“Thirsty, mon!” said Chief Brodie, “and some fresh-breaking police news.”
He seated himself at the snack bar, and Qwilleran served Scotch and cheese, and the cats observed from a respectful distance.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Andy. Have they caught the vandal who’s been soaping windows?” Qwilleran asked facetiously.
Dismissing the weak quip with a grunt, Brodie said, “There’s been a copycat murder in northern Michigan—like the one on your property—same MO . . . same type of weapon . . . same sort of victim . . . same sort of wooded terrain.”
“Do similarities like that aid in the investigation?” Qwilleran asked absently. His mind was elsewhere. He was thinking of Koko’s death howl. It was not the first time that the remarkable cat had sensed wrongdoing in some distant spot.
No matter how remote, there was always a connection to the here and now. That was the reason Qwilleran had wanted to investigate Koko’s heritage.
TEN
It was panic time in the octagonal barn on Saturday night—although not for the two cats huddled atop the fireplace cube, gazing down on the frantic scene below. Four humans were scrambling about on hands and knees, rolling up rugs, climbing a stepladder, pulling seat cushions off the upholstered furniture, dumping wastebaskets on the floor.
“Here it is! I’ve found it!” cried Mildred Riker.
“Thank God! I thought she’d swallowed it!” Qwilleran shouted.
“You should keep it in a locked drawer,” Arch Riker suggested with authority.
Polly Duncan—assuming the voice of the WPKX gossip reporter—said, “A mad thimble scramble was held at the James Mackintosh Qwilleran residence Saturday night. Refreshments were served, and everyone had a good time.”
“Make mine a double martini,” said Arch.
Qwilleran poured dry sherry for Polly and mixed Q cocktails for Mildred and himself. Then they sat around the big square cocktail table with bowls of peanuts in red skins.
Arch said, “I don’t like the skins.”
“They’re nutritious, hon,” his wife said.
“I don’t like anything that’s good for me.”
“He’s just trying to sound macho,” she explained.
The four of them were old friends, and the rule of conversation was: Anything goes. The two men had been friends since kindergarten in Chicago.
Qwilleran asked, “Do you ever hear from your sister, Arch?”
“Oh, sure. She’s living with her second husband in Kansas and selling real estate and still writing in her diary.”
Mildred said, “Did I detect a snicker from both of you?”
Qwilleran said, “We might as well confess, Arch. We stole her diary once.”
“We only borrowed it from her dresser drawer while she was ice-skating. We were in fifth grade; she was in seventh and getting interested in boys.”
“It was hot stuff!” Qwilleran said. “She used code names to refer to different boys. How
Arch said, “We returned the diary carefully, but she had set a trap for us, and the jig was up! It was all his idea!” Arch pointed a finger at his old friend. “But I was the one who got punished. I lost a week’s allowance.”
“As I recall,” Qwilleran said, “I very nobly gave you half of mine.”
“Yeah, but I also had to give up desserts for three nights, while she sat across the dinner table, grinning like a fiend!”
Mildred and Polly glanced at each other and rolled their eyes in resignation.
At that point, Yum Yum walked among them, carrying her thimble clamped in her jaws, and the question arose: Why do cats like thimbles? (They’re small and can be hidden; they’re round and can be rolled.)
Qwilleran said, “Let’s take a vote: Have another round of drinks or go to dinner?”
Arch lost, and they drove to the Nutcracker Inn on the bank of Black Creek. It occupied a Victorian mansion famous for its black walnut paneling and its roast loin of pork. They ordered the house specialty all around. The food was superb; conversation flowed easily; the squirrels in the yard entertained with their antics; the chef came out from the kitchen and kissed the ladies’ hands. Everything went well until . . .
In the middle of the night Qwilleran had a nightmare; Lish and Lush moved into his guest suite on the second balcony, despite Koko’s snarls. The dream was so real and so objectionable that Qwilleran had to get a flashlight and walk three times around the barn in his pajamas, disturbing the creatures of the night who scuttled through the underbrush and fluttered in the trees.
When he finally came indoors, Qwilleran wrote in his personal journal before going back to bed.
Saturday, June 28. Correction—Sunday morning, June 29:
