The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-13-

A Saturday night dinner at the Palomino Paddock would be a special occasion on anyone’s calendar, and Polly - for her date with Qwilleran - wore her pink silk suit and opal jewelry. She glowed with rosy happiness when he arrived at her condo.

“Pink looks remarkably good on you,” he said. He had disliked the insipid pink worn by the late Iris Cobb - when she was his landlady Down Below, then as his housekeeper in Pickax, and finally as manager of the Farmhouse Museum.

“It’s really hot pink,” Polly told him. “And I love your outfit!”

It was a summer suit in his favorite khaki, with a blue shirt and a daring tie (blue, pink, and white). Sartorially he had come a long way since his days Down Below.

Brutus and Catta came to see them off, looking vacantly at Qwilleran when he said, “Pax vobiscum!” To Polly he said, “Let’s drive your car. It’s more appropriate than a van with your pink suit and your opals.”

The route lay through quaint villages: Little Hope, early home of Maude Coggin; Wildcat, a community inhabited entirely by Cuttlebrinks; Black Creek Junction, with its lofty trestle bridge, site of many a train wreck.

Across the county border the terrain was less craggy and more agreeably sloped. Then came Flapjack, formerly a lumber camp and now a public recreation park. Here the route signs pointed left to Horseradish, birthplace of Wetherby Goode, and right to Whinny Hills and the celebrated Palomino Paddock.

En route Qwilleran asked, “How are you getting along with Skumble?”

“We’re becoming accustomed to each other, and he’s making progress.”

“On the canvas, I hope.”

“Of course, dear. It’s amazing how Paul uses red, blue, yellow, and gray to model the contours of the face. He uses yellow, rose, and blue to give life and lustre to pearls. Today I was deeply touched when he brought me a gift - a handkerchief that had belonged to his grandmother. It’s so delicate, I told him it must be woven of moonbeams and fairies’ wings.”

Qwilleran thought, Does he give one to each of his female subjects? What did he give to Commissioner Ramsbottom? His grandfather’s flask? … He huffed into his moustache; it sounded questionable… To Polly he said, “I’ve never heard you wax so poetic. How did he react?”

“I think he was flattered. Actually, I was trying to cajole him into revealing who paid for the commissioner’s portrait, but he wouldn’t tell.”

“That means the county treasurer paid for it - with your tax dollars and mine. At least he didn’t lie. How many more sittings will there be?”

“I haven’t inquired. I don’t want him to feel he’s being rushed. He says many thin coats of paint give transparency to the human skin, but they take time to dry. I’m getting to love the smell of turpentine.”

“How do Brutus and Catta react?”

“They simply disappear. He always says, ‘I thought ! you had cats.’ But they don’t make an appearance until he leaves.”

“Maybe it isn’t only the turpentine.”

“Oh, Qwill! You’re so cynical.”

“Does he ever say anything about his forebears? Some of the good folk up here aren’t always descended from the ancestors they claim. Did he say anything about this grandmother of his? Where do you suppose she got the handkerchief?”

“I’ll ask him,” she said impudently.

“I’ll tell him that Mr. Qwilleran wants to know, badly.”

The Palomino looked like a working stable, and the interior was down-to-earth, with bales of hay standing around and tack hanging on the walls. Polly and Qwilleran were seated at a preferred table in a stall, and menus were presented by an enthusiastic young stable girl moonlighting as a server. There were no prices on Polly’s menu, but they were known to be $$$$$ in the restaurant ratings, meaning extra-expensive. The evening’s special was tenderloin of ostrich with smoked tomatoes, herbed polenta, and black currant coulis.

“Are you sure it’s legal to eat ostrich?” Polly asked the server. “It seems rather… rather untoward.” The birds, she was told, were raised on a farm especially for the better restaurants.

Not entirely convinced, she ordered a vegetarian curry. Qwilleran took a chance on the big bird, medium rare.

She asked, “What have you been reading lately, dear?”

