A hush fell on the crowd when the bell in the tower of the town hall tolled seven times. All eyes turned toward the hotel, and out came Chief Andrew Brodie with the lofty feather bonnet of a bagpiper, swaggering with a shoulder full of plaid and an armful of pipes. He was playing “Scotland the Brave.” Following him was Mayor Ramsey, pushing a wheelchair. The occupant was the centenarian, Miss Agatha Burns—fragile, calm, smiling. How many hearts turned over at the sight of her. Even those who had not been in one of her classes knew about the Burns mystique.
Arriving at a low platform near the bandstand and the birthday cake, the mayor accepted a microphone and declared that the historic town of Brrr had reached its two-hundredth year. Miss Agatha pressed a button, and the two hundred electric candles on the wooden cake were dazzling in the approaching dusk.
After that there were refreshments in the hotel and some serious marmalade tasting . . . entertainment in the park . . . conversation among Scots . . .
Lisa and Lyle Compton were there. (She was a Campbell—her husband a Ross.) Polly said they looked splendid in tartans. Lyle applauded the “Qwill Pen” column on Miss Agatha Burns. Qwilleran asked, “Lyle, are you both attending the dedication of the Carroll Memorial Museum Sunday afternoon?” He said they wouldn’t miss it for anything! Lisa said that Edythe would turn over the keys to Mount Vernon, and someone would give her an armful of roses. Then they discussed the Marmalade Madness and the merits of each. Polly said the bookstore was getting a marmalade mascot named Dundee.
When Qwilleran drove Polly back to Indian Village, he declined her invitation to come in for some music.
Polly said with a sigh, “I should really bear down on my studying. I’m learning some amazing facts. Do you realize that a bookstore grossing fifty thousand dollars will need one-point-eight persons on the staff?”
“Where do you get eight-tenths of a person?” Qwilleran said. “I feel that way myself sometimes, but I wouldn’t admit it to a prospective employer.”
Polly, who had become an expert at ignoring his levity, went on: “What do you think about having the cashier and service counter on the left as one enters? They say traffic flows in normally to the right and continues out on the other side.”
“Will Dundee have a location of his own? Or will he be free to wander at will?”
“That topic hasn’t been covered in my manual,” Polly said. “Mac and Katie at the library have simply adopted the circulation desk as their headquarters.”
After taking Polly home, Qwilleran drove back to Pickax faster than usual, as if a strange force was pulling him back to the barn. He had felt it before, when the cats had needed him.
The answer was waiting for him in the barnyard: a station wagon with a Wisconsin tag. But there were no cats waiting in the window. They were in hiding. The trespassers were probably in the gazebo.
Qwilleran grabbed a high-powered flashlight from his car and walked stealthily around to the front of the barn before switching it on.
Shocked and blinded by the sudden light, Lish and Lush jumped to their feet.
“Aren’t you people at the wrong address?” Qwilleran thundered. They had been drinking beer and eating take-out food.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Qwilleran. I couldn’t find a phone number for you. This is Clarence, my driver. I can’t have a license. Health problem, you know.”
Clarence gave a dopey nod, and Qwilleran responded accordingly.
Lish went on with characteristic nerve. “Do you happen to have a guest room we could use? All the accommodations are booked solid.”
Qwilleran said, “I have only one guest room, and that is occupied by a friend from California—a police investigator, here to work on a case.” He saw an involuntary glance pass between the two. “However, there are plenty of campsites where you can sleep in your car and use camp facilities. The best is Great Oaks. I’ll tell you how to get there. Have you brought a report on the matter I discussed with you?”
“No, but I have notes and can tell you the whole story.”
“Then excuse me a moment while I feed the cats.”
The Siamese had been fed earlier, but it was a chance to pick up his pocket tape recorder and a checkbook.
Back in the gazebo he said, “Okay, sit down and let’s hear it.”
“It ended up taking a lot more time than I expected, but I was on the trail of something important, so I persevered.
