Cat With a Fiddle (9781101578902) (14 page)

Chapter 23

Oh, I'd seen this road before. I knew where the rest stops were, and where to get the cheapest gas. But this time Tony was at the wheel. And he spent the bulk of the time muttering and bitching and asking himself why, how, he'd once again allowed me to talk him into some nutty undertaking against his better judgment.

The cats glowered at us from their prison cells on the backseat, their eyes huge and iridescent in the darkness.

It got colder with every mile, and once we had crossed the state line into Massachusetts, freezing mists disabled our vision no matter how hard we worked the defroster. I thought perhaps all parties might be soothed by a few choruses of one of the good old hymns, so I launched into “Nearer My God to Thee.” I soon gave up on that, though.

It was around eleven in the evening when we pulled into the courtyard of the small hotel in Northampton.

“Can't this mysterious white duffel bag wait until tomorrow morning?” Tony asked, after we'd checked in and released Bushy and Pancho into their new environment. The room smelled faintly of insect spray, and the cats were wandering around sniffing suspiciously at every corner.

“We have to go now, Tony It's no more than twenty minutes away. And then we can come right back. Maybe we can get something to eat in town, although it's a bit late.”

“Maybe there's an all-night record store, too. Think we can find one of those?”

“What do you need with a record store?”

“I don't know. Just asking.”

Basillio is very peculiar when he's angry. Very peculiar indeed.

I poured fresh litter into a big cardboard box and set it in the bathtub, cautioning the cats against starting any trouble while we were gone. Then Tony and I headed for Covington.

***

The house and grounds were deserted, and still as death. I guided Tony down the access road toward the studio where Will had died, away from the main house, until we could go no further. Then, grasping my flashlight tightly, I walked toward the creek, Tony following. The wind was powerful and relentless. There was no moon.

I pushed in the door to the shed and stood there for a full minute. Basillio's rapid breathing sounded like the roar of the ocean in my ear. Without putting on the light, we made our way to the narrow aisle and turned down it, to the place where Ford Donaldson and I had set our trap.

The white duffel was still there. “Looks like somebody got here before you,” Tony said.

He was right. The bag had been shredded with a knife and ripped open. The sundry papers and trash I'd stuffed inside it were strewn about on the floor, as if a pack rat had been clawing through it.

“Well, too bad,” he said.

“Too bad? It's beautiful, Tony! It confirms everything. Don't you see what happened? After my trap was exposed as bogus and the quartet unceremoniously kicked me out of their midst, one of them came back here and searched this bag, looking for Gryder's evidence—for his manuscript.”

I felt so good that, had there been a few more inches of space in that cramped aisle, I might have executed a most unladylike jig.

“You see, Tony, the trap wasn't really bogus. I just baited it incorrectly. With those wee Scottish kittens.”

“Let's talk about this over dinner,” he said. “It's freezing in here.”

We returned to the car and drove to the stately old post office in town. I dropped the five envelopes into the mailbox just in front of the building.

I got behind the wheel and, by instinct, found the little diner where Ford Donaldson had taken me for coffee. Whatever it was they fed us had plenty of good-tasting gravy on top of it. I even had lemon pie for dessert. It was nearly one in the morning when we returned to the hotel. The cats were fine. I opened two cans of food, over-feeding them as a kind of bribe. Tony stretched out on the bed and was fast asleep in a matter of seconds, fully clothed. I covered him with a blanket, and after changing into my wooly red nightshirt I lay down beside him, listening to the window shivering in its casement.

I awoke at seven-thirty. Tony had gone.

There was a note saying he would bring back breakfast, provided he didn't get lost.

I showered, then made the bed, forgetting that there was maid service here. I guess I had forgotten to tell Tony that all we had to do was go downstairs anytime after eight
A.M.
and breakfast would be served to us. The cats were holding up remarkably well, not complaining much at all, and I made sure to tell them how much I appreciated it. Then I put in a call to Ford Donaldson.

