Then Jack said, “If anyone thinks we’re sticking around for the memorial service tomorrow night, they can stuff it! We’ve changed our flight reservations.”
“That hotel,” Pug said, “is the worst I’ve ever experienced! I can’t wait to get out of this tank town!”
Qwilleran said, “I think we should all have another drink and order dinner.” He signaled for service.
“I second the motion,” Junior said. “Enough gnashing of teeth! Let’s enjoy our food, at least . . . How are your cats, Qwill?” To his sister and brother he explained, “Qwill has a couple of Siamese.”
Polly said, “Qwill, dear, tell them about Koko and the cleaning closet.”
He hesitated, trying to recollect the incident in all of its absurdity. “Well, you see, where I live in the summer, there’s a closet for Mrs. Fulgrove’s prodigious collection of waxes, polishes, detergents, spray bottles, and squirt cans.”
“Is that woman still cleaning houses?” Pug asked. “I thought she’d be dead by now.”
“She’s still cleaning and still complaining about cat-hairs. I always leave the house to avoid her harangues. One day I came home after the dear lady had left and found the male cat missing! But the female was huddled in front of the cleaning closet, staring at the door handle. I yanked open the door, and out billowed a white cloud. It filled almost the whole closet, obliterating shelves, cans, and bottles. And above it all was Koko, sitting on the top shelf, looking nonchalant. Mrs. Fulgrove had accidentally shut him in the closet, and he had accidentally activated the can of foam carpet cleaner.”
“Or purposely,” Junior added.
“I reported the story in my column, and the manufacturer sent me enough foam cleaner to do all the rugs in Moose County.”
After that interlude, everyone was somewhat relaxed though not really happy, and Qwilleran was relieved when the meal came to an end. As the party was leaving, Junior handed him an envelope.
“Forgot to give you this, Qwill. It came to the office today, addressed to you.”
It was a pink envelope with a Florida postmark and the official logo of the Park of Pink Sunsets. He slid it into his pocket.
On the way home to Goodwinter Boulevard, Qwilleran said to Polly, “Well, the mood at our table was not very favorable for the consumption of food. I apologize for involving you.”
“It could hardly be called your fault, Qwill. How were you to know? The entire situation is regrettable.”
“I don’t suppose you want to attend the memorial service tomorrow night.”
“I wouldn’t miss it!” Polly’s tone was more bitter than sweet.
Qwilleran dropped her off at her carriage house, saying he would pick her up the next evening. He was in a hurry to open the letter from Florida.
Sitting at his desk he slit the pink envelope—a chunky one with double postage—and out fell some snapshots as well as a note. Celia had remembered how to spell his name; that was in her favor.
Dear Mr. Qwilleran,
I enjoyed talking to you on the phone. Here are the snaps of Mrs. Gage with some other people from the park. We were on a bus trip. I’m the giddy-looking one in Mickey Mouse ears. That’s Mr. Crocus with Mrs. Gage and a stone lion. Hope you can use some of these with the article you’re writing.
Yours very truly,
Celia Robinson
Spreading the snapshots on the desk, Qwilleran found the diminutive Euphonia neatly dressed in a lavender pantsuit and wide-brimmed hat, while her companions sported T-shirts with the Pink Sunset logo splashed across the front. Also conservatively dressed in tropical whites was an old man with a shock of white hair; he and the stone lion could have passed for brothers.
The Siamese, always interested in something new, were on the desktop, sitting comfortably on their briskets and idly observing. Then, apparently without provocation, Koko rose to his feet with a guttural monosyllable and sniffed the pictures. There was something about the glossy surface of photographs that always attracted him. Studiously he passed his nose over every one of the Florida pictures and flicked his tongue at a couple of them.
“No!” Qwilleran said sharply, worrying about the chemicals used in processing.
“Yow!” Koko retorted in a scolding tone of his own and then left the room. Yum Yum trailed after him without so much as a backward look at the man whose lap she so frequently commandeered.