“First I checked the phone book, as you suggested, and there was no Mountclemens or Bonifield listed. So I thought of going to the courthouse. There were records in several different departments that might give a clue, and I spent a couple of days there. Then I had some vital business to take care of, so I turned the search over to one of the clerks. She was very nice, and eager to help. I told her to keep a record of hours spent and she’d be reimbursed.
“Well, it paid off! When I went back, she was all excited, saying it made her feel like a detective. There was no Mountclemens, but there was a Monty Clemens, who was the son of a George Clemens, and his mother had been Bonnie Field before her marriage. Monty was an artist who became an art critic somewhere out of town. He could have changed his name to George Bonifield Mountclemens, to sound more important than Monty Clemens.
“George was dead, but Bonnie was living in a nursing home in the suburbs, and I found her there. When she said she’d been a cat breeder, I felt as if we’d struck gold! She raised Persians.
“Well, George went to Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War, and when it was over, he got a traveling job doing business in Bangkok. He went back and forth several times a year and told his wife about the gorgeous cats they had there. What’s more, they kept records of their heritage, tracing some of them back to the days when Thailand was called Siam, and the cats were bred as watch cats in the royal courts. They were known to be highly intelligent, and some had traits that were positively supernatural! The super cats weren’t usually sold to foreigners, but George knew the right people and had done favors for people, so they agreed to sell him a pedigreed male.
“When he phoned Bonnie, she was thrilled and told him she needed a breeding pair. So he pulled some more strings and got a female. They were very expensive, she said. Next problem: how to get them into the U.S. without the quarantine. George pulled some more strings, and the pair crossed the Pacific on an Air Force jet, probably howling all the way, Bonnie said with a laugh.
“So your cat is descended from this original breeding pair. Bonnie stopped breeding Persians and concentrated on Siamese. She did very well. All her customers reported that their cats had ESP.”
“Very interesting, Lish,” Qwilleran said. “How much do I owe you?”
“Well, it was a lot of fun, and I’d love to do it for nothing, Mr. Qwilleran, but there were a lot of expenses: travel cost and remuneration to the courthouse clerk and Bonnie Field. I thought you’d want me to be generous. The clerk spent a lot of hours, and Bonnie really needed the money. She said there are no retirement benefits for cat breeders. And I spent a total of nineteen hours myself, including travel time. So I think a thousand would be fair, less the fifty that you gave me in advance.”
“I’ll write you a check.”
“Could you possibly make it cash? It’s hard to get a large check cashed when you’re on the road, the way I am.”
“I . . . well . . . how would it be if I make the check payable to cash, and I’ll tell Gary Pratt at the Hotel Booze to cash it for you. Hotels always have money in the safe.”
Qwilleran clicked off the recorder surreptitiously, thanked Lish for her conscientious work, wrote her a check, and stood up briskly, signifying: end of interview.
She kicked her driver’s ankle (he had dozed off) and said she would be happy to undertake other assignments in the future.
“Where can I reach you in Milwaukee?” Qwilleran asked.
“Well, I’m in the process of relocating, and I’m not sure where. I’ll get back to you.”
“Do that!” he said. “
Now, I’ll give you directions for reaching the Great Oaks camp.”
He watched their taillights receding through the woods before going indoors to brew a cup of coffee and contemplate the whole fabricated farce.
THIRTEEN
Following the welcome departure of Lish and Lush, Qwilleran observed the cats’ bedtime ritual and then settled down with a mug of coffee to consider . . .
That he could have invented a better story himself, based on documented history;
That Lish kept moistening her lips all the time she was relating “discoveries”;
That she had been careful not to give her address;
That she and Lush had exchanged startled glances when a police investigator was mentioned;
Then, perhaps more important, how Koko reacted with bared fangs and subtle snarl whenever there was any reference to Alicia Carroll.
