The Cat Who Played Brahms (2 page)

The man chopped the turkey for them. "C'mon and get it! They sliced it off an actual turkey this time." The two Siamese maintained their frigid reserve.

A moment later Qwilleran raised his nose. He identified a familiar perfume, and soon Rosemary knocked, on the door. He greeted her with a kiss that was more than a perfunctory social peck. The Siamese sat in stony immobility.

Pomegranate juice was poured over ice with a dash of club soda, and a toast was drunk to the condemned building in memory of everything that had happened there.

"It was a way of life we'll never forget," Qwilleran said.

"It was a dream," Rosemary added. "And occasionally a nightmare."

"I suppose you'll accept your aunt's offer now. Will the Fluxion let you go?"

"Oh sure. They may not let me come back, but they'll let me go. Have you made any plans?"

"I may return to Canada," Rosemary said. "Max wants to open a natural food restaurant in Toronto, and if I can sell my interest in Helthy-Welthy I might go into partnership with him."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Max Sorrel! That womanizer! He said: "I was hoping you'd come up north and spend some time with me."

"I'd love it if I don't get involved in Toronto. How will you get up there?"

"I bought a car today. The cats and I will drive up to Pickax City to say hello to Aunt Fanny and then go on up to the lake. I haven't seen her for forty years. Judging from her correspondence she's a character. Her letters are cross-written."

Rosemary looked puzzled.

"My mother used to do cross-writing. She'd handwrite a page in the usual way, then turn the paper sideways and write across the original lines."

"What for? To save paper?"

"Who knows? Maybe to preserve privacy. It isn't easy to read. . . . She's not my real aunt," he went on. "Fanny and my mother were doughnut girls in World War I. Then Fanny had a career of some kind—never married. When she retired she went back to Pickax City."

"I never heard of the place."

"It used to be mining country. Her family made their fortune in the mines."

"Will you write to me, Qwill dearest?"

"I'll write-often. I'll miss you, Rosemary."

"Tell me all about Aunt Fanny after you meet her."

"She calls herself Francesca now. She doesn't like to be called Aunt Fanny. She says it makes her feel like an old woman."

"How old is she?"

"She'll be ninety next month."

-2-

Qwilleran packed the green car for the trek north: two suitcases, his typewriter, the thirteen-pound dictionary, five hundred sheets of typing paper, and two boxes of books.

Because Koko refused to eat any commercial product intended for cats, there were twenty-four cans of boned chicken, red salmon, corned beef, solid pack white tuna, cocktail shrimp, and Alaska crabmeat. On the back seat was the blue cushion favored by the Siamese, and on the floor was an oval roasting pan with the handles sawed off in order to fit between the drive-shaft and the rocker-panel. It contained an inch-thick layer of kitty gravel. This was the cats' commode. After their previous commode of hand-painted tole had rusted out, Robert Maus had donated the roasting pan from his well-stocked kitchen.

The furniture in Qwilleran's apartment belonged to an earlier tenant, and his few personal possessions—such as the antique scale and a cast-iron coat of arms were now stored for the summer in Arch Riker's basement. Thus unencumbered, the newsman started for the I north country with a light heart.

His passengers in the back seat reacted otherwise. The little female howled in strident tones whenever the car turned a corner, rounded a curve, crossed a bridge, passed under a viaduct, encountered a truck, or exceeded fifty miles an hour. Koko scolded her and bit her hind leg, adding snarls and hisses to the orchestrated uproar.

Qwilleran drove with clenched jaw, enduring the stares and glares of motorists who passed him, their fretful horn-honking and hostile tailgating.

The route passed through a string of suburbs and then the winding roads of horse country. Beyond that came cooler temperatures, taller pine trees, deer-crossing signs, and more pickup trucks. Pickax City was still a hundred miles ahead when Qwilleran's jangled nerves convinced him to stop for the night. The travelers checked into a tourist camp, where rickety cabins of pre-motel vintage were isolated in a wooded area. All three of them were in a state of exhaustion, and Koko and Yum Yum immediately fell asleep in the exact center of the bed.

