The Cat Who Played Brahms

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  "Hello, Qwill," said a voice he had known all his life. "How's everything up there?" "Fine, Arch. Did you get my letters?" "I got two. How's the weather?" "You didn't call to ask about the weather, Arch. What's on your mind?" "Great news, Qwill' You'll be getting a letter from Percy, but I thought I'd tip you off. That assignment I told you about — investigative reporting — Percy wants you to come back and start right away. If the Rampage gets someone first, Percy will have a heart attack. You know how he is." "Hmmm," Qwilleran said.

  "Double your salary and an unlimited expense account. Also a company car for your own use-a new one. How's that for perks?" "I wonder what the Rampage is offering?" "Don't be funny. You'll get Percy's letter in a couple of days, but I wanted to be the first…" "Thanks, Arch. I appreciate it. You're a good guy. Too bad you're an editor." "And something else, Qwill. I know you'll need a new apartment, and Fran Unger is giving up hers and getting married. It's close to the office, and the rent is reasonable." "And the walls are papered with pink roses and galloping giraffes." "Keep it in mind anyway. Be seeing you soon. Say hello to that spooky cat." Qwilleran was dizzy with shock and elation, but Tom was starting to leave and he had to thank him once more. He picked up the antique brass inkwell from the top of the bar.

  "Here is something I'd like you to have, Tom. It needs polishing, but I know you like brass. It's an inkwell that traveled around the world on sailing ships a hundred years ago." "That's very pretty. I never had anything like that. I'll polish it every day." The handyman measured the broken window and drove into Mooseville to buy glass, while Qwilleran sat down to contemplate the offer from the Fluxion. Now that he was leaving this beautiful place he was filled with regret. He should have spent more time enjoying the verdure, the moods of the lake, the dew glistening on a spider web. Now he could look forward to the daily irritations of the office: the pink memos from Percy; electric pencil sharpeners always out-of-order; six elevators going up when a person wanted to go down; VDTs that made the job harder instead of easier. Suddenly he realized how much his knee was paining him.

  He propped his leg on a chaise. From the back of a nearby chair, where a hawk had once perched, he was being watched intently by a pair of blue eyes in a brown mask.

  "Well, Koko," QwilIeran said, "our vacation didn't turn out the way we expected, did it? But the time hasn't been wasted. We've cracked a one-man crime operation. Too bad we couldn't have stopped him before he got Buck Dunfield… Too bad no one around here will ever know you deserve all the credit. Even if we told them, they wouldn't believe it." Howling wind and crashing surf drowned out the sound of the Goodwinter car as it pulled into the clearing. Qwilleran hobbled out to greet them — Alexander looking impeccably well-groomed and Penelope looking radiant and a trifle flushed. When they shook hands she added an extra squeeze, and in addition to her perfume there was a hint of mint breath-freshener.

  "You're limping," she said.

  "I tripped over a toadstool… Come in out of the wind. I think we're going to have a tornado." Alexander went directly to his previous seat on Yum Yum's sofa. Penelope went to the windows overlooking the turbulent lake and rhapsodized about the view and the cabin's desirable location.

  Qwilleran thought: The rent just went up to twelve hundred. Won't they be surprised when I break the news!

  "It is regrettable," Alexander was saying, "that I was in Washington when this unfortunate incident occurred. My sister tells me you were of great assistance, making many trips back and forth and spending long hours searching through the Klingenschoen archives. It cannot have been a pleasant task." "There was a lot of material to sift through," Qwilleran said. "Luckily I had a houseguest from Down Below who was willing to help." He refrained from mentioning Koko's contribution; he doubted whether the Goodwinters were ready for the idea of a psychic cat.

  "I regret I could not get a return flight in time to attend the memorial service, but it appears that Penelope organized it efficiently and tastefully, and it was well attended." His sister had wandered over to the table that presented such a convincing picture of authorial industry, and now she dropped onto the other sofa. "Alex, why don't you get to the point? You're keeping Mr. Qwilleran from his writing." "Ah, yes. The will. A problem has arisen in connection with the will." "I don't envision any problem," Penelope retorted. "You're inventing one before it arises." The senior partner threw a remonstrative glance in her direction, cleared his throat, and opened his briefcase. "As you know, Mr. Qwilleran, Fanny left three wills in the safe, written in her own hand. She had written many wills during the years, changing her mind frequently. Only the last three wills were saved (this on our recommendation). They were dated, of course, and only the most recent is valid. Having the three wills gives us an enlightening overview of the lady's feelings in the last few years." Qwilleran's gaze dropped from the attorney's face to his shoe; the little brown triangle of a face was appearing under the skirt of the sofa. Koko, on the other hand, was perched on the moose head with the authority of a presiding judge.

