“This is Gertrude,” Qwilleran said. “She’s come to live with you.”
Murmuring strangely, she crept forward and sniffed the toy thoroughly, then gave it a few licks. Her maternal instincts were aroused. Closing her mouth over the scruff of the toy’s neck, she carried it to her favorite corner on the sofa. She had adopted Gertrude.
It was a bright spot in a dull day, and it inspired Qwilleran to telephone the florist in downtown Pickax. He recognized the silky voice of Claudine, a gentle young person with innocent blue eyes. “Good morning,” he said. “Is it raining cats and dogs where you are?”
“This sounds like Mr. Q,” she said. “Where are you calling from?”
“The haunts of coot and hern.”
“Oh, Mr. Q, I never know when you’re serious and when you’re kidding.”
“Have your new flowers come in, or are you still selling last week’s wilted stock?”
“You’re awful! They’re unloading the express truck right now. What would you like?”
“A mixed bouquet for Polly, to be delivered to Indian Village ASAP.”
“I hope she isn’t sick.”
“She’s suffering from post-vacation letdown, and I want the flowers to get there while she still feels rotten.”
“Our van doesn’t go to Indian Village till noon.”
“Too late. Send the flowers by taxi, and put it on my bill.”
“What do you want the card to say?”
“Just ‘the grocer boy.’ No name.” When Claudine hesitated, he spelled it for her.
“Oh! The grocer boy! You’re always pulling a fast one, Mr. Q.”
“Don’t hang up,” he said. “I also want to send a large bouquet to a restaurant in Mooseville tomorrow. The roads should be open by then. It’s Owen’s Place on Sandpit Road, and it’s decorated in white, pink, and yellow. Just say ‘from a well-wisher’ on the card. And make it something special; it’s an up-scale establishment.”
Within an hour Qwilleran received a phone call, and a woman’s cheery voice said, “Is this the grocer boy? I’d like a dozen oranges.”
“With or without seeds?” he replied.
“Qwill, dear, the flowers are lovely. Thank you so much! They came by taxi! It’s so good to be home.”
“I must say I was shocked to see you yesterday.”
“I was shocked to see that aggregation of youthful pulchritude on your porch—in shorts and sunglasses—and drinking! I won’t ask you to explain.”
“Good! And I won’t ask you about the charming and erudite professor who talked you into spending more time in Quebec City.”
“We’ll have much news to exchange tomorrow night, dear. Is it still raining at the beach?”
“It’s pouring! Everything in the cabin is damp: my clothes, the sofas, the cats’ fur, my books! The one I’ve been reading is so soggy, I’ve retitled it A Damp Yankee in King Arthur’s Court . . . See you tomorrow.”
As the morning splashed on, Qwilleran found himself going rain-crazy, unable to concentrate on either reading or writing. It was the roar! Like Niagara without the picture postcards. So far there were no leaks in the roof, but dryness was all the cabin had to offer. The cats were playing Yin and Yang on the sofa, their ears buried in each other’s fur. Should he thaw a second-rate burger for lunch? Or venture into the outside world at the risk of being drowned? He could get an equally second-rate burger at the hotel.
Holding a waterproof jacket over his head, Qwilleran dashed for his van and headed for Mooseville. There were few vehicles on the highway, and they were moving cautiously as the drivers peered through windshields made opaque by the hurtling rain. There was not yet any flooding; the sandy terrain drained well, but how much more could it take? Already the ditches were beginning to look like canals.
In town, there were many parked cars, but everyone was indoors. He found them in the hotel lobby and coffee shop—gloomy vacationers, looking stranded and bored. Some sat on the veranda and watched the raindrops hitting the pavement hard enough to splash vertically like a million tiny geysers.
Wayne Stacy was relatively cheerful when he saw Qwilleran. “How about that? It held off till after the races! The C of C will have to send a fifth of something to the weatherman. And we got the new storm sewers just in time, thanks to the K Fund. The stupid voters turned down millage three times before we applied for a grant.”
“Perhaps they’re not so stupid,” Qwilleran observed. “I hope the downpour stops in time for the opening of Owen’s Place.”