“Mark Twain, a writer after my own heart. That A-to-Z reference book you gave me has fired my interest. Eddington is dredging up all the Mark Twain he can find. Right now I’m reading Roughing It. That’s the one with the story about the big gray cat called Tom Quartz.”

“If you’ll forgive the trivia,” she said, “Theodore Roosevelt had a cat by that name.”

“Well, he got it from Roughing It, which was published in 1872. Tom Quartz hung around quartz mines. One day the miners were getting ready to blast and didn’t know he was sleeping on a gunnysack in the shaft. The explosion blew him into the sky, tumbling end over end. He landed right-side-up, covered with soot, and walked away in disgust.”

His attention wavered as a man and woman were shown to a stall across the room. Then he asked, “What were they gossiping about at the library this week?”

“The Pennant Race. Nothing else. My assistant’s husband is spelling for the Oilers.”

“How about the workshop? Did it teach your patrons to love the electronic catalogue?”

Polly groaned. “Only one attended, and there are rumblings of unrest among the volunteers. In fact, two of the oldest resigned. All the staff members, who are younger, love the computers, but…”

“As I told you, I prefer the old card catalogue myself, but since we all have to swing with the times, why not do something else to captivate the general public? You have to admit it’s a grim old building, and the chairs are too hard! Modern libraries go in for color, comfort, and a friendly look. Fran Brodie could give you some ideas, when she gets back from vacation, if ever.”

The entrées were served, and they applied themselves to the tastefully arranged plates of food. Qwilleran said the ostrich tasted exactly like filet of beef.

Polly said, “Everyone loved your column on hen’s-eggs and the tribute to Mrs. Fish-eye. Do you have any other surprises lurking up your sleeve? I won’t tell.”

“I’m raising a crop of butterflies in a box, hoping to write something intelligent on the subject. So far they don’t show much promise, but Phoebe Sloan is moving and can’t keep her incubator. So now I’m feeding caterpillars, which will metamorphose into chrysalises, which will metamorphose into Painted Ladies, which will be released to lay more eggs, which will produce more caterpillars… Would you excuse me a moment, Polly? I’m not in the habit of doing this, but I’d like to speak to someone with malice aforethought.”

He walked across the room to the stall where a large man with a bloated face was sitting across from an attractive young female companion.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ramsbottom, it’s hard to catch you in the course of a normal day. I’m Jim Qwilleran of the Something.”

“I know. I know,” the man said with political affability mixed with annoyance.

“I’d like to make an appointment with you for an in-depth interview covering your twenty-five years of public service - its ups and downs, so to speak. I hear there have been some interesting downs.”

The commissioner waved the intruder away with an impatient gesture. “Don’t bother me this year. See me in election year.”

Qwilleran returned to his table, thinking, At least he knows he’s being watched by the hungry press. “Sorry,” he said to Polly. “Shall we order dessert?”

On Sunday afternoon, while Polly sat for the portrait artist, Qwilleran sat with the Siamese and the New York Times. He always picked up the Sunday edition at Sloan’s Drug Store, where they saved a copy for him under the counter. On this occasion Mrs. Sloan was alone in the store and eager to talk. “Where’ s your shiny bike, Mr. Q?” she asked.

“Never on Sunday, Mrs. Sloan,” he explained. “This newspaper weighs more than the bike. It might damage the spokes.”

“We were supposed to get rain,” she said ruefully. “My lawn needs it badly. I should really put in a sprinkler system.”

“Where do you live?”

“West Middle Hummock, and I have an acre of the most beautiful grass! Do you have a nice lawn, Mr. Q?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m a nature boy. I let nature takes its course.”

“Do you mean… you let it go to weeds?” she asked in mild horror.

“Frankly, I don’t know what weeds are. The landscape gardener has put in native grasses and wildflowers… and forbs,” he added mischievously, enjoying her perplexed frown. “Do you have any copies of the New York Times left?”

“I always save one for you, Mr. Q. You know that!”

