The Cat Who Played Brahms

13

When the telephone rang, Koko and Yum Yum were sitting on the polar bear rug, washing up after their morning can of crabmeat. Rosemary was in the kitchen, preparing the turkey for the oven. Qwilleran was having his third cup of coffee on the porch when the phone bleated its muffled summons from the kitchen cupboard.

He was trying to organize his wits. The dead rabbit was one more mismatched piece in the Mooseville Puzzle. Nick's revelation about escaped convicts reassured him, however, that he could still tell a human body from an automobile tire. Now it was clear that the ferry racket — and not wreck-looting — was the focus of Buck's do-it-yourself investigation; if one could identify the cold-blooded skipper, it would undoubtedly solve the mystery of Buck's murder. He (or she, as Lori would say) was someone who was used to killing.

Qwilleran had no way of knowing what clues the police had found in the sawdust or what progress they were making in the investigation. At the Daily Fluxion he could count on the police reporter to tip him off, but in Mooseville he was an outsider who registered alarm over a marauding owl or a dead rabbit or a body snagged by a fishhook. One thing was certain: The voice in the fog matched the voice on the cassette. If he could find that voice in Mooseville, he would have useful information for the investigators. Yet, the message on the cassette seemed to have nothing to do with the premeditated drownings.

Rosemary appeared on the porch. "Telephone for you, Qwill. It's Miss Goodwinter." He thought at once of perfume and dimples, but the pleasurable tremor subsided when he heard the attorney's grave voice.

"Yes, Miss Goodwinter… No, I haven't had the radio turned on… No! How bad?… Terrible! I can't believe it!… What is being done?… Is there anything I can do?… Yes, I certainly will. Right away. Where shall we meet?… In about an hour." "What's happened?" Rosemary demanded. "Bad news about Aunt Fanny. Sometime last night she fell down a flight of stairs." "Oh, Qwill! How terrible! Is she… She can't have survived. " He shook his head. "Tom found her at the bottom of the stairs this morning. Poor Aunt Fanny! She was so spirited — had such a youthful outlook. She enjoyed life so much. She never complained about being old." "And she was so generous. Imagine giving me a Staffordshire pitcher! I'm sure it's valuable." "Penelope wants me to meet her at the house as soon as possible. There are things to discuss. You don't have to go with me, but I'd appreciate it if you would." "Of course I'll go with you. I'll put the turkey back in the fridge." Before leaving for Pickax, Qwilleran latched all the windows and closed the interior shutters so that the cats could not be seen by a prowler. He locked front and back doors to keep them from the screened porches. "I'm sorry to do this to you guys," he said, "but it's the only safe way." To Rosemary he said: "Who would think such security measures would be necessary in a place like this?

I'm going to move back to the city next week. Now that Aunt Fanny's gone, the cabin might not be available to me anyway. That's probably what the attorney wants to discuss." "It was too good to be true, wasn't it?" "It would have been ideal — without the complications. But the simple country life is not all that simple. They'll razz me when I show up at the Press Club next week. I'll never live it down." When they arrived at the stone house in Pickax, Tom was working in the yard, but his head was bowed and he didn't wave his usual eager greeting.

Penelope answered the doorbell, and Qwilleran introduced his houseguest. "This is Rosemary Whiting. We were both stunned by the news." Rosemary said: "We lunched with her yesterday, and she was so chipper!" "One would never guess she would be ninety next month," the attorney said.

"Is this where it happened?" Qwilleran pointed to the staircase.

Penelope nodded. "It was a terrible tumble, and she was such a fragile little person. She had been having fainting spells, and Alex and I urged her to move into a smaller place, all on one floor, but we couldn't convince her." She shrugged in defeat. "Would you like a cup of tea? I found some teabags in the kitchen." Rosemary said: "Let me fix the tea while you two talk." "Very good of you, Miss Whiting. We'll be in the conservatory." They went into the room with the French doors and the rubber plants and Aunt Fanny's enormous wicker rocking chair. Qwilleran said: "Fanny called this the sun parlor." Penelope smiled. "When she moved back here after years on the East Coast, she took great pains to conceal her sophistication. She tried to talk like a little old granny, although we knew she was nothing of the sort… I phoned Alex in Washington this morning, and he told me to contact you, as next of kin. He can't possibly return until Saturday." "Fanny and I were not related. She was a close friend of my mother's, that's all." "But she referred to you as her nephew, and she had great affection and admiration for you, Mr. Qwilleran. She has no other relatives, you know." The attorney opened her briefcase. "Our office handled all of Fanny's affairs — even her mail, to protect her from hate mail and begging letters. She deposited a sealed envelope in our file, detailing her last wishes. Here it is. No funeral, no visitation, no public display, just cremation. The Picayune is running a full-page obituary tomorrow, and we plan a memorial service on Saturday." "Did she have a church affiliation?" "No, but she made annual contributions to all five churches, and the service will probably be held at the largest. It will be very well attended, I'm sure-people coming from all over Moose County." During the conversation the telephone rang frequently. "I'm not answering," Penelope said. "They're just curiosity-seekers. Legitimate inquiries will go to the office." Qwilleran asked: "What about the open-door policy that seems to prevail in these parts? Won't people walk into the house?" "Tom has instructions to turn them away." Then Rosemary served the tea, and conversation drifted into polite reminiscences. Penelope pointed out Fanny's favorite rocker. Qwilleran commented on her flair for exotic clothes.

