The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-10-

Qwilleran’s dinner at Chet’s Bar & Barbecue was not a total loss. He always enjoyed the company of the WPKX meteorologist, a colorful character about town. Wetherby gave lectures to clubs, played cocktail piano at parties, and might enliven his weather forecast with a few glissandi from Rustle of Spring. Qwilleran himself would have given anything to be a jazz pianist and regretted his boyhood choice of batting practice over piano practice. Who but Wetherby Goode would have a corvidologist for a cousin? That was another plus added to the evening: the prospect of writing a scenario for an animated film about crows.

Equally rewarding was Qwilleran’ s introduction to Duff Campbell’s shafthouses, which he had previously considered local landmarks to be sold to vacationers as souvenirs, like the Cape Hatteras lighthouse and Eiffel Tower. In one watercolor, painted on a hazy day, one could virtually feel the humidity; in a bleak winter scene the shafthouse rose from monstrous snowdrifts, its many-angled rooftops blanketed with a foot of snow the picture of cold and loneliness.

Qwilleran looked up the artist in the telephone directory - there was a whole page of Campbells - and found a Duffield Campbell on Purple Point. The man who answered, after several rings, was indeed the Shafthouse King, and he seemed surprised and pleased to be called. He suggested the next morning for an appointment.

Purple Point was a peninsula extending two miles into the lake. In the boom years it had been a shipbuilding center, but that was a century ago. The economic collapse and decades of high winds and surf had changed it completely. Now it was a ribbon of sandy beach and vacation homes on the west shore, while the east shore was a strip of rocks.

Duff Campbell lived alone on the rocky beach, in a small weathered building that resembled a boathouse more than a dwelling. The man who came out to meet Qwilleran looked more like an aged fisherman than an artist. Although probably not more than sixty, he was thin to the point of frailty and slightly stooped from bending over his drawing board. It was a pleasantly warm day, but he wore two sweaters, and a stocking cap on his long gray hair.

“I’ll bet you see some extravagant sunrises,” Qwilleran said.

“No two alike,” he replied with pleasure.

“You have a picturesque cottage, I must say.”

“A derelict rescued from the waves,” the artist explained. “Moved it to higher ground and fixed it up - did it all myself. I was a lot younger then. Come around front and sit on the porch, and I’ll see if I can scare up a cup of coffee.”

The porch was a concrete slab overlooking the water, with two flimsy folding chairs woven with plastic webbing. Qwilleran lowered himself warily into one of them, which squeaked and shuddered as it adjusted to his height and weight. When the host returned, carefully carrying two plastic mugs filled to the brim, he set them on an upended crate between the chairs.

“Surely you don’t stay here in the winter, Mr. Campbell.”

“Call me Duff,” he said. “No, I used to have a room in town during bad weather. Now that I’m retired, I stay with relatives in Florida and teach at a university there.”

Qwilleran gave him a searching look as he set up his tape recorder on the crate. “How long have you been painting?”

“Can’t remember when I started. When I was a kid, they didn’t teach art in the school here, but I started drawing with a pencil. We lived near the Old Glory shafthouse in those days. It was a mysterious sight, with its towering height, old boards, and quirky shape. Must have sketched it a thousand times from different angles. Then I discovered some brushes and paints in a Sears Roebuck catalogue and asked my parents if I could have them. They let me send for them. I’ll never forget the thrill when the box arrived. Father was a preacher and I said the Lord worked in mysterious ways. Mother was proud of me and let me send away for a correspondence course in art. I learned a few things from it, made mistakes, read all the art books in the library, and painted every weekend for the next fifty years.”

“Did you have a job during the week?”

“Sure did! Forty years at Pickax Feed and Seed. Retired when my paintings started selling. A gallery in Lockmaster takes most of ‘em.”

“I must tell you, Duff, that your work has opened my eyes. You see things in those old wrecks that I didn’t know were there. Thank you for the experience.”

The artist smiled for the first time and nodded modestly. “Well, I’ve spent a lot of time looking at shafthouses - in thunderstorms, snow, sleet, scorching sun, dirty tornado weather, fog, sunrise, sunset, clear sky, cloudy sky…”

“I assume you paint on location.”

“Sure do! One thing to avoid, though, is wind. Blows stuff into the paint.”

“Why watercolors instead of oils?” Qwilleran found himself speaking in Duffs telegraphic style.

“Fast… spontaneous… no fussing. Sometimes people watch me, and they say, ‘Hey, hardly any thin’ to it. He don’t even cover the whole paper!’ You can’t help laughing at the dumb things they say.”

Qwilleran said, “I’d like to see you work. I promise not to make any dumb remarks.”

“Let’s go! Take my van,” Duff said.

