Lyle said, “June is going to implement Hilary VanBrooks’s theories about music education. You ought to write something about that in your column, Qwill.”
“Okay, we’ll talk,” he said to her. “Where is your office located?”
“Why don’t you come to my apartment in Indian Village where I have all my music?” she suggested engagingly.
Polly flushed, and Qwilleran could feel the heat waves coming from her direction. He said, “What we really need is to sit down at a desk and discuss the VanBrooks Method.”
Lisa plunged in diplomatically. “Before I forget, Qwill, would you be willing to do ‘The Big Burning’ for the Senior Care Facility?”
“Sounds okay to me,” he said gratefully. “When would you want it?”
“Before Thanksgiving.”
“Call Hixie Rice to book it.”
On the way out of the theatre he and Polly were intercepted by Junior Goodwinter. “What did you think of Grandma’s send-off?”
“Thought-provoking, to say the least,” Qwilleran replied.
“Want to hear something interesting? The attorney is questioning Grandma’s will! He’s talking about mental instability and undue influence.”
“Does he plan to sue?”
“I don’t know yet. It’ll depend on the value of the estate, but it’s a distinct possibility. She must have been worth millions around the time she liquidated everything.”
On the way home Qwilleran and Polly were silent, for their own reasons. When she invited him to her apartment for dessert and coffee, he declined, saying he had work to do. It was the first time he had ever turned down such an invitation, and she regarded him with mild anxiety. She may have guessed he was about to call another woman.
ELEVEN
WHEN QWILLERAN RETURNED from Euphonia’s memorial extravaganza, he found the Siamese on the library sofa, curled into a round pillow of fur. One raised a sleepy head; the other twitched an ear irritably. “Excuse me for disturbing you,” he said as he turned on the desk lamp. “I need to make a phone call.”
They exchanged a few perfunctory licks, disengaged their entwined extremities, struggled to their feet, yawned widely, and stretched vertically and horizontally before leaving the room with purposeful step. He knew where they were going: to the kitchen to lap a tongueful of water and gaze hopefully at their empty plate.
He gave them a few crunchy morsels and prepared coffee for himself before placing his call to Florida. When a woman’s voice answered, he said, “This is Dr. Clayton Robinson calling from Johns Hopkins.” He changed his voice to sound like a thirteen-year-old changing his voice to sound like an M.D.
“Clayton!” she cried. “Does your mother know you’re calling long distance? Hang up before you get in trouble!”
“April Fool!” he said hastily. “This is Jim Qwilleran phoning from Pickax. I hope I’m not calling you too late.”
“Oh, what a relief!” said Clayton’s grandmother, laughing at her gullibility. “No, it’s not too late for me. The rest of the park thinks nine o’clock is midnight, but I stay up till all hours, reading and eating chocolate-covered cherries.”
“What do you read?”
“Mostly crime and undercover stuff. I buy second-hand paperbacks at half price and then send them to Clayton. We like the same kind of books pretty much, although I could never get interested in science fiction.”
“How’s the weather down there?”
“Lovely! Have you had snow yet?”
“No, but they say the Big One is on the way. I want to thank you, Celia, for sending the snapshots. I took them to Mrs. Gage’s memorial program tonight, and her friends remarked how well she looked. Shall I send you a copy of the program?”
“Oh, yes, please! And would it be too much trouble to send one for Mr. Crocus?”
“Not at all. Perhaps he’d also like one of her books as a keepsake. There’s one here on correct breathing.”
“He’d be overjoyed! That’s very kind of you. He misses her a lot. I think there was something cooking between those two.”
“Is Mr. Crocus the man with a magnificent head of white hair?”
“That’s him. He plays the violin.”
“You have some interesting-looking people in the park. Who’s the couple standing with Mrs. Gage in front of a gigantic flowering shrub? They’re wearing Pink Sunset T-shirts.”
“They’re new in the park—from Minnesota, I think. The bush is a hibiscus. Beautiful, isn’t it? I never saw one so large.”
