The Cat Who Played Brahms

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  The little old lady who answered the doorbell was undoubtedly Aunt Fanny: a vigorous eighty-nine, tiny but taut with energy. Her white, powdery, wrinkled face wore two slashes of orange lipstick and glasses that magnified her eyes. She gazed at her visitor and, after focusing through the thick lenses, flung her arms wide in a dramatic gesture of welcome. Then from that little woman came a deep chesty growl: "Bless my soul! How you have grown!" "I should hope so," Qwilleran said genially. "The last time you saw me I was seven years old. How are you, Francesca? You're looking great!" Her exotic name was in keeping with her flamboyant garb: an orange satin tunic embroidered with peacocks and worn over slim black trousers. A scarf, also orange, was tied around her head and knotted on top in a way that added height to her four-feet- three.

  "Come in, come in," she growled pleasantly. "My, how glad I am to see you!… Yes, you look just like your picture in the Fluxion. If only your dear mother could see you now, rest her soul. She would adore your moustache. Are you ready for a cup of coffee? I know you journalists drink a lot of coffee. We'll have it in the sun parlor." Aunt Fanny led the way through a high-ceilinged hallway with a grand staircase, past a formal drawing room and ornate dining room, past a paneled library and a breakfast room smothered in chintz, into an airy room with French windows, wicker furniture, and ancient rubber plants.

  In her chety voice she said: "I have some divine cinnamon buns. Tom picked them up from the bakery this morning. You adored cinnamon buns when you were a little boy." While Qwilleran relaxed on a wicker settee his hostess trotted away in little black Chinese slippers, disappearing into a distant part of the house, continuing a monologue that he could only half-hear. She returned carrying a large tray.

  Qwilleran sprang to his feet. "Here, let me take that, Francesca." "Thank you, dear," she barked. "You were always such a thoughtful little boy. Now you must put cream in your coffee. Tom picked it up from the dairy farm this morning. You don't get cream like this in the city, my dear." Qwilleran preferred his coffee black, but he accepted cream, and as he bit into a doughy cinnamon bun his gaze wandered to the French windows. The gardener was leaning on his rake and peering into the room.

  "Now you're going to stay for lunch," Aunt Fanny said from the depths of a huge wicker rocking chair that swallowed her tiny figure. "Tom will go to the butcher to pick up a steak. Do you like porterhouse or Delmonico? We have a marvelous butcher. Would you like a baked potato with sour cream?" "No! No! Thank you, Francesca, but I have two nervous animals in the car, and I want to get them up to the cabin as soon as possible. I appreciate the invitation, but I'll have to take a rain check." "Or maybe you'd prefer pork chops," Aunt Fanny went on. "I'll make you a big salad.

  What kind of dressing do you like? We'll have cr?pes suzette for dessert. I always made them for gentlemen callers when I was in college." Qwilleran thought: Is she deaf? Or doesn't she bother to listen? The trick is to get her attention. "Aunt Fanny!" he shouted.

  She looked startled at the name and the tone. "Yes, dear?" "After we're settled," he said in a normal voice, "I'll come back and have lunch with you, or you can drive up to the lake and I'll take you to dinner. Do you have transportation, Francesca?" "Yes, of course! Tom drives me. I lost my license a few years ago after a little accident. The chief of police was a very disagreeable person, but we got rid of him, and now we have a charming man. He named his youngest daughter after me…" "Aunt Fanny!" "Yes, dear?" "Will you tell me how to reach the cabin?" "Of course. It's very easy. Go north to the lake and turn left. Watch for the ruins of a stone chimney; that's all that's left of an old log schoolhouse. Then you'll see the letter K on a post. Turn into the gravel driveway and follow it through the woods. That's all my property. The wild cherries and sugarplums should be in blossom now. Mooseville is only three miles farther on, You can drive into town for restaurants and shopping. They have a charming postmistress, but don't get any ideas! She's married…" "Aunt Fanny!" "Yes, dear?" "Do I need a key?" "Goodness, no! I don't believe I've ever seen a key to the place. It's just a little old log cabin with two bunkrooms, but you'll be comfortable. It will be nice and quiet for writing. It was too quiet for my taste. I was in clubwork in New Jersey, you know, and I had scads of people around all the time. I'm so happy you're writing a book, dear.

