Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

"Yes, and I'm charging the paper for mileage." They drove in Riker's car to the Old Stone Mill on the outskirts of town, the best restaurant in the vicinity.

"Have you heard from Junior?" Qwilleran asked.

"Give him a break! His plane left only an hour ago."

They were passing the impressive entrance to Goodwinter Boulevard. "How do you and the cats enjoy rattling around in that big house?"

"We're adaptable. Actually, I live in three rooms. I sleep in the housekeeper's old bedroom on the main floor. I make coffee and feed the cats in a huge antiquated kitchen. And I hang out in the library, which still has some furniture - not good, but not too bad."

"Is that where you found the dope on the forest fire?"

"No, it was in an upstairs closet. The house is honeycombed with closets, all filled with junk."

"That's the insidious thing about ample storage space," Riker said. "It sounds good, but it turns rational individuals into pack rats. I'm one of them."

"But Koko is having a field day. Old doors in old houses don't latch properly, so he can open a closet door and walk in."

Riker - who had once had a house and wife and children and cats of his own - nodded sagely. "Cats can't stand the sight of a closed door. If they're in, they have to get out; if they're out, they want in."

"The Rum Tum Tugger syndrome," Qwilleran said with equal sagacity.

In the restaurant parking lot they crossed paths with Scott Gippel, the car dealer. "I heard on the radio that old Mrs. Gage died down south. Died suddenly, they said. Is that true? Suicide?"

"That's what the police told Junior," Riker said.

"Too bad. She was a peppy old gal. I took her Mercedes in trade on a bright yellow sports car. She had me drop-ship it to Florida."

When they entered the restaurant, the hostess said, "Isn't that sad about Mrs. Gage? She had so much style! Always came in here wearing a hat and scarf. The barman kept a bottle of Dubonnet just for her... Your usual table, Mr. Q?"

The special for the day was a French dip sandwich with skins-on fries and a cup of cream of mushroom soup. Riker ordered a salad.

"What's the matter?" Qwilleran inquired. "Aren't you feeling well?"

"Just trying to lose a few pounds before the holidays. Do you have plans for Christmas Eve?"

"That's two months away! I'll be lucky if I survive Thursday afternoon at Mooseland High."

"How would you like to be best man at a Christmas Eve wedding?"

Qwilleran stopped nibbling breadsticks. "You and Mildred? Congratulations, old stiff! You two will be happy together."

"Why don't you and Polly take the plunge at the same time? Share the expenses. That should appeal to your thrifty nature."

"The chance to save a few bucks is tempting, Arch, but Polly and I prefer singlehood. Besides, our respective cats would be incompatible... Have you broken the news to your kids?"

"Yeah, and right away they wanted to know how old she is. You know what they were thinking, that she'll outlive me and collect their inheritance."

"Nice offspring you begot," Qwilleran commented, half in sympathy and half in vindication. For years Riker had chided him for being childless. "Are they coming for the wedding?"

"If the airport stays open, but I doubt it. Fifty inches of snow are predicted before Christmas."

The two men talked about the forthcoming election (the incumbent mayor had a drinking problem) and the high cost of gasoline (when one lives 400 miles north of everywhere), and a good place for a honeymoon (not the New Pickax Hotel).

When coffee was served, Qwilleran brought up the subject that was bothering him. "You know, Arch, I can't understand why Mrs. Gage would choose to end her life."

"Old folks often pull up stakes and go to a sunny climate away from family and friends, and they discover the loneliness of old age. My father found it gets harder to make new friends as years go by. Mrs. Gage was eighty-eight, you know."

"What's eighty-eight in today's world? People of that age are running in marathons and winning swimming meets! Science is pushing the lifespan up to a hundred and ten."

"Not for me, please."

"Anyway, when Junior phones, ask him to call me at home."

The call from Junior came around six o'clock that evening. "Hey, Qwill, whaddaya think about all this? I can't believe Grandma Gage is gone! I thought she'd live forever."

"The idea of suicide is what puzzles me, Junior. Was that just a cop's guess?"

"No, it's official."

"Was there a suicide note?"

"She didn't leave any kind of explanation, but there was an empty bottle of sleeping pills by her bed, plus evidence that she'd been drinking. Her normal weight was under a hundred pounds, so it wouldn't take much to put her down, the doctor said."

"Did she drink? I thought she was a health nut."

"She always had a glass of Dubonnet before dinner, claiming it was nutritious. But who knows what she did after she started running with that retirement crowd in Florida? If you don't sow your wild oats when you're young, my dad told me, you'll do it when you're old."

"So what was the motive?"