“Beautiful, maybe, but this is the kind of snow that wrecks the power lines. I don’t know what to expect at the church tonight. The first time I went there, the building was too cold; the second time, it was so hot we couldn’t breathe.”
Hixie was too happy to care about the temperature. She said, “Can you stand some good news? Arch is making me a vice president, in charge of advertising and promotion!”
“Congratulations! You deserve it.”
“I have you to thank, Qwill, for steering me up to Pickax in the first place. You know, it’s a funny thing. When I first met you Down Below, all I wanted was to find a husband. Now all I want is to be a vice president with a private office and a cute male secretary. I’ll be sharing Wilfred with Arch. Wilfred isn’t my idea of cute, but he’s conscientious and reliable and computer-literate.”
“You can’t have everything,” he philosophized. “But tell me something, Hixie: With your increased responsibilities, are you sure you want to go on pressing buttons and flipping switches for this show?”
“Are you kidding? I adore show biz!”
When they arrived at the church, he dropped her at the curb, telling her to check the stage while he unloaded the gear. By the time he opened the trunk, and set the suitcases on the sidewalk, Hixie came running out of the building.
“The furnace has conked out again! It’s like a walk-in freezer! The audience is already there, and they’re sitting in heavy jackets and wool hats and gloves. There’s a little kerosene stove, but it doesn’t do any good.”
“The show must go on,” he replied stoically. “If the audience can stand it, so can we. You keep your coat on, and I’ll have the forest fire to keep me warm. It’s surprising how much heat can be generated by concentrating on a role.”
This was sheer bravado on Qwilleran’s part. In portraying the studio announcer he was supposed to be working in 110-degree heat, and the act called for a short-sleeved summer shirt.
Hixie suggested, “Couldn’t you cheat for once and wear a jacket?”
“And destroy the illusion? Better to contract pneumonia than to compromise one’s art,” he replied facetiously and a trifle grimly.
“Well, I’ll visit you in the hospital,” she said cheerfully.
There was a full house for the show, with everyone muffled to the eyebrows. Qwilleran stood in the furnace room, shivering as he waited for his entrance cue.
During the first act he steeled his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering as he said, “Railroad tracks are warped by the intense heat . . . Great blasts of hot air and cinders are smothering the city.” The church basement was fogged by the frosty breath of the audience, while he went through the motions of mopping a sweating brow.
In the second act his frozen fingers fumbled with the script as he said, “The temperature is 110 degrees in the studio, and the window glass is still too hot to touch.” It was not surprising that he completed the forty-five-minute script in forty minutes.
After the final words the audience clapped and cheered and stamped their feet. He suspected they were only trying to warm their extremities, but he bowed graciously and held out his hand to Hixie, who joined him on the stage. As they took their bows, Qwilleran could think only of a warm jacket and hot coffee, wishing fervently that the audience would sit on their hands. And then—during the fourth round of applause—the lights went out! Without warning the basement was plunged into the blackest darkness.
“Power’s off!” the pastor’s voice called out. “Everybody, stay right where you are. Don’t try to move around until we can light some candles.”
A man’s voice said, “I’ve got a flashlight!” Its beams danced crazily around the walls and ceiling, and at that moment there was a cry, followed by the thud of a falling body and groans of pain. A dozen voices shrieked in alarm.
The flashlight beamed on the platform, where Qwilleran stood in a frozen state of puzzlement; Hixie was no longer beside him. She was writhing on the floor.
“Dr. Herbert! Dr. Herbert!” someone shouted.
“Here I am. Hand me that flashlight,” said a man’s gruff voice. Two battery-operated lanterns and some candles made small puddles of light as he kneeled at Hixie’s side.
The audience babbled in shock. “What happened? . . . Did she fall off the stage? . . . It’s lucky that Doc’s here.”
Qwilleran leaned over the doctor’s shoulder. “How is she?”
“She can be moved. I’ll drive her to the hospital.” He jangled his keys. “Will someone bring my car around?”