  What is the title? Your dear mother would be so proud of you." Qwilleran was travel-weary and eager to reach his destination. It required all his wiles to disengage himself from Aunt Fanny's overwhelming hospitality. As he left the house the gardener was doing something to the bed of tulips around the front steps. The man stared, and Qwilleran gave him a mock salute.

  His passengers celebrated his return with howls of indignation, and Yum Yum's protests continued as a matter of principle even though there were no turns, bridges, viaducts, or large trucks. The highway ran through desolate country, some of it devastated by forest fires; skeletons of ravaged trees were frozen in a grotesque dance. Behind a sign advertising Hot Pasties, a restaurant had collapsed and was overgrown with weeds. Traffic was sparse, mostly pickup trucks whose drivers waved a greeting to the green two-door.

  The sites of defunct mines — the Dimsdale, the Big B, the Goodwinter — were marked by signs warning Danger — Keep Out. There was no Klingenschoen mine, Qwilleran noticed. He tuned in a local station on the car radio and turned it off in a hurry.

  So Aunt Fanny had been a clubwoman! He could visualize her bustling about at afternoon teas, chairing committees, wearing flowered hats, being elected Madame President, presiding at conventions, organizing charity balls.

  His ruminations were interrupted by a glance in the rearview mirror. He was being followed by a blue pick-up truck. Qwilleran reduced his speed, and the truck slowed accordingly. The game continued for several miles until he was distracted by the appearance of a farm with several low sheds. Their rooftops as well as the farmyard itself were in constant motion — a bronze-colored mass, heaving and rippling. "Turkeys!" he said to his passengers. "You're going to live near a turkey farm, you lucky guys." When he glanced again in the rearview mirror the blue pickup was nowhere to be seen.

  Farther on he passed a large cultivated estate — well-kept lawns and flower beds behind a high ornamental fence. Set far back on the property were large buildings of an institutional nature.

  The highway ascended a hill. Immediately two heads were raised in the back seat. Two noses sniffed the first hint of water, still a mile away. Irritable yowls changed to excited yips. Then the lake itself came into view, an endless stretch of placid blue water stretching to meet an incredibly blue sky.

  "We're almost there'" Qwilleran told his restless passengers.

  The route now followed the shoreline, sometimes close to the beach, sometimes dipping back into the woods. It passed a rustic gate guarding the private road to the Top o' the Dunes Club. Half a mile beyond was the crumbling chimney of the old schoolhouse-and the letter K on a post. Qwilleran turned into a gravel driveway that snaked through a forest of evergreens and oaks. Occasional sunlit clearings were filled with wild flowers, tree stumps, and fragrant flowering shrubs. He wished Rosemary were with him; she noticed everything and appreciated everything. After climbing over a succession of sandy dunes the driveway ended in a clearing with a sudden view of the lake, dotted with sailboats far out near the horizon.

  There, perched on top of the highest dune and dwarfed by hundred-foot pine trees, was the picturesque cabin that would be his home for the summer. Its logs and chinking were dark with age. A screened porch overlooking the lake promised quiet hours of thought and relaxation. A massive fieldstone chimney and an ample woodpile suggested lazy evenings with a good book in front of a blazing fire.

  The entrance to the cabin was through a second screened porch facing the woods and the clearing that served as parking lot. As Qwilleran approached it a squirrel ran up a tree, looked down at him, and scolded. Flurries of little yellow birds darted and twittered. On top of the woodpile a tiny brown animal sat up, cocked its head, and l
ooked at the man inquiringly.

  Qwilleran shook his head in disbelief. All these mysterious pleasures of nature, this peaceful country scene — they were his for three months.

  A ship's bell in gleaming brass bung at the entrance to the porch. Its dangling rope tempted him to ring it for sheer joy. As he walked toward it, something slimy and alive dropped off a tree onto his head. And what was that hole in the screened door? Jagged edges bent inward as if someone had thrown a bowling ball through the wire mesh. He pressed the thumb latch of the door and stepped cautiously onto the porch. He saw a grass rug and weatherproof furniture and antique farm implements hanging on the back wall — and something else. There was a slight movement in a far corner. A beady eye glistened. A large bird with a menacing beak perched on the back of a chair, its rapacious claws gripping the vinyl upholstery: A hawk? It must be a hawk, Qwilleran thought. It was his first encounter with a bird of prey, and he was glad he had left the Siamese in the car; the bird might be injured — and vicious. Powerful force had been necessary to crash through that screen, and the piercing eyes were far from friendly.