“Even if it does, how many diners will venture out? They said on radio that the access roads are flooded . . . Are you here for lunch? Be our guest!”
After lunch, Qwilleran made a wet dash to the hardware store for batteries, since a soaking rain usually caused trees to topple.
Cecil Huggins said, “We’ve sold out of camp stoves and bottled water. Grott’s has sold out of bread and milk. Folks are expecting the worst. Another worry is a rising lake level and beach erosion.”
“If every raindrop is big enough to fill a shot glass,” Qwilleran said, “how many shots of rain are needed to raise the level of a twenty-thousand-square-mile lake by one inch?”
Cecil’s great-uncle was pessimistic. “When the Sand Giant gets mad, he gets mad! And he’s mad at somethin’ or somebody.”
From there, Qwilleran went to Elizabeth’s Magic, knowing there was always someone there on a Monday, come hell or high water. He parked at the curb, facing the wrong way, and made a dash for the overhang. When he hammered on the door, Derek came from the rear to let him in.
“Hi, Mr. Q! What d’you think of this rain?”
“The Sand Giant was sick of hearing complaints about the dry summer.”
“Come in the back and have coffee. I’ve been sorting books, and I’m ready for a break.”
They sat in the spidery chairs, and Qwilleran asked, “Where’s Elizabeth?”
“On Grand Island for her brother’s birthday. They picked her up yesterday in the family yacht—the Argonaut. Maybe you’ve seen it in the harbor. Her dad was into Latin and Greek and all that stuff. He taught Liz the Greek alphabet. Do you know anyone who can recite the Greek alphabet?”
“Not in Moose County.”
“She’s teaching me. Alpha, beta, gamma, delta . . . that’s as far as I’ve got.”
Qwilleran fingered his moustache; there were some answered questions here. “These books of his that she’s putting into her lending library . . . I trust they’re not in Greek and Latin.”
Derek laughed—nervously, it appeared. “No, nothing like that.”
“No one has mentioned what the old boy collected. Don’t tell me it’s pornography, and Liz is opening an adult lending library in downtown Mooseville!”
There was another nervous negative.
“Come on, Derek. Am I supposed to play Twenty Questions? What’s to stop me from going to the stockroom and having a look around?”
“Okay, but promise you won’t tell Liz I spilled the beans . . . Her dad had everything that was ever printed about UFOs—in all languages. He had Chariots of the Gods in the original German.”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “And why was she keeping it a secret?”
“Well, you know how you are about UFOs—you and Arch Riker. After the publicity breaks in the Chicago papers and on the TV networks, she thinks you’ll break down and give the story coverage.”
“And you expect that kind of national attention?”
“Well, the PR department at the K Fund is handling it, and they’ve been up here collecting facts. You see, it’s not just a tourist gimmick. It’ll attract serious researchers. The valuable books will be available only to scholars.”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache again.
Pleadingly, Derek said, “Promise me you won’t say anything about this. If you do, I’ll be in bad trouble.”
“I promise. But one question: Who’s going to catalogue the books?”
“H
er dad had them all catalogued.”
“I see . . . Well, I’d better get home and see if the cabin has floated away. I hear your play was rained out last night. How about the restaurant tomorrow? Access roads are flooded.”
“I know. I talked to Ernie on the phone, but she’s determined to open . . . Wait a second, Qwill, and I’ll give you a printout of the new menu.”
SEVENTEEN
Still it rained. Returning to the cabin on Monday afternoon, Qwilleran found two reproachful cats huddled on the coffee table, giving him an accusing eye, and two postcards on the floor.
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” he said. “Think dry thoughts, and maybe it’ll stop.”
It was mid-afternoon in July but dark as twilight in January. He turned on all the lights and flopped on the sofa with the new menu from Owen’s Place. Reading it from Polly’s viewpoint, he guessed that her appetizer would be the miniature acorn squash roasted with a stuffing of wild rice, fresh corn, and caramelized onion. Her entrée would probably be the potato-crusted filet of salmon served with shiitake mushrooms, saffron risotto, and chive beurre blanc.
