The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-14-

So Phoebe and her redheaded boyfriend and disreputable parrot were living in Indian Village! It remained to be seen how they would synchronize with that quiet and eminently respectable neighborhood. They were young people who worked late and went on enjoying life after-hours, with Jasper’s racy squawks adding to the racket. Condo owners, on the other hand, tended to have established professional careers with somewhat regulated hours. After the eleven o’clock news the entire village blacked out.

The newcomers were living in The Birches, Phoebe had said. That was the cluster of condos where the Rikers had a desirable end unit. Qwilleran’s native curiosity and newshound instincts were prompting him to start asking questions. Perhaps, too, the unsettling sensation on his upper lip spurred him to action.

On Monday morning he drove downtown and handed in his copy for the Tuesday “Qwill Pen.” He was twenty-four hours ahead of deadline.”

“Wait till I pick myself up off the floor,” Junior said. “What happened?”

“I had a little extra time on my hands.”

“Are you all set for the warm-up tonight?”

“I spent the weekend in the bullpen, perfecting my delivery. I’m ready to pitch fast words, slow words, curve words - “

“How about spit words?”

“They’ve been outlawed.”

Next he looked up Mildred Riker at the food desk and started with a cooking question. “Did Iris Cobb’s personal recipe for macaroni and cheese ever turn up in her papers? I’ll never forget it. It had some secret ingredient.”

“I know. You’ve mentioned it before, but I haven’t found it. Evidently she’d prepared it so often, she didn’t need to write it down.”

He started to leave her office and then said, “By the way, Mildred, do you happen to know if the vacant unit at The Birches is still on the market? I know someone who might be interested.”

“Apparently not,” she said. “Someone moved in a few days ago. I don’t know who they are.”

“Who else lives in the building?”

“Susan Exbridge in Two and Amanda Goodwinter in Four. Susan is a wonderful neighbor - never gives parties, never plays loud music. You know how thin the walls are!”

On the way out of the building he passed the publisher’s office. Arch Riker called out, “Looks as if we’re home free! Only two days - till the spell game-and no calamities !”

“It’s not over till it’s over,” Qwilleran reminded him. “The auditorium balcony could collapse. Wasn’t it built by XYZ?”

Having acquired the information he needed, he headed for the central business district. Susan and Amanda! Two fussier neighbors could hardly be imagined for Phoebe and friends! He drove to Exbridge & Cobb Fine Antiques on Main Street.

The former wife of Don Exbridge was one of the most striking women in town, having alimony payments that she spent almost entirely on clothing from Down Below, and her interest in the theater club had given her a dramatic flair. “Darling! Where have you been?” she cried when she saw Qwilleran.

“Working,” he said morosely to arouse her sympathy.

“You poor dear! And what you do looks so easy and so much fun! Are you here to hunt for ideas or spend money?”

“It all depends. Do you have any unusual items that are not too old and not too new?”

“Are you interested in early scientific instruments?”

“Not really.”

“You’ll love the collection I bought from a little old billionaire in Dallas.” She unlocked a curio cabinet filled with objects of wood and brass.

“Who’s going to buy this stuff in Pickax?” he demanded.

“Darling, I’d go broke if I depended on sheep ranchers and perch fishermen. I advertise in exclusive antique magazines and sell to serious collectors allover the country.”

“What’s that round thing?” It looked like an attractive box, not too scientific. About three inches in diameter, the wood lid was fancifully inlaid with brass.

“A very old Italian compass with an interesting provenance.”

Skeptically he said, “I suppose it came over on the Nińa, the Pinta, or Santa Maria - or all three.”

“Wrong century, darling. It’s circa 1650.” She removed the lid, revealing an ornamental dial under glass. Its boldest feature was an eight-pointed star. The dial quivered.

Susan said, “It’s described as a pivoted thirty-two-point compass card, painted by hand. The north point is indicated by a star, the east by a cross.”

“How much?”

“You couldn’t afford it, darling.”

“I’ll take it!” he said and handed over his credit card. Then, while the transaction was being processed, he remarked in an offhand way, “I hear you have a new neighbor. I hear the celebrated Butterfly Girl moved in next door.”

Susan stiffened with indignation. “Is she the one who plays that godawful music at three in the morning? And has that screeching bird? I’ve complained to the manager three nights in a row. Last night someone called the sheriff!”

