The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-11-

It was Saturday evening. The Siamese had dined royally on red salmon and had groomed themselves fastidiously when Qwilleran brought the checker set in from his van and set it up on the antique tavern table. Like hawks, the cats watched from an aerial vantage: she on the fireplace cube, he on the Pennsylvania German Schrank. As soon as the twelve red checkers and twelve black checkers were arranged on the squares, Koko came sailing down from the tall cupboard and landed on the checkerboard, sending the discs flying in all directions. Yum Yum came down too and hid one under a rug.

“Cats!” Qwilleran spluttered. He gathered up the set and put it in a safe place before dressing for dinner.

Polly lived in the rustic riverside development called Indian Village, as did many of their friends. Qwilleran himself owned a condominium for winter use when the barn was impractical. From there it was a short drive to Tipsy’s Tavern, where the menu was limited but the quality superb.

As soon as they were on the road, Polly said, “I’m afraid I have to report growing unrest at the library.”

“Because of the electronic cataloguing? I’m not surprised.”

“We offered a series of workshops to acquaint subscribers with its use, and only two persons signed up. And they were young, I might add. Now three of our volunteers have resigned because they feel uncomfortable with the new system, and you know how much we depend on volunteers. Most of them are of retirement age, and they seem to like the status quo.”

Qwilleran said, “If it’s a matter of being shorthanded, why not hire some teens for the summer? By the time they go back to school, everyone will be getting adjusted to automation. Get the board to budget a few extra dollars for a summer youth program.”

Tipsy’s Tavern was busy but not noisy; a happy rumble of voices set the tone. Qwilleran and Polly sat in the main dining room, under the oil portrait of Tipsy, the founder’s black-and-white cat. The furnishings and table settings were countrified; the waitpersons were older women who mixed neighborliness with roadhouse efficiency. “Steak or fish? How do you want it done? Anything from the bar?”

Qwilleran said to Polly, “Did you have your first sitting today? I ran into Paul Skumble at the Art Center this week, and he said you’ll be a joy to paint. He said one’s features express one’s thoughts, and you have lively mind.”

“How nice of him to say that! He’s a kind man … Speaking of portraits, did you read about Ramsbottom in the Newsbyte column?” Sandwiched between brief items about a runaway cow and a jackknifed truck, it had read:

A portrait of Chester Ramsbottom honoring his 25 years of public service was unveiled yesterday at a dedication ceremony at Chet’s Bar & Barbecue. City and county officials attended. The portrait was painted by Paul Skumble.

Polly said, “I knew that man would find a way to charge his portrait to the taxpayers! I wonder if Paul was paid with a Moose County check. I’ll ask him. He’ll tell me. I’ll be very sweet to him.”

“Not too sweet, please,” Qwilleran warned. “I’ve discovered that he likes a sip of brandy while he’s working.”

The salad was served: torn iceberg lettuce with French dressing, and she said, “One has to admit that this wonderful restaurant serves a sad salad. I always fork through mine, hoping to find half a cherry tomato or a slice of radish.”

“Your complaint is falling on deaf ears,” said Qwilleran, who avoided salads of any kind. “Tell me about your date with Skumble.”

“It was hardly a date, dear,” she said, reproving him with an arched eyebrow. “It was a business appointment resulting from your insistence on having my portrait painted.”

He shrugged an apology. “Okay, I retract that. Tell me about your business appointment.”

“Today he did the underpainting. I didn’t see it afterward. He turned the easel to the wall.”

“Weren’t you tempted to peek?”

“Paul’s advice is: ‘no peek-no critique - until it’s finished,’ and I concur.”

“What do you talk about during the sitting?”

“There’s no real conversation. He concentrates on his painting, and I sit there reciting Hamlet to myself.”

Qwilleran chuckled. “I can imagine his confusion as your expression changes from the melancholy prince of Denmark - to the passionate Gertrude - to pompous Polonius - to gentle Ophelia. I suppose he’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

“He promised to show up at one o’clock, but he’s not very punctual… . And I don’t know whether I should tell you this, Qwill, but he asked if he could stay overnight in the guestroom - to avoid the long commute. I told him, as politely as I could, that it wasn’t available on weekends.”

Qwilleran patted his moustache. “That was nervy, if you ask me! If he makes any more passes, let me know, and we’ll get someone else to paint over his underpainting.”

The entrées were served, and they were silent for a while. Polly asked for another wedge of lemon; Qwilleran asked for horseradish and then said, “Last night I took my life in my hands and went to Chet’s Barbecue with Wetherby. Derek has accepted a job as manager, and I wanted to check it out.”

She was aghast. “I can’t believe it. Derek has more class than that!”

“Was there a scandal involving Chet’s Bar a few years ago - before I came to town?”

“I vaguely remember. Ramsbottom was charged with something, but charges were dropped. That was before we had a real newspaper. The Pickax Picayune, with all - due respect to Junior’s late father, never printed anything that might embarrass anyone.”

“Koko did something strange when I came home. He bit me! He’s never done that before.”

She gasped. “Did he draw blood?”