Finally he said: "Well, everything seems to be under control here. Are you sure there's nothing we can do to help?" "There is one little matter that Alex said I should discuss with you." She paused dramatically. "We don't have Fanny's will." "What! With all that money and all that real estate — she died intestate? I can't believe it!" "We are positive that a holographic will exists. She insisted in writing it herself to protect her privacy." "Is that a legal document?" "In this state, yes… if it's written in her own hand and signed and dated. Witnesses are not required. That was the way she wanted it, and one didn't argue with Fanny! Naturally we advised her on the terminology to avoid ambiguity and loopholes. Its location should have been noted in her letter of instructions, but unfortunately…" "And now what?" Penelope looked hopefully at Qwilleran. "All we have to do is find it." "Find it!" he said. "Is that what you want me to do?" "Would you object strenuously?" Qwilleran looked at Rosemary, and she nodded enthusiastically. She said: "Fanny gave me a tour of the house yesterday, and I don't think it would be difficult." "Call me at the office if you have any problems," Penelope said, "and don't answer the phone; it will only prove a nuisance." Then she left them alone, and Qwilleran confronted Rosemary. "All right! If you think it's so easy, where do we begin?" "There's a big desk in the library and a small one in Fanny's sitting room upstairs. Also an antique trunk in her bedroom." "You're amazing! You notice everything, Rosemary. But has it occurred to you that they might be locked?" She ran to the kitchen and returned with a handful of small keys. "These were in the Chinese teapot I used for the tea. Why don't you start in the library? I'd like to tackle the trunk." That was a mistake, considering Qwilleran's obses- sion with the printed word. He was awed by the rows of leather-bound volumes from floor to ceiling. He guessed that Grandfather Klingenschoen tucked away a few pornographic classics on the top shelf. He guessed the library housed a fortune in first editions. On one shelf he found a collection of racy novels from the Twenties, with Aunt Fanny's personal bookplate, and he was absorbed in Five Frivolous Femmes by Gladys Gaudi when Rosemary rushed into the room.

"Qwill, I've made a terrific discovery!" "The will?" "Not the will. Not yet. But the trunk is filled with Fanny's scrapbooks as far back as her college days. Do you realize that dear Aunt Fanny was once an exotic dancer in New Jersey?" "A stripper? In burlesque houses?" Rosemary looked gleeful. "She saved all the ads and some 'art photographs' and a few red hot fan letters. No wonder she wanted you to write a book! Come on upstairs. The scrapbooks are all dated. I've just started." They spent several hours exploring the trunk, and Qwilleran said: "I feel like a voyeur. When she told me she was in clubwork, I visualized garden clubs and hospital auxiliaries and afternoon study clubs." Actually her career had been pursued in Atlantic City nightclubs, first as an entertainer, then as a manager, and finally as an owner, with her greatest activity during the years of Prohibition. There were excerpts from gossip columns, pictures of Francesco's Club, and photos of Francesca herself posing with politicians, movie stars, baseball heroes, and gangsters. There was no mention of a marriage, but there was evidence of a son. His portraits from babyhood to manhood appeared in one scrapbook until — according to newspaper clippings — he was killed in a mysterious accident on the New York waterfront.

But there was no will.

Qwilleran telephoned Penelope to say they would continue the search the next day. He made the chore sound tedious and depressing. In fact, the excitement of Fanny's past life erased the sadness of the occasion, and both he and Rosemary were strangely elated.

She said: "Let's do something reckless. Let's eat at the Dismal Diner on the way home." The boxcar stood on a desolate stretch of the highway with not another building in sight — only the rotting timbers of the Dimsdale shaft house. There were no vehicles in the pasture that served as a parking lot, but a sign in the door said OPEN, contradicting another sign in one window that said CLOSED.

The side of the boxcar was punctuated with windows of various sorts, depending on the size and shape available at some local dump. The interior was papered with yellowing posters and faded menus dating back to the days of nickel coffee and ten-cent sandwiches. Qwilleran raised his sensitive nose and sniffed. "Boiled cabbage, fried onions, and marijuana," he reported. "I don't see a ma?tre d'. Where would you like to Sit, Rosemary?" Along the back wall stretched a worn counter with a row of stools, several of them stumps without seats. Tables and chairs were Depression-era, probably from miners' kitchens. There was only one sign of life, and that was uncertain. A tall, cadaverous man, who may not have eaten for a week, came forward like a sleepwalker from the dingy shadows at the end of the diner.

