turtleneck jersey and a heavy sweater and built a fire in the library fireplace. The barn was drafty; it was high time to move.
The Siamese, whose hair was standing on end, took up positions on the hearth rug facing the blaze, as if to toast their whiskers. Qwilleran stretched out in the lounge chair closest to the fire and wondered if Andy would prefer a hot buttered rum to his usual scotch.
Meanwhile, he read another Annie-Fanny letter, dated January 3:
Dear Fanny –
The worst has happened! Yesterday I was sitting alone, reading Spenser’s Faerie Queene to take my mind off the new year. We had neither the money nor the spirit to celebrate. Dana had been trying to get a job as a waiter, but the restaurants were hiring only experienced help. Finally he lied – and was hired. But he didn’t last more than one shift. It was too obvious that he had never worked in a restaurant before. When he came home he was feeling positively suicidal. I was really worried, because I knew his brother had taken his own life…. But yesterday he went out again to look for work. I felt so sorry for him, I thought my heart would break. But then I remembered my responsibility to my baby and started reading about the knights and ladies of old. Suddenly there was a knock on my door, and two police officers were there. They said, “Ma’am, we regret to inform you that your husband has been killed.” I almost fainted, and they helped me to a chair. All I could think was: He’s thrown himself in front of a bus! I managed to ask, “Was it a car accident?” They said, “No, ma’am. He was shot by a security guard during an attempted bank robbery…”
Qwilleran had read enough. He jumped up and threw the letter into the fireplace. “The past is dead!” he muttered, and he emptied the entire box of Klingenschoen correspondence into the blaze. A car pulled into the barnyard, and the cats pricked their ears, but Qwilleran had the poker and was feeding the flames.
Brodie let himself in and swaggered through the kitchen to the library. “It’s a good night for a fire,” he said in his commanding voice. “Temperature dropped twenty degrees since sundown. What are you doing? Burning vital evidence?”
“Getting rid of obsolete documents before I move…. Sit by the fire, Andy. How’d you like your scotch on a night like this?”
“Just a splash of tap water. Not too big a splash.” He settled into a deep-cushioned armchair. “Don’t let me get too comfortable and forget to pick up my wife at ten o’clock. She’s at the church helping to mend winter clothing they collected for the needy. She’s been there since four o’clock. They serve the women supper.”
“What did you do for food?”
“Aw, I found some beans and franks in the fridge and warmed them up.”
