"Excuse the mess," the host said. "My wife went to Canada with my sister to see some plays about dead kings. The gals go for that kind of stuff… What'll you have? I drink rye, but I've got Scotch and bourbon. Or maybe you'd like a gin and tonic?" "Just tonic water or ginger ale," Qwilleran said. "I'm off the hard stuff." "Not a bad idea. I should cut down. Planning on doing any fishing?" "My fishing is on a par with my canoeing. My chief reason for being here is to find time to write a book." "Man, if I could write I'd write a best-seller," Buck said. "The things I've seen! I spent twenty-five years in law enforcement Down Below. Took early retirement with a good pension, but I got restless — you know how it is — and took a job in Pickax. Chief of police in a small town! Some experience!" He shook his head. "The respectable citizens were more trouble than the lawbreakers, so I quit, I'm satisfied to take it easy now. I do a little woodworking. See that row of candlesticks? I turn them on my lathe, and Mildred sells them to raise money for the hospital." "I like the big ones," Qwilleran said. "They look like cathedral candlesticks." They were sitting at the bar. Buck poured refills and then lighted a pipe, going through the ritual that Qwilleran knew so well. "I've made bigger sticks than that," he said between puffs. "Come on downstairs and see my workshop." He led the way to a room dominated by machinery and sawdust. "I start with one of these four-by-fours and turn it on the lathe. Simple, but the tourists like 'em, and it's for a good cause. Mildred finished one pair in gold and made them look antique. She's a clever woman." "She does a lot for the hospital, I hear." "Yeah, she's got crazy ideas for fund-raising, That's all right. It keeps her mind off her troubles." The pipe smoke was reaching Qwilleran's nostrils, and he remarked: "You get your tobacco from Scotland." "How did you know? I order it from Down Below." "I used to smoke the same blend, Groat and Boddle Number Five." "Exactly! I smoked Auld Clootie Number Three for a long time, but I switched last year." "I used to alternate between Groat and Boddle and Auld Barleyfumble." Buck swept the sawdust from the seat of a captain's chair and pushed it toward his guest. "Put it there, my friend." Qwilleran slid into the chair and enjoyed the wholesome smell of sawdust mixed with his favorite tobacco.
"Tell me, Buck. How long did it take you to adjust to living up here?" "Oh, four or five years." "Do you lock your doors?" "We did at first, but after a while we didn't bother." "It's a lot different from Down Below. The surroundings, the activities, the weather, the customs, the pace, the attitude. I never realized it would be such a drastic change.
My chief idea was to get away from pollution and congestion and crime for a while." "Don't be too sure about that last one," Buck said in a confidential tone.
"What makes you say that?" "I've made a few observations." The retired policeman threw his guest a meaningful glance.
Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "Why don't you drop in for a drink this weekend? I'm staying at the Klingenschoen cabin. Ever been there?" Buck was relighting his pipe. He puffed, shook his head, and puffed again.
"It's on the dune, about a half mile west of here. And I've got a bottle of rye with your name on it." When Qwilleran paddled the canoe home through shallow water, he was thinking about the man who had saved his life with a bullhorn. Buck had denied ever being at the Klingenschoen cabin, and yet… On the evening when Mildred left her gift of turkey, two figures had disappeared into the fog, headed for the beach, and one of them had been smoking Groat and Boddle Number Five.
7
The muffled bell of the telephone rang several times before Qwilleran roused enough to answer it. The instrument was now housed in a kitchen cupboard, and Koko had not yet devised a means of unlatching the cupboard door.
Qwilleran was not ready for a dose of directives from Madame President before his morning coffee, and he shuffled to the phone reluctantly.
A gentle voice said: "Hello, Qwill dearest. Did I get you out of bed? Guess what! I can drive up to see you if you still want me?" "Want you! I'm pining away, Rosemary. When can you come? How long can you stay?" "I should be able to leave the store after lunch today and arrive sometime tomorrow, and I can stay a week unless someone makes a firm offer for Helthy-Welthy. I'm being very nice to Max Sorrell, hoping he'll offer cash." Qwilleran's response was a disapproving grunt.
