(Cough)
Well, he turned out to be a wife beater, and she came back to Hibbard House with her baby. Of course, she was in the doghouse. Her mother kept saying, “I told you so!” Lavinia felt sorry for her.
(Cough)
One of Lavinia’s jobs was to give the baby some fresh air, weather permitting. They had a real fancy baby carriage, and she wheeled it around and around the dirt roads on the property. There was no pavement in those days. Automobiles were just coming in. The Hibbards had one—all open, with side curtains.
One day Lavinia was pushing the carriage when suddenly an automobile came up alongside. Almost frightened her to death. There were two men in it, and one jumped out and grabbed the baby! Then they took off in a cloud of dust! Lavinia went screaming into the house. “They stole the baby! They stole the baby!” She thought it was her fault, and she was so sick, they put her to bed. Mrs. Hibbard said to her disgraced daughter, “I told you so!” And the poor girl went out to a pond on the property and drowned herself.
(Cough)
Lavinia didn’t want to work there anymore, so she left, but she told us that no one knew what happened to the baby, and no one tried to find out.
“Good story, Ken! Get a few more as good as that, and we’ll list you as assistant editor.”
“You mean that? Mr. Haggis steered me to another story—how Hibbard House survived the worst snowstorm of the century, before snowplows and telephones and radio. There’s a woman at the Senior Care Facility whose grandmother worked for the Hibbards. I thought I’d go to see her tomorrow after work, but visitors aren’t allowed in the evening. So I asked the boss if I could get a couple of hours off—after the paper’s put to bed, you know. I told him it was for you. He said okay.”
They had dinner at the small table in the window, and the cats hung around.
Qwilleran explained, “They’re not begging—just being sociable.”
The two men chewed in friendly silence for a while, and then Kenneth asked, “Who else lives in this row?”
“Mrs. Duncan from the bookstore, a doctor from the pet clinic, and the weatherman.”
“Wetherby Goode? He’s crazy!”
“He’s from Horseradish, and they’re all slightly crazy! He has a cat named Jet Stream, a name that’s appropriate for more reasons than one. . . . Speaking of Horseradish, the last remaining Hibbard has just married a native of that town. It was announced in Friday’s paper. Everyone’s talking about it.”
Qwilleran paused, sensing a change in his guest’s genial mood. Then he continued. “He’s a lot younger than she is—and talented and personable, so he’s considered quite a catch. But she’s the sole heir to the Hibbard fortune—charming and intelligent—so she’s a pretty good catch, too . . . especially since she’s not in the best of health. Everyone is puzzling over their respective motives.”
It was the kind of gossip that Qwilleran used to enjoy at the Press Club, where rumors and impolite facts were exchanged freely.
Kenneth had stopped eating. His face was reddening. Finally he interrupted. “He’s my stepfather.”
“Is that so?” Qwilleran feigned surprise, although he had guessed as much. “Then his previous wife, who was killed by a sniper, was your mother!”
In a choked voice Kenneth said, “She married him right after my father died. A lot of people in Lockmaster raised their eyebrows. And then, in a couple of years, she was killed by a sniper while riding her horse on a country trail. The sniper was never apprehended. So you know what people were saying!
“My stepfather is a duck hunter, and he has all kinds of guns, including a Remington ‘Thirty Aught Six,’ which would be good for a sniper.”
“How about the official investigation?”
“Insufficient evidence. That’s why I went to a police academy out west instead of J school.”
“I can understand your feelings.” It was said in the deeply sympathetic tone that brought forth confidences, confessions, and sometimes just tears. Kenneth jumped up and started walking around the room with his hands in his hip pockets.
“Shall we have some dessert?” Qwilleran asked.
“Thanks, but I’ve gotta get home.”
Qwilleran said, “Anything that’s said within these walls goes no further, Ken.”
The boy left, and the Siamese followed him to the door. They had been listening.
