The Cat Who Played Brahms

15

There were four documents in Aunt Fanny's safe. Three were envelopes sealed with red wax and labeled Last Will and Testament in her unmistakable handwriting. These Qwilleran turned over to Goodwinter and Goodwinter along with some velvet cases of jewelry to put in the attorneys' safe. The fourth item was a small address book bound in green leather, which he slipped into his pocket.

Nick and Lori had arrived at the stone house an hour before the memorial service, giving Nick time to crack the safe and giving Rosemary time to show Lori the handsome rooms with their antique furnishings. Then, leaving Koko and Yum Yum on top of the refrigerator, all four of them joined the crowd at the Pickax High School.

Everyone was there. Qwilleran saw Roger and Sharon and Mildred, the fraudulent sea captain who sold fake antiques, Old Sam, Dr. Melinda Goodwinter in a sea-green suit to match her eyes, the two boys from the Minnie K, a.k.a. the Seagull, the museum curator, the Mooseville garage mechanic — everyone. The emaciated cook from the Dismal Diner arrived by motorcycle, riding behind a burly man wearing a large diamond ring and a leather jacket with cut-off sleeves. Tom was there, huddled shyly in the back row. Even the proprietors of the FOO were there with their furtive cook. The managing editor of the Pickax Picayune was standing on the front steps, making note of important arrivals.

"Junior, you've surpassed yourself!" Qwilleran said in greeting. "You hit seventy-eight in a single sentence! That must be a record. What genius writes your obituaries?" The young editor laughed off the question. "I know it's weird, but they've been written that way since 1859, and that's what our readers like. A flowery obit is a status symbol for the families around here. I told you we do things our own way." "You weren't serious, I hope, when you said Fanny's obit was suitable for framing." "Oh, sure. A lot of people up here collect obits as a hobby. One old lady has more than five hundred in a scrapbook. There's an Obituary Club with a monthly newsletter." Qwilleran shook his head. "Answer another question, Junior. How does the Dimsdale Diner stay in business? The food's a crime, and I never see anyone there." "Didn't you ever see the coffee crowd? At seven in the morning and then at eleven o'clock the parking lot's full of pickups. That's where I go to gather news." At that moment the FOO delegation arrived, and Qwilleran grasped the chance to speak to the elusive Merle. He was a mountain of a man — tall, obese, forbidding, with one eye half-shut and the other askew.

"Excuse me, sir," Qwilleran said. "Are you the owner of the FOO restaurant?" His wife, the beefy woman who presided at the cash register, said: "He don't talk no more. He had a accident at the factory." She made a throat-cutting motion with her hand. "And now he don't talk." Qwilleran made a fast recovery. "Sorry. I just wanted to tell you, Merle, how much I enjoy your restaurant, especially the pasties. My compliments to the cook. Keep up the good work." Merle nodded and attempted to smile but only succeeded in looking more sinister.

While the preachers and politicians paid glowing tributes to Fanny Klingenschoen, Qwilleran fingered the little green book in his pocket. It was indexed alphabetically and filled with names, but instead of addresses there were notations of small-town malfeasance: shoplifting, bad checks, infidelity, graft, conflict of interest, errant morals, embezzlement. Nothing was documented, but Fanny seemed to know. Perhaps she too was a regular patron of the coffee hour at the Dismal Diner. It was her hobby. As others collected obituaries, Fanny had collected the skeletons in local closets. How she used her information, one could only guess. Perhaps the little green book was the weapon she used in saving the courthouse and getting new sewers installed. Qwil leran decided he would build a fire in the fireplace before the day was over.

After the service Rosemary said: "I've had a lovely. time, Qwill. Sorry I can't stay for lunch, but I have a long drive ahead." "Did you remember to take the Staffordshire pitcher?" "I wouldn't forget that for anything!" "It's been good to have you here, Rosemary." "Write and tell me how the estate is settled." "Send me your address in Toronto, and don't get too involved with our friend Max." There was a note of friendly affection in their farewell, but none of the warmth and intimacy there had been a week ago. Too bad, Qwilleran thought. He collected the Siamese and drove back to the cabin. It was clear that Koko had disliked Rosemary. He had always been a man's cat. The night before, Koko had refused to eat the turkey that Rosemary had so thoughtfully purchased and roasted.

