The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (4 page)

Qwilleran said, “I know Bart very well. He says you need a place to live, and there's a carriage house apartment on my property that's available—four rooms, furnished. It's only a few blocks from downtown.”

“Great! I'll take it!” the manager said. “I've been sleeping here, but I've got a van full of personal belongings that I'd like to offload.”

“You'd better look at it first,” Qwilleran said. “I'll show it to you any time.”

“How about right now?”

Within minutes he was following Qwilleran's vehicle south on Main Street, around the Park Circle and into the parking lot of the K Theatre. They stopped at a fieldstone carriage house with carriage lanterns on all four corners.

“Great!” he exclaimed as he jumped out of his van.

“I warn you, the stairs are narrow and steep. It was built in the nineteenth century when people had small feet and narrow shoulders. You'll be interested to know it's said to be haunted—by a young woman whose name was Daisy.”

“Great!”

“After you unpack, you can drive through the woods to my place, and I'll offer you a drink.”

“Great!”

“By the way,” Qwilleran said, “how do you feel about cats?”

“Anything that walks on four legs and doesn't bite is a friend of mine!”

 

By the time Barry Morghan arrived at the barn, the Siamese had been fed and were curled up like shrimp on their respective bar stools, sound asleep. Qwilleran went to the barnyard to greet him. He enjoyed newcomers' expressions of disbelief and awe when the hundred-year-old barn loomed before their eyes and he was not disappointed by his tenant's reaction. “Great!” he said with fervor.

The interior with its ramps and balconies and giant white cube sent him into further exclamations of astonishment.

“What do you like to drink? I have a well-stocked bar,” Qwilleran said.

“I'm not much of a drinker. What are you going to have?”

“Ginger ale.”

“Great! I'll have the same.” Barry had changed into casualwear and walked around with his hands in his pants pockets, making comments. “Are those your cats, or are they fur cushions on the bar stools? . . . Have you read all those books? . . . I see you have one of those 'bent' bikes. Do you ride it?”

There was a recumbent bicycle leaning against a stone wall near the foyer. “It was a gift,” Qwilleran explained. “Now that I'm used to pedaling with my feet elevated, I like it.”

They lounged in the library area with their ginger ale, and his guest said, “Mind if I chew gum? I'm trying to stop smoking.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Is this a wastebasket?” He dropped the wrapper in a polished wooden receptacle with a carved top handle.

“It's a wastebasket moonlighting as an antique Chinese water bucket, or vice versa. . . Do you know I haven't chewed gum since I gave up baseball? It was part of the game for me: chomp gum, jerk cap, punch glove, hitch belt.”

“Why did you give up baseball?”

“I came out of the military with a bum knee. It plagued me till I moved to Moose County and then disappeared. The natives credited the drinking water. I think the biking cured it.”

Then the talk turned to the inn: how it had been dreary but clean, how everyone hated the food, how Fran Brodie had worked wonders with the interior. “She's one of our civic treasures,” Qwilleran said.

“Yeah, she's a dynamo! Is she married?”

“No, but they're standing in line. Take a number.”

“What's a good way to meet girls around here?” Barry asked. “Interesting ones, I mean.”

“It depends on your definition of interesting. There are numerous clubs you can join: theatre, bridge, golf, bird-watching, biking, hiking, and so forth. You can take a class at the art center, go to church, attend Boosters Club luncheons and meet spirited young businesswomen. How about volunteering to teach adults how to read and write? It would look good on your resume,” Qwilleran concluded. “Or in your obituary.”

“Yow!” came an aggressive comment from a bar stool, where Koko was stretching and yawning.

“That's Kao K'o Kung, the brains of the family,” Qwilleran said. “He reads minds, knows when the phone is going to ring, and tells time without looking at a clock—all skills denied to you and me. . . . Yum Yum is our glamorcat. She walks like a model on a runway, strikes photogenic poses, and melts hearts with her innocent gaze. But don't be fooled. She'll steal anything small and shiny.”

The newcomer, dubious about Qwilleran's seriousness, changed the subject. “This is my first experience in a small town. Do you have any advice for me? I mean it! I want to get off on the right foot.”

