The Cat Who Played Brahms (9 page)

He had lost control completely. Should he jump overboard and swim for shore and let the canoe go? He was not a competent swimmer, and he remembered the reputation of the icy lake. There was no time to lose. Every second took him farther from shore. He was on the verge of panic.

"Back-paddle!" came a voice riding on the wind. "Back-paddle. . . back-paddle!"

Yes! Of course! That was the trick. He reversed his stroke, and while the bow still pointed north the canoe made gradual progress toward shore. Once in the lee of the land, he was able to turn the canoe and head for the beach.

A man and a woman were standing on the sand watching him, the man holding a bullhorn.

They shouted encouragement, and he beached the canoe at their feet.

"We were really worried about you," the woman said. "I was about to call the helicopter." She laughed nervously.

The man said: "You need a little more practice before you try for the Olympics."

Qwilleran was breathing heavily, but he managed to thank them.

"You must be Mr. Qwilleran," the woman said. She was middle-aged, buxom, and dressed in fashionable resortwear. "I'm Mildred Hanstable, Roger's mother-in-law, and this is our next-door neighbor, Buford Dunfield."

"Call me Buck," said the neighbor.

"Call me Qwill."

They shook hands. "You need a drink," Buck said. "Come on up to the house. Mildred, how about you?"

"Thanks, Buck, but I've got a meat loaf in the oven. Stanley is coming to dinner tonight."

"I want to thank you for the turkey," Qwilleran said. "It made great sandwiches. A sandwich is about the extent of my culinary expertise."

Mildred laughed heartily at that and then said: "I don't suppose you found a bracelet at your cabin—a gold chain bracelet?"

"No, but I'll look for it."

"Otherwise it could have dropped off when I was walking on the beach."

"In that case," Buck said, "it's gone forever."

Mildred gave a hollow laugh. "If the waves don't get it, those girls will."

The two men climbed the dune to the cottage. Buck was a well-built man with plentiful gray hair and an authoritative manner. He spoke in a powerful voice that went well with a bullhorn. "I'm sure glad to see that fog let up," he said. "How long are you going to be up here?"

"All summer. Do you get fog very often?"

"A bad one? Three or four times a season. We go to Texas in the winter."

The cottage was a modern redwood with a deck overlooking the lake and glass doors leading into a littered living room.

"Excuse the mess," the host said. "My wife went to Canada with my sister to see some plays about dead kings. The gals go for that kind of stuff. . . . What'll you have? I drink rye, but I've got Scotch and bourbon. Or maybe you'd like a gin and tonic?"

"Just tonic water or ginger ale," Qwilleran said. "I'm off the hard stuff."

"Not a bad idea. I should cut down. Planning on doing any fishing?"

"My fishing is on a par with my canoeing. My chief reason for being here is to find time to write a book."

"Man, if I could write I'd write a best-seller," Buck said. "The things I've seen! I spent twenty-five years in law enforcement Down Below. Took early retirement with a good pension, but I got restless—you know how it is—and took a job in Pickax. Chief of police in a small town! Some experience!" He shook his head. "The respectable citizens were more trouble than the lawbreakers, so I quit, I'm satisfied to take it easy now. I do a little woodworking. See that row of candlesticks? I turn them on my lathe, and Mildred sells them to raise money for the hospital."

"I like the big ones," Qwilleran said. "They look like cathedral candlesticks."

They were sitting at the bar. Buck poured refills and then lighted a pipe, going through the ritual that Qwilleran knew so well. "I've made bigger sticks than that," he said between puffs. "Come on downstairs and see my workshop." He led the way to a room dominated by machinery and sawdust. "I start with one of these four-by-fours and turn it on the lathe. Simple, but the tourists like 'em, and it's for a good cause. Mildred finished one pair in gold and made them look antique. She's a clever woman."

"She does a lot for the hospital, I hear.”

"Yeah, she's got crazy ideas for fund-raising, That's all right. It keeps her mind off her troubles."

The pipe smoke was reaching Qwilleran's nostrils, and he remarked: "You get your tobacco from Scotland."

"How did you know? I order it from Down Below."

"I used to smoke the same blend, Groat and Boddle Number Five."

"Exactly! I smoked Auld Clootie Number Three for a long time, but I switched last year."

