The Cat Who Robbed a Bank

Fifteen

Sunday, September 2O – ‘Contented Cows give the best milk.’

QWILLERAN WAS ACCUSTOMED TO spending Saturday and Sunday with Polly, but this weekend she needed a day to do things around the house, to catch up with correspondence, to organize her winter wardrobe. Qwilleran said he understood – and called a friend to have Sunday brunch at Tipsy’s Tavern in Kennebeck.

It was a no-frills, limited-menu roadhouse in a sprawling log cabin, serving the best steak and the best fish. A recent innovation was a Sunday brunch offering the best ham and eggs and country fries and the best flapjacks with homemade sausage patties.

Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist, met him at Tipsy’s. He said, “Lots of vacant tables, considering the usual popularity of this brunch.”

“The fugitive scare,” Qwilleran surmised. “Yesterday we took the color tour, and there was hardly anyone on the road. But the autumn color was magnificent – best ever!”

“Moose County has always had better color than Lockmaster.” Wetherby was a native of Horseradish, a town in the adjoining county.

“We have more trees,” Qwilleran explained. “After the lumbering companies had cleared the forests a century ago, the Klingenschoen family bought up huge tracts of worthless land and left it to reforest itself. Now the K Fund has it in conservancy, safe from developers who would use it for resort hotels, golf courses, race tracks, mobile home parks, and – God forbid! – asphalt plants. The streams are full of fish, and the woods are full of wildlife.”

“The Klingenschoens weren’t in lumbering or mining or quarrying. Where did they get their money?”

“Don’t ask.”

The ham was succulent; the eggs were fried without crusty edges or puddles of grease; the country fries had skins-on flavor and were toasty brown.

Wetherby asked, “When are you closing the barn? You’d better move to The Willows before the first blizzard.” He occupied Unit Three.

“We have a new neighbor in Unit Two,” Qwilleran said. “Have you met him?”

“No, but I’ve seen his car. Massachusetts tags.”

“He’s a rare book dealer from Boston. His name is Kirt Nightingale.”

“‘Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never Overt.”’ The weatherman always enlivened his predictions with snatches of poetry or songs.

“Wrong bird,” said Qwilleran. “It was written to a skylark.”

“Whatever. It was Keats at his best.”

“Sorry, friend. Wrong poet. Shelley wrote it. But speaking of blithe spirits, do you think Amanda will be able to unseat the mayor?”

“Absolutely! She’s tough! She’s honest! She’s a Goodwinter! And some of us have talked her into adopting a cat from the animal shelter – to improve her image.”

Nora was expected to arrive at the barn with the beef pot pie at three o’clock. While waiting, Qwilleran read another Annie-Fanny letter, dated November 1:

Dear Fanny –

Just a brief note to thank you for your enthusiasm about our baby and also for the darling booties. They’re the first item in our layette. It’s a long wait, but I’m making plans. I sold my piano to make room for a crib, but that’s all right. I’ll have a baby grand someday. Meanwhile, I’m reading classic literature for half an hour every evening, hoping to give my baby a love of good writing. I love the story of King Arthur and his court, and if my baby is a boy, I’m going to call him Merlin. Don’t you think that’s a beautiful name, his middle name will be James, which I think is very noble. Then my pet name for him will be Jamie. Forgive me for rambling on, but I know you’re interested.

Love from Annie

Qwilleran groaned as he recalled his youthful embarrassment over those names. “Merlin” was the name on his report card (that was bad enough) but it was his friend Archie who spread the vile lie that he was called “Jamesy” at home. There had been many a fistfight and many a trip to the principal’s office.

At three o’clock Celia phoned to say that Nora was on her way with the beef pot pie and some other goodies. “And I just wanted to tell you, Chief, that she has a terrible case of stage fright. You’re so famous, and the barn is so big, and your moustache is so –”

“Threatening,” he said. “Thanks for tipping me off. I’ll try not to growl at her.”

He planned an informal chat at the snack bar, with a glass of apple cider. He would introduce the Siamese and let her stroke Yum Yum. He would show her the mechanical bank and give her a coin to deposit; it always amused visitors.

When the red car pulled into the barnyard he went out to meet it and carry the cartons into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home,” he said casually. She stood rooted to one spot and gazed around the immense interior in awe and a little fear.

“Do you like apple cider?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Sit down at the snack bar, and we’ll have a glass of cider and talk.”

“Excuse me, sir, what is that thing?” She pointed to Kiltie, and he explained the bank and gave her a penny to deposit.

“Yow!” came a loud comment from the top of the refrigerator.

“Excuse me, sir, is that a cat?”

“Yes, he’s a male Siamese – very smart. He wants you to start telling your tale…. Where did it take place?”

“Do you know Ugley Gardens, sir?”

“I’ve seen it on the county map. It’s spelled U-g-l-e-y.”

“Yes, sir. That was a man’s name. Oliver Ugley. He had acres and acres of land, and he rented it to poor farmers. Farm families came from the Old Country to have a good life, but the soil was no good, and it was swampy. All they could raise was turnips. They lived in huts and didn’t have anything to do with. They worked very hard.”

Qwilleran nodded. He had heard about Ugley Gardens. It had been called “the last pocket of deprivation in Moose County” until the K Fund acquired it and turned it around. The land was tiled for drainage, and goat farming was introduced; the huts were replaced by prefabricated housing; and the families became citizens of a community.