As for the thousand-dollar scam, it could be written off as a legitimate expense in the book Qwilleran hoped to write: The Private Life of the Cat Who . . .
The Fourth of July was like any other date on the calendar to the pampered Siamese who reported for breakfast. To Qwilleran it meant the opening night of the “Great Storm” show.
First he phoned Gary Pratt and authorized the cashing of the check.
“Wow! Is that what she charged you?” the hotelier asked in surprise. “Was it worth it? Did you learn anything?”
“I learned quite a few things” was the ambiguous answer. “Now I’m concentrating on opening night. How’s Maxine?”
“She’s always up-up-up. Is there anything we can do for you?”
“Well, I don’t like to eat a full meal before a performance, but I’d like a hearty breakfast, so . . . what better venue than the Black Bear Café? I want to mosey around Brrr and eavesdrop on the tourists . . . and see the beginning of the boat parade . . . and watch the kids making wishes and blowing out electric candles . . . and then home for a nap before curtain time.”
The modest town of Brrr was again ablaze with excitement. Gone were the Scottish tartans! In their place were posters and T-shirts flaunting the “Brrr 200” symbol in red, white, and blue. Pushcarts were offering the shirts in five sizes, and tourists were stripping off their shirts and substituting the bicentennial badge right there on the sidewalk.
In the park across from the hotel, the entertainment was continuous, and youngsters and adults alike lined up to make a birthday wish and blow out the electric candles.
Along the shore there was a manic anticipation of the boat parade, as two hundred cabin cruisers—in eight harbors—awaited their signal. At noon the first fleets would leave Fishport on the west and Deep Harbor on the east. Spectators with cameras and binoculars crowded every vantage point, including housetops along the shoreline.
At noon, when the town hall bell tolled twelve, silence fell in downtown Brrr until an announcement came over loudspeakers that the first fleet had just left Fishport. A shout was raised! After fifteen minutes it was announced that the Mooseville fleet had joined the parade, and the Brrr contingent should be ready to go in eight minutes.
All eyes strained toward the western horizon. When the first craft loomed into view, spectators screamed and jumped for joy! Within minutes, boats flying American flags sailed past the harbor of Brrr, cabin cruisers with three-foot flags.
It was an emotional moment for the watchers on shore. Some happy tears were shed. There was an awed stillness. The second fleet followed, from Mooseville; and then the Brrr contingent sailed off.
Qwilleran shook his head as he thought of “The Great Storm of 1913.” The parade of boats would be a hard act to follow.
Qwilleran arrived at the Hotel Booze an hour before curtain time.
Gary said, “Anything I can do you for? Anything you want to eat or drink?”
“All I need is a quiet place to get into my role.”
Together they checked the back hall from which the newscaster would make his “entrance.” All it offered were two rest rooms, a broom closet, and a storage room for hotel furniture. It was a jumble of chairs and tables, with a little floor space for pacing. Qwilleran moved in.
At one point Maxine dropped in and asked him to listen to her opening speech.
He listened and suggested a significant pause of two seconds in the middle of the last sentence. “You’ll capture their attention, arouse their curiosity, and enlist their cooperation. Try it.”
She tried! “We are going to ask you to imagine . . . that home radios really existed in 1913 . . . as we bring you a broadcast covering the Great Storm of that year.”
As curtain time approached, Qwilleran opened the door to the stage—just enough to hear the babbling audience, the sudden hush when the house lights dimmed, the murmur that greeted the appearance of the Gibson Girl shirtwaist and wig, the rustling of programs as she began to speak, and then the dead silence when she said, “We are going to ask you to imagine—”
As she sat down at the controls, a burst of music came from the two speakers, followed by a few commercials that produced tittering in the audience. Again, more music, during which Qwilleran made his entrance and shook the fake snow from his clothing. Then the newscaster spoke in his compelling stage voice:
The late evening news is a little late tonight, folks. Blame it on the weather: snow, snow, and more snow. First, a look at the headlines . . .
