The Cat Who Played Brahms

10

Before taking Rosemary out to dinner Qwilleran fed the cats, both of whom fastidiously avoided every shred of carrot that contaminated their corned beef.

He had made a reservation at the Northern Lights Hotel in order to get one of the high-backed booths constructed from the salvaged cabins of retired fishing boats. Diners in these booths had to be careful to avoid splinters, and in humid weather the booths exuded haunting reminders of their origin, but they were ideal for confidential conversation.

Rosemary was wearing a Mooseville T-shirt and a braided leather necklace from the prison gift shop, and she looked so youthful, so vibrant, so healthy that Qwilleran found it hard to believe she had a grandson old enough to be in medical school. She hung her shoulder-strap bag on a hook at the entrance to the booth. "Isn't it wonderful," she said, "not to worry about theft! At home, when I go to a restaurant, I put this bag on the floor, keep my foot on it, and wind the strap around my ankle." The menu cover reproduced an engraving of a terrifying storm on the lake, and the paper placemats listed the dates of major shipwrecks plus the number of lives lost.

Bon appetit, Qwilleran thought. He said to Rosemary: "You can order the poached scrod with cauliflower if you wish, but I'm going to have a large steak with fries… Don't look so shocked. I know the Right Food has done wonders for you; you don't seem a day over thirty-nine. But it's too late for me. The only time I ever looked thirty-nine was when I was twenty-five." "Truce! Truce!" she said, waving a paper napkin. "I didn't mean to be a nag, Qwill.

You order whatever you want, and don't apologize. You're under creative pressure with your book, and you've earned a treat. How many chapters have you written? Would you read me a few pages tonight?" "And another thing, Rosemary: Please don't keep asking about my progress. I don't have a daily quota or a deadline, and when I'm not sitting at my typewriter I want to forget about it entirely." "Why, certainly, Qwill. I've never known an author personally. You'll have to tell me how to behave." He kept glancing across the room toward a party of four seated beneath a large painting of a drowning sailor in shark-infested water. "Don't look now," he said, "but the two men over there are wreck-divers, I've been told. They loot sunken ships." The men were tall, lean, and stony-faced. "They look like cigarette ads," Rosemary said, "and the girls with them look like models. How did they get those gorgeous tans so early in the season? And why don't they look happy? Their diet is probably inadequate." "I've seen the girls walking on the beach," Qwilleran said. "I think they're staying at a cottage near ours. They may be the four who rented Fanny's cabin last year." He told how Koko had attracted his attention to the shipwreck book and how he had waded through the cross-written correspondence. "If you're looking for a quick way to get a headache," he added, "I'll lend you a few of Fanny's letters." "When am I going to meet her?" "Tomorrow or Wednesday. I'd like to ask her about these so-called marine historians and about her relationship with Buck Dunfield. There's one obstacle; it's hard to get her attention." "Some types of deafness are caused by a diet deficiency," Rosemary said.

"She's not deaf, I'm sure. She simply chooses not to listen. Maybe you'll be able to get through to her, Rosemary. She seems to favor women… Excuse me a moment. I want to catch those people before they leave." He crossed the room to the wreck-divers and addressed the more formidable of the two.

"Pardon me, sir. Aren't you a correspondent for one of the wire services?" The man shook his head. "Sorry, you're on the wrong track," he said in a deep and less-than-cordial voice.

"But you're a journalist, aren't you? Didn't you do graduate work at Columbia? You covered the last presidential election." "Sorry, none of the above." Qwilleran made a good show of bewilderment and turned to the second man. "I was sure you were a press photographer, and you two worked together on big assignments." More genially the other man said: "Nothin' like that, suh. We're jest a coupla bums up heah awn vacation." Qwilleran apologized, wished them a pleasant holiday, and returned to the booth.

"What was that all about?" Rosemary asked.

"Tell you later." On the way home he explained: "I think there's a syndicate operating around here.

They've been using Fanny's cabin for an underground headquarters. It's secluded; the doors have always been unlocked; and there are three avenues of access or escape: from the beach, from the highway, and from the woods. The boss has been giving tape-recorded orders to his henchmen, hiding the cassette behind the moose head." Rosemary laughed. "Qwill, dear, I know you're kidding me." "I'm serious." "Do you think it's drug-related?" "I think it's shipwreck-looting. The lake is full of valuable wrecks, and there's a book at the cabin that pinpoints their location and describes their cargoes. Some of the boats went down more than a hundred years ago." "But wouldn't the cargo be ruined by this time?" "Rosemary, they weren't shipping automobiles and TV sets in 1850. They were shipping copper ingots and gold bullion. The shipping manifests tell exactly what was aboard each vessel when it sank — how many barrels of whiskey, how many dollars in banknotes and gold. At one time this part of the country was booming." "Why did you talk to the men at the hotel?" "I thought one of them might be the ringleader, but there's no similarity between their voices and the one on the cassette. None at all. But the ringleader is around here somewhere." "Oh, Qwill! You have a fantastic imagination." When they arrived at the cabin Qwilleran unlocked the door and Rosemary entered. He heard her yelp: "Oh! Oh! There are tulips all over the floor!" "Those cats!" Qwilleran bellowed-loud enough to send both of them flying to the guest room.

