“Did you know that Mrs. Gage owned Lois’s building?”
“Of course. The Gage family has had it for generations.”
“Did you ever meet Euphonia’s husband?”
“No, our paths never crossed.”
“They say he and his wife didn’t get along.”
With a slight stiffening of the spine Polly said, “I’m not in a position to say, although they never appeared in public together.”
“He and Lois seemed to hit it off pretty well.”
“Qwill, dear, for someone who deplores gossip, you seem to be wallowing in it today.”
“For purely vocational reasons,” he explained. “I’m planning an in-depth profile of Euphonia.”
Polly nodded knowingly, being familiar with his ambitious writing projects that never materialized.
He went on. “No one has come up with an acceptable motive for her suicide. Junior thinks it has to do with her belief in reincarnation, but I don’t buy that explanation.”
“Nor I . . . May I fill your cup, Qwill?”
“It’s superlative today. What did you do to it?” he asked.
“Just a touch of cinnamon.”
They sipped in contented silence, as close friends can do, Qwilleran wondering whether to tell her about Koko’s latest salvage operations. Besides the purple hair ribbon and purple bedroom slipper, there had been an empty vial of violet perfume, an English lavender sachet, and a lipstick tube labeled “Grape Delish.” Koko had chosen these mementoes out of an estimated 1.5 million pieces of junk. Why? Could he sense Euphonia’s innate energy in purpleness? Or was he trying to communicate some catly message?
“What are you reading these days?” Polly asked.
“For myself, a biography of Sir Wilfred Grenfell, but the cats and I are going through Robinson Crusoe. That was Koko’s choice. The opening sentence has 105 words—a maze of principal and subordinate clauses. It’s interesting to compare with the staccato effect of simple declarative clauses in Tale of Two Cities, which opens with 120.”
Polly smiled and nodded and asked if he would like to hear a Mozart concerto for flute, oboe, and viola. Qwilleran had always preferred a hundred-piece symphony orchestra or thousand-voice choir, but he was learning to appreciate chamber music. All in all, it was a cozy Sunday afternoon until he excused himself, saying he had to interview a breeder of Siberian huskies.
He avoided mentioning that the breeder was a woman—a young woman—a slender young woman with appealing brown eyes and a mass of dark, wavy hair and a little-girl voice.
Half an hour later, when he arrived at the address in Brrr Township, he knew he was in the right place. A twenty-seven-dog chorus could be heard behind the mobile home. The excited huskies were chained to a line-up of individual posts in front of individual shelters. Nancy’s truck was not in the yard, and when he knocked on the door there was no answer, except from Corky within. He strode about the yard for a while, saying “Good dogs!” to the frenzied animals, but it only increased the clamor. He was preparing to leave when a pickup with a boxy superstructure steered recklessly into the yard, and Nancy jumped out.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said excitedly. “The police came to Pop’s house while I was there. They checked the airline, and he never bought a ticket!”
Or, Qwilleran thought, he bought a ticket without giving his right name.
“I don’t understand it!” she went on. “Why would he leave his truck there? I was worried about the potatoes, but now I’m worried that something has happened to Pop!”
Sympathetically Qwilleran asked, “Was he having trouble of any kind? Financial problems? Enemies he was trying to avoid?”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t see how . . . He was well liked by the other farmers—always helping them out. When I lived at home, I remember how stranded motorists would come to the house to use the phone. They were out of gas, or their car had broken down. Pop had his own gas pump, and he’d give them a gallon or stick his head under the hood of their car and fix what was wrong. He could fix anything mechanical and was proud of it . . . So now I’m worrying that he was helping someone out and they took advantage of him. You never know who’s driving on these country roads nowadays. It used to be so safe! Everyone was honest. But now . . . someone could come along and stun my dogs and make off with the whole pack. They stole a big black walnut tree from a farm near here.” The dogs were still barking until she silenced them with a command.
“How old is your father?” Qwilleran asked.
“Fifty-seven.”
“When did your mother die?”