  "The oldest will, which is invalid, bequeathed Fanny's entire estate to a foundation in Atlantic City, for the purpose of rehabilitating a certain section of the city which apparently had nostalgic significance for her. although it would be considered by most of us to be — ah — unsavory." Yum Yum's paw was reaching out from her hiding place with stealth. Penelope had noticed the maneuver, and her face reflected a heroic effort to control mirth.

  Goodwinter went on. "The second will, which is also invalid, I am mentioning merely to acquaint you with the change in Fanny's sympathies. This document bequeathed half her estate to the Atlantic City foundation and the other half to the schools, churches, cultural and charitable organizations, health care facilities, and civic causes in Pickax City. Considering the extent of her holdings there was plenty to distribute equitably, and she had promised sizable sums to all of the aforementioned." Qwilleran checked Yum Yum's progress and glanced at Penelope, who returned his glance and exploded with laughter.

  "Penelope!" her brother said in consternation. "Please allow me to conclude… The most recent will leaves the sum of one dollar to each of the beneficiaries heretofore named — a wise precaution in our estimation, inasmuch as…" "Alex, why don't you come to the point of this discussion," said Penelope, waving a hand gaily, "and tell Mr. Qwilleran that he gets the whole damned thing." "YOW!" came a howl from the vicinity of the moose head.

  Goodwinter cast a quick disapproving eye at Penelope and then at Koko. "Excepting only the token bequests I have indicated, Mr. Qwilleran, you are indeed the sole heir to the estate of Fanny Klingenschoen." Qwilleran was stunned. "That," the attorney said, "sums up the intent and purpose of the most recent will, dated April first of this year, thus revoking all prior documents. The formal reading of the will is scheduled to take place Wednesday afternoon in our office." Qwilleran shook his head like a wet dog. He could think of nothing to say. He looked at Penelope for help, but she merely grinned in an idiotic way.

  Finally he said: "It's an April Fools' joke." Goodwinter said: "I assure you it is legitimate. The problem, as I see it, might be that the bequest will be challenged by the numerous organizations expecting generous sums." "They were verbal promises that Fanny made to everyone in town," Penelope reminded her brother. "Mr. Qwilleran's claim is the only legal one." "Nevertheless, one might foresee a class action suit on behalf of the Pickax charities and civic institutions, questioning Fanny's testamentary capacity, but I assure you…

  "Alex, you neglected to mention the proviso." "Ah, yes. The assets — bank accounts, investments, real estate, etc.- are held in trust for five years with the entire income going to you, Mr. Qwilleran, provided you consent to make Pickax your residence for that period of time and maintain the Klingenschoen mansion as your address — after which time the trust is dissolved and the estate is transferred to you in toto." There was silence in the room, and stares all around.

  A window slammed in the guest room.

  Goodwinter loo
ked startled. "Is there someone else in the house?" "Only Tom," Qwilleran said. "He's fixing a broken window." "Well?" Penelope asked. "Don't keep us in suspense." "What happens if I decline the terms?" "In that case," Goodwinter said, "the will specifies that the entire estate goes to Atlantic City." "And if it goes to Atlantic City," Penelope added, "there will be rioting in the city of Pickax, and you will be lynched, Mr. Qwilleran." "I still think you're pulling my leg," he said.

  "There's no reason why Fanny should make this… this incredible gesture. Until a couple of weeks ago I hadn't seen her for forty years or more." Goodwinter reached into his briefcase and drew out a paper covered with Fanny's idiosyncratic handwriting. "She claims you as her godchild. Your mother was a friend she regarded as a sister." Penelope giggled. "Come on, Alex, tie your shoelace and let's go. I have a dinner date tonight." Tom's pickup truck had already gone when the attorneys drove away, following handshakes and congratulations. Penelope had staggered a little, Qwilleran thought. Either she had been celebrating something, or she had been drowning her disappointment.

  Thu-rump… thu-rump… thu-rump. It was the familiar sound of a cat jumping down from the moose head in three easy stages.

  "Well, Koko," Qwilleran said, "what do you think about that?" Koko rolled over on the base of his spine and licked his tail assiduously.

  16

  In a daze Qwilleran prepared a dish of turkey for the Siamese. He was so preoccupied with the bombshells dropped by Arch Riker and Alexander Goodwinter that he prepared a cup of instant coffee for himself minus the essential ingredient. Then he carried his coffee mug to the lakeside window and sipped the hot water without noticing that something was lacking.

