Free The Cat Who Robbed a Bank by Lilian Jackson Braun Page B

chummy fashion about the Tuesday Tea, and Qwilleran entertained them with an account of his discomforts and boredom as a security guard. Then the honored guests arrived, and the mood became formal. What happened next is best described in Qwilleran's own words, which he recorded in his personal journal:
    This guy Delacamp has been coming up here for more than twenty years and is not on first-name terms with anyone—even Carol and Larry. His niece was introduced as Ms. North. “Pamela,” she said shyly, keeping her eyes cast down. Could this be the chick who pestered Lenny Inchpot at the reception desk in the late hours? She was wearing her tailored suit, and her uncle wore a blazer obviously tailored to flatter his expanding girth.
    He said to me, “Haven't we met in the last few days? At the country club perhaps?” I professed regret at not having had the pleasure, but I began to wonder if my disguise had been less effective than Carol insisted.
    Quickly she said, “Mr. Qwilleran writes a column for the newspaper, and his picture appears at the head of it. That's the answer.”
    Unconvinced, Old Campo continued to throw glances in my direction all evening. He asked for a cup of tea when Larry was ready to serve a second round of drinks, leading me to challenge him. “As a journalist and a confirmed coffee-drinker, may I ask why you prefer tea?”
    â€œTea is the thinking man's coffee,” he began. “For five thousand years in China it has been known as a revitalizing beverage, increasing concentration and alertness. Later, the Japanese promoted harmony and tranquillity with the tea ceremony. Dutch and Portuguese traders introduced tea to England and Russia. Caravans of two or three hundred camels used to bring chests of tea to the Russian border. Clipper ships raced each other from China to London.”
    His niece was yawning. She spoke only when spoken to but paid deferential attention to Old Campo. At one point she whispered to him, and he said, “Now I know where I've seen you! In my suite there's a portrait of Mark Twain. You could be brothers!”
    During Carol's excellent dinner he discussed the three thousand kinds of tea in the world, and then the seven grades of tea. The latter sounded like a comic routine, and I was glad I had my miniature tape recorder in my pocket when he recited them: Pekoe, orange pekoe, flowery orange pekoe, golden flowery orange pekoe, tippy golden flowery orange pekoe, finest tippy golden flowery orange pekoe, and special finest tippy golden flowery orange pekoe.
    The after-dinner tea was Darjeeling, “the champagne of teas,” we were told. “Grown in India in the Himalayan foothills. Sometimes on a forty-five-degree slope.”
    The special guests left shortly after that, and the rest of us had some good strong coffee while we recapped the evening and had a few laughs.
    At one point Polly excused herself and returned with a look of wonderment. “Carol! You've done over the powder room! It's spectacular!”
    Naturally, Nosy Me had to investigate. They had made one entire wall into a lighted niche with glass shelves for a collection of French perfume bottles.
    â€œLarry gives me perfume on every anniversary,” she said, “and I save the bottles: Shalimar, Champs Elysees, L'Heure Bleue—all the Guerlain classics. The bottles are works of art. Every time we go to Paris I haunt the antique shops and flea markets for vintage bottles. Some are priced as high as five thousand francs—and more if they're Baccarat.”
    Little did Polly know I had special-ordered a bottle of L'Heure Bleue for her.
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    As Qwilleran and Polly drove back to Indian Village, she said, “Mr. Delacamp is visiting Maggie tomorrow morning to buy her pearl-and-diamond torsade. I'd love to know what he offers for it. I won't ask, of course, and Maggie won't tell.”
    â€œAnd even if she does, she isn't bound to tell the truth.