They drove to Smith’s Folly, the minesite closest to Purple Point, and Duff set up his gear, including a golf umbrella with a long handle to stick in the ground. “Prefer painting in shade,” he explained. “Eliminates glare on the white paper. Paint doesn’t dry too fast…” For a taboret he used the bottom of the wooden crate that had transported a jar of brushes, a supply of water, tubes of paint, and a white china palette. He himself sat on a low folding stool. In front of him, at a lower level, was a painting board with rough white paper clipped in place.

When he began to paint, after making a rough pencil sketch, his arm and shoulder and wrist moved swiftly with ease and grace, brushing the paper with water and then flowing the color over it.

“Have to make fast decisions before it dries,” he noted tersely. “Have to know when to stop, too.”

Qwilleran saw orange, purple, and blue disappearing into the boards of the building that took form on the paper. He saw a dribble of water turning the painted surface into a row of weeds.

“How do you describe your style?” he asked as they drove back to the rocky beach.

“Descriptive but not realistic. Makes viewers use a little imagination. That’s good for ‘em. Imagination’s a muscle; needs exercise.”

At Duff’s cottage Qwilleran was invited indoors to see paintings tacked to the walls, awaiting frames. One scene, under a blue sky with puffy white clouds, had a deer grazing at the base of the architectural relic. Another, under a gloomy sky, showed a ghostly tower behind a high fence with a red DANGER sign; a hawk wheeled overhead.

“Different people like different mood-images,” Duff said.

“Well, I don’t mind telling you, I’m vastly impressed. The column will run Tuesday, and it’ll be a privilege and a pleasure to write. I hope we meet again.” They walked together toward Qwilleran’s van. “You may be interested to know what brought me here for an interview. Last night I saw the collection of ten shafthouses at Chet’s Barbecue.”

The artist’s face flushed alarmingly. “Didn’t get ‘em from me!” he exploded. “Must’ve bought ‘em in Lockmaster. Wouldn’t sell one to that snake for a million dollars!”

Qwilleran was momentarily speechless before recovering enough to ask innocently, “Do you have something against Mr. Ramsbottom?”

“Only that he ruined my family.”

“What do you mean?”

“He ruined my family! That’s all I’ll say.”

It was an awkward way to end an enjoyable visit. Qwilleran slid behind the wheel, mumbling something, and Duff Campbell turned away and trudged back to his meager cottage on the rocks.

The violent outburst from the gentle-mannered artist prompted Qwilleran to question Derek’s job offer that so concerned his girlfriend, especially since the bartender thought he was being promoted to manager. The county commissioner’s name often came up in the coffee houses. There were rumors that he bought votes and accepted kickbacks, as well as hints of a suppressed scandal. No details were ever disclosed. The locals kept their secrets from outsiders, as a measure of loyalty to their hometown, and Qwilleran was still an outsider from Down Below.

Now he headed for Mooseville and Elizabeth Hart’s boutique. The resort town was little more than a two-lane highway between the .Jake and a high sand dune. On the lakeside were the municipal docks, private marinas, and the Northern Lights Hotel. At the foot of the dune were the Shipwreck Tavern and other commercial buildings built of logs, or concrete cast and painted to resemble logs.

One of them was the Nasty Pasty, a cafe that served a superior version of the regional specialty: not too large, not too rich, with not too thick a crust and no turnips!

The controversy about pasty ingredients was forever ongoing, and Qwilleran expected some local politician (probably Chet Ramsbottom) to promote an ordinance prohibiting suet and making turnips mandatory. His, pasty platform would no doubt get him elected to state; legislator, then governor.

The Nasty Pasty was a light, cheerful cafe decorated with fishing nets, boat lines, and plastic seagulls perched on old piling.

“Hi, Mr. Q! Haven’t seen you for a while,” said the waitress. “Gonna have a pasty?” Assured that he was, she asked, “Would you like Dijon mustard or horseradish?”

“What! Did I hear you correctly?” he replied in consternation.

“That’s what some of the tourists ask for.”

He said, “I like pasties to taste like pasties, hot dogs to taste like hot dogs, and lamb chops to taste like lamb I chops. I’m a purist. If you put mustard and horseradish and ketchup and chopped onions and pickle relish on everything, it all tastes alike. No thanks!”

She served him a pasty neat and said, “Everybody’s sorry about the old lady. I would’ve liked to go to the funeral. It was on TV. Those old dogs broke my heart.”

Customers at nearby tables joined in. “That woman was a saint. Why is it that abandoned animals always know what house to go to? … Something should be done about homeless dogs. All we have is a part-time dogcatcher, and then what does he do with the dogs he picks up?”

“You should write letters to the paper,” Qwilleran said. “Lots of letters. That’s what it takes to get the politicians’ attention.”

