Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

"Some books, that's all, but that's better than a necktie. Was Clayton able to carry out his assignment?"

"Didn't you get his tape recording? We mailed it Friday afternoon. When I told him what you wanted, he went right out and bought a little tape recorder to wear under his cap. He wore it when he visited Mr. Crocus."

"Did you listen to the tape?"

"No, we wanted to get it into the mail before the holiday. I thought you'd have it today."

"Mail is always slow in reaching Moose County. Meanwhile, Celia, I have a question for you, if you can think back to the day you discovered Mrs. Gage's body. It was a Monday noon, you told me. She'd been dead sixteen hours, the doctor said, meaning she died Sunday evening. Did you see anyone go to her home on Sunday?"

"Oh dear! Let me think... You think someone might have given her disturbing news that made her take those pills?"

"Whatever."

"I can't recall right off the bat, but maybe Mr. Crocus will know. He's the kind that notices things."

"Well, give it some serious thought, and I'll watch the mail for Clayton's tape."

"And Mr. Qwilleran, I put something in the package for you personally. It isn't much. Just a little holiday goodie."

"That's very thoughtful of you, Celia. I'll keep in touch."

When Celia's package arrived on Tuesday, Qwilleran sank his teeth into a rich, nut-filled, chewy chocolate brownie, and he had a vision. He envisioned Celia transplanted to Pickax, baking meatloaf for the cats and brownies for himself, catering parties now and then, laughing a lot. Then he abandoned his fantasy and listened to Clayton's tape. What he heard prompted him to phone Pender Wilmot immediately.

"I'd like to hear it," the attorney said. "Would you like to bring it to my office tomorrow afternoon?"

"No. Now!" Qwilleran said firmly.

The law office in the new Klingenschoen Professional Building was unique in Pickax, where dark mahogany and red leather were the legal norm. Wilmot's office was paneled in light teakwood, with chrome-based chairs upholstered in slate blue and plum.

Qwilleran noticed a black iron lamp with saucer shade. "That looks like a Charles Rennie Mackintosh design," he said. "I saw his work in Glasgow last September. My mother was a Mackintosh."

"I have Scots blood myself," said the attorney. "My mother's ancestors came out in the 1745 Rising." He showed Qwilleran a framed etching of an ancestral castle. "Now, what is the new development you mentioned?"

"The attempted burglary," Qwilleran began, "confirms my theory about the Pink Sunset management, and news of the arrest has obviously reached them through their assistant. He's undoubtedly the electrician who removed the light fixtures and then stole the other fellow's van. All three of them have disappeared, according to my informant at the park. She has also sent me a taped conversation that warrants further investigation."

"Who made the tape?"

"Her grandson. He's friendly with an elderly resident who was a confidant of Mrs. Gage. The young man secreted a recording device under his cap when he went to see the old gentleman. I had a hunch that this Mr. Crocus might know something enlightening about her last days." Qwilleran started the tape. "The preliminary dialogue is irrelevant but interesting. He was probably testing the equipment."

As the tape unreeled, it produced the charming voice of a young woman and an adolescent baritone with falsetto overtones.

"Are you Betty? My grandma sent you this plant. She's Mrs. Robinson on Kumquat Court."

"A Christmas cactus! How sweet of her! And what is your name?"

"Clayton."

"Tell her thank-you, Clayton. We'll put it right here on the counter, where all the Sunsetters can enjoy it when they come in for their mail."

"Last year she gave a Christmas plant to the old lady next door, but she died."

"We say elderly, not old, Clayton."

"Okay. What was her name?"

"Mrs. Gage."

"What happened to her, anyway?"

"She passed away in her sleep."

"She looked healthy last Christmas."

"I'm afraid she accidentally took the wrong medication."

"How do you know?"

"The doctor said so. We really don't like to talk about these things, Clayton."

"Why not?"

"It's so sad, and at this time of year we try to be happy."

"Was it written up in the paper?"

"No, this is a large city, and they can't report

everything."

"But my grandma says she was rich. They always write up rich people when they die, don't they?"

"Clayton, this is an interesting conversation, but you'll have to excuse me. I have work to do."

"Can I help?"

"No, thank you, but it's kind of you to offer."

"I could sort the mail."

"Not today. Just tell your grandmother that we appreciate the plant."

"I know computers."

"I'm sure you do, but there's really nothing - "

"You're a very pretty lady."

"Thank you, Clayton. Now please... just go away!"

Wilmot chuckled. "His ingenuous performance is ingenious. How old is he?"

"Thirteen."

After a few seconds of taped silence, the adolescent voice alternated with the husky, gasping voice of an elderly man.

"Hi, Mr. Crocus! Remember me?"