Qwilleran went for another ride on his new bike, this time taking a back road to an abandoned nineteenth-century cemetery that he had visited two years before. To his surprise the vandalized tombstones had been restored, the weeds were under control, and there was hardly a beer can to be seen. A new sign announced: PIONEER CEMETERY. NO PICNICS. He suspected the preservation program had been instigated by the tireless Mildred Hanstable, and he telephoned her when he returned home.
“Hi, Qwill!” she said in her exuberant style. “I saw you out riding on one of those funny-looking bikes.”
“I am now a demon on wheels,” he replied. “The terror of the countryside. I visited the old cemetery. Who’s been cleaning it up?”
“The student history clubs. They’re restoring all the abandoned cemeteries and cataloguing the family graveyards around the county. The early settlers used to bury their dead on their own land, you know, and the sites are protected by law, but first they have to know where they are.”
Another idea for the “Qwill Pen,” he thought. “I understand you’re one of the judges for the parade. How about dinner afterward? At the Fish Tank.”
“I’d love it!” she said. “Their navy grog is fabulous, and I always need a stiff drink after a Moose County parade. How did you like the cereal?”
“It’s delicious,” he said, speaking for the others. “Great wonders come out of your kitchen, Mildred. And another great wonder: I’ve found a carpenter without resorting to the underground.”
“Who?”
“Clem Cottle from Black Creek.”
“You’re lucky!” Mildred said. “Clem is a good carpenter and a fine young man. He’s marrying Maryellen Wimsey, and she used to be in my art classes. She’s a lovely girl.”
During the next few days Maryellen drove into the clearing daily at noon in a small yellow car, bringing a hot lunch and staying long enough to pick up stray nails and stack the scraps of wood in tidy heaps.
Clem reported for work every morning at six-thirty—sometimes with his younger brother, but more often alone. He laid the foundation blocks, installed the basic drainage, put in the joists and subfloor, and started the framing.
There were other visitors besides Maryellen. Dune-dwellers who had never cared to walk on the beach suddenly began to take exercise. Attracted by the sounds of industry or compelled by curiosity or driven by envy, they strolled casually past the cabin, waved to Qwilleran on the porch, and climbed the new wooden steps to check the carpenter’s progress. Mildred Hanstable and Sue Urbank were the first visitors, applauding Qwilleran’s good fortune in finding a decent builder. Mildred brought him another tub of cereal.
Leo Urbank robbed valuable time from his golf game to inspect the new structure, predicting that it would never be completed. “Take it from me,” he warned. “They’re hot at the beginning, but they drop out halfway through.”
The Comptons were unexpected callers. Lisa Compton was a jogger who regularly pounded the shoreline in a green warmup suit, but her husband considered the beach solely as a place to smoke a cigar. Yet, there he was, plodding through the sand and climbing the steps.
“When the guy finishes your place,” he said, “maybe he could come over and work on our garage.”
“I’ll line him up for you,” Qwilleran said. “I suppose you know Clem Cottle.”
“Oh, sure,” said the superintendent. “We had thirteen Cottles going through the school system at one time. Clem was the brightest. Too bad he didn’t go to college for more than two years. But they were all conscientious—all good stock. I wish I could say the same for all the old families. There’s a lot of inbreeding in a tight community like this.”
One evening John and Vicki Bushland sauntered down the beach to take pictures of the sunset, and Qwilleran invited them to view the spectacle from the screened porch, minus mosquitoes. “Where’s your studio?” he asked them.
“In Lockmaster. It’s been there for eighty years.”
“I’m not familiar with that town.”
“It’s sixty miles southwest of here—a county seat like Pickax, only bigger,” Bushy said.
“What kind of work do you do?”
“The usual: portraits, weddings, club groups. When my grandfather started the business he photographed a lot of funerals. At the cemetery they’d open the coffin and prop it up on end, with the mourners gathered around the corpse. You can still see those gruesome group pictures in family albums. He was a great guy, my grandfather. He took two kinds of pictures—what he called vertical-up-and-down and horizontal-sideways.”