"Nice little place you've got here," Qwilleran said brightly. "Do you have a specialty?" "Goulash," the man said in a tinny voice.

"We were hoping you'd have veal cordon bleu. Do you have any artichokes?… No?… No artichokes, Rosemary. Do you want to go somewhere else?" "I'd like to try the goulash," she said. "Do you suppose it's real Hungarian goulash?" "The lady would like to know if it's real Hungarian goulash," Qwilleran repeated to the waiter.

"I dunno." "I think we'll both have the goulash. It sounds superb: And do you have any Bibb lettuce?" "Cole slaw is all." "Excellent! I'm sure it's delicious." Rosemary was eyeing Qwilleran with that dubious, disapproving look she reserved for his playful moments. When the waiter, who was also the cook, shambled out of his shadowy hole with generous portions of something slopped on chipped plates, she transferred the same expression to a study of the food. She whispered to Qwilleran: "I thought goulash was beef cubes cooked with onions in red wine, with sweet paprika. This is macaroni and canned tomatoes and hamburger." "This is Mooseville," he explained. "Try it. It tastes all right if you don't think about it too much." When the cook brought the dented tin coffeepot, Qwilleran asked genially: "Do you own this delightful little place?" "Me and my buddy." "Would you consider selling? My friend here would like to open a tearoom and boutique." He spoke without daring to look at Rosemary.

"I dunno. An old lady in Pickax wants to buy it. She'll pay good money." "Miss Klingenschoen, no doubt." "She likes it a lot. She comes in here with that quiet young fellah." When Qwilleran and Rosemary continued their drive north, she said: "There's an example for you. Fanny made irresponsible promises to the poor man, and you're just as bad — with your jokes about tearooms and artichokes." "I wanted to check his voice against the cassette," Qwilleran said. "It doesn't fit the pattern I'm looking for. When you stop to think about it, he doesn't fit the role of master criminal either… although he could be arrested for that goulash. My chief suspect now is the guy who owns the FOO." When they turned into the private drive to the cabin, Rosemary said: "Look! There's a Baltimore oriole." She inhaled deeply. "I love this lake air. And I love the way the driveway winds between the trees and then suddenly bursts into sight of the lake." Qwilleran stopped the car with a jolt in the center of the clearing. "The cats are on the porch! How did they get out? I locked them in the cabin!" Two dark brown masks with blue eyes were peering through the screens and howling in two-part harmony.

Qwilleran jumped out of the car and shouted over his shoulder: "The cabin door's wide open!" He rushed indoors, followed by a hesitant Rosemary. "Someone's been in here! There's a bar stool knocked over… and blood on the white rug! Koko, what happened? Who was in here?" Koko rolled over on his haunches and licked his paws, spreading his toes and extending his claws.

From the guest room Rosemary called: "This window's open! There's glass on the floor, and the shutter's hanging from one hinge. The screen's been cut!" It was the window overlooking the septic tank and the wooded crest of the dune.

"Someone broke in to get the cassette," Qwilleran said. "See? He set up a bar stool to reach the moose head. He fell off — or jumped off in panic — and gave the stool a back-kick. I'll bet Koko leaped on the guy's head from one of the beams. His eighteen claws can stab like eighteen stilettoes, and Koko isn't fussy about where he grabs. There's a lot of blood; he could have sunk his fangs into an ear." "Oh, dear!" Rosemary said with a shudder.

"Then the guy ran out the door-maybe with the cat riding on his head and screeching. Koko's been licking his claws ever since we got home." "Did the man get the cassette?" "It wasn't up there. I have it hidden. Don't touch anything. I'm going to call the sheriff — again." "If my car had been parked in the lot, this wouldn't have happened, Qwill. He'd think someone was home." "We'll pick up your car tomorrow." "I'll have to drive home on Sunday. I wish you were coming with me, Qwill. There's a dangerous man around here, and he knows you've found his cassette. What are you going to tell the sheriff?" "I'm going to ask him if he likes music, and I'll play Little White Lies." Later that evening Rosemary and Qwilleran sat on the porch to watch the setting sun turn the lake from turquoise to purple. "Did you ever see such a sky?" Rosemary asked. "It shades from apricot to mauve to aquamarine, and the clouds are deep violet." Koko was pacing restlessly from the porch to the kitchen to the guest room and back to the porch.

"He's disturbed," Qwilleran explained, "by his instinctive savagery in attacking the burglar. Koko is a civilized cat, and yet he's haunted by an ancestral memory of days gone by and places far away, where his breed lurked on the walls of palaces and temples and sprang down on intruders to tear them to ribbons." "Oh, Qwill," Rosemary laughed. "He smells the turkey in the oven, that's all."