The Cat Who Played Brahms (14 page)

He hurried to the visitors' center and waited impatiently while five tourists inquired about the bears at the dump. Then he threw a slip of paper on Roger's desk. "What can you tell me about this?"

Roger read the boat rental agreement. "That's my father-in-law's signature."

"Does he have a boat?"

"Everybody up here has a boat, Qwill. He likes to go fishing whenever he can get away from those stupid turkeys."

"Did he rent it to wreck-divers last summer?"

"I don't know for sure, but I think he'd do anything for a buck." Roger wriggled uncomfortably. "The truth is: He and I don't get along very well. Sharon was her daddy's girl, and I came along and stole her. Get the picture?"

"Too bad. I got into that situation myself. . . , Another question, Roger. What do you know about the people who run the FOO?"

"They're a weird couple. She's a hundred pounds overweight, and when she's at the cash register, you'd better count your change. He was in some kind of industrial accident Down Below. When he collected compensation, they came up here and bought the FOO. That was before the D dropped off."

"Is that her husband who does the cooking? Little man with thinning hair."

"No, Merle is a big guy. Spends all his time on his boat."

"Where does he keep it?"

"In the dock behind the restaurant. . . . Say, did you see the UFO last night?"

"No, I didn't see the UFO last night," Qwilleran said, starting for the door.

"We get a lot of them up here," Roger called after him. But Qwilleran was gone.

Here was the opportunity to check the voice of a likely suspect. The FOO had raised his suspicions from the beginning—for several reasons. Something that didn't look like coffee was frequently served in coffee cups. There were rooms for rent upstairs.

Customers slipped money to Mrs. FOO surreptitiously and received a slip of paper. As for the little man with thinning hair, he shuffled about in a furtive manner and made ghastly pasties.

Now Qwilleran wanted to meet Merle. Still leaving Rosemary at the museum he drove to the FOO, parked in the lot, and ambled down to the dock. A good-sized boat in shipshape condition was bobbing alongside the pier, but no one was in sight. He called to Merle several times, but there was no response.

As he returned to his car, the cook sidled out of the back door, smoking a cigarette.

"Lookin' for sumpin'?" he inquired.

"I want to see Merle. Know where he is?"

"He went somewheres."

"When will he be back?"

"Anytime."

Qwilleran returned to town and took Rosemary to the Nasty Pasty. She had recovered from her tiff with Koko and was brimming with conversation. The museum was so interesting; the curator was so friendly; the restaurant was so cleverly decorated.

Qwilleran, on the other hand, was disappointed at missing Merle, and he jingled three pebbles in his sweater pocket.

"What's the matter, Qwill? You seem nervous."

"I'm just revving up my good luck tokens." He threw the pebbles on the table. "The green one is polished jade that a collector gave me. The ceramic bug is a scarab that Koko found. The agate is one that Buck Dunfield picked up on our beach—last agate he ever found, poor guy."

"And here's another one for your collection," Rosemary said, producing a dime-size disc of yellowed ivory with the face of a cat etched in the surface. "It's scrimshaw, and quite old."

"Great! Where did you find it?"

"In the antique shop behind the museum. The curator told me about it. Have you been there?"

"No. Let's go after lunch."

"An old sea captain runs it, and I'm warning you: It's a terrible place."

The Captain's Mess was an apt name for the jumble of antiquities and fakes that filled the shop behind the museum. A little storefront, it was older than the opera house itself, and the next nor-easter would be sure to blow it down. The building was so loose and out-of-joint that only the solid oak door held it upright. When the door was open, the building slouched to one side, and it was necessary to push the door jamb back into position before the door could be closed. Qwilleran sniffed critically. He detected mildew and whiskey and tobacco.

There were marine lanterns, bits of rigging, unpolished brass objects, ships in dusty bottles, water-stained charts, and—sitting in the midst of the clutter—an old man with a stubby beard and well-worn captain's cap. He was smoking a carved pipe from some far-off place, but his tobacco was the cheapest to be found in the corner drug store.

Qwilleran knew them all.

"Ye back again?" shrilled the captain when he spied Rosemary. "I told ye—all sales final. No money back."

