The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (13 page)

“Oh,” Culvert said dully. Such facts had nothing to do with his urgent mission.

“And it's no longer a hotel; it's an inn, which offers a friendlier kind of hospitality.”

“Oh.”

“Did you see Boze toss the caber on Saturday?”

He shook his head. “It was in the paper. They talked about it at school.”

“Unfortunately Boze isn't working this week, so we'll have to wait and see what happens. How's everything at school?”

“Okay,” Culvert said, and ran back down the lane.

 

After thawing something for his dinner, Qwilleran walked to the Old Stone Church on Park Circle, where the genealogy club met. The Lanspeaks were waiting for him at the side door.

“Everyone's excited about your coming,” Carol said.

“Are they expecting me to stand on my head or do impersonations?”

In the fellowship room twenty members were sitting in a circle, and Qwilleran went around shaking hands. He needed no introduction. Everyone glanced at his moustache and said, “I read your column . . . Where do you get your ideas? . . . How are your kitties?” All were his age or older.

After a brief business meeting, a member read a paper on his genealogical research in Ireland, and others spoke about their happy discoveries in family documents, or at the courthouse, or in cemetery records, or federal military archives.

Finally Larry Lanspeak asked the honored guest if he would say a few words.

You skunk! Qwilleran thought, why didn't you warn me? Nevertheless, he stood up, looked around the circle and blinked his eyes as he considered his chore. (I feel just like Kiltie, he thought.) Then, in his mellifluous lecture-hall voice he began:

“This evening has been an experience that's enlightening, to say the least. I myself am a lost entity wandering in a void—minus relatives, family records, and even an inkling of my father's first name. He died before I was born, and my mother never mentioned his name or those of my grandparents.

“Those of you who have births and deaths inscribed on the flyleaves of family bibles must consider my predicament strange indeed. To me, growing up as the only child of a single parent, there was nothing strange about it at all. It never occurred to me to ask questions, being too busy playing baseball, acting in school plays, doing homework, reading books about dogs and horses, and fighting with my peers.

“My mother died when I was in college, and later all family memorabilia were destroyed in a fire. . . . What can I tell you? We lived in Chicago; my mother's maiden name was Mackintosh; our last name was spelled with a QW. That's all I know. My case rests.”

The moment of silence that preceded the burst of applause testified to the deeply touching nature of his confession. One woman sobbed audibly. He acknowledged the response with a sober nod. Actually there had been no fire, but it was not so much a lie as a euphemism for the black period in his life when he lost everything, including his self-esteem.

When the Lanspeaks were driving him home, Carol said, “Qwill, I didn't know you were such a man of mystery!”

Larry said, “Do you mind if I turn on the eleven o'clock news?”

The lead item was a death notice: “Osmond Hasselrich, eighty-nine, died at Pickax General Hospital tonight after an illness of several weeks. The senior partner of Hasselrich Bennett and Barter had practiced law in Moose County for sixty years. A native of Little Hope, he survived his wife, daughter, and two brothers.”

“The end of an era,” Larry said. “He was a grand old gentleman! He claimed to be—and I quote—'just a country lawyer but the best goldurned country lawyer you'll ever find!' And he was right!” Then Larry declaimed in his best oratorical style, “Farewell, noble Osmond.”

Qwilleran's chief memory of the old man was his custom of serving tea to his clients, pouring it into his grandmother's porcelain cups that rattled in their saucers when he passed them with shaking hands.

When he entered the barn, the Siamese were waiting side by side, solemnly, as if they knew something momentous had happened. Koko ran to the answering machine, where there was a message from the junior partner of HB&B: “Qwill, Osmond has gone! I was with him at the end. There's something he wants you to have. Can you meet me for lunch in the Mackintosh Room tomorrow at twelve? Call my office.”

Uncomfortably, Qwilleran thought, He's left me his grandmother's cups and saucers! I made the mistake of admiring them too much.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 17—
Monkey see, monkey do
.

 

When Qwilleran came down the ramp in the morning, he saw an unusual spectacle: two cats sitting on their haunches with tails curled and ears at attention, but they were two feet tall, and their ears measured about five inches. Koko and Yum Yum were in the foyer, watching birds through the sidelights, and the morning sun slanted in at a low angle and elongated their shadows on the floor.

Another surprise was in store when he turned on the radio for the hourly newscast:

“A sheriff's deputy was attacked in the woods near the Big B minesite sometime after midnight, while investigating an abandoned pickup registered to John Campbell, a suspect in the local slaying of a Chicago businessman. Deputy Greenleaf was struck on the head by a blunt object. When she regained consciousness, her service revolver was missing. The suspect is now considered armed and dangerous, described as a Caucasian male in his early twenties, six-feet-two, weighing two hundred and fifty pounds. When last seen he was wearing a Moose County Bucks T-shirt.”

Qwilleran discussed the item with the Siamese as their heads bent over their breakfast plates: “Boze apparently ran out of gas. Will he use the gun to hijack another vehicle? Do the sport fans know that John Campbell, the alleged attacker, is Boze Campbell, the champion?”

