The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-18-

The Siamese always had a calming effect on Qwilleran when he was perturbed by outside circumstances. With apologies for the delay he gave them their noontime treat and watched as they devoured the Kabibbles with serious crunching and rapturously waving tails. When the last morsel was gone, and no more could be found on the floor surrounding their plates, the two epicures washed up in unison: four licks of the paw, four swipes over the mask, four passes over the ear - all repeated with the other paw. The choreography was remarkable.

When the ritual was finished, Qwilleran announced “Gazebo!” They rushed to the coat hooks and looked up at the tote bag. Then, while they communed with the birds and bees, he settled down.to write another thousand-word opus for the “Qwill Pen.” Equipped with a legal pad, some pencils, and a little dog-eared book, he intended to start another Pasty War among readers of the Something.

The meat-and-potato turnover was a regional specialty 400 miles north of everywhere. Whether or not it should contain turnip was a hotly debated issue - and had been for more than a century. Now a historical recipe had turned up in a tattered book that Eddington Smith discovered among memorabilia from an old farmhouse. Excitedly he had phoned the barn, saying, “Qwill! Come quickly! I’ve found something!”

It proved to be a 1905 hardcover - thin as a slice of bread and brown with age and grease spots - and it contained a pasty recipe calling for “pig’s liver.” Qwilleran knew his readers would rise up in consternation. It would result in the biggest fracas since the controversy. over Tipsy’s feet in her portrait at the tavern. Now that the spell game was over, the public needed another electrifying topic to roil their passions.

The little book had been published, apparently, for families who raised hogs and did their own butchering. At one time in Moose County history that would include almost everyone. These folk would need ideas for using leftover ears, tails, entrails, and blood - from cattle and sheep as well as hogs. There were recipes for blood sausage, hog’s pudding, cow heels, and Scottish haggis. Qwilleran had eaten haggis at the annual Scottish night in Pickax, always curious about the ingredients. Now he knew and wished he had remained ignorant.

There were instructions for stuffing a boar’s head: “About the snout, you have to sew it to keep it shut. About the ears, you can stick a parsnip or carrot in them to keep their shape. And be sure that the head has a large collar.”

While concentrating on these esoteric details, Qwilleran became aware of a rumbling in Koko’s innards.

Then the ears of both cats pointed east as the crunch of footsteps was heard in the lane. Peevishly he set aside his writing pad and went out to confront the intruder. It was Culvert.

“Hi!” the boy said. “My mom sent you some cookies.” He handed Qwilleran a foil-wrapped package.

“Peanut butter and raisin. My favorite.”

“Well, thank you. Thank you very much!” said Qwilleran, whose list of favorites excluded peanut butter and raisin. “Tell your mother I appreciate her thoughtfulness.”

“Here’s a note.” It was signed “Dawn McBee,” and it read: “Rollo and I would like to say thank-you for everything you’ve done. You made Maude’s funeral important in ways no lone else could do. And her tombstone! - it’s so perfect, it makes me cry! Culvert was thrilled to see his pictures in the paper, and they actually sent him money, and when he was up on the stage with the Muckers, Rollo and I almost burst with pride. He spells that 28-letter word for everybody he meets. The Muckers are going to the World Series in September. Until then it’ll be kind of hard living with a ten-year-old who’s suddenly nine feet tall. He’s nine now, but he’ll be ten next month.”

Qwilleran said, “Congratulations on your spelling last night.”

“Do you want me to spell that word for you?”

“Not right now. I have work to do. Some other time… Would you like a cookie to eat while you’re walking home? Take two!”

On the way to the newspaper office to hand in his Friday copy, Qwilleran stopped at the library to drop off the butterfly guidebook. The parking lot was fairly well filled, and he assumed the patrons were gathering to commiserate over the death of the Butterfly Girl. At that time, the public assumed it was another accident at a dangerous bridge. They would be saying that something should be done about it; people should write letters to the paper; people should complain to the county commissioners; her parents must feel terrible; she was their only child; she painted those beautiful pictures.

That was what Qwilleran expected to hear, but such was not the case. There was an atmosphere of jollity in the library. Patrons were all smiles. Two volunteers who had been on the picket line were wheeling bookcarts and replenishing shelves. They waved and said, “Hi, Mr. Q!” Just then he stepped on a toy mouse.