"Okay, Koko," Qwilleran said when they reached the cabin. "She's gone now. We'll try the turkey once more." A tempting assortment of white meat and dark meat was arranged on the cats' favorite raku plate — a feast that would send any normal Siamese into paroxysms of joy. Yum Yum attacked it ravenously, but Koko viewed the plate with distaste. He arched his back and, stepping stiffly on long slender legs, circled the repast as if it were poison — not once but three times.

Qwilleran stroked his moustache vigorously. In the few years he had known Koko, the Siamese had performed this ritual twice. The first time he pranced around a dead body; his second macabre dance had been the clue to a ghastly crime.

The telephone emitted its stifled ring.

"Hello, Qwill. It's me. I'm calling from Dove Lake." "Oh-oh. Car trouble?" "No, everything's fine." "Forget something?" "No, but I remembered something. You know that money you found under the sofa. The money clip looked familiar, and now I know why." "The candle shop carried them. Roger has one, and I tried to buy one myself," Qwilleran said.

"Maybe so, but the one I remember was at the turkey farm. That man with the terrible problem got out his money clip to give me a dollar in change, and it looked like a big gold paper clip." Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingertips. Rosemary had bought the turkey on Wednesday. The break-in was Thursday. The money clip could have popped out of a pants pocket when the man jumped or fell from the bar stool and fled from those eighteen claws.

"Did you hear me, Qwill?" "Yes, Rosemary. I'm putting two and two together. I There's something about that turkey you bought — it's turning Koko off. He's getting vibrations. Yum Yum thinks it's great, but Koko still refuses to touch it. I think he's steering me to that turkey farm." "Be careful, Qwill. Don't take any chances. You know what almost happened to you at Maus Haus when you meddled in a dangerous situation." "Don't worry, Rosemary. Thanks for the information. Drive carefully, and stop if you get sleepy." So that was the clue! Turkey! Qwilleran grabbed the money clip with the thirty-five dollars, locked the cats in the cabin, and hurried to his car.

It was only a few miles to the turkey farm. The bronze backs were pitching and heaving as usual. The blue pickup was in the yard. He parked and headed for the door that invited retail and wholesale trade. The wind was from the northwest, so there was very little barnyard odor, but once he stepped inside the building he was staggered by the stench.

There was nothing to account for it. The premises were spotless: the white-painted walls, the scrubbed wooden counter with its stainless steel scales and shiny knives, the clean saw-dust on the floor in the manner of old butcher shops. There was a bell on the counter: Ring for service. Qwilleran banged it three times, urgently.

When the tall, hefty man stepped out of a walk-in cooler, Qwilleran tried to control his facial reaction of revulsion. It was the post office experience all over again, but there was more. The man's face and neck were covered with red, raw scratches. There was an adhesive bandage on his throat. One ear was torn. He was wearing the inevitable feed cap, and its visor had apparently protected his eyes when Koko attacked, but the sight was worse than Qwilleran had imagined, and the odor was nauseating.

He stared at the farmer, and the man returned the stare, impassively, defensively. Someone had to say something, and Qwilleran brought himself to make the natural comment: "Looks like you had a bad accident." "Damn turkeys!" the man said. "They go crazy and kill each other. I should learn to stay outa the way." That was all that was necessary for Qwilleran's practiced ear. It was the voice on the cassette.

He threw the money and the gold clip on the counter. "Does this belong to you? I found it in my cabin. I also have a cassette that might be yours." He looked the disfigured farmer squarely in the eye.

The man's expression turned hostile; his eyes flashed; his jaw clenched. With a yell he leaped over the counter, grabbing a knife.

Qwilleran bolted for the door but tripped over a doorstop and went down on one knee — his bad knee. He sensed an arm raised above him, a knife poised over his head. It was a frozen pose, a freeze-frame from a horror movie. The knife did not descend.

"You drop that," said a gentle voice. "That's a very bad thing to do." The knife fell to the sawdust-covered floor with a muffled clatter.

"Now you turn around and hold your hands up." Tom was standing in the doorway, pointing a gun at the farmer, a small pistol with a gold handle. "Now we should call the sheriff," he said to Qwilleran mildly.

"You idiot!" his prisoner screamed. "If you talk, I'll talk!" There was no doubt about it; that was the voice: high pitch, metallic timbre, flat inflection.

Two deputies took Hanstable away, and Qwilleran agreed to go to the jail later to sign the papers.

"How did you happen to stop here?" he asked Tom.