An uneasy feeling crept across Qwilleran’s upper lip, and he patted his moustache as he examined the snapshots the cat had licked. Sandpaper tongue and potent saliva had left rough spots on the surface. In both of them Euphonia looked happy and pert, posed with a yellow sports car in one shot and with the Pink Sunset tour bus in the other. More important than the damage, however, was the realization that two of her companions looked vaguely familiar. He had no idea who they were or where he had met them or under what circumstances.
TEN
THURSDAY WAS BRIGHT and clear, although Wetherby Goode reminded his listeners that November was the month of the Big Snow, a threat that annually hung over the heads of Moose County residents like a Damoclean icicle.
Qwilleran said to Koko, “Would you like to take a walk? This may be your last chance before snow flies. I’ll get the leash.”
Yum Yum, whose vocabulary included the word “leash,” immediately disappeared, but Koko purred and rolled on his side while the harness was being buckled around his middle. Then, on the back porch, he checked out the spots where the nefarious Oh Jay had left his scent. Next, he led the way down the back steps to a paved area where the last few leaves of autumn were waiting to be pawed, batted, chased, and chewed. While Koko was enjoying these simple pleasures, Qwilleran became aware of a familiar figure scrambling through the shrubs on the lot line.
“If you’re looking for Oh Jay,” he said to the attorney’s son, “he’s not here.”
It appeared, however, that this was a social call. “It’s gonna snow,” Timmie said.
“So they say,” Qwilleran replied, making no attempt to continue the conversation.
The boy looked critically at Koko. “Why is he so skinny?”
“He’s not skinny. He’s a Siamese.”
“Oh.” This was followed by a pause, then: “I can stand on my head.”
“Good for you!”
There was another long pause as Timmie spread his arms wide and balanced on one leg. Finally he said, “You should marry the lady that lives in the back. Then you could live in one house, and she wouldn’t have to take out the trash.”
“Why don’t you go and stand on your head?” Qwilleran asked.
“We’re gonna move.”
“What?”
“We’re gonna move away from here.”
“I sincerely hope you’re planning to take Oh Jay with you.”
“I’m gonna go to a new school and ride the school bus and have fun with the kids.”
“Why do you want to leave a nice neighborhood like this?”
“My dad says some dumb fool bought the house.”
“Excuse me,” Qwilleran said. “I have to make a phone call.” He hurried up the back steps, pulling a reluctant cat.
Ringing Junior at the office he said, “Have you heard the news? Another house on the boulevard has been sold. Pender Wilmot’s. That makes two of them, side by side. What do you make of that?”
“Who bought it?” Junior demanded with suspicion. “Was it the realtor in Chicago?”
“My six-year-old informant wasn’t specific.”
“I hope this doesn’t turn out to be anything detrimental to the neighborhood, like one of those cults or a front for something illegal.”
“You don’t need to worry about anything like that—not in Pickax,” Qwilleran assured him, “but I admit it piques the curiosity . . . Well, get back to work. I’ll see you tonight at the memorial service. Do you know why it’s being held at the theatre instead of the Old Stone Church?”
“That’s the way she wanted it, and Grandma neve
r did anything in the ordinary way.”
The K Theatre, converted from the former Klingenschoen mansion, shared the Park Circle with the public library, courthouse, and two churches. Shortly before eight o’clock on Thursday evening, more than a hundred residents of Moose County converged on the theatre, their expressions ranging from respectful to avidly curious. In dress they were less sweatery than usual, denoting the solemnity of the occasion.
When Qwilleran and Polly arrived in the lobby, they were greeted by two young members of the Theatre Club, who smiled guardedly and handed them programs. He said to Polly, “According to Junior, Euphonia planned this service down to the last detail, and I suspect the ushers were instructed to smile with sweetness and respect and not too much sadness.”
After a glance at the program Polly said, “This is not a memorial service! It’s a concert!”
