The Cat Who Played Brahms

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  For the first time since his arrival Qwilleran felt really comfortable. He relaxed.

  The peace and quiet had been insufferable; he was used to noise and turmoil. It would be a good night to sleep.

  First he had an urge to write to Rosemary. He put a sheet of paper in the typewriter and immediately ripped it out. It would be more appropriate to write with the gold pen she had given him for his birthday.

  Rummaging among the jumble on his writing table he found yellow pencils, thick black Fluxion pencils, cheap ballpoints, and an old red jumbo fountain pen that had belonged to his mother. The sleek gold pen from Rosemary was missing.

  4

  Qwilleran slept well, lulled by the savage tumult outdoors. He was awakened shortly after dawn by the opening chords of the Brahms Double Concerto. The cassette was still in the player, and Koko was sitting alongside it, looking pleased with himself. He had placed one paw on the «power» button, activating a little red light, and another on "play." The storm was over, although the trees could be heard dripping on the roof. The wind had subsided, and the lake had flattened to a sheet of silver. Everywhere there was the good wet smell of the woods after a heavy rain. The birds were rejoicing.

  Even before he rolled out of bed Qwilleran's thoughts went to the stolen pen and the stolen watch. Should he report the theft to Aunt Fanny? Should he confront Tom? In this strange new environment he felt it was a case of foreign diplomacy, requiring circumspection and a certain finesse.

  Koko was the first to hear the truck approaching. His ears snapped to attention and his body became taut. Then Qwilleran heard the droning of a motor coming up the hilly, winding drive. He pulled on some clothes hastily while Koko raced to the door and demanded access to the porch, his official checkpoint for arriving visitors. Qwilleran's tingling moustache told him it would be a blue truck, and the message was correct. A stocky little old man was taking a shovel from the truck-bed.

  "Hey, what's going on here?" Qwilleran demanded. He recognized the gravedigger from the parking lot of the Shipwreck Tavern.

  "Gotta dig you up," said Old Sam, heading for the grave on the east side of the cabin.

  "What for?" Qwilleran slammed the porch door and raced after him.

  "Big George be comin' soon." "Who told you to come here?" "Big George." Old Sam was digging furiously. "Sand be heavy after the storm." Qwilleran spluttered in a search for words. "What — who — look here! You can't dig up this property unless you have authorization." "Ask Big George. He be the boss." Sand was flying out of the shallow hole, which was becoming more precisely rectangular. Soon the shovel hit a concrete slab. "There she be!" After a few more swings with the shovel Old Sam climbed out of the hole, just as a large dirty tank truck lumbered into the clearing that served as a parking lot.

  Quilleran strode to the clearing and confronted the driver. "Are you Big George?" "No, I'm Dave," said the man mildly, as he unreeled a large hose. "Big George is the truck. The lady in Pickax — she called last night. Told us to get out here on the double.

  Are you choked up?" "Am I what?" "When she calls, we jump. No foolin' around with that lady. Should've pumped you out last summer, I guess." "Pumped what?" "The septic tank. We had to get Old Sam outa bed this morning, hangover and all. He digs; we pump. No room for the back-hoe in here. Too heavily wooded. You new here? Sam'll come and fill you in later. He doesn't fill all the way; makes it easier next time.

  Unless you want him to. Then he'll level it off." Old Sam had driven away, but now a black van appeared in the clearing, driven by a slender young man in a red, white, and blue T-shirt and a tall silk opera hat.

  Qwilleran stared at him. "And who are you?" "Little Henry. You having trouble? The old lady in Pickax said you'd catch on fire any minute. Man, she's a tough baby. Won't take no excuses." He removed his topper and admired it. "This is my trademark. You seen my ads in the Picayune?" "What do you advertise?" "I'm the only chimney sweep in Moose County. You should be checked every year…

  Is that your phone ringing?" Qwilleran rushed back into the cabin. The telephone, which stood on the bar dividing kitchen from dining area, had stopped ringing. Koko had nudged the receiver off the cradle and was sniffing the mouthpiece.