While the others milled about anxiously, two men linked arms to form a chair lift and carry Hixie up the stairs.
“Hang in there,” Qwilleran told her, squeezing her hand.
“C’est la rotten vie,” the new vice president said weakly.
He found his way to the furnace room for his flannel shirt and sweater and was packing the suitcases when Nancy Fincher walked up to the platform. “I’m very sorry about the accident,” she said solemnly, “but Dr. Herbert will take good care of her. I feel bad about you, too. Your face looked frostbitten while you were talking, and at the end your lips were almost blue.”
“I think I’ll live,” he said, “but I worry about my colleague. Let’s go to the Black Bear for a hot drink. We can call the hospital from there.”
They rode to the hotel in Qwilleran’s car and found the café lighted by candles. Gary poured steaming cider heated on a small campstove and inquired, “What will Hixie’s accident do to your show?”
Nancy spoke up, with more vigor than usual. “I could help out until she gets better. This is the second time I’ve seen the show, and I could learn the ropes if you’d tell me what to do.”
“But what are your hours at the clinic? We have three shows scheduled back to back, and they’re all matinees,” Qwilleran pointed out.
“I could change my shift.”
“The newspaper will reimburse you for your time, of course.”
“They don’t need to,” she said. “I’d just like to do it. To tell the truth, Mr. Qwilleran, something like this would do me a lot of good. It’ll take my mind off what’s happened, you know.”
He nodded sympathetically. “This is a painful time for you.”
“Just having someone to talk to helps a lot. It was such a terrible thing!”
“Do you know if the police are getting anywhere with the investigation?”
“I don’t know. They come to the house and ask questions but never tell me anything.”
Qwilleran said gently, “You mentioned that your father had changed considerably after your mother died.”
“Well, he was drinking more than before, and he stopped going to church on Sunday, although he still helped them when they needed repairs. And I told you about the way he was spending money on field equipment and drain tile. He said it was Mom’s insurance, but she didn’t have that kind of coverage. Another time he said he’d borrowed money from the bank, but everybody knows they aren’t lending much to farmers these days.”
“Did you tell the police about his spending spree?”
“No, I didn’t,” she said guiltily. “Do you think I should have?”
“They know it anyway. In a community like this it’s no secret when someone starts making lavish expenditures.” He looked at his watch. “We can call the hospital now.” He used the bar telephone and reported to Nancy, “She’s been transferred to the Pickax hospital. No information on her condition is available.”
Qwilleran drove Nancy back to the church, where her truck was parked. “Our next booking is Saturday afternoon in downtown Pickax. We should have a rehearsal.”
“Yes, I want to,” she said eagerly. “I could stop by your house tomorrow when I drive to town for supplies.”
Brrr was still blacked out when he drove away from the church, but Pickax had power. The old-fashioned street lamps on Goodwinter Boulevard glowed through a veil of gently falling snow. Hurrying into the house, he telephoned the Picka
x hospital and learned that the patient had been admitted and was resting comfortably. No further information was available.
He immediately phoned Arch Riker at home in Indian Village. Without preliminaries he announced, “Your new vice president is in the hospital, and your star columnist is a candidate for an oxygen tent.”
“What happened to her, for God’s sake?”
“The power failed where we were giving our show, and she fell off the stage, probably because she was frozen stiff. The furnace was out of order. Fortunately there was a doctor in the house. He had her moved to Pickax. I don’t know the nature or extent of the injury. The robot on the telephone isn’t giving out any information.”
“Our night desk will find out,” Riker said. “I hate to sound crass, Qwill, but what will this do to our show schedule?”
“I have a substitute lined up. I told her you’d reimburse her, so be prepared to sign some checks, and don’t be parsimonious.”
“Who is it? Anyone I know?”
“Nancy Fincher, daughter of the potato farmer whose body was found last week.”
Riker said, “I’ll bet he was growing something besides potatoes.”
“I don’t know about that,” Qwilleran said, “but it appears that he broke up his daughter’s marriage to a deputy sheriff. How about that for a suggestive situation?”
