The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (16 page)

Love from Annie

After reading the letter he rejoiced that he was not named Francesca Qwilleran, or even Fanny Qwilleran. The next letter was short, but he was limiting himself to two at a sitting. “Good night, Annie,” he said as he closed the clasp on the box-file.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 20—
Contented cows give the best milk
.

 

Qwilleran was accustomed to spending Saturday and Sunday with Polly, but this weekend she needed a day to do things around the house, to catch up with correspondence, to organize her winter wardrobe. Qwilleran said he understood—and called a friend to have Sunday brunch at Tipsy's Tavern in Kennebeck.

It was a no-frills, limited-menu roadhouse in a sprawling log cabin, serving the best steak and the best fish. A recent innovation was a Sunday brunch offering the best ham and eggs and country fries and the best flapjacks with homemade sausage patties.

Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist, met him at Tipsy's. He said, “Lots of vacant tables, considering the usual popularity of this brunch.”

“The fugitive scare,” Qwilleran surmised. “Yesterday we took the color tour, and there was hardly anyone on the road. But the autumn color was magnificent—best ever!”

“Moose County has always had better color than Lockmaster.” Wetherby was a native of Horseradish, a town in the adjoining county.

“We have more trees,” Qwilleran explained. “After the lumbering companies had cleared the forests a century ago, the Klingenschoen family bought up huge tracts of worthless land and left it to reforest itself. Now the K Fund has it in conservancy, safe from developers who would use it for resort hotels, golf courses, race tracks, mobile home parks, and—God forbid!—asphalt plants. The streams are full of fish, and the woods are full of wildlife.”

“The Klingenschoens weren't in lumbering or mining or quarrying. Where did they get their money?”

“Don't ask.”

The ham was succulent; the eggs were fried without crusty edges or puddles of grease; the country fries had skins—on flavor and were toasty brown.

Wetherby asked, “When are you closing the barn? You'd better move to The Willows before the first blizzard.” He occupied Unit Three.

“We have a new neighbor in Unit Two,” Qwilleran said. “Have you met him?”

“No, but I've seen his car. Massachusetts tags.”

“He's a rare book dealer from Boston. His name is Kirt Nightingale.”

“'Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert.'” The weatherman always enlivened his predictions with snatches of poetry or songs.

“Wrong bird,” said Qwilleran. “It was written to a skylark.”

“Whatever. It was Keats at his best.”

“Sorry, friend. Wrong poet. Shelley wrote it. But speaking of blithe spirits, do you think Amanda will be able to unseat the mayor?”

“Absolutely! She's tough! She's honest! She's a Goodwinter! And some of us have talked her into adopting a cat from the animal shelter—to improve her image.”

 

Nora was expected to arrive at the barn with the beef pot pie at three o'clock. While waiting, Qwilleran read another Annie-Fanny letter, dated November 1:

Dear Fanny—

Just a brief note to thank you for your enthusiasm about our baby and also for the darling booties. They're the first item in our layette. It's a long wait, but I'm making plans. I sold my piano to make room for a crib, but that's all right. I'll have a baby grand someday. Meanwhile, I'm reading classic literature for half an hour every evening, hoping to give my baby a love of good writing. I love the story of King Arthur and his court, and if my baby is a boy, I'm going to call him Merlin. Don't you think that's a beautiful name? His middle name will be James, which I think is very noble. Then my pet name for him will be Jamie. Forgive me for rambling on, but I know you're interested.

Love from Annie

Qwilleran groaned as he recalled his youthful embarrassment over those names. “Merlin” was the name on his report card (that was bad enough) but it was his friend Archie who spread the vile lie that he was called “Jamesy” at home. There had been many a fistfight and many a trip to the principal's office.

 

At three o'clock Celia phoned to say that Nora was on her way with the beef pot pie and some other goodies. “And I just wanted to tell you, Chief, that she has a terrible case of stage fright. You're so famous, and the barn is so big, and your moustache is so—”

“Threatening,” he said. “Thanks for tipping me off. I'll try not to growl at her.”

He planned an informal chat at the snack bar, with a glass of apple cider. He would introduce the Siamese and let her stroke Yum Yum. He would show her the mechanical bank and give her a coin to deposit; it always amused visitors.

When the red car pulled into the barnyard he went out to meet it and carry the cartons into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home,” he said casually. She stood rooted to one spot and gazed around the immense interior in awe and a little fear.

“Do you like apple cider?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Sit down at the snack bar, and we'll have a glass of cider and talk.”

