"We've had several cancellations," the innkeeper said. "Just spread a rumor about a killer on the loose, and folks lock themselves in the bathroom."
At a table in the window overlooking the lake Mildred said, "Let's not ruin our lunch by talking about the terrorist in our midst."
"I have good news," said Polly. "After the Cavendish sisters moved out, I worried about getting a noisy neighbor. The walls are deplorably thin! Well, yesterday the new owner came into the library and introduced himself. He's a rare book dealer from Boston!"
"You can't get anyone quieter!" Arch said cheerfully.
"He does mail-order business from his home and is having shelves installed on all the walls. Until his furniture and books arrive he's staying at the Mackintosh Inn."
"What's he like?" Mildred asked eagerly. She was always looking for interesting guests to invite to dinner.
Polly said he was middle-aged, nice-looking, soft-spoken, and quite charming. "Of course, he's tremendously knowledgeable. I expect to learn a lot from him. He specializes in incunabula."
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache and decided, then and there, to close the barn for the winter and move back into his condo, but he said to the group, "I have some news for you, too. The Cavendish sisters, the Tibbitts, and a few others at Ittibittiwassee Estates have organized what they call The Absolutely Absurd Press, Inc., and I have a list of the absurd titles they propose to publish." He read the list, pausing after each title for the amused response—sometimes a giggle, sometimes a guffaw. "I'd also like to add one of my own: Five Easy Piano Pieces for the Index Finger."
The laughter was spontaneous, followed by thoughtful silence as three minds went into gear.
"No hurry," Qwilleran told them. "You have until four o'clock."
By the time coffee and dessert were served, Polly had proposed Recipes for Entertaining by Lucrezia Borgia.
Arch's contribution was My Secret Life as a Pussycat by King Kong.
Mildred said that books on food were always popular and suggested Ichabod Crane's Low-Fat Cookbook.
The two men looked at each other mischievously. "Remember Ichabod?" they said in unison.
Mildred clapped her hands. "Is this another story about your misspent youth?" Whenever the foursome met, Qwilleran and Arch reminisced about growing up in Chicago.
"We were reading Washington Irving that year, and we called our English teacher Ichabod because he was tall and skinny," said Qwilleran. "He was a joker and played tricks on his students when giving tests. We had a great desire to get back at him. . . . Remember that school, Arch?"
"It was an old one and about ready to be torn down. They don't build them like that anymore, with the first floor way off the ground."
"The way it happened," Qwilleran went on, "we had to report to room 109 for an English test after lunch, and we got there early. Somehow we got the idea of going in, throwing the bolt on the door, and locking everybody out. Then we went out the window and dropped down on the ground, about six feet. By the time we brushed ourselves off and came in the front door, the whole class was standing in the hall, and the teacher was running around trying to get a janitor with a ladder. The window was wide open, of course."
"Were you ever found out?" Mildred asked.
"Oh, he knew we did it. We were the only kids in the class smart enough to think of it. But he had a sense of humor."
Mildred said, "I wish I'd known you then!"
"I'm glad I didn't!" Polly said.
Qwilleran returned his passengers to Indian Village, dropping the Rikers at The Birches and driving Polly to The Willows.
"Will you come in to say something friendly to Brutus and Catta?" she asked.
"Just for a while. Does your new neighbor have cats?"
"No, but he offered to take care of mine whenever I need to be out of town. He's a very thoughtful person. He brought me this scarf, which I thought was an unusually lovely gesture."
"What's his name?"
"Kirt Nightingale."
"What's his real name?"
"Oh, Qwill! You're always so suspicious!"
"Does he know about our ten-foot snowdrifts and wall-to-wall ice?"
"Oh, yes! He grew up here. His relatives have moved away, but he has fond memories of winters in Moose County."
"Perhaps he'd like to join the curling club."
As soon as Qwilleran arrived home he telephoned Pat O'Dell, Celia Robinson's husband, who ran a janitorial service. He asked to have Unit Four at The Willows cleaned for immediate occupancy.
"Is it cold feet you're gettin' now?" Pat asked in his lilting Irish brogue.
"You might say that, Pat. Wetherby Goode predicts November weather for October."