“Don’t waste your time sleuthing, Qwill. You always get off the track when you’re playing detective.”
Qwilleran ignored the advice. “And what were you doing tonight? Romancing Mildred?”
“We had dinner at Tipsy’s and talked about her apartment in town and my condo here in the Village and her cottage at the beach. The apartment’s gotta go, but we may build an addition to the cottage.”
“Don’t!” Qwilleran warned, speaking from experience.
“By the way, the Lanspeaks want us to have the wedding at their place on Purple Point, Christmas Eve.”
“Excuse me a moment, Arch.” He was sitting with his arms on the desk, and Koko was digging in the crook of his elbow. “What’s your problem?” he asked the cat. “You’re wearing out my sweater sleeve!”
Both cats liked to knead before settling down to sleep, but Koko was working industriously. At the sharp rebuke he jumped off the desk and went to the locked closet, where he rattled the door handle.
Turning back to the phone Qwilleran explained, “Koko wants me to pick the lock on the library closet.”
“I wish you took orders from your editor-in-chief the way you take orders from that cat! Hang up! I’ll call the night desk about Hixie’s accident.”
The next morning Qwilleran phoned the hospital and learned that the patient was receiving treatment; no further information was available. It was noon when he finally reached the patient herself.
“Hixie! How are you? We’re all worried about you! What’s the diagnosis?”
With her usual debonair flourish she replied, “Broken foot! But I’ve met this perfectly wonderful Dr. Herbert! He drove me to the Brrr hospital and stayed while they X-rayed and put on a soft cast. Then he drove me down here, where they have an orthopedic surgeon. Dr. Herbert is adorable, Qwill! He cares! He has a cabin cruiser! And he’s not married!”
“You sound cheerful,” Qwilleran said, “but how are you from the ankle down?”
“C’est si bon! And the food! I’m sitting here with a delectable bowl of seafood chowder on my lunch tray. They have a gourmet dietician who’s fantastique! I expect a split of champagne on my dinner tray.”
“Okay, I’ll drop in to see you this afternoon. Now get back to your chowder while it’s hot.”
“Hot? I never said it was hot! This is a hospital, mon ami!”
When Qwilleran visited her a few hours later, he found her in a private room with soft pink walls, sitting in an arm chair with her foot elevated and encased in a bright pink cast.
“Chic, n’est-ce pas?” she said. “Casts now come in five decorator colors, and I thought the hot pink would coordinate with the walls.”
“Never mind the color scheme. What did the surgeon say?”
“I have a displaced fracture of the metacarpus. Doesn’t that sound exotic?”
“Do you have any pain?”
“Watch your language, Qwill. Four-letter words aren’t allowed in the hospital. We don’t feel pain; we don’t hurt; we only experience discomfort. Fortunately I have a high discomfort threshold.”
“How long will you be in a cast?”
“Six weeks, but when Dr. Herbert found out I live alone in a second-floor walk-up in Indian Village, he insisted that I stay with his mother in Pickax for a while. In a couple of weeks I can go into the office with a walker.”
“I’ll drive you,” Qwilleran offered.
“But what about the show? Who’ll be your engineer? Perhaps Arch will let you have Wilfred.”
“I have someone prettier than Wilfred. Don’t worry about it, Hixie. Meanwhile, is there anything you need?”
“No, thanks. Just keep your fingers crossed that I get out of the hospital before the Big Snow.”
Qwilleran started to leave but remembered the snapshots in his pocket. “Did you ever meet Euphonia Gage?”
“No, but I saw her around town—in her eighties and walking like a young girl!”
“I have pictures of her taken in Florida, and some of her friends look familiar. You may recognize them.”
“Donnez-moi. I’m good at remembering faces.” Hixie studied the photos carefully. “I think I’ve seen a couple of these people before. Is it important?”
“It may be. I don’t know,” he admitted.
“Okay, leave them with me, and if I get a noodle, I’ll call you.”