The telephone rang, making all three of them jump, and a grouchy male voice said, “I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon. Where’ve you been?”
“To the haunts of coot and hern,” Qwilleran retorted. He and Arch Riker had a lifetime license to be rude to each other.
“This rain’s driving me nuts! If only it would turn off for five minutes and start again, I wouldn’t care, but it’s relentless! Mildred copes by cooking. Why don’t you come and eat with us?”
“What’s on the menu?”
“Gumbo. And she’s made some kind of pie. Come anytime, I’m mixing a martini for myself right now.”
Qwilleran changed his shirt, fed the cats, and steered the van between the raindrops to Top o’ the Dune.
Mildred met him at the kitchen door. “You’re so brave, Qwill, to come out in this downpour!”
“I’ll do anything for a free meal, especially if you prepared it. What kind of pie did you make?”
“A new recipe. Strawberry lemon cream. Arch is in the living room with his cocktail. Shall I do something creative with tomato juice for you?”
“Please. And don’t forget the hot sauce.”
“He’s as cross as a bear. See if you can cheer him up.”
Qwilleran found him growling at the TV screen and said playfully, “Don’t bother to get up, Arch.”
“I didn’t intend to,” his friend grumbled.
“If you want me to stay, you’ll have to turn off the boob tube. I brought a copy of the new menu at Owen’s Place.”
“I’m dying to know what they offer,” said Mildred.
“Okay. How’s this for an appetizer? Grilled petite tenderloins of venison with smoked bacon, braised cabbage strudel, and a sun-dried Bing cherry demiglaze?”
“Ridiculous!” Arch said. “Give me the traditional dishes that Millie cooks.”
“Traditional, with a dollop of love thrown in,” she corrected.
“Speaking of food, I’ve had a live-in cook for a few days,” Qwilleran said, pausing long enough to enjoy Arch’s astonishment. Then he told them about Wetherby’s cousin and her crow proposal.
“Don’t take on any fringe projects,” Arch objected petulantly. “If you haven’t enough to do, we’ll run the ‘Qwill Pen’ three times a week. The subscribers are howling for it.”
“Let them howl!”
Qwilleran had never seen Arch so argumentative, but then he had never seen a rain storm so annoying.
The gumbo was filled with the good things that Mildred kept in her larder: chicken, shrimp, sausage—plus rice, vegetables, and spices.
During the dessert, Arch said, “If you want to hear something absurd, Junior has received some leaked information about a library of UFO literature opening in Mooseville! Can you believe that?”
“Sure. It’s a popular subject on the shore, with everyone but you and me,” said Qwilleran. “Even Lyle Compton watches for flying saucers with a telescope.”
“Lyle’s a fool!”
Mildred said firmly, “He’s an intelligent, educated, sophisticated individual.” Turning to Arch, she said, “That makes me a fool, too.”
“I didn’t say that!” her husband snapped.
“You implied it!”
“I’m going to bed! I haven’t slept a wink all day!” Arch stomped out of the room.
Mildred said softly, “He’s hardheaded, isn’t he? I don’t dare mention the rune stones you gave me, Qwill. They’re similar to tarot cards, in that the reader has to bring certain instincts to the interpretation.”
“Hmmm,” Qwilleran murmured. Foretelling the future by any method was outside his frame of belief.
Looking deeply concerned, she said, “The stones say we’re headed for disaster. One has to assume it’s connected with the unnatural volume of water that’s being dumped on us all at once. I really believe we should move back to Indian Village, but how do I convince Arch? He loves it here—when it isn’t raining. You and the cats should move back to Pickax also, Qwill.”
“We intend to. Now that Polly’s home and going back to work Wednesday, she’ll need help with grocery shopping. She’s been gone a month. Her cupboard must be bare.”
“Qwill, I don’t know why you and Polly don’t get married. You have strong feelings for her, and I know she adores you!”
“It wouldn’t work,” he explained. “She’s a tea-drinker, and I’m a coffee-drinker, and there are certain basics that must be considered.”