“She passed away three—no, four years ago. Pop changed a lot after that.”
“Could there be anything new in his lifestyle that you don’t know about?”
“You mean . . . like women? Or drugs?” She hesitated.
A reassuring manner was his stock in trade. “You can tell me, Nancy. I may be able to help.”
“Well . . . he used to be very tight-fisted, but lately he’s spending a lot of money.”
“Extravagance can be a way of coping with grief. How is he spending the money?” Qwilleran asked.
“On farm improvements. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but”—she turned frightened eyes to him—“where is he getting it?”
SEVEN
QWILLERAN AND THE dog-handler were standing in the farmyard. “Well, you don’t want to listen to my troubles all day,” Nancy said with a gulp. “Do you want to go and see the dogs?”
“First, let’s sit down and talk for a while. I’ve seen them, and I’ve heard them,” he said dryly.
“You should hear them before a race! They love to hit the trail, and they go wild when they’re waiting for the starting flag.”
They entered a small mobile home where they were greeted by a large, friendly, all-American, farm-type, cork-colored mongrel whose wagging tail was wreaking havoc in the tight quarters.
“Good boy!” Qwilleran said while being lashed by the amiable tail.
“This is Pop’s dog,” Nancy said. “Where would you like to sit?” She brushed debris from a couple of chair seats and hastily picked up litter from the floor.
“Is it okay if I tape this interview?” He placed a small recorder on a nearby table, and a swipe of the tail knocked it off.
“I’d chain him outdoors, but he’d drive the other dogs crazy,” she said apologetically. “Corky! Go in the other room!” She pointed, and obediently he walked six feet away and stretched out with his chin on his paw.
“You have a way with dogs,” Qwilleran complimented her. “How did you get into this specialty of yours?”
“Well, I spent a couple of years in Alaska, and when I came home I bought a sled and a pair of huskies—Siberians. They’re smaller than Alaskans but stronger and faster.” Her small, wavering voice became stronger as she warmed up to her subject.
“Then you’re the one who started the sport here?”
“It was easy. When somebody tries dog-sledding on a beautiful winter day, they’re hooked! I’ll take you for a ride after we get some snow.”
“How do you accommodate passengers?”
“You ride in the basket, and I ride the runners.”
“Hmmm,” he murmured, thinking he’d feel foolish sitting in a basket pulled by a pack of dogs. “Are all sled dogs as frisky as yours?”
“If they’re good racers. A high attitude is what they should have. Mine are born to be racers, not pets, but I love them like family.”
“What else makes a good racer?”
“Hard muscles in the right places. A good gait. And they have to like working in a team.”
“Training them must be a science,” Qwilleran said.
“I don’t know about that, but it takes a lot of patience.”
“I believe it. How many dogs make a team?”
“I’ve seen as many as twenty in Alaska. I usually run eight.”
“How do you drive them?”
“With your v
oice. They learn to take orders. Would you like a cola, Mr. Qwilleran?”
He said yes, although it ranked with tea at the bottom of his beverage list.
Nancy went on with enthusiasm as she opened a can. The shy, inarticulate, almost pathetic young woman became self-possessed and authoritative when talking about her vocation. “Each dog has a partner. They’re paired according to the length of their stride and their personality. They become buddies. It’s nice to see.”
“Isn’t it a great deal of work?”
“Yes, but I love feeding them, brushing them, socializing, cleaning up after them. Do you have dogs?”
“I have cats. Two Siamese. When do the race meets start?”
“After Christmas. We’re training already. You should see us tearing around the back roads with the dogs pulling a wheeled cart! They know snow is on the way. They’re getting so excited!” She showed a picture of a dog team pelting down a snowy trail; out of a total of thirty-two canine feet, only four seemed to be touching the ground.
“I believe they’re flying!” Qwilleran said in amazement.
His willingness to be amazed, his sympathetic manner, and his attitude of genuine interest were the techniques of a good interviewer, and Nancy was relaxing and responding warmly. He could read her body language. Take it easy, he told himself; she’s vulnerable. In businesslike fashion he asked, “Did you attend veterinary school?”