The next day's journey was marked by fewer protests from the back seat. The temperature dropped still further, and deer-crossings became elk-crossings. The highway gradually ascended into hilly country and then plunged into a valley to become the main thoroughfare of Pickax City. Here majestic old houses reflecting the wealth of the mining and lumbering pioneers lined both sides of Main Street, which divided in the center of town and circled a little park. Facing the park were several impressive buildings: a nineteenth century courthouse, a library with the columns of a Greek temple, two churches, and a stately residence with a polished brass house number that was Aunt Fanny's.

It was a large square mansion of fieldstone, with a carriage house in the rear. A blue pickup truck stood in the driveway, and a gardener was working on the shrubs. He stared pointedly at Qwilleran with an expression the newsman could not identify. In the front door there was an old-fashioned mail slot framed in brass and engraved with the family name: Klingenschoen.

The little old lady who answered the doorbell was undoubtedly Aunt Fanny: a vigorous eighty-nine, tiny but taut with energy. Her white, powdery, wrinkled face wore two slashes of orange lipstick and glasses that magnified her eyes. She gazed at her visitor and, after focusing through the thick lenses, flung her arms wide in a dramatic gesture of welcome. Then from that little woman came a deep chesty growl:

"Bless my soul! How you have grown!"

"I should hope so," Qwilleran said genially. "The last time you saw me I was seven years old. How are you, Francesca? You're looking great!"

Her exotic name was in keeping with her flamboyant garb: an orange satin tunic embroidered with peacocks and worn over slim black trousers. A scarf, also orange, was tied around her head and knotted on top in a way that added height to her four-feet-three.

"Come in, come in," she growled pleasantly. "My, how glad I am to see you! . . . Yes, you look just like your picture in the Fluxion. If only your dear mother could see you now, rest her soul. She would adore your moustache. Are you ready for a cup of coffee? I know you journalists drink a lot of coffee. We'll have it in the sun parlor."

Aunt Fanny led the way through a high-ceilinged hallway with a grand staircase, past a formal drawing room and ornate dining room, past a paneled library and a breakfast room smothered in chintz, into an airy room with French windows, wicker furniture, and ancient rubber plants.

In her chety voice she said: "I have some divine cinnamon buns. Tom picked them up from the bakery this morning. You adored cinnamon buns when you were a little boy."

While Qwilleran relaxed on a wicker settee his hostess trotted away in little black Chinese slippers, disappearing into a distant part of the house, continuing a monologue that he could only half-hear. She returned carrying a large tray.

Qwilleran sprang to his feet. "Here, let me take that, Francesca."

"Thank you, dear," she barked. "You were always such a thoughtful little boy. Now you must put cream in your coffee. Tom picked it up from the dairy farm this morning. You don't get cream like this in the city, my dear."

Qwilleran preferred his coffee black, but he accepted cream, and as he bit into a doughy cinnamon bun his gaze wandered to the French windows. The gardener was leaning on his rake and peering into the room.

"Now you're going to stay for lunch," Aunt Fanny said from the depths of a huge wicker rocking chair that swallowed her tiny figure. "Tom will go to the butcher to pick up a steak. Do you like porterhouse or Delmonico? We have a marvelous butcher. Would you like a baked potato with sour cream?"

"No! No! Thank you, Francesca, but I have two nervous animals in the car, and I want to get them up to the cabin as soon as possible. I appreciate the invitation, but I'll have to take a rain check."

"Or maybe you'd prefer pork chops," Aunt Fanny went on. "I'll make you a big salad.

What kind of dressing do you like? We'll have crêpes suzette for dessert. I always made them for gentlemen callers when I was in college.”

Qwilleran thought: Is she deaf? Or doesn't she bother to listen? The trick is to get her attention. "Aunt Fanny!" he shouted.

She looked startled at the name and the tone. "Yes, dear?"

"After we're settled," he said in a normal voice, "I'll come back and have lunch with you, or you can drive up to the lake and I'll take you to dinner. Do you have transportation, Francesca?"

"Yes, of course! Tom drives me. I lost my license a few years ago after a little accident. The chief of police was a very disagreeable person, but we got rid of him, and now we have a charming man. He named his youngest daughter after me. . ."

"Aunt Fanny!"

"Yes, dear?"

"Will you tell me how to reach the cabin?"