"Sure, a' it's only one man's opinion, I'm thinkin'. But a pleasure it'll be to do whatever you want."
While hanging up the receiver Qwilleran noticed that the lid was off the turned maple box and the pennies were gone. A quick glance revealed the two culprits on the fireplace cube, looking down on the scene of the crime. Koko looked proud of himself; Yum Yum looked guilty.
"You scalawags!" Qwilleran scolded fondly. "One of you is a bank robber, and the other is a petty thief."
She had not gone far with her loot; the pennies were not shiny enough to appeal to her exquisite taste. They were on the rug nearby. What interested Qwilleran was Koko's motive: curiosity about its contents? His catly response to a challenge? He had found out how to clamp his jaws around the knob and lift the well-fitting lid with a vertical jerk of the head. Smart cat! He had been obsessed with the problem, and now that it was solved, he would walk away and forget it with his tail held high.
Qwilleran himself was becoming obsessed with the Klingenschoen file. Now he understood why he had never received birthday presents from grandparents, while his friend Archie boasted about getting a cowboy suit and even a two-wheel bike!
The next letter was dated October 10:
Dear Fanny—
Thank you for the gorgeous wedding gift! We're putting it away until we have our house in the suburbs. I can picture it on a console table in the foyer or on the fireplace mantel. All that is in the future—not too distant, I hope. Right now we have to think about Dana's career. Shall we give up our jobs and move to New York where there are plenty of auditions? Or stay here where I have steady income and a promise of promotion? Although Dana is doing well at the store, his heart isn't in retailing. He could make better money as a manufacturer's rep, but I'd hate to have him on the road all the time. What kind of life is that for two people so much in love? We read the want ads every day and hope—and hope—and hope. Dana isn't quite as optimistic as I am, but I know something wonderful is just around the corner.
Love from Annie
A question arose in Qwilleran's mind. What was the gorgeous wedding gift? All the time he was growing up in a respectable town house apartment with a foyer and a fireplace, he had never seen such an impressive object, or had paid no juvenile attention. Annie might describe it in a later letter: a crystal vase, a silver bowl, a porcelain figurine . . . He went on to October 22:
Dear Fanny—
Can you stand some terrifically good news? If I sound incoherent it's because I'm tipsy with delight! I've just found out I'm PREGNANT! Dana is sort of stunned. They laughed at me at the library because I immediately checked out an armful of books on parenting. Speaking of parents, I dashed off a note to Mother, but it was returned unopened. Too bad. Some mother/daughter talk would be comforting right now. You are my dearest friend, Fanny. If the baby is a girl, I'll name her after you. If it's a boy, Dana can name him. Frankly, he would be more enthusiastic if he had a decent job, preferably with a repertory acting company. I wish you could see him on the stage, Fanny. He's so talented! It breaks my heart to see him so frustrated. I try to make him feel that he's loved, no matter what. We have each other, and that's what matters, and soon we'll be THREE! Can you believe it?
Love from Annie
After reading the le
tter he rejoiced that he was not named Francesca Qwilleran, or even Fanny Qwilleran. The next letter was short, but he was limiting himself to two at a sitting. "Good night, Annie," he said as he closed the clasp on the box-file.
FIFTEEN
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 20—Contented cows give the best milk.
Qwilleran was accustomed to spending Saturday and Sunday with Polly, but this weekend she needed a day to do things around the house, to catch up with correspondence, to organize her winter wardrobe. Qwilleran said he understood—and called a friend to have Sunday brunch at Tipsy's Tavern in Kennebeck.
It was a no-frills, limited-menu roadhouse in a sprawling log cabin, serving the best steak and the best fish. A recent innovation was a Sunday brunch offering the best ham and eggs and country fries and the best flapjacks with homemade sausage patties.
Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist, met him at Tipsy's. He said, "Lots of vacant tables, considering the usual popularity of this brunch."
"The fugitive scare," Qwilleran surmised. "Yesterday we took the color tour, and there was hardly anyone on the road. But the autumn color was magnificent—best ever!"
"Moose County has always had better color than Lockmaster." Wetherby was a native of Horseradish, a town in the adjoining county.
