The Cat Who Played Brahms (17 page)

"Did she have a church affiliation?" "No, but she made annual contributions to all five churches, and the service will probably be held at the largest. It will be very well attended, I'm sure-people coming from all over Moose County."

During the conversation the telephone rang frequently. "I'm not answering," Penelope said. "They're just curiosity-seekers. Legitimate inquiries will go to the office."

Qwilleran asked: "What about the open-door policy that seems to prevail in these parts? Won't people walk into the house?"

"Tom has instructions to turn them away." Then Rosemary served the tea, and conversation drifted into polite reminiscences. Penelope pointed out Fanny's favorite rocker. Qwilleran commented on her flair for exotic clothes.

Finally he said: "Well, everything seems to be under control here. Are you sure there's nothing we can do to help?"

"There is one little matter that Alex said I should discuss with you." She paused dramatically. "We don't have Fanny's will."

"What! With all that money and all that real estate—she died intestate? I can't believe it!"

"We are positive that a holographic will exists. She insisted in writing it herself to protect her privacy."

"Is that a legal document?"

"In this state, yes. . . if it's written in her own hand and signed and dated. Witnesses are not required. That was the way she wanted it, and one didn't argue with Fanny! Naturally we advised her on the terminology to avoid ambiguity and loopholes. Its location should have been noted in her letter of instructions, but unfortunately. . ."

"And now what?"

Penelope looked hopefully at Qwilleran. "All we have to do is find it."

"Find it!" he said. "Is that what you want me to do?"

"Would you object strenuously?"

Qwilleran looked at Rosemary, and she nodded enthusiastically. She said: "Fanny gave me a tour of the house yesterday, and I don't think it would be difficult."

"Call me at the office if you have any problems," Penelope said, "and don't answer the phone; it will only prove a nuisance."

Then she left them alone, and Qwilleran confronted Rosemary. "All right! If you think it's so easy, where do we begin?"

"There's a big desk in the library and a small one in Fanny's sitting room upstairs. Also an antique trunk in her bedroom."

"You're amazing! You notice everything, Rosemary. But has it occurred to you that they might be locked?"

She ran to the kitchen and returned with a handful of small keys. "These were in the Chinese teapot I used for the tea. Why don't you start in the library? I'd like to tackle the trunk."

That was a mistake, considering Qwilleran's obses- sion with the printed word. He was awed by the rows of leather-bound volumes from floor to ceiling. He guessed that Grandfather Klingenschoen tucked away a few pornographic classics on the top shelf. He guessed the library housed a fortune in first editions. On one shelf he found a collection of racy novels from the Twenties, with Aunt Fanny's personal bookplate, and he was absorbed in Five Frivolous Femmes by Gladys Gaudi when Rosemary rushed into the room.

"Qwill, I've made a terrific discovery!"

"The will?"

"Not the will. Not yet. But the trunk is filled with Fanny's scrapbooks as far back as her college days. Do you realize that dear Aunt Fanny was once an exotic dancer in New Jersey?"

"A stripper? In burlesque houses?" Rosemary looked gleeful. "She saved all the ads and some 'art photographs' and a few red hot fan letters. No wonder she wanted you to write a book! Come on upstairs. The scrapbooks are all dated. I've just started."

They spent several hours exploring the trunk, and Qwilleran said: "I feel like a voyeur. When she told me she was in clubwork, I visualized garden clubs and hospital auxiliaries and afternoon study clubs."

Actually her career had been pursued in Atlantic City nightclubs, first as an entertainer, then as a manager, and finally as an owner, with her greatest activity during the years of Prohibition. There were excerpts from gossip columns, pictures of Francesco's Club, and photos of Francesca herself posing with politicians, movie stars, baseball heroes, and gangsters. There was no mention of a marriage, but there was evidence of a son. His portraits from babyhood to manhood appeared in one scrapbook until—according to newspaper clippings—he was killed in a mysterious accident on the New York waterfront.

But there was no will.

Qwilleran telephoned Penelope to say they would continue the search the next day. He made the chore sound tedious and depressing. In fact, the excitement of Fanny's past life erased the sadness of the occasion, and both he and Rosemary were strangely elated.

She said: "Let's do something reckless. Let's eat at the Dismal Diner on the way home."