In Memoriam
EUPHONIA ROFF GAGE
Piano prelude: Six Gnossiennes..................Satie
1. Adagio.........................................Albinoni
2. Sonnet XXX............................Shakespeare
3. Pavane pour une Infante Défunte......Ravel
4. Renouncement..............................Meynell
5. En Sourdine (Verlaine).....................Fauré
6. Pas de Deux.............................anonymous
7. Duet for Flutes...........................Telemann
8. Non sum qualis eram bonae
sub regno Cynarae....................Dowson
9. Adagio from Symphonie
Concertante.................................Spohr
10. Maestoso from
Symphony No. 3.................Saint-Saëns
Polly said in a voice unusually sharp, “Don’t you think it’s a trifle too precious? Number Five is a French art song. Number Eight . . . only Euphonia would use the Latin title for ‘Cynara.’ It’s her last gasp of cultural snobbery. And what do you think of Number Three?”
“Try saying it fast three times,” he said with a lack of reverence.
Polly threw him a disapproving glance. “You’re being flip. I’m wondering if the reference to a dead princess means that she considered herself royalty.”
Carol Lanspeak, a trustee of the theatre, hurried up to them. “I think you’re in for some surprises tonight. Junior asked me to handle the staging because their baby is due momentarily. Larry’s doing the readings, and we rehearsed the entire program to get the timing right. Euphonia left instructions for the stage set, lighting, programs, everything! Such a perfectionist!”
Qwilleran reached into his pocket for an envelope of snapshots. “One of her Florida neighbors sent these. You might like to see how she looked toward the end.”
“Why, she looks wonderful!” Carol exclaimed after examining them. “Wouldn’t you know she’d choose to go out while she was looking wonderful?”
“Do you recognize anyone else in the pictures?”
“No, I don’t . . . Should I?”
“I thought some of them might be from Moose County. Snowbirds tend to flock together.”
Carol and Polly conferred and agreed that they were all strangers. “But here comes Homer. Ask him,” Carol suggested.
The aged Homer Tibbitt was entering with his brisk but awkward gait, accompanied by his attentive new wife. During his career as a teacher and principal he had shepherded several generations through the school system and claimed to know everyone in two counties.
He changed glasses to study the snapshots. “Sorry. I can’t identify a soul except Euphonia.”
“Let me see them,” said Mrs. Tibbitt.
“You don’t know anyone here,” he said with impatience. “You never even met Euphonia . . . Rhoda’s from Lockmaster,” he explained to the others, as if she were from the Third World.
“Homer likes to put on his irascible-old-man act,” his wife said sweetly.
“I believe it’s time to go upstairs,” Carol suggested. “Take the elevator, Homer.”
Two matching stairways led to the auditorium entrance on the upper level, from which the amphitheatre seating sloped down to a dark stage. A pianist in the orchestra pit was playing the moody, mysterious prelude specified by the deceased.
“Who’s that at the piano?” Qwilleran asked Polly.
“The new music director for the schools. I believe she taught in Lockmaster.”
He admired anyone who could play the piano and found the pianist strikingly attractive. When the prelude ended, she moved to a seat in front of them, and her perfume made a strong statement. Polly wafted it away with her program.
A hush fell on the audience as the house lights slowly dimmed. There were a few dramatic seconds of total darkness before two glimmers of light appeared. One spotlighted a bouquet of purple and white flowers on a pedestal, stage right. The other, stage center, illuminated a thronelike chair on the seat of which was a wide-brimmed straw hat with a band of purple velvet. Flung across the high chairback was a filmy scarf in shades of lavender.
Qwilleran and Polly exchanged glances. He could read her mind: The pedestal! The throne! The royal purple!
The theatre had an excellent sound system, and from hidden speakers came the haunting music of Albinoni, the wistful yearning of the solo violin underscored by the heartbeat of the cello. The audience listened and stared, as if Euphonia herself might glide onto the stage. Other instruments joined in, and the volume swelled, then faded, leaving only the last searching notes of the violin.