“The main thing,” Qwilleran began, “is to remember that everyone knows everyone. Never speak ill of someone; you may be talking to his cousin or son-in-law or fellow clubmember. Play it safe by keeping your eyes and ears open and your mouth closed.”

“Great . . . And one more question. My older brother likes winter sports and wouldn't mind moving up here. He's a doctor. He'd open a clinic.”

“What kind of doctor?”

“Well, that's a family joke. My mother was an RN in obstetrics, and she wanted my brother to be an OB, but he chose to go into dermatology because his patients don't call him up in the middle of the night.”

Qwilleran chuckled. “All kidding aside, we need your brother. The nearest dermatologist is in the next county.”

“Great! . . . He considers a small town a good place to raise a family—away from the muggings, car thefts, and shootings that make city life hairy.”

“Yow!” came a loud comment in a minor key.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 5—
Birds of a feather flock together
.

 

For the first time the daily adage on Culvert's calendar was accidentally apt. In the evening all the prominent birds of Moose County would wear their finest feathers to a charity reception benefiting the cause of literacy. They would be the first to inspect the new Mackintosh Inn and would see their names in the
Moose County Something
on Monday—perhaps even their photos.

For this special occasion Qwilleran dressed in Highland evening attire: a kilt in the Mackintosh tartan, a silver-mounted fur sporran, and a dagger in the cuff of his kilt-hose—this with the usual dinner jacket and black tie. Polly wore her white dinner dress with opal jewelry and a shoulder-sash in the Robertson tartan. If asked, she would be pleased to explain that (a) she was a Duncan by marriage and (b) the chief of the Robertson clan had been Duncan of Atholia, a descendent of Celtic earls and kinsman of Robert the Bruce. It amused her to tell them more than they really wanted to know.

They drove to the reception in her sedan, which seemed more compatible with a white dress and opals—more suitable than a big brown van. She said, “The mayor will be there. How do you think he'll react to Amanda's challenge?”

“He's a cool cucumber. He won't let on he knows his goose is cooked.”

At the carriage entrance of the inn they were met by a valet crew of MCCC students who parked their car, leaving them to walk across a red carpet between a battery of media cameras.

“Just like a Hollywood premiere,” Qwilleran remarked.

“Not exactly,” she said, glancing at the vintage finery worn by the older guests. These last remaining descendants of the old moneyed families might be aged and infirm but they always turned out in evening attire to support a good cause. The Old Guard, they were affectionately called. Local wags called them the Mothball Brigade; a faint aroma of PCB hovered around the paisley shawls, sable stoles and outdated dinner jackets that came out of deep storage for the occasion.

The carriage entrance opened into a ground-level lobby with a grand staircase: half a flight up to the main lobby, half a flight down to the ballroom where the champagne was flowing. Like everyone else, Qwilleran and Polly took the descending flight, stopping partway to survey the subterranean hall. It was a scene of glowing chandeliers, huge bouquets of flowers, and hors d'oeuvre tables lighted by candles. Guests stood in clusters, holding champagne glasses. A string trio was playing Viennese waltzes. Servers circulated with trays of champagne and white grape juice.

There were hot and cold hors d'oeuvre tables, and Arch and Mildred Riker were standing at the former, critiquing the bite-size morsels. She was food editor of the
Something
; her husband was publisher of the paper. Both had the appearance of being happily well-fed.

Qwilleran said to Arch, “I knew I'd find you feeding at the trough.” They were lifelong friends with a license to banter.

“Don't worry. I've left a few scraps for you.”

Mildred said, “Try these delightful little crabmeat nothings! I must ask the chef his secret.”

“He won't tell you,” her husband said.

“Oh, yes, he will! I interviewed him yesterday, and we turned out to be soul mates. Read all about it on Thursday's food page, dear.”

Qwilleran said, “How would you two like to be our guests in the Mackintosh Room next Saturday night? I'll reserve a table.”

“They're booked solid,” Arch said. “You're too late.”

“Want to bet? The manager and I are soul mates.” He spoke confidently, having made the reservation the day before.

He and Arch had been bickering chums since boyhood, and sparring was an ongoing way of expressing their friendship.

