The Cat Who Played Brahms (10 page)

"I like cats," the handyman said. "They're pretty." Suddenly he looked embarrassed.

"What's the matter, Tom?"

"She told me to come up here and look at the telephone, That's why I came. You told me not to come. I didn't know what to do."

"That's perfectly all right," Qwilleran said. "You did the right thing."

"I always do what she tells me."

"You're a loyal employee, Tom, and a good worker. You can be proud of your work."

"I came up here to look at the telephone, and the big cat came out and talked to me."

"That's Koko. I hope he was polite."

"Yes, he was very polite." Tom stood up and looked at the sky. "It's time to go home."

"Here," Qwilleran said, offering him a folded bill. "Buy yourself some supper on the way home."

"I have my supper money. She gave me my supper money.”

"That's all right. Buy two suppers. You like pasties, don't you?"

"Yes, I like pasties. I like pasties very much. They're good."

Qwilleran felt saddened and uneasy after the handyman's visit. He heated a can of Scotch broth and consumed it without tasting it. He was in no condition to start writing his novel, and he was relieved when another visitor arrived—this time from the beach.

Buck Dunfield, wearing a skipper's cap, climbed up the dune in the awkward way dictated by loose sand on a steep slope. "You promised me a drink," he called out, "and I'm collecting now while I'm still a bachelor, My wife gets home tomorrow. How's it going?"

"Fine. Come in on the porch."

"I brought you something, Just found it." He handed Qwilleran a pebble. "It was on your beach, so it's yours. An agate!"

"Thanks, I've heard about these. Are they valuable?"

"Well, some people use them to make jewelry. Everybody collects them around here. I brought you something else." Buck drew a foil package from his jacket pocket. "Meatloaf--from Mildred. Her husband never showed up last night." In a lower voice he added: "Just between you and me, she's better off without him."

They settled down in canvas chairs on the porch, with a broadside view of the placid lake. Buck said: "Let me give you a tip. If you use this porch much, remember that voices carry across the lake when the atmosphere is still. You'll see a fishing boat out there about half a mile, and you'll hear a guy say 'Hand me another beer' just as clear as on the telephone. But don't forget: He can hear you, too."

There were several boats within sight on the silvery lake, which blended into a colorless sky. The boats seemed suspended in air.

"Do you do much fishing, Buck?"

A little fishing, a little golf. . . . Say, I see you've got one of my candlesticks."

"Picked it up this morning at Sharon's candle shop."

"I'll tell Mildred. She'll be tickled. Nice little shop, isn't it? Nice girl, Sharon.

Roger's a good kid, too." He took out his pipe and began the business of lighting it.

Pointing the stem at the beach he said: "You've got some dead fish down there."

"You don't need to tell me. They smell pretty ripe when the breeze is off the lake."

"You should bury them. That's what I do. The stink doesn't bother me; I've got chronic sinus trouble, but my wife objects to it, so I bury the fish under the trees. Good fertilizer!"

"If you don't have a good nose," Qwilleran said. "how can you enjoy that pipe? The aroma used to be the big attraction for me."

"Just a nervous habit." Buck watched two long-legged girls strolling down the beach with heads bowed, studying the sand underfoot. "See? What did I tell you? Everybody collects agates. In the middle of summer it's like a parade along this beach." He had another look at the girls. "They're a little twiggy for me. How about you?"

Qwilleran was thinking, smugly: Wait till he sees Rosemary! He said: "Do you know the woman who owns this cabin?"

Buck rolled his eyes expressively. "Lord, do I ever! She hates my guts. I got her license revoked after she rammed a hole in the Pickax police station. She didn't know forward from reverse. I hope she's not your grandmother or something."

"No. No relation."

"Just because she's got all the money in the world, she thinks she can do anything she pleases. A woman of her age shouldn't be allowed to carry a firearm. She's crazy enough to shoot up a city council meeting some day." He puffed on his pipe aggressively. "Her name's Fanny, but she calls herself Francesca, and anybody who names their kid after her gets written in her will. There are more Francescas in Pickax than in Rome, Italy."

When the second drink was poured Buck leaned over and said confidentially: "All foolin' aside, how do you size up this place?"

"What do you mean?"

"Mooseville. Do you think everything is out in the open?"

