Junior Goodwinter: “I hear tickets are sold out for three weekends.”
Obviously Derek was stealing the show. All his groupies were there, overreacting to every line. After the last act, and after the last tumultuous applause had shivered the timbers of the old barn, it was a joyful crowd that poured out to the barnyard.
Junior grabbed Qwilleran’s arm. “How about lunch tomorrow and some shoptalk? I have some ideas to bounce around.”
“You come to Mooseville, and I’ll buy,” Qwilleran said. “I have a two o’clock appointment in Fishport. We’ll go to Owen’s Place and see Derek in a different role.”
Then he found Arch waiting for Mildred. He was standing near an arrow that pointed to the portable facilities behind the barn. Qwilleran said, “Apart from the hard seats, how did you like the show?”
“I hope it’s not going to stir up a lot more UFO fever! People have brainwashed themselves, and my wife is one of the nuts.”
“Well, I listen to their conversation politely,” Qwilleran said, “but I don’t buy it, of course.”
“I’ve stopped being polite. Enough is enough! Toulouse sits staring into space, the way cats do, and Mildred insists he’s watching for Visitors . . . here she comes now.”
“Sorry to keep you both waiting,” she said. “There was a long line. Qwill, would you like to stop at our place for a snack?”
“Thanks, but I want to go home and grapple with my review while the show’s fresh in my mind.”
“We’re parked half a mile away,” Arch said. “Where are you parked?”
“Behind the barn. Reviewer’s privilege.”
“Lucky dog! I run the paper, and I have to walk half a mile!”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Qwilleran said. “You write the review, and I’ll drive you to your car.”
It was no deal.
What Qwilleran missed most about newspaper life Down Below was the interminable shoptalk—in the office, at the watercooler, in the lunchroom, at the Press Club. So he looked forward to his Saturday luncheon with the managing editor. Junior, for his part, probably welcomed an exchange of ideas with a journalist who was also a friend—and the financial backer of the newspaper in a roundabout way.
Qwilleran arrived in the parking lot of Owen’s Place just as Junior was stepping out of his car. They went in together.
“Wow! Some class!” Junior exclaimed as Derek greeted them.
“Good show last night,” Qwilleran said. “You hit exactly the right blend of absurdity and convincing reality.”
When they were seated, Junior said to Qwilleran, “Do you think the play will kick off any UFO hysteria in Mooseville? You know how they are around here. We don’t want to attract any attention from the TV networks or major dailies Down Below. They’re quick to pounce on bizarre stories about simple country folk like us. But that’s not why Arch has vetoed stories about mysterious lights in the sky. It’s a personal phobia.”
“What about you, Junior?”
“I have no strong beliefs, one way or the other, but I maintain that the reaction of beach residents is news, and we should report it—plus a sidebar quoting the Pentagon and other official sources, as the other side of the story.”
The drinks were served—one red spritzer and one Squunk water—and Qwilleran raised his glass in a toast. “To sanity, if there’s any left!”
“What’s your next column, Qwill?”
“A thousand words on the diary of Lisa Compton’s great-grandmother. Mark Twain came through here on a lecture tour in the late nineteenth century, and she had a crush on him. They never met, but she fell for his moustache.”
“Sounds like hot stuff for a family newspaper,” Junior said drily.
“There was one interesting fact: Strange objects in the sky were being reported prior to the 1900s, thought to be from the spirit world . . . Have you looked at the menu, Junior? We’d better order.”
Besides imaginative variations on standard luncheon dishes, there was the house specialty: “Try our skewered potato! A flawless 20-ounce Idaho, baked on a skewer and dressed at tableside with three toppings. Choose one sauce, one accompaniment, and one garnish.”
The newsmen studied the list of toppings conscientiously:
THE SAUCES: Choice of marinara, Bolognese, Alfredo, ratatouille, curried chicken, or herbed yogurt with anchovies.
THE ACCOMPANIMENTS: Choice of sautéed Portobello mushrooms, red onion rings, pitted ripe olives, garlic-pickled garbanzos, sautéed chicken livers, or grilled tofu cubes.
