Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

Gary served Qwilleran a fresh cup of coffee. "Well, I'll leave you two guys to talk." He ambled to the other end of the bar to visit with a couple of boaters.

The awkward silence that followed was broken by Qwilleran's uninspired question. "Are you a member of the Outdoor Club?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm going to see your show Monday night."

He huffed into his moustache. Had she heard good things about it? Was she looking forward to it? Or was she simply going to see it? Again it was his turn to serve in this slow-motion game of Ping-Pong. "Do you think we'll have snow next week?"

"I think so," she said. "The dogs are getting excited."

"Dogs? Do you have dogs?"

"Siberian huskies."

"Is that so?" he remarked with a glimmer of interest. "How many do you have?"

"Twenty-seven. I breed sled dogs."

"Are you a musher?"

"I do a little racing," she said, blushing self-consciously.

"Gary tells me it's becoming quite a popular sport. Do you breed dogs as a hobby or a vocation?"

"Both, I guess. I work part-time at the animal clinic in Brrr. I'm a dog-handler."

"Do you live in Brrr?"

"Just outside. In Brrr Township."

How long, Qwilleran wondered, can this painful dialogue continue? He was determined not to inquire about her problem. If she had a problem, let her state it! They both wriggled on the ancient barstools that clicked noisily. He tried to catch Gary's eye, but the barkeeper was arguing heatedly with the boaters about the new breakwall.

"Nancy, I'm afraid I don't know your last name," Qwilleran said.

"Fincher," she said simply.

"How do you spell it?" He knew how to spell it, but it was an attempt to fill the silence.

"F-i-n-c-h-e-r.

Fortunately Gary glanced in their direction, and Qwilleran pointed to his empty cup and Nancy's half-empty bottle. Gary approached with his bearish, lumbering gait. "Did you tell him about your problem?" he asked Nancy.

"No," she said, looking away. Gary poured coffee and produced another bottle of cola. "The thing of it is, Qwill, her dad disappeared." Then he went back to the boaters.

Qwilleran looked inquiringly at the embarrassed daughter. "When did that happen?"

"I haven't been able to find him since Sunday." She looked genuinely worried.

"Do you live in the same house?"

"No, he lives on his farm. I have a mobile home."

"What kind of farm?"

"Potatoes."

"Where did you see him on Sunday?"

"I went over to cook Sunday dinner for him, the way I always do. Then he watched football on TV, and I went home to my dogs."

"And when did you first realize he was missing?"

"Wednesday." There was a long, exasperating pause. Qwilleran waited for her to go on.

"The mail carrier stopped and told me that Pop's mailbox was filling up, and his dog was barking in the house, and there was no truck in the yard. So I drove over there, and Corky was so starved, he almost took my arm off. He'd wrecked the house, looking for something to eat. And the place smelled terrible!"

"Did you notify the police?"

Nancy looked at her clenched hands. They were small hands, but they looked strong. "Well, I talked to a deputy I know, and he said Pop was most likely off on a binge somewhere."

"Is your father a heavy drinker?"

"Well... he's been drinking more since Mom died."

"Did you do anything further?"

"Well, I cleaned up the mess and took Corky home with me, and on the way I stopped at the Crossroads Tavern. That's where Pop goes to have a beer with the other farmers and chew the rag. They said he hadn't been around since Saturday night. They figured he was working in the fields."

"Has your father ever done this before?"

"Never!" Her eyes flashed for the first time. "He'd never do such a thing at harvest. The weather's been wet, and if he doesn't dig his potatoes before the first heavy frost, the whole crop will be ruined. It's not like him at all! He's a very good farmer, and he's got a lot invested in his crop."

"And this deputy you mentioned - does he know your father?"

"Yes," she said, shrinking into her burly jacket.

"What's his name?"

"Dan Fincher."

"Related to you?"

She turned away as she said, "We were married for a while."

"I see," said Qwilleran. "What's your father's name?"

"Gil Inchpot."

He nodded. "The Inchpot name goes back a long way in the farming community. The farm museum in West Middle Hummock has quite a few things from early Inchpot homesteads."

"I've never been there," Nancy said. "I never cared much for history."

"What kind of truck does your father drive?"

"Ford pickup. Blue."

"Do you know the license number?"

"No," she said, pathetically enough to arouse Qwilleran's sympathy.

"Let me think about this matter," he said, pushing a cocktail napkin and a ballpoint pen toward her. "Write down your address and telephone number, also the address of your father's farm."

"Thank you," she said simply, turning her expressive brown eyes toward him.

He thought, Beware of young women with beseeching brown eyes, especially when they look twelve years old. "If you learn anything further, ask Gary how to get in touch with me."