“And who’s the attractive woman at the wheel of the yellow convertible?”
“That’s Betty, our manager. Isn’t she glamorous? She sells cosmetics on the side. They’re too expensive for me, but Mrs. Gage bought the works, and she really did look terrific.”
Qwilleran said, “The car looks like the one she bought in Pickax before she left.”
“That’s right. She sold it to Betty—or maybe gave it to her. They were very chummy, like mother and daughter.”
“Yow!” said Koko, who had ambled back into the library.
“I hear your cat.”
“I like the picture of you in Mickey Mouse ears, Celia. Not everyone can wear them with so much panache.”
She responded with a trill of pleasure. “I don’t know what that means exactly, but it sounds good.”
Qwilleran said, “I’m looking at a shot of your activity bus with the pink sunset painted on the side. There’s a middle-aged man with his arm around Mrs. Gage, and they’re both looking unusually happy.”
“That’s Claude, the owner of the park. He was very fond of her. He feels terrible about what she did. Everybody does.”
“The Sunsetters impress me as one big happy family,” he observed.
“Oh, sure. As long as you don’t break the rules, everything’s hunky-dory, but don’t put pink plastic flamingoes on your lawn or all heck will break loose!”
“This Claude and Betty—are they the ones who used to take Mrs. Gage to the dog track?”
“Yes. She wanted me to drive her there, but the crowds are humongous, you know, and not only that but I don’t believe in gambling. I couldn’t afford to take chances, for one thing. And then it hurts me to see those beautiful dogs being used that way. I’ve heard that they’re killed after racing a few years.”
Koko had been moving closer to the phone and was now breathing heavily into the mouthpiece. Qwilleran pushed him away. “Did Mrs. Gage enjoy gambling or just the excitement of the races?”
“Well, she seemed to get an awful big kick out of winning. Of course, people never tell you when they lose.”
“Very true,” he agreed. “By the way, she was a very wealthy woman. Did she give that impression?”
“She didn’t talk big, but she was kind of high-toned, and her mobile home was a double-wide. I guessed she had plenty stashed away.”
“Had she changed in any way since moving into the park? Was her mind still keen?”
“Oh, she was very sharp! She always knew what she wanted to do—and how to do it—and she did it! She sometimes said ‘teapot’ when she meant ‘lamp shade,’ but we all do that around here. I’m beginning to say ‘left’ when I mean ‘right.’ Clayton says it’s something in the water in Florida,” she said with a giggle.
Qwilleran cleared his throat, signifying an important question: “Were you aware that she drew up a new will after moving to the park?”
“Well, she never talked about anything like that—not to me, anyway—but I told her about this fellow—this lawyer—who does work for the Sunsetters for very reasonable fees. He did my will for only twenty-five dollars, and it was all tied up with red ribbon and red wax. Very professional! Of course, it was a simple will; I’m leaving everything to Clayton—not that I have much to leave.”
“Yow!” said Koko.
“I hear my master’s voice,” Qwilleran said. “Good night, Celia. Thank you again for the snapshots, and give my regards to the thirteen-year-old doctor.”
Her merry laughter was still pealing when he hung up. He arranged the snapshots in rows and studied them. Koko was purring loudly, and Qwilleran let him pass his nose over the glossy surfaces. Once again the long pink tongue flicked at two of the prints—the same two that had attracted him before. Qwilleran smoothed his moustache in deep thought; the cat never licked, sniffed, or scratched anything without a reason.
It snowed that night. There was a breathless stillness in the atmosphere as large, wet flakes fell gently, clinging to tree branches, evergreen shrubs, porch railings, and the lintels of hundreds of windows. Pickax, known as the City of Stone, was transformed into the City of Marshmallow Creme.
