"They pulled out all the black tulips, Qwill." "I don't blame them. Tulips were never intended to be black." "But you told me once that cats can't distinguish colors." He picked up the flowers, and Rosemary rearranged the bouquets in the impromptu vases on mantel, bar, and dining table. Then they went to the lake porch to await the sunset, stretching out in varnished steamer chairs old enough to have sailed on the Titanic.
Seagulls soared and swooped and squabbled over the dead fish on the beach. Rosemary identified them as herring gulls. The flycatchers, she said, who were performing a nonstop aerial ballet were purple martins. Something brown and yellow that kept whizzing past the porch was a cedar waxwing.
"I hear an owl," Qwilleran said, to prove he was not totally ignorant about wildlife.
"That's a mourning dove," she corrected him. "And I hear a cardinal… and a phoebe.
.. and I think a pine siskin. Close your eyes and listen, Qwill. It's like a symphony." He touched his moustache guiltily. Perhaps he had been listening to the wrong voices.
Here he was in the country, on vacation, surrounded by the delights of nature, and he was trying to identify miscreants instead of cedar waxwings. He should be reading the bird book instead of cross-written letters.
Rosemary interrupted his thought. "Tell me some more about Aunt Fanny." "Ah — well — yes," he said, shifting his attention back to the moment. "For starters.
.. she wears flashy clothes and bright lipstick, and she has a voice like a drill sergeant. She's spunky and bossy and full of energy and ideas." "She must have a wonderful diet." "She has a houseman who drives her around, runs errands, takes care of the garden, cleans the house, and knows how to repair everything under the sun." Rosemary giggled. "He'd make a wonderful husband. How old is he?" "But I have a suspicion he's also a petty thief." "I knew there was a catch," Rosemary said. "How does Koko react to him?"
.. "Very favorably. Tom has the kind of gentle voice that appeals to cats." Koko heard his name and wandered nonchalantly onto the porch.
"Have you been walking Koko on his leash?" "No, but I've contemplated a reconnaissance maneuver. He spends a lot of time staring out the guest room window, and I'd like to know what he finds so interesting." "Rabbits and chipmunks," Rosemary suggested. "There's something more." Qwilleran stroked his moustache. "I have a hunch…" "Let's take him out." "Now?" "Yes. Let's!" On several occasions Koko had been strapped into his blue harness and taken for a walk. A twelve-foot nylon cord donated by a Fluxion photographer served as a leash and gave him a wide range. Frequently Koko's inquisitive nose and catly perception led to discoveries that escaped human observation.
The appearance of the harness produced a noisy demonstration, and when the buckles were tightened Koko uttered a gamut of Siamese sounds denoting excitement. Yum Yum thought he was being tortured and protested loudly.
For the first time since his arrival Koko left the cabin. Outside the porch he found the rope hanging from the brass bell, stretched until he could catch it with a claw, and gave the bell a peal or two. Without hesitation he then turned eastward — past the porch, beyond the cabin itself, around the sandy rectangle that covered the septic tank, and toward the woods. When he reached the carpet of pine needles, acorns, and dried oak leaves, every step was a rustling, crackling experience unknown to a city cat. Squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks retired to safety. A frantic robin tried to distract him from her nest. Koko merely walked resolutely toward the woods on top of the dune. Behind a clump of wild cherry trees was the toolshed.
"How do you like that?" Qwilleran whispered to Rosemary. "He made a beeline for the toolshed." He opened the door, and Koko hopped across the threshold. He gave a single sniff to a canoe paddle and two sniffs to the trash can. "Quick, Rosemary, run and get the flashlight. It's hanging inside the back door." In the inner gloom of the shed Koko glanced at the collection of paint cans and went directly to Tom's cot. Jumping on the threadbare blanket he started pawing industriously, all the while making gutteral noises and flicking his tail in wide arcs. He pawed the sorry excuse for a pillow, pawed the wall with the faded Las Vegas pictures, and returned to pawing the blanket.
"What are you looking for, Koko?" Qwilleran pulled aside the blanket, and Koko dug into the thin mattress.