From the hospital Qwilleran went to the Senior Care Facility to arrange the staging for the Sunday afternoon show. Lisa Compton, in charge of patient activities, showed him the all-purpose room with its rows of long tables.
“They take their meals here,” she said, “but we remove the tables for a program like yours. We put the hearing-impaired in the front row and the mumblers in the back.”
“What’s behind that door?”
“The kitchen.”
“Good! I can have a piece of pie between the acts.” Everything, in fact, checked out: platform, electric outlets, two tables, two chairs.
“Cup of coffee?” Lisa asked.
“Thanks, but I’ve got to go home and rehearse a new partner for the show. Hixie has broken her foot.”
“Oh, the poor dear! That can be so painful.”
“She doesn’t seem to have any discomfort,” he said.
“But this is only the beginning. When the shock wears off, the nerve ends start to ache. Ask me! I’ve been there!”
“Let’s not tell Hixie,” he said. “I’ll see you Sunday afternoon, Lisa.”
When he arrived on Goodwinter Boulevard, Nancy’s pickup—with its box top and eight barred windows—was already parked in the side drive. He ushered her directly downstairs to the ballroom, where the stage was set for rehearsal.
“I remember this room when I was a little girl,” she said. “Mrs. Gage had dozens of little gold chairs around the walls. I loved those little chairs and always wished she’d give me one for Christmas instead of a book. I wonder what happened to them.”
“Who knows?” he remarked, in a hurry to get down to business. He explained the code on the cuecard and the operation of the equipment. Then they rehearsed the timing and ended with a complete run-through.
“Perfect,” Qwilleran said.
He packed the gear in preparation for the forthcoming performance and thanked his new engineer for coming to rehearse, but she showed no signs of leaving. “All of this is so exciting for me,” she said. “And it’s funny, Mr. Qwilleran—when I first met you I was tongue-tied because you were so important and so rich and everything, and I thought your moustache was—well—frightening, but now I feel very comfortable with you.”
“Good,” he said with an offh
and inflection.
“It’s because you listen. Most men don’t listen to women when they talk—not really.”
“I’m a journalist. Listening is what we do.” His defenses were up. As a millionaire bachelor he had learned to dodge. Briskly he said, “Shall we wind up this session with a quick glass of cider in the library?”
She dropped with familiar ease into the scooped-out library sofa, displacing the Siamese, who walked stiffly from the room, and Qwilleran feared she was feeling too comfortable. Now that she had his therapeutic ear to talk into, she talked—and talked—about living in Alaska, potato farming, breeding dogs, working for a vet. Dinnertime approached, and he had had no real food since breakfast. Under other circumstances he might have invited such a guest out to dinner, but if the Klingenschoen heir were seen dining with a young woman half his age—the daughter of a murdered man whose body had been found on Klingenschoen property—the Pickax gossips would put two and two together and get the national debt.
The Siamese were still absent and unnaturally quiet, even though it was past their feeding time. Suddenly eight thundering paws galloped past the library door toward the entrance.
“What was that?” she asked.
“The cats are trying to remind me it’s their dinnertime,” he replied, looking at his watch.
“You should hear my dogs at feeding time! Go ahead and feed them if you want to.” Nancy was obviously too comfortable to move.
The pelting paws rushed past again, like a herd of wild horses as they charged toward the kitchen. Next there was a frenzy of scuffling, thwacking, and snarling that brought Qwilleran and his guest to the scene in time for a shattering of glass.
“The coffee jar!” he shouted. Coffee beans and broken glass were everywhere, and the Siamese were on top of the refrigerator, looking down on the devastation with bemused detachment.
“I’ll help you clean up,” Nancy offered. “Don’t cut yourself.”
“No! No! Thanks, but . . . let me cope with this. I’ll see you Saturday afternoon. You’ll have to excuse me now.”
As she drove away he swept up the mess, wondering whether they simply wanted their dinner or were trying to get rid of the dog-handler. They always knew how to get what they wanted, and sometimes they merely wanted to be helpful.
The Cat Who Went Into the Closet Page 13