Qwilleran spent the afternoon making something out of nothing—his way of referring to the “Qwill Pen.” The duck hunting book lent to him by the Wix brothers would be the inspiration, and a column on duck habitat would be appropriate during “Duck Season,” as the hunters called it. The problem was that the book—filled with gorgeous color photographs—was all about hunting, as its title implied. And hunting was not one of Qwilleran’s many interests.
When the Wix brothers had invited him to join one of their shoots, he had said, “I’m a washout with a rifle.” It was a fib. In his earlier days he had won Kewpie dolls at carnivals for shooting BBs at moving targets, and his marksmanship was much admired by the girls to whom he gave his prizes.
He had been born and bred in a metropolitan area where wildlife was for viewing in a zoo, not for shooting. He could not see himself pointing a gun at a furred or feathered creature.
As for ducks, he remembered the friendly brood that visited him daily when he was vacationing at Black Creek.
Ducks and ducklings skimmed across the quiet water without making a ripple or a splash. He could not imagine taking them home for dinner.
The book told him more than he wanted to know about “waterfowling”—guns, camouflage jackets, waders, duck blinds, and decoys. He learned that a drake is a male duck, and the female is a hen . . . that the daily bag limit allows for more drakes than hens . . . that there were divers, fishers, puddlers, and tree ducks. Species that sounded familiar were the mallards, mergansers, pintails, ring-necks, and buffleheads.
The book was informative as well as handsome, but it told him more than he needed to know—for the “Qwill Pen.”
TWENTY-ONE
Qwilleran filed his Tuesday copy for the “Qwill Pen” by motorcycle messenger—to avoid running into Kenneth. There had been something embarrassing about his outburst the previous evening—his outpouring of family secrets and unthinkable suspicions. It was nothing that could be blamed on “too much to drink” because Qwilleran had served nothing stronger than Squunk water. Kenneth’s facts or fancies had been building up over a period of time. They had been suppressed, one could imagine, until that moment when encouraged by sympathetic listening. It would be prudent to let the matter cool for a while.
He also gave the motorcycle messenger the duck hunting book to return to Wix & Wix Realty. The Tuesday “Qwill Pen” was all about ducks without a single word about duck hunting. No matter. The Something had an outdoor writer whose job was to address the subject of hunting.
All these thoughts were formulated and decisions made while Qwilleran ate his cereal and sliced bananas. They were interrupted by a phone call from the attorney.
“Nothing to worry about, Qwill. The Hibbard House is legally protected. Full speed ahead!”
Even so, he felt uneasy and disorganized. He remembered his mother’s philosophy: “When you don’t know what to do with yourself, do something for someone else.”
Qwilleran went to Unit Two and rang the doorbell. “Do you need anyone to do backbreaking labor without charge?” he asked. “I’m available. Offer good for today only.”
“I do! I do!” Connie said. “How are you at unpacking books?”
There were twenty boxes and a whole wall of empty shelves. “It was the bookshelves that attracted me to this place,” she said.
“A rare-book dealer lived here and had them built,” Qwilleran explained. “He didn’t stay long. He was an ailurophobe, and I think he was unnerved by the caterwauling coming from both sides. The walls have since been soundproofed. . . . Now, how do you want the books organized on the shelves?
”
“In categories. Each box is labeled ‘history,’ ‘biography,’ or whatever. I’ll be unpacking things in the kitchen.”
“I see a lot of boxes marked ‘science.’ Is that veterinary science?”
“No. Those belonged to my father. He was a science teacher in high school, and his hobby was reading everything on any branch of science. I tried to get him interested in mystery novels for relaxation, but he said fiction was a waste of time.”
Qwilleran enjoyed handling books and had to resist opening each one and reading a page, especially those with titles like Quantum Control of Molecular Processes and Physical Properties of Carbon Nanotubes.
When the job was finished and the empty boxes were carried down to the basement garage, he said to Connie, “Anytime you feel the need of a coffee break, I could offer you some of my notorious brew and some Scotch Danish. They’re regular Danish rolls but smaller and cheaper. I’ll start the coffee. You come over when you’re ready.”