“Excuse me, sir, what is that thing?” She pointed to Kiltie, and he explained the bank and gave her a penny to deposit.

“Yow!” came a loud comment from the top of the refrigerator.

“Excuse me, sir, is that a cat?”

“Yes, he's a male Siamese—very smart. He wants you to start telling your tale. . . . Where did it take place?”

“Do you know Ugley Gardens, sir?”

“I've seen it on the county map. It's spelled U-g-l-e-y.”

“Yes, sir. That was a man's name, Oliver Ugley. He had acres and acres of land, and he rented it to poor farmers. Farm families came from the Old Country to have a good life, but the soil was no good, and it was swampy. All they could raise was turnips. They lived in huts and didn't have anything to do with. They worked very hard.”

Qwilleran nodded. He had heard about Ugley Gardens. It had been called “the last pocket of deprivation in Moose County” until the K Fund acquired it and turned it around. The land was tiled for drainage, and goat-farming was introduced; the huts were replaced by pre-fabricated housing; and the families became citizens of a community.

He asked, “Did your story take place before the goats came?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you know about it?”

“I lived there and met a girl at prayer meeting. Her name was . . . Betsy.”

“Was there a church at Ugley Gardens?”

“No, sir. Families just got together and sang hymns.”

“Was there something special about Betsy?”

“Yes, sir. She was oldest of six kids and had to stay home and help her mother. She never went to school.”

Qwilleran thought, This doesn't sound real in today's world; it's a fantasy—a fiction. He said, “Don't wait for me to ask questions. Just go on with your story.”

“Yes, sir. When Betsy was thirteen she heard about a hotel that hired farm girls to cook and clean because they were hard workers, so she ran away from home. It was a nice job, cleaning rooms and making beds. She slept in the basement and got all her meals. One day the housekeeper told her to take some more towels to a man in one of the rooms. He was a nice man. He said, 'You're a pretty girl. Sit down and talk to me.' Nobody ever called her pretty. She stayed awhile, and he was very friendly. He gave her a big tip when she left, but the housekeeper bawled her out for taking so long, and after a few months she was fired for being pregnant.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. It sounded like the scenario for an old silent movie. “Go on.”

“She was afraid to go home to Ugley Gardens, so she slept in barns all summer and asked for food at farmhouses. She knew all about babies, because her mother had so many. Hers was born in a shack on Chipmunk Road. It was a boy. She called him Donald, but she couldn't keep him. She put him in a box and hoped and prayed somebody would find him. A policeman found him. Everybody was talking about the abandoned baby. They gave him another name, and she heard about him once in a while—her Donald.”

“Then she continued to live in the area?”

“Yes, sir, and she always knew what he was doing—playing football, working in the woods, working at the hotel, winning the gold medal.”

“Does she know he's suspected of murder?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If it's any comfort to . . . Betsy . . . let her know that the best lawyer in the county will handle his case.”

“Thank you, sir. . . . What if—what if they find out Donald killed his own father? . . . He didn't know.”

Qwilleran hesitated just long enough to swallow. “Of course he didn't.”

“YOW!” came a piercing comment from the top of the refrigerator.

Qwilleran thanked her for the story, said he would consider it for the book, escorted her to the car in the barnyard.

“You told the story very well, Nora—in your own way. Do me one favor: Don't tell it to anyone else.”

“Yes, sir.”

He would not embarrass her by confronting her with the truth—that Betsy's story was really her own—but Nora knew that he knew; that was evident in the beseeching look in her eyes when she said, “Thank you, sir.”

To Qwilleran, the incredible coincidence was Koko's persistent interest in
Oedipus Rex
, the ancient story of a king who unwittingly killed his own father.

 

After Nora left, Koko came down from the refrigerator with two hearty thumps, and Yum Yum floated down like a feather. They had a small reward for good behavior, while Qwilleran had a strong cup of coffee and read another Annie-Fanny letter. It was dated November 30:

Dear Fanny—

I wish I could write a cheerful letter as the holiday season approaches, but I'm worried about Dana, and I know you won't mind if I unload my troubles on you. My dear, adorable husband has just lost his job at the department store. He says they're cutting down the sales staff, but wait a minute! The Christmas rush has started, and they should be hiring extra salespeople, shouldn't they? I can't help wondering if he's been drinking on his lunch period or, even worse, on the job! I don't object to cocktails before dinner (although I've given them up until baby comes) but Dana has a tendency to drink a wee bit too much when he's unhappy. I can understand that he's frustrated by the lack of acting opportunities here, but the thought that he may have lied to me is most discouraging. I must not allow myself to get depressed. I must go on dreaming our dream: an acting career for Dana, a house in the suburbs, and a healthy baby! Dana is going to try for a job as a waiter, and I know he'll be a good one, because he has great charm and can play any role well, but I worry that he'd have even more opportunities to sneak a drink. Oh Fanny! Please think good thoughts!