From the man's conspiratorial manner it was clear that he was not talking about the landscape. Qwilleran stroked his moustache. "Well. . . they have a tendency, I would say, to gloss over certain situations and explain them away very fast."

"Exactly! It's their way of life. The Picayune didn't even report it when some tourists were mauled by bears at the village dump. Of course, the stupid jerks climbed the fence and teased the bears, and after that the town put up a double fence. But nothing was ever printed in the paper."

"I'm wondering if this vacation paradise is as free of crime as they want us to believe."

"Now you're talking my language." Buck glanced around quickly. "I suspect irregularities that should be investigated and prosecuted. You've worked on the crime beat; you know what I mean. I'm friendly with a few detectives Down Below, and they speak highly of you."

"Do you know Lieutenant Hames?"

"Sure do." Buck chuckled. "He told me about your smart cat. That's really far-out! I don't believe a word of it, but he swears it's true."

"Koko's smarter than I am, and he's sitting under your chair right now, so be careful what you say."

"Cats are all right," Buck said, "but I prefer dogs."

"Getting back to the subject," Qwilleran went on, "I think the authorities up here want to operate in their own way without any suggestions or embarrassing questions from outsiders."

"Exactly! The locals don't want any hotshot city-types coming up here and telling them what's wrong."

"What do you think is wrong?" Buck lowered his voice again and looked over his shoulder twice. "I say there are crimes that are being conveniently overlooked. But I'm working on it—privately. Once a cop, always a cop. Did you ever eat at the FOO? The customers are a mixed bag, and the battleax that runs the joint has larceny in her heart, but it's hooked up to the best grapevine in the country. . . . Now, mind you, I'm not going to stick my neck out. I'm at the age when I value every day of my life. I've got good digestion, a good woman, and something useful to do. Know what I mean? Only. . . it would give me a lot of satisfaction to see a certain criminal activity cleaned up. I'm not saying the police are corrupt, but they're hogtied. Nobody wants to talk."

Qwilleran sat in silence, grooming his moustache with his knuckles as the panorama of his adventure on the Minnie K unreeled before his mind's eye.

"I had an interesting experience the other day," he began. "It might support your theory, although I have no actual evidence. How about you?"

"I've been doing some snooping, and I'm getting there. Something may break very soon."

"Okay. Let me tell you what happened to me. Did you ever hear of a boat called the Minnie K?" The newsman went on to recount the entire fog-bound tale, not missing a single detail.

Buck listened attentively, forgetting to relight his pipe. "Too bad we don't know the name of the boat where the guys were having the fight."

"It probably docks in the same godforsaken area where we boarded the Minnie K. It was a sleazy part of the shoreline. I haven't been back there since the fog lifted, so I don't know how much activity there is in the vicinity."

"I know that area. It's the slum of the waterfront. Mooseville would like to see it cleaned up, but it's beyond the village limits. Want to drive out there with me—some day soon?"

"Be glad to. I'm having company from Down Below for about a week, but I can work it in."

"Gotta be going," Buck said. "Thanks for the booze. I've gotta get rid of a sinkful of dirty dishes before the old gals get home and give me hell. I've got a wife and a sister on my tail all the time. You don't know how lucky you are." He looked at the sky. "Storm tonight."

He left the same way he had come, slipping and sliding down the dune to the beach. The leggy girls were returning from their walk, and Buck fell into step behind them, throwing an OK finger-signal to Qwilleran up on the porch.

Koko was still sitting under the chair, very quiet, folded into a compact bundle.

There was something about the visitor that fascinated him. Qwilleran also appreciated this new acquaintance who spoke his language and enjoyed the challenge of detection. They would have a few investigative adventures together.

The day was unusually calm. Voices could be heard from the fishing boats: "Anybody wanna beer? . . . Nah, it's time to go in." There was something portentous about the closeness of the atmosphere. One by one the boats slipped away toward Mooseville. There was a distant rumble on the horizon, Koko started throwing himself at the legs of tables and chairs, while Yum Yum emitted an occasional shriek. By nightfall the storm was overhead. The rain pelted the roof and windows, claps of thunder shook the cabin, and jagged bolts of lightning slashed the night sky and illuminated the lake.