"We have more trees," Qwilleran explained. "After the lumbering companies had cleared the forests a century ago, the Klingenschoen family bought up huge tracts of worthless land and left it to reforest itself. Now the K Fund has it in conservancy, safe from developers who would use it for resort hotels, golf courses, race tracks, mobile home parks, and—God forbid!—asphalt plants. The streams are full of fish, and the woods are full of wildlife."
"The Klingenschoens weren't in lumbering or mining or quarrying. Where did they get their money?"
"Don't ask."
The ham was succulent; the eggs were fried without crusty edges or puddles of grease; the country fries had skins—on flavor and were toasty brown.
Wetherby asked, "When are you closing the barn? You'd better move to The Willows before the first blizzard." He occupied Unit Three.
"We have a new neighbor in Unit Two," Qwilleran said. "Have you met him?"
"No, but I've seen his car. Massachusetts tags."
"He's a rare book dealer from Boston. His name is Kirt Nightingale."
"'Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert.'" The weatherman always enlivened his predictions with snatches of poetry or songs.
"Wrong bird," said Qwilleran. "It was written to a skylark."
"Whatever. It was Keats at his best."
"Sorry, friend. Wrong poet. Shelley wrote it. But speaking of blithe spirits, do you think Amanda will be able to unseat the mayor?"
"Absolutely! She's tough! She's honest! She's a Goodwinter! And some of us have talked her into adopting a cat from the animal shelter—to improve her image."
Nora was expected to arrive at the barn with the beef pot pie at three o'clock. While waiting, Qwilleran read another Annie-Fanny letter, dated November 1:
Dear Fanny—
Just a brief note to thank you for your enthusiasm about our baby and also for the darling booties. They're the first item in our layette. It's a long wait, but I'm making plans. I sold my piano to make room for a crib, but that's all right. I'll have a baby grand someday. Meanwhile, I'm reading classic literature for half an hour every evening, hoping to give my baby a love of good writing. I love the story of King Arthur and his court, and if my baby is a boy, I'm going to call him Merlin. Don't you think that's a beautiful name? His middle name will be James, which I think is very noble. Then my pet name for him will be Jamie. Forgive me for rambling on, but I know you're interested.
Love from Annie
Qwilleran groaned as he recalled his youthful embarrassment over those names. "Merlin" was the name on his report card (that was bad enough) but it was his friend Archie who spread the vile lie that he was called "Jamesy" at home. There had been many a fistfight and many a trip to the principal's office.
At three o'clock Celia phoned to say that Nora was on her way with the beef pot pie and some other goodies. "And I just wanted to tell you, Chief, that she has a terrible case of stage fright. You're so famous, and the barn is so big, and your moustache is so—"
"Threatening," he said. "Thanks for tipping me off. I'll try not to growl at her."
He planned an informal chat at the snack bar, with a glass of apple cider. He would introduce the Siamese and let her stroke Yum Yum. He would show her the mechanical bank and give her a coin to deposit; it always amused visitors.
When the red car pulled into the barnyard he went out to meet it and carry the cartons into the kitchen. "Make yourself at home," he said casually. She stood rooted to one spot and gazed around the immense interior in awe and a little fear.
"Do you like apple cider?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," she said.
"Sit down at the snack bar, and we'll have a glass of cider and talk."
"Excuse me, sir, what is that thing?" She pointed to Kiltie, and he explained the bank and gave her a penny to deposit.
"Yow!" came a loud comment from the top of the refrigerator.
"Excuse me, sir, is that a cat?"
"Yes, he's a male Siamese—very smart. He wants you to start telling your tale. . . . Where did it take place?"
"Do you know Ugley Gardens, sir?"
"I've seen it on the county map. It's spelled U-g-l-e-y."
"Yes, sir. That was a man's name, Oliver Ugley. He had acres and acres of land, and he rented it to poor farmers. Farm families came from the Old Country to have a good life, but the soil was no good, and it was swampy. All they could raise was turnips. They lived in huts and didn't have anything to do with. They worked very hard."