The owner of the cafe came to his table with the coffee server. “Now or later, Mr. Q? What brings you to town?”

“Just looking around. What do you think of the new boutique?”

“It’s different. A bit citified for Mooseville, but God knows we don’t need any more T-shirt shops. Elizabeth’s nice - very enthusiastic. She came to a C. of C. meeting and spoke right up. Got herself on the beautification committee.”

Qwilleran had first met her on Breakfast Island, where she was unhappy and unfocused after the death of her father. In moving to Moose County she had found her niche, and it was a pleasure to see her live up to her potential.

Her boutique, though invitingly rustic, was not truly in tune with the campers, boaters, and fishermen who vacationed in the area. It was Saturday afternoon, however, and several of them were browsing in the shop when Qwilleran entered. There were no souvenir mugs, plastic seagulls, or raunchy bumper stickers, but there was a “rainy day corner” with paperback books, indoor games, toys, and jigsaw puzzles. Otherwise the stock represented Elizabeth’s own taste: a case of antique jewelry and other curios; exotic hats, vests, caftans and tunics from other continents; and a table of tarot cards, horoscopes, booklets on numerology and handwriting analysis, rune stones, and aromatherapy oils.

Elizabeth was talking with animation to a trio of bemused hikers when she spotted Qwilleran. She excused herself and beckoned him to the rear of the shop. In a desperate whisper she said, “It’s too late, Qwill! He’s taken the job!”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said, “but bear in mind that he’s intelligent and six feet eight and will be able to handle any situation that arises.”

“That’s not what I worry about. He’ll come home with his clothing reeking of cigarette smoke and stale beer!”

“Does anyone know why the previous manager left?” “His wife got a job Down Below, closer to her parents, who are elderly.”

“I see.”

“Another thing that bothers me, Qwill: the bartender had been promised the manager’s job, and Derek expects some hostility in that quarter.”

“I see.” She said with a sigh, “It’s such a disappointment. I have some capital to invest, and I’ve dreamed of backing Derek in an upscale dining club as soon as he finishes school. But now he’ll have to cut back on classes-and for what good reason? A barbecue is no background for running a fine restaurant.”

Qwilleran was genuinely sympathetic and searched for some comforting words. “I applaud your ambition, Elizabeth. Don’t give up; this detour could be shorter than you think. Sometimes a setback can lead to an unexpected leap ahead. Remember: if you hadn’t been bitten by that snake at Breakfast Island, you wouldn’t be here today. You’re good for Derek, and everything will work out well, I’m convinced. Think positive thoughts.”

He said to himself, Here I go again with platitudes - playing kindly uncle to distressed youth. It was a role he avoided, yet his willingness to listen and the concerned look in his brooding eyes inevitably involved him.

To cheer her up he said, “You have some unusually interesting things in your shop. How’s business?”

“Weekends I draw mostly the browsers, but that’s all right. Traffic is important. My best customers come during the week - Chicagoans vacationing at the Grand Island Club. They come over here in their yachts, have a drink at the Shipwreck Tavern, and lunch at the Nasty Pasty. They think it’s all so quaint! Then they come in here and tell me about it and spend some money. I’ve sold quite a few pieces of jewelry that belonged to my paternal grandmother and great-grandmother. And I had two sterling silver cigarette cases that I sold to a collector of old silver… The checker set is unusual. The board is inlaid ebony and teak; the red men are cinnabar and the black men are jet. It’s a conversation piece, even if you don’t play. Does Koko play checkers? I remember he played dominoes on the island.”

“And he played a mean game of Scrabble Down Below… Let me think… I’m getting an idea. I have an eighteenth-century English tavern table that’s just standing around with nothing on it. It’s important enough to demand something of equal status on its surface. At least, that’s what my designer says. I’ll take it!”

“I’m happy to see it going to you, Qwill. I just want it to have a good home. It belonged to one of my ancestors, a railroad magnate, who saved it from the great Chicago fire in 1871.”

“Elizabeth, I don’t question your veracity,” Qwilleran said, “but you sound exactly like a hard-core antique dealer.”

“It’s true! And it comes in its own leather case. I’ll put it together for you.”

When the transaction was completed and Qwilleran was leaving the shop, he said, “Seriously, Elizabeth, if Derek is going to sidetrack his career to work for Mr. Ramsbottom, I think he should have some sort of agreement in writing. Who’s your attorney?”

“He’s in Chicago.”

“Do you know him well enough to phone him and ask for some informal advice?” He smoothed his moustache as he spoke.

“He’s my godfather.”

“Then do it!”

She snatched a yo-yo from the toy display. “Take this to the kitties-with my compliments.”