There was a pause. "Are you there, dearest? Can you hear me?" "I'm speechless with joy, Rosemary. I sent you the directions to the cabin, didn't I?" "Yes, I have them." "Drive carefully." "I can hardly wait." "I need you." He missed Rosemary in more ways than one. He needed a friend who would share his pleasures and problems. He was surrounded by friendly people, yet he was lonely.
He kept saying to the cats: "Wait till she sees the cabin! Wait till she sees the lake! Wait till she meets Aunt Fanny!" His only regret was the fishy odor wafting up from he beach. During the night the lake had deposited a bushel or more of silvery souvenirs, which began to reek in the morning sun.
When he drove into town for breakfast he waved breezy greetings to every passing motorist. Then, fortified by buckwheat flapjacks and lumbercamp syrup, he went in search of the candle shop at Cannery Mall. He detected the thirty-seven different scents even before he saw the sign: Night's Candles.
"Are you Sharon MacGillivray?" he asked a young woman who was arranging displays. "I'm Jim Qwilleran." "Oh, I'm so glad to meet you! I'm Sharon Hanstable," she said, "but I'm married to Roger MacGillivray. I've heard so much about you." "I like the name of your shop." He thought a moment and then declaimed: " 'Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain. " "You're fabulous! No one else has ever noticed that it's a quote." "Maybe fishermen don't read Shakespeare. How do they feel about scented candles?" Sharon laughed. "Fortunately we get all kinds of tourists up here, and I carry some jewelry and woodenware and toys as well as candles." Qwilleran browsed through the narrow aisles of the little shop, his sensitive nose almost overcome by the thirty-seven scents. He said: "Roger has a good-looking money clip. Do you have any more of them?" "Sorry, they're all gone. People bought them for Father's Day, but I've placed another order." "How much for the tall wooden candlesticks?" "Twenty dollars. They're made locally by a retired policeman, and every penny goes to charity. It was my mother's idea." "I met your mother on the beach yesterday. She's very likable." Sharon nodded. "Everyone likes Mom, even her students. She teaches in Pickax, you know. We're all teachers, except Dad. He runs the turkey farm on Pickax Road." "I've seen it. Interesting place." "Not really." Sharon wrinkled her nose in distaste. "It's smelly and messy. I took care of the poults when I was in high school, and they're so dumb! You have to teach domesticated turkeys how to eat and drink. Then they go crazy and kill each other. You have to be a little crazy yourself to raise turkeys. Mom can't stand them. Has she offered to tell your fortune?" "Not yet," Qwilleran said, "but I've got a few questions I'd like her to answer. And I've got one for you: Where can I find a locksmith?" "I never heard of a locksmith in Mooseville, but the garage mechanic might be able to help you." He left the store with a two-foot candlestick and a stubby green candle and drove home inhaling deep draughts of pine scent. When he placed the candlestick on a porch table, Koko sniffed every inch of it. Yum Yum was more interested in catching spiders, but Koko's nose was virtually glued to the raw wood as he explored all its shapely turnings.
His ears were swept backward, and occasionally he sneezed.
It was mid-afternoon when the blue pickup truck snaked up the driveway. Tom was alone in the cab.
"Where's the log-splitter?" Qwilleran asked cheerily.
"In the back of the truck," Tom said with his mild expression of pleasure. "I like to split logs with a maul, but this is a big tree. A very big tree." He gazed out at the lake. "It's a very nice day. The fog went away. I don't like fog." The log-splitter proved to be a gasoline-powered contraption with a murderous wedge that rammed the foot-thick logs to produce firewood. Qwilleran watched for a while, but the noise made him jittery and he retreated to the cabin to brush the cats' fur. Their grooming had been neglected
for a week.
At the cry of "Brush!" Koko strolled from the lake porch where he had been watching the wildlife, and Yum Yum squirmed out from under the sofa where she had been driven by the racket in the yard. Then followed a seductive pas de deux as the two cats twisted, stretched, writhed, and slithered ecstatically under the brush.
When Tom had finished splitting the wood, Qwilleran went out to help stack it. "So you don't like heavy fog," he said as an opener.
