The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (3 page)

“There's a French perfume by that name. I imagine it's lovely.”

Eventually they went indoors to look at the calendar, and eventually Polly went home to feed Brutus and Catta. Qwilleran took the Siamese out to the screened gazebo, and the three of them sat in the dark. The cats liked the nighttime. They heard inaudible sounds and saw invisible movement in the shadows.

Suddenly Koko was alert. He ran to the rear of the gazebo and stared at the barn. In two or three minutes the phone rang indoors. Qwilleran hurried back to the main building and grabbed the receiver after the sixth or seventh ring.

The caller was Celia Robinson O'Dell, who had been his neighbor in the carriage-house apartment. “Hi, Chief!” she said cheerfully, her voice sounding young for a woman of her advancing age. “How's everything at the barn? How are the kitties?”

“Celia! I've been trying to call you and extend felicitations on your marriage, but you're hard to reach.”

“We took a little honeymoon trip. We went to see Pat's married daughter in Green Bay. He has three grandchildren.”

“How do you like living on Pleasant Street?”

“Oh, it's a wonderful big house with a big kitchen, which I need now that I'm going into the catering business seriously. But I enjoyed living in the carriage house and running over with goodies for you and the kitties. I can still cook a few things for your freezer, you know, and Pat can deliver them when he does your yardwork.”

“That'll be much appreciated by all three of us.”

“And if there are any little . . . secret . . . missions that I can handle for you . . .”

“Well, we'll see how that works out. Give Pat my congratulations. He's a lucky guy.”

As Qwilleran hung up the phone, he stroked his moustache dubiously, fearing that his espionage stratagem was collapsing. He liked to snoop in matters that were none of his business—propelled by curiosity or suspicion—and he had relied on Celia to preserve his anonymity. She was an ideal undercover agent, being a respectable, trustworthy, grandmotherly type. And, as an avid reader of spy fiction, she enjoyed being assigned to covert missions. There had been briefings, cryptic phone calls, hidden tape recorders, and secret meetings in the produce department at Toodle's Market. Now, as a married woman, how long could she retain her cover?

As for Qwilleran, there was nothing official about his investigations. He simply had an interest in crime, stemming from his years as a crime reporter for newspapers Down Below—as locals called the metropolitan areas to the south. In recent years he had uncovered plenty of intrigue in this small community, and in doing so he had won the trust and friendship of the Pickax police chief. It was an association that would continue, with or without his secret agent.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1—
Let sleeping dogs lie.

 

Qwilleran had written a thousand words in praise of September for the “Qwill Pen” column, and he invited readers to compose poems about the ninth month. He wrote, “The best will be printed in the 'Qwill Pen' and will win a Qwill pencil, stamped in gold.” Everyone knew that his favorite writing tool was a fat yellow pencil with thick soft lead.

“Always figuring out ways to get the subscribers to do your work for you,” the managing editor bantered.

“Reader participation is the name of the game. They love it!”

“Who's paying for all the pencils you're giving away?”

“You can take it out of my meager salary.”

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2—
Don't count your chickens before they're hatched
.

The weekly luncheon of the Pickax Boosters Club was held at the community hall, with committees reporting on the progress of the Mark Twain Festival scheduled for October. There would be a parade, a square dance, contests, lectures, and more. The so-called presidential suite in the hotel (third floor front) would be renamed the Mark Twain suite. Efforts to name a street after him had received a chilly reaction from residents, who complained that a change in street names resulted only in confusion and expense to property owners. Qwilleran attended and ate his soup and sandwich but refrained from volunteering for anything.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 3—
Every dog has his day
.

For the Siamese the big event was the arrival of a truck delivering new stools for the snack bar. The old ones were as comfortable as a milking stool, yet casual visitors chose to sit there instead of sinking into the deep-cushioned lounge chairs. The new stools were more hospitable. They had backs; they swiveled; their seats were thickly upholstered. The four old stools without backs would go to the thrift shop to be sold for charity.

As soon as the deliveryman had left, Koko and Yum Yum came out from nowhere to inspect the new furniture. Two noses covered every inch of the wooden legs and backs; then they curled up on two upholstered seats and went to sleep.

Fran Brodie had ordered them. She was second-in-command at Amanda's interior design studio. She was also the daughter of the police chief and one of the most glamorous young women in town. And on Friday she would be giving Qwilleran a personally conducted tour of the refurbished hotel.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 4—
A short horse is soon curried
.

Qwilleran fed the cats, changed the water in their drinking bowl, policed their commode, brushed their coats, and gave them instructions for the day: “Don't forget to wash behind your ears. Drink plenty of water; it's good for you. Be nice to each other.”