On the way home Qwilleran wondered about the viper - or was it a serpent? - who had ruined Duff Campbell’s family and was now about to be Derek’s employer. How this ruin had been accomplished was a tantalizing question, and unanswered questions bothered Qwilleran more than hunger, thirst, or deerflies. Any inquiry had to be handled with circumspection. In no way did he want to be associated with such a nosey search. He was too prominent a figure in the community, and anything he did or said was bandied about with glee.

Amanda Goodwinter might know the answer. She was a politician herself and a foe of Chester Ramsbottom for some unexplained reason. She was city; he was county.

Or Fran Brodie, the police chiefs daughter, could be approached in strict confidence… but she was still on vacation.

Or Brodie himself might talk if invited over for a nightcap.

Or Polly could sound out her assistant, who was an encyclopedia of local secrets.

Or Lisa Compton would definitely know. Her maiden name was Campbell, but would she talk? Celia Robinson could get her to talk. They both worked at the Senior Care Facility - Celia as a volunteer - and they were good friends. Furthermore, Celia liked undercover assignments. Celia was the solution.

Arriving at the barn, Qwilleran found Yum Yum rifling wastebaskets and Koko watching crows through the foyer window.

“Treat!” he announced, and the two responded at once, racing to the kitchen and colliding broadside.

After they had crunched their Kabibbles, he produced Elizabeth’s yo-yo and bounced it up and down for their amusement, saying, “A friend of yours sent this to you. Jump for it!” They followed the rise and fall of his hand with dreamy inattention, sitting side by side on their briskets. They were only mildly curious about this latest eccentricity of the person who provided their bed and board.

“Come on! Let’s play! Jump! Oompah! Oompah!”

They looked at each other as if questioning his sanity. “Cats!” he muttered and threw the yo-yo into the wastebasket.

It was Saturday; Polly would have had her first session with the portrait artist, wearing her blue silk dress, sitting in a highback Windsor in front of leather-bound books inherited from the family of her late husband, and holding a volume of Hamlet. Even before the picture was painted, Qwilleran could see it in his mind’s eye, and he was eager to hear the details of its making.

Meanwhile, a phone call from Celia Robinson demanded his attention. “Are you there?” she asked.

“No, I’m only a reasonable facsimile of the person you called.”

Her shrill laughter made him move the receiver away from his ear. “I have some things for you, Chief. Okay if I bring them down there now?”

“Please do, and I hope you can stay for a glass of fruit juice.”

The Siamese knew she was driving through the evergreen woods long before the little red car appeared.

Qwilleran went out to meet her. “Look in the backseat,” she said. “It’s my brother-in-law’s picture, and I’ve got some things for your freezer. Are you going to show me the picture? … Or is it something you think I shouldn’t see,” she added slyly.

“It’s strictly adult art, but I think you’re old enough to view it without damage to your morals,” he said, bracing himself for another shriek of laughter. Then, while Celia put the chili cartons in the freezer and the potato salad in the refrigerator, he removed the staples from the crated art and presented The Whiteness of White.

“What is it?” she asked after a moment’s hesitation.

“A snowflake, but it may have some erotic symbolism.”

“You’re kidding me, Chief. Why is it… ? How is it …?”

“It’s an intaglio. The design is pressed into the paper. Don’t ask me how. I merely bought a raffle ticket and won.”

“Where are you going to hang it?”

“Good question,” he said as he poured cranberry juice into stemmed wineglasses.

They took their drinks into the lounge area, and Celia rummaged in her oversize handbag until she found a business card. “How do you like this, Chief?”

It read: “Robin O’Dell Catering… Luncheons, Receptions.”

“Well! Congratulations!” he said. “That’s a pleasant-sounding name, sort of Sherwoodian.”

“If you say so.” She laughed.

“Does it mean Mr. O’Dell is involved?” She nodded happily. “We’re going to be partners. His house has a big kitchen.”

Qwilleran had suspected the two retirees were headed for some kind of partnership. They were well matched. “I hope this won’t interfere with the… undercover work you do for me.”

“Oh, no, no! Never! Is there anything I can do for you right now, Chief?”

“Yes, there is. Get out your notebook.” He waited while she dug into her handbag and finally found a pad and pencil. “There is a tract of land between Trevelyan Road and the river, bounded on the north by Cemetery Road and on the south by Base Line. I don’t want it known that I’m interested, but you might go to the county building and find out who owns it. If the owner is Northern Land Improvement, it’s supposed to be registered as an assumed name - in which case, get the names of the principals.” He stroked his moustache; he’d be willing to wager they were Exbridge, Young, and Zoller.

“That should be easy,” Celia said. “And if you’d like an assignment that’s challenging, try to get Lisa Compton to tell you about a Campbell scandal that happened a few years back. Commissioner Ramsbottom was involved.”