“Everyone’s pleased to know you’re sponsoring a team in the Pennant Race, and having Dr. Diane spell for you is somewhat of a coup.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but she’s a dear, sweet person, just like her parents. They’re lucky to have her 1m out so well. Our assistant pharmacist is spelling for us, too, and we hoped to have our daughter, but she decided to spell for the Art Center, which is understandable, except that it was a disappointment. They have such a large membership to recruit from, and we’re so mall.”

“Why not get the superintendent of schools?” Qwilleran suggested. “He’d make a good Pill.”

She burst into laughter. Lyle Compton - always under attack by teachers, parents, and politicians - had adopted he persona of an old grouch, although he had an underlying sense of humor.

“Wouldn’t that be funny? Do you think he would?” Mrs. Sloan asked.

“I’ll ask him. It’ll be a crowd-pleaser, and he likes audience.”

“We’ll appreciate it no end, Mr. Q.” She rang up his sale, which included mouthwash and shaving lotion, then said in a sadder voice, “What do you think of our daughter’s choice of career, Mr. Q? We’d hoped to get her into health care-it’s so secure - but all she can think about is painting.”

Once again Qwilleran was being expected to play the pundit. Why? Because he wrote a column? Because he had inherited money? He found it somewhat absurd. “Well, Phoebe’s doing something she enjoys enormously, and she does it well, and it makes people happy. I know one collector who has eighteen of her butterflies. What more could you want for your daughter?”

“I guess… I could wish… that she chose her friends more carefully. I know you don’t have children, Mr. Q, but can you understand the pain of a parent whose only child goes off with a man of dubious reputation? It’s not just that he has no education or goals. We have other doubts about him. In a community like this, and with contacts like ours, we hear things, you know. What can I say? He’s handsome, and Phoebe is vulnerable! This is presumptuous of me, I know, but I wish you could talk some sense into her head. She thinks highly of you, and she’d listen.”

Qwilleran said, “You have my sympathy, I assure you, but I’ve always believed that young people of her age have to make their own choices and take responsibility for their decisions - “

He was interrupted by the jangling bell on the front door, as two customers entered, chattering noisily. He and the storekeeper exchanged apologetic glances, and he muttered a vague promise as he moved away. Leaving the store, he was grateful that he had only two cats, who could be banished to their room if they created a problem.

When Qwilleran unlocked the kitchen door and let himself in, he was alarmed by a scraping sound elsewhere on the main floor. He dropped his packages and hurried to the foyer. Yum Yum was batting something about the stone floor. A yo-yo! A few days earlier he had tossed it into the wastebasket when the cats reacted with boredom. That little scamp had fished it out, hiding it under the sofa while awaiting an auspicious time to use it as a hockey puck.

She was smart in her way - inventive, mischievous. While Koko sensed the who, why, what, and where of crime and tried to communicate his suspicions, she hid the evidence under the sofa or the rug. Qwilleran picked her up and stroked her soft fur. “When we run Catta for vice president,” he said, “you can be campaign manager.”

After changing into casual clothes, he took the Siamese and his Sunday paper to the gazebo. He was reading and they were monitoring the airborne traffic when their fawn-colored necks stretched, brown ears swiveled, and black noses pointed due east.

Qwilleran thought, Sunday afternoon trespassers! … They had the nerve to unlatch the gate and drive past the PRIVATE sign… They were coming up for some unauthorized sightseeing. Frowning, he went out to confront them.

As soon as the vehicle came into view, he recognized it: the commercial van with discreet lettering on the side, “Bushland Studio.”

“Bushy! What brings you in the back way?” he called out to the photographer.

“It’s confusing, Qwill. The front way from Main Street leads to your back door, and the back way leads to your front door.”

“I’ll have the barn turned around. Come on into the tiger cage and have a drink. What’s your pleasure?”

“Do you have a gin and tonic?”

“I have everything. Talk to the cats while I’m bartending.”

John Bushland was a talented young photographer who was losing his hair early; hence his affectionate nickname. On several occasions he had tried to shoot the Siamese for an annual cat calendar, but they had been pointedly uncooperative. No matter how cautiously he raised his camera, they instantly rolled from a lyrical pose into a grotesque muddle of hind legs and nether parts. After every disappointing effort he said, “I’m not licked yet!”