He asked, “Did your story take place before the goats came?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you know about it?”

“I lived there and met a girl at prayer meeting. Her name was… Betsy.”

“Was there a church at Ugley Gardens?”

“No, sir. Families just got together and sang hymns.”

“Was there something special about Betsy?”

“Yes, sir. She was oldest of six kids and had to stay home and help her mother. She never went to school.”

Qwilleran thought, This doesn’t sound real in today’s world; it’s a fantasy – a fiction. He said, “Don’t wait for me to ask questions, just go on with your story.”

“Yes, sir. When Betsy was thirteen she heard about a hotel that hired farm girls to cook and clean because they were hard workers, so she ran away from home. It was a nice job, cleaning rooms and making beds. She slept in the basement and got all her meals. One day the housekeeper told her to take some more towels to a man in one of the rooms. He was a nice man. He Said, ‘You’re pretty girl. Sit down and talk to me.’ Nobody ever called her pretty. She stayed a while, and he was very friendly. He gave her a big tip when she left, but the housekeeper bawled her out for taking so long, and after a few months she was fired for being pregnant.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. It sounded like the scenario for an old silent movie. “Go on.”

“She was afraid to go home to Ugley Gardens, so she slept in barns all summer and asked for food at farmhouses. She knew all about babies, because her mother had so many. Hers was born in a shack on Chipmunk Road. It was a boy. She called him Donald, but she couldn’t keep him. She put him in a box and hoped and prayed somebody would find him. A policeman found him. Everybody was talking about the abandoned baby. They gave him another name, and she heard about him once in a while – her Donald.”

“Then she continued to live in the area?”

“Yes sir, and she always knew what he was doing – playing football, working in the woods, working at the hotel, winning the gold medal.”

“Does she know he’s suspected of murder?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If it’s any comfort to… Betsy… let her know that the best lawyer in the county will handle his case.”

“Thank you, sir…. What if – what if they find out Donald killed his own father?… He didn’t know.”

Qwilleran hesitated just long enough to swallow, “Of course he didn’t!”

“YOW!” came a piercing comment from the top of the refrigerator.

Qwilleran thanked her for the story, said he would consider it for the book, escorted her to the car in the barnyard.

“You told the story very well, Nora – in your own way. Do me one favor; Don’t tell it to anyone else”

“Yes, sir.”

He would not embarrass her by confronting her with the truth – that Betsy’s story was really her own – but Nora knew that he knew; that was evident in the beseeching look in her eyes when she said, “Thank you, sir.”

To Qwilleran, the incredible coincidence was Koko’s persistent interest in ‘Oedipus Rex’, the ancient story of a king who unwittingly killed his own father.

After Nora left, Koko came down from the refrigerator with two hearty thumps, and Yum Yum floated down like a feather. They had a small reward for good behavior, while Qwilleran had a strong cup of coffee and read another Annie-Fanny letter. It was dated November 30.

Dear Fanny –

I wish I could write a cheerful letter as the holiday season approaches, but I’m worried about Dana, and I know you won’t mind if I unload my troubles on you. My dear, adorable husband has just lost his job at the department store. He says they’re cutting down the sales staff, but wait a minute! The Christmas rush has started, and they should be hiring extra salespeople, shouldn’t they? I can’t help wondering if he’s been drinking on his lunch period or, even worse, on the job! I don’t object to cocktails before dinner (although I’ve given them up until baby comes) but Dana has a tendency to drink a wee bit too much when he’s unhappy. I can understand that he’s frustrated by the lack of acting opportunities here, but the thought that he may have lied to me is most discouraging. I must not allow myself to get depressed. I must go on dreaming our dream: an acting career for Dana, a house in the suburbs, and a healthy baby! Dana is going to try for a job as a waiter, and I know he’ll be a good one, because he has great charm and can play any role well, but I worry that he’d have even more opportunities to sneak a drink. Oh Fanny! Please think good thoughts!

Love from Annie

Qwilleran could empathize with the father-to-be. He, too, had succumbed to a drinking problem when faced with a stressful situation. And he could sympathize with the mother-to-be, faced with fears and responsibilities.

He kept reminding himself; This happened more than half a century ago… There’s nothing I can do… Why am I so involved?

He read the letter dated December 29:

Dear Fanny –

This will be brief, just want you to know that I’m really unwell. I’ve missed quite a few days at the library, and today the doctor told me to stay home and take care of myself or risk losing the baby.

Dana is working at a convenience store evenings, and I sit up waiting for him. When he comes home, he’s had too much to drink. What can I do? How will it all end?

Love from Annie

Before Qwilleran could marshal his reactions, the telephone interrupted. Mildred was inviting him and Polly to dinner the following evening. “I know it’s short notice,” she said, “but I thought it would be neighborly to have a little dinner for Mr. Nightingale, just an informal get-together, with cocktails and a casserole. Polly says he’s absolutely charming! Are you free, Qwill?”

“I’m always free for one of your casseroles, Mildred with or without a charming guest of honor.”

Mildred could not hear him muttering to himself about Polly’s discoveries; first the “charming” French-Canadian professor in Quebec City… and then the “charming” hand-kissing jeweler from Chicago… and now the “charming” rare book dealer from Boston.

“What time will you expect us?” he asked, “And what’s for dessert”