The Cat Who Played Brahms (18 page)

"I can guess," Qwilleran said. "Let's go to lunch." He checked the Siamese; they were perched on their blue cushion on top of the refrigerator and were as contented as could be expected under the circumstances. He found the handyman working in the yard.

"Hello, Tom," he said sadly. "This is an awful thing that has happened."

Tom had lost his bland, boyish expression and looked twenty years older. He nodded and stared at the grass. "Are you going to the memorial service tomorrow?" "I never went to one. I don't know what to do."

"You just go in and sit down and listen to the music and the speeches. It's a way of saying goodbye to Miss Klingenschoen. She'd like to know that you were there.”

Tom leaned on his rake and bowed his head. His eyes brimmed.

Qwilleran said: "She was good to you, Tom, but you were also a great help to her. Remember that. You made the last years of her life easier and happier."

The handyman smeared his wet face with his sleeve. His grief was so poignant that Qwilleran felt—for the first time since hearing the news—a constriction in his throat. He coughed and started talking about the broken window at the cabin. "I've got a piece of cardboard in the window now, but if it rains hard and the wind blows from the east. . ."

"I'll fix it," Tom said quietly.

The luncheonette that served the second worst coffee in Moose County was crowded at the lunch hour and buzzing with chatter about the Klingenschoen tragedy. No church was large enough for the expected crowd, so the memorial service would be held in the high school gymnasium. Pastors of all five churches would give eulogies. The Senior Citizens' Glee Club would sing. A county commissioner would play taps on a World War I bugle. Fanny Klingenschoen's favorite wicker rocker would be on the platform, and kindergarten children would file past, each dropping a single rosebud in the empty chair.

There was, of course, much speculation about the will. The great stone house had been promised to the Historical Society for a museum, and the carriage house had been promised to the Art Society for a gallery and studio. It was rumored that a lump sum would go to the Board of Education for an Olympic-size swimming pool. Altogether there was an atmosphere of mingled sorrow and excitement and gratitude among the customers at the luncheonette, especially the younger ones, several of whom were named Francesca.

Qwilleran said to Rosemary: "I hope she remembered Tom in her will. I hope she left him the blue truck. He takes care of it like a baby."

"What if we don't find the will?"

"The government and the lawyers will get everything."

After lunch the search continued in the drawing room, where a Chinese lacquer desk was stuffed with photographs: tintypes, snapshots, studio portraits, and glossy prints from newspapers. Qwilleran wanted to guess which whiskered chap was Grandfather Klingenschoen, and which bright-eyed girl with ringlets was Minnie K, but Rosemary dragged him away.

Upstairs there were marble-topped dressers, tall chests, and wardrobes. Rosemary organized the search, taking Fanny's suite herself and directing Qwilleran to the other rooms. Then they compared notes, sitting on the top stair of the long flight that had been the scene of the accident.

Rosemary said: "All I found was clothing. Real silk stockings and silk lingerie, imagine! White linen handkerchiefs by the gross. . . lots of white kid gloves turning yellow. . . everything smelling of lavender. What did you find?"

Qwilleran's list was equally disappointing. "Sheets by the ton. Blankets an inch thick, smelling of cedar. Enough white towels for a Turkish bath. And tablecloths big enough to cover a squash court."

"Where do we go from here?"

"There might be a safe," he said. "It could be built into a piece of furniture or set in a paneled wall or hidden behind a picture. If Fanny was so concerned about concealing the nature of her will, she'd keep it in a safe."

"It could take weeks to find it. You'd have to pull the whole house apart."

A distant howl echoed through the quiet rooms. "That's Koko," Qwilleran said. "He objects to being shut up for so long. You know, Rosemary, that little. devil has a sixth sense about things like this. We could let him walk through the house and see what turns him on."

As soon as Koko was released from the kitchen, he stalked through the butler's pantry into the dining room with the dignity of a visiting monarch, head held regally, ears worn like a coronet, tail pointing aloft. He sniffed ardently at the carved rabbits and pheasants on the doors of the mammoth sideboard, but it stored only soup tureens and silver serving pieces. In the foyer he was entranced by a spot on the rug at the foot of the stairs, until Qwilleran scolded him for bad taste. In the drawing room he examined the keys of the old square piano and rubbed against the bulbous legs. There was nothing to interest him in the library or conservatory, but he found the basement stairs and led the way to the English pub.