  Qwilleran grabbed it. "Hello, hello! Get down! Hello?" Koko was fighting for possession of the instrument. "Get down, dammit! Hello?" "Is everything all right, dear?" the deep voice said after a moment's hesitation. "Did the storm do any damage? Don't worry about it; Tom will clean up the yard. You stick to your typewriter. You've got that wonderful book to finish. I know it will be a bestseller. Did you see Big George and Little Henry? I don't want anything to go wrong with the plumbing or the chimney while you're concentrating on your writing. I told them to get out there immediately or I'd have their licenses revoked. You have to be firm with these country people or they go fishing and forget about you. Are you getting enough to eat? I've bought some of those divine cinnamon buns to keep in your freezer. Tom will drive me up this morning, and we'll have a pleasant lunch on the porch. I'll bring a picnic basket. Get back to your writing, dear." Qwilleran turned to Koko. "Madame President is coming. Try to act like a normal cat.

  Don't answer the phone. Don't play the music. Stay away from the microwave." When Big George and Little Henry had finished their work, Qwilleran put on his orange cap and drove to Mooseville to mail his letter to Rosemary and to buy supplies. His shopping list was geared to his culinary skills: instant coffee, canned soup, frozen stew. For guests he laid in a supply of liquor and mixes.

  In the canned soup section of the supermarket he noticed a black-bearded young man in a yellow cap with a spark-plug emblem. They stared at each other.

  "Hi, Mr. Qwilleran." "Forget the mister. Call me Qwill. Aren't you Roger from the tourist bureau? Roger, George, Sam, Henry, Tom, Dave… I've met so many. people without surnames, it's like biblical times." "Mine's a tough one: MacGillivray." "What! My mother was a Mackintosh!" "No kidding! Same clan!" "Your ancestor fought like a lion for Prince Charlie." "Right! At Culloden in 1746." "April sixteenth." Their voices had been rising higher with surprise and pleasure, to the mystification of the other customers. The two men pumped hands and slapped backs.

  "I hope that's Scotch broth you're buying," Roger said.

  "Why don't we have dinner some night?" Qwilleran suggested. "Preferably not at the FOO." "How about tonight? My wife's out-of-town." "How about the hotel dining room! Hats-off."

  Qwilleran returned to the cabin to shower and shave in preparation for the visit of Aunt Fanny and the remarkable Tom — gardener, chauffeur, handyman, errand boy, and petty thief, perhaps. Shortly before noon a long black limousine inched its way around the curves of the drive and emerged triumphantly in the clearing. The driver, dressed in work clothes and a blue visored cap, jumped out and ran around to open the passenger's door.

  Out came Indian moccasins with beadwork, then a fringed suede skirt, then a leather jacket with more fringe and beadwork, then Aunt Fanny's powdered face topped with an Indian red turban. Qwilleran noticed that she had well-shaped legs for an octogenarian soon to be a nonagenarian.

  "Francesca! Good to see you again!" he exclaimed. "You're looking very… very…

  sexy." "Bless you, my dear," she said in her surprising baritone voice. "Little old ladies are usually called chipper or spry, and I intend to shoot the next fool who does." She reached into her fringed suede handbag and withdrew a small pistol with a gold handle, which she waved with abandon.

  "Careful!" Qwilleran gasped.

  "Dear me! The storm did a lot of damage. That jack pine is almost bare. We'll have to remove it… Tom, come here to meet the famous Mr. Qwilleran." The man-of-all-work stepped forward obediently, removing the blue cap that advertised a brand of fertilizer. His age was hard to guess. An old twenty or a young forty? His round scrubbed face and pale blue eyes wore an expression of serene wonder.

  "This is Tom," Aunt Fanny said. "Tom, it's all right to shake hands with Mr.

  Qwilleran
; he's a member of the family." Qwilleran gripped a hand that was strong but unaccustomed to social gestures. "How do you do, Tom.

  I've heard a lot of good things about you." Thinking of the missing watch and pen he looked inquiringly into the man's eyes, but their open innocent gaze was disarming. "You did a fine job with the porch yesterday, Tom. How did you do so much work in such a short time? Did you have a helper?" "No," Tom said slowly. "No helper. I like to work. I like to work hard." He spoke in a gentle, musical voice.

  Aunt Fanny slipped something into his hand. "Go into Mooseville, Tom, and buy yourself a big pasty and a beer, and come back in two hours. Bring the picnic basket from the car before you leave." "Tom, do you know what time it is?" Qwilleran asked. "I've lost my watch." The handyman searched the sky for the sun, hiding in the tall pines. "It's almost twelve o'clock," he said softly.