It was a good day to stay indoors and putter, Qwilleran decided after breakfasting on strong coffee and warmed-up rolls. He rummaged through the collection of Gage memorabilia that was accumulating in the desk drawer. The relics defined Grandpa Gage as a bon vivant, who smoked cigars, drank wine, collected women’s garters, and liked the feel of money. There was a piece of Confederate money, and there were two large dollar bills of the kind issued before 1929. A pearl-handled buttonhook dated back to the days of high-button shoes. There was an old ivory pawn from a chess set that may have belonged to Euphonia’s studious father-in-law. Koko’s excavations were not entirely scientific; they included a small, dry wishbone and a racy postcard from Paris.
By afternoon the snow had stopped falling, and Qwilleran was tempted to drive out into the countryside and enjoy the fresh snow scene. He would take his camera. He would also check the church in Brrr where Hixie had scheduled the next performance of “The Big Burning.” Phoning the number listed for the Brrr Community Church, he was assured that someone would meet him there. He dressed in heavy jacket, boots, and wool cap and was saying goodbye to the Siamese when Koko staged one of his eloquent demonstrations, jumping at the handle of the back door and muttering under his breath.
“Okay, this is your last ride of the season,” Qwilleran told him. He started the car and ran the heater for a few minutes before carrying the cat coop out and placing it on the backseat.
The Moose County landscape—with its flat farmland, abandoned mine sites, and rows of utility poles—could be bleak in November, but today it was a picture in black and white. The plows were operating on the major highways, sending plumes of snow ten feet high. Even the town of Brrr, with its undistinguished architecture, looked like an enchanted village.
The church was a modest frame building with a cupola; it might have been a one-room schoolhouse except for the arched windows. As soon as Qwilleran pulled up to the curb, the front door opened and a woman came out to greet him, bundled up in a parka with the hood tied securely under her chin.
“Mr. Qwilleran, I’m Donna Sims. I was watching for you. Come in out of the cold, but don’t expect to get warm. The furnace is out of order.”
Qwilleran threw a blanket over the cat coop and followed the woman into the building. The vestibule was a small one, with a few steps leading up to the place of worship and a few steps leading down to a spick-and-span basement. Its concrete floor was freshly painted brick red, and its concrete block walls were painted white.
Ms. Sims apologized for the frigid temperature. “We’re waiting for the furnace man. Emergencies like this are usually handled by a member of our congregation, but no one knows where he is. Maybe you heard about the potato farmer that disappeared. We’re very much upset about it. He was such a wonderful help. When we decided to build a basement under this hundred-year-old church, he told us how to jack it up and do the job. He had all kinds of skills . . . So now we’re waiting for a heating man from Mooseville.”
“Don’t apologize,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll cut this visit short because I have a cat in the car. What is that door?”
“That’s the furnace room.”
“Good! I’ll use it for entrances and exits. Do you have anything in the way of a platform?”
“Not a regular platform, but one of our members manufactures industrial pallets—you know, those square wooden things—and we can borrow as many as necessary and stack them up. I think they’re four by four feet.”
“Are they sturdy? Are they solid?”
“Oh, yes, they’re built to hold thousands of pounds.”
“Eight of them should be enough, stacked two high in an eight-by-eight-foot square. How about electric outlets?”
“Two over here, and two over there. These tables are what we use for pot-luck suppers, but they fold up, and we can arrange the chairs in rows. Is there anything else you need?”
“A small table and chair on the platform and another table and chair for my engineer, down on the floor.” He handed her a typewritten card. “This is how we like to be introduced. Will your pastor be doing the honors?”
“I’m the pastor,” she said.
The chill of the basement had been worse than the cold snap outdoors, but the car interior was still comfortable. Qwilleran turned up the heat and said to Koko, “If it’s all right with you, we’ll go for a little ride along the shore, and see if the cabin’s buttoned up for the winter.” He had inherited a log cabin along with the rest of the Klingenschoen estate.
They headed along the lakeshore, where boarded-up cottages and beached boats huddled under a light blanket of snow. Then came a wooded stretch posted with red signs prohibiting hunting. At one point a large letter K was mounted on a post at the entrance to a narrow driveway, and this is where Qwilleran turned in. It was hardly more than an old wagon trail, meandering through the woods, up and down over brush-covered sand dunes. At the crest of one slight hill Koko created a disturbance in the backseat, throwing himself around in the carrier and yowling.