“I wanted to, but I got married instead—without telling my parents.”
“How did they react?”
She looked at the tape recorder, and he turned it off.
“Well . . . Pop was furious . . . and Mom got cancer. I had to be nurse for her and housekeeper for Pop.” Shrugging and wetting her lips, she said, “Dan didn’t want a part-time wife.”
“And that led to your divorce?”
She nodded. “When Mom died, I went to Alaska to get away from everything, but dog-sledding brought me back.”
“And your father—how did he react to your return?”
“Oh, he was getting along fine. He had a housekeeper three days a week and a new truck and a harvester with stereo in the cab and half a million dollars’ worth of drain tile. He was a lot nicer to me than before, and he gave me a piece of land for my mobile home and kennels . . . I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I guess it’s because you’re so understanding.”
“I’ve had troubles of my own,” he said. “One question occurred to me: Is your father a gambler?”
“Just in the football pool at the tavern. He never even buys a lottery ticket . . . Would you like another cola?” Corky had just rejoined the group, and a swish of his tail had swept Qwilleran’s beverage off the table.
“No, thanks. Let’s go out and see what a sled looks like.”
The seven-foot sled, like a basket on runners, was in a small pole barn, where it shared space with a snowplow, snow blower, and other maintenance equipment.
“It’s made of birch and oak,” Nancy said. “This is the handrail. That’s the brake board down there. It’s held together with screws and glue and rawhide lacing. I varnish it before each sledding season.”
“A work of art,” Qwilleran declared. “Now let’s meet your family.”
The dogs anticipated their coming. Puppies in a fenced yard were racing and wrestling and jumping for joy. The adults raised a high-decibel clamor that Nancy quieted with a secret word. They were lean, handsome, high-waisted, long-legged animals in assorted colors and markings, with slanted blue eyes that gave them a sweet expression.
“These two are the lead dogs, Terry and Jerry. They’re the captains, very brainy. Spunky and Chris are the wheel dogs, right in front of the sled.”
Both Qwilleran and Nancy turned as a police vehicle pulled into the yard. It was a sheriff’s car, and an officer in a wide-brimmed hat stepped out.
She shouted, “Hi, Dan! This is Mr. Qwilleran from the newspaper.”
Qwilleran, recognizing the deputy’s reticent and almost sullen attitude, said, “I believe we’ve met. You rescued me after a blizzard a couple of years ago.”
The deputy nodded.
“Mr. Qwilleran is going to write up my dog team, Dan.”
“But we’ll hold the story until after snow flies. I’ll work on it and call if I have any more questions . . . Beautiful animals. Interesting sport. Good interview.” He moved toward his car.
“You don’t have to leave,” she protested.
“I have to go home and feed the cats,” he explained, making an excuse that was always accepted.
Nancy accompanied him to his car. “Gary says you’re living in Mrs. Gage’s big house.”
“That’s right. I’m renting it from Junior Goodwinter, her grandson.” He noticed a flicker in her eyes, which he attributed to memories of the high school prom, but it was something else.
“I’ve been in that house many times,” she said. “It’s huge!”
“Did you know Mrs. Gage?”
“Did I! My mother was her housekeeper for years and years. Every year Mom took me there for Christmas cookies and hot chocolate, and Mrs. Gage always gave me a present.”
“That was gracious of her,” Qwilleran said. “What did you think of her?”
“Well, she didn’t fuss over me, but she was . . . nice.”
Now he had one more adjective to describe the enigmatic Euphonia Gage, and another reason to call Florida and quiz her talkative neighbor.
“Do you like apples?” he asked Nancy before leaving. He handed her a brown paper bag.
Back at the mansion he submitted to the Siamese Sniff Test. After an afternoon with Corky and twenty-seven Siberian huskies, he rated minus-zero. Their investigation was cut short by a ringing telephone.
“Hey, Qwill!” said an excited Junior Goodwinter. “Can you stand some good news?”
“It’s a boy,” Qwilleran guessed.