“Listen!” Mildred said, “They're playing
The Skater's Waltz
. It always makes me feel young and thin.”

“Nothing ever makes me feel young and thin,” Arch complained.

Eventually the foursome drifted away from the crabmeat souffles, quiche tartlets, smoked trout canapes and goat cheese puffs. They mingled with the other guests:

Mayor Blythe, being overly charming.

Amanda Goodwinter, looking dowdy in her thirty-year-old dinner dress. She scowled at the admirers who clustered about her.

Whannell MacWhannell, the tax consultant, a big Scot wearing a kilt.

Don Exbridge, the developer, wearing a plaid cummerbund that was all wrong, Big Mac and Qwilleran agreed.

Fran Brodie, glamorous in a silvery sheath slit to mid-thigh.

Dr. Prelligate, president of MCCC, being overly attentive to Fran.

Carol and Larry Lanspeak, modestly inconspicuous as usual, although they were leading lights in the community.

 

Polly introduced Qwilleran to members of her library board, and he introduced the innkeeper to Polly.

The young man said, “Lucky I brought my tux! I didn't think I'd need it 400 miles north of everywhere, but my mother said I might want to get married.”

Polly whispered to Qwilleran, “He won't have long to wait. He has good looks and personality.”

“And a good job,” Qwilleran mumbled.

Suddenly the music stopped, the lights blinked for attention, and a bagpiper swaggered into the hall playing
Scotland the Brave
. He was Andrew Brodie, the police chief, doing what he liked best.

Then the mayor stepped to the microphone and thanked the Klingenschoen Foundation for revitalizing downtown's foremost landmark. G. Allen Barter thanked Fran Brodie for her creative input. She thanked the K Fund for supplying the wherewithal so generously. And Barry Morghan thanked his lucky stars for bringing him to Pickax as innkeeper. “You're invited to tour the facility from bottom to top,” he told the guests, “and continue to enjoy our hospitality here and in Rennie's coffee shop.” There was a stampede up the stairs to the main lobby.

When Polly saw the portrait, she cried, “Qwill! She's lovely! So serene! So distinguished! I'm going to call her Lady Anne, after the heroine of the Scottish Rebellion. I must congratulate Paul Skumble!”

The artist, looking like a gnome in his bifurcated beard, was talking to prospective patrons. He had painted Polly's portrait earlier in the year, and when he saw her he opened his arms wide and said, “Baby, you look like an angel!”

She responded with light laughter, while Qwilleran said to the artist, “And you look like the devil.”

“I feel like a penguin in these duds.”

“You don't look like one. They have shorter legs.”

Polly interrupted the banter. “Paul, you're a genius. You painted Lady Anne's soul!”

“That's my specialty. Painting souls.”

The police chief was wandering around the lobby looking dumbfounded at the decor. “Pretty fancy,” he said to Qwilleran.

“Your daughter deserves credit for doing a great job! The old hotel was grim.”

“But it was clean,” Brodie said.

“Will your department be busy next week, guarding the jewels?”

“Nah. He doesn't need anything from us. He's been here lots of times without incident. It's all private. Valuables kept in the hotel safe. No problem.”

Someone clutched Qwilleran's arm and said, “That portrait spooks me!” It was Arch Riker. “It's exactly how she looked when we were growing up. I'd go over to your house, and she'd play
Flight of the Bumblebee
for me. I always listened with my mouth hanging open; how could fingers move so fast?”

“Yes, she was good at vivace, wasn't she?”

“All you could play was
Humoresque
, double slow.”

“I was faster at stealing second base,” Qwilleran said ruefully. “I sometimes wish I'd practiced more, but the piano was not my forte.”

At that moment the publicity man interrupted. He wanted a shot of Qwilleran with the painting.

“Only if the artist is included,” he replied. “I'm here as an accident of birth; Skumble deserves the credit for doing the impossible.”

 

In a lobby alcove outfitted as a reading room Fran Brodie was giving a tour-guide spiel on Gustav Stickley. A portrait of the turn-of-the-century cabinetmaker hung on the wall; he wore a bow tie, pince-nez glasses on a cord, and a cryptic smile.