THE GARNISHES: Choice of grated Parmesan cheese, toasted cashews, shredded carrots with capers, slivered fresh coconut, crumbled Stilton cheese, or sour cream with chives.
After studying the list, Junior said, “It’s daunting, to say the least. I can’t believe this is happening in Moose County.”
“Blame Derek,” Qwilleran said. “That’s what happens when you send a boy to college.”
“What I really wanted was a roast beef sandwich.”
Qwilleran called Derek to the table. “Would we be thrown out if we ordered roast beef sandwiches with horseradish?”
“Sure, that’s okay,” Derek said, adding in a lower voice, “We’re short of skewers, anyway.”
They spent the lunch hour discussing editorial policies, staff problems, new ideas, and old mistakes. Qwilleran enjoyed it and offered advice, but finally he looked at his watch and said it was time to leave for Fishport.
“What are you doing there?”
“Paying a call on some elderly residents at Safe Harbor. It’s one of the many things I do for the Moose County Something and don’t get paid for. I make an appearance, shake hands, say the right things, and make friends for the paper. I hope it’s appreciated.”
“I think you like old ladies.”
“Why not? They like me,” Qwilleran said flippantly, although he realized he was drawn to octogenarians and nonagenarians of both sexes, and he knew why. He had never known his grandparents. His mother never talked about them, and as a kid he was too self-absorbed to ask questions. His life was all about playing baseball, acting in school plays, training for spelling bees (which he always won), and practicing the piano (reluctantly).
There were no birthday cards or Christmas presents from grandparents. His extended family consisted of his mother’s friends and Arch Riker’s parents. Pop Riker was as good a father as he had ever known. Now he often wondered about his forebears. Who were they? Where did they live? What did they do? Why had his mother never mentioned them? Could they be traced? There was a genealogical society in Pickax; they would know how to proceed.
He thought about it on the way to his afternoon appointment. Before he knew it, he had reached the Fishport village limits, and the landmark mansion called Safe Harbor loomed ahead.
SEVEN
Safe Harbor was a three-story frame structure in the Victorian style, with porches, bay windows, balconies, gables, a turret, and a widow’s walk. It had been the residence of a shipping magnate in Moose County’s heyday, when families were large, travel was slow, and guests stayed a long time. There were many bedrooms upstairs and servants’ quarters in the garret. The widow’s walk was a small observation platform on the roof with a fancy wrought-iron railing. From that elevation, members of the family could watch for sailing ships bringing loved ones or valuable cargo, all the while worrying about treacherous rocks and lake pirates.
Following the economic collapse, the stately mansion became a boarding house for sandpit workers, then a summer hotel in the prosperous rum-running days, then a private school for sailing buffs from Chicago. Eventually it was purchased by the Scotten, Hawley, and Zander families as a retirement home for widows of commercial fishermen, whose occupation was on the most-dangerous list in government studies.
When Qwilleran arrived and rang the jangling bell on the front door, it was immediately opened by a breathless young woman with a sweet smile. A mass of auburn hair cloaked her thin shoulders. “I’m Janelle Van R
oop,” she said softly. “It’s so . . . wonderful of you to come, Mr. Qwilleran. All the ladies . . . are waiting in the parlor.”
It was a large dark foyer with an elaborately carved staircase and double doors opening into equally dark rooms. Janelle led him to the one room that was light and bright and cheerful, with white lace curtains on the tall narrow windows. As they entered, applause came from twelve pairs of frail hands. Twenty-four widows with gray or silver hair and pretty blouses sat in a circle.
Janelle said, “Ladies, this is our . . . beloved Mr. Q!” There was another patter of applause with more enthusiasm than volume.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Qwilleran said in a mellifluous voice that mesmerized his listeners when he pulled out all the stops. “It’s a great pleasure to meet so many loyal readers, looking so festive and so . . . fetching.”
There were titters of amusement and delight.
“I’d like to shake your hands individually, if Janelle will make the introductions.”
There was a general murmur of excitement.
Qwilleran had done this before, and he performed in a courtly manner that appealed to women of a certain age. It was part newspaper public relations and part genuine feeling for the older generation.