Rosemary was beaming the flashlight on the drab scene. "He's very determined." "There might be a nest of mice in the mattress." "Let's pull the whole dirty thing off onto the floor." The mattress slid off the flat springs of the cot, and with it came a large manila envelope. Rosemary held the light closer. The envelope was addressed to Francesca Klingenschoen and postmarked two years before. The return address was that of a Florida real estate firm.
"Look inside, Qwill." "Money! Mostly fifties." "Here, let me count it. I'm used to counting money." I She snapped the bills with professional speed. The total sum was almost twelve hundred dollars. "What shall we do with it?" "It belongs to Fanny's houseman," Qwilleran said. "We'll put it back, and tidy the bed, and get out of here before the mosquitoes bring up their reserves." Late that night he lay awake wondering about Tom's cache in the toolshed. Was the poor fellow saving up for a down payment on a Las Vegas nightclub? Where was he getting the money? Not from Aunt Fanny. It appeared that she doled out a few dollars at a time.
Qwilleran heard heavy footsteps on the roof. He hoped Roger was right. He hoped it was a raccoon.
11
Tuesday morning Qwilleran drove to town before breakfast to buy eggs. Rosemary insisted there was nothing better than a soft-boiled egg for easy digestibility. Qwilleran couldn't remember eating a soft-boiled egg since the time he stayed home from second grade with a case of mumps. Nevertheless, he bought a dozen eggs, and when he returned Rosemary met him at the door. Her face was stern.
"Koko has been naughty," she said.
"Naughty!" No one had ever accused Koko of being naughty. Perverse, perhaps, or arrogant, or despotic. But naughtiness was beneath his dignity. "What has he done?" "Pulled out all the black tulips again. I saw him do it. I scolded him severely and locked him in the bathroom. Yum Yum has been sitting outside the door whimpering, but Koko is very quiet inside. I'm sure he knows he did wrong." Qwilleran opened the door slowly. The scene was like the aftermath of a blizzard. A roll of paper towels was reduced to confetti. The wastebasket was overturned and its contents scattered. A fresh box of two hundred facial tissues was empty, and the toilet tissue was unrolled and festooned about the room. Bath salts and scouring powder were sprinkled liberally over all.
Koko sat proudly on the toilet tank as if he had completed a work of conceptual art and was ready for a press conference.
Qwilleran drew his hand across his face to erase a wicked smile, but Rosemary burst into tears.
"Don't be upset," he said. "Go and boil the eggs, and I'll clean up this mess. I think he's trying to tell us something about black tulips." Conversation was strained at the breakfast table. Rosemary asked meekly: "When are we going to see Aunt Fanny?" "I'll phone her after breakfast. Today we should take your car to Mooseville to get the muffler fixed. While we're there we can visit the museum and have lunch at the Nasty Pasty… I'd also like to suggest that we eliminate the black tulips." The telephone call to Pickax required the usual patience.
"Of course, I would adore to see you and your lady friend tomorrow," said Aunt Fanny in her chesty voice. "You must come for lunch. We'll have pork chops or nice little veal collops. Do you like spinach souffl? Or would you rather have cauliflower with cheese sauce? I have a splendid recipe for the souffl. How's the weather on the shore? Is there anything Tom can do for you? I could make an orange chiffon pie for dessert if you…
" "Aunt Fanny!" "Yes, dear?" "Don't plan a big lunch. Rosemary has a small appetite. I could use Tom's services, though, if it isn't inconvenient. We have some dead fish on the beach that should be buried." "Of course. Tom enjoys working on the beach. Are you making good progress with your book? I'm so eager to read it!" Rosemary was unusually subdued all morning, and Koko —
being a master of one-upmanship — devised a subtle way to press his advantage. He followed her around the cabin and repeatedly maneuvered his tail under her foot. His blood-curdling screeches after each incident reduced her to nervous confusion.
Qwilleran, though amused at Koko's ingenuity, began to feel sorry for Rosemary. "Let's get out of here," he said. "In a battle with a Siamese you never win." They dropped off her car at the garage, and Qwilleran paid close attention to the mechanic's manner of speech. Compared with the voice on the cassette, he had the right pitch but the wrong timbre and wrong inflection.
