He put them on the mantel beak-to-beak, like Lolita and Carlotta gossiping in Thelma’s aviary.
When the Siamese were brought into the barn and released from the carrying coop, Yum Yum emerged timidly as if she had never been there before, but Koko rushed forth, growling and looking in all directions.
Qwilleran slapped his forehead as the situation became clear. Dick Thackeray had delivered the gift. There was something about Thelma’s nephew that Koko found repugnant, and he had sensed his presence before they even reached the barnyard. Likewise, after the champagne reception, Koko had entered the barn snarling—snarling at someone who had been there.
Qwilleran opened a can of smoked oysters, which he diced and spread on two plates.
He was led to wonder if Koko’s unfriendly performances corroborated Thelma’s outpourings on the park bench at Black Creek. And did they explain the cat’s choice of books to push off the shelf?
There was always the possibility, of course, that Koko simply enjoyed dislodging a book and seeing it land on the floor with a thlunk! The fact that one was Poor Richard’s Almanac and the other was Richard Carvel might be coincidental. Only one thing was sure. Koko had a passion for smoked oysters. He and Yum Yum retired to the blue cushion on the refrigerator and went to sleep.
Now Qwilleran went to the gazebo with a cheese sandwich and a thermos of coffee and the boxes of letters Janice had put in the van. The cordless phone was purposely left indoors.
Thelma’s brother was indeed a good writer, but content was more important. The question was: Were they worthy of publication? They spanned thirty-odd years. Bud had married another graduate veterinarian, Dr. Sally, and Pop had set them up in a clinic in Lockmaster. But their greatest joy, it seemed, was their son, Dickie Bird—all the more so because Sally would never be able to have another child. They were enthusiastic about their work. They believed in holistic medicine. Sally was taking a course in acupuncture. Their hobbies were music and hiking. Bud played the flute. Every Sunday they left Dickie Bird with his nanny, and they hiked along the rim of the Black Creek Gorge. Bud’s descriptions of the gorge bordered on the poetic. They would sit on a large flat rock and eat energy bars and drink bottled water from their knapsacks.
Dickie Bird, as his parents called him privately, was a handsome boy with a genuine likable personality. He did very well in school, played a little tennis, and was popular with classmates, but he showed no interest in hiking. In high school he preferred the company of his own friends.
Bud wrote, “Dick has a talent for living beyond his allowance, but we indulge him. He’s our only son! And we know he’s not into drugs or anything like that. The kids he runs with are all achievers, with plans for professional careers. Dick hasn’t decided what he wants to do. He’s old enough to drive now, and we’re giving him a car for his birthday. . . . Sis, do you remember when Pop gave us a movie palace for our birthday?”
Qwilleran’s reading was interrupted by a high-decibel howl from the barn. He raced indoors and found Koko prancing in front of the answering machine. The message was an indignant complaint: “Qwill! Where are you? It’s seven o’clock! You were to be here at six!”
“Uh-oh! I’m in the doghouse!” he said to Koko.
The situation was that Polly was in Chicago, and Mildred was in Duluth, and Arch was grilling two porterhouse steaks for a bachelor supper on the deck. Qwilleran thought fast and phoned Wetherby, who lived a city block from the Rikers. It was a long shot, but luckily Wetherby was at home.
“Joe! Do me a favor!” he said with desperation in his voice. “Run—don’t walk—to the Rikers’ condo and tell Arch you’re there to eat my steak. No explanation! No apology! Just tell him I called from the jail.”
Qwilleran chuckled. He and Arch, in their life-time of friendship, had survived many a gaffe, bluff, and tiff—with all systems intact.
Now the phone rang and—thinking it was Arch again—he let the machine pick up the message. It was Hixie Rice, calling from the news office.
Returning her call, Qwilleran listened to her exuberant announcement. “Qwill! We’re getting the opera house for the revue! Next Tuesday! Tickets are going to be two hundred! Isn’t that thrilling! I told Mavis I’d notify you. Also, Doug Bethune is printing the programs, so he needs to know the titles of the readings you’re going to do.”