  He drove away in the limousine, and Aunt Fanny said: "I've brought some egg salad sandwiches and a thermos of coffee with that marvelous cream. We'll sit on the porch and enjoy the lake. The temperature is perfect. Now where are those intelligent cats I've heard so much about? And where do you do your writing? I must confess, I'm awed by your talent, dear." As a newsman Qwilleran was expert at interviewing difficult subjects, but he was defeated by Aunt Fanny. She chattered nonstop about shipwrecks on the lake, bears in the woods, dead fish on the beach, caterpillars in the trees. Questions were ignored or evaded. Madame President was in charge of the conversation.

  In desperation Qwilleran finally shouted: "Aunt Fanny!" After her startled pause he continued: "What do you know about Tom? Where did you find him? How long has he worked for you? Is he trustworthy? He has access to this cabin when I'm not here. You can't blame me for wanting to know." "You poor dear," she said. "You have always lived in cities. Life is different in the country. We trust each other. Neighbors walk into your house without knocking. If you're not there and they want to borrow an egg, they help themselves. It's a friendly way of living. Don't worry about Tom. He's a fine young man. He does everything I tell him to do and nothing more." A bell rang — the clear golden tone of the ship's bell outside the south porch.

  "That's Tom," she said. "He's right on time. Isn't he a marvel? You go and talk to him while I powder my nose. This has been such a pleasant visit, my dear." Qwilleran went into the yard. "Hello, Tom. You're right on time, even without a watch." "Yes, I don't need a watch," he said quietly, his face beaming with pride. He stroked the brass bell. "This is a nice bell. I polished it yesterday. I like to clean things. I keep the truck and the car very clean." Qwilleran was fascinated by the singsong inflection of his voice.

  "I saw your truck in Pickax. It's blue, isn't it?" "Yes. I like blue. It's like the sky and the lake. Very pretty. This is a nice cabin.

  I'll come and clean it for you." "That's a kind offer, Tom, but don't come unless I call you. I'm writing a book, and I don't like people around when I'm writing." "I wish I could write. I'd like to write a book. That would be nice." "Everyone has his own talents," Qwilleran said, "and you have many skills. You should be proud of yourself." Tom's face glowed with pleasure. "Yes, I can fix anything." Aunt Fanny appeared, good byes were said, and the limousine moved carefully down the drive.

  The Siamese, who had been invisible for the last two hours, materialized from nowhere.

  "You two weren't very sociable," Qwilleran said. "What did you think of Aunt Fanny?" "YOW!" said Koko, shaking himself vigorously.

  Qwilleran remembered offering Aunt Fanny drink before lunch — a whiskey sour, or a gin and tonic, or a Scotch and soda, or dry sherry. She had declined them all.

  Now he had four hours to kill before dining with Roger, and he had no incentive to start page one of chapter one of the book he was supposed to be writing. He might watch the bears at the village dump or visit the prison flower gardens or study shipwreck history at the museum, but it was the abandoned cemetery that tugged at his imagination, even though Roger had advised against it — or perhaps because Roger had advised against it.

  The Chamber of Commerce brochure gave directions: Go east to Pickax Road and turn south for five miles; enter the cemetery on a dirt road (unmarked) through a cobblestone gate.

  The route passed the landscaped grounds that were evidently the prison compound, It passed the turkey farm, and Qwilleran slowed to watch the sea of bronze-feathered backs rippling in the farmyard. Ahead of him a truck was. turning out of a side road and

  heading toward him, one of those ubiquitous blue pickups. As it passed he waved to the driver, but the greeting was not returned. When he reached the cobblestone gate he realized the truck had come from the cemetery.

  The access to the graveyard was merely a trail, rutted and muddy after the storm. It meandered through the woods with a clearing here and there, just big enough for a car to pull off and park; there was evidence of picnicking and beer-drinking. Eventually the trail branched in several directions through a meadow dotted with gravestones. Qwilleran followed the set of ruts that appeared to have been recently used.

  Where the tire marks stopped he got out of the car and explored the burial ground. It was choked with tall grasses and vines, and he had to tear them away to read the inscriptions on the smaller stones: 1877–1879, 1841–1862, 1856–1859. So many infants were buried there! So many women had died in their twenties! The larger family monuments bore names like Schmidt, Campbell, Trevelyan, Watson.