-8-

When the sirens went screaming down the highway, Qwilleran was having his morning coffee and one of Aunt Fanny's cinnamon buns from the freezer, thawed and heated to pudding consistency in the microwave. Several acres of woods separated the cabin from the main road, but he could identify the sound of two police cars and an ambulance speeding eastward. Another accident! Traffic was getting heavier as the vacation season approached. Vans, recreation vehicles, and boat trailers were turning a country road into a dangerous thoroughfare.

That morning Qwilleran had lost another round in his feud with the fireplace. Why, he asked himself, can a single cigarette butt start a forest fire when I can't set fire to a newspaper with eleven matches? When he finally managed to ignite the sports section, smoke billowed from the fireplace and flakes of charred newsprint floated about the room before settling on the white linen sofas, the oiled wood floors, and the Indian rugs.

After breakfast he began to clean house. He started by dusting the bookshelves and was still there two hours later, having discovered books on Indians, raccoons, mining history, and common weeds. The dissertation on poison ivy included a sketch of the sinister vine. At once Qwilleran left the cabin with book in hand to scout the woods beyond the septic tank—that particular area that monopolized the cats' attention.

All of nature was reacting ebulliently to the violence of the recent storm. Everything was cleaner, greener, taller, and more alive. Two little brown rabbits were gnawing pine cones. Small creatures rustled through the ground cover of pine needles and last year's oak leaves. There was no poison ivy, however. Back to the dusting, Qwilleran thought.

Then another opportunity for procrastination presented itself. He had never entered the toolshed except to select a canoe paddle. It was a cedar hut with a door, no window and no electric light. Immediately inside the entrance were the paddles, long-handled garden tools, and a ladder. The far end of the shed was in darkness, and Qwilleran went back to the cabin for a flashlight. As he expected, his activities were being monitored by two Siamese in the east window.

In the inner gloom of the shed the flashlight beam picked out paint cans, coils of rope, a garden hose, axes, and—against the far wall—a dingy cot with a limp pillow.

On the wall above hung faded magazine pages with a two-year-old dateline and the unmistakable razzle-dazzle of Las Vegas. Mosquitoes were bounding off Qwilleran's neck and ears, and a loud buzzing suggested something worse. Qwilleran made a quick exit.

He had resumed his desultory housecleaning when he heard a rumbling in Koko's throat.

The cat rushed to the windows overlooking the lake. Moments later a lone walker on the beach started to climb the dune. Mildred Hanstable's head was bowed, and she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

Qwilleran went out to meet her. "Mildred! What's wrong?"

"Oh, God!" she wailed. "It's Buck Dunfield."

"What's happened?"

"He's dead!"

"Mildred, I can't believe it! He was here yesterday and healthy as an ox." She all but collapsed in his arms, and he took her indoors and seated her on a sofa. "Can I get you something? Tea? A shot of whiskey?"

She shook her head and controlled herself with effort. Koko watched, his eyes wide with alarm. "Sarah and Betty got home—from Canada—a little while ago and—and found him in the basement—workshop." She put her hands over her face. "Blood allover. He'd been killed—beaten—with one of the—one of the big—candlesticks." Her words drowned in her tears, and Qwilleran held her hand and let her cry it out, while he coped with his own shock and outrage.

When she was calm she said, between fits of sniffling: "Sarah passed out—and Betty came screaming over to my house—and we called the police. I told them I hadn't heard anything—not even the machinery. The storm drowned everything out."

"Do you know if the motive was burglary?"

"Betty says nothing was touched. I'm shattered. I don't know what I'm doing. I'd better go home. Sharon and Roger are coming over as soon as they can."

"Let me walk you home."

"No, I want to walk alone-and straighten myself out. Thanks, though."

Qwilleran tried to straighten out his own thinking. First he had to deal with the bitter realization that violence like this could take place in Mooseville. Could it be someone from Down Below? The area was being inundated by outsiders. . . . Then there was genuine grief. He liked Buck Dunfield and had looked forward to a summer of good talk and shared adventures. . . . And there was anger at the senseless killing. Buck had been so glad to be alive and to be doing something useful. . . . After that came uneasiness. No matter what the local custom, locks on doors were now an imperative. He hurried to the phone and called Pickax.