“What did that smile mean?” Fran asked her small audience, all of whom seemed enraptured by her melodious voice and stunning gown. “He was a writer, philosopher, and cabinetmaker, and yet he came from humble beginnings on a Wisconsin farm, the eldest of eleven children. Cruel fate made him head of the family at the age of twelve, and he had to drop out of school and work in a stoneyard. Still, he educated himself by reading. He hated stone and developed a passion for wood. His furniture designs with plain, honest structural lines and a reverence for wood were made from 1901 to 1915 and had many imitators. . . . The framed pictures grouped over the trestle tables are enlargements of the 'cozy cottage' drawings in Stickley's magazine,
The Craftsman
.”

Another center of attention in the lobby was the new reception desk with its front panel of iridescent ceramic tiles typical of the period. Behind it stood four young persons in black blazers with the Mackintosh crest. One of them was Lenny Inchpot, who had been on the desk when the bomb went off and a chandelier fell in the lobby. He still had a slight scar on his forehead. Now he was captain of the desk clerks, who worked in four six-hour shifts. He himself worked evenings. All were MCCC students.

Viyella, a vibrant young woman who worked afternoons, said, “I love meeting people! This is an exciting place to work.”

Marietta, on mornings, was intensely serious. She hoped to learn a lot on the job.

Boze, on duty midnight to six, was a big fellow with a bland smile. “Hi!” he mumbled.

Larry said, “Boze will be tossing the caber at the Highland Games. We're all rooting for him.”

“I'll be there,” Qwilleran promised.

Polly drew him aside. “I want you to meet the liveliest, most sensible woman on my library board: Magdalene Sprenkle. She's wearing the famous Sprenkle torsade tonight.”

“Should I know what that is?”

“A necklace of twisted strands. Hers is diamonds and pearls. She's hoping to sell it to Mr. Delacamp this year. When her husband was alive, he wouldn't let her part with something that had been in the family for generations.”

The woman in black velvet and a dazzling choker had a majestic build and hearty manner, and there were cat hairs on the front of her dress. “Call me Maggie,” she said, “because I'm going to call you Qwill.”

“Do you happen to have five cats?”

“I do, and I'd have more if I had more windows facing the afternoon sun. They're all strays, adopted from the animal shelter, and they're all ladies!”

“Do I detect gender bias?”

“You do, sir! The ladies are sweeter and cuddlier, and yet they stand up for their rights.”

He nodded as if in agreement. Actually he was thinking about Yum Yum with her sweet, ingratiating ways—and her shrieks of indignation if she didn't get what she wanted when she wanted it! “What are their names?” he asked, knowing that cat-fanciers liked to be asked.

“They're all named after famous women in history: Sarah, Charlotte, Carrie, Flora, and Louisa May.”

“Hmmm,” he murmured, recognizing a challenge. “Name them again—slowly.”

“Sarah.”

“Bernhardt?”

“Charlotte.”

“Bront', of course.”

“Carrie.”

“It's got to be Nation.”

“Flora.”

“I hope it's Macdonald.”

“And Louisa May.”

“That's the easiest. Alcott.”

“You clever man! I'm going to give you a big hug!” She did, and several cat hairs were transferred from her black velvet to his dinner jacket. “You must come and meet my ladies-in-waiting. But no publicity, please.”

Polly said, “But how about telling him your great-grandmother's story, Maggie? He's collecting legends of Moose County for a book. Its title will be
Short and Tall Tales
.”

“When?” Maggie asked with her usual decisiveness.

“Friday?” He was never one to waste words.

The date was made. “Now I have to go and say hello to the mayor and give him a big hug,” she said. “I'm a political hypocrite.”

Qwilleran and Polly watched her cross the lobby and deposit some cat hairs on His Honor's dinner jacket.

 

Although the Mackintosh Room would not be serving until Tuesday evening, it was brightly lighted to show off the clan tartan on the chair seats and the Mackintosh crest on the wall. Derek Cuttlebrink, the six-foot-four busboy who had become a six-foot-eight maître d', was standing at the host's lectern, taking future reservations.

“Hi, Mr. Q! I see you've booked a table for next Saturday,” he said.