The Cat Who Played Brahms (19 page)

He sat on the porch until dusk, then made himself a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee. He chopped a little turkey for the cats also. Yum Yum devoured her share, but—surprisingly—Koko was not in the least interested. There was no way to predict, understand, or explain the moods of a Siamese.

-15-

There were four documents in Aunt Fanny's safe. Three were envelopes sealed with red wax and labeled Last Will and Testament in her unmistakable handwriting. These Qwilleran turned over to Goodwinter and Goodwinter along with some velvet cases of jewelry to put in the attorneys' safe. The fourth item was a small address book bound in green leather, which he slipped into his pocket.

Nick and Lori had arrived at the stone house an hour before the memorial service, giving Nick time to crack the safe and giving Rosemary time to show Lori the handsome rooms with their antique furnishings. Then, leaving Koko and Yum Yum on top of the refrigerator, all four of them joined the crowd at the Pickax High School.

Everyone was there. Qwilleran saw Roger and Sharon and Mildred, the fraudulent sea captain who sold fake antiques, Old Sam, Dr. Melinda Goodwinter in a sea-green suit to match her eyes, the two boys from the Minnie K, a.k.a. the Seagull, the museum curator, the Mooseville garage mechanic—everyone. The emaciated cook from the Dismal Diner arrived by motorcycle, riding behind a burly man wearing a large diamond ring and a leather jacket with cut-off sleeves. Tom was there, huddled shyly in the back row. Even the proprietors of the FOO were there with their furtive cook. The managing editor of the Pickax Picayune was standing on the front steps, making note of important arrivals.

"Junior, you've surpassed yourself!" Qwilleran said in greeting. "You hit seventy-eight in a single sentence! That must be a record. What genius writes your obituaries?"

The young editor laughed off the question. "I know it's weird, but they've been written that way since 1859, and that's what our readers like. A flowery obit is a status symbol for the families around here. I told you we do things our own way."

"You weren't serious, I hope, when you said Fanny's obit was suitable for framing."

"Oh, sure. A lot of people up here collect obits as a hobby. One old lady has more than five hundred in a scrapbook. There's an Obituary Club with a monthly newsletter."

Qwilleran shook his head. "Answer another question, Junior. How does the Dimsdale Diner stay in business? The food's a crime, and I never see anyone there."

"Didn't you ever see the coffee crowd? At seven in the morning and then at eleven o'clock the parking lot's full of pickups. That's where I go to gather news."

At that moment the FOO delegation arrived, and Qwilleran grasped the chance to speak to the elusive Merle. He was a mountain of a man—tall, obese, forbidding, with one eye half-shut and the other askew.

"Excuse me, sir," Qwilleran said. "Are you the owner of the FOO restaurant?"

His wife, the beefy woman who presided at the cash register, said: "He don't talk no more. He had a accident at the factory." She made a throat-cutting motion with her hand. "And now he don't talk."

Qwilleran made a fast recovery. "Sorry. I just wanted to tell you, Merle, how much I enjoy your restaurant, especially the pasties. My compliments to the cook. Keep up the good work."

Merle nodded and attempted to smile but only succeeded in looking more sinister.

While the preachers and politicians paid glowing tributes to Fanny Klingenschoen, Qwilleran fingered the little green book in his pocket. It was indexed alphabetically and filled with names, but instead of addresses there were notations of small-town malfeasance: shoplifting, bad checks, infidelity, graft, conflict of interest, errant morals, embezzlement. Nothing was documented, but Fanny seemed to know. Perhaps she too was a regular patron of the coffee hour at the Dismal Diner. It was her hobby. As others collected obituaries, Fanny had collected the skeletons in local closets. How she used her information, one could only guess. Perhaps the little green book was the weapon she used in saving the courthouse and getting new sewers installed. Qwil leran decided he would build a fire in the fireplace before the day was over.

After the service Rosemary said: "I've had a lovely. time, Qwill. Sorry I can't stay for lunch, but I have a long drive ahead."

"Did you remember to take the Staffordshire pitcher?”

"I wouldn't forget that for anything!"

"It's been good to have you here, Rosemary."

"Write and tell me how the estate is settled."

"Send me your address in Toronto, and don't get too involved with our friend Max."