"They pulled out all the black tulips, Qwill." "I don't blame them. Tulips were never intended to be black." "But you told me once that cats can't distinguish colors." He picked up the flowers, and Rosemary rearranged the bouquets in the impromptu vases on mantel, bar, and dining table. Then they went to the lake porch to await the sunset, stretching out in varnished steamer chairs old enough to have sailed on the Titanic.

Seagulls soared and swooped and squabbled over the dead fish on the beach. Rosemary identified them as herring gulls. The flycatchers, she said, who were performing a nonstop aerial ballet were purple martins. Something brown and yellow that kept whizzing past the porch was a cedar waxwing.

"I hear an owl," Qwilleran said, to prove he was not totally ignorant about wildlife.

"That's a mourning dove," she corrected him. "And I hear a cardinal… and a phoebe.

.. and I think a pine siskin. Close your eyes and listen, Qwill. It's like a symphony." He touched his moustache guiltily. Perhaps he had been listening to the wrong voices.

Here he was in the country, on vacation, surrounded by the delights of nature, and he was trying to identify miscreants instead of cedar waxwings. He should be reading the bird book instead of cross-written letters.

Rosemary interrupted his thought. "Tell me some more about Aunt Fanny." "Ah — well — yes," he said, shifting his attention back to the moment. "For starters.

.. she wears flashy clothes and bright lipstick, and she has a voice like a drill sergeant. She's spunky and bossy and full of energy and ideas." "She must have a wonderful diet." "She has a houseman who drives her around, runs errands, takes care of the garden, cleans the house, and knows how to repair everything under the sun." Rosemary giggled. "He'd make a wonderful husband. How old is he?" "But I have a suspicion he's also a petty thief." "I knew there was a catch," Rosemary said. "How does Koko react to him?"

.. "Very favorably. Tom has the kind of gentle voice that appeals to cats." Koko heard his name and wandered nonchalantly onto the porch.

"Have you been walking Koko on his leash?" "No, but I've contemplated a reconnaissance maneuver. He spends a lot of time staring out the guest room window, and I'd like to know what he finds so interesting." "Rabbits and chipmunks," Rosemary suggested. "There's something more." Qwilleran stroked his moustache. "I have a hunch…" "Let's take him out." "Now?" "Yes. Let's!" On several occasions Koko had been strapped into his blue harness and taken for a walk. A twelve-foot nylon cord donated by a Fluxion photographer served as a leash and gave him a wide range. Frequently Koko's inquisitive nose and catly perception led to discoveries that escaped human observation.

The appearance of the harness produced a noisy demonstration, and when the buckles were tightened Koko uttered a gamut of Siamese sounds denoting excitement. Yum Yum thought he was being tortured and protested loudly.

For the first time since his arrival Koko left the cabin. Outside the porch he found the rope hanging from the brass bell, stretched until he could catch it with a claw, and gave the bell a peal or two. Without hesitation he then turned eastward — past the porch, beyond the cabin itself, around the sandy rectangle that covered the septic tank, and toward the woods. When he reached the carpet of pine needles, acorns, and dried oak leaves, every step was a rustling, crackling experience unknown to a city cat. Squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks retired to safety. A frantic robin tried to distract him from her nest. Koko merely walked resolutely toward the woods on top of the dune. Behind a clump of wild cherry trees was the toolshed.

"How do you like that?" Qwilleran whispered to Rosemary. "He made a beeline for the toolshed." He opened the door, and Koko hopped across the threshold. He gave a single sniff to a canoe paddle and two sniffs to the trash can. "Quick, Rosemary, run and get the flashlight. It's hanging inside the back door." In the inner gloom of the shed Koko glanced at the collection of paint cans and went directly to Tom's cot. Jumping on the threadbare blanket he started pawing industriously, all the while making gutteral noises and flicking his tail in wide arcs. He pawed the sorry excuse for a pillow, pawed the wall with the faded Las Vegas pictures, and returned to pawing the blanket.

"What are you looking for, Koko?" Qwilleran pulled aside the blanket, and Koko dug into the thin mattress.

Rosemary was beaming the flashlight on the drab scene. "He's very determined." "There might be a nest of mice in the mattress." "Let's pull the whole dirty thing off onto the floor." The mattress slid off the flat springs of the cot, and with it came a large manila envelope. Rosemary held the light closer. The envelope was addressed to Francesca Klingenschoen and postmarked two years before. The return address was that of a Florida real estate firm.

"Look inside, Qwill." "Money! Mostly fifties." "Here, let me count it. I'm used to counting money." I She snapped the bills with professional speed. The total sum was almost twelve hundred dollars. "What shall we do with it?" "It belongs to Fanny's houseman," Qwilleran said. "We'll put it back, and tidy the bed, and get out of here before the mosquitoes bring up their reserves." Late that night he lay awake wondering about Tom's cache in the toolshed. Was the poor fellow saving up for a down payment on a Las Vegas nightclub? Where was he getting the money? Not from Aunt Fanny. It appeared that she doled out a few dollars at a time.

Qwilleran heard heavy footsteps on the roof. He hoped Roger was right. He hoped it was a raccoon.