"I went to fix your window. The door was locked. I couldn't get in. Then I went to MoosevilIe to buy a pasty. I like pasties." "And then what?" "I was going home. I saw your car here. I came in to get the key." "Come on back to the cabin and have a beer," Qwilleran said. "I don't mind telling you, I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life! That's a nice little gun you've got there." How a pistol from Fanny's handbag happened to be in Tom's pocket was a matter of interest' that Qwilleran did not pursue at the moment.

"It's very pretty. It's gold. I like gold." "How can I repay you, Tom? You saved my life." "You're a nice man. I didn't want him to hurt you." Qwilleran drove back to the cabin, the handyman following in his blue truck, shining like new. They sat on the south porch in the shelter of the building because the northwest wind was blowing furiously, lashing trees and shrubs into a green frenzy.

Qwilleran served a beer and made a toast. "Here's! to you, Tom. If you hadn't come along, I might have ended up as a turkey hot dog." The quip, such as it was, appealed to the handyman's simple sense of humor. Qwilleran wanted to put him at ease before asking too many questions. After a while he asked casually: "Do you go to the turkey farm often, Tom?" "No, it smells bad." "What did the farmer mean when he said he would talk if you talked?" A sheepish smile flickered across the bland face. "It was about the whiskey. He told me to buy the whiskey." "What was the whiskey for?" "The prisoners." "The inmates at the big prison?" "I feel sorry for the prisoners. I was in prison once." Qwilleran said sympathetically: "I can see how you would feel. You don't drink whiskey, do you? I don't either." "It tastes bad," Tom said.

The newsman had always been a sympathetic interviewer, never pushing his questions too fast, always engaging his subjects in friendly conversation. To slow down the interrogation he got up and killed a spider and knocked down a web, commenting on the size of the spider population and their persistence in decorating the cabin, inside and out, with their handiwork. Then: "How did you deliver the whiskey to the prisoners?" "He took it in." "Excuse me, Tom. I hear the phone." It was Alexander Goodwinter calling. He had just returned from Washington and was at a loss to express his sadness at the death of the gallant little lady. He and Penelope were about to drive to Mooseville and would like to call on him in half an hour to discuss a certain matter.

Qwilleran knew what that certain matter would be. As executors of the estate they would want a thousand a month for the cabin. He returned to the porch. Koko had been conversing with Tom in his absence.

"He has a loud voice," the handyman said. "I stroked him. His fur is nice. It's soft." Qwilleran made a few remarks about the characteristics of Siamese, mentioned Koko's fondness for turkey, and then sidled into the inquiry again. "I suppose you had to deliver the whiskey to the turkey farm." "I took it to the cemetery. He told me to leave it in the cemetery. There's a place there." "I hope he paid you for it." "He gave me a lot of money. That was nice." "It's always good to have a little extra money coming in. I'll bet you stashed it away in the bank to buy a boat or something." "I don't like banks. I hid it somewhere." "Well, just be sure it's in a safe place. That's the important thing. Are you ready for a beer?" There was time out for serving and for comments on the velocity of the wind and the possibility of a tornado. The temperature was abnormally high, and the sky had a yellow tone. Then: "Did you buy the liquor in Mooseville? They don't have a very good selection." "He told me to buy it in different places. Sometimes he told me to buy whiskey. Sometimes he told me to buy gin." Qwilleran wished he had a pipeful of tobacco. The business of lighting a pipe had often filled in the pauses and softened the edges of an interview when the subject was shy or reluctant. He said to Tom: "It would be interesting to know how the farmer got the liquor into the prison." "He took it in his truck. He took it in with the turkeys. He told me to buy pint bottles so they would fit inside the turkeys." "That's a new way to stuff a turkey," Qwilleran said, getting a hilarious reaction from the handyman. "If you didn't go to the farm, how did you know what kind of liquor to buy?" "He came here and talked into the machine. I listened to it when I came here to work. That was nice. I liked that." Something occurred to Tom and he giggled. "He left it behind the moose." "I always thought that moose looked kind of sick, and now I know why." Tim giggled some more. He was having a good time. "So you played the cassette when you came here." "It had some nice music, too." "Why didn't the farmer just leave you a note?" Qwilleran performed an exaggerated pantomime of writing. "Dear Tom, bring five pints of Scotch and four pints of gin. Hope you are feeling well. Have a nice day. Love from your friend Stanley." The handyman found this nonsense highly entertaining. Then he sobered and answered the question. "I can't read. I wish I could read and write. That would be nice." Qwilleran had always found it difficult to believe the statistics on illiteracy in the United States, but here was a living statistic, and he was struggling to accept it when the telephone rang again.