He had come in to the office early and was genuinely surprised to hear from me, even more surprised to find I was in a nearby hotel. I didn't want to discuss matters on the phone, so I asked him bluntly if he'd mind driving over to see me as soon as possible.

For a long time, there was no answer. In fact, I thought the line had gone dead. But then he asked with no small amount of suspicion, “What brings you back out this way, Alice?”

“I'd rather tell you that in person.”

“What about a hint?”

“If you could just spare me a few minutes, Ford. For old time's sake,” I added.

Again, he hesitated. “Look . . . I'll just drop over now.”

“Fine. I'll be waiting.”

I wished I had that coffee Basillio was bringing. I jumped when I heard a sudden noise. But it was only Pancho knocking over the wastepaper basket and sticking his face in it for a quick look. “Just behave yourself, Panch,” I told him, “and I'll get you sardines for lunch.” I could tell he didn't believe me.

In less that ten minutes Ford was knocking at the door. He stepped in quickly, as if there were something illicit in his visit. His eyes roamed over the room professionally, taking everything in.

“I'm here with a friend,” I said, noticing that he had fixed on Tony's shaving kit.

“Glad to hear it.” Then he smiled, sort of, leaned heavily against the dresser, and asked, “What can I do for you, Alice?”

“Won't you sit for a moment?” I said.

“Better not. I can't stay long.”

“Ford, how's the investigation going?”

He shrugged. “Not good.”

“Did you know the quartet has broken up?”

“What?”

“The Riverside String Quartet. They've announced that they're disbanding.”

“That's a shame. But it's not like it's the Everly Brothers or something.”

I sat down on the only chair in the room. He watched my movements carefully, like a mouse watches a cat. Or a cat a mouse.

“Listen, Ford, in light of everything that's happened, this is hard to say. But I'll just come out and say it. I need your help—again.”

His eyes darted around. “Well, if it's tourist information you're after, I can recommend some lovely places to visit. You and your friend like covered bridges?”

“Listen to me, Lieutenant Donaldson. In about three days' time, the person who murdered Will Gryder is going to break into the house at the Covington colony.”

“Well, thank you for that tip.” His sarcasm was like a weight.

“And I want you to be there—with me—when that happens.”

He smiled, shook his head, and moved one foot on the floorboards as if he were stubbing out a cigarette.

“You're not serious—are you?”

“Totally.”

“You mean you want to do that whole dance again, Alice?”

“I did make a mistake. But this time there
is
no mistake.”

His smile turned up a notch and I saw him grind his teeth—the giveaway signs that he was trying not to blow his stack. “You did a little more than make a mistake, Alice,” he said. “You pretty much made a fool out of me. And my department. And things were going bad enough as it was.”

“Did you go back to that shed at any time?” I asked.

“No. Why should I?”

“Someone shredded the duffel bag we planted.”

“So?”

“Can I just tell you what I've learned over the past few days about how Beth—”

“Hey! Listen, lady . . . I don't want to hear anything you have to say about the Will Gryder case. Understand? You got me involved in some kind of dingbat sting operation. I bought it off you once. But that won't happen a second time. I don't care how good-looking you are—or how persuasive. You
are
persuasive, you know . . . but so are a lot of crazy people.”

“Ford, I promise you no one will be made a fool of this time.”

“You got that one right.” His face hardened into a blank. “Nice to see you again, Alice. Enjoy your stay.”

He opened the door.

I stood up. “Ford! Please wait!”

“I don't think so, Alice,” he called over his shoulder, still moving.

I had expected skepticism from him. That was logical. After all, he had been burned once. But I hadn't expected this kind of overt antagonism.

“Please listen!” I said again in the doorway. He stopped and turned then. But I could think of nothing to say that would spark his interest in my plan. I could think of nothing, period. I was living out the classic actor's nightmare: not a single word came to mind. Ford didn't wait there very long. I watched him disappear down the staircase.