There was a note of friendly affection in their farewell, but none of the warmth and intimacy there had been a week ago. Too bad, Qwilleran thought. He collected the Siamese and drove back to the cabin. It was clear that Koko had disliked Rosemary. He had always been a man's cat. The night before, Koko had refused to eat the turkey that Rosemary had so thoughtfully purchased and roasted.

"Okay, Koko," Qwilleran said when they reached the cabin. "She's gone now. We'll try the turkey once more."

A tempting assortment of white meat and dark meat was arranged on the cats' favorite raku plate—a feast that would send any normal Siamese into paroxysms of joy. Yum Yum attacked it ravenously, but Koko viewed the plate with distaste. He arched his back and, stepping stiffly on long slender legs, circled the repast as if it were poison—not once but three times.

Qwilleran stroked his moustache vigorously. In the few years he had known Koko, the Siamese had performed this ritual twice. The first time he pranced around a dead body; his second macabre dance had been the clue to a ghastly crime.

The telephone emitted its stifled ring.

"Hello, Qwill. It's me. I'm calling from Dove Lake."

"Oh-oh. Car trouble?"

"No, everything's fine."

"Forget something?"

"No, but I remembered something. You know that money you found under the sofa. The money clip looked familiar, and now I know why."

"The candle shop carried them. Roger has one, and I tried to buy one myself," Qwilleran said.

"Maybe so, but the one I remember was at the turkey farm. That man with the terrible problem got out his money clip to give me a dollar in change, and it looked like a big gold paper clip."

Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingertips. Rosemary had bought the turkey on Wednesday. The break-in was Thursday. The money clip could have popped out of a pants pocket when the man jumped or fell from the bar stool and fled from those eighteen claws.

"Did you hear me, Qwill?"

"Yes, Rosemary. I'm putting two and two together. I There's something about that turkey you bought—it's turning Koko off. He's getting vibrations. Yum Yum thinks it's great, but Koko still refuses to touch it. I think he's steering me to that turkey farm."

"Be careful, Qwill. Don't take any chances. You know what almost happened to you at Maus Haus when you meddled in a dangerous situation."

"Don't worry, Rosemary. Thanks for the information. Drive carefully, and stop if you get sleepy."

So that was the clue! Turkey! Qwilleran grabbed the money clip with the thirty-five dollars, locked the cats in the cabin, and hurried to his car.

It was only a few miles to the turkey farm. The bronze backs were pitching and heaving as usual. The blue pickup was in the yard. He parked and headed for the door that invited retail and wholesale trade. The wind was from the northwest, so there was very little barnyard odor, but once he stepped inside the building he was staggered by the stench.

There was nothing to account for it. The premises were spotless: the white-painted walls, the scrubbed wooden counter with its stainless steel scales and shiny knives, the clean saw-dust on the floor in the manner of old butcher shops. There was a bell on the counter: Ring for service. Qwilleran banged it three times, urgently.

When the tall, hefty man stepped out of a walk-in cooler, Qwilleran tried to control his facial reaction of revulsion. It was the post office experience all over again, but there was more. The man's face and neck were covered with red, raw scratches. There was an adhesive bandage on his throat. One ear was torn. He was wearing the inevitable feed cap, and its visor had apparently protected his eyes when Koko attacked, but the sight was worse than Qwilleran had imagined, and the odor was nauseating.

He stared at the farmer, and the man returned the stare, impassively, defensively. Someone had to say something, and Qwilleran brought himself to make the natural comment: "Looks like you had a bad accident."

"Damn turkeys!" the man said. "They go crazy and kill each other. I should learn to stay outa the way."

That was all that was necessary for Qwilleran's practiced ear. It was the voice on the cassette.

He threw the money and the gold clip on the counter. "Does this belong to you? I found it in my cabin. I also have a cassette that might be yours." He looked the disfigured farmer squarely in the eye.

The man's expression turned hostile; his eyes flashed; his jaw clenched. With a yell he leaped over the counter, grabbing a knife.

Qwilleran bolted for the door but tripped over a doorstop and went down on one knee—his bad knee. He sensed an arm raised above him, a knife poised over his head. It was a frozen pose, a freeze-frame from a horror movie. The knife did not descend.