“Yargle” was Koko's comment as he attempted to yowl and swallow at the same time.

 

At noon Qwilleran met the attorney for lunch at the Mackintosh Room. “Hear the news?” Barter asked. “It puts a new slant on the case. The authorities are smart, though, not to identify the suspect as the caber-tosser. Local sport fans can be fanatical in support of their heroes.”

“There'll be a lot of disappointment,” Qwilleran added. “My neighbor kid asked me to get Boze's autograph; they'd been talking about him at school.”

“Let's hope he's apprehended before he commits any more felonies. Now he's armed.”

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. “Lenny says he's never been out of the county, so I doubt that he'll head for parts unknown to him. He's an experienced backwoodsman, and they're a breed of their own. It's my hunch that he'll hole up in a cave or some kind of impenetrable thicket and use the gun for shooting small game. There's plenty of that around.”

“The sheriff's helicopter will be able to spot him,” Bart said confidently.

The server brought a glass of red wine and a glass of Squunk water, and the two men toasted the memory of Osmond Hasselrich.

“It was time for him to go,” the attorney said. “He was distraught after his daughter's tragic death but kept going for his wife's sake. When she died, though, we knew he wouldn't last long.” Barter shook his head. “Osmond had always been my mentor, and in recent years he treated me like a son. I was with him every day at the end. He wanted to discuss his final wishes. Instead of a funeral he wanted a memorial service like Euphonia Gage's, but he wanted it at the Old Stone Church with a solitary bagpiper playing Loch Lomond and a few of his favorite hymns. Andrew Brodie was a great friend of his.”

“Did Osmond have Scottish blood?”

“He claimed he couldn't find so much as a sheepdog in his ancestry, but he frequently took his wife and daughter to the Highlands and Islands and called himself a closet kiltie.”

“What will there be at the memorial service besides music?”

“No eulogies! He said he wanted the reading of 'great words' by 'great voices.' He meant you, Qwill, and Larry and Carol.”

“High praise indeed,” Qwilleran murmured. “Did he specify the readings?”

“He wanted Carol to read his favorite biblical passage: First Corinthians, chapter thirteen. Larry is to read the words of early statesmen, as in the Declaration of Independence and the Preamble to the Constitution. You are requested to read Robert Burns with a Scottish accent, and also Kipling's poem 'If': 'If you can keep your head when all about you/Are losing theirs.'”

“Any Shakespeare?”

“We discussed it, and the only line he suggested from Shakespeare was: 'The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.' Osmond never lost his wry sense of humor. I think he really had some Scottish blood.”

Then lunch was served, and conversation was intermittent. Qwilleran was thinking about the firm of HB&B. Would they drop Osmond's revered name? Would they bring in a new partner? The one in line was a cousin of Wetherby Goode's, Loretta Bunker. The jokesters in Moose County would have a good time with Bennett Barter & Bunker. The prestigious law firm of Goodwinter & Goodwinter had come to an unfortunate end when a third name was proposed.

After lunch Barter retrieved a package he had checked at the front desk. “Osmond thought you should have this,” he told Qwilleran.

It was an old-fashioned box-file with metal clasp, leather spine, and boards covered in marbleized paper. The label on the spine read “Klingenschoen Correspondence.”

 

The Thursday paper was due off the presses at two o'clock, and Qwilleran went to the newspaper office to wait for it.

Junior Goodwinter said, “We're running some somber stuff today, but that's the way it works out: the Hasselrich obituary, the assault on the deputy, and the postponement of the Mark Twain Festival. But there's a letter to the editor that will give you a laugh. It's in response to one of your recent columns.” He handed over a proof sheet of the letter:

 

To the editor: After reading Mr. Q's dissertation on fibs—white, off-white, gray and shades of black, I made a list of twelve little white lies that are in common use:

You look wonderful!

Don't worry. He doesn't bite.

A child can assemble it. All that's needed is a screwdriver.

Guaranteed for life!

Of course I remember you!

The chef says the clam chowder is very good today.

This won't hurt. You'll just feel a little discomfort.

Drop in anytime. You're always welcome.

The doctor will be with you in just a moment.

You don't need an umbrella. It's not going to rain.

This car has been driven only ten thousand miles.

I love you.

—Bob Turmerick

Qwilleran chuckled. “Who is this Turmerick?”

“No one knows him, but the letter came from Sawdust City. I thought you'd enjoy it. . . . Are you covering the play for us tonight?”

Qwilleran went alone to the K Theatre; Polly had another commitment.

The enthusiastic amateurs who auditioned for such productions were office workers, MCCC students, nurses, commercial fishermen, truck drivers, and waiters who had enjoyed being in school plays and church pageants. As for the audiences, half of them were friends or relatives of the actors; many had never seen players of professional caliber except on TV; many had never seen live theatre.

On the whole, Qwilleran thought, the cast did well. There were no forgotten lines or missed cues. The voice coach had convinced them to project their lines to the show-goers in the back row.

