The Cat Who Played Brahms

6

Mooseville, Friday

Dear Arch, I'm too tight to buy you an anniversary card, but here's wishing you and your beautiful bride a happy twenty-fourth and many more to come. It seems only yesterday that you dropped the wedding ring and I lost your honeymoon tickets.

Well, since coming to Mooseville I've discovered that all civilization is divided into two parts: Up Here and Down Below. We have friendly people up here who read the Fluxion — also mysterious incidents that they try to cover up.

Yesterday I went fishing and hooked something that looked like a human body.

When I reported it to the sheriff's office, no one seemed particularly concerned. I know it wasn't an accidental drowning. I have reason to believe it was homicide — manslaughter at least. I keep wondering: Who was that guy in the lake? Why was he there? Who tossed him in?

I got into some poison ivy, but I'm okay now. And early this morning I thought someone was stealing my tires, but it was a seagull making a noise like a car-jack.

The eateries up here are so-so. For a restaurant reviewer it's like being sent to Siberia.

Qwill P.S. Koko has some new tricks-answering the phone and playing the stereo. In a few years he'll be working for NASA.

The fog was lifting. From the windows of the cabin it was possible to see nearby trees and the burial place of the septic tank. Although Old Sam had filled the depression and leveled it neatly, the cats had resumed their previous occupation of staring in that direction.

When the telephone rang on Friday morning Koko leaped from the windowsill and raced to the bar. Qwilleran was close behind but not fast enough to prevent him from dislodging the receiver. It fell to the bar top with a crash.

The man seized it. "Hello? Hello?" "Oh, there you are," said the gravel voice from Pickax. "I was worried about you, dear. I called yesterday and the phone made the most unusual noises. When I called back I got a busy signal. I finally told the operator to cut in, and she said the phone was off the hook, so I sent Tom out there to investigate. He said the receiver was lying on the bar — and no one was home. You should be more careful, dear. I suppose you're pre- occupied with your book. How is it progressing? Are you still…" "Aunt Fanny!" "Yes, dear?" "I spent the day in town. and my cat knocked the receiver off. It's a bad habit he's developed. I'm sorry about it. I'll start keeping the phone in the kitchen cupboard. if the cord will reach." "Be sure to close the windows whenever you go out, dear. A squall can come up suddenly and deluge the place. How many chapters of the book have you written? Do you know when it will be published? Tom says the big jack pine has been cut down. He'll be out there tomorrow with a log-splitter. Have you noticed the canoe under the porch? The paddles are in the toolshed. Don't go out in rough weather, dear, and be sure to stay close to shore.

Now I won't talk any more because I know you want to get back to your writing. Some day you can write my life story, and we'll both make a fortune."

Wearing his orange cap, of which he was getting inordinately fond, Qwilleran drove to Mooseville to mail the letter to Arch. At the post office he sniffed warily but detected only fresh floor wax.

His next stop was the Cannery Mall, where he decided the aroma of smoked fish was not entirely unpleasant after all. At the medical clinic the young doctor was sitting at the reception desk, reading a gourmet magazine. He was right about her green eyes; they sparkled with youth and health and humor.

"Remember me?" he began, doffing his cap. "I'm the patient with the Cemetery Syndrome." "Glad to see you're not as grouchy as you were yesterday." "The shot took effect immediately. Do you get many cases like mine?" "Oh, yes," she said. "Ivy poisoning, second-degree sunburn, infected heel blisters, rabid squirrel bites — all the usual vacation delights." "Any drownings?" "The police emergency squad takes care of those. I hope you're not planning to fall in the lake. It's so cold that anyone who falls overboard goes down once and never comes up.

At least, that's the conventional wisdom in these parts." She closed her magazine. "Won't you sit down?" Qwilleran settled into a chair and smoothed his moustache nervously. "I'd like to ask you a question about that shot you gave me. Could it cause hallucinations?" "Extremely unlikely. Do you have a history of hallucinating?" "No, but I had an unusual experience after the shot, and no one believes I saw what I saw. I'm beginning to doubt my sanity." "You may be the one person in ten million who had an abnormal reaction," the doctor said cheerfully. "Congratulations!" Qwilleran regarded her intently, and she returned his gaze with laughing eyes and fluttering eyelashes.

He said: "Can I sue you for malpractice? Or will you settle for a dinner date?" "Make it a quick lunch, and I can go right now," she said, consulting her watch. "I never refuse lunch with an interesting older man. Do you like pasties?" "They'd be okay if they had flaky pastry, a little sauce, and less turnip." "Then you'll love the Nasty Pasty. Let's go." She threw off the white coat that covered a Mooseville T-shirt.

The restaurant was small and designed for intimacy, with two rows of booths and accents of fishnet, weathered rope, and stuffed seagulls.