"Hello, Qwill," said a voice he had known all his life. "How's everything up there?" "Fine, Arch. Did you get my letters?" "I got two. How's the weather?" "You didn't call to ask about the weather, Arch. What's on your mind?" "Great news, Qwill' You'll be getting a letter from Percy, but I thought I'd tip you off. That assignment I told you about — investigative reporting — Percy wants you to come back and start right away. If the Rampage gets someone first, Percy will have a heart attack. You know how he is." "Hmmm," Qwilleran said.

"Double your salary and an unlimited expense account. Also a company car for your own use-a new one. How's that for perks?" "I wonder what the Rampage is offering?" "Don't be funny. You'll get Percy's letter in a couple of days, but I wanted to be the first…" "Thanks, Arch. I appreciate it. You're a good guy. Too bad you're an editor." "And something else, Qwill. I know you'll need a new apartment, and Fran Unger is giving up hers and getting married. It's close to the office, and the rent is reasonable." "And the walls are papered with pink roses and galloping giraffes." "Keep it in mind anyway. Be seeing you soon. Say hello to that spooky cat." Qwilleran was dizzy with shock and elation, but Tom was starting to leave and he had to thank him once more. He picked up the antique brass inkwell from the top of the bar.

"Here is something I'd like you to have, Tom. It needs polishing, but I know you like brass. It's an inkwell that traveled around the world on sailing ships a hundred years ago." "That's very pretty. I never had anything like that. I'll polish it every day." The handyman measured the broken window and drove into Mooseville to buy glass, while Qwilleran sat down to contemplate the offer from the Fluxion. Now that he was leaving this beautiful place he was filled with regret. He should have spent more time enjoying the verdure, the moods of the lake, the dew glistening on a spider web. Now he could look forward to the daily irritations of the office: the pink memos from Percy; electric pencil sharpeners always out-of-order; six elevators going up when a person wanted to go down; VDTs that made the job harder instead of easier. Suddenly he realized how much his knee was paining him.

He propped his leg on a chaise. From the back of a nearby chair, where a hawk had once perched, he was being watched intently by a pair of blue eyes in a brown mask.

"Well, Koko," QwilIeran said, "our vacation didn't turn out the way we expected, did it? But the time hasn't been wasted. We've cracked a one-man crime operation. Too bad we couldn't have stopped him before he got Buck Dunfield… Too bad no one around here will ever know you deserve all the credit. Even if we told them, they wouldn't believe it." Howling wind and crashing surf drowned out the sound of the Goodwinter car as it pulled into the clearing. Qwilleran hobbled out to greet them — Alexander looking impeccably well-groomed and Penelope looking radiant and a trifle flushed. When they shook hands she added an extra squeeze, and in addition to her perfume there was a hint of mint breath-freshener.

"You're limping," she said.

"I tripped over a toadstool… Come in out of the wind. I think we're going to have a tornado." Alexander went directly to his previous seat on Yum Yum's sofa. Penelope went to the windows overlooking the turbulent lake and rhapsodized about the view and the cabin's desirable location.

Qwilleran thought: The rent just went up to twelve hundred. Won't they be surprised when I break the news!

"It is regrettable," Alexander was saying, "that I was in Washington when this unfortunate incident occurred. My sister tells me you were of great assistance, making many trips back and forth and spending long hours searching through the Klingenschoen archives. It cannot have been a pleasant task." "There was a lot of material to sift through," Qwilleran said. "Luckily I had a houseguest from Down Below who was willing to help." He refrained from mentioning Koko's contribution; he doubted whether the Goodwinters were ready for the idea of a psychic cat.

"I regret I could not get a return flight in time to attend the memorial service, but it appears that Penelope organized it efficiently and tastefully, and it was well attended." His sister had wandered over to the table that presented such a convincing picture of authorial industry, and now she dropped onto the other sofa. "Alex, why don't you get to the point? You're keeping Mr. Qwilleran from his writing." "Ah, yes. The will. A problem has arisen in connection with the will." "I don't envision any problem," Penelope retorted. "You're inventing one before it arises." The senior partner threw a remonstrative glance in her direction, cleared his throat, and opened his briefcase. "As you know, Mr. Qwilleran, Fanny left three wills in the safe, written in her own hand. She had written many wills during the years, changing her mind frequently. Only the last three wills were saved (this on our recommendation). They were dated, of course, and only the most recent is valid. Having the three wills gives us an enlightening overview of the lady's feelings in the last few years." Qwilleran's gaze dropped from the attorney's face to his shoe; the little brown triangle of a face was appearing under the skirt of the sofa. Koko, on the other hand, was perched on the moose head with the authority of a presiding judge.

