The Cat Who Went Into the Closet

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Jody wrote to her once a week and probably mentioned it,” Junior said. “Grandma would be interested because the script was based on her father-in-law’s memoirs, and she had a crush on him.”

  Qwilleran said, “Frankly, I’ve had doubts about the Pink Sunset operation ever since you told me they profiteer on the repurchase of mobile homes. Are they also in partnership with the guy who wanted to buy the light fixtures? We may have uncovered a story that’s bigger than a profile of your eccentric grandmother.”

  “Wow! When it breaks,” Junior said, “let’s keep it exclusive with the Moose County Something!”

  FOURTEEN

  GRADUALLY MOOSE COUNTY struggled out from under the snow, as armies of volunteers swarmed over the neighborhoods, tunneling through to buried buildings. The snowdrifts never diminished, only shifted from one location to another, with one more inch of snow falling every day. WPKX now aired the lighter side of the news:

  “Sig Olsen, a farmer near Sawdust City, had his chicken coop wrecked by the storm, and a loose board sailed through his kitchen window. He didn’t know it until morning, when he got up and found his whole flock roosting around the wood-burning stove.”

  Qwilleran finally reached Hixie by phone. “Your line’s constantly busy,” he complained.

  “I’m working on logistics for the Christmas parade,” she explained. “The Something is cosponsoring it with Lanspeak’s Department Store.”

  “Are you comfortable where you’re staying?”

  “Mais oui! Madame Herbert is a joli coeur! Did you do the three shows I scheduled before the Big Snow? I thought the one at the Senior Care Facility might be amusing.”

  “Hilarious!” Qwilleran said dryly. “I played for fifty wheelchairs and two gurneys. They were attentive, but the assorted bodily noises in the audience were a new experience. After the show the attendants passed out bananas, and I circulated among the old-timers to hear their comments. They all handed me their banana peels.”

  “You’re so adaptable, Qwill! Je t’adore!” she said.

  He huffed into his moustache. “What are you planning for Thanksgiving?”

  “Dr. Herbert is coming down from Brrr with some friends, and Madame is doing stuffed quail with apricot coulis. What about you?”

  “Polly is roasting a turkey, and Arch and Mildred will join us.”

  When he hung up, both cats reported to the library, having heard the word “turkey.”

  “Sorry. False alarm,” he said.

  Koko, returning to work after the storm, was no longer collecting emery boards, teabags, pieces of saltwater taffy, and other domestic trivia. He was excavating the library closet and leaving a paper trail of postcards, newspaper clippings, envelopes with foreign stamps, and such. One was a yellowed clipping from the Pickax Picayune, the antiquated predecessor of the Moose County Something. It was a column headed “Marriages,” and one of the listings attracted Qwilleran’s attention:

  LENA FOOTE, DAUGHTER OF

  MR. AND MRS. ARNOLD FOOTE OF LOCKMASTER,

  TO GILBERT INCHPOT OF BRRR, OCT. 18.

  The year 1961 had been inked in the margin. That date would be about right, Qwilleran figured, guessing at Nancy’s age. Lena Foote was her mother and also Euphonia’s longtime housekeeper. Apparently she was already employed in the Gage household before her marriage. What had Euphonia given the couple for a wedding present? A wooden nutcracker? He put the clipping in an envelope addressed to Nancy, adding thanks for her assistance with the three shows and mentioning that there might be more bookings after the holidays.

  On the sixth day following the Big Snow Qwilleran was able to mail his letter. He also arranged to meet Junior for lunch at Lois’s; he wanted to deliver the gold ring and two other items of interest that Koko had unearthed.

  When it was time to leave for lunch, however, the jeweler’s box was missing, and the desk drawer was ajar. “Drat those cats!” Qwilleran said aloud. He knew it was Yum Yum’s fine Siamese paw that had opened the drawer, but he suspected it was Koko who assigned her the nefarious little task, like a feline Fagin. There was no time to search fifteen rooms and fifty closets; he hustled off to Lois’s, where Junior was waiting in a booth.