Just as Donaldson pulled out of the gravel parking lot, Tony drove up in the dusty borrowed car. He came into the room carrying enough breakfast for six people: coffee, donuts, egg sandwiches, rolls, bacon and sausages in tin foil. He placed a towel over the large overturned suitcase and laid out his feast.

Over coffee, I told Tony about Donaldson's visit and his refusal to help.

“So what do you want to do now?” he asked, sounding strangely detached.

“We have to do it ourselves.”

“Do what?”

“Wait for the murderer, Tony. Trap the murderer!”

“Oh, but of course.” He laughed. “Where do we wait?”

“In the car. Behind the main house at Covington.”

“And this cop Donaldson doesn't want in on it? What the hell's the matter with that guy? You must be losing your charms, Swede.”

“Ford doesn't think much of my charms, or my methods either.”

“I can't believe it! Didn't you tell him about the mouse cut-outs, or any of that neat stuff with the book covers? I mean, once he heard about
Hookers
, he'd know how scientific your investigative methods are. Call him up now and tell him, Swede. He'll be back here like a shot.”

I sipped my coffee, not rising to the bait. For some reason, my traps really offended Tony. They offend a lot of people. But I'm just one person: If I had the financial backing and the resources and personnel a police department has, I'd be able to pull off much more elaborate stings. I wouldn't have to send out trick postcards. I could conduct large-scale surveillance operations.

But I have none of those things. And I never will. So I have to work quickly and inexpensively and target every move I make right at the heart of the matter—live by my wits. If I have to use whimsy or intuition or anything else that works—fine. Besides, what I've found is that a simple postcard will often flush out a murderer, while around-the-clock surveillance and sophisticated listening devices can miss the mark completely. My cards to the members of the quartet were a kind of performance art, and that's why I knew they would work.

But how was one to explain that to a Ford Donaldson, pro that he was, or to a Tony Basillio, rogue stage designer?

So I overlooked Tony's nasty comments and dedicated myself to being the sweetest girl in the world to him. We spent the next couple of days being tourists in old New England. We drove out to see Nathaniel Hawthorne's house. We visited the Impressionist Art Museum in Williamstown, and looked at the shuttered summer playhouse there. We walked in the woods. We dined in the romantic little inn near Great Barrington and went back to our low-budget hotel and made extraordinarily sweet love at night.

Then, as the daylight vanished on the third day, our tourist impersonation ended. I had never seen Basillio so depressed.

We drove to the Covington colony and parked at the back of the main house, behind the kitchen, so that we would be invisible to anyone entering the premises through the front gate.

It was five forty-one in the evening. We had taken along a big thermos filled with black coffee, and we had plenty of cheese and bread and cookies from the gourmet shop in town. I still had Ford Donaldson's flashlight from that night we'd “trapped” Miranda Bly in the shed, and Tony had brought his Walkman with its earphones.

As we settled into the front seat of the car, Tony whispered close to my ear: “I don't know what the hell I'm doing here, but I'll defend to the death your right to make me do it.”

It was a terribly cold night. Running the heater would have instantly tipped anyone on the premises to our presence. So we sat in the freezing car, just waiting.

“Tomorrow night I won't forget the blankets,” I said sheepishly to Basillio, who had not spoken to me for hours. I heard him chuckle bitterly as he sat with his hands tucked into his armpits. His cackling seemed to go on and on.

By midnight we had finished the coffee and the food. I was listening to the all-night classical musical station on the small radio, while Tony dozed. At one-thirty they announced the next selection: Schumann's String Quartet No. 5, featuring the Riverside String Quartet as recorded live at a 1982 performance. It was so bizarre I had to wake Tony to report it.

Around two-thirty he announced quietly, “I think I'm beginning to hate you, Swede.”

“No, you aren't.”

He squirmed. “We have no business being out here. We should be in a warm bed in Manhattan.”

“We'll wait till three thirty tonight. Just another hour.”

“And tomorrow night?”

“The same.”

He groaned.

“You can't be losing heart, Tony. We just started.”