When she arrived, she was wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt and was appraised by Koko, as if he sensed her identity but questioned her credentials.
After they were seated at the snack table in the window, Qwilleran said, “We talked about this earlier, but may I ask again your impression of how the residents of Hibbard House reacted to Alden’s presence and Violet’s rather sudden marriage?”
“Well . . . as I said, to tell the truth, Qwill, things had been changing in recent weeks—one of the reasons I decided to leave. There had been a wonderful family feeling before. Violet was such a gracious hostess. But after Alden arrived she let him take over selecting the menus and the evening’s entertainment. Alden took charge of the wine cellar and assumed full responsibility of Tasso, the watchdog. I know he’s very fond of dogs, but the rest of us enjoyed walking Tasso in our turn. . . . So the marriage wasn’t a complete shock, just a disappointment. The girls thought Judd Amhurst would have been more suitable. . . . I still don’t know if I should be telling you all this—”
“Have no qualms, Connie. I ask simply because I care about the gallant old house I’m assigned to document.” Qwilleran said, “As you know, I’m doing the text for a book on the Hibbard House. Can you think of any anecdotes that might be included?”
“Not offhand, but I’ll think about it.”
“Has Alden Wade made any difference to the lifestyle?”
“Well . . . he plays the piano, and we’ve had a few Sunday-night songfests that were fun. He can cook, and he taught our housekeeper how to make duck à l’orange. And I hear they’ve had some all-night card games in the men’s quarters. . . . If I think of more, I’ll let you know.”
Early in the evening, Qwilleran had a phone call from Hixie Rice, promotion director for the Something. The quality of the transmission indicated she was using her cell phone on the shoulder of a busy highway.
“Qwill, are you going to be there for a few minutes? I’ve been asked to deliver a small package to you.”
“Who asked? Do you know the person? Does it look suspicious?”
“You indefatigable joker!” she said with a delighted laugh. “The copyboy asked me to deliver a tape recording. He says you’re in a hurry to get it.”
“Come along. Can you stay for a drink?”
“Not this time, thanks. I’m having dinner with . . . a rather attractive business contact.”
“I’m sure!”
Within minutes she parked at the curb, leaving the motor running, and ran up the walk with hair flying, full skirt swirling. Hixie was always in a state of contagious excitement.
She handed over the tape and dashed back to her car, stopping only to call out, “Sesquicentennial committee meets at the hotel Friday evening. You’re welcome to attend.”
Then she was gone, leaving Kenneth’s tape and a whiff of expensive perfume. Pickax had been scheduled to celebrate its sesquicentennial this summer, until it was discovered that someone (possibly Hixie) had miscalculated the dates. It was just as well, Qwilleran thought. A new bookstore and Dundee—plus a sesquicentennial—would have been too much for a city the size of Pickax.
He went immediately to the tape player and heard a raspy voice tell the following tale:
My name is Helen Wentley. I heard this awful tale many times when I was growing up. My ancestors came here from Finland to work in the mines. My grandmother was housekeeper for the Hibbards, and she told how they were snowbound for three weeks in that big house on the hill. There were no telephones then, for them to call for help—and no snowplows, that’s for sure.
Where shall I begin? It was called the worst snowstorm in the history of Moose County. It was about a hundred years ago.
When it struck, everyone huddled around the many fireplaces and told stories. But it kept on snowing—and snowing. The big house got colder and colder. They had to conserve firewood. So Mr. Hibbard decided they should all live in the library, easiest room to heat. That meant four Hibbards and Grandma, the handyman, and a housemaid.
Grandma had to figure out how to cook in the fireplace. She said they had a lot of soup and oatmeal. The hired man kept bringing in firewood, but the woodpile was running low, and they ended up—before the storm was over—chopping up furniture and even burning books!