It was a dark paneled room with a stone floor and several tavern tables and crude wooden chairs. The bar was ponderous, and there was a backbar elaborately carved and set with leaded glass. Koko nosed about behind the bar, then struck a rigid pose. In slow motion he approached a cabinet under the bar. He waited, staring at the bottom of the cabinet door. Qwilleran put his finger to his lips. Neither he nor Rosemary dared to move or even breathe. Then Koko sprang. There were tiny squeaks of terror, and Koko pranced back and forth in frustration.

"A mouse," Qwilleran mouthed in Rosemary's direc tion. He tiptoed behind the bar and opened the cabinet door. A tiny gray thing flew out, and Koko took off in pursuit.

"Let him go," Qwilleran said. "This is it!" Inside the cabinet was an old black-and-gold safe with a combination lock. "Only one problem. How do we open it?"

"Call Nick."

"Nick and Lori are coming into town for the service tomorrow. The safe can wait until then. Let's go home and eat that turkey."

They bought a copy of the Pickax Picayune and found that Fanny's obituary filled the front page. Even the classified ads that usually occupied column one of page one were omitted. The text of the obituary was set in large type in a black-bordered box in the center of the page, surrounded by white space and then another wide black border. In fine print at the bottom on the page it was mentioned that the obituary was suitable for framing.

Rosemary read it aloud on the way back to Mooseville, and Qwilleran called it a masterpiece of evasion and flowery excess. "They wrote obituaries like that in the nineteenth century. Wait till I see the editor! It's not easy to write a full-page story without saying anything."

"But there are no pictures."

"The Picayune has never acknowledged the invention of the camera. Read it to me again, Rosemary. I can't believe it."

The headline was simple: Great Lady Called Home;

Rosemary read:

Elevated to the rewards of a well-spent life, without enduring the pangs of decay or the sorrow of parting or pain of sickness, and happy in her consciousness of having completed to the best of her ability her work for mankind, Fanny Klingenschoen at the advanced age of eighty-nine, slipped suddenly into the sleep from which there is no waking, during the midnight hours of Wednesday at her palatial residence in downtown Pickax. In the few brief moments when The Reaper called her home, she passed from the scene of her joy and happiness, closed her eyes to the world, and smiled as the flickering candle of life went out, casting a gloom over the county such as rarely, if ever, has been felt on a similar occasion.

No pen can describe the irreparable loss to the community when the cold slender fingers of death gripped the heart strings that inspired so many of her fellow creatures—inspired them for so many years—inspired them with an amplitude of leadership, poise, refined taste, cultivated mind, forthrightness, strength of character and generous nature.

Born to Septimus and Ada Klingenschoen almost nine decades ago, she was the granddaughter of Gustave and Minnie Klingenschoen, who braved the trackless wilderness to bring social betterment to the rugged lives of the early pioneers.

Although her spirit has taken flight, her forceful presence will be felt Saturday morning at eleven o'clock when a large number of county residents representing every station of life will assemble at Pickax High School to do honor to a woman of sterling qualities and unassuming dignity.

Business in Pickax will be suspended for two hours.

Rosemary said: "I don't know what you object to, Qwill. I think it's beautifully written—very sincere and rather touching."

"I think it's nonsense," Qwilleran said. "It would make Fanny throw up."

"YOW!" said Koko from the back seat.

"See? He agrees with me, Rosemary."

She sniffed. "How do you know if that's a yes or a no?"

They arrived at the cabin in time to hear the telephone struggling for attention inside a kitchen cupboard.

"Hello, there," said a voice that Qwilleran despised. "Have you got my girl up there? This is your old pal, Max Sorrel."

Qwilleran bristled. "I have several girls here. Which one is yours?"

After Rosemary had talked with Max she was moody and aloof. Finally she said: "I've got to start driving home tomorrow right after the memorial service."

"YOW!" Koko said with more energy than usual, and it sounded so much like a cheer that both Qwilleran and Rosemary looked at him in dismay. The cat was sitting on the mantel, perilously close to the Staffordshire pitcher. One flick of the tail would. . .