The museum occupied an opera house dating from the nineteenth century, when loggers, sailors, miners, and millhands paid their dimes and quarters to see music hall acts. Now it was filled with memorabilia of the old lumbering and shipping industries. Rosemary pored over the cases containing scrimshaw and other seamen's crafts. Qwilleran was attracted to the scale models of historic ships that had gone to the bottom. So were two other men, whom he recognized. They studied the ship models and mumbled to each other.
A third man — young and enthusiastic — came hurrying over. "Mr. Qwilleran, I'm glad you've honored us with a visit. I'm the museum curator. Roger told me you were in town.
If you have any questions, I'll try to answer them." Qwilleran noted that the pitch, timbre, I and inflection were all wrong.
He said to Rosemary: "I've got to do an errand. I'll be back in half an hour, and we'll go to lunch." He hurried to the visitors' center and waited impatiently while five tourists inquired about the bears at the dump. Then he threw a slip of paper on Roger's desk. "What can you tell me about this?" Roger read the boat rental agreement. "That's my father-in-law's signature."
"Does he have a boat?" "Everybody up here has a boat, Qwill. He likes to go fishing whenever he can get away from those stupid turkeys." "Did he rent it to wreck-divers last summer?" "I don't know for sure, but I think he'd do anything for a buck." Roger wriggled uncomfortably. "The truth is: He and I don't get along very well. Sharon was her daddy's girl, and I came along and stole her. Get the picture?" "Too bad. I got into that situation myself…, Another question, Roger. What do you know about the people who run the FOO?" "They're a weird couple. She's a hundred pounds overweight, and when she's at the cash register, you'd better count your change. He was in some kind of industrial accident Down Below. When he collected compensation, they came up here and bought the FOO. That was before the D dropped off." "Is that her husband who does the cooking? Little man with thinning hair." "No, Merle is a big guy. Spends all his time on his boat." "Where does he keep it?" "In the dock behind the restaurant… Say, did you see the UFO last night?" "No, I didn't see the UFO last night," Qwilleran said, starting for the door.
"We get a lot of them up here," Roger called after him. But Qwilleran was gone.
Here was the opportunity to check the voice of a likely suspect. The FOO had raised his suspicions from the beginning — for several reasons. Something that didn't look like coffee was frequently served in coffee cups. There were rooms for rent upstairs.
Customers slipped money to Mrs. FOO surreptitiously and received a slip of paper. As for the little man with thinning hair, he shuffled about in a furtive manner and made ghastly pasties.
Now Qwilleran wanted to meet Merle. Still leaving Rosemary at the museum he drove to the FOO, parked in the lot, and ambled down to the dock. A good-sized boat in shipshape condition was bobbing alongside the pier, but no one was in sight. He called to Merle several times, but there was no response.
As he returned to his car, the cook sidled out of the back door, smoking a cigarette.
"Lookin' for sumpin'?" he inquired.
"I want to see Merle. Know where he is?" "He went somewheres." "When will he be back?" "Anytime." Qwilleran returned to town and took Rosemary to the Nasty Pasty. She had recovered from her tiff with Koko and was brimming with conversation. The museum was so interesting; the curator was so friendly; the restaurant was so cleverly decorated.
Qwilleran, on the other hand, was disappointed at missing Merle, and he jingled three pebbles in his sweater pocket.
"What's the matter, Qwill? You seem nervous." "I'm just revving up my good luck tokens." He threw the pebbles on the table. "The green one is polished jade that a collector gave me. The ceramic bug is a scarab that Koko found. The agate is one that Buck Dunfield picked up on our beach — last agate he ever found, poor guy." "And here's another one for your collection," Rosemary said, producing a dime-size disc of yellowed ivory with the face of a cat etched in the surface. "It's scrimshaw, and quite old." "Great! Where did you find it?" "In the antique shop behind the museum. The curator told me about it. Have you been there?" "No. Let's go after lunch." "An old sea captain runs it, and I'm warning you: It's a terrible place." The Captain's Mess was an apt name for the jumble of antiquities and fakes that filled the shop behind the museum. A little storefront, it was older than the opera house itself, and the next nor-easter would be sure to blow it down. The building was so loose and out-of-joint that only the solid oak door held it upright. When the door was open, the building slouched to one side, and it was necessary to push the door jamb back into position before the door could be closed. Qwilleran sniffed critically. He detected mildew and whiskey and tobacco.