"Of course. It's very easy. Go north to the lake and turn left. Watch for the ruins of a stone chimney; that's all that's left of an old log schoolhouse. Then you'll see the letter K on a post. Turn into the gravel driveway and follow it through the woods. That's all my property. The wild cherries and sugarplums should be in blossom now. Mooseville is only three miles farther on, You can drive into town for restaurants and shopping. They have a charming postmistress, but don't get any ideas! She's married ...”

"Aunt Fanny!"

"Yes, dear?"

"Do I need a key?"

"Goodness, no! I don't believe I've ever seen a key to the place. It's just a little old log cabin with two bunkrooms, but you'll be comfortable. It will be nice and quiet for writing. It was too quiet for my taste. I was in clubwork in New Jersey, you know, and I had scads of people around all the time. I'm so happy you're writing a book, dear.

What is the title? Your dear mother would be so proud of you."

Qwilleran was travel-weary and eager to reach his destination. It required all his wiles to disengage himself from Aunt Fanny's overwhelming hospitality. As he left the house the gardener was doing something to the bed of tulips around the front steps. The man stared, and Qwilleran gave him a mock salute.

His passengers celebrated his return with howls of indignation, and Yum Yum's protests continued as a matter of principle even though there were no turns, bridges, viaducts, or large trucks. The highway ran through desolate country, some of it devastated by forest fires; skeletons of ravaged trees were frozen in a grotesque dance. Behind a sign advertising Hot Pasties, a restaurant had collapsed and was overgrown with weeds. Traffic was sparse, mostly pickup trucks whose drivers waved a greeting to the green two-door.

The sites of defunct mines—the Dimsdale, the Big B, the Goodwinter—were marked by signs warning Danger—Keep Out. There was no Klingenschoen mine, Qwilleran noticed. He tuned in a local station on the car radio and turned it off in a hurry.

So Aunt Fanny had been a clubwoman! He could visualize her bustling about at afternoon teas, chairing committees, wearing flowered hats, being elected Madame President, presiding at conventions, organizing charity balls.

His ruminations were interrupted by a glance in the rearview mirror. He was being followed by a blue pick-up truck. Qwilleran reduced his speed, and the truck slowed accordingly. The game continued for several miles until he was distracted by the appearance of a farm with several low sheds. Their rooftops as well as the farmyard itself were in constant motion—a bronze-colored mass, heaving and rippling.

"Turkeys!" he said to his passengers. "You're going to live near a turkey farm, you lucky guys."

When he glanced again in the rearview mirror the blue pickup was nowhere to be seen.

Farther on he passed a large cultivated estate—well-kept lawns and flower beds behind a high ornamental fence. Set far back on the property were large buildings of an institutional nature.

The highway ascended a hill. Immediately two heads were raised in the back seat. Two noses sniffed the first hint of water, still a mile away. Irritable yowls changed to excited yips. Then the lake itself came into view, an endless stretch of placid blue water stretching to meet an incredibly blue sky.

"We're almost there'" Qwilleran told his restless passengers.

The route now followed the shoreline, sometimes close to the beach, sometimes dipping back into the woods. It passed a rustic gate guarding the private road to the Top o' the Dunes Club. Half a mile beyond was the crumbling chimney of the old schoolhouse-and the letter K on a post. Qwilleran turned into a gravel driveway that snaked through a forest of evergreens and oaks. Occasional sunlit clearings were filled with wild flowers, tree stumps, and fragrant flowering shrubs. He wished Rosemary were with him; she noticed everything and appreciated everything. After climbing over a succession of sandy dunes the driveway ended in a clearing with a sudden view of the lake, dotted with sailboats far out near the horizon.

There, perched on top of the highest dune and dwarfed by hundred-foot pine trees, was the picturesque cabin that would be his home for the summer. Its logs and chinking were dark with age. A screened porch overlooking the lake promised quiet hours of thought and relaxation. A massive fieldstone chimney and an ample woodpile suggested lazy evenings with a good book in front of a blazing fire.

The entrance to the cabin was through a second screened porch facing the woods and the clearing that served as parking lot. As Qwilleran approached it a squirrel ran up a tree, looked down at him, and scolded. Flurries of little yellow birds darted and twittered. On top of the woodpile a tiny brown animal sat up, cocked its head, and looked at the man inquiringly.