When the tray arrived with the drinks, he raised his glass in a toast. “Oogly wa waf That’s a Zulu blessing, or so I’ve been told.”

“Better get it confirmed in writing before you get into trouble,” Qwilleran advised. “How’s everything at the Art Center? Are the crowds breaking down the doors? Is Beverly making them take off their shoes?”

“That’s why I came up here. Did you go to the opening of the Click Club?”

“I tried, but it was too crowded.”

“Well, there’s been a breakin! Last night! No forced entry, just trespassing.”

“What did they take?”

“Nothing - not even a light bulb. But they used some of the equipment, and there was a smell of cigarette smoke.”

“Hmmm,” Qwilleran mused. “Any theories? Does Beverly know about it?”

“Oh, God! Yes! She went through the roof! We decided not to notify the police. Publicity would only lead to more trespassing, and somehow we think this is an inside job.”

“Do individual members of the Click Club have keys to the building?”

“No. Mostly they attend group functions, but there’s a ‘privilege key’ available for members who want to use the equipment to screen their own film. They sign for it and return it to the office when the screening is over. No one had signed it out for last night, but someone might have borrowed the key during the week and had dupes made. Beverly is looking into that possibility. I feel sorry for her. She takes these things so hard.”

“Had they misused the equipment?”

“No, they just failed to put it back properly. They’d used the VCR and the slide projector, and they’d left beer cans and cigarette butts in the wastebasket, obviously ignoring the No Smoking signs.”

Qwilleran asked, “What do you think they were viewing? Probably not Gone with the Wind.”

“Probably some kind of underground trash. The question is: Will they be back next weekend for another meeting of the Saturday Night After-Hours Art Film and Beer-drinking Society?” Bushy jumped up. “Thanks for the drink. I’ve gotta get back to my dark room. Freelancers work an eight-day week.”

Qwilleran walked with him to his van, and the photographer said, “Say! I may have found a way to shoot those ornery kids of yours! There was a camera lens patented a few decades ago - for use by photographers exploring primitive regions. Some cultures think they’ll lose their souls if their picture is taken. This was a right-angle lens employing mirrors. If I could find one in a vintage collection of photo equipment, the cats wouldn’t know I was shooting them.”

“Would it fit today’s cameras?”

“I’d have to get an adapter.”

“If you can find such a lens, I’ll buy it for you, Bushy. Full speed ahead!”

Later in the afternoon Qwilleran felt the need for exercise, and he walked down the lane to the Art Center, first taking the precaution of returning the Siamese to the barn.

It was nearly five o’clock, and there were few cars on the lot. Indoors he went to the gallery to look at the wood carving he had bought. To his indignation, it was gone. He went looking for Beverly Forfar.

“It’s in my office,” she explained. “Too many people wanted to buy it. They don’t understand what the red dot means. One man got rather nasty, so I took it out of the show.”

“May I take it home now?” he asked.

“Not until the whole exhibit is dismantled. Everything has to be checked out in proper order.”

“How was the turnout today?”

“It’s always good on Sundays. People come after church or after brunch, so they’re decently dressed.”

One of her complaints was the sloppy attire of many visitors. She herself always looked “spiffy,” to use Qwilleran’s word.

He asked, “What’s the public’s reaction to the photo show downstairs?”

She groaned. “Some unauthorized persons got in last night! We try so hard to give this town a fine facility, and someone has to abuse the privileges. Jut there’s good news, too. Daphne’s nudes have been returned!”

“All of them?” He recalled Thornton’s experience in the Shipwreck Tavern.

“About half of them, and they were returned to the bin where they belong.”

“Don’t let anyone touch them. It might be possible to get prints.”

“Would we all have to be fingerprinted? That would be embarrassing.”

The phone rang in her office, and Qwil1eran went to see the Butterfly Girl. Phoebe was sitting alone, concentrating on her palette.