There were marine lanterns, bits of rigging, unpolished brass objects, ships in dusty bottles, water-stained charts, and — sitting in the midst of the clutter — an old man with a stubby beard and well-worn captain's cap. He was smoking a carved pipe from some far- off place, but his tobacco was the cheapest to be found in the corner drug store.
Qwilleran knew them all.
"Ye back again?" shrilled the captain when he spied Rosemary. "I told ye — all sales final. No money back." Qwilleran asked: "Do you still go to sea, captain?" "No, them days is over." "I suppose you've sailed around the globe more times than you can remember." "Yep, I been about a bit." "How long have you had your shop?" "Quite a piece." The pitch of the man's voice was right; the timbre was right; the inflection was almost right, but the delivery lacked the force of the voice on the cassette. The captain was too old. Qwilleran was looking for someone younger, but not too young. He rummaged among the junk and bought a brass inkwell guaranteed not to slide off a ship captain's desk in a rolling sea.
They returned to the cabin, and Rosemary suggested a walk on the beach. While she changed clothes Qwilleran ambled around the property. He knew Tom had been there; the brass bell had a fresh sheen, and the putrid little carcasses on the beach had been buried.
Rosemary appeared in a turquoise sundress. "I wanted to wear my new apricot jumpsuit, but I can't find my coral lipstick." "You look beautiful," Qwilleran said. "I like you in that color." Koko glared at them silently when they went down the slope to the beach.
Rosemary said: "I think he wants me to go home." "Nonsense," Qwilleran said, and yet the same idea had crossed his mind. Koko had never approved of the women in his life.
Heading eastward they trudged through deep sand in silence, the better to enjoy the peacefulness of the lonely beach. Then came the row of summer houses on top of the dune.
One resembled the prow of a ship. Another, sided with cedar shakes, looked like a bird with ruffled feathers. Some of the cottagers were burying their dead fish. Two girls were sunning on the deck of a rustic A-frame.
"They're the models we saw at the hotel," Rosemary said, "and they're not wearing tops or bottoms." Qwilleran pointed out the redwood house where Buck had been murdered. "Now it's even more of a mystery," he said. "At first I thought there was some connection between Buck's private investigation and the message on the cassette, but he was on the track of a crime, and the wreck-divers are not criminals. They're shrewd opportunists operating for private gain and not in the public interest, but they're not breaking the law." Next they passed Mildred's yellow house and traversed another half mile of desolate beach until a creek, bubbling across a bed of stones on its way to the lake, sliced through the sand and ba
rred their way. As they retraced their steps, Mildred waved to them from her porch, beckoning them up the dune and offering them coffee and homemade apple pie. "It's in the freezer," she said. "It won't take a minute to thaw." The interior of the bungalow was muffled in handmade quilts, hanging on the walls and covering the furniture.
"Did you make all these? They're lovely," Rosemary exclaimed. "You've got a lot of time invested here." "I've had a lot of spare time to invest," Mildred said with a small sigh. "Did you see the UFO last night?" "No, but I heard about it," Qwilleran said. "What do you think it was?" Mildred looked surprised. "Why, everyone knows what it was." It was Qwilleran's turn to look surprised. "Do you actually believe it was an extraterrestrial visitor?" "Of course. They come here all the time — usually at two or three in the morning. I see them because of my insomnia. I had standing orders to phone the Dunfields at any hour, so they could get up and watch." Making a mental note to follow up this local idiosyncrasy, Qwilleran said: "Have you heard from Buck's wife and sister?" "They phoned once — to ask if I'd adopt their geraniums and throw the perishables out of the refrigerator. They don't know when they'll be back." "Any developments in the case?" "The men from the police lab have been working at the house. Betty told me that Buck must have been working in his shop when the murderer sneaked in and took him by surprise.
The Cat Who Played Brahms Page 10