Qwilleran nodded. He had heard about Ugley Gardens. It had been called "the last pocket of deprivation in Moose County" until the K Fund acquired it and turned it around. The land was tiled for drainage, and goat-farming was introduced; the huts were replaced by pre-fabricated housing; and the families became citizens of a community.
He asked, "Did your story take place before the goats came?"
"Yes, sir."
"How did you know about it?"
"I lived there and met a girl at prayer meeting. Her name was . . . Betsy."
"Was there a church at Ugley Gardens?"
"No, sir. Families just got together and sang hymns."
"Was there something special about Betsy?"
"Yes, sir. She was oldest of six kids and had to stay home and help her mother. She never went to school."
Qwilleran thought, This doesn't sound real in today's world; it's a fantasy—a fiction. He said, "Don't wait for me to ask questions. Just go on with your story."
"Yes, sir. When Betsy was thirteen she heard about a hotel that hired farm girls to cook and clean because they were hard workers, so she ran away from home. It was a nice job, cleaning rooms and making beds. She slept in the basement and got all her meals. One day the housekeeper told her to take some more towels to a man in one of the rooms. He was a nice man. He said, 'You're a pretty girl. Sit down and talk to me.' Nobody ever called her pretty. She stayed awhile, and he was very friendly. He gave her a big tip when she left, but the housekeeper bawled her out for taking so long, and after a few months she was fired for being pregnant."
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. It sounded like the scenario for an old silent movie. "Go on."
"She was afraid to go home to Ugley Gardens, so she slept in barns all summer and asked for food at farmhouses. She knew all about babies, because her mother had so many. Hers was born in a shack on Chipmunk Road. It was a boy. She called him Donald, but she couldn't keep him. She put him in a box and hoped and prayed somebody would find him. A policeman found him. Everybody was talking about the abandoned baby. They gave him another name, and she heard about him once in a while—her Donald."
"Then she continued to live in the area?"
"Yes, si
r, and she always knew what he was doing—playing football, working in the woods, working at the hotel, winning the gold medal."
"Does she know he's suspected of murder?"
"Yes, sir."
"If it's any comfort to . . . Betsy . . . let her know that the best lawyer in the county will handle his case."
"Thank you, sir. . . . What if—what if they find out Donald killed his own father? . . . He didn't know."
Qwilleran hesitated just long enough to swallow. "Of course he didn't."
"YOW!" came a piercing comment from the top of the refrigerator.
Qwilleran thanked her for the story, said he would consider it for the book, escorted her to the car in the barnyard.
"You told the story very well, Nora—in your own way. Do me one favor: Don't tell it to anyone else."
"Yes, sir."
He would not embarrass her by confronting her with the truth—that Betsy's story was really her own—but Nora knew that he knew; that was evident in the beseeching look in her eyes when she said, "Thank you, sir."
To Qwilleran, the incredible coincidence was Koko's persistent interest in Oedipus Rex, the ancient story of a king who unwittingly killed his own father.
After Nora left, Koko came down from the refrigerator with two hearty thumps, and Yum Yum floated down like a feather. They had a small reward for good behavior, while Qwilleran had a strong cup of coffee and read another Annie-Fanny letter. It was dated November 30:
Dear Fanny—
I wish I could write a cheerful letter as the holiday season approaches, but I'm worried about Dana, and I know you won't mind if I unload my troubles on you. My dear, adorable husband has just lost his job at the department store. He says they're cutting down the sales staff, but wait a minute! The Christmas rush has started, and they should be hiring extra salespeople, shouldn't they? I can't help wondering if he's been drinking on his lunch period or, even worse, on the job! I don't object to cocktails before dinner (although I've given them up until baby comes) but Dana has a tendency to drink a wee bit too much when he's unhappy. I can understand that he's frustrated by the lack of acting opportunities here, but the thought that he may have lied to me is most discouraging. I must not allow myself to get depressed. I must go on dreaming our dream: an acting career for Dana, a house in the suburbs, and a healthy baby! Dana is going to try for a job as a waiter, and I know he'll be a good one, because he has great charm and can play any role well, but I worry that he'd have even more opportunities to sneak a drink. Oh Fanny! Please think good thoughts!
The Cat Who Robbed a Bank Page 34