Love from Annie

Qwilleran could empathize with the father-to-be. He, too, had succumbed to a drinking problem when faced with a stressful situation. And he could sympathize with the mother-to-be, faced with fears and responsibilities.

He kept reminding himself: This happened more than half a century ago . . . There's nothing I can do . . . Why am I so involved?

He read the letter dated December 29:

Dear Fanny—

This will be brief. Just want you to know that I'm really unwell. I've missed quite a few days at the library, and today the doctor told me to stay home and take care of myself or risk losing the baby.

Dana is working at a convenience store evenings, and I sit up waiting for him. When he comes home, he's had too much to drink. What can I do? How will it all end?

Love from Annie

Before Qwilleran could marshal his reactions, the telephone interrupted. Mildred was inviting him and Polly to dinner the following evening. “I know it's short notice,” she said, “but I thought it would be neighborly to have a little dinner for Mr. Nightingale. Just an informal get-together, with cocktails and a casserole. Polly says he's absolutely charming! Are you free, Qwill?”

“I'm always free for one of your casseroles, Mildred, with or without a charming guest of honor.”

Mildred could not hear him muttering to himself about Polly's discoveries: first the “charming” French-Canadian professor in Quebec City . . . and then the “charming” hand-kissing jeweler from Chicago . . . and now the “charming” rare book dealer from Boston.

“What time will you expect us?” he asked. “And what's for dessert?”

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 21—
'Tis folly to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs
.

 

As Qwilleran tore off yesterday's page from Culvert McBee's calendar, he regretted that the month would soon end. On the last Tuesday he would devote his column to the ten-year-old's carefully researched collection of wise sayings. Some were old favorites; others had ambiguous meanings; a few were of foreign origin. All would be printed, having been stowed away in a kitchen drawer, and readers would be encouraged to discuss them over coffee at the Dimsdale Diner, tea at the Ittibittiwassee Estates, and beer at the Black Bear Cafe.

At two o'clock the
Moose County Something
was routinely delivered to the newspaper sleeve on Trevelyan Road, and Qwilleran strolled down the lane to pick it up. The carrier was late, however, so he went into the art center to kill time.

He found Thornton Haggis in the manager's office and asked him, “What's that hearse doing in the parking lot?” Actually it was a very long, very old black Cadillac.

“It's the Tibbitts' car. Rhoda's conducting a workshop in silhouette-cutting. Five women and one man are in the classroom, snipping away. Would you like to join them?”

“No, thanks. I'd rather learn how to turn wood. Your two wood-turnings are a big hit: the spalted elm vessel on the coffee table and the spalted maple box in the library. People like to touch them.”

“Yes, they're sensuous—even sensual,” Thornton said.

“My male cat is fascinated by the splotches on the spalted box. He sniffs them and touches them with his paw. I'd wanted to buy it, you know, but Mildred had already spoken for it. Did you know she was buying it for me?”

“In Moose County everyone knows what everyone is doing, Qwill. You should have learned that by now.”

“Okay. This is a test question: Who is Kirt Nightingale?”

“You got me! Who is he?”

“A rare book dealer who claims to have come from this area.”

“Well,” said the stonecutter, “I never cut a headstone for a Nightingale, and I went through all the old ledgers of the monument works when I wrote that paper for the historical society. There were Wrens and Crowes, but no Nightingales.”

Qwilleran looked out the window. “There's the newspaper carrier. He's late today.”

Thornton walked with him to the door. “Anything new about the hijacking?”

“I believe not.”

“Everett, my youngest son, knew Boze Campbell when they both had summer jobs with a forestry outfit. In camp they'd sit around telling jokes and drinking beer, but Boze just sat there whittling and chewing gum. His jackknife was a treasured possession. He'd start with a tree limb and whittle it down to the size of a pencil.”

 

When Qwilleran left the center, he saw a penny alongside the front path. He left it there, certain that it was one of Mildred's calculated penny-drops. He now had four lucky pennies in the spalted maple box—all grimy, tarnished, weatherworn examples of genuine lost pennies.