  The implements hanging on the wall included a primitive wooden pitchfork, and Qwilleran reached for it in slow motion. Quietly he opened the screened door and wedged it. Cautiously he circled behind the bird, waving the pitchfork, and the hawk shot out through the doorway.

  Qwilleran blew a sigh of relief into his moustache. Welcome to the country, he said to himself.

  Although the cabin was small, the interior gave an impression of spaciousness. An open ceiling of knotty pine soared to almost twenty feet at the peak, supported by trusses of peeled log. The walls also were exposed logs, whitewashed. Above the fieldstone fireplace there was a moosehead with a great spread of antlers, flanked by a pickax and a lumberjack's crosscut saw with two-inch teeth.

  Qwilleran's keen sense of smell picked up a strange odor. Dead animal? Bad plumbing?

  Forgotten garbage? He opened doors and windows and checked the premises. Everything was shipshape, and soon the cross-ventilation brought in the freshness of the lake and the perfume of wild cherry blossoms. Next he examined the window screens to be sure they were secure. Koko and Yum Yum were apartment cats, never allowed to roam outdoors, and he was taking no chances. He looked for trap doors, loose boards, and other secret exits.

  Only then did he bring the Siamese into the cabin. They advanced warily, their bellies and tails low, their whiskers back, their ears monitoring noises inaudible to humans. But by the time the luggage was brought in from the car, Yum Yum was somewhere overhead leaping happily from beam to beam while Koko sat imperiously on the moose head, surveying his new domain with approval. The moose — with his long snout, flared nostrils, and underslung mouth — bore this indignity with sour resignation.

  Qwilleran's approval of the cabin was equally enthusiastic. He noted the latest type of telephone on the bar, a microwave oven, a whirlpool bath, and several shelves of books. The latest issues of status magazines were on the coffee table, and someone had left a Brahms concerto in the cassette slot of the stereo. There was no television, but that was unimportant; Qwilleran was addicted to the print media.

  He opened a can of boned chicken for his companions and then drove into Mooseville for his own dinner. Mooseville was a resort village stretched out along the lakeshore. On one side of Main Street were piers and boats and the Northern Lights Hotel. Across the street were commercial establishments housed largely in buildings of log construction. Even the church was built of logs.

  At the hotel Qwilleran had mediocre pork chops, a soggy baked potato, and overcooked green beans served by a friendly blonde waitress who said her name was Darlene. She recognized him from his picture in the Daily Fluxion and insisted on serving second helpings of everything. At the office he had frequently questioned the wisdom of publishing the restaurant-reviewer's photograph, but it was Fluxion policy to print headshots of columnists, and at the Fluxion, policy was policy.

  It was not only Qwilleran's moustache that made him conspicuous at the Northern Lights Hotel. In the roomful of plaid shirts, jeans, and windbreakers his tweed sports coat and knit tie were jarringly out-of-key. Immediately after the gelatinous blueberry pie he went to the General Store and bought jeans, sports shirts, deck shoes… and a visored cap. Every man in Mooseville wore one. There were baseball caps, nautical caps, hunting caps, beer caps, and caps with emblems advertising tractors, fertilizer, and feed.

  Qwilleran chose hunter orange, hoping it would prove an effective disguise.

  The drug store carried both the Daily Fluxion and its competitor, the Morning Rampage, as well as the local paper. He bought a Fluxion and a Pickax Picayune and headed back to the cabin.

  On the way he was stopped by a police roadblock, but a polite trooper said: "Go right ahead, Mr. Qwilleran. Are you going to write about the Mooseville restaurants?" "No, I'm on vacation. What's happening here, officer?" "Just routine war games," the trooper joked. "We have to keep in practice. Enjoy your vacation, Mr. Qwilleran." It was June. The days were long in the city and even longer in the north country.

  Qwilleran was weary and kept looking at his watch and checking the sun, which was reluctant to set. He slipped down the side of the dune to inspect the shore and the temperature of the water. It was icy, as Riker had warned. The lake was calm, making the softest splash when it lapped the beach, and the only sound was the humming of mosquitoes. By the time Qwilleran scrambled frantically up the hill he was chased by a winged horde. They quickly found the hole in the screen and funneled into the porch.

