The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

In case you don't know, Harvey and Greg visited the rich uncle last winter to request backing for a ski lodge, and Harvey was slapped down hard. College tuition - yes. Ski lodge - no. But Harvey didn't give up. He went to the Old Manse a second time - with a sketch pad and Clarissa. But when he mentioned the ski lodge property as an investment, Uncle Nathan vetoed it again. As the story goes, Harvey was so mad he refused to go to church when the whole household went on Sunday morning. What was he doing while the others were singing hymns?

I think - and Greg thinks - he was poisoning the air ducts. Greg says the black fungus can be scraped off old houses; it can be found under the wallpaper and in dark closets. He should know; his specialty is restoring old buildings.

At any rate, after their visit to the Old Manse, Clarissa and Harvey broke up. She got a job at the Something, and Harvey's aunt and uncle became ill. "Allergies," they said. I'm very worried about them.

Does this sound like a synopsis for a crime story, Qwill? Or what?

Vicki

Qwilleran said, "My question is: What about Nathan's will?"

"Relax, Qwill. Nathan took care of that the day after Harvey was here last winter. He's leaving everything to the community. But I'll show this letter to the prosecutor. Harvey should be apprehended on suspicion of homicide."

Qwilleran thought, While the Ledfield household, including servants, was at church on Sunday morning, Harvey was implanting fungus in the air ducts of the master suite. . . . Koko knew from the beginning that Harvey was a murderer; that's why he dropped on his head - something he'd never done before.

By Tuesday morning Moose County was in an uproar! Two members of an important family had been murdered, and their nephew was being flown back from California as a suspect - under protective custody. Everyone was listening to WPKX newsbites; the grapevine was working overtime; the coffee shops were crowded; rumours were flying.

"He'll be lucky if he ain't lynched!"

"Wasn't he the son of that no-good brother?"

"Wanted their money. They had plenty."

"But they were never stingy."

"No kids of their own."

"Did you know he played the violin? His wife played the piano. They were pretty good, they say."

"How old were they?"

"Not too old. My sister used to see them in church."

"My next-door neighbour used to work for them. She said they were good people. Mrs. Ledfield even remembered my sister's birthday. Imagine that!"

"Too bad they never had kids."

"What will happen to their big house?"

"Somebody'll make a hotel out of it."

"Nah! Not in that neighbourhood. Are you nuts?"

Qwilleran's phone rang incessantly but all calls were transferred to the answering machine, and he chose which to return - very few.

There was one he called back, Junior Goodwinter.

The young managing editor said, "How'd you like that for bad timing? No paper today! Just our Hurricane Special!"

"Could you throw together a Homicide Special?" Qwilleran suggested facetiously.

"You're not kidding. We'll do a memorial section on Thursday. Could you rustle up a ?Late Greats' column? Any other suggestions will be appreciated."

"Maggie Sprenkle was their closest friend. She can tell you plenty - all in good taste."

"Would you call her? You seem to be her fair-haired boy."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "What's the deadline?"

Moose County was mopping up. Although the storm had finished its dirty work, the sun was not exactly shining, and folks still wore the hurt expressions of citizens who had been punished for something they didn't do.

Chapter 18