  Foaming white breakers pounded the shore; the beach grasses rippled in the wind; the trees waved their branches frantically; even the little wildflowers bobbed their heads bravely under the tumultuous sky. He had never seen anything so violent and yet so beautiful. This could be mine, he thought. Had anyone ever faced such a crucial career choice? His two selves argued the case: The Dedicated Newsman said: It's the opportunity of my entire career. Investigative reporting — what I've always wanted to do.

  The Canny Scot countered: Are you crazy? Would you pass up Fanny's millions for a job with a midwestern newspaper? The first time the Fluxion gets slapped with a lawsuit, Percy will change his mind. Then where will you be? Back on the restaurant beat — or worse.

  But I'm a newsman. Reporting is my life! It's not a job; it's what I do.

  So buy your own newspaper with Fanny's money. Buy a chain of newspapers.

  I never wanted to be a newspaper tycoon. I like to get out in the field, dig up stories, and bang them out with two fingers on an old black manual typewriter.

  If you own the paper, you can do anything you damn please. You can even set the type, like the guy at the Picayune.

  And I don't need a lot of money or possessions. I've always been satisfied, with what I earned.

  But you're not getting any younger, and all you've got in the bank is $1,245.14. Forget the Fluxion pension, it won't keep the cats in sardines.

  I'd have to live in Pickax, and I need the stimulation of a big city. I've never lived in a small town.

  You can fly to New York or Paris or Tokyo any time you feel like it. You can even buy your own plane.

  "YOW!" cried Koko in his most censorious voice. He was still waiting for his evening meal. Qwilleran had absent-mindedly put the plate of turkey in the cupboard with the telephone.

  "Sorry, kids," he said. He waited for Koko's reaction to the food. Twice this remarkable cat had rejected turkey from Stanley Hanstable's farm — until he succeeded in getting his message across. Now he devoured it with gusto. "Yow… gobble gobble… yow," Koko said as he gulped the white meat, leaving the dark meat for Yum Yum.

  Qwilleran felt the need to talk to someone with a larger vocabulary and he telephoned Roger MacGillivray. "What time are you through at the office?… Why don't you run out here for a drink?… No, don't bring Sharon. Not this time. I want to speak to you privately." Koko had finished his repast and was doing his well-known busybody act — restless meandering accompanied by grunts and chirps and squeals and mutterings. He inspected the fireplace, the stereo, the bathroom faucets. He pressed two keys on the typewriter (x and j) and sniffed a title on the lowest bookshelf (the bird book). When he ambled into the guest room, Qwilleran followed.

  The lower berth of the double-decker was the spot where Koko and Yum Yum liked to sleep. During Rosemary's visit they had been banished to the upper level. Now Koko explored the lower bunk, muttering to himself and pawing the bedcover industriously. The bunk abutted the log wall, and soon he was reaching down between the mattress and the logs, trying first one paw and then the other, stretching to the limit until he dredged up a prize — a pair of sheer pantyhose. Still he was not satisfied. He fished in the narrow crevice until he retrieved a gold chain bracelet.

  Qwilleran grabbed it. "That's Mildred's! How did it get down there?" Mildred had said it might have fallen off her wrist when she delivered the gift of turkey the week before. Mildred had been there on that occasion with someone who smoked Groat and Boddle, although Buck Dunfield claimed he had never visited the cabin.

  Qwilleran found Fanny's green leather address book, still in his jacket pocket, and flipped it open to the page indexed H.

  HUNT, R.D. — Bought three farms while commissioner; sold for airport six months later.

  HANSTABLE, S — Low bidder for prison turkey contract. Too low.

  HANSTABLE, M — Sleeping around. Qwilleran turned to the page indexed Q and found himself described as a former alcoholic. There was nothing under M for Roger, but Dunfield was labeled a womanizer, and there were two pages of Goodwinters, who appeared to have committed every sin in the book.

  Qwilleran tossed the thing in the fireplace, emptied his wastebasket on top of it, added some twigs from the coal scuttle, and opened the damper. Just as the brass bell clanged at the back door, he struck a match and threw it in the grate. Almost immediately he had second thoughts about losing such a choice compendium of scandal. If he decided to move to Pickax, it might be useful. Too late! The tremendous draft of a windy day had whipped the debris into an instant blaze.

  It was a subdued young man who waited at the door. Roger's white skin was whiter, and his black beard seemed blacker.

  "Come in and make yourself comfortable," Qwilleran said. "It's too noisy to sit on the porch. The wind must be fifty miles an hour, and the surf is deafening." Roger slumped on one of the sofas and stared into the fire, saying nothing.