They brought pillows and blankets into the library and slept on the floor. In daytime they wore hats and coats and leggings. Mr. Hibbard read aloud. Mrs. Hibbard got everyone singing songs and playing guessing games.
After a while food was running low. There were laying hens and a milk cow in the barn, and there was a lot of canned fruit in the cellar. It got harder and harder to dig through the drifting snow. And everyone was getting sick from eating so much fruit and oatmeal—if you know what I mean.
So Mr. Hibbard decided they should butcher the cow and chickens for food. They had no feed and would only freeze to death. That’s what happened to the horses. They froze to death.
When somebody suggested bringing the horses into the parlor, they all laughed themselves silly. Grandma said they were beginning to crack up.
That’s when the handyman decided to tramp into town on homemade snowshoes—in search of help. It was seven miles, and it was still snowing. He was never heard from again, but his body was found during the spring thaw.
And still it snowed—and snowed. Even Mr. Hibbard was discouraged. Grandma said, “I think we should pray.” He was not a religious person, but they all prayed.
And then a miracle happened, according to Grandma. A small church in Kennebeck sent out search parties to rescue folks in out-of-the-way cabins and farmhouses, and a sudden inspiration directed them to the big house on the hill.
Qwilleran was impressed. He went to the phone to call the young man but decided to wait until after the dinner hour. Kenneth would be potlucking with his peers at the Winston Park apartments. Peggy had said it was one of the things they did twice a week.
So it was nine o’clock before Qwilleran phoned. To his surprise the operator said, “This number is no longer in service.”
On the other hand, it was not surprising. Kenneth had probably moved in with another tenant to share expenses. Which one, and why, was a question not worth considering.
Still, Qwilleran felt a tremor on his upper lip, and he pounded his moustache with his fist.
Then he shouted, “Read!” and Koko came running. He bounded to a bookshelf without stopping to make a decision and knocked down George Ade’s Fables in Slang.
When Qwilleran phoned Polly at eleven o’clock, his first words were “What do you know about George Ade?”
“American humorist,” she said. “Turn of the last century.”
“Once a librarian, always a librarian,” he said.
TWENTY-TWO
On Wednesday morning Qwilleran fed the cats and recited a few lines of Rudyard Kipling as their thought for the day. He himself had a bowl of cereal with a sliced banana, followed by the obligatory cup of coffee.
Thus fortified, he called the city
room at the paper and asked to speak to Whiskers.
“He doesn’t work here anymore,” said the deskman. “Since when?” was the shocked response.
“Since yesterday.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Talk to the boss.”
Qwilleran sat down with a second cup of coffee and reflected: Was he fired? Did he quit? In either case, what was the reason? Was he in trouble? Had he blurted out too many secrets and suspicions while under the influence of Squunk water and a sympathetic listener?
Qwilleran phoned the managing editor. “Junior! What happened to Whiskers?”
“He quit to go back to school.”
“So suddenly?”
“Well, you know . . . these young kids don’t know which way is up.”
“Did he leave a forwarding address? I owe him for some legwork he did.”
“No address. He’ll probably send you a bill. How about running copy for us until we can hire a replacement?”
“You couldn’t afford me.”
Hanging up abruptly, Qwilleran next called Peggy at the Winston Park apartments. “This is Qwill. What happened to your neighbor with the whiskers?”
“I don’t know. I had a dinner date with—guess who!—Wetherby Goode! We went to—guess where!—the Palomino Paddock! And when I got home, there was a note from Kenneth asking me to turn in his rental car and collect what you owe him for his research assignment. Does that make sense?”
“I understand that, but what I don’t understand is why. Did he leave an address?”
“Nothing! I thought you and Ken had a good working arrangement.”
“We did, and he did good work. So his defection comes as a surprise. Let me know what expenses need to be covered. How did you like the Palomino Paddock?”
“Super! Wetherby said it was informal, and I expected some kind of hayseed operation, but it was quite classy in spite of all the horsy atmosphere.”
The Cat Who Went Bananas Page 14