  Trampled grasses suggested a slight path leading behind the Campbell stone, and when he followed it he found signs of recent digging. Dried weeds had been thrown across freshly turned soil, barely concealing the brown plastic lid of a garbage pail. The pail itself, about a twelve-gallon size, was buried in the ground. Qwilleran removed the cover cautiously. The pail was empty.

  He returned the hiding place to its previous condition and drove home, wondering who would bury a garbage pail in a cemetery — and why. The only clue was a tremor on his upper lip.

  Before going to dinner in Mooseville he prepared a dish of tuna for the Siamese.

  "Koko, you're not earning your keep," he said. "Strange things are happening, and you haven't come up with a single clue." Koko squeezed his blue eyes languidly. Perhaps the cat's sleuthing days were over. Perhaps he would become nothing but a fussy consumer of expensive food.

  At that moment Koko's ears pricked up, and he bounded to the checkpoint. The distant rumble of an approaching vehicle became gradually louder until it sounded like a Russian tank. A red pickup truck was followed by a yellow tractor with a complicated superstructure.

  The driver of the truck jumped out and said to Qwilleran: "You got a jack pine that's ready to fall on the house? We got this emergency call from Pickax. Something about the power lines. We're supposed to take the tree down and cut it up." The tractor extended its skybox; the chain saws whined; three men in visored caps shouted; Yum Yum hid under the sofa; and Qwilleran escaped to Mooseville half an hour before the appointed time for dinner.

  The Northern Lights Hotel was a relic from the 1860s when the village was a booming port for shipping lumber and ore. It was the kind of frame building that should have burned down a century ago but was miraculously preserved. In style it was a shoebox with windows, but a porch had been added at the rear, overlooking the wharves. Qwilleran sat in one of its rustic chairs and indulged in his favorite pastime: eavesdropping.

  Two voices nearby were in nagging disagreement. Without seeing the source Qwilleran guessed that the man was fat and red-faced and the woman was scrawny and hard-of-hearing.

  "I don't think much of this town," the man said in a gasping, wheezing voice. "There's nothing to do. We could've (gasp) stayed home and sat on the patio. It would've (gasp) been cheaper." The woman answered in a shrill voice, flat with indifference. "You said you wanted to go fishing. I don't know why. You've always hated it." "Your brother's been blowing off about the fishing up here for (gasp) six years. I wanted to show him he wasn't the only one (gasp) who could land a trout." "Then why don't you sig
n up for a charter boat, the way the man said, and stop bitching?" "I keep telling you — it's too expensive. Did you see how much they want (gasp) for half a day? I could buy a Caribbean cruise for (gasp) that kind of dough." Qwilleran had checked the prices himself and thought them rather steep.

  "Then let's go home," the woman insisted. "No sense hanging around." "After driving all this way? Do you know what we've spent on gas (gasp) just to get up here?" Roger appeared at that moment, wearing a black baseball cap.

  "I see you're dressed for evening," Qwilleran said. "You didn't tell me it was formal." "I collect 'em," Roger explained. "I've got seventeen so far. If you've got any enemies, I should warn you about that orange cap of yours; you'd make a perfect target." They hung their caps with a dozen others on a row of pegs outside the hotel dining room, then took a side table underneath a large tragic painting of a three-masted schooner sinking in a raging sea.

  "Well, we had a perfect day," Qwilleran said, opening with the obligatory weather report. "Sunny. Pleasant breeze. Ideal temperature." "Yes, but the fog's starting to roll in. By morning you won't be able to see the end of your nose. It's no good for the trolling business." "If you ask me, Roger, the artwork in this room isn't any good for the trolling business. Every picture on the wall is some kind of disaster at sea. It scares the hell out of me. Besides, the charter boats charge too much — that is, too much for someone like me who isn't really interested in fishing." "You should try it once," Roger urged. "Trolling is a lot more exciting, you know, than sitting in a rowboat with a worm on a hook." Qwilleran looked at the menu. "If the lake is full of fish, why isn't there one local product on the menu? Nothing but Nova Scotia halibut, Columbia River salmon, and Boston scrod." "It's all sport-fishing here. The commercial fisheries down the shore net tons of fish and ship them out." To Nova Scotia, Massachusetts, and the state of Washington, Qwilleran guessed.