Goading her playfully, Qwilleran said, “But they’re young, Susan. Her boyfriend works late. They have to have some fun. Why don’t you ask your stingy ex-husband to install soundproofing in the walls?”

“Go home, darling,” she scolded. “Take your seventeenth-century compass and go homer!”

He left the shop with a feeling of triumph. He had ruffled the aplomb of the unruffled Susan, and he had acquired a specimen of antiquity that would turn Arch Riker green with envy. From there he visited Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design, where Amanda herself sat scowling at the reception desk. Her usual bad temper was exacerbated by the long absence of her assistant. Feeling mischievous, he inquired if she had any paintings by the Butterfly Girl.

“You won’t find any butterflies in this shop until they carry me out!” she fumed. “I loathe butterflies in any form, and that includes that Sloan girl’s stuff.”

“They sell well, and you could get a good markup,” he persisted. “And now that she’s a neighbor of yours at The Birches…”

“What! Is that who’s been disturbing the peace every night? I phoned the sheriff last night about the yelling and screaming and so-called music. I said, ‘Either you get over here in five minutes and muffle these ruffians, or I load my shotgun!’ A deputy was there in less than five!”

“That’s why you keep getting reelected, Amanda. You know how to get results. You and Chester Ramsbottom.”

“That reptile! Don’t mention us in the same breath!”

“Is his wife a client of yours? I hear they bought the Trevelyan house in the Hummocks.”

“Margaret? She’s a nice woman. I don’t know how she lives with that man! I guess she doesn’t - much. He has all kinds of outside interests… I’ll say one thing for him, though. Doing over the Trevelyan house was a huge job, and I didn’t have to wait for my money.”

After lunching at the Spoonery, a place specializing in soups, Qwilleran was driving home across the theater parking lot when he saw Celia Robinson getting into her car. He tooted the horn to alert her, and she hurried to meet him with her usual excess of smiles and happiness.

“I got your story, Chief. Are you going to fire me for taking so long?”

“No, but you’ll be reassigned to New Zealand,” he said sternly.

This remark was greeted with gales of laughter. “But I did something naughty. I didn’t tell Lisa I was taping it. I used Clayton’s little recorder.”

“Under the circumstances, that’s not too naughty. Would you like to bring it to the barn later on - and have something wicked in the way of refreshments?”

After more merry laughter she declined, saying she was going to Mr. O’Dell’s to work on a catering job. “But I’ll give you the tape. It’s upstairs. Wait here. I can get it in a jiffy.”

She ran to the carriage house, while Qwilleran marveled at the energy and youthful exuberance she brought to her many activities.

Returning, she said, “I had to go to the Compton house to get the story. Lisa was afraid of being overheard at the office. So destroy it, Chief, after you’ve listened to it.”

“Is it okay if the cats hear it?”

Her laughter could still be heard as he drove away.

When Qwilleran arrived at the barn, he was greeted by two highly excited cats. They ran up the ramp and back down again to be sure he was following. He followed them. It was the guestroom on the second balcony that concerned them. They knew something was happening behind that door.

“Stand back! And don’t rush in,” he warned. “Let’s not create any stress.”

He opened the door, and the cats rushed in. There were two butterflies flitting about the box, and three more were waiting to metamorphose. They looked like the Painted Ladies in the guidebook, all right. Now they would require fresh flowers sprinkled with sugar-water. He chased the Siamese out of the room, closed the door carefully, and drove into town to buy carnations.

“Only two?” the young florist asked.

“Well, make it three.”

“What color?”

The instruction manual had made no mention of the desired color. “Make it white,” he said.

Returning home, Qwilleran locked the cats in the broom closet while he mixed sugar and water, sprinkled it on the petals, opened the door of the butterfly box carefully, thrust the flowers in quickly, closed the box, and stood back. The Painted Ladies showed no interest at all!

He went down the ramp, apologized to the Siamese for the ignominious incarceration, and applied himself to the answering machine. There were several messages, one of them from Dawn McBee.

“Were you looking for Rollo?” she asked when Qwilleran returned the call. “We were in Duluth. Just got back. Rollo’s in the barnyard right now.”

“I heard about the tragedy in your family. You have my deepest sympathy.”

“It was really sad. He was doing so well - building a new house - kids ready for college… You can never tell, can you?”