  The editor’s first words were, “Did you remember to bring Grandpa’s ring?”

  “Dammit! I forgot it!” said Qwilleran, an expert at extemporaneous fibs.

  “Today’s special,” Lois announced as she slapped two soiled menu cards on the table. “Bean soup and ham sandwich.”

  “Give us a minute to decide,” Qwilleran said, “but you can bring us some coffee.”

  From an inner pocket of his jacket he produced a folded sheet of paper, ivory with age and turning brown at the creases. “Do you recognize this writing, Junior?”

  “That’s Grandma’s!”

  “It’s the anonymous poem in her memorial program—the one about lovelorn butterflies.”

  Junior scanned the verses with the lightning speed of an experienced editor. “Do you suppose she wrote this?”

  “Well, it wasn’t Keats or Wordsworth. I think your sedate little grandmother had a passionate past.”

  “Could be. Jody always thought she had something to hide. How do women know these things?”

  Lois returned with the coffee. “You guys decide what you want?”

  “Not yet,” said Junior. “Give us another couple of seconds.”

  Next, Qwilleran handed him an old envelope postmarked Lockmaster, 1929. The letter inside was addressed to “My dearest darling Cynara.”

  “Oh, God! Do I have to read it?” Junior whined. “Other people’s love letters always sound so corny.”

  “Read it!” Qwilleran ordered.

  Nov. 17, 1929

  My dearest darling Cynara—

  Last night I climbed to the roof of the horse barn—and looked across to where you live—thirty miles—but I can still feel you—taste you—smell your skin—fresh as violets—After sixteen months of heaven—it’s hell to be without you—tossing and turning all night—dreaming of you—I want to climb to the top of the silo—and jump down on the rocks—but it would kill my mother—and hurt you—and you’ve suffered enough for my sake—And so—my own heart’s darling—I’m going away—for good—and I beg you to forget me—I’m returning the ring—and thinking that maybe—some day—we’ll meet in sweetness and in light—but for now—promise to forget—Goodbye—my Cynara—

  The signature was simply “W.” When Junior finished reading it, he said, “It turns my stomach.”

  “The content or the punctuation?” Qwilleran asked.

  “How could Grandma fall for such rot?”

  “She was young in 1929.”

  “In 1929 Grandpa was in prison. She couldn’t face the scandal in Pickax, so she went to stay in Lockmaster for two years—on somebody’s farm. It looks as if it turned out to be fun and games.”

  Qwilleran said, “This horse farmer was obviously the other butterfly in the poem. She put her memories in the closet and finally paraded them at her memorial bash: Love’s long since cancelled woes . . . I must not think of thee . . . Wouldn’t it be a poetic coincidence if her admirer in Florida turned out to be W? But if that were the case, why would she overdose?”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Only that he has a magnificent head of white hair and plays the violin.”

  Lois advanced on their booth with hands on hips. “Are you young punks gonna order? Or do you want to pay rent for the booth?”

  Both men ordered the special, and Junior said, “Grandpa got out of prison in time for the stock market crash, my mother used to say.”

  “That was the month before this letter was written.”

  “You’re not putting Grandma’s love life in your profile, are you, Qwill?”

  “Why not?”

  There was a thoughtful pause as family loyalty battled with professional principle. Then Junior said, “I guess you’re right. Why not? The Gages are all dea
d. Where is Koko finding these choice items all of a sudden?”

  Pompously Qwilleran said, “I cannot tell a lie. I picked the lock of the library closet. There are tons of papers in there. Also an empty safe. One thing Koko found was an announcement in the Picayune of Gil Inchpot’s marriage to Euphonia’s housekeeper. There was also a recipe for Lena’s angel food cake with chocolate frosting that sounded delicious.”

  “I knew Lena,” said Junior. “She was Grandma’s day-help for years and years. After that, there was a series of live-in housekeepers who never stayed long. Grandma was hard to get along with in her old age.”

  “What about the Inchpot murder? Do the police have any suspects?”

  “Haven’t heard. The Big Snow brings everything to a crashing halt. Do you realize there are frozen bodies out there that won’t be found until spring thaw?”