He looked around and saw an orange cat lounging on the circulation desk with plumed tail drooping languidly over the edge. His fur was fluffy, and his large, gold, almond-shaped eyes brimmed with catly bliss. As Qwilleran approached the desk, a woman lifted a small boy up to drop pennies in a bowl already half filled with nickels, dimes, and quarters. She looked at Qwilleran and said, “He took these pennies out of his own bank to help feed the kitties.”

Other patrons were scribbling on small slips of paper and dropping them in a pair of gift boxes with slots cut in the lids. One of the clerks behind the desk said, “Would you like to help name he-cat and she-cat, Mr. Q? They’re our new mascots. That’s her up on the stairs. She likes to supervise.”

Polly, coming down the stairs, stopped to stroke the brown-and-black fluffy fur with tortoiseshell markings. She said to Qwilleran, “This is the best thing that’s happened since the Dewey decimal system! One of the local veterinarians is going to give them a health check without charge. They seem completely happy here. When I came in today, they were playing tag among the stacks. The female is such a flirt! She flops down and looks at people upside down, and they’re absolutely smitten. One man is going to construct an eight-foot carpeted cat-perch.”

“Did you call the paper?” Qwilleran asked.

“First thing! And Roger was here to take pictures.”

“I’ll call Bushy. He might be able to get them on a cat calendar.”

“Be sure to drop some names for them in the boxes,” Polly reminded him. “Have you found out who left them on your doorstep?”

“Not a thing! I predict it will go down in Moose County history as an unsolved mystery, like the fate of the lighthouse keepers on Breakfast Island.”

Qwilleran left the library without telling her that the Bloody Creek “accident” was really murder. She would hear the shocking news soon enough.

It was aired by WPKX on the six o’clock news: “The body found in a wrecked car in Bloody Creek early this morning was a victim of homicide, according to the medical examiner. He stated that Phoebe Sloan was killed about twenty-four hours before the car went into the gorge. A suspect has been arrested and will face arraignment tomorrow.”

In the late evening Qwilleran phoned the police chief at home and said, “Andy, if you haven’t gone on the wagon, how about putting on your shoes and coming over for a nightcap?”

Brodie lived conveniently close by, and in five min utes the headlights of his car came bouncing through the evergreen wood, monitored by Koko, standing on his hind legs in the kitchen window. The chief strode into the barn with the swagger of a bagpiper and the roaming eye of a law enforcement professional. The first thing he saw was the recumbent bicycle, leaning against the stone wall in the lounge area. “What do you expect to do with that weird contraption?” he demanded. “If you ride it on Main Street, motorists will be running up on the sidewalk and killing pedestrians!” He took a seat at the snack bar, where his glass of Scotch and a wedge of cheese were waiting. He raised his glass and said, “Cheers!”

Qwilleran raised his glass of Squunk water. “Same to you… Okay, Andy, what happened today after the, prosecutor was alerted?”

“The medical examiner had already ruled it death by a blow on the head some twenty-four hours before the car went into the gorge. When Barter came up with the name of a suspect, the investigators hotfooted it to Indian Village, but the suspect’s van had already left. Roadblocks had already been set up in three counties. They stopped him in Lockmaster, south of Flapjack. He’ll be charged tomorrow with arson and two counts of homicide. Amanda Goodwinter heard screams Tuesday night, followed by sudden silence. Mandy doesn’t miss a thing!”

“How about the Ramsbottom connection?”

“It’s a safe bet the suspect will implicate him in the Coggin incident. He’d be crazy not to.”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaa” came a comment from Koko.

“What kind of noise is that? Sounds like a dirty old ram!”

Qwilleran asked, “Would you say Chet’s glory trip is over?”

“You watch and see: besides the criminal charge, there’ll be a civil suit filed by the Campbell clan. I wouldn’t want to be in that guy’s shoes, one way or another. It wouldn’t surprise me if they got him on income tax evasion, too. He’s been playing all the angles.”

“When Broderick Campbell confessed to watering the liquor, did the general public believe him? He had a reputation as an upstanding young man.”

