The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

As Qwilleran turned away from the phone, he caught Koko disarranging the stack of mail to be answered, and the cat was particularly interested in the unusual gray envelope with white monogram. In fact, there were fang marks in one corner.

"What do you think you're doing," Qwilleran demanded in a sharp tone that sent Koko flying to parts unknown.

It was possible that Vicki used scented writing paper, but a sniff dispelled that notion.

Still, Qwilleran's curiosity was aroused. His ruminations were interrupted by an excited phone call. It was from Larry Lanspeak.

"Qwill, I've got some bad news about our daughter's two patients in Purple Point! She's lost Doris and Nathan. Same diagnosis - respiratory complications! It's that moldy old mansion they've always lived in! I don't mean to be heartless. Diane's associate in Lockmaster ordered an environmental investigation. Don't know whether they got around to it. Everyone's too busy these days! Well, thought you'd want to know."

Qwilleran hung up the phone slowly as he thought of this wealthy couple with so many worldly goods and so much musical talent and so much love for each other - disappointed because they had no children.

Unexpectedly Koko landed in his lap and stared at him belligerently.

He wants me to do something, Qwilleran thought. His eyes strayed across the desk to Vicki's letter. He opened the envelope and read the computer-printed letter quickly, then he read it a second time and phoned the attorney.

"Bart! I've discovered a document that you should see as soon as possible! It's imperative that you come down this afternoon!"

When the attorney arrived, Qwilleran's first words were: "I just heard the bad news about Nathan Ledfield."

"Yes, their housekeeper called me after you and I talked. It's an end of an era! . . . What's the document you mentioned?"

"Sit down first, and let me pour you a cup of coffee."

When that was done, Qwilleran said, "To put it bluntly, I have a strong suspicion the Ledfields were murdered."

Bart all but choked on the coffee. "Is this a theory of yours? Or do you have evidence?"

"I received a letter from a friend of Clarissa Moore, our new feature writer at the Something. The women were friends in California. The writer of the letter made a flying trip here this past weekend for the purpose - believe it or not - of buying a kitten in the auction at the animal shelter on Saturday."

Barter said, "Which you conducted with spectacular success, I'm told."

Qwilleran nodded modestly and said, "I didn't meet the young lady, but she left a note for me, which I'd like you to read."

The letter, on gray stationery, read as follows:

Dear Qwill,

Sorry not to meet you. Clarissa has told me so much about you. . . . Don't tell her about this note. You'll see why. She and I used to double-date on ski weekends with Harvey Ledfield and my friend Greg. We always had a lot to talk about. I was taking a correspondence course in mystery writing; every murder mystery has to have Motive, Opportunity, and Method. And I told them how the hardest part is finding an unusual method. You can't have the butler poisoning the soup anymore.

Clarissa, who had been doing research on mold for a school assignment, said that mold found in old houses could cause illness - or even death in old people - and maybe I could use it in a story. Greg, who was in the building business, said the mold, a fungus, could be implanted in the air ducts of a building.

I said I would try using it in a story, and if it sold, I would split the commission with them. (I wrote it, but it didn't sell.)

I said I'd have to go back to poison in the soup. Bad joke, considering what happened at the Old Manse.