The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

"The commission has been promising to fix that death-trap for years. They've had five accidents; how many do they have to have before they act? What am I paying my taxes for?"

That was Junior Goodwinter.

Qwilleran's phone rang repeatedly. Everyone wanted to talk. He had a feeling of foreboding. Even the cats were edgy.

Later Wetherby called.

"Did you hear about the accident at Bloody Creek Bridge? Name withheld. I called the Station, and one of my buddies told me the name of the driver . . . Liz Hart!"

"Where was Derek?"

"They drive separate cars; they work different hours. After working late as maître d', he'll sometimes bunk on a cot at the restaurant so he can do early shopping for groceries the next morning."

"What was she doing on the Bloody Creek Bridge? That's north of here?" Qwilleran asked.

"Interesting question."

"Did the newsbite tell whether the car was traveling north or south?"

"They never give details."

Qwilleran speculated, "If she was northbound, she was going to the Lanspeaks. They live in the Hummocks, and they've been like godparents to both Liz and Derek. And Diane Lanspeak is probably Liz's doctor. . . . If we don't hear any further details, I suppose we could check with them, Joe."

"Liz would want you to know, Qwill. She says you saved her life on Grand Island and were responsible for her coming to Moose County and meeting Derek Cuttlebrink. I understand she comes from a very wealthy family in Chicago, but she was glad to get away from them. Fortunately, she had money from her deceased father."

"Is that so?" Qwilleran murmured, although he knew more than Wetherby did. "Liz gave me an antique chair that belonged to her father. Sitting in it is supposed to improve your intelligence."

"I should borrow it," Wetherby said. "Does it sound as if the wind is picking up again? I'd better go and hold Jet Stream's paw."

Chapter 17

After a bad night, Qwilleran prepared breakfast for two nervous cats. They huddled side by side with their legs tucked under their bodies.

As Qwilleran prepared their food, he entertained them with a few observations from Jerome K. Jerome, whose needs were satisfied with a homely home, small pleasures, one or two friends, a pipe to smoke, a cat, a dog, enough to eat, and enough to drink.

The Siamese regarded each other questioningly. Then Koko bit Yum Yum gently on the back of the neck. She liked it.

Next the phone rang. This time it was Clarissa. "Qwill, have you heard the news on WPKX? Doris Ledfield has died! I had no idea she was so ill! I feel I should do something, but I don't know what."

Qwilleran felt uncomfortable himself but could think of nothing comforting to say. "Maggie Sprenkle was Doris's closest friend," he said, "and she's a total wreck. Perhaps you could call her and commiserate. It might help you both."

They hung up, and almost immediately Clarissa called again. "I forgot to tell you, Qwill, Vicki called from California this morning. Isabella slept on her pillow. She loves that kitten! Vicki was sorry she didn't meet you, Qwill. She left a note for Polly to give you."

Qwilleran thought, Note . . . note . . . where is it? To Clarissa he said, "I'll drop Vicki a line as soon as the turmoil subsides."

After Clarissa's call, he began to wonder about that note. He had put it in his coat pocket at the bookstore. It was probably hanging in his closet. It was still at the barn and would remain there for a while.

He was sitting at the dining table that served as a desk at the condo. His papers were there. His phone was there. His old typewriter was there. His copier was there. And suddenly Koko was there, scattering desk clutter.

"Down!" he shouted, and Koko dashed out of sight.

That smart cat had made his point! Among the papers was Vicki's letter. It had not been left in his coat pocket. He added it to a stack of things-to-do.

Tuesday was his usual day for transacting K Fund business with the attorney. He phoned Bart at home.

There followed the predictable weather talk:

"How's the weather out there?" Qwilleran asked. "And how bad are the roads?"

"Not bad. The creek's running a little high, and everyone's disappointed about the parade. My kids were to be on one of the floats and so were my wife's prize peonies. . . . Are you printing a paper tomorrow?"

"We plan to. Can you get here for our regular meeting? I'm at the condo, not the barn."

"Be there at ten-thirty. I suppose you heard the bad news about Nathan Ledfield's wife?"

"Too bad. I never met her, but I hear she was charming."

"Yes, and my wife says she played the piano like an angel! When she accompanied Nathan on the violin, it was . . . what shall I say? . . . too good for Moose County. (Don't quote me.) Enough of this chitchat. I sound as if I have cabin fever. I probably do. Look forward to seeing you tomorrow."