“No, he just wanted to get my attention, but it was a forceful way of doing it. We were having our bedtime read, and he suddenly nipped the thumb holding the book. I assumed he was telling me to close the book, serve his nocturnal snack, and turn out the bleeping lights. He’s been edgy lately.”

“What were you reading?”

“A Rebecca West that I picked up this week. The Birds Fall Down.”

“Today Brutus was sniffing Catta indiscreetly, and that little girl turned and hit him on the nose - hard! Was he surprised! It was laughable.”

Qwilleran said, “She’ll grow up to be a tough lady cat who knows her rights and doesn’t take harassment from man or beast. I say we should groom her for the first feline vice president.”

“I say you’re hallucinating, dear. How’s your steak?”

“Perfect! How’s your fish?”

“Delectable !”

“Any world-shaking news at Indian Village?”

“Yes! My lovely next-door neighbors are leaving, and who knows what noisy characters will move in? The walls are so thin, as you well know, and the Cavendish sisters are so quiet, I’m spoiled.”

“Where are they going?”

“To the new retirement village near Kennebeck. Ruth can’t drive anymore, and Jennie has trouble with her knees. At Ittibittiwassee Estates they can have a one-story unit, and transportation is available. Also there’s an infirmary on the grounds.”

“What about their cats?” Qwilleran asked.

“Small indoor pets are permitted. They wouldn’t go anywhere without Pinky and Quinky.”

“Did you know that the Ittibittiwassee Estates development isn’t on the Ittibittiwassee River? It’s on Bloody Creek, but they thought Bloody Creek Estates would lack marketing appeal.”

Polly added, “Especially since they have so many accidents at the Bloody Creek bridge. They should install some kind of safeguard.”

“They keep talking about it, but nothing is ever done. Perhaps Junior should write a hard-hitting editorial.”

“By the way, Qwill, did Hixie call you about the spelling bee?”

“She did, and she twisted my arm. She wants me to be wordmaster. I wanted to be timekeeper.”

“Your talents would be wasted. Anyone can hold a stopwatch and ring a bell.”

“What’s your assignment?”

“Chairing the wordlist committee. We have to compile a list of three hundred words, ranging from those commonly misspelled to the virtually unspellable. It’s a practice list for the spellers to study in advance.”

“I’ll give you two for your list,” he said. “Believable and knowledgeable have plagued me all my life.

To E or not to E? That is the question. I’ve considered having my left forearm tattoed: No E before the A in believable.”

“I have a problem with seize, siege, and sieve,” she said. “Why don’t we go home and make some wordlists? We can have coffee and dessert there.”

On Sunday afternoon, while Polly was again sitting for the portrait painter, Qwilleran wrote a thousand words about Duff Campbell and his watercolors. Mrs. Fish-eye’s influence was in high gear, and the column virtually wrote itself, leaving him time to think about Polly’s wordlist. Batting words around gave him as much pleasure as batting the horsehide had ever done.

He began jotting down words that had tripped up spellers in the days when he was winning bees. Confusion over single and double consonants was one stumbling block: raccoon and vacuum, embarrass and harass, exaggerate and belligerent, lassitude and verisimilitude, confetti and graffiti, irrational and irascible, parrot and pirouette…

His mind wandered to Jasper… and the Art Center… and the Click Club that was being dedicated. It was John Bushland’s idea - a space on the lower level for photo exhibitions, slide showings, video-viewing, and talks on photography. “Bushy,” as he was called, was the town’s leading commercial photographer, who also freelanced for the Moose County Something. Qwilleran believed he should put in an appearance.

Beverly Forfar met him in the lobby of the Art Center. “Are you coming to see the Click Club? It’s a neat facility! And John Bushland is adorable. Is he married?”

“Not now,” Qwilleran said. “And we have another reason to celebrate. Jasper has moved to another address! He’s no longer insulting our visitors.”

“I hope he left voluntarily,” Qwilleran quipped. “Otherwise we could be sued for violating animal rights.”

She lowered her voice a tone. “I’ve also told Phoebe she can’t have that butterfly contraption. This is an art center, and we have to have some standards. What do you think, Mr. Q?”

“If you’re the manager, you have to manage.”

“Well, Phoebe’s miffed about it. See if you can talk some sense into her head.”

He went to the Butterfly Girl’s studio instead of the Click Club. “Where’s your buddy?” he asked.

The artist flinched, surprised out of her intense concentration on her work. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Q. I didn’t know anyone was around. They’re all downstairs.”

“Where’s Jasper?”

“Jake took him,” Phoebe said, looking pleased.

“I thought Jake’s roommate was allergic to feathers.” “Oh, that’s all changed now. Jake bought a condo in Indian Village.”

“Did he get his promotion?” Qwilleran inquired casually.

“No, he’s going to continue doing what he likes best - tending bar and gabbing with customers. But he just got an inheritance from an old uncle in Montana. That’s where Jake comes from. He says it’s just like Moose County, only larger.”

“An apt description,” Qwilleran said. “So that’s a stroke of luck, isn’t it? And what else is new in your glamorous young life? Are you going to be on the drugstore spelling team?” He was making idle conversation as he contemplated the news about Jake.

