Braun, Lilian Jackson - The Cat Who 009

By the time Qwilleran had pacified the Siamese with an early breakfast and had started a blaze in the fireplace to dispel the dawn chill, Joanna’s van pulled into the clearing. Although her attire was never neat, at this hour it looked slept-in, and her eyes were bleary. “Toilet backed up?” she asked with a yawn.

“I have to apologize,” he said. “It was a false alarm. It corrected itself, but I appreciate your quick response, and I’ll pay your bill for an after-hours housecall.”

” “I was sleepin” in my van on the Old Brrr Road when she buzzed me. My house washed out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Will you rebuild?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna build a nice place like this.” She swept admiring eyes over the cabin interior.

“May I offer you some breakfast? Coffee and a cinnamon roll?”

“Sure,” she said, suddenly more awake.

“Or would you prefer an apple turnover?”

“Can I have both?”

“Why not? I can make them in a jiffy. How do you like your coffee?”

Joanna was fascinated by the microwave oven and computerized coffeemaker, and Qwilleran knew how to play the gracious host. They ate at the bar, and she talked about the tornado, and her animals, and how the flood had swept away their cages. When he suggested a second cup of coffee in front of the fire, she hesitated, looking at the white linen sofas and then down at her work clothes.

“I’m too dirty.”

“Not at all. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. And prepare for a surprise.” He handed her Emma Wimsey’s valentine box. “This belonged to your grandmother. Perhaps she never visited you, but she loved you very much. It contains some keepsakes she would want you to have.”

She examined the trinkets and souvenirs in the box and glowed with pleasure. If she found Qwilleran’s sudden hospitality a suspicious right-about-face, she gave no indication. After all, she was having breakfast with the richest man in the county-in a setting that was the epitome of glamor to a resident of Hogback Road.

Qwilleran, on the other hand, dreaded the confrontation that was coming and deplored the means he had taken to accomplish it. Finally he said, “I’m not going to rebuild my new addition. My carpenter was murdered. Did you know he was murdered?”

“Iggy?” she said without surprise.

“Ignatius K. Small was his name. And a few days before that, Clem Cottle disappeared. Yesterday I hiked out Hogback Road to look at the flood damage, and I found Clem’s jacket in the mud near your house.” When she looked bewildered, he added casually, “Clem’s red softball jacket with the rooster on it. How do you suppose it got there?”

“Mmmm … Clem was going to … build a new house for me,” she said uncertainly. “He came out to tell me … how much it would cost.”

In the same conversational tone Qwilleran went on. “Well, I’m afraid you’ve lost a good carpenter. I’m sure Clem is dead. Buddy Yarrow was another fine young man who was killed; he fell in the river near your house. And then there was a carpenter named Mert who disappeared, although they found his truck in a junkyard. And didn’t you tell me your father was a carpenter?” He waited for a reaction but none came. Altering his tone to one of accusation and looking steadily into her eyes, he said, “Doesn’t it seem strange, Joanna, that so many carpenters have died or disappeared? How do you explain it?”

Her eyes shifted as she tried to find an answer. “I don’t know,” she said in a small voice.

“I think you know how Clem’s truck ended up in a ditch on the Old Brrr Road. Did you bury his body on your property?”

Joanna gazed at him, paralyzed with shock.

“And how about Mert? Did you invite him home for a beer and hit him on the head with a lead pipe?”

“NO!” She was looking frightened.

“Did you have the hardware store make a duplicate key to my cabin so you could go down into the crawl space? I think you got Iggy to go down there during the tornado-for safety-and he never came out.”

Her expression changed from fright to menace-she was a big strong girl-and Qwilleran thought it wise to move toward the fireplace in reach of the poker. As he paced back and forth on the hearth he said, “You know all about this, Joanna!

Down in the crawl space there’s a list of all five carpenters and the dates they were murdered.”

Her eyes were moving wildly. “I didn’t do it!”

“But you know something about it. Did you have a partner?”

“I didn’t have nothin” to do with it!”

“The police are going to suspect you because the names in the crawl space are written with your lipstick.”

“Someone else did it!” she cried. “She stole my lipstick!”

“Who?”

“Louise!” She was moistening her lips anxiously.

“Who’s Louise?”

“A girl. She does … bad things.”

“Why would she kill five carpenters?”

Her voice became hysterical. “They’re bad! Her daddy was a carpenter! He was a bad man!” Suddenly she jumped up and rushed to the door.

“Don’t forget your grandmother’s box,” Qwilleran said.

Joanna ran from the cabin and drove away in her van, spraying gravel.

Slowly and with regret Qwilleran dialed the number of the state police.

CHAPTER 19.