Qwilleran said: "I never thought I'd be consulting a doctor who is female and half my age and easy to look at." "Better get used to the idea," she said. "We're in plentiful supply… You're in good shape for your age. Do you exercise a lot?" "Not a great deal," he said, although "not at all" would have been closer to the truth. "I'm sorry, doctor, but I don't know your name." "Melinda Goodwinter." "Related to the attorney?" "Cousin. Pickax is loaded with Goodwinters. My father is a GP there, and I'm going to join his office in the fall." "You probably know Fanny Klingenschoen. I'm borrowing her log cabin for the summer." "Everyone knows Fanny — for better or worse. Maybe I shouldn't say that; she's a remarkable old lady. She says she wants to be my first patient when I start my practice." "Why do you call her remarkable?" "Fanny has a unique way of getting what she wants. You know the old county courthouse?

It's an architectural gem, but they were ready to tear it down until Fanny went to work and saved it — single-handedly." Qwilleran touched his moustache. "Let me ask you something, Melinda. This is beautiful country, and the people are friendly, but I have a gnawing suspicion that something is going on that I don't comprehend. Am I supposed to believe that Moose County is some kind of Utopia?" "We have our problems," she admitted, "but we don't talk about them — to outsiders.

This is not for publication, but there's a tendency up here to resent visitors from Down Below." "They love the tourists' dollars, but they don't like the tourists, is that right?" She nodded. "The summer people are too smooth, too self-important, too aggressive, too condescending, too different. Present company excepted, naturally." "You think we're different? You're the ones who are different," Qwilleran objected.

"Life in the city is predictable. I go out on assignment, eat lunch at the Press Club, hurry back to the paper to write the story, have dinner at a good restaurant, get mugged on the way home… no surprises!" "You jest. I've lived in the city, and country is better." The pasties were a success: flaky, juicy, turnipless, and of comfortable size.

Qwilleran felt comfortable with Melinda, too, and at one point he smoothed his moustache self-consciously and said: "There's something I'd like to confide in you, if you don't mind." "Flattered." "I wouldn't discuss it with anyone else, but since you're a doctor…" "I understand." "How shall I begin?.. Do you know anything about cats? They have a sixth sense, you know, and some people think their whiskers are a kind of extrasensory antenna." "Interesting theory." "I live with a Siamese, and I swear he's tuned in to some abstruse body of knowledge." She nodded encouragingly. Qwilleran lowered his voice. "Sometimes I get unusual vibrations from my moustache, and I perceive things that aren't obvious to other people.

And that's not all. In the last year or so my sense of smell has been getting unusually keen — disturbingly keen, in fact. And now my hearing is becoming remarkably acute. A few nights ago someone was walking on the beach a hundred feet away — on the soft sand — and I could hear the footsteps through my pillow: thud thud thud." "Quite phenomenal," she said.

"Do you think it's abnormal? Is it something I should worry about?" "They say elephants can hear the footsteps of mice." "I hope you're not implying that I have large ears." "Your ears are very well proportioned," Melinda said. "In fact, you're quite an attractive man — for your age." On the whole Melinda Goodwinter was enjoyable company, although Qwilleran thought she referred to his age too frequently and even asked if he had grandchildren. Nevertheless he was feeling good as he drove home to the cabin; he thought he might start work on his book, or get some exercise. The fog had all but disappeared. Intermittent gusts of offshore breeze were pushing it out to sea, and the lake had a glassy calm. Perfect canoeing weather, he decided.

Qwilleran had not been canoeing since he was a twelve-year-old at summer camp, but he thought he remembered how it was done. He found paddles in the toolshed and chose the longest one. It was easy to drag the aluminum canoe down the sandy slope to the beach, but launching it was another matter, involving wet feet and a teetering lunge into a wobbly and uncooperative craft. When he finally seated himself in the stern and glided across the smooth glistening water, he sensed a glorious mix of exhilaration and peace.

He remembered Aunt Fanny's advice and turned the high bow, which rose out of the water considerably, to follow the shore. A moment later a gust of offshore wind caught the bow, and the canoe swiveled around and headed for open water, but its course was quickly corrected when the breeze abated. He paddled past deserted beaches and lonely dunes topped with tall pines. Farther on was the Top o' the Dunes Club, a row of substantial vacation houses. He fancied the occupants watching and envying him. Two of them waved from their porches.

The offshore breeze sprang up again, riffling the water. The bow swung around like a weathervane, and the canoe skimmed in the direction of Canada a hundred miles away.

Qwilleran summoned all his remembered skills, but nothing worked until the wind subsided again.

He was now farther from shore than appeared wise, and he tried to turn back, but he was out of the lee of the land, and the offshore gusts were persistent, swiveling the bow and making the canoe unmanageable. He paddled frantically, digging the paddle in the water without plan or purpose, desperately trying to turn the canoe. It only drifted farther out, all the while spinning crazily in water that was becoming choppy.

He had lost control completely. Should he jump overboard and swim for shore and let the canoe go? He was not a competent swimmer, and he remembered the reputation of the icy lake. There was no time to lose. Every second took him farther from shore. He was on the verge of panic.

"Back-paddle!" came a voice riding on the wind. "Back-paddle… back-paddle!" Yes! Of course! That was the trick. He reversed his stroke, and while the bow still pointed north the canoe made gradual progress toward shore. Once in the lee of the land, he was able to turn the canoe and head for the beach.

