The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare (16 page)

After Mrs. Cobb had bustled off in great excitement Qwilleran loitered around the house until he could stand the suspense no longer. Who would be at the auction? What were they buying? How high were the prices? What were people talking about? What were they serving at the lunch wagon? Wearing his lumberjack coat, woodsman’s hat, and duck boots, he headed for Black Creek Lane in North Middle Hummock.

The country roads were unusually heavy with traffic. Cars, vans, and pickups were heading north, and a few were returning, loaded. Half a mile from the farmhouse he began to see vehicles parked on both sides of the road. He pulled in where a pickup was pulling out and walked the rest of the way. Auction-goers were trudging to their cars lugging floor lamps and rocking chairs. One woman was carrying a fern stand made of bent twigs.

“I don’t care, honey,” she said to her frowning spouse. “I simply wanted something that belonged to a Goodwinter, even if it was only an old toothbrush.”

Parked in the front yard was a moving van labeled Foxy Fred’s Bid-a-Bit Auctions. Customers shuffled through rustling leaves, examining rows of household furnishings: blankets, bicycles, small appliances, glassware, laundry equipment, garden tools. Large pieces of furniture were still in the farmhouse; everything else was jammed into a large pole barn where the bidding was in full swing.

Foxy Fred, wearing a western hat and red down jacket, was on the platform, haranguing a hundred or more bidders who were packed in shoulder-to-shoulder. “Here’s a genuwine old barn lantern complete with wick. Who’ll gimme five?… Five?… Gimme four… Dollar bill over there. Gimme two. Gimme two… Two I got. Gimme three. Do I see three? Three! No money! Wanna four, wanna four, wanna four.”

In order to bid, customers were picking up numbered flashcards from a red-jacketed woman who was entering sales in a ledger and collecting money. Qwilleran had no intention of bidding, but he picked up a card anyway. It was number 124.

“Look up! Look up!” the auctioneer called out. Porters in red Bid-a-Bit windbreakers were hoisting an upholstered chair high over their heads for audience inspection.

Bidding was slow, however. The customers were either bored or stifled by blasts of heat from portable electric heaters. Suddenly Foxy Fred jolted them to attention. After only two bids he allowed a ladder-back rocker to go for an outrageously low price. The audience protested.

“If you don’t like it, wake up and bid!” he scolded them.

Qwilleran ambled out of the barn and found Mrs. Cobb and Susan Exbridge at the lunch wagon. “How’s the food?” he asked.

“It’s not exactly Old Stone Mill,” said Mrs. Exbridge, “but it’s good. Try the bratwurst. It’s homemade.”

“The new chef at the Mill has made a big difference,” Qwilleran said. “Has anyone met him?”

“I’ve seen him in the parking lot at Indian Village,” she said. “He’s tall, blond, and very good-looking, but he seems rather shy.”

Mrs. Cobb said, “You’ll never guess what I bought! A handmade cherry cradle! I’m expecting my first grandchild soon.”

“Are the out-of-state dealers bidding things up?” Qwilleran asked her.

“They’re hanging back, waiting for the good items, but there’s a lot of them here. I can always spot a dealer. They’re sort of shrewd-looking but laid-back. See that short man with his hands in his pockets? See the woman with a fuzzy brown hat? They’re dealers. The man in the shearling coat – I think he’s security. He isn’t bidding. He isn’t even listening. He’s just watching people.”

Before turning to look, Qwilleran had a hunch it would be the stranger who claimed to be a historian. The man was wandering aimlessly through the crowd.

At that moment there was a general movement toward the barn, as if on signal. Inside the building the chatter was loud and excited as the porters started to bring out the heavy artillery.

“Look up! Look up!” the auctioneer shouted in a voice that cut through the hubbub. “Victorian rococo chair, genuwine Belter, I think – part of a parlor suite – two chairs and a settee. Upholstered in black horsehair. Good condition. Who’ll gimme two thousand for the set? Two thousand to start. Two thousand, anyone?”

A flash card was raised.

“HEP!” shouted a porter, who doubled as spotter.

“Two thousand I got. Gimme twenty-five gimme twenty-five gimme twenty-five. Waddala waddala waddala…”

“HEP!”

“Twenty-five! Gimme thirty.”

“HEP!”

“Thirty! Gimme forty. Waddala waddala bidda waddala bidda bidda waddala…”

“HEP!”

The excitement was mounting. It was like the last half of the ninth inning with the score tied, two out, and the bases loaded, Qwilleran thought. It was like third down on the two-yard line with a minute to play.