  He dashed into the cabin, slammed the door, and made a hurried phone call to Pickax.

  "Good evening," said a pleasant voice. "Francesca, just want you to know we arrived safely." Qwilleran talked fast, hoping to get his message across before her attention wandered. "The cabin is terrific, but we have a problem. A hawk crashed through the screen and left a big hole. I shooed him off the porch, but he had messed up the rug and furniture." Aunt Fanny took the news calmly. "Now don't you worry about it, dear," she growled sweetly. "Tom will be there tomorrow to fix the screen and clean the porch. No problem at all. He enjoys doing it. Tom is a jewel. I don't know what I'd do without him. How are the mosquitoes? I'll have Tom get you some insect spray. You'll need it for spiders and hornets, too. Let me know if the ants invade the cabin; they're very possessive. Don't kill any ladybugs, dear. It's bad luck, you know. Would you like a few more cassettes for the stereo? I have some marvelous Chicago jazz. Do you like opera? Sorry there's no television, but I think it's a waste of time in the summer, and you won't miss it while you're busy writing your book." After the conversation with Madame President, Qwilleran tried the cassette player. He punched two buttons and got the Double Concerto with excellent fidelity. He had once dated a girl who listened to nothing but Brahms, and he would never forget good old Opus 102.

  The sun finally slipped into the lake, flooding the water and sky with pink and orange, and he was ready for sleep. The Siamese were abnormally quiet. Usually they indulged in a final romp before lights-out. But where were they now? Not on the moose head or the beams overhead. Not on their blue cushion that he had placed on top of the refrigerator. Not on the pair of white linen sofas that angled around the fireplace. Not on the beds in either of the bunkrooms. Qwilleran called to them. There was no answer.

  They were too busy watching. Crouched on a windowsill in the south bunkroom they stared out at something in the dusk. The property had been left in a wild state, and the view offered nothing but the sand dune, underbrush, and evergreens. A few yards from the cabin there was a depression in the sand, however — roughly rectangular. It looked like a sunken grave. The Siamese had noticed it immediately; they always detected anything unusual.

  "Jump down," Qwilleran said to them. "I've got to close the window for the night." He chose the north bunkroom for himself because it overlooked the lake, but — tired though he was — he could not sleep. He thought about the grave. What could b
e buried there? Should he report it to Aunt Fanny? Or should he just start digging. There was a toolshed on the property, and there would be shovels.

  He tossed for hours. It was so dark! There were no street lights, no neon signs, no habitations, no moon, no glow from any nearby civilization-just total blackness. And it was so quiet! No rustling of trees, no howling of wind, no crashing of waves, no hum of traffic on the distant highway-just total silence. Qwilleran lay still and listened to his heart beating.

  Then through his pillow he heard an irregular thud-thud-thud. He sat up arid listened carefully. The thudding had stopped, but he could hear voices — a man's voice and a woman's laughter. He looked out the window into the blackness and saw two flashlights bobbing on the beach at the foot of the dune, bound in an easterly direction. He lay down again, and with his ear to the pillow he heard thud-thud-thud. It had to be footsteps on the packed sand. The sound gradually faded away.

  It was well after midnight. He wondered about the prowlers on the beach. He wondered about the grave. And then there was a crackling in the underbrush — someone climbing a tree-footsteps on the roof, clomping toward the chimney.

  Qwilleran leaped out of his bunk, bellowing some curse he had learned in North Africa.

  He turned on lights. He shouted at the cats, who flew around the cabin in a frenzy. He punched buttons on the cassette player. Brahms again! He banged pots and pans in the kitchen… The footsteps hurried back across the roof; there was scrambling in the underbrush, and then all was quiet.

  Qwilleran sat up reading for the rest of the night until the sun rose and the birds began their dawn chirruping, tweeting, cawing, and skreeking.

  3

  Mooseville, Tuesday

  Dear Arch, If I get any mail that looks personal, please forward it c/o General Delivery. Will appreciate. We arrived yesterday, and I'm a wreck. The cats yelled for four hundred miles and drove me crazy. What's more, I bought a car to fit their sandbox, and they didn't use it once!