Hixie stopped for breath, and Qwilleran asked the unwise question: “Is there anything I can do?”
“I could really use your input on the subject of the Grand March, Qwill, and the sooner the better. If you could hop up here to the office—”
“If you could hop down here to the barn,” he interrupted, “I could offer you a drink.”
Hixie Rice was an attractive, spirited woman of unguessable age who was unlucky in love. Qwilleran had first met her Down Below and had followed her exploits like the segments of a soap opera. In the business world, though, her infectious enthusiasm and bright ideas made her a success even when her ideas failed. Qwilleran was always glad to see her.
She arrived at the barn in what Moose Countians would call “two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” “Where are those adorable cats?” she asked, and they came out to greet her. Everyone liked Hixie.
“What will you have to drink?” Qwilleran asked.
“What are you having?”
“A Q cocktail.”
“I’ll have a martini.”
When they settled into the “seductive” sofas (Hixie’s word for them), Qwilleran asked, “How successful have you been in lining up prominent citizens for the finale?”
“Everyone’s cooperating!” she said with her usual exuberance. “How does this sound? Newspaper columnist, meteorologist, innkeeper, superintendent of schools, prizewinning woodcrafter, a medical doctor, director of the public library, food editor, two professors (retired), and . . . Her Honor, the mayor! The professors are the Cavendish sisters. Jennie is confined to a wheelchair, so she’ll ride with two cats in her lap and Ruth will push.”
“Have the rhinestone harnesses been ordered?”
“They’re on the way.”
“May I refresh your drink?”
She wriggled to get out of the deep-cushioned sofa. “No thanks, but you mix a superb martini! What’s your secret?”
“Fourteen to one.” Actually he had no dry vermouth, so it was fourteen to zero!
Later that evening, when he phoned Polly in Chicago, he told her about the rhinestone harnesses, the impressive lineup of prominent citizens, and the harmless herbal sedative that would keep the cats calm.
“Oh dear!” she said. “It sounds like another of Hixie’s bright ideas! I hope it all works.”
“Are your conferences progressing well?”
“We’ve brainstormed, that’s all. We toss out whatever enters our heads. It’s quite fun. The K Fund people are charming, and there’s been much wining and dining. I’ll be glad to get home to an egg salad sandwich. Happily, I’ll be leaving Saturday morning and arriving on the noon shuttle flight. . . . And I’m bringing you something!”
“What?”
“Wait and see! . . . A bientôt!”
“A bientôt,” he mumbled. He objected to being on the dark side of a secret.
18
On Friday morning Qwilleran filed his copy earlier than usual, leading the managing editor to say, “Is something wrong? Or are you a better person from eating all that broccoli?”
“I have other work to do, Junior! And don’t you dare touch a single comma in my copy! After last week’s proverb fiasco—”
“I know! I know!” Junior threw up both hands in defense.
The truth was that Qwilleran had an urgent desire to return to Thelma’s letters from Bud. A familiar sensation in his upper lip was the forerunner of suspicion, corroborated by Koko’s growling and spitting at someone or something that was not present. Qwilleran was convinced that it was Dick who was on what he called “Koko’s spit list.”
First there were errands to do, ho
wever, like mailing a letter to England and cashing a check for daily needs.
At the bank Qwilleran found himself in line behind Wetherby. He leaned forward and said quietly, “Has WPKX started paying you for your services?”
The weatherman turned quickly. “Hey! Qwill! That was the best steak I ever ate in my life! I’ll understudy you any old time!”
“Have you time for coffee at Lois’s?”
“Next!” the teller said impatiently.