"I used to alternate between Groat and Boddle and Auld Barleyfumble."

Buck swept the sawdust from the seat of a captain's chair and pushed it toward his guest. "Put it there, my friend."

Qwilleran slid into the chair and enjoyed the wholesome smell of sawdust mixed with his favorite tobacco.

"Tell me, Buck. How long did it take you to adjust to living up here?"

"Oh, four or five years."

"Do you lock your doors?"

"We did at first, but after a while we didn't bother."

"It's a lot different from Down Below. The surroundings, the activities, the weather, the customs, the pace, the attitude. I never realized it would be such a drastic change.

My chief idea was to get away from pollution and congestion and crime for a while."

"Don't be too sure about that last one," Buck said in a confidential tone.

"What makes you say that?"

"I've made a few observations." The retired policeman threw his guest a meaningful glance.

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "Why don't you drop in for a drink this weekend? I'm staying at the Klingenschoen cabin. Ever been there?"

Buck was relighting his pipe. He puffed, shook his head, and puffed again.

"It's on the dune, about a half mile west of here. And I've got a bottle of rye with your name on it."

When Qwilleran paddled the canoe home through shallow water, he was thinking about the man who had saved his life with a bullhorn. Buck had denied ever being at the Klingenschoen cabin, and yet. . . On the evening when Mildred left her gift of turkey, two figures had disappeared into the fog, headed for the beach, and one of them had been smoking Groat and Boddle Number Five.

-7-

The muffled bell of the telephone rang several times before Qwilleran roused enough to answer it. The instrument was now housed in a kitchen cupboard, and Koko had not yet devised a means of unlatching the cupboard door.

Qwilleran was not ready for a dose of directives from Madame President before his morning coffee, and he shuffled to the phone reluctantly.

A gentle voice said: "Hello, Qwill dearest. Did I get you out of bed? Guess what! I can drive up to see you if you still want me?"

"Want you! I'm pining away, Rosemary. When can you come? How long can you stay?"

"I should be able to leave the store after lunch today and arrive sometime tomorrow, and I can stay a week unless someone makes a firm offer for Helthy-Welthy. I'm being very nice to Max Sorrell, hoping he'll offer cash."

Qwilleran's response was a disapproving grunt.

There was a pause. "Are you there, dearest? Can you hear me?"

"I'm speechless with joy, Rosemary. I sent you the directions to the cabin, didn't I?"

"Yes, I have them."

"Drive carefully."

"I can hardly wait."

"I need you."

He missed Rosemary in more ways than one. He needed a friend who would share his pleasures and problems. He was surrounded by friendly people, yet he was lonely.

He kept saying to the cats: "Wait till she sees the cabin! Wait till she sees the lake! Wait till she meets Aunt Fanny!" His only regret was the fishy odor wafting up from he beach. During the night the lake had deposited a bushel or more of silvery souvenirs, which began to reek in the morning sun.

When he drove into town for breakfast he waved breezy greetings to every passing motorist. Then, fortified by buckwheat flapjacks and lumbercamp syrup, he went in search of the candle shop at Cannery Mall. He detected the thirty-seven different scents even before he saw the sign: Night's Candles.

"Are you Sharon MacGillivray?" he asked a young woman who was arranging displays. "I'm Jim Qwilleran."

"Oh, I'm so glad to meet you! I'm Sharon Hanstable," she said, "but I'm married to Roger MacGillivray. I've heard so much about you."

"I like the name of your shop." He thought a moment and then declaimed: " 'Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain.'"

"You're fabulous! No one else has ever noticed that it's a quote."

"Maybe fishermen don't read Shakespeare. How do they feel about scented candles?"

Sharon laughed. "Fortunately we get all kinds of tourists up here, and I carry some jewelry and woodenware and toys as well as candles."

Qwilleran browsed through the narrow aisles of the little shop, his sensitive nose almost overcome by the thirty-seven scents. He said: "Roger has a good-looking money clip. Do you have any more of them?"

"Sorry, they're all gone. People bought them for Father's Day, but I've placed another order.”

"How much for the tall wooden candlesticks?"

"Twenty dollars. They're made locally by a retired policeman, and every penny goes to charity. It was my mother's idea."

"I met your mother on the beach yesterday. She's very likable."