  Their discussion was interrupted by the slam-bang delivery of two daily specials. They ate in silence until Junior inquired about Suitcase Productions.

  “Several organizations want us after the holidays. We did three shows just before the Big Snow. The largest audience was in the basement of the Old Stone Church. Seventy-five women. Lunch at noon. Performance at one. I was supposed to use the men’s restroom for exits and entrances, but there was a wedding upstairs, and the bridal party was using it as a dressing room. They said I’d have to use the women’s restroom. After their lunch seventy-five women lined up to use the facilities, and it was two-thirty before we got the show on the boards. Then, just as I was describing the roaring of the wind and the crashing of burning buildings, there was a roar and a crash overhead! I thought the ceiling was caving in, but it was only the church organ upstairs, playing the wedding march full blast! I can project my voice, but it’s not easy to compete with Mendelssohn on a five-hundred-pipe organ!”

  Lois returned, brandishing the coffee server like a weapon. “Apple pie?” she demanded gruffly.

  “I’m due back at the office,” said the young editor.

  “You go ahead. I’ll get the check,” Qwilleran told him. “And Lois, you can bring me some of your apple pie. I dreamed about it all the time I was snowbound.”

  “Liar!” she retorted, and she bustled away, smiling.

  As soon as Nancy Fincher received Qwilleran’s letter, she telephoned him. “Thanks for the clipping about my parents. It’ll go in my scrapbook.”

  “Mrs. Gage must have had a high regard for your mother.”

  “Oh, yes, she relied on Mom a lot, and Mom loved Mrs. Gage. She didn’t like Mr. Gage, though. When she went to work there as a young girl, he was too friendly, she told me.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Qwilleran said. “Why did she continue to work for them after her marriage?”

  “Well, you see, Mom and Pop needed the money to get their farm started. Besides, she loved working in the big house. I took care of our farmhouse starting when I was nine years old—cooking and everything.”

  “Remarkable,” Qwilleran murmured. “So your mother’s maiden name was Foote. Did you keep in touch with your grandparents in Lockmaster?”

  As before, Nancy was eager to talk. “No, it’s funny, but I never saw them until they came to Mom’s funeral.”

  “What was the reason for that?”

  “I don’t know. I had Grandma and Grandpa Inchpot right here in Brrr, and Mom never talked about her own parents. I thought Lockmaster was a foreign country.”

  “When they attended your mother’s funeral, how did you react to them?”

  “I didn’t like them at all. They made me nervous, the way they stared at me. Pop said it was because they were surprised to see their granddaughter grown up. They were very old, of course.”

  Qwilleran asked, “Did it ever occur to you that your Lockmaster grandparents might have lent your father the money for his farm improvements after your mother died?”

  “No way,” she said. “They were only poor dirt farmers. Not everybody in Lockmaster is a rich horse breeder . . . Well, anyway, Mr. Qwilleran, I wanted to thank you and wish you a happy Thanksgiving. I’m spending it with Dan Fincher’s relatives, and I’ll take the kids for dogsled rides after dinner. What are you going to do?”

  “Polly Duncan is roasting a turkey, and there’ll be another couple, and we’ll all eat too much.”

  “N-n-now!” shrieked Yum Yum.

  It was a thankful foursome that gathered in Polly’s apartment, thankful to be free after a week of confinement. The aroma of turkey was driving Bootsie to distraction, and the aroma of Mildred’s mince pie, still warm from the oven, was having much the same effect on Qwilleran.

  Arch Riker said, “The local pundits are saying that a Big Snow before Thanksgiving means mild weather before Christmas.”

  Mildred said, “I’d like to propose some ground rules for today’s dinner. Anyone who mentions the Big Snow has to wash the dishes.”

  “What are we allowed to discuss?”

  “For starters, Hixie Rice. How is she?”

  “She came to the office once this week,” Riker said. “Qwill drove her, and Wilfred met her at the curb with her desk chair and wheeled her into the building. She clomps around with a walker and something called a surgical boot.”