After their transactions were completed, the two men walked to Lois’s the long way, in order to see what was happening to the opera house. The old stone building was looking noble once more. The boardings had been taken down. There were new doors. At one side of the entrance a carved wood plaque of tasteful size announced THELMA’S FILM CLUB with letters highlighted in gold. The parking lots on either side were freshly paved. And across the street a strip of storefronts was upgraded. Gone were the plumbing fixtures and printshop clutter. An ice-cream bar, antique shop, and gift gallery were moving in. In the center of the row the door leading to the small apartments upstairs was newly lettered: OPERA HOUSE TERRACE.
Wetherby said, “They’re not bad apartments. I visited someone there once. One-bedroom. There’s a little upstairs porch all along the back, but good only for raising tomato plants.”
“Have you joined the club?” Qwilleran asked.
“Nah. I’m not into old movies. Did you?”
“Only so I can take guests once in a while. I hear that Thelma’s nephew is managing it.”
“Lots a luck,” Wetherby said.
At Lois’s they ordered coffee and whatever was freshly baked. It proved to be cinnamon sticky buns.
The implied sneer in Wetherby’s last remark supported Qwilleran’s growing disenchantment.
He said, “Did I detect a note of cynicism in your remark about Dick Thackeray?”
“Well . . . you know . . . we were in school together all the way through twelfth grade. Us kids from the Village of Horseradish attended a consolidated school in East Lockmaster—a bunch of country bumpkins among all those rich dudes. I knew Dick when we were pitching pennies in the school-yard. He always won. In high school I had to work hard to get a B; Dick got all A’s. I acted in plays; he hung out with eggheads who were going to be scientists. My sport was track; theirs was playing cards—for money. I had to work my way through college; Dick thought college wasn’t necessary; he went traveling. Never did settle down to a career. How long is he going to act as manager of his aunt’s Film Club?”
“I see what you mean,” Qwilleran said.
Then they talked about the Kit Kat Revue; how the cats would get along backstage while waiting to go on . . . what kind of music should be played for the Grand March . . . what Jet Stream and Koko would think about rhinestone harnesses.
Wetherby said, “Well, we’ll get a few answers at the rehearsal Monday night.”
The Siamese were waiting anxiously at the barn, knowing their noontime snack was eleven minutes late. Qwilleran fed them and even read a passage from the Wilson Quarterly aloud—to make them drowsy. After they had crawled away to some secret nap-nook, Qwilleran took a large dish of ice cream to the gazebo, along with the second box of Thackeray letters.
Bud’s letters continued infrequently as he grew older. Most of them recounted unusual cases he and Sally treated in their clinic—a veritable name-dropping of famous racehorses and the winners of dog shows. Once there had been a terrible barn fire, and Bud agonized with the owners. Occasionally Dick would arrive unexpectedly and stay for a week. His ingratiating smile and happy disposition always made him a welcome visitor. Sometimes he had a clever idea for a new business venture and they gladly lent him money, although experience had taught them that it would never be returned but that was all right. He was their only son. What better investment could they make? It was too bad he never wanted to go on a nature walk along the Black Creek Gorge.
Then Sally began to slow down, have bad days, stay home from the clinic. During this period investors offered to buy the clinic and relieve him of a burdensome responsibility. After all, he was in his late seventies. But Sally urged him to keep the clinic that had meant so much to him. Dick came and went. Then Sally just faded away. That was all he had the heart to say. He no longer walked along the gorge. But he was thankful that he had his challenging work—and the health to carry on.
That was the last letter in the box. What had happened to the final letter that Thelma called so beautiful? He phoned the Thackeray house, and Janice answered. Thelma was at the club, she said, working out details.
“I’ve read the two boxes of letters,” Qwilleran said, “and the last one seems to be missing.”
“Oh! . . . That’s right! She keeps it close by so she can read it. It’s getting quite worn from all the folding and unfolding.”
“You should make a photocopy and preserve the original in some special way. Do you have a copier?”
“No, but I could have it done somewhere in town.”
“I have a copier. If you can find the letter, you could bring it over here, and the job could be done in . . . no time.” He congratulated himself for avoiding the Moose County cliché.