Qwilleran asked: "Do you still go to sea, captain?"

"No, them days is over."

"I suppose you've sailed around the globe more times than you can remember."

"Yep, I been about a bit."

"How long have you had your shop?"

"Quite a piece."

The pitch of the man's voice was right; the timbre was right; the inflection was almost right, but the delivery lacked the force of the voice on the cassette. The captain was too old. Qwilleran was looking for someone younger, but not too young. He rummaged among the junk and bought a brass inkwell guaranteed not to slide off a ship captain's desk in a rolling sea.

They returned to the cabin, and Rosemary suggested a walk on the beach. While she changed clothes Qwilleran ambled around the property. He knew Tom had been there; the brass bell had a fresh sheen, and the putrid little carcasses on the beach had been buried.

Rosemary appeared in a turquoise sundress. "I wanted to wear my new apricot jumpsuit, but I can't find my coral lipstick."

"You look beautiful," Qwilleran said. "I like you in that color."

Koko glared at them silently when they went down the slope to the beach.

Rosemary said: "I think he wants me to go home."

"Nonsense," Qwilleran said, and yet the same idea had crossed his mind. Koko had never approved of the women in his life.

Heading eastward they trudged through deep sand in silence, the better to enjoy the peacefulness of the lonely beach. Then came the row of summer houses on top of the dune.

One resembled the prow of a ship. Another, sided with cedar shakes, looked like a bird with ruffled feathers. Some of the cottagers were burying their dead fish. Two girls were sunning on the deck of a rustic A-frame.

"They're the models we saw at the hotel," Rosemary said, "and they're not wearing tops or bottoms."

Qwilleran pointed out the redwood house where Buck had been murdered. "Now it's even more of a mystery," he said. "At first I thought there was some connection between Buck's private investigation and the message on the cassette, but he was on the track of a crime, and the wreck-divers are not criminals. They're shrewd opportunists operating for private gain and not in the public interest, but they're not breaking the law."

Next they passed Mildred's yellow house and traversed another half mile of desolate beach until a creek, bubbling across a bed of stones on its way to the lake, sliced through the sand and barred their way. As they retraced their steps, Mildred waved to them from her porch, beckoning them up the dune and offering them coffee and homemade apple pie. "It's in the freezer," she said. "It won't take a minute to thaw."

The interior of the bungalow was muffled in handmade quilts, hanging on the walls and covering the furniture.

"Did you make all these? They're lovely," Rosemary exclaimed. "You've got a lot of time invested here."

"I've had a lot of spare time to invest," Mildred said with a small sigh. "Did you see the UFO last night?"

"No, but I heard about it," Qwilleran said. "What do you think it was?"

Mildred looked surprised. "Why, everyone knows what it was."

It was Qwilleran's turn to look surprised. "Do you actually believe it was an extraterrestrial visitor?"

"Of course. They come here all the time—usually at two or three in the morning. I see them because of my insomnia. I had standing orders to phone the Dunfields at any hour, so they could get up and watch."

Making a mental note to follow up this local idiosyncrasy, Qwilleran said: "Have you heard from Buck's wife and sister?"

"They phoned once—to ask if I'd adopt their geraniums and throw the perishables out of the refrigerator. They don't know when they'll be back."

"Any developments in the case?"

"The men from the police lab have been working at the house. Betty told me that Buck must have been working in his shop when the murderer sneaked in and took him by surprise.

There was a candlestick on the lathe and a lot of sawdust. Those power tools make so much noise, Buck wouldn't hear anyone come in, I suppose."

"Can we assume that the killer turned the machine off afterward? That was thoughtful of him."

"No one mentioned it, and I never thought of it."

"He must have tracked sawdust out of the house."

"I don't know. I suppose so."

"Did Buck ever talk about the shipwreck-diving that goes on up here? Or did he hint at any criminal activity?"

Mildred shook her head and lowered her eyes and lapsed into a reverie.

To snap her out of it Qwilleran said: "Okay, Mildred, how about reading the tarot cards? I have a couple of questions."

She drew a deep breath. "Come over to the card table. I'll read for you one at a time.

Who wants to go first?”