"You drop that," said a gentle voice. "That's a very bad thing to do."

The knife fell to the sawdust-covered floor with a muffled clatter.

"Now you turn around and hold your hands up."

Tom was standing in the doorway, pointing a gun at the farmer, a small pistol with a gold handle. "Now we should call the sheriff," he said to Qwilleran mildly.

"You idiot!" his prisoner screamed. "If you talk, I'll talk!"

There was no doubt about it; that was the voice: high pitch, metallic timbre, flat inflection.

Two deputies took Hanstable away, and Qwilleran agreed to go to the jail later to sign the papers.

"How did you happen to stop here?" he asked Tom.

"I went to fix your window. The door was locked. I couldn't get in. Then I went to MoosevilIe to buy a pasty. I like pasties."

"And then what?"

"I was going home. I saw your car here. I came in to get the key."

"Come on back to the cabin and have a beer," Qwilleran said. "I don't mind telling you, I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life! That's a nice little gun you've got there." How a pistol from Fanny's handbag happened to be in Tom's pocket was a matter of interest' that Qwilleran did not pursue at the moment.

"It's very pretty. It's gold. I like gold."

"How can I repay you, Tom? You saved my life."

"You're a nice man. I didn't want him to hurt you." Qwilleran drove back to the cabin, the handyman following in his blue truck, shining like new. They sat on the south porch in the shelter of the building because the northwest wind was blowing furiously, lashing trees and shrubs into a green frenzy.

Qwilleran served a beer and made a toast. "Here's! to you, Tom. If you hadn't come along, I might have ended up as a turkey hot dog." The quip, such as it was, appealed to the handyman's simple sense of humor. Qwilleran wanted to put him at ease before asking too many questions. After a while he asked casually: "Do you go to the turkey farm often, Tom?"

"No, it smells bad."

"What did the farmer mean when he said he would talk if you talked?"

A sheepish smile flickered across the bland face. "It was about the whiskey. He told me to buy the whiskey."

"What was the whiskey for?"

"The prisoners."

"The inmates at the big prison?"

"I feel sorry for the prisoners. I was in prison once."

Qwilleran said sympathetically: "I can see how you would feel. You don't drink whiskey, do you? I don't either."

"It tastes bad," Tom said.

The newsman had always been a sympathetic interviewer, never pushing his questions too fast, always engaging his subjects in friendly conversation. To slow down the interrogation he got up and killed a spider and knocked down a web, commenting on the size of the spider population and their persistence in decorating the cabin, inside and out, with their handiwork. Then: "How did you deliver the whiskey to the prisoners?"

"He took it in."

"Excuse me, Tom. I hear the phone."

It was Alexander Goodwinter calling. He had just returned from Washington and was at a loss to express his sadness at the death of the gallant little lady. He and Penelope were about to drive to Mooseville and would like to call on him in half an hour to discuss a certain matter.

Qwilleran knew what that certain matter would be. As executors of the estate they would want a thousand a month for the cabin. He returned to the porch. Koko had been conversing with Tom in his absence.

"He has a loud voice," the handyman said. "I stroked him. His fur is nice. It's soft."

Qwilleran made a few remarks about the characteristics of Siamese, mentioned Koko's fondness for turkey, and then sidled into the inquiry again. "I suppose you had to deliver the whiskey to the turkey farm."

"I took it to the cemetery. He told me to leave it in the cemetery. There's a place there."

"I hope he paid you for it."

"He gave me a lot of money. That was nice."

"It's always good to have a little extra money coming in. I'll bet you stashed it away in the bank to buy a boat or something."

"I don't like banks. I hid it somewhere."

"Well, just be sure it's in a safe place. That's the important thing. Are you ready for a beer?"

There was time out for serving and for comments on the velocity of the wind and the possibility of a tornado. The temperature was abnormally high, and the sky had a yellow tone. Then: "Did you buy the liquor in Mooseville? They don't have a very good selection."

"He told me to buy it in different places. Sometimes he told me to buy whiskey. Sometimes he told me to buy gin."

Qwilleran wished he had a pipeful of tobacco. The business of lighting a pipe had often filled in the pauses and softened the edges of an interview when the subject was shy or reluctant. He said to Tom: "It would be interesting to know how the farmer got the liquor into the prison."