When the furniture was finally knocked down for a figure that he considered astronomical, the audience deflated with groans and sighs.

Someone tugged at his sleeve, and a woman’s voice said, “How come you didn’t bid on that one, Qwill?”

“Hixie! I didn’t know you liked auctions!”

“I don’t, but my customers have been talking about this one, so I sneaked away when the lunch crowd thinned out.”

“Quiet back there!” shouted Foxy Fred, and Qwilleran took Hixie’ s arm and steered her outside and across the yard to the farmhouse.

“The good stuff is in here,” he said, picking up a catalogue. Among the large items still in the house were two General Grant beds, a parlor organ, a breakfront twelve feet wide, a large pine hutch, a black walnut sideboard with matching table, and a ponderous rolltop desk. “This desk is the only thing I’d be tempted to bid on,” Qwilleran told Hixie.

She was not really interested in the antiques. “Have you heard the latest rumor?” she asked.

“Which one? The town is full of rumors this week.”

“It’s no false alarm. My boss’s live-in friend is eloping with another man. They came in for dinner last night – a couple of middle-aged lovebirds acting like kids. I seated them at a good table over the waterwheel, and it drove the guy crazy. He asked for an oilcan.”

“Does Exbridge know about the switch?”

“Apparently, because he’s livid! When he came in for lunch today he was in a mood for murder. The Bloody Mary was warm; the soup was cold; the veal was tough. He threatened to fire Antoine.”

“Who?”

“Well, he likes to be called Tony, but his name is Antoine.”

Qwilleran was fingering the flash card in his pocket. “I’ve got to go back to the barn to see what’s happening,” he said. “See you later.”

The mood in the barn was contagious. He was catching auction fever, the symptoms being nervous excitement and a reckless sense of adventure.

“It’s getting hot now, folks,” shouted Foxy Fred, and an oak icebox, an eighteenth-century candlestand, and a Queen Anne table went under the hammer in rapid succession. Then the parlor organ and pine hutch were auctioned by number from the catalogue.

“Next we have a six-foot rolltop desk in cherrywood,” said the auctioneer. “Perfect condition. Dated 1881. Outstanding provenance. Belonged to Ephraim Goodwinter, mine owner, lumberman, founder of the Pickax Picayune. and donor of the Pickax Public Library. Shall we start at five thousand?… Five thousand?… Four thousand?”

“One thousand,” said a woman near the platform. It was the dealer with the fuzzy brown hat.

“One thousand I’ve got. No money! Beautiful desk – seven drawers – lots of pigeonholes – maybe a secret compartment. Who’ll bid two thousand?”

Qwilleran held up his card.

“HEP!” shouted the Spotter.

“Two thousand now. Make it three. Three do I hear? Solid cherry. Lotta history goes with this desk.”

“HEP!”

“Three thousand we got. Who’ll bid three and a half? Waddala waddala bidda waddala bidda bidda bidda waddala…”

The auctioneer’s singsong gibberish had a mesmerizing effect on Qwilleran. He raised his card.

“Thirty-five hundred for this five-thousand-dollar desk, folks. No money. Make it four-triple-oh, four-triple-oh, four-triple-oh…”

“HEP!”

Qwilleran’s turtleneck jersey was tightening around his neck. He slipped out of his coat.

“Four thousand. Make it fournahaff fournahaff fournahaff. It’s a giveaway. Solid cherry. Cast brasses.”

“HEP!”

“Four thousand five hundred. Do I hear five grand? It’s going, folks. Are you gonna let ‘em steal it?”

“Forty-six!” Qwilleran called out.

“Four-six! Who’ll gimme four-seven? Waddala waddala bidda waddala bidda bidda waddala…”

“HEP!”

The woman in the fuzzy brown hat wanted the desk and was inching up.

“Four-seven. Do I hear four-eight? Waddala waddala bidda…”

Qwilleran raised his card.

“HEP!”

“Four thousand eight hundred. It’s going, folks – “

“Forty-nine!” said the dealer.

“Fifty!” shouted Qwilleran.

“That’s the spirit! Do I hear fifty-one?”

All heads turned to the dealer in the fuzzy hat. The hat wagged a negative.

“Fifty-one do I hear? Fifty-one? Going for five thousand. Going going going… SOLD to number one twenty-four.”

The audience applauded. Mrs. Cobb waved her catalogue in wild approval. Qwilleran mopped his brow.