They looked at him blankly and waited for him to leave so they could enjoy a nap on the new bar stools.

For his own breakfast he thawed a roll and took it to his studio on the first balcony, along with a mug of extra-strength coffee brewed in his automated coffeemaker. There he finished his Friday column, a tongue-in-cheek dissertation on the advantages and disadvantages of indoor plumbing. Only Qwilleran could write a thousand words on a subject of such delicacy and make it entertaining—as well as educational—without being scatological.

He handed in his copy to a skeptical managing editor, bantered with the crew in the cityroom, grabbed a burger at Lois's Luncheonette, and browsed among the pre-owned books in the dusty secondhand bookstore. Still he arrived early at the hotel for his appointment with the designer.

After the bombing of the historic building, the Klingenschoen Foundation had purchased it from the Limburger estate, and Qwilleran had insisted that a local designer be commissioned to do the interior. Now, while waiting for Fran Brodie, he stood on the sidewalk across the street and contemplated the scene. The three blocks of downtown Main Street reflected an era when the county's quarries were going full blast. Buildings and pavement were made of stone—a bleak prospect until the city's recent beautification effort. Now the chipped flagstone pavements were replaced with brick. Young trees were planted close to the curb. Brick planter boxes were filled with petunias, tended by volunteers.

In the middle of the block stood the three-story cube of granite that had long been the city's only hotel and most disgraceful eyesore. It had a long history: built in the 1870s . . . gutted by fire in the 1920s and cheaply rebuilt . . . known as an overnight lodging that was gloomy but clean!

“It was so clean,” said the natives, “that the porcelain was scrubbed off the bathtubs!”

After being bombed by a psychopath from Down Below, it required a year to rebuild, refurnish and rename. Already two national magazines were interested in photographing the interior.

Windows that had previously stared balefully on Main Street were now flanked by wooden shutters painted in the theme color of rust. The entrance was more inviting than before; a broad flight of stone steps led up to double doors of beveled wood and etched glass. And across the facade were stainless steel letters mounted directly on the stone. They spelled:

THE MACKINTOSH INN

As everyone in Moose County knew, Qwilleran's mother had been a Mackintosh. If she had not been a wartime volunteer, and if she had not met Francesca Klingenschoen in a canteen, and if they had not become lifelong friends . . . there would be no Mackintosh Inn. As a boy he had written letters to “Aunt Fanny.” After his mother's death and numerous crises in his own life, he resumed the correspondence and eventually found himself named as her sole heir.

Qwilleran's reverie was interrupted by a pinch on the elbow and the sound of a woman's well-modulated voice: “Well, what do you think of the old dump?”

He gulped involuntarily. “Fran, I wish my mother could see this.”

“Wait till you see the interior!”

They dashed across the street during a lull in the traffic, and as they stood at the foot of the broad front steps she explained, “This is the ceremonial entrance. In the rear we have a carriage entrance at ground level, close to the parking lot and with immediate access to the elevators.”

“Elevators? Plural?” he asked in pleasure and surprise.

“Two of them. They operate like a dream! No clanking, no jerking, no stopping between floors. Isn't it wonderful? . . . Now, before we go inside, I want to brief you on a couple of details. The interior is done in the Arts and Crafts period. Do you know about that?”

“Vaguely. Tell me.”

“It came after Victorian and before Art Deco. In England the leader was William Morris . . . in Scotland, Charles Rennie Mackintosh . . . in the U.S., Gustav Stickley. Their designs are in museums and private collections. We've furnished the inn with new versions of historic originals. . . . Got it?”

“Got it. Let's go.” As they walked slowly up the steps he gazed at the entrance doors in admiration. “Old?”

“No. Custom-made for us in North Carolina. The wood is fumed oak. The etching was inspired by a William Morris tapestry.”

In the lobby Qwilleran, who was not prone to gasp, actually gasped! The mood was hospitable, the colors warm: rust, mellow browns, and other earth tones. There was much fumed oak . . . ceiling beams where none had been before . . . large leather-cushioned chairs with wide wood arms . . . tables with ceramic tile tops . . . lamps with wood bases, pyramidal shades of mica, and pull chains! The mica gave a golden glow. The new reception desk had a welcoming air.

“The old one,” Qwilleran observed, “resembled the booking desk at the police station.” Then he saw the large oil painting on the far wall: a life-size portrait of a woman seated at a piano. “
That's her
! That's exactly how she looked!”

It was a portrait of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran in a peach-colored dress. Paul Skumble, the portraitist from Lockmaster who refused to copy photographs, had painted her likeness from Qwilleran's memories: “People said she looked like Greer Garson but with larger eyes . . . Her hair was brown and medium-length; she called it a pageboy . . . Her hands looked slender and fragile at the keyboard; she had a baby grand . . . I remember a peach-colored dress with pearl buttons down the front, and a bracelet with foreign coins dangling from it.”