The boxcar stood on a desolate stretch of the highway with not another building in sight—only the rotting timbers of the Dimsdale shaft house. There were no vehicles in the pasture that served as a parking lot, but a sign in the door said OPEN, contradicting another sign in one window that said CLOSED.

The side of the boxcar was punctuated with windows of various sorts, depending on the size and shape available at some local dump. The interior was papered with yellowing posters and faded menus dating back to the days of nickel coffee and ten-cent sandwiches. Qwilleran raised his sensitive nose and sniffed. "Boiled cabbage, fried onions, and marijuana," he reported. “I don't see a maître d'. Where would you like to Sit, Rosemary?"

Along the back wall stretched a worn counter with a row of stools, several of them stumps without seats. Tables and chairs were Depression-era, probably from miners' kitchens. There was only one sign of life, and that was uncertain. A tall, cadaverous man, who may not have eaten for a week, came forward like a sleepwalker from the dingy shadows at the end of the diner.

"Nice little place you've got here," Qwilleran said brightly. "Do you have a specialty?"

"Goulash," the man said in a tinny voice.

"We were hoping you'd have veal cordon bleu. Do you have any artichokes? . . . No? . . . No artichokes, Rosemary. Do you want to go somewhere else?"

“I'd like to try the goulash,” she said. "Do you suppose it's real Hungarian goulash?"

"The lady would like to know if it's real Hungarian goulash," Qwilleran repeated to the waiter.

"I dunno."

"I think we'll both have the goulash. It sounds superb: And do you have any Bibb lettuce?"

"Cole slaw is all."

"Excellent! I'm sure it's delicious."

Rosemary was eyeing Qwilleran with that dubious, disapproving look she reserved for his playful moments. When the waiter, who was also the cook, shambled out of his shadowy hole with generous portions of something slopped on chipped plates, she transferred the same expression to a study of the food. She whispered to Qwilleran: "I thought goulash was beef cubes cooked with onions in red wine, with sweet paprika. This is macaroni and canned tomatoes and hamburger."

"This is Mooseville," he explained. "Try it. It tastes all right if you don't think about it too much."

When the cook brought the dented tin coffeepot, Qwilleran asked genially: "Do you own this delightful little place?"

"Me and my buddy."

"Would you consider selling? My friend here would like to open a tearoom and boutique." He spoke without daring to look at Rosemary.

"I dunno. An old lady in Pickax wants to buy it. She'll pay good money."

"Miss Klingenschoen, no doubt."

"She likes it a lot. She comes in here with that quiet young fellah."

When Qwilleran and Rosemary continued their drive north, she said: "There's an example for you. Fanny made irresponsible promises to the poor man, and you're just as bad—with your jokes about tearooms and artichokes."

"I wanted to check his voice against the cassette," Qwilleran said. "It doesn't fit the pattern I'm looking for. When you stop to think about it, he doesn't fit the role of master criminal either. . . although he could be arrested for that goulash. My chief suspect now is the guy who owns the FOO."

When they turned into the private drive to the cabin, Rosemary said: "Look! There's a Baltimore oriole." She inhaled deeply. "I love this lake air. And I love the way the driveway winds between the trees and then suddenly bursts into sight of the lake."

Qwilleran stopped the car with a jolt in the center of the clearing. "The cats are on the porch! How did they get out? I locked them in the cabin!"

Two dark brown masks with blue eyes were peering through the screens and howling in two-part harmony.

Qwilleran jumped out of the car and shouted over his shoulder: "The cabin door's wide open!" He rushed indoors, followed by a hesitant Rosemary. "Someone's been in here! There's a bar stool knocked over. . . and blood on the white rug! Koko, what happened? Who was in here?"

Koko rolled over on his haunches and licked his paws, spreading his toes and extending his claws.

From the guest room Rosemary called: "This window's open! There's glass on the floor, and the shutter's hanging from one hinge. The screen's been cut!"

It was the window overlooking the septic tank and the wooded crest of the dune.

"Someone broke in to get the cassette," Qwilleran said. "See? He set up a bar stool to reach the moose head. He fell off—or jumped off in panic—and gave the stool a back-kick. I'll bet Koko leaped on the guy's head from one of the beams. His eighteen claws can stab like eighteen stilettoes, and Koko isn't fussy about where he grabs. There's a lot of blood; he could have sunk his fangs into an ear."

"Oh, dear!" Rosemary said with a shudder.