When it was over Qwilleran went home and was writing a review for Friday's deadline when Polly phoned. “How was the play?” she asked.

“Not bad. How was your meeting?”

“The library needs a new furnace. Mr. Hammond came to the meeting himself and convinced the board members that we're only throwing money away on repairs. We're 'spitting into the wind,' he said. The metaphor shocked the ladies into action. They signed a contract without the usual fussing, because of the cold-weather scare.”

“Can Hammond have the new equipment installed and operating before the heavy snows and freezing temperature?” Qwilleran asked.

“To tell the truth, Qwill, it's been on order since August. He and I knew it was inevitable, so . . .”

“You practiced a little duplicity.”

“Sometimes it's necessary, dear. And I knew the K Fund would help us pay for it. . . . Well, I know you're writing your review, so I won't keep you.”

“I'll talk with you tomorrow night after the maiden voyage of the new bookmobile.”

“Did you see the list of scheduled stops in today's paper?”

“Yes, and I'll meet it at Ittibittiwassee Estates.”

“Good choice. À bientôt.”

“ À bientôt.”

 

During the phone conversation Koko had been sitting on the box of Klingenschoen correspondence, and now he hunched down on it with his tail elevated like a flag as he went through the motions of digging into the box.

“Okay, we'll have a look,” Qwilleran said, “and you can write my review of the play.”

He opened it gingerly, as if it might contain the skeleton of a dead mouse, or even a live one. False alarm! The box contained handwritten letters on stationery yellowing with age. The handwriting looked familiar.

“Treat!” he shouted and gave the cats their bedtime snack, then escorted them to the top balcony. When he came down the ramp he was wearing the paisley silk pajamas that Polly had given him for Father's Day, with a mushy card from Koko and Yum Yum. He took time to brew coffee before settling into a lounge chair with the box of old letters.

The handwriting was definitely his mother's. She had been proud of her penmanship: fine pen strokes, slanted, precise, elegant. She had learned it at a private school—somewhere. No one wrote like that these days. Scanning the sheets he found they had all been written to Aunt Fanny and dated with the month and day—no year. June 2 was the date on the first one. It was signed “Love from Annie.” His mother's presence haunted the page as he began to read, and shivers traveled up and down his spine.

Dear Fanny—

How's everything? Are you having fun? Do you like Atlantic City as much as you thought you would? I know you don't have time to write letters, so don't bother to answer this, but . . . I have NEWS! I told you my parents wanted me to go back to Des Moines and work in Dad's office, but I adore Chicago TOTALLY, and after slaving for four years as an English major, I'd jump off a bridge before I'd work in an insurance office, and I told them so. It didn't go over big! Dad is hopping mad about my moving to Chicago, and Mother goes along to keep the peace. She's afraid to cross him. She says she loves him. I guess I don't understand LOVE. And she doesn't understand why I don't want to marry her best friend's son. Dad would take him into the business and we'd all live happily ever after. But I can't STAND the guy! He's so DULL, and his eyes are too close together. (You know what you and I used to say about THAT!)

So here I am, and my wildest dream has come true—a job in the PUBLIC LIBRARY! I get a clerk's salary because I don't have a degree in library science, but—just between you and me—I do everything the librarians do. But that's okay. I love the work TOTALLY. With my first paycheck I made a down payment on a secondhand upright. You never heard me play the piano, but I think I'm really pretty good. Just for fun—to make Dad hit the ceiling—I asked him to ship my baby grand. Fat chance! . . . I have a small apartment, and the girl across the hall is nice—Sue Ellen, from Tennessee, pronounced Tinnissee. We go to plays and concerts together—just a couple of country girls whooping it up in the big city.

Love from Annie

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. So his grandfather was in insurance! In Des Moines! That might be the place to start checking county records. Even if it proved a dead end it might be worth the trip . . . But what about this twenty-two-year-old who turned out to be his MOTHER? (Her letter had him thinking in capital letters.) Lady Anne was so CALM and SENSIBLE! He read the next letter, dated June 10:

Dear Fanny—

Want to hear some FABULOUS news? Sue Ellen and I went to see a Russian play—strictly for our education. It was GRIM! But the actor who played the male lead was enthralling—TOTALLY! Glorious voice—expressive hands—and good-looking, even with a Russian beard. After the final curtain we wondered if we dared to go backstage and compliment him. We giggled about it and then said, “Oh, let's!”

Well! He was totally CHARMING and even invited us to have a drink! We went with him to a little bistro, and I don't mind telling you, we were both weak in the knees! I didn't sleep a wink that night, I was so overwhelmed! And that was only the beginning! The next day he phoned me at the library! And I met him for drinks after the play—every night for the rest of the run. It's a road company, and they had to move on. We had a LOVELY farewell date, and he promised to write, but I'm afraid to hope. Keep your fingers crossed for me, Fanny.

Love from Annie

Qwilleran returned the letters to the box, all the while marveling that this giddy young female could metamorphose into a suave, sophisticated parent who never said “totally.”