Soon the green coupé drove into the barnyard, and he took the cherished letter to his studio for copying while Janice talked to the Siamese and looked at titles on the bookshelf.
“This is a funny title,” she said when Qwilleran came down the ramp. She was looking at How to Read a Book by Dr. Mortimer Adler. “If you can read a book on how-to-read-a-book,” she said, “why do you need to read this book?”
“Some day I’ll lend it to you, and you’ll find out. . . . I made two copies of the letter and will put one in the box with the others. You can have the other to save wear and tear on the original. Do you have time for a glass of fruit juice?”
He was glad she declined the invitation. He wanted to read Bud’s last letter.
Dear Sis,
A miracle happened on this 20th of June—Sally’s birthday. For almost a year, I haven’t been able to face the beauties of our old hiking trail. Dick is here on one of his infrequent visits—his old room is always ready and waiting for him—but his presence has not succeeded in lightening my heavy heart since the loss of my dear Sally.
Then the miracle happened! The houndmaster at the Kennel Club invited me to go “walking the hounds.” There are fifty foxhounds that are walked en masse along country roads every day. A kind of loving understanding exists between the master and the hounds. He speaks to them in a firm but gently musical voice. Mr. Thomas is his name.
“Come on out now,” he said, and the pack of hounds left the kennel and headed for the road.
“Come this way now.” They followed him to the left.
My job was to bring up the rear and coax stragglers back to the group. Both Mr. Thomas and I had whips—but only to crack the ground and get their attention.
There was hardly any traffic on that back road, but when a vehicle appeared, Mr. Thomas would say, “Come over here now,” and they would herd to the right or left. They could read his mind, I was sure. Once, a farmer stopped his truck and said, “Purtiest thing I ever seen!”
And I was part of it. The countryside was beautiful. The air was fresh and uplifting. I walked with a springy step as the emotional burden of the past year began to disappear.
By the time I returned to the club, and Mr. Thomas had said, “Kennel up now” . . . I wanted to go walking the gorge once more! All the wonders of nature that I enjoyed with my dear Sally came rushing back with love instead of sorrow.
Dick is spending a couple of weeks here, and I even invited him to go along on Sunday. To my delight he agreed and said he would go into town for some hiking shoes.
Dear Sis—Be glad for me. I feel as if an angel dipped a wing over my troubled brow.
With love from Bud
P.S. Why don’t you come for a visit? It’s been so long! Exchanging snapshots isn’t “where it’s at
”—to quote Dickie Bird. Don’t worry, Sis. I won’t make you go hiking.
Slowly and thoughtfully Qwilleran placed the photocopied letter back in the box. There was a tingling in the roots of his moustache that disturbed him.
He looked at his watch; it was not too late to phone his friend Kip MacDiarmid, editor of the Lockmaster Ledger.
“Qwill! Speak of the devil—We were talking about you at the Lit Club last night. They want to know when you’re coming down to our meeting again.”
“As a guest? Or do I have to pay for my own dinner?”
“Put it on your expense account,” said the editor.
After the usual amount of banter Qwilleran said, “I’ll be in Lockmaster Monday. Would you be free for lunch? I want to discuss a book I’m thinking of writing, and it would help if you could copy some news clips for me.”
Arrangements were made.
By long experience Qwilleran knew that newspapermen always know the story-behind-the-story, and it was more often true than false. He also had a ploy for uncovering buried facts and/or rumors. “I’m writing a book,” he would say. Laymen and professionals were always willing—even eager—to talk to the purported author of a book that would never be written.
19
On Saturday morning Qwilleran drove downtown to buy a flowering plant to celebrate Polly’s return from Chicago. He parked in the municipal lot and was walking toward the Main Street stores when the friendly toot-toot of a horn attracted his attention. Fran Brodie lowered her car window and beckoned. “Have you heard the news?” she asked.
“Is it going to rain?” he asked, although he could tell by her expression that the news was not good.
Cat Who Brought Down the House, the Unabridged Audio Page 14