Qwilleran asked, “Do you shoot animals?”
“A few. Some people want their kids taken with the family pooch.”
“How about cats?”
“Lockmaster isn’t big on cats,” said the photographer. “Mostly dogs and horses.”
“But cats make wonderful models,” said Vicki. “They never strike a pose that isn’t photogenic.”
Qwilleran huffed lightly into his moustache. “I dispute that. Every time I think I’m getting a good snapshot, my cats yawn or turn into pretzels, and nothing is less picturesque than a cat’s gullet or his backside.”
Knowing they were being discussed, the Siamese sauntered onto the porch and posed as a couple—Yum Yum sprawled in a languid posture with chin on paw and ears tilted forward; Koko sitting tall with tail curved gracefully around haunches.
“See what I mean?” cried Vicki.
“Look at those highlights!” said Bushy as he raised the camera to his eye, but before he could snap the picture, both cats dissolved in a blur of fur and were gone. Challenged, he said, “I’d like to get those two characters in my studio and work with them. Could you bring them down to Lockmaster?”
“I don’t see why not,” Qwilleran said. “They’re good travelers.”
“You could bring them down some evening when the studio’s closed, and I could spend time with them. Just give me a ring.” He gave Qwilleran his business card. “I’d like to enter them in a calendar competition.”
Not all the visitors were dune-dwellers during those exciting days of construction activity. One afternoon Joanna’s van pulled into the clearing.
“Whatcha doin’ over there?” she asked.
“Building an addition to the cabin,” Qwilleran said.
She stared at it wordlessly for a while. “No more leaks?” she said finally.
“So far, so good.”
“Did you find my lipstick?”
“I beg your pardon?” Qwilleran said.
“My lipstick. I thought maybe it rolled out of my pocket when I was here.”
“I haven’t seen it,” he said, noting that her face had the original washed-out appearance.
“It could be under the house.”
“Feel free to have a look, but don’t let Koko go down there.”
Joanna went indoors, and the trap door slammed twice. She returned, looking disappointed. “I’ll hafta buy another.”
After she had left, Qwilleran wondered why she had waited so long to ask about her missing lipstick. Was it simply an excuse to pay a social call? He felt sorry for the girl—so plain, and with so few advantages. But he was not going to take her to lunch! He had lunched his doctor and his interior designer, but Joanna was getting a ten-dollar tip for every plumbing job; she could buy her own lunch.
By July third the roof trusses had been erected, and the roof boards were in place. Clem had been working fast. “Trying to get it under cover before it rains,” he explained when he collected his tools on Thursday night.
“Are you taking a long holiday weekend?” Qwilleran asked him.
“Can’t afford to. I’ll be here bright and early Saturday, but tomorrow I’ll be in the parade. The boss at the Shipwreck came up with a good idea, and I said I’d do it.”
“Are you riding on a float?”
“Nothing like that,” said the young man with a wide grin. “I’m just gonna walk down the middle of the street. Then after th
e parade there’s a softball game—Roosters against the state prison team. If you like ballgames, you oughta come and see us play.”
Qwilleran liked the young carpenter, and he gave him a parting salute as the Frantic Chicken drove away. It was prophetic. That was the last time he ever saw Clem Cottle.
FIVE
The Fourth of July dawned with the sunshine of a flag-waving holiday, and Qwilleran was in good spirits, despite some soreness following his last bike ride. The east wing with its roof boards in place was beginning to look like a habitation.
“Well, chums, we’re on our way!” he told the Siamese. “You’ll have your own apartment in a few weeks. What would you like for breakfast? Turkey from the deli? Or cocktail shrimp from a can?”
Koko was not present to cast his vote, but Yum Yum was rubbing against Qwilleran’s ankles in anticipation and curling her tail lovingly around his leg, and he knew she preferred turkey. He began to mince slices of white meat.