"Then the guy ran out the door-maybe with the cat riding on his head and screeching. Koko's been licking his claws ever since we got home." "Did the man get the cassette?" "It wasn't up there. I have it hidden. Don't touch anything. I'm going to call the sheriff—again."

"If my car had been parked in the lot, this wouldn't have happened, Qwill. He'd think someone was home."

“We'll pick up your car tomorrow."

"I'll have to drive home on Sunday. I wish you were coming with me, Qwill. There's a dangerous man around here, and he knows you've found his cassette. What are you going to tell the sheriff?"

"I'm going to ask him if he likes music, and I'll play Little White Lies."

Later that evening Rosemary and Qwilleran sat on the porch to watch the setting sun turn the lake from turquoise to purple. "Did you ever see such a sky?" Rosemary asked. "It shades from apricot to mauve to aquamarine, and the clouds are deep violet."

Koko was pacing restlessly from the porch to the kitchen to the guest room and back to the porch.

"He's disturbed," Qwilleran explained, "by his instinctive savagery in attacking the burglar. Koko is a civilized cat, and yet he's haunted by an ancestral memory of days gone by and places far away, where his breed lurked on the walls of palaces and temples and sprang down on intruders to tear them to ribbons."

"Oh, Qwill," Rosemary laughed. "He smells the turkey in the oven, that's all."

-14-

Rosemary picked up her car at the Mooseville garage, and Qwilleran picked up his mail at the post office.

"I heard the bad news on the radio," Lori said. "What a terrible way to go!"

"And yet it was in character," Qwilleran said. "You've got to admit it was dramatic—the kind of media event that Fanny would like."

"Nick and I want to go to the memorial service tommorrow."

He said: "We're on our way to Pickax now, and we're taking the cats. There was a break-in at the cabin yesterday, and we think Koko attacked the burglar and drove him away."

"Really?" Lori's blue eyes were wide with astonishment.

"There was blood on the rug, and Koko was licking his claws with unusual relish. If one of your postal patrons turns up with a bloody face, tip me off. Anyway, I'm not leaving Koko and Yum Yum at the cabin alone until this thing is cleared up. They're out in the car right now, disturbing the peace on Main Street."

Rosemary drove her car back to the cabin and parked it in the clearing. Then the four of them headed for Pickax at a conservative speed that would not alarm Yum Yum.

Rosemary mentioned that the garage mechanic was going to the memorial service.

"Fanny had a real fan club in Moose County," Qwilleran said. "For a name that used to be despised, Klingenschoen has made a spectacular comeback."

He swerved to avoid hitting a dead skunk, and the Siamese raised noses to sniff—alert, with ears back and whiskers forward.

Rosemary said: "I've been thinking about that odor at the turkey farm. It wasn't a barnyard smell; it was a bad case of human B.O. I think the farmer has a drastic diet deficiency. I wish I could suggest it to his wife without offending her."

Next the car hit a pothole, and Yum Yum launched a tirade of Siamese profanity that continued all the way to Pickax.

Qwilleran parked in the driveway of the imposing stone house with its three floors of grandeur. "Here we are, back at Manderley," he quipped.

"Oh, is that the name of the place?" Rosemary asked innocently.

The two animals were shut up in the kitchen with their blue cushion, their commode, and a bowl of water, while Qwilleran and Rosemary continued their search for the will.

The library desk was a massive English antique, its drawers containing tax records, birth and death documents, insurance policies, real estate papers, investment information, paid bills, house inventories, and hundred-year-old promissory notes. . . but no will. The desk in Aunt Fanny's sitting room was a graceful French escritoire devoted to correspondence: love letters from the Twenties; silly chit-chat about "beaux" written by Qwilleran's mother when she and Fanny were in college; brief notes from Fanny's son at boarding school; and recent letters typed on Daily Fluxion letterheads. But still no will.

"Here's something interesting, Qwill," Rosemary said. "From someone in Atlantic City. It's about Tom, asking Fanny to hire him as a man-of-all-work." She scanned the lines hastily. "Why, Qwill! He's an exconvict! It says in this letter he's about to be paroled. . . but he needs a place to go . . . and the promise of a job. He's not real sharp, it says. . . but he's a hard worker. . . obeys orders and never makes any trouble. . . . Listen to this, Qwill. He took a rap and got ten years . . . but he's being released for good behavior. . . . Oh, Qwill! What kind of people did Fanny know in New Jersey?"