As he and Janelle moved clockwise around the room, he cupped each extended hand in both of his—hands that were thin, wrinkled, or arthritic. He held them while he said the right things. He paid compliments, asked questions, and proffered greetings from Koko and Yum Yum. The exploits of the Siamese were often reported in the “Qwill Pen” column, and many of the women inquired about their health. For his part, he murmured a variety of “right things”:
“You’re looking exceptionally well . . . Is that an heirloom cameo you’re wearing? . . . Pink is very becoming to you . . . You have happy eyes . . . Your grandson is quite an artist in metal . . . You have the loveliest white hair I’ve ever seen.”
A few women had canes by their sides; the last in the circle was in a wheelchair. She was introduced as Rebecca Hawley.
“I’ve made something for you, Mr. Q,” she said in a faltering voice. “I’ve been working on it since last October.” She handed him a roll of linen tied with a red ribbon like a diploma.
Concealing his apprehension, he unrolled it slowly, then stared at it in disbelief. The painstakingly embroidered words stared back at him—his own words, stitched in black letters:
CATS ARE CATS . . .THE WORLD OVER!
THESE INTELLIGENT, PEACE-LOVING
FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDS—WHO ARE WITHOUT
PREJUDICE, WITHOUT HATE, WITHOUT GREED—
MAY SOMEDAY TEACH US SOMETHING.
—THE QWILL PEN
“I’m overwhelmed!” he said. “I don’t know what to say!” The words were from his semiannual cat column published the previous fall. “How can I thank you, Mrs. Hawley?”
“Do you like it?” she asked, eager for approval.
“Do I like it! If it had been chiseled in marble, it couldn’t have been more of an honor. I’ll put it in an important frame and think of you every time I see it.”
“Oh, my!” She put her bony hands to her face and rocked back and forth in pleased embarrassment.
Janelle spoke up. “Thank you, Mr. Q, for . . . paying us this visit. We know . . . how busy you are.”
“My pleasure!” he said, throwing a final salute to his enraptured fans.
In the foyer Janelle seemed nervous. “Please, Mr. Q . . . somebody wants to see you . . . privately. She’s waiting . . . in the office.”
“Who is it?”
“You’ll see.”
The office was a small space under the stairs, equipped with desk, filing cabinet, and two institutional chairs. Perched primly on one of the hard seats was Doris Hawley. She jumped to her feet.
“Mrs. Hawley! What a surprise!” he said.
“I’m sorry—”
“No need to feel sorry. I’ve been wondering about you . . . Let’s sit down. I’m still weak in the knees after seeing your mother-in-law’s gift.” He waved the roll of linen.
“This was the only way I could think of—to talk to you without being seen . . . Do you mind if I close the door?”
“I’ll close it . . . But why the secrecy, Mrs. Hawley?”
Her face made it clear that it was far from a happy secret. “They don’t want us to talk to anybody—Magnus and me—and if we talk to the media, we could be arrested. It’s a terrible feeling. What have we done? They don’t tell us anything.”
“You identified the hiker’s body?”
“Yes, and they thanked us and apologized, sort of. But the next day the state troopers came to the house with orders from the State Bureau of Investigation: no talking to anybody about anything!”
“Ridiculous!” he said with indignation, although he stroked his moustache questioningly.
“Magnus asked them why we couldn’t talk, but all they’d say was ‘SBI orders.’ The sheriff isn’t so bad. We know all the deputies, and the one who comes here goes to our church. She said it was unfair, but they had to follow SBI orders.”
“It seems like high-handed treatment,” Qwilleran said. “I suggest you remove the burlap sack from your sign and get back into the baking business. And if there’s a single objection from the police, have Janelle phone me, and I’ll meet you here.”
Mrs. Hawley was grateful to the point of tears.
“How does Magnus react?”
“Oh, he’s mad! He’s furious!”
In the foyer, he said to Janelle, “I’m giving you my private phone number; you may need to call me again . . . Are you a Canary?”
She wore the yellow smock that identified care-giving volunteers in Moose County. “Yes, I’m an MCCC student in health care,” she said in her languid way, “and . . . I get credits for . . . community service.”
“Good! Your time is well spent here.”