The spotlights disappeared, and a beam of light focused on a lectern at stage left, where Larry Lanspeak stood waiting. His rich voice gripped the audience:
“When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past . . .”
Qwilleran glanced questioningly at Polly, who was frowning as if unable to connect the woman she had known with the poem she was hearing. He wondered about it himself and listened for clues to Euphonia’s past and possibly a clue to her suicide motive.
“Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancelled woe.”
Again the spotlights flooded the throne and flowers as Ravel’s slow dance painted its melancholy picture. Then came the poem “I must not think of thee,” followed by the French song “In Secret.” Qwilleran deduced that Euphonia was mourning a lost lover, and it was not Grandpa Gage. The anonymous poem confirmed his theory:
“Two white butterflies
Kissing in mid-air,
Then darting apart
To flutter like lost petals,
Drifting together again
For a quivering moment in the sun,
Yet wandering away
In a white flurry of indecision,
Meeting once more
On the upsweep of a breeze,
Dancing a delirious pas de deux
Before parting forever,
One following the wind,
The other trembling with folded wings
On this cold rock.”
After the “Duet for Flutes” Qwilleran’s suspicions were reinforced by the poem “I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion.” He could hear sniffling in the audience, and even Polly was dabbing her eyes, a reaction that made him uncomfortable; he knew she was remembering her own past.
The program was building to its conclusion. A screen had been lowered at the rear of the stage, and when the “Adagio” for flute and harp began its flights of melody, the image of a dancer appeared, moving languidly across the screen, arching her back, fluttering her scarfs, twirling, twisting, sinking to her knees with bowed head, rising with head thrown back and arms flung wide. It was a joyous celebration. The dancer’s white hair was twisted into a ballerina’s topknot and tied with purple ribbon.
There had been gasps at first, but when the video ended, there was silence—and utter darkness. T
hen the stage burst into brilliant light as the crashing chords of the Organ Symphony stunned the audience. The majestic music rocked the auditorium in triumph—until one final prolonged chord stopped dead, leaving a desolate emptiness in the hall.
“Whew!” Qwilleran said as the house lights were turned up. Among the audience a gradual murmur arose as groups began to wander to the exit. In the lobby friends were meeting, asking questions, fumbling for appropriate comments.
Arch Riker said, “That was quite a blast-off!”
Carol Lanspeak informed everyone that the flower arrangement—dahlias, glads, lavender asters, orchids, and bella donna lilies—had been flown in from Chicago.
Susan Exbridge, the antique dealer, explained that the carved highback chair had been in the foyer of the Gage mansion and she had bought it from Euphonia for $2,000.
Lisa Compton wondered how Euphonia’s knees could continue to function so well at eighty-eight.
Qwilleran and Polly were speaking with the Comptons when the pianist joined their group, and Lyle Compton introduced her as June Halliburton, the new music director from Lockmaster. “Now if they’ll only send us their football coach,” he said, “we’ll be in good shape.”
Her red hair was cut shorter and curlier than the accepted style in Moose County, and her perfume was a scent not sold at Lanspeak’s Department Store. With playful hazel eyes fixed on Qwilleran’s moustache, she said, “I enjoyed your historical show at Mooseland High School. How did you make your choice of music for the interludes?”
“Just some cassettes I happened to have in my meager collection,” he replied.
“They worked beautifully! If I wanted to nitpick, though, I could object that ‘Anitra’s Dance’ had not been written in 1869 when your imaginary radio station played it.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “They’ll never guess. Actually I doubt whether anyone has even noticed the music.”
“I noticed it,” said Polly crisply. “I thought the ‘Francesca da Rimini’ excerpts were perfect for the fire scene. I could visualize flames raging, winds howling, and buildings crashing.”
The Cat Who Went Into the Closet Page 11