"The oldest will, which is invalid, bequeathed Fanny's entire estate to a foundation in Atlantic City, for the purpose of rehabilitating a certain section of the city which apparently had nostalgic significance for her. although it would be considered by most of us to be — ah — unsavory." Yum Yum's paw was reaching out from her hiding place with stealth. Penelope had noticed the maneuver, and her face reflected a heroic effort to control mirth.

Goodwinter went on. "The second will, which is also invalid, I am mentioning merely to acquaint you with the change in Fanny's sympathies. This document bequeathed half her estate to the Atlantic City foundation and the other half to the schools, churches, cultural and charitable organizations, health care facilities, and civic causes in Pickax City. Considering the extent of her holdings there was plenty to distribute equitably, and she had promised sizable sums to all of the aforementioned." Qwilleran checked Yum Yum's progress and glanced at Penelope, who returned his glance and exploded with laughter.

"Penelope!" her brother said in consternation. "Please allow me to conclude… The most recent will leaves the sum of one dollar to each of the beneficiaries heretofore named — a wise precaution in our estimation, inasmuch as…" "Alex, why don't you come to the point of this discussion," said Penelope, waving a hand gaily, "and tell Mr. Qwilleran that he gets the whole damned thing." "YOW!" came a howl from the vicinity of the moose head.

Goodwinter cast a quick disapproving eye at Penelope and then at Koko. "Excepting only the token bequests I have indicated, Mr. Qwilleran, you are indeed the sole heir to the estate of Fanny Klingenschoen." Qwilleran was stunned. "That," the attorney said, "sums up the intent and purpose of the most recent will, dated April first of this year, thus revoking all prior documents. The formal reading of the will is scheduled to take place Wednesday afternoon in our office." Qwilleran shook his head like a wet dog. He could think of nothing to say. He looked at Penelope for help, but she merely grinned in an idiotic way.

Finally he said: "It's an April Fools' joke." Goodwinter said: "I assure you it is legitimate. The problem, as I see it, might be that the bequest will be challenged by the numerous organizations expecting generous sums." "They were verbal promises that Fanny made to everyone in town," Penelope reminded her brother. "Mr. Qwilleran's claim is the only legal one." "Nevertheless, one might foresee a class action suit on behalf of the Pickax charities and civic institutions, questioning Fanny's testamentary capacity, but I assure you…

"Alex, you neglected to mention the proviso." "Ah, yes. The assets — bank accounts, investments, real estate, etc.- are held in trust for five years with the entire income going to you, Mr. Qwilleran, provided you consent to make Pickax your residence for that period of time and maintain the Klingenschoen mansion as your address — after which time the trust is dissolved and the estate is transferred to you in toto." There was silence in the room, and stares all around.

A window slammed in the guest room.

Goodwinter looked startled. "Is there someone else in the house?" "Only Tom," Qwilleran said. "He's fixing a broken window." "Well?" Penelope asked. "Don't keep us in suspense." "What happens if I decline the terms?" "In that case," Goodwinter said, "the will specifies that the entire estate goes to Atlantic City." "And if it goes to Atlantic City," Penelope added, "there will be rioting in the city of Pickax, and you will be lynched, Mr. Qwilleran." "I still think you're pulling my leg," he said.

"There's no reason why Fanny should make this… this incredible gesture. Until a couple of weeks ago I hadn't seen her for forty years or more." Goodwinter reached into his briefcase and drew out a paper covered with Fanny's idiosyncratic handwriting. "She claims you as her godchild. Your mother was a friend she regarded as a sister." Penelope giggled. "Come on, Alex, tie your shoelace and let's go. I have a dinner date tonight." Tom's pickup truck had already gone when the attorneys drove away, following handshakes and congratulations. Penelope had staggered a little, Qwilleran thought. Either she had been celebrating something, or she had been drowning her disappointment.

Thu-rump… thu-rump… thu-rump. It was the familiar sound of a cat jumping down from the moose head in three easy stages.

"Well, Koko," Qwilleran said, "what do you think about that?" Koko rolled over on the base of his spine and licked his tail assiduously.