He walked to his van, hoping he had said the right thing to Mrs. Hawley and wishing Arch Riker could have seen his performance for the elderly women. Driving home, he pondered the small intrigues that occur in small towns. The SBI had overreacted, assuming that gullible townfolk would panic if faced with something hard to explain—and also assuming, rightly, that the media would jump on the story and blow it up out of proportion.
More mystifying to Qwilleran was Koko’s behavior in this, and other situations. The cat had wanted him to accept Janelle’s invitation; he had sensed some undisclosed reason behind it. In the same way he had wanted Qwilleran to take the recumbent bike to the cabin, where it would make a rousing finale to the parade. The latter was a minor matter, but it signified that Koko was tuned in, somehow, to forthcoming events. Uncanny! Likewise, he knew there was something buried in the sand ridge—something that should not be there. All cats have a sixth sense, Qwilleran knew, but in Kao K’o Kung it was developed to an incredible degree!
On the way back to town, Qwilleran’s watch told him that Derek might be at Elizabeth’s Magic, cooling off after his steamy lunch hour at Owen’s Place. Derek had a play to do that evening; there would be theater talk as well as restaurant talk.
Derek had not yet arrived. Elizabeth said he was rearranging the tables, putting some on the diagonal to dispel the effect of a railway dining car. It would be a surprise for the boss.
“Does Owen accept all Derek’s ideas?” Qwilleran asked.
“So far he’s had carte blanche. Derek charms everyone,” she said, her eyes glowing.
Qwilleran had known Derek since his days as a busboy, and always he treated CEOs and visiting bishops with the same offhand bonhomie that captivated the young girls who adored him.
“Have you met Ernie?” Qwilleran asked Elizabeth. “What’s she like?”
“Very nice, but she’s a person with an intense drive. She was here to buy skewers and she asked about the rune stones, so I did a reading for her.”
“What are they exactly?”
“Little stones inscribed with a prehistor
ic alphabet that’s used for divining the future. My reading for Ernie was so negative that I didn’t give her an honest interpretation . . . Here comes Derek!”
He blustered into the shop with his usual energy. “I’m thirsty! Got anything cold?” He bounded to the rear, where there was a small refrigerator beneath the coffeemaker, then flopped into a chair with a bottle of chilled grape juice.
Qwilleran joined him. “Do you have any problem shifting gears from cuisine to showbiz?”
“Nah. It’s all showbiz.”
“Too bad Ernie can’t take an evening off to see you act.”
“She’d never go to the theater. She’s a workaholic,” Derek said. “Works nine-to-nine with only a two-hour break in the afternoon, and then she spends it studying recipes. Did you see that big recreation vehicle behind the restaurant? It’s full of cookbooks! I tell you, she’s a real pro! Turns out orders fast. Makes presentations that are works of art. I asked her what she liked most about her job, and she said ‘the fast pace.’ I asked her what she liked least, and she said ‘tomatoes in winter.’ That’s the way she is!” Derek glanced at the customers in the shop and said, “Come in the stockroom.”
Among the shelves and cartons and racks he could speak freely. He knew Qwilleran liked to hear the story behind the story. “The way it works, I report at ten-thirty A.M. Owen is there to check me in. We count the cash together, and I sign for it. Then he takes off with his bait bucket for a few hours of fishing—or that’s what he says. But there’s liquor on his breath already! Makes you wonder what he eats for breakfast. Makes you wonder what’s in the bait bucket. Does he anchor the boat in some secluded cove where he can nip schnapps and read porno magazines? Is that why he never brings in any fish?”
Qwilleran said, “You’re getting to be very cynical for your age, Derek. Does Ernie ever go out on the lake with him?”
“Only on Mondays, when we’re closed. And then I’ll bet she takes cookbooks to read. Off the record, Qwill, I think she worries about his drinking. She made two stupid mistakes last week because she wasn’t concentrating—like making a BLT without the T. Then a Monte Cristo with mushroom sauce didn’t have the sauce . . . Well, I’ve gotta go home and make an adjustment from dumb earthling to smart alien.”
Three Complete Novels: The Cat Who Tailed a Thief/the Cat Who Sang for the Birds/the Cat Who Saw Stars Page 7