Sharon nodded. "Everyone likes Mom, even her students. She teaches in Pickax, you know. We're all teachers, except Dad. He runs the turkey farm on Pickax Road."

"I've seen it. Interesting place."

"Not really." Sharon wrinkled her nose in distaste. "It's smelly and messy. I took care of the poults when I was in high school, and they're so dumb! You have to teach domesticated turkeys how to eat and drink. Then they go crazy and kill each other. You have to be a little crazy yourself to raise turkeys. Mom can't stand them. Has she offered to tell your fortune?"

"Not yet," Qwilleran said, "but I've got a few questions I'd like her to answer. And I've got one for you: Where can I find a locksmith?"

"I never heard of a locksmith in Mooseville, but the garage mechanic might be able to help you."

He left the store with a two-foot candlestick and a stubby green candle and drove home inhaling deep draughts of pine scent. When he placed the candlestick on a porch table, Koko sniffed every inch of it. Yum Yum was more interested in catching spiders, but Koko's nose was virtually glued to the raw wood as he explored all its shapely turnings.

His ears were swept backward, and occasionally he sneezed.

It was mid-afternoon when the blue pickup truck snaked up the driveway. Tom was alone in the cab.

"Where's the log-splitter?" Qwilleran asked cheerily.

"In the back of the truck," Tom said with his mild expression of pleasure. "I like to split logs with a maul, but this is a big tree. A very big tree." He gazed out at the lake. "It's a very nice day. The fog went away. I don't like fog."

The log-splitter proved to be a gasoline-powered contraption with a murderous wedge that rammed the foot-thick logs to produce firewood. Qwilleran watched for a while, but the noise made him jittery and he retreated to the cabin to brush the cats' fur. Their grooming had been neglected for a week.

At the cry of "Brush!" Koko strolled from the lake porch where he had been watching the wildlife, and Yum Yum squirmed out from under the sofa where she had been driven by the racket in the yard. Then followed a seductive pas de deux as the two cats twisted, stretched, writhed, and slithered ecstatically under the brush.

When Tom had finished splitting the wood, Qwilleran went out to help stack it. "So you don't like heavy fog," he said as an opener.

"No, it's hard to see in the fog." Tom said. "It's dangerous to drive a car or a truck. Yes, very dangerous. I don't drive very much in the fog. I don't want to have an accident. A man in Pickax was killed in an accident. He was driving in the fog." Tom's speech was slow and pleasant, with a musical lilt that was soothing. Today there was something different about his face—a three-day growth on his upper lip.

Qwilleran recognized the first symptom of a moustache and smiled. Searching for something to say he remarked about the quality of sand surrounding the cabin—so fine, so clean.

"There's gold in the sand," Tom said.

"Yes, it sparkles like gold, doesn't it?"

"There's real gold," Tom insisted. "I heard a man say it. He said there's a gold mine buried under this cabin. I wish this was my cabin. I'd dig up the gold."

Qwilleran started to explain the real-estate metaphor but thought better of it.

Instead he said: "I often see people picking up pebbles on the beach. I wonder what they're looking for."

"There isn't any gold on the beach," Tom said. "Only agates. The agates are pretty. I found some agates."

"What do they look like?"

"They look like little stones, but they're pretty. I sold them to a man in a restaurant. He gave me five dollars."

They worked in silence for a while. The tall tree had produced a huge amount of firewood, and Qwilleran was puffing with the exertion of stacking it. The handyman worked fast and efficiently and put him to shame.

After a few minutes Tom said: "I wish I had a lot of money."

"What would you do with it?"

"I'd go to Las Vegas. It's very pretty. It's not like here."

"Very true," Qwilleran said. "Have you ever been there?"

"No. I saw it on TV. They have lights and music and lots of people. So many people! I like nightclubs."

"Would you want to work in a nightclub if you went to Las Vegas?"

"No," Tom said thoughtfully. "I'd like to buy a nightclub. I'd like to be the boss."

After Tom had raked up the wood chips, Qwilleran invited him in for a beer. "Or would you rather have a shot? I've got some whiskey."

"I like beer," Tom said.

They sat on the back porch with their cold drinks. Koko was entranced by the man's soothing voice, and even Yum Yum made one of her rare appearances.