While driving back to the cabin through the persistent rain, Qwilleran thought about Mildred’s eccentric interest in the occult and compared it with his own belief in Koko’s prescient talents. The cat knew when the phone was about to ring and when a storm was brewing. Now Mildred had predicted a disaster for the area. Whimsically, Qwilleran imagined Koko pulling the luggage out of the closet and searching the bookshelves for Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey. That would be no more far-fetched than the cat’s sudden interest in A Horse’s Tale when Owen Bowen disappeared. And how about the backpacker? Not only did Koko sense that the body was buried in the sandhill, but he managed to lead Qwilleran to the site. And how to explain the cat’s obsession with the postcards? Qwilleran reviewed what he knew about the two men pictured. Shaw was a playwright, music critic, socialist, Nobel prize winner, and antivivisectionist; Wilde was a novelist, poet, playwright, and aesthete.
“Wait a minute!” he shouted at the steering wheel. “What’s wrong with me?” He took a chance on driving faster and dashed into the cabin without bothering to cover his head. The two cards were on the floor as usual. Why had he not thought to turn them over? He had not read Polly’s messages since they arrived two weeks before!
“We have tickets for Major Barbara tonight—not my favorite Shaw play, but it will be beautifully done.”
“A male actor plays Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest. Always a delightful comedy.”
Qwilleran felt a crawling sensation on his upper lip as the scrawled message brought to mind Barb Ogilvie and Ernestine Bowen. It was pure coincidence, and yet . . . He looked at Koko.
“Yow!” said the cat, squeezing his eyes.
Qwilleran asked himself, Did the two women know each other in Florida? Did Barb work in the Bowens’ restaurant? Was Owen the “older man” who entered Barb’s life when she was feeling low? She claimed to have moved back north to avoid trouble.
Previously, she may have extolled Moose County as a summer paradise. Did Owen respond to the chamber of commerce ad because of the climate, or because of the seductive young woman? And what was Ernie’s reaction to the move? There the conjectures became tangled. Did she know of the affair—or not? Were her objections overruled? There was more intrigue in this situation than met the eye. Answers might explain Barb’s depression in the days following Owen’s disappearance.
Qwilleran was in deep contemplati
on when the telephone rang.
It was Tess, calling from Horseradish. “I hear you’re having rain there,” she said.
“A few sprinkles.”
“Sorry to leave so abruptly yesterday. I was having such a wonderful time. Thank you, Qwill, for your hospitality and the clever ideas for the scenario. I left a T-shirt for you on the dresser in the Snuggery; let me know if it’s the wrong size. And by the way, I told Jeoffrey and Princess about your cats’ elitist diet, and now they don’t want to eat cat food.”
“Likely story,” Qwilleran said. “How was the family reunion?”
“The usual. Family gossip. A potluck supper. It was held in the community hall, and cousin Joe played the piano and sang. He was the only one interested in the Republic of Crowmania.” Then she asked the inevitable question: “How did you like the macaroni and cheese?”
“I’ve never tasted its equal!” he said with fervor and only a slight bending of the truth.
On Tuesday morning no one could believe it! The sun was shining, and the cessation of the rain left a blessed void. Qwilleran shouted just to hear his own voice: “Hallelujah!” With restored ambition he dashed off a thousand words about the dogcart races and took it to the bank to be faxed. The downtown streets swarmed with vacationers in dark glasses—laughing and yelling and going into shops to spend money. There was no sign of Mildred’s disaster.
Qwilleran had lunch at the Nasty Pasty, ordering the local specialty that was best when picked up in both hands. While enjoying his primitive repast, he thought of Owen’s Place, open for lunch once again. Derek would be playing the efficient manager and friendly host, dressing the skewered potatoes at tableside with a theatrical flourish. At two o’clock he would be off-duty and going to Elizabeth’s Magic to report.
Qwilleran opted to stay in town till then. He could say good-bye to the businessfolk he knew and listen to their worst-ever rain stories, taping them for use in the Friday “Qwill Pen”:
“Didn’t mind the wet, but the noise was like livin’ in a wind tunnel.”
Three Complete Novels: The Cat Who Tailed a Thief/the Cat Who Sang for the Birds/the Cat Who Saw Stars Page 16