“What’s that noise?” He set down the knife and looked up. “Did you hear a tapping noise? . . . There it is again!”
Tap tap tap.
With a sudden drop in his holiday mood he envisioned another leak or mechanical breakdown. “There it goes again!” Possibilities flashed through his mind: the electric pump; the water heater; the refrigerator. It would mean another emergency call to that laughing hyena in Mooseville.
Tap tap tap.
Qwilleran followed the sound. It led him past the mudroom, past the bathroom, and into the guestroom. The tapping had stopped, but Koko was sitting on the windowsill overlooking the building site, and the morning sun made glistening shafts of every whisker, every alert hair over his eyes.
“Did you hear that, Koko?”
The cat turned his head to look at Qwilleran, and at that moment his brown tail slapped the windowsill three times. Tap tap tap.
Qwilleran uttered a sigh of relief. “Okay, Thumper, come and get your breakfast, and please don’t play tricks like that.”
The parade was scheduled to start at two o’clock, and he dressed in what he considered appropriate garb: white pants and open-neck shirt with a blue blazer. He was sure the judges would be required to wear some absurd badge of office, and he was prepared for the worst. Mildred, when he picked her up at her cottage, was wearing one of her fluttery sundresses in a blue-and-white stripe.
“Keep your fingers crossed,” she said, as she stepped into his car.
“What should I deduce from that cryptic remark?”
“Maybe you didn’t see the parade last year.”
“I did not. I’m not a parade-goer by choice.”
“Well, I went with Sharon and Roger last year, and I was appalled! It was nothing but a candy-grab! Politicians rode in new-model cars, throwing candy to the crowd. Beauty queens rode in convertibles, throwing candy to the crowd. The used-car dealer rode in a three-year-old car with a price tag! And he was throwing candy to the crowd. There were no floats and no marching bands—just sound trucks blaring pop music, and commercial vehicles advertising the Mooseville video arcade and the Friday night fish fry in North Kennebeck. But worst of all, there was not a single flag in the parade! This was Independence Day, and there was not an American flag to be seen!”
“How did the crowd react to all of this?”
“All that free candy? Are you kidding? They loved it!”
“I’d say you had reason to be disturbed,” Qwilleran said.
“Disturbed! I was furious! When the holiday weekend was over, I got on my horse and went into battle. You don’t know me, Qwill, when I get mad! That was before the Something started publication, so I couldn’t write an irate letter to the editor, but I wrote to every elected and appointed official, every civic leader, every chamber of commerce, every citizens’ group, and every school principal in the county. I spouted off at meetings of the county commissioners and the village councils. I really made myself a public nuisance. You know, Qwill, every veterans’ organization and fraternal lodge has a big flag and a color guard. The two high schools and three junior highs have marching bands. Their uniforms don’t fit, and they hit some wrong notes, but they march, and they beat drums, and they blow trumpets. Where were they on Independence Day? That’s what I wanted to know.”
“What happened after your outburst?”
“We’ll soon find out. They appointed a county committee to organize this year’s parade, and—wisely, perhaps—I wasn’t asked to serve. Apparently they laid ambitious plans, but you know what happens when a committee takes charge. Sometimes nothing!”
The sidewalks in Mooseville were already crowded with parade-goers, and the parking lots were filled. Police had barricaded several blocks of Main Street, detouring traffic, but Qwilleran found a place to park near Glinko’s garage. He and Mildred pushed their way through the crowds to a reviewing stand built in front of the town hall. A committeewoman wearing a tri-color bandoleer guided them to the judges’ table, and gave them scorecards and straw boaters with tri-color hatbands. Mildred wore hers straight-on, and Qwilleran said she looked saucy. He tipped his at a rakish angle, and Mildred said he looked dashing, especially with that big moustache.
“The floats,” the committeewoman explained, “are to be rated on originality, execution, and message, using the suggested point system.”
The third judge had not arrived. Mildred guessed it would be an announcer from WPKX. Qwilleran thought it might be the superintendent of schools; Lyle Compton was always the most visible official in the county.