It was too early to dress for dinner and too late to start another serious project, so he sat in a comfortable chair and leafed through the latest newsmagazine. In the large empty silence of the barn the only sound was the turning of pages, until . . . His ear was alert to cat noises, and he heard a special kind of
mumbling. Yum Yum never mumbled. It was obviously Koko, talking to himself as he undertook a difficult task. Qwilleran was out of his chair in a flash.

The foyer was the scene of Koko's investigation. He lay on his left side on the flagstone floor, and extended a long left foreleg under the rug; then he withdrew it and rolled over to stretch the other foreleg under the Oriental—which happened to be very thin, very old, and very valuable. Yum Yum watched with interest from a nearby table; Qwilleran watched with admiration Koko's diligence and perseverance. The determined animal now tried a frontal attack, flattening himself on his belly and squirming under the carpet nose-first like a snake. His ears disappeared, then his forelegs, then half of his long torso. When he finally backed out, he had a treasure clamped in his mouth.

It was a foil gum-wrapper! Barry Morghan had dropped it into the Chinese water bucket two weeks before. It was Yum Yum's hobby to scour wastebaskets for collectibles to store in secret places, and this was probably the first gum-wrapper she had ever seen. Why did she want it now? Did Koko know she wanted it? How did he know she wanted it? If he knew, would he be likely to do her a favor? Did cats do favors for other cats?

Questions about cat behavior have no answers, Qwilleran decided. He gave them an early dinner and had time for one more letter before leaving for the Riker party. Date: January 1:

Dear Fanny—

Happy New Year! And thank you so much for your generous check. I thought Dana would be pleased with the thoughtful Christmas gift, but for some strange reason he was angry. Then I said it was a loan, to be repaid after the baby comes, but he raved and ranted. He'd been drinking and was really out of control. He tore up the check and said he wasn't going to accept charity from his wife's girlfriend. Oh, dear! What to do? Sometimes I'm at my wit's end! One minute he's wonderful, and after a drink he's not the same person. His masculine pride is hurt because he can't support us. Yesterday he was yelling, “I'll support my wife and child even if I have to work the garbage trucks or hold up gas stations!” That's when he tore up your check. And today he was hung over and filled with remorse. Then he gets suicidal. Today I screamed at him, “Don't talk like that in front of our baby!” I've never screamed at anyone in my life! Have you ever heard me scream, Fanny? I don't know what's happening to me.

Love from Annie

Qwilleran threw the letter back in the box. There was something naggingly familiar about the scene Annie had described.

 

On the way to Indian Village to meet Polly's “charming” antiquarian, he stopped at the Mackintosh Inn to have another look at Lady Anne—so serene, so poised. That was the way he remembered her. A few minutes later he was at The Willows, greeting Polly, also poised and serene.

They walked to The Birches. He was carrying a bottle of wine and yellow mums for their hosts; she had a jar of honey tied with a ribbon for the guest of honor.

“It's the traditional house-warming gift,” she explained. “Do you know the line, Qwill, about
honey and plenty of money
from Edward Lear? Kirt has a book of Lear's nonsense poems that's valued at twelve thousand. We were talking about it yesterday.”

“Has he moved in?” Qwilleran asked.

“No. The moving van arrives tomorrow.”

When they arrived at the Riker condo, the vehicle with Massachusetts tags was parked in the visitor's slot.

“Isn't that an exciting car?” Polly cried. It was a Jaguar.

They presented their gifts, Polly saying to the book dealer, “Here's to honey and lots of money!”

He was introduced as Kirtwell Nightingale but said he liked to be called Kirt. Qwilleran sized him up as an ordinary-looking man of ordinary build, with ordinary clothing and haircut and handshake.

Cocktails were served, and Arch proposed a toast. “In your garden of life may your pea pods never be empty!”

Qwilleran asked, “What brings you to Little Arctica, Kirt?”

“I grew up around here,” the man said, “and at a certain age one has a yearning to come home.”

“Did you live in Pickax?”

“No. Out in the country.” He's evasive, Qwilleran thought; probably grew up in Mudville or Ugley Gardens.

Mildred said, “Qwill has a fabulous collection of old books in his barn.”

“An accumulation, not a collection,” he corrected her. “I simply wander into Eddington Smith's place and buy something I'd like to read, or something I've read before and never owned.”

“Not all collectors buy for investment,” the dealer said. “Many buy for personal reading pleasure. My only advice is to check the book's condition. It should have a secure binding and all its pages, with no tears or underlining—and of course a clean cover.”