After making arrangements to have the desk delivered, he drove home in a confused state of shock and agitation. Five thousand for a piece of furniture still seemed like a staggering sum to the former feature writer for the Daily Fluxion. At a restaurant in Middle Hummock he tried to phone Junior, but there was no answer at Grandma Gage’s house.

Upon arriving home, he discovered why. There was a message on the answering machine. “Hi! We’re flying Down Below to get married. Jody’s parents live near Cleveland. Hope we get back before snow flies. And hey! They found Dad’s lockbox!”

Mrs. Cobb had gone out to dinner with Susan Exbridge, so Qwilleran rummaged in the refrigerator and found some lentil soup and cold chicken. He heated the soup for himself and cut up the chicken for the Siamese.

“No readings tonight,” he told Koko. “I’ve had enough stimulation for one day. ‘The rest is silence.’ That’s from Hamlet, in case you didn’t know.”

The tall case clock in the foyer bonged seven times, and he tuned in the weather report. Storm warnings had been in effect all day, and yet the weather had been fine. Dubiously he listened to the current prediction:

“Storm warnings were lifted late this afternoon, but a storm alert remains in effect. Winds are twenty-five miles an hour, gusting to forty. Present temperature: nineteen in Pickax, seven in Brrr. And now for a look at the headlines… Two persons were killed in a car-deer accident on Airport Road at four forty-five p.m. Names are withheld pending notification of relatives. The westbound car struck and killed a large buck, then entered a ditch…”

“Junior!” Qwilleran cried. “No! No! The Picayune jinx! Fifth to die a violent death! And poor little Jody…”

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER TWENTY-FIRST. “Storm warnings are again in effect for Moose County,” said the WPKX announcer, “with high winds continuing from the northwest and temperatures constant in the twenties… And in the news… here’s an update on yesterday’s fatal accident in the Airport Road. Killed at four forty-five p.m. were Gertrude Goodwinter, forty-eight, of North Middle Hummock, and Harold Noyton, fifty-two, of Chicago. According to the sheriffs department, their car struck and killed a large buck, then entered a ditch and rolled over.”

Qwilleran made an early visit to the police station that morning to see Andrew Brodie. Although the sheriffs deputies were courteous and cooperative, only the Pickax police chief could be depended upon for friendly conversation and off-the-record information.

Brodie was sitting at his desk, swamped with paperwork and complaining as usual. “And what’s on your mind?” he asked, after a tirade about computer systems.

“Do you know anything about yesterday’s fatal accident on Airport Road?”

“The sheriff and state police handled it,” he said, “but we helped track down the next of kin. Wasn’t easy, what with her husband just buried and her mother in Florida and Junior on a plane somewhere and the other two kids out west. The fellah that was with her – they had to get lawyers and bankers out of bed to find out about him.”

“At first I thought Junior and Jody had been killed. I knew Jody is a friend of your daughter’s, so I tried calling your house last night but got no answer.”

“The wife and I were out visiting,” Brodie said, “and Francesca was rehearsing for that concert at the church, where they’re going to wear all those old-fashioned costumes. It’ll be a spectacle, all right. They’re making their own costumes, and they’re going all out!”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Qwilleran said, after which he commented on the weather, the hunting season, and the Goodwinter auction before steering the conversation back to the accident. “Do you know who was driving?”

“No telling. They were both thrown from the car, as I understand it.”

“I assume they weren’t wearing seat belts.”

“It would look like it, wouldn’t it?”

“Does the sheriff think they were traveling fast?”

“According to the skid marks, pretty fast. And according to the coroner, they’d had a few. The buck was a big one, over two hundred pounds, eight-point. Don’t suppose you know anything about the fellah she was with. The name’s Noyton.”

“All I know,” Qwilleran said, “is that he’s a one-man conglomerate with some greedy ex-wives and squabbling children, and they’ll be challenging the will for ten years.”

When he left Brodie’s office, Qwilleran began wondering how Exbridge would react to Gritty’s death, and how the ex-Mrs. Exbridge would react to her ex-husband’s loss of his ex-mistress. His curiosity prompted him to have lunch again at the Old Stone Mill. Hixie was always good for some candid observations.

Today she seemed nervous and preoccupied, however. She seated guests but avoided conversation. Qwilleran took a long time to consume his pea soup and corned beef sandwich, stalling until most of the customers had left. Then he offered to buy Hixie a drink, and she sat down at his table in a fretful mood.

“Hideous accident on Airport Road,” he remarked. “Wasn’t the woman your boss’s former roommate?”