From this sketchy description the artist had created an astounding likeness complete with bracelet. And he had gone to the trouble of finding a video of an old Greer Garson movie.

Qwilleran said to Fran, “Actually she never wore the bracelet while playing the piano. It jangled. But we won't tell anyone.”

“She has a gracious aristocratic look.”

“True, but I didn't think of it in those terms when I was a kid. I just thought it was motherliness—a kind of calm, fond assurance that 'mother knows best.' . . . I have to phone Paul and congratulate him.”

“Wait till tomorrow,” she suggested. “He's coming to the reception.”

“In his usual ragged jeans and paint-spattered T-shirt?”

“
Please
! I personally dragged him to Bruce's Tuxedo Rental and talked him into trimming his beard—just a trifle, not enough to crush his personality. . . . Are you ready to see the rest of the building?”

The dining room was now the Mackintosh Room—with white tablecloths and black-lacquered Stickley chairs. They had square-spindled backs and upholstered seats covered in the Mackintosh tartan. That was red, with a dark green stripe, and the carpet was dark green. The focal point on the back wall was a large Mackintosh crest in wrought iron, said to come from a Scottish castle gate. It had a cat rampant and the clan motto:
Touch not the cat bott a glove
.

The coffee shop was now called Rennie's and was done in the style of a Glasgow tea room designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh.

There was a ballroom on the lower level that would be the scene of the opening reception, Mr. Delacamp's Tuesday Tea, and all future luncheon meetings of the Boosters Club.

The guestrooms, furnished in Stickley, were Fran's chief pride. She said, “I've traveled extensively and stayed in luxury hotels with lavish furnishings but
no place to put anything down
! That's my pet peeve, and I designed these rooms to be functional as well as attractive.”

Qwilleran asked, “Where will Mr. Delacamp camp while he's here?”

“In the presidential suite. No president ever stayed here, but there's still an adjoining room for the Secret Service, and it'll be used for his assistant.”

“I hope he likes cats.” Qwilleran pointed to a building across the street. An upstairs apartment had five windows with a cat in each, sitting on the sill and watching the flow of traffic below.

“Aren't they adorable?” Fran said. “They're watching pigeons on the roof of the inn.”

“Or making a traffic survey. Who lives there?”

“Mrs. Sprenkle. The Sprenkle family owns the whole block. When her husband died, she sold their country house and moved downtown. She likes the action. He liked peace and quiet. Why does a man who can't stand noise marry a woman who can't stand silence?”

“It's the Jack Sprat law. She has unusual curtains. Is she a client of yours?”

“No. Amanda has done her work for forty years. It's all Victorian. You'd hate it, Qwill! . . . And now, would you like to meet the manager before you leave? He's from Chicago.”

The door to the manager's office on the second floor was standing open, and a clean-cut young man in suit and tie was working at the desk.

Fran said, “Barry, would you like to meet Mr. Q?”

Before she could make the introductions, he jumped up with hand extended. “I'm Barry Morghan, spelled with a GH.”

“I'm Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW. Welcome to—”

“Excuse me, you guys. I have to run along,” Fran said. “See you both at the reception.”

“Have a chair, Mr. Qwilleran,” said the manager.

“Call me Qwill. It's shorter, more forceful, and saves energy. I hear you're from Chicago. So am I, a Cubs fan from birth. What brings you to the backwoods?”

“Well, you see, I'd been assistant manager in a big hotel and decided this was a good career move. I'd always liked the hospitality field. My dad was a traveling man and sometimes took me along. I liked staying in different hotels, and my first ambition was to be a bellhop and wear one of those neat uniforms. I was pretty young then. Now I like the idea of being an innkeeper. I trained at Cornell.”

“Would you say the inn is getting off to a good start?”

“Absolutely!” Barry consulted a calendar. “Champagne reception tomorrow night. Big family reunion on Labor Day. Formal afternoon tea Tuesday. Boosters Club luncheon Wednesday. All rooms booked for the Labor Day weekend and the Scottish weekend! And dinner reservations are going fast for the Mackintosh Room. We have this great chef from Chicago, you know. Your paper has interviewed him for Thursday's food page. The whole staff is excited. All the hiring was done before I got here—by Mr. Barter's office. It was his idea to hire MCCC students part-time. He's a great guy!”

G. Allen Barter was junior partner in the Pickax law firm of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter, and he was Qwilleran's representative in all matters pertaining to the Klingenschoen Foundation. Since the K Fund owned the inn, he was CEO.