“Hold it, boy! We’re just having a quick look,” said Qwilleran, thinking the cat recognized the place where they had spent two summers. He stopped the car, however, and released the door of the coop.
Quivering with excitement, Koko darted to the rear window on the driver’s side and pawed the glass.
“It’s cold out there! You can’t get out! You’d freeze your little tail off.”
In a frenzy Koko dashed about the interior of the car as Qwilleran ducked and protested. “Hey! Cool it!” he said, but then he looked out the driver’s window. Twisted trunks of wild cherry trees were silhouetted against the snow, and between them were animal tracks leading into the woods. Qwilleran jumped out, slammed the door, and followed the tracks.
A few yards into the woods there was a slight hollow, and what he found there sent him running back to the car, stumbling through the brush, slipping on wet snow. Without stopping to put Koko in the carrier, he backed down the winding trail to the highway. At the nearest gas station, on the outskirts of Mooseville, he called the sheriff.
TWELVE
AT ELEVEN P.M. the WPKX newscast carried this item: “Acting on an anonymous tip, police today found the body of a Brrr Township man in the Klingenschoen woods east of Mooseville. Gil Inchpot, fifty-two, a potato farmer, had been missing since October 24. Because of the condition of the body, decomposed and mutilated by wild animals, the medical examiner was unable to determine the cause of death. State forensic experts have been notified, according to the sheriff’s department.”
In phoning the tip to the police, Qwilleran had identified himself as a hunter trespassing on posted property and declining to give his name. He had altered his voice to sound like one of the locals who went “huntn” both in and out of “huntn” season. As the Klingenschoen heir and a well-known philanthropist, he had to fight to keep a low profile. Qwilleran preferred to be a newswriter, not a newsmaker.
As soon as he heard the broadcast, he called Gary Pratt at the Black Bear Café. “Have you heard the news?”
“Yeah, it’s tough on Nancy,” said the barkeeper. “She had to identify the body, and about all that was left was clothing. They didn’t say anything about homicide on the air, but the thing of it is: If he’d been out hunting varmint and tripped on something in the woods, he�
�d be wearing a jacket and boots, wouldn’t he? And what about a gun? He was wearing a plaid shirt and house slippers.”
And no dentures, Qwilleran thought. “Is there anything we can do to help Nancy?”
“I don’t know what it would be. She’s a tough little lady, and I think she can take care of herself all right. When she talked to me on the phone, she didn’t break down or anything like that—just said that her dogs need her and she can’t afford to crack up.”
As soon as the conversation ended, Arch Riker called. “Qwill, have you heard what happened? They found a body on your property.”
Then Polly called. Next it was Junior with the same information. Qwilleran stopped answering the phone and went to bed. Twice he heard a distant ringing, followed by a much appreciated silence. In the morning he found the receiver off the phone. The cats, who slept on the library sofa, had been equally annoyed by the ringing phone and had taken matters into their own paws.
Qwilleran wrote Nancy a note of sympathy and mailed it at the same time he shipped a box of chocolate-covered cherries to Celia Robinson. Then, on Monday he attended Gil Inchpot’s funeral at the Brrr Community Church, taking care to dress warmly. The furnace had been repaired, however, and the building was stiflingly hot. Gary Pratt was sitting alone in a rear pew, where an occasional blast of frigid air from the front door was a welcome relief. Qwilleran slipped in beside him.
Gary whispered, “Nancy’s sitting down front with her ex. They’ll be together again before long, I’m willing to bet.”
Two days later, Qwilleran was back at the same church for the third time—to present “The Big Burning of 1869.” It was snowing again, and he picked up Hixie Rice at the newspaper for the drive to Brrr. Large, wet snowflakes landed on the windshield.
“They’re so beautiful, it’s a shame to run the windshield wipers,” she said.
The Cat Who Went Into the Closet Page 12