“Very true. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Well, it’s about the spell game. One of the muckers has dropped out, and Culvert wants to know if he can substitute, seeing as how it’s an emergency.”

“Well… it might be an amusing twist to have a nine-year-old among all the adults - especially if he spells better than they do … Okay, bring him to the warm-up tonight.”

“He’s been studying his aunt’s wordlist,” Dawn said.

“Good! I think the fans will love the idea, and all the kids will be rooting for him.”

“Thanks, Qwill. Culvert will be tickled pink, and Rollo will be so proud! Do you want him to phone when he’s through with the chores?”

“Let’s wait till tomorrow, Dawn. It’s nothing urgent.”

The warm-up for the spell game was being held in the high-school auditorium to acquaint participants with the stage, the procedure, and the expected reaction from fifteen hundred fans. The overflow would have bleacher seats in the gym, watching the game on closed-circuit TV.

The auditorium played up the school colors: blue curtain, white walls, blue seats. The curtain was open when Qwilleran arrived, and on the stage were two rows of folding chairs, the second row elevated on a low platform. That was considered the dugout, where the teams would wait for their turn at the plate. A table for the coach and the pitcher was downstage left, with a second one downstage right for the umpire and the timekeeper. In the center, a floor-standing microphone was situated on a pentagonal mat like an oversized homeplate. What made the scene spectacular was the stageful of hanging banners in the team colors, each with a team name. There were ten of them: green for the Moneybags, pink for the Pills, black for the Diggers, as well as red, turquoise, orange, white, blue, yellow, and purple.

Qwilleran, who had a compulsion for counting everything and anything, observed an odd number of chairs: thirty-one instead of thirty. One of the stage managers explained that Scott Gippel, who weighed three hundred pounds, required two; Hixie had thought of everything!

Backstage a noisy horde of spellers was milling about in their baseball caps, which were also in the team color. The-T -shirts being printed in Mooseville had not yet arrived, and Qwilleran sensed the kind of snafu that plagued Hixie’s beautifully organized projects. He volunteered to camp out on the printer’s doorstep and even assist with the printing if necessary. As a temporary measure, the spellers wore their team names on cards pinned to their shirts.

Assisting Hixie backstage were two efficient staffers from the Something: Sarah Plensdorf, office manager, and Wilfred Sugbury, Riker’s secretary. They guided spellers and officials to their assigned seats onstage.

“There’s one speller missing,” Hixie said.

“Phoebe Sloan,” her teammates called out.

“She’s never very punctual,” Beverly Forfar added.

“I saw her yesterday at the Art Center,” Sarah shouted from the wings, “and she was quite excited about coming tonight.”

“Okay, we’ll start without her,” Hixie said, “and you guys - Beverly and Thornton - will have to tell her what: she missed… First of all, when the fans arrive on Wednesday night, the curtain will be closed, and preliminary entertainment will take place in front of it. Spellers and officials will be offstage… Got that? … At a given; signal, you will jog onstage single file like professional athletes. You’ve all seen the players make their entrance on television. As each one appears, there’ll be a burst of applause and cheers from the fans.”

“Can we rehearse the entrance?” someone asked.

“We sure can. Everyone offstage! Exit in orderly, fashion. Stay in line. Then turn around and jog back onstage. Wilfred will start you off, one every five seconds.”

Wetherby whispered to Qwilleran, “She’s good, isn’t she?”

“She directs plays for the theater club,” Qwilleran said, “and she not only knows what she wants, she has a way of inspiring cooperation.” To himself he said, I hope - I hope - I hope nothing goes wrong.

Those taking directions from her were an attorney, the CEO of a large firm, an M.D., and the superintendent of schools, as well as students, retirees, farmers, office workers, and one nine-year-old boy who would be ten in July.

“Here she comes!” someone yelled.

“Here’s the late Phoebe Sloan!”

“Better late than never.”

“Sorry. I had to stop for gas,” Phoebe apologized as Sarah pushed her toward the one vacant chair.

“Okay, let’s continue,” said Hixie. “The teams have entered. They remain standing for the National Anthem. At a signal from the coach, you sit. I want thirty backsides to hit the chairseats simultaneously… Next, the coach calls a team to the plate. Three spellers jump to their feet and walk briskly to the mike. The pitcher throws out a word. The spellers go into a huddle and decide who’ll spell. The designated speller steps to the mike and spells. The umpire rules thumbs-up for a hit, thumbs-down for a strikeout.”