Qwilleran asked, “What if your cat has a hobby of knocking books off the shelf?”

“You have a problem.”

Polly's question was: “If I want to collect books, how do I start?”

“First decide whether you want to be a generalist or a specialist. It's my humble opinion that specialists have more fun. If you focus on one category—zoology, shipwrecks, or Thomas Edison, for example—the hunt can be exciting.”

Polly said she would choose ornithology; Mildred, old cookbooks; Arch, life in early America.

Qwilleran said, “I have an old copy of
Domestic Manners of the Americans
that you can have for twenty bucks.”

“Sure. You bought it for three.”

“Qwill,” said Kirt, “you're on your way to becoming an antiquarian bookseller. All it takes is one profitable sale, and you get the fever . . . and by the way, Polly gave me some back copies of your column. You're a splendid writer! And she tells me that's a portrait of your mother in the lobby of the inn. A handsome woman!”

Mildred interrupted by announcing dinner: individual casseroles of shrimp and asparagus, green salad with toasted sesame seeds and Stilton cheese, and cranberry parfaits.

On the way home Polly asked Qwilleran what he thought of their new neighbor.

“Not a bad guy!” he said.

 

It was midnight when the brown van drove into the barnyard, and Qwilleran expected a scolding. Instead, Koko and Yum Yum staged a demonstration in the foyer—prowling back and forth and jumping at the two tall windows that flanked the double doors. Qwilleran floodlighted that side of the building, expecting to see a marauding raccoon. There was no sign of wildlife, but shadowy movement could be seen behind the screens of the gazebo.

A prowler, he thought. Boze Campbell!

Before he could call the police, however, a thin figure materialized out of the shadows and came running toward the barn with waving arms and shouts of “Mr. Q! Mr. Q!”

“Lenny!” Qwilleran shouted back, going out to meet him. “What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Duluth!”

“I came back. Do you have any food? I'm starved. I spent my last nickel on breakfast.”

“How did you get here? Where's your truck?”

“Out of gas on the highway. I walked the rest of the way.”

“Come in! Come in! I'll make a ham and cheese sandwich. What would you like to drink? Beer? Coffee? Cola?”

“Milk, if you've got it.”

Qwilleran put a glass and a plastic jug of milk on the snack bar. “Help yourself while I throw the sandwich together. Mustard? Horseradish?”

“Both.”

“Is rye bread okay?”

“Anything.” Lenny gulped a glassful and poured another.

“Do you know what's been going on here since you left? The stolen pistol? The hijacking?”

“Everything,” the young man said. “Mom phoned my aunt's house every night.”

“Why did you decide to come home?”

“I'm worried about Boze. I'm afraid he'll get himself shot. Some trigger-happy clod will see him in the woods and panic. He'll think he's shooting him in self-defense.”

“So you think he's hiding out in the woods,” Qwilleran said. “That's my hunch, too, although it's generally thought he'll steal another vehicle and disappear Down Below. . . . Here, try this sandwich. I have ice cream in the freezer, too. Don't talk until you finish eating.” Sitting on a bar stool Qwilleran filled him in with the latest news: “Osmond Hasselrich died . . . The Mark Twain Festival is postponed . . . Amanda Goodwinter is running for mayor . . . Homer Tibbitt celebrated his ninety-eighth . . . The Sloans are selling their drugstore and moving to Florida.”

Lenny chewed in silence, obviously more interested in his own crisis than in local news. After he had devoured a chocolate sundae, the two of them went to the library area and stretched out in lounge chairs.

Qwilleran said, “Tell me what you propose to do.”

“Get him out of the woods for his own safety. Under normal conditions he could live off the land. He has his jackknife, and now he has a gun, and he has friends out there in backwoods stores who'd sell him ammo and matches and flashlight batteries and chewing gum. They'd even help to hide him. They're on his side. He's their own kind. Besides, he's a hero.”

“Do you think you can get him to come out of the woods and give himself up?”

“He trusted me, or he wouldn't have told me what happened. Now maybe he thinks I'm a double-crosser, but that's a chance I've got to take. Mr. Barter told me that no Moose County jury would convict a simple country boy duped by a big-city sharpie. I knew she wasn't that guy's niece! I've been working in hotels since I was sixteen, and I know a bimbo when I see one. She tried to come on to me at the desk, you know, but I wasn't having any. If only I could have guessed . . . She'd be in jail, and the old guy would be alive, and Boze would still be a hero.”