A man and a woman were standing on the sand watching him, the man holding a bullhorn.

They shouted encouragement, and he beached the canoe at their feet.

"We were really worried about you," the woman said. "I was about to call the helicopter." She laughed nervously.

The man said: "You need a little more practice before you try for the Olympics." Qwilleran was breathing heavily, but he managed to thank them.

"You must be Mr. Qwilleran," the woman said. She was middle-aged, buxom, and dressed in fashionable resortwear. "I'm Mildred Hanstable, Roger's mother-in-law, and this is our next-door neighbor, Buford Dunfield." "Call me Buck," said the neighbor.

"Call me Qwill." They shook hands. "You need a drink," Buck said. "Come on up to the house. Mildred, how about you?" "Thanks, Buck, but I've got a meat loaf in the oven. Stanley is coming to dinner tonight." "I want to thank you for the turkey," Qwilleran said. "It made great sandwiches. A sandwich is about the extent of my culinary expertise." Mildred laughed heartily at that and then said: "I don't suppose you found a bracelet at your cabin — a gold chain bracelet?" "No, but I'll look for it." "Otherwise it could have dropped off when I was walking on the beach." "In that case," Buck said, "it's gone forever." Mildred gave a hollow laugh. "If the waves don't get it, those girls will." The two men climbed the dune to the cottage. Buck was a well-built man with plentiful gray hair and an authoritative manner. He spoke in a powerful voice that went well with a bullhorn. "I'm sure glad to see that fog let up," he said. "How long are you going to be up here?" "All summer. Do you get fog very often?" "A bad one? Three or four times a season. We go to Texas in the winter." The cottage was a modern redwood with a deck overlooking the lake and glass doors leading into a littered living room.

"Excuse the mess," the host said. "My wife went to Canada with my sister to see some plays about dead kings. The gals go for that kind of stuff… What'll you have? I drink rye, but I've got Scotch and bourbon. Or maybe you'd like a gin and tonic?" "Just tonic water or ginger ale," Qwilleran said. "I'm off the hard stuff." "Not a bad idea. I should cut down. Planning on doing any fishing?" "My fishing is on a par with my canoeing. My chief reason for being here is to find time to write a book." "Man, if I could write I'd write a best-seller," Buck said. "The things I've seen! I spent twenty-five years in law enforcement Down Below. Took early retirement with a good pension, but I got restless — you know how it is — and took a job in Pickax. Chief of police in a small town! Some experience!" He shook his head. "The respectable citizens were more trouble than the lawbreakers, so I quit, I'm satisfied to take it easy now. I do a little woodworking. See that row of candlesticks? I turn them on my lathe, and Mildred sells them to raise money for the hospital." "I like the big ones," Qwilleran said. "They look like cathedral candlesticks." They were sitting at the bar. Buck poured refills and then lighted a pipe, going through the ritual that Qwilleran knew so well. "I've made bigger sticks than that," he said between puffs. "Come on downstairs and see my workshop." He led the way to a room dominated by machinery and sawdust. "I start with one of these four-by-fours and turn it on the lathe. Simple, but the tourists like 'em, and it's for a good cause. Mildred finished one pair in gold and made them look antique. She's a clever woman." "She does a lot for the hospital, I hear." "Yeah, she's got crazy ideas for fund-raising, That's all right. It keeps her mind off her troubles." The pipe smoke was reaching Qwilleran's nostrils, and he remarked: "You get your tobacco from Scotland." "How did you know? I order it from Down Below." "I used to smoke the same blend, Groat and Boddle Number Five." "Exactly! I smoked Auld Clootie Number Three for a long time, but I switched last year." "I used to alternate between Groat and Boddle and Auld Barleyfumble." Buck swept the sawdust from the seat of a captain's chair and pushed it toward his guest. "Put it there, my friend." Qwilleran slid into the chair and enjoyed the wholesome smell of sawdust mixed with his favorite tobacco.

"Tell me, Buck. How long did it take you to adjust to living up here?" "Oh, four or five years." "Do you lock your doors?" "We did at first, but after a while we didn't bother." "It's a lot different from Down Below. The surroundings, the activities, the weather, the customs, the pace, the attitude. I never realized it would be such a drastic change.

My chief idea was to get away from pollution and congestion and crime for a while." "Don't be too sure about that last one," Buck said in a confidential tone.

"What makes you say that?" "I've made a few observations." The retired policeman threw his guest a meaningful glance.

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "Why don't you drop in for a drink this weekend? I'm staying at the Klingenschoen cabin. Ever been there?" Buck was relighting his pipe. He puffed, shook his head, and puffed again.

"It's on the dune, about a half mile west of here. And I've got a bottle of rye with your name on it." When Qwilleran paddled the canoe home through shallow water, he was thinking about the man who had saved his life with a bullhorn. Buck had denied ever being at the Klingenschoen cabin, and yet… On the evening when Mildred left her gift of turkey, two figures had disappeared into the fog, headed for the beach, and one of them had been smoking Groat and Boddle Number Five.