“He says it’s part of his job,” Mildred confided, “but I think he’s getting ready to run for the state legislature.”
“My carpenter is going to be in the parade,” Qwilleran said. “It’s some kind of stunt sponsored by the Shipwreck Tavern.”
“I hope the parade won’t be so commercial this year.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the third judge, who was creating a commotion as she complained about the steps, fell over the folding chairs, and upset the tripods that held the public-address speakers.
“Who wants to drive thirty miles for a parade?” she grumbled. “It should have been held in the county seat!”
The committeewoman tried to explain. “It was thought that Mooseville is the center of population on a big holiday, Miss Goodwinter. All the tourists are here.”
“Tourists, bah! Why don’t they stay home? Let them go to their own parade and leave some parking spaces for the citizens. I had to walk three blocks!”
It was Amanda Goodwinter, Pickax interior designer, city council member, and former fiancée of Arch Riker. She was wearing her usual colorless, shapeless clothing with a man’s golf hat jammed over her spiky gray hair. “I don’t know why I’m here!” she added grouchily. “I hate parades! And I’m not going to wear that silly straw hat!” She banged the boater down on the table and looked at the scorecard. “Originality, execution, and message? What does that mean? A parade is a parade. Why does it have to have a message?” Scowling and fussing, she settled herself in a folding chair. “Five minutes of this will give me a backache.”
“Good afternoon, Amanda,” said Qwilleran graciously.
“What are you doing here? You’re as big a fool as I am!”
The beat of drums could be heard in the distance, and voices below the reviewing stand drifted up to the judges’ table:
Excited youngster: “I think they’re coming!”
Police officer: “Back on the curb, sonny.”
Child: “Are they gonna throw candy?”
Mother: “Don’t forget to salute the flag, the way your teacher said.”
Old Man: “The band’s getting ready to play.”
Screaming child: “He took my sucker!”
Another screaming child: “Lift me up! I can’t see!”
With a stirring flourish one of the high school bands swung into “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” the sun glinting on their brass instruments two blocks away. A sheriff’s c
ar with flashing rooflights led the way at four miles an hour. Then there was a breathless wait as heads turned and necks craned.
The wait was long enough to solemnify the marching of the color guard—a tall, beefy flag-bearer flanked by two men and two women in uniform, arms swinging and eyes straight ahead. As if on cue a breeze sprang up when they reached the reviewing stand, and the stars and stripes rippled over the heads of the stern-faced marchers.
When the guard of honor had passed and the officials on the reviewing stand had resumed their seats, tears were rolling down Mildred’s face. “This really gets to me,” she said in a choked voice.
“Congratulations!” Qwilleran said. “You won your battle.”
“Not yet. I’m waiting for the candy.”
There was no candy. Before the afternoon was over the onlookers had seen a grand marshal on a proud-stepping horse with nodding plumes and glittering harness brasses; seven color guards from organizations around the county; four student bands, plus Scottish pipers from Lockmaster, sixty miles away; ten floats, two drill teams, three fire trucks sounding their sirens; and fourteen dogs from the St. Bernard Club, pulling their owners on leashes.
Each municipality in Moose County sponsored a float. Pickax honored the men who had worked the mines in the nineteenth century: Moving silently past the viewers was a tableau of grimy miners wearing candles in their hats and carrying pickaxes, coils of rope, and sledgehammers.
Sawdust City, once the hub of the lumbering industry, staged a lumbercamp scene on a flatbed truck—with a cook flipping flapjacks, loggers brawling over a card game, and someone in a bear costume stealing the flapjacks.
Then came the Mooseville entry—a flatbed crowded with sportsmen and outdoor-lovers; fishermen with rods and reels, boaters with binoculars and lifejackets, golfers with their clubs, and campers grilling hot dogs. Presiding over them all was the reigning queen of the annual Fishhook Festival, her formal ballgown fashioned of camouflage fabric and her crown of deer antlers.
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