“I don’t think so. I’m not getting along with my parents right now. The trouble is…”

“The trouble is what?”

“I broke the news that I’m moving into Jake’s condo.”

“I see.” He was unable to think of a better response.

“Another problem is that Jake doesn’t want me to raise butterflies. He’s squeamish about caterpillars, and I’ve just started a new hatch of Painted Ladies. Would you like to take them, Mr. Q? They’ll be ready to fly in a couple of weeks, and then you can set them free… See! They’re over there on Jasper’s table. They have to be kept out of direct sunlight.”

They occupied a cardboard box about the size of a small TV, with viewing windows of clear plastic on the top and three sides. There were several of them, crawling around and munching on green leaves - not attractive insects, being spiny and wormlike.

“Well, I don’t know,” Qwilleran said. “Are you sure these ugly things are going to turn into butterflies?”

“I’ll show you a picture of the Painted Lady,” Phoebe said. “I love to paint them. They have a lacy pattern of orange and black with white spots.”

“Hmmm,” he mused, thinking he might salvage his uninspired interview with Phoebe and get a column out of it after all. “Let me think about it for a while. I’m going down to the Click Club, and I’ll get back to you.”

Going downstairs, he could hear the hubbub on the lower level; apparently there was a good turnout. He was halfway down when he saw a white head of hair coming up.

“Thornton Haggis!” he said.

“It’s too crowded. You can’t see a thing. Go back up,” said the man from the monument yard.

Qwilleran backed up and, at the top of the flight, said, “Did you notice that Jasper’s gone?”

Thornton nodded gravely. “And now our friend Beverly wants Phoebe to get rid of her butterfly box.” “I know. She offered it to me.”

“You, too? Already my wife thinks I’m on the brink and if I went home with a box of caterpillars, she’d know I’m over the edge. How about you?”

“In my case it might be ink for the ‘Qwill Pen.’ It would be something different, at any rate. But I need to ask some questions.”

They presented themselves in Phoebe’s studio. “You decided?” she asked eagerly.

“It all depends on what it entails,” Qwilleran said. “I may not be qualified to be midwife to a flock of butterflies.”

“It’s simple,” she said. “First you keep the caterpillars supplied with food. There’s a door at the back of the box for putting in green leaves and cleaning out the frass.”

“Frass? What’s that?” he asked. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“I’ll give you an instruction booklet. If you watch, you can see them spinning silk. Then they turn into chrysalises, and nothing happens for a few days until suddenly the butterflies struggle to unfurl their wings and get out. It’s magic, Mr. Q! You see them pumping up their wings and then starting to flutter about. At that point you give them some flowers sprinkled with sugar-water. After a few days you take the box outside and open the door and they fly into the great outdoors, so happy to be free! It gives you a wonderful feeling of joy!”

“Do you guarantee that? I’ll have to go and get my van. I walked down here.”

Thornton offered to drive him and the caterpillars home, and on the way to the barn he asked, “Do you know if they ever found out who broke in and stole Daphne’s nudes? My sons and I were having drinks at the Shipwreck Tavern the other night, and the bartender showed us a drawing he had bought from a customer, who’d bought it from another guy in another bar. It sure looked like Daphne’s work, but the signature was blotted out.”

“Did he say how much he’d paid for it?”

“No, and we didn’t ask.”

Thornton had never been to the barn before, and when he saw the ramps spiraling up the octagonal wall to the lofty roof, he said, “Hey! This is the Guggenheim of Moose County! Was it your idea? Wait till my wife hears about this!”

“All the credit goes to a designer from Down Below. It was the last job he ever did.”

“Where are the famous Siamese?”

“Watching you. Don’t make one false move!” They put the butterfly box in the guestroom on the second balcony, away from direct sunlight and away from inquisitive cats. Then Qwilleran served refreshments in the gazebo.

Thornton said, “I see you don’t have any grass to cut. My wife likes a broad green lawn, but she doesn’t have to cut it. No matter how easy they make power-mowing, it’s still something else to do! My two sons used to do the grass-cutting, but now they have houses and lawns of their own. I don’t think you’ve ever met Eric and Shane, have you? I’m proud of them - good family men, good businessmen. If you ever want to write a column on the sand and gravel business, call them; they have all the dirt.”

“It may come to that,” Qwilleran said.

“They sell to the county, you know, and one of the highway engineers tipped them off about a big paving job planned for Trevelyan Road, north of Base Line.” “So that corroborates the rumor we heard from Gary at the Black Bear. It means that a few acres across from the Art Center will look like a slum. Who’s selling the county the land?”

“They’re not buying it; they’re leasing it. The owner of the property doesn’t want to sell, and you can understand why. The value of that tract is going to zoom sky-high in a few years. It backs on the river, and some smart developer like XYZ could build another Indian Village there.”

Qwilleran thought, It’s already owned by XYZ Enterprises, a.k.a. Northern Land Improvement. No doubt the “new feller” who charmed Maude Coggin into selling her land cheap, who “loved the soil,” who was going to plant “taters and beans” was Don Exbridge, the X of XYZ Enterprises. Qwilleran had never liked him.