  “How is her substitute working out for the show, Qwill?”

  “Not bad,” he replied with an offhand shrug, careful not to praise too highly the petite young woman with soulful eyes.

  Mildred said, “Your show has prompted a family history program in the schools. Kids are interviewing their grandparents and great-grandparents about the Depression, World War II, and Vietnam.”

  “Oh sure, we’re sharpening their interest in history,” Qwilleran said sourly as he drew a sheaf of papers from his sweater pocket. “At Black Creek School they had to write capsule reviews of the show. Would you like to hear a few of them?”

  Riker said, “They’d be easier to take if I had a Scotch in my hand.”

  Drinks were poured, and then Qwilleran read the comments from sixth graders: “I liked the show because we got out of class . . . I liked the red light best . . . It was interesting but not so interesting that it was boring . . . My favorite part was where the guy got his arm burned off . . . It was better than sitting in English and learning . . . The man did most of the play. The woman should have more to do and not just sit there and push buttons.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Mildred said.

  He saved the rave review for the last: “It’s neat how you came up with all that stuff. I would never know how to look it all up. Don’t change it at all, no matter what. I’d like to see it go all over.”

  Riker said, “Sign that kid up! We could use a good drama critic.”

  Qwilleran omitted mentioning the spitball that sailed past his ear during the performance at Black Creek.

  Polly carved the bird, pacifying Bootsie with some giblets, and the four sat down to the traditional feast. “Beautiful bird!” they all agreed. In deference to Mildred the bird was never identified; there had been a star-crossed turkey farmer in her painful past.

  “Now let’s discuss the wedding,” Polly suggested. “What are the plans so far?”

  The bride-to-be said, “It’ll be at the Lanspeaks’ house on Purple Point, and we’re all invited to stay for the three-day weekend.”

  Riker said, “It’s black tie, Qwill, so dust off your tux.”

  “Black tie!” Qwilleran echoed in dismay.

  “Didn’t you buy a formal outfit for that weekend in Lockmaster?”

  “Yes, but I never had a chance to wear it, and do you know where it is now? My dinner jacket, cummerbund, expensive shirt, three-hundred-dollar evening pumps—they’re all in a closet in my barn, behind twenty feet of snow, at the end of a half mile of unplowed driveway.”

  “You can rent an outfit,” Riker said calmly, “but what will you do about your cats? I believe they’re not invited.”

  Polly said, “My sister-in-law will come over twice a day to feed Koko a
nd Yum Yum as well as Bootsie.”

  Everyone had seconds of the bird and the squash puree with cashews. Then the aromatic mince pie was consumed and praised, and coffee was poured, during which the telephone rang.

  Polly answered and said, “It’s for you, Qwill.”

  “Who knows I’m here?” he wondered aloud.

  It was Hixie. “I hate to bother you, Qwill. Are you in the middle of dinner?”

  “That’s all right. We’ve finished.”

  “Carol Lanspeak just called. We have a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Larry was scheduled to play Santa in the parade on Saturday, and he’s on the verge of pneumonia,” Hixie said anxiously. “Carol and I wondered if you would substitute.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I’m not only serious, I’m desperate! When Carol gave me the news, my foot started to throb again.”

  Scowling and huffing into his moustache, Qwilleran was alarmingly silent.

  “Qwill, have you fainted? I know it’s not your choice of role, but—”

  “What would it entail?” he asked in a grouchy monotone.

  “First of all, you’ll have to try on Larry’s Santa suit. It’s in the costume department at the theatre.”

  “I suppose you know,” he reminded her, “that Larry is three sizes smaller and three inches shorter than I am.”

  “But Carol says the suit is cut roomy—to accommodate the padding, you know—and Wally’s mother could alter the length of sleeves and pants. We don’t need to worry about the beard and wig; one size fits all.”

  “And what happens on Saturday?”

  “You get into costume at the theatre, and Carol drives you to the Dimsdale Diner, where the parade units will assemble. The parade proceeds south on Pickax Road to Main Street, where the mayor gives you the official greeting.”