"No, it's hard to see in the fog." Tom said. "It's dangerous to drive a car or a truck. Yes, very dangerous. I don't drive very much in the fog. I don't want to have an accident. A man in Pickax was killed in an accident. He was driving in the fog." Tom's speech was slow and pleasant, with a musical lilt that was soothing. Today there was something different about his face — a three-day growth on his upper lip.
Qwilleran recognized the first symptom of a moustache and smiled. Searching for something to say he remarked about the quality of sand surrounding the cabin — so fine, so clean.
"There's gold in the sand," Tom said.
"Yes, it sparkles like gold, doesn't it?" "There's real gold," Tom insisted. "I heard a man say it. He said there's a gold mine buried under this cabin. I wish this was my cabin. I'd dig up the gold." Qwilleran started to explain the real-estate metaphor but thought better of it.
Instead he said: "I often see people picking up pebbles on the beach. I wonder what they're looking for." "There isn't any gold on the beach," Tom said. "Only agates. The agates are pretty. I found some agates." "What do they look like?" "They look like little stones, but they're pretty. I sold them to a man in a restaurant. He gave me five dollars." They worked in silence for a while. The tall tree had produced a huge amount of firewood, and Qwilleran was puffing with the exertion of stacking it. The handyman worked fast and efficiently and put him to shame.
After a few minutes Tom said: "I wish I had a lot of money." "What would you do with it?" "I'd go to Las Vegas. It's very pretty. It's not like here." "Very true," Qwilleran said. "Have you ever been there?" "No. I saw it on TV. They have lights and music and lots of people. So many people! I like nightclubs." "Would you want to work in a nightclub if you went to Las Vegas?" "No," Tom said thoughtfully. "I'd like to buy a nightclub. I'd like to be the boss." After Tom had raked up the wood chips, Qwilleran invited him in for a beer. "Or would you rather have a shot? I've got some whiskey." "I like beer," Tom said.
They sat on the back porch with their cold drinks. Koko was entranced by the man's soothing voice, and even Yum Yum made one of her rare appearances.
"I like cats," the handyman said. "They're pretty." Suddenly he looked embarrassed.
"What's the matter, Tom?" "She told me to come up here and look at the telephone, That's why I came. You told me not to come. I didn't know what to do." "That's perfectly all right," Qwilleran said. "You did the right thing." "I always do what she tells me." "You're a loyal employee, Tom, and a good worker. You can be proud of your work." "I came up here to look at the telephone, and the big cat came out and talked to me." "That's Koko. I hope he was polite." "Yes, he was very polite." Tom stood up and looked at the sky. "It's time to go home." "Here," Qwilleran said, offering him a folded bill. "Buy yourself some supper on the way home." "I have my supper money. She gave me my supper money." "That's all right. Buy two suppers. You like pasties, don't you?" "Yes, I like pasties. I like pasties very much. They're good." Qwilleran felt saddened and uneasy after the handyman's visit. He heated a can of Scotch broth and consumed it without tasting it. He was in no condition to start writing his novel, and he was relieved when another visitor arrived — this time from the beach.
Buck Dunfield, wearing a skipper's cap, climbed up the dune in the awkward way dictated by loose sand on a steep slope. "You promised me a drink," he called out, "and I'm collecting now while I'm still a bachelor, My wife gets home tomorrow. How's it going?" "Fine. Come in on the porch." "I brought you something, Just found it." He handed Qwilleran a pebble. "It was on your beach, so it's yours. An agate!" "Thanks, I've heard about these. Are they valuable?" "Well, some people use them to make jewelry. Everybody collects them around here. I brought you something else." Buck drew a foil package from his jacket pocket. "Meatloaf — from Mildred. Her husband never showed up last night." In a lower voice he added: "Just between you and me, she's better off without him." They settled down in canvas chairs on the porch, with a broadside view of the placid lake. Buck said: "Let me give you a tip. If you use this porch much, remember that voices carry across the lake when the atmosphere is still. You'll see a fishing boat out there about half a mile, and you'll hear a guy say 'Hand me another beer' just as clear as on the telephone. But don't forget: He can hear you, too." There were several boats within sight on the silvery lake, which blended into a colorless sky. The boats seemed suspended in air.