“No, nothing like that; Jody’s still here, getting antsy. But somebody wants to buy the Gage mansion! I just got a long distance phone call!
“Congratulations! Who’s making the offer?”
“A realtor in Chicago.”
“Is it a good offer?”
“Very good! What do you suppose it means? The house wasn’t even listed for sale. And why should they pick mine when there are seven for-sale signs on the street? I’ll bet Grandma Gage tipped someone off before she died.”
“Don’t ask questions,” Qwilleran advised. “Take the money and run.”
“I’m going to tell them it’s rented until spring, so don’t worry about having to move out, Qwill.”
“I appreciate that. And let’s not tell Polly until the deal’s closed. She’ll be upset about losing the carriage house.”
“Okay, I won’t. Golly! This is the best news I’ve had since I-don’t-know-when.”
“Good things come in threes,” Qwilleran said. “Maybe Jody will have twins. By the way, was there a woman in the Gage family by the name of Cynara?”
“I don’t think so. How do you spell it?”
“Like the poem: C-y-n-a-r-a.”
“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
At a suitable hour—late enough for the fifty-percent discount but not too late for a Pink Sunset resident—Qwilleran placed a call to Florida, and Koko leaped to the desk in anticipation. “Arrange your optic fibers,” Qwilleran advised him. “This may be enlightening.” The cat’s whiskers and eyebrows curved forward.
When a woman’s cheery voice answered, he asked in a rich and ingratiating tone, “May I speak with Celia Robinson?”
There was a trill of laughter. “I know it’s you, Clayton. You can’t fool your old grandmother. Does your mother know you’re calling?”
“I’m afraid I’m not Clayton. I’m a colleague of Junior Goodwinter, Mrs. Gage’s grandson. I’m calling from Pickax. My name is Jim Qwilleran.”
She hooted with delight tinged with embarrassment. “Oh, I thought you were my prankish grandson, changing his voice. He’s a
great one for playing practical jokes. What did you say your name was?”
“Jim Qwilleran. Junior gave me your number.”
“Yes, he was here for a few days. He’s a nice boy. And I know all about you. Mrs. Gage showed me the articles you write for the paper. What’s the name of the paper?”
“The Moose County Something.”
“I knew it was a funny name, but I couldn’t remember. And I loved your picture! You have a wonderful moustache. You remind me of someone on TV.”
“Thank you,” he said graciously, although he preferred compliments on his writing. Clearing his throat he began, “The editor has assigned me to write a profile of Euphonia Gage, and I’d like to talk with someone who knew her in Florida. Were you well acquainted with her?”
“Oh, yes, we were next-door neighbors, and I sort of looked after her.”
“In what way? I’m going to tape this if you don’t mind.”
“Well, I checked up on her every day, and I’d always drive her where she wanted to go. She didn’t like driving in the bumper-to-bumper traffic we have around here. She was eighty-eight, you know. I’m only sixty-eight.”
“Your voice sounds much younger, Mrs. Robinson.”
“Do you think so?” she said happily. “That’s because I sing.”
“In nightclubs?” he asked slyly.
Mrs. Robinson laughed merrily. “No, just around the house, but I used to sing in a church choir before I moved down here. Would you like to hear me sing something?”
Qwilleran thought, I have a live one here! “I was hoping you’d suggest it,” he said. He expected to hear “Amazing Grace.” Instead she sang the entire verse and chorus of “Mrs. Robinson” in a clear, untrained voice. Listening, he tried to visualize her; it was his custom to picture strangers in his mind’s eye. He imagined her to be buxom and rosy-cheeked, with partly gray hair and seashell earrings. “Brava!” he shouted when she had finished. “I’ve never heard it sung better.”
“Thank you. It’s Clayton’s favorite,” she said. “You have a nice voice, too . . . Now, what was I telling you about Mrs. Gage? She didn’t like to be called by her first name, and I don’t blame her. It sounded like some kind of old-fashioned phonograph.”
The Cat Who Went Into the Closet Page 8