"Are you serious about this?" Qwilleran asked. "Or is it a gimmick for the hospital fund?"

"I'm serious. Quite serious," she said, "and I have to be in the right state of mind, or it doesn't work. So . . . no fooling around, please."

"Would the cards reveal anything about the murder?"

Her face turned pale. "I wouldn't want to ask them. I wouldn't want to get into that."

Rosemary said: "The cards are spooky—such strange pictures! Here's a man hanging upside-down."

"The symbols are ancient, but the symbols only unlock thoughts and insights. Do you have a question, Rosemary?"

Rosemary wanted to know about her business prospects. She sat across the table from Mildred and shuffled the cards. Then Mildred arranged a dozen of the cards in a pattern and meditated at length.

"The cards are in sync with your question," she murmured, "and with some of the questions you didn't ask. Everything points to change. Business, home, romance—all subject to change in the near future. You have had partnerships in the past, and you have lost them, in one way or another. Your present business partner is a woman, I think. That will change. You have always welcomed change, but now you are reluctant to face something new. A broken contract has disappointed you. Don't let it affect your energy and enthusiasm. You will make an inspiring contact soon. And expect good news from a young male of great ambition. I see another figure in the cards—a mature male of great intelligence. You may take a long journey with him. Be alert for two dangers: Avoid conflict between business and personal life, and beware of treachery. All will end happily if you use your natural gifts and maintain an even course." She stopped and drew a deep breath.

"Wonderful!" Rosemary said. "And all so true!"

"Will you excuse me for a moment?" Mildred said weakly. "I want to step outdoors and do some deep breathing before the next reading."

She drifted from the room, and Qwilleran and Rosemary looked at each other. "What do you think about that, Qwill?" she said. "The broken contract is my lease at Maus Haus. My partner at Helthy-Welthy is a woman. The ambitious young man is my grandson, I know. He's trying for a very desirable internship in Montreal."

"How about the other guy? Mature and intelligent. That rules out Max Sorrel."

"Now you're mocking. You're supposed to be serious."

By the time Mildred returned, Qwilleran had composed his face in an expression of sincerity. He shuffled the cards and asked his questions: "Will I accomplish my goal this summer? Why am I balked in everything I try to do in this north country?"

"The cards show a pattern of confusion, which could result in frustration," Mildred said quietly. "This causes you to scatter your forces and waste your energy in trivial detail. You have skills but you are not using; them. Change your tactics. Your stubbornness is the obstacle. Be receptive to outside help. I see a male and a female in the cards. The woman is good-hearted and fair in coloring, and she has taken a liking to you. The man is young, dark-complexioned, and intelligent. Let him help you. The cards also see a new emotional entanglement. There may be some bad news, involving you in legal matters, but you will make the best of it. Your summer will be successful, although not as you planned it."

Qwilleran squirmed in his chair. "I'm impressed, Mildred. You're very good!"

She nodded absently and drifted from the room again, after placing a fishbowl on the table. It was labeled Hospital Donations and contained a ten-dollar bill. Qwilleran said:

"My treat, Rosemary," and added two twenties, a generous sum that would have amazed his friends at the Fluxion.

Rosemary said: "I don't like the idea of your new entanglement. It's probably that blonde she mentioned."

"Did you notice that card? The blonde had a black cat. It sounds like the postmistress. The dark male sounds like her husband."

"Or Koko," Rosemary said.

The return walk along the beach was in silence, as each pondered the advice of the cards. One could hear the squeaking of the sand underfoot. Qwilleran made one observation: "Mildred has lost her nervous laugh since the tragedy next door."

At the porch entrance they clanged the brass bell for the sheer pleasure of hearing its pure tone, and when Qwilleran unlocked the door and threw it open for Rosemary, Koko was on the threshold, with Yum Yum not far behind. Koko was carrying a single red tulip in his mouth.

"It's a peace offering," Qwilleran told Rosemary, but he knew very well that Koko never apologized for anything. The cat was trying to convey information, and it was not in the field of horticulture. . . . Tulips. . . Tulips. . . Qwilleran's moustache was sending him signals. The tulips came from the prison gardens. Nick was employed at the prison. . . . He glanced at his watch and grabbed the phone.