"Do you do much fishing, Buck?" A little fishing, a little golf… Say, I see you've got one of my candlesticks." "Picked it up this morning at Sharon's candle shop." "I'll tell Mildred. She'll be tickled. Nice little shop, isn't it? Nice girl, Sharon.
Roger's a good kid, too." He took out his pipe and began the business of lighting it.
Pointing the stem at the beach he said: "You've got some dead fish down there." "You don't need to tell me. They smell pretty ripe when the breeze is off the lake." "You should bury them. That's what I do. The stink doesn't bother me; I've got chronic sinus trouble, but my wife objects to it, so I bury the fish under the trees. Good fertilizer!" "If you don't have a good nose," Qwilleran said. "how can you enjoy that pipe? The aroma used to be the big attraction for me." "Just a nervous habit." Buck watched two long-legged girls strolling down the beach with heads bowed, studying the sand underfoot. "See? What did I tell you? Everybody collects agates. In the middle of summer it's like a parade along this beach." He had another look at the girls. "They're a little twiggy for me. How about you?" Qwilleran was thinking, smugly: Wait till he sees Rosemary! He said: "Do you know the woman who owns this cabin?" Buck rolled his eyes expressively. "Lord, do I ever! She hates my guts. I got her license revoked after she rammed a hole in the Pickax police station. She didn't know forward from reverse. I hope she's not your grandmother or something." "No. No relation." "Just because she's got all the money in the world, she thinks she can do anything she pleases. A woman of her age shouldn't be allowed to carry a firearm. She's crazy enough to shoot up a city council meeting some day." He puffed on his pipe aggressively. "Her name's Fanny, but she calls herself Francesca, and anybody who names their kid after her gets written in her will. There are more Francescas in Pickax than in Rome, Italy." When the second drink was poured Buck leaned over and said confidentially: "All foolin' aside, how do you size up this place?" "What do you mean?" "Mooseville. Do you think everything is out in the open?" From the man's conspiratorial manner it was clear that he was not talking about the landscape. Qwilleran stroked his moustache. "Well… they have a tendency, I would say, to gloss over certain situations and explain them away very fast." "Exactly! It's their way of life. The Picayune didn't even report it when some tourists were mauled by bears at the village dump. Of course, the stupid jerks climbed the fence and teased the bears, and after that the town put up a double fence. But nothing was ever printed in the paper." "I'm wondering if this vacation paradise is as free of crime as they want us to believe." "Now you're talking my language." Buck glanced around quickly. "I suspect irregularities that should be investigated and prosecuted. You've worked on the crime beat; you know what I mean. I'm friendly with a few detectives Down Below, and they speak highly of you." "Do you know Lieutenant Hames?" "Sure do." Buck chuckled. "He told me about your smart cat. That's really far-out! I don't believe a word of it, but he swears it's true." "Koko's smarter than I am, and he's sitting under your chair right now, so be careful what you say." "Cats are all right," Buck said, "but I prefer dogs." "Getting back to the subject," Qwilleran went on, "I think the authorities up here want to operate in their own way without any suggesti
ons or embarrassing questions from outsiders." "Exactly! The locals don't want any hotshot city-types coming up here and telling them what's wrong." "What do you think is wrong?" Buck lowered his voice again and looked over his shoulder twice. "I say there are crimes that are being conveniently overlooked. But I'm working on it — privately. Once a cop, always a cop. Did you ever eat at the FOO? The customers are a mixed bag, and the battleax that runs the joint has larceny in her heart, but it's hooked up to the best grapevine in the country… Now, mind you, I'm not going to stick my neck out. I'm at the age when I value every day of my life. I've got good digestion, a good woman, and something useful to do. Know what I mean? Only… it would give me a lot of satisfaction to see a certain criminal activity cleaned up. I'm not saying the police are corrupt, but they're hogtied. Nobody wants to talk." Qwilleran sat in silence, grooming his moustache with his knuckles as the panorama of his adventure on the Minnie K unreeled before his mind's eye.
The Cat Who Played Brahms Page 7