“Good afternoon,” he said quietly. “I came to report on the caterpillars. They’re stuffing themselves and getting fatter and sassier every day.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Q,” she said listlessly, glancing at him briefly and then back at her work.

He thought, She’s tired; she goes to the bar nightly and stays till closing; and who knows what they do after-hours? He said, “How’s Jasper?”

She shrugged. “He’s happy anywhere, as long as he gets his peanuts.”

“I have a condo in the Village. I’m in the Willows. Which is your building?” The clusters had been named after indigenous trees.

“The Birches.”

The Birches had more luxuries than other clusters. The construction was no better, but the details were posh, like marble lavatories and walk-in closets.

“I hear you’re spelling for the Daubers. Who else is on the team?”

“Thornton Haggis and Beverly.”

“You’ll have a good time… . Well, see you at the warm-up tomorrow night.”

Leaving the building and walking home, Qwilleran wondered about Phoebe’s lackluster spirit. She was not used to nightlife… She was feeling guilty about defying her parents… She was sulking. Beverly had succeeded in evicting Jasper and the caterpillars and may have pressured her into wearing the official smock: dull blue, long-sleeved, button-cuffed. It made Phoebe look drab. She probably felt drab, too.

At the barn Koko was jumping on and off the kitchen counter and looking out the window; it meant someone had left a delivery in the sea chest outside the kitchen door. Qwilleran investigated and found two meat pies, an envelope, and a 1966 book he had lent Celia Robinson: The Birds Fall Down, by Rebecca West. She would appreciate the spy story and perhaps the good writing. The note in the envelope read:

Dear Chief,

I catered a brunch in Black Creek today and” made a couple of extra meat pies for you. Hope you like them. It’s a new recipe. Thank you for letting me read the book. It was interesting. I never heard of her, but she’s a very good writer. Sorry to be late with the stuff you wanted. I’ve got a date with Lisa Compton tomorrow to find out about the Campbell case. The property you asked about isn’t listed under Northern Land Improvement, they told me at the county building. The owner is Margaret Ramsbottom.

Agent 0013

Qwilleran finished reading the note and made a dive for the Moose County telephone directory. He found only two Ramsbottom listings: one for Chester and Margaret, one for Craig and Kathy - all at the same address in West Middle Hummock. Ramsbottom probably had everything in his wife’s name. The news meant, however, that Qwilleran had lost a bet with himself. It was not XYZ Enterprises who had purchased the Coggin property. It was really “the commish” who had taken advantage of an old woman and had lost no time, after her death, in leasing twelve acres to the county. The board of commissioners would have to approve the deal, but no doubt the Barbecue King would arrange for them to vote right.

Qwilleran’s first thought was to share the news with Rollo McBee, but when he phoned the farm on Base Line Road, there was only a noncommittal message on the answering machine. He phoned Boyd McBee and heard the same message. This was unusual for a Sunday afternoon. Qwilleran grabbed his car keys and drove down to Base Line.

Rollo’s blue pickup was not in the barnyard, but another truck was there. Qwilleran parked and walked around behind the house, where a young man was feeding the raggle-taggle dogs who had come to live there.

“Hi, Mr. Q,” he said. “Lookin’ for Rollo? I’m Randy. I work for him.”

“Where is he? There’s no one at Boyd’s house, either.”

“They all went to a funeral in Duluth. Their brother was in a bad accident - two trucks and a tanker! They’ll be back Wednesday, maybe. Any thin’ I can do for you?”

“No thanks. I just wanted to chew the rag.” That was what the farmers did at the coffee shops. “I’ll call later in the week. How are the poor mutts doing?”

“Look at ‘em! Larky as a pack o’ puppies!”

Qwilleran returned to the barn and phoned his attorney’s home. The Ramsbottom connection was something Bart should be told, but his wife answered; her husband had flown to Chicago that morning for conferences with the K Fund.

To work off his frustration he read to the cats. Koko selected The Birds Fall Down. Qwilleran thought, Naturally! Wrigley’s been sitting on it, keeping it warm while Celia had it.