“Are we supposed to remember all this?” Derek asked.

“Sarah has printouts. Ask for one as you leave.”

“What does the timekeeper do?”

MacWhannell asked. “After a word is pitched, the team has sixty seconds to respond, or the timekeeper rings a bell, and the team is sent back to the dugout.”

“What happens if a speller strikes out?” Pender Wilmot asked.

“The team gets a second chance in the next inning, but - after two strikeouts, the team is sent to the showers; they leave the stage. As the field narrows down to fewer teams, it gets more exciting… Now we’ll run through a whole inning once; every team gets a turn at the plate.”

Everyone was having a good time. Then Derek left, saying he had to go back to work. Phoebe slipped out soon afterward. No one else wanted to leave. They wanted to practice walking briskly to the plate, jogging onstage, hitting the chairseats simultaneously. They had to be chased out.

Hixie said to Qwilleran, “It’s great of you to ride herd on the T-shirts. The shop is called Tanks and Tees, right behind the Shipwreck Tavern. You might double-check the names and numbers before you accept them, and be sure they have one XXXL for Scott Gippel.”

“Don’t worry. I proofread everything.”

Then Thornton said to him, “Why is Phoebe wearing long sleeves all of a sudden? She has pretty arms. Something’s rotten in Denmark.”

Qwilleran had asked himself the same question. “She’s not herself. What’s going on?”

Thornton said, “I’ve seen that boyfriend of hers, and he’s not the type I’d want for my daughter, if I had one… How are the butterflies coming along?”

“Just before I left,” Qwilleran said, “two of them hatched and were pumping up their wings, the way the manual said they would.”

Qwilleran was somewhat exhilarated when he returned from the warm-up. He would have phoned Polly, but she was out of town, attending a tri-county library conference in Lockmaster. He would have read aloud to the Siamese, but he was in no mood for The Red Badge of Courage, which was Koko’s choice. What he was in the mood for was a dish of ice cream with chocolate sauce and a few peanuts. After that he was in the mood for playing Celia’s tape:

LISA: Tell me again, Celia, why you want to hear this story.

CELIA: Well, I have a nephew Down Below who wants to invest some money in Moose County, and the deal involves a county official, but he heard a rumor of a scandal connected with this man. He’s very careful about things like that. He asked me to look into it. In strict confidence, of course.

LISA: Is it Ramsbottom?

CELIA: That’s the name.

LISA: We don’t like to talk about it, but… I know you’re not a gossip. It’s like this… He owns a bar and was once charged with watering the liquor, which could cost him his license. He claimed to know nothing about it and put the blame on his bartender. His name was Broderick Campbell. He was a very upright young man. His father was a church deacon, and his uncle was the pastor. He had a wife and three small children and was working two jobs to support them. We were all furious about Chet’s accusation, but we were stunned when Brod confessed!

CELIA: Oh, dear! I can imagine!

LISA: He was sentenced to a jail term, but Ramsbottom used his influence to get the sentence commuted, provided Brod left the county. He and his family left in disgrace - went somewhere Down Below. His parents were absolutely destroyed! His mother had a stroke and died, and his father went into a black depression. His uncle, the pastor, was distraught. As things went from bad to worse, Brod’s father was persuaded to go and live with the pastor’s family. Then one day he disappeared. The police hunted for two days before they found him hanging in the attic of the parsonage.

CELIA: Oh, Lisa! What a horrible story!

LISA: The pastor himself didn’t live long after that.

CELIA: But why the bad feelings about Mr. Ramsbottom? Didn’t he save Broderick from a jail term?

LISA: Yes, but there’s more to the story. One of the Campbell clan, traveling Down Below, found Brod in very successful circumstances. He was the owner of a large motel with swimming pool, restaurant, and everything. It was something he never could have afforded in a million years! Had Ramsbottom paid him to take the rap?

CELIA: If Brod was so honest, couldn’t he have refused?

LISA: He was trapped, coming and going. To try to stand up against that powerful man would have been virtual suicide.

MAN’S VOICE: Hello! Hello! What goes on here? Why so gloomy?