  "I saw you and Sharon and Mildred at the memorial service. What did you think of the turnout?" "About what I expected," the young man said in a monotone. "Everyone there was expecting to inherit something. The Queen of Pickax went around making promises." "Had she made any promises to you?" "Oh sure. A couple of hundred thousand to start an underwater preserve… I suppose I should congratulate you." "For what?" "For inheriting half of Pickax and three quarters of Moose County." "How did you find out? They didn't open the will until a couple of hours ago." "I have to protect my sources," Roger said testily. Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He suspected, that the Goodwinters' secretary was Junior's mother or aunt; she had the family resemblance. And Junior had undoubtedly rushed to phone Roger. "Well, Roger my boy, I haven't accepted the terms of the will, as of now. If you're lucky, I'll go back to the Fluxion, and half of Pickax and three quarters of Moose County will belong to Atlantic City." "Sorry," Roger said. "I didn't mean to be snotty, but we're all miffed about your aunt's broken promises." "She wasn't my aunt, and furthermore I wouldn't live up here for any amount of money. Your newspaper is a farce. The radio station should be put off the air. The restaurants massacre the food. And the whole county is insular and probably inbred. I won't even mention what I think about the mosquitoes." "Wait a, minute! Don't get excited," Roger said. "We'd rather see the money stay here with you than end up in New Jersey, restoring some red-l
ight district." "All right, let's have a drink and bury the hatchet. Scotch? Beer?" They talked politely about the amenities of the cabin. "It's neat," Roger said. "Sharon and I want a place like this some day. Mildred's cottage is okay, but it's like the houses in town. This cabin is perfect for the woods. I wonder who shot that moose." Suddenly he stiffened. "My God! There's a cat up there! I'm leery of cats. I got bitten by a barn cat when I was a kid." "You were probably pulling its tail and deserved what you got," Qwilleran said. "You're looking at Koko up there. He's harmless if you behave properly. I suppose you know what happened to your father-in-law." Roger shook his head dolefully. "I know he's in jail. It was inevitable, of course. Stanley has been on the skids for ten years." "It's a strange thing," Qwilleran admitted. "Just because he's your father-in-law and Mildred's husband, I felt guilty about turning him in. But he came after me with a knife… And still I hated to do it." Roger agreed without enthusiasm. "That's the way it is up here. Everyone knows what's going on, but no one wants to do anything about it. Everyone is a relative or an old school chum or a war buddy or a member of the lodge. " "The sheriff's deputy apologized to Stanley for arresting him. They'd known each other since kindergarten. If you don't mind my saying so, it makes a perfect climate for corruption." Qwilleran poked the fire and threw two more logs into the grate. "What happened to Stanley ten years ago?" "I was just beginning to date Sharon when it started. He'd been living high and suddenly got this incredible B.O. It was like a curse. His own family couldn't tolerate it. Mildred couldn't live in the same house. Sharon and I had to elope because the father-of-the-bride couldn't be stomached at a regular wedding. The guy became an outcast, that's all." "Didn't he consult any doctors?" "All kinds. They suspected abscessed lungs, infection of the sweat glands, chronic uremic poisoning, and you-name-it. But nothing checked out, and nothing seemed to help. Dr. Melinda — you know her-told me some people just have an idiopathic stink." "Didn't Mildred consider divorce?" "She was afraid to divorce him. He said he'd kill her, and she believed it. For a healthy, loving woman that was a helluva way to live, you know, so she was wide open for male companionship." "Meaning Buck Dunfield?" "He wasn't the first — only the unluckiest." "Is that why Stanley killed him?" "Well, it was no secret that he hated Buck. He knew what was going on." "The real reason, I suspect — he found out Buck was snooping into his racket. The ferry racket." "One thing I don't understand," Roger said. "How could Stanley sneak up on Buck undetected? That's what happened, they say." "I know how. Buck had lost his sense of smell. Even the dead fish on the beach didn't bother him. Did Mildred suspect he was a killer?" "Everyone knew. The police had a good idea, but they hadn't collected enough evidence. They were waiting for something to break." "Everyone knows! The motto of Moose County ought to be Omnes Sciunt. What was Stanley's connection at the prison?" "He made the lowest bid to supply turkeys. Pretty good contract. They have five thousand inmates." "It had to be more than just a low bid, chum. He had a clientele inside for liquor and maybe drugs. He could also smuggle out an inmate in his truck-bed, rolled up in a tarpaulin. Did you know he was transporting escapees halfway to Canada?" "There was gossip, but no one would blow the whistle. It had to be an outsider like you." Qwilleran told Roger about the cassette and his efforts to match it with voices around town. He wondered if he should reveal Koko's role in solving the mystery. The cat had found the cassette, directed attention to the prison connection and later to the turkey farmer, attacked the man when he broke into the cabin, and brought the final clue to light: the money clip.