(Reading) Sunday, November ninth. A violent storm with heavy snow and high winds has been blasting Moose County and the lake, with no relief in sight. Elsewhere in the nation . . .
In Washington, President Woodrow Wilson is predicting war with Mexico.
In New York, visitors at an art show were so infuriated by the paintings on exhibition that they rioted in the street; two policemen were injured.
Meanwhile, here at home, blizzard conditions have paralyzed Moose County. Visibility is zero, as a heavy snowfall is whipped by fifty-mile-an-hour winds. Drifting snow is making roads impassable. In downtown Pickax, not a wagon or pedestrian can be seen. Even sleighs cannot get through; horses can make no headway against the wind.
The storm has taken this area by surprise. Following the recent turbulence on the lake, weather conditions settled down to normal yesterday, and shipping was resumed. A steady traffic in freighters and passenger boats could be seen moving north for the last run of the season. Even though the Weather Bureau predicted more disturbances in the atmosphere, the sun was shining and the temperature was unusually high for November. Today, in the early-morning hours, there was still no weather to discourage duck hunters from going out on the Bay. This being Sunday, the commercial fishermen were taking a day off, and a peaceful calm descended on the shoreline. It was the lull before the storm.
Shortly after daybreak, the wind began to rise, and the sky turned the color of copper—a most unusual sight, according to early risers. By ten A.M., winds of fifty miles an hour were recorded. Churchgoers returning home on foot or even in buggies found the going difficult. One small boy was torn away from his mother’s hand by a sudden gust, and he rolled down Main Street like a tumbleweed.
Snow started to fall in the afternoon. It has accumulated steadily. Eight inches was first predicted. Now twelve or even eighteen inches is not unlikely. Drifting snow on country roads and city streets is piling up—six feet deep in some locations. And this may be only the beginning, according to weather experts.
Here is a bulletin from Fishport: Two duck hunters from Down Below left shore early this morning—two miles south of town. They have not been seen since that time. Their boat has been found, bottom-up, on the shore.
According to a bulletin from Deep Harbor, a passenger boat from Down Below was unable to reach port here because of damage to her stern rudder. She was last seen steaming backward down the lake.
No bulletins have been received from the Lifesaving Station, but we hope to reach them for a firsthand report on conditions at Purple Point.
(Picks up phone) Operator, this is WPKX calling Brrr Harb
or Lifesaving Station. . . . Yes, we know. But please do the best you can. . . . Thank you. . . . Brrr Harbor Station? Is it possible to speak to the captain? WPKX calling. . . . Captain, this is the radio newsroom in Pickax. What is the storm situation up there?
CAPTAIN ON TAPE: Bad! Very bad! Worst I’ve ever seen. There’s a vessel stranded on the reef here. She’s being battered by the waves. We can’t reach her. Made two tries. Wrecked both of our rescue boats. Lucky to get our crew back alive. We tried our small boat, too. Put it on a sledge and had the horses pull it down the beach, closer to the wreck. No good. Boat got as far as Seagull Island and filled with water. Had to turn back. We’ve still got the surfboat, but it’s buried in frozen sand.
NEWSCASTER: Captain, what is the name of the vessel on the reef?
CAPTAIN ON TAPE: Can’t tell. Must be a freighter. They’re blowing a distress signal, but it’s hard to hear. Wind is shrieking. Waves are roaring and booming like cannon. Can’t see anything. Can’t see two feet in front of your face. Snow comes at you like a white blanket.
NEWSCASTER: Sir, is there any chance of saving the crew of the freighter? How many are aboard, would you estimate?
CAPTAIN ON TAPE: Probably twenty-five or more. If she’s battered to pieces by morning, the whole crew could be lost. In this icy water, a man wouldn’t last twenty minutes. There are signs of life out there now, we think, but the cabin’s washed away and she must be flooded belowdecks. Whole vessel will be a block of ice by morning.
The Cat Who Talked Turkey Page 10