LISA: Celia, this is my husband… Lyle, Celia Robinson is one of our most valued volunteers. Her nephew is contemplating a financial deal with Ramsbottom …

MAN’S VOICE: Hah! Tell him not to touch it with a ten-foot pole! The man’s a crook! We all know he got a kickback from the new high-school building, and the cost overruns would have bankrupted the county if the K Fund hadn’t stepped in.

CELIA: Well! I’m much obliged for the information. I‘11 tell my nephew to steer clear.

Click.

Qwilleran turned to Koko, who was sitting on the arm of the chair and listening. “What do you think of that smelly mess?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaa,” the cat bleated in his new all-purpose monotone.

Qwilleran looked at his watch. It was late, but not too late to call Celia and congratulate her on a job well done. He phoned the carriage house.

When she answered with a flat hello, he asked, “Are you boiling potatoes for salad or putting a batch of brownies in the oven?”

“Oh, hello,” she said without any of her usual merriment.

“This tape,” he said, “is one of the best things you’ve ever done. I’m destroying it, as you asked, but I predict the story will become another Moose County legend in fifty or a hundred years.”

“Glad you liked it,” she replied without adding any chatty comment of her own. He sensed a problem. This was not his secret agent OO13 1/2. Was this why Koko had bleated his curious lament? Some news had deadened her spirit.

“Celia, are you feeling all right?” he demanded with the severity of a senior officer.

“Yes, I’m all right.”

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked more gently.

His neighborly concern touched a nerve, and she whimpered something indistinctly.

“I’ll be right there, Celia! Pull yourself together!” Taking a flashlight, he jogged the short distance through the woods. There was a predatory owl that lived among the dark branches, and Qwilleran had taken care to wear his yellow baseball cap. On the way he reviewed what he knew about her: a widow living with her grown son and his family on a farm in Illinois. She had moved to Pickax to start a new life: doing volunteer service, cheering the old and infirm, singing in the church choir, doing small catering jobs. Qwilleran himself had a vested interest in Celia’s well-being. She not only supplied comfort food for his freezer and Kabibbles for the Siamese; she handled errands and inquiries for “the Chief” when he required anonymity.

She also laughed uproariously at his mildest quips. What had happened? Bad news from the doctor? Death in the family?

At the carriage house he rang the doorbell, and a buzzer released the lock. The stairs were narrow and steep. At the top of the flight stood a husky cat named Wrigley, who challenged him to show his credentials.

“How’s the good boy?” Qwilleran asked. Wrigley recognized the voice and trotted ahead into the living room.

Soberly and with downcast eyes Celia murmured, “Would you like a glass of something?” Ordinarily she would have made a joking comment about his yellow baseball cap.

“No, thanks. Let’s just sit down and talk for a few minutes. Something is worrying you, Celia, and it will do you good to unburden yourself.”

Obediently - she was used to taking orders from him - but in a hopeless tone of voice she said, “I had a phone call from my son in Illinois. His wife has left him, and he wants me to go back to the farm and keep house for him.”

“Your grandson’s stepmother, right? They didn’t get along, right?”

She nodded. “Clayton wanted to come and live with me, you know, but his dad put his foot down. My son is a very strict father.”

“And how do you feel about leaving Pickax?”

“I don’t want to. I’ve been so happy here. But I feel an obligation to my family.”

“How old are you, Celia? I don’t usually ask women their age, but this is important.”

“Seventy,” she said shyly.

“Then you’ve paid your dues. You’ve raised a family and worked on a farm for half a century. You’re healthy. You have long years ahead of you. It’s your turn to live your own life.”

“But he’s my only son, and he needs me. My oldest was killed in the service.”

“Fate didn’t send you to Pickax to wait for your son’s wife to leave him. Fate sent you here to do good things for a large number of people. Your son’s wife may return; he may marry again. Meanwhile he can hire a housekeeper. As for Clayton, he’ll be going away to college soon. Your future is here! You’ve just started a business of your own - something you’ve always wanted. What does Mr. O’Dell think of this turn of events?”

“I haven’t told him,” she said softly. “I just found out tonight.”

“How do you think he’ll react?”

She shook her head, and tears came to her lowered eyes. “We were… talking about… getting married.”

“Then for God’s sake, Celia, live your own life! Your son’s in his prime; let him live his own life. Clayton is about to start his own life. And your life is yours to live.” Qwilleran stood up. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Chief,” she said, smiling and weeping at the same time.