"Let's move your pitcher to a safe place," Qwilleran suggested. Then: "Did Max say something to upset you, Rosemary?"

"He's decided to buy me out and go through with the restaurant deal, and I'm nervous."

"You don't like him much, do you?" "Not as much as he thinks I do. That's what makes me nervous. I'd like to go for a walk on the beach and do some thinking."

With some concern Qwilleran watched her go. Reluctantly he admitted he was not entirely sorry to see her move to Toronto. He had been a bachelor for too long. . At his age he could not adjust to a supervised diet and Staffordshire knickknacks. He had given up his pipe at Rosemary's urging, and he often longed for some Groat and Boddle, despite his attempts to rationalize. Although she was attractive—and companionable when he was tired or lonely—he had other moods when he found younger women more stimulating. In their company he felt more alive and wittier. Rosemary was not tuned in to his sense of humor, and she was certainly not tuned in to Koko. She treated him like an ordinary cat.

The cooling of the relationship was only one development in a vacation that had hardly been a success. It had been two weeks of discomfort, mystification, and frustration—not to mention guilt; he had not written a word of his projected novel. He had not enjoyed evenings of music or walked for miles on the beach or lolled on the sand with a good spy story or paid enough attention to the sunsets. And now it was coming to an end. Even if the executors of the estate did not evict him, he was going to leave. Someone had been desperate enough to break into the cabin. Someone had been barbarous enough to club a man to death. A rabbit-hunter could come out of the woods with a rifle at any moment.

The cabin was quiet, and Qwilleran heard the scurrying of little feet. Koko was playing with his catnip toy, dredged up from some remote corner. He batted it and sent it skidding across the floor, pounced on it, clutched it in his front paws and kicked it with his powerful hind legs, then tossed it into the air and scampered after it.

Qwilleran watched the game. "Koko bats to rightfield . . . he's under it . . . he's got it . . . throws wild to second . . . makes a flying catch. . . he's down, but he's got the ball. . . here comes a fast hook over the plate. . . ~ foul to left."

The catnip ball had disappeared beneath the sofa. Koko looked questioningly at the precise spot where it had skidded under the pleated skirt of the slipcover. The sofa was built low; only Yum Yum was small enough to struggle under it.

"Game's over," Qwilleran said. "You've lost by default."

Koko flattened himself on the floor and extended one long brown leg to grope under the sofa. He twisted, squirmed, stretched. It was useless. He jumped to the back of the sofa and scolded.

"Tell your sidekick to fish it out for you," the man said. "I'm tired."

Koko glared at him, his blue eyes becoming large black orbs. He glared and said nothing.

Only a few times had Qwilleran seen that look, and it had always meant serious business. He hoisted himself off the comfortable sofa and went to the porch for the crude pitchfork hanging there. With the handle he made a swipe under the piece of furniture and brought forth some dustballs and one of his navy blue socks. He made another swipe and out rolled Rosemary's coral lipstick and a gold ballpoint pen.

Both cats were now standing by, enjoying the performance.

"Yum Yum, you little thief!" Qwilleran said. "What else have you stolen?"

Once more he raked under the sofa with the handle of the pitchfork. The catnip ball appeared first—and then his gold watch—and then some folded bills in a gold money clip. "Whose money is this?" he said as he counted the bills. Thirty-five dollars were tucked into what looked like a jumbo paper clip in shiny gold.

At that moment Rosemary climbed up the dune from the beach and wandered wearily into the cabin.

"Rosemary, you'll never believe what I found," Qwilleran said. "The gold pen you gave me! I thought Tom had stolen it. And your lipstick! Yum Yum has been stashing things under the sofa. My watch, one of my socks, and some money in a gold money clip."

"I'm so glad you found the pen," she said quietly.

"Are you okay, Rosemary?"

"I'll be all right after a good sleep. I'd like to go to bed early."

"We haven't even had dinner." "I'm not hungry. Will you excuse me? I'll have a long drive tomorrow."

Qwilleran sat on the porch alone, hardly noticing the foaming surf and the gliding seagulls. The money clip, he reflected, was the kind that Roger used. Had Roger been in the cabin? If so, for what purpose? The place had been locked for several days. No, he refused to believe that his young friend was involved in any devious operation. Certainly it was not his voice on the cassette.