“I’ll tell you, Qwill: this town is always knee-deep in rumors and gossip and opinions, and people will believe what fits their own interests.”

“Let me freshen your drink,” Qwilleran offered. “Have some more cheese.”

“How much did you have to do with this case, Qwill? Don’t try to hid behind G. Allen Barter. How much did old Nosey-nose have to do with it?”

“Koko takes the Fifth.”

“I ran into Lieutenant Hames when I was Down Below last week. He asked about Koko. He told me some amazing things about that cat. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not.”

Brodie and Hames were the only individuals Qwilleran had ever taken into his confidence on that score. The detective was an absolute believer; the police chief was still fifty percent skeptical.

“Well… as I’ve told you before, all cats have senses above and beyond those of humans,” Qwilleran began. “You hear about house cats foiling a burglary, warning about a fire, predicting an earthquake. Koko goes a step further. When he senses something wrong - something of a criminal nature - he lets his suspicions be known in subtle ways. I’d like to demonstrate something, Andy.”

Qwilleran knew he was taking a chance. Koko, with his natural feline perversity, might not feel like cooperating. Or perhaps the previous feat was a fluke. Nevertheless, it was worth a try. Qwilleran brought the antique compass from its drawer and placed it with exaggerated reverence on the bar. “Here’s something I acquired from a rare source - a seventeenth-century Italian compass.”

“Does it still work?”

“Of course it works! They made things better in the old days, didn’t they?” He removed the decorative lid, and the compass card quivered delicately before settling down with the star pointing toward the dining area.

“That’s north, all right,” Brodie said. Qwilleran was relieved to hear Koko jump down from the fireplace cube with a grunt. A second later he had jumped to the snack bar. Qwilleran moved the cheese away and said, “Koko is fascinated by the earth’s magnetic field. Watch what happens.”

The two men watched. Koko looked at the compass and then at the cheese. Qwilleran thought anxiously, Suppose nothing happens! How do I explain?

The brown tail bristled. The black nose twitched. The bold whiskers swept back as the cat approached the instrument in stealthy slow motion.

Qwilleran thought, What a ham!

The twitching nose hovered a half inch over the circle of glass. Underneath the glass the compass card shuddered and started to move - slowly, almost reluctantly, until the star pointed to the kitchen.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Brodie said. “Does it mean he’s hungry?”

“Not exactly,” Qwilleran said, enjoying a private moment of triumph. He returned the compass to its drawer and brought two books from the library area. “If the dining room is north, the kitchen is west - right? Now examine these two books. I read aloud to the cats daily - actually because it’s good for my lungs - and Koko is allowed to choose the title for each reading. It’s a game we play. He sniffs the bindings and knocks a book off the shelf. Recently he’s been hipped on The Day of the Locust and The Birds Fall Down. Why? What is your reaction to them?”

Brodie handled them gingerly, as if they might be booby-trapped. “They’re kind of old. Never heard of either of ‘em. They smell old, too, like they’ve been in somebody’s basement. Must’ve come from Eddington’s.”

“Who are the authors? Look at the names on the title pages, Andy.”

Reluctantly he did as he was told. “Nathanael West… and Rebecca West. Any relation?”

“Only in Koko’s mind. He has a ‘west’ fixation. What’s the name of the guy in the county jail?”

“Jake Westrup.”

“So… ?” Qwilleran smoothed his moustache.

“Don’t tell me you think there’s a connection. It’s just a coincidence.”

“Sure. A three-ply coincidence… Another splash of Scotch, Andy?”

Brodie held out his glass and had another look at the recumbent leaning against the stone wall. “What does Koko think about that thing?”

“He won’t go within ten feet of it.”

“The cat’s smarter than I thought!”

At that moment Brodie’s beeper sounded. He tossed off the last of his drink and bolted for the door, saying, “Thanks! See ya!”

Qwilleran followed him to the parking lot and heard his radio squawking as he prepared to drive away.

The moon was bright, the temperature mild, the breeze playful. On such a night Qwilleran was in no hurry to go back indoors. He walked around the barn, thinking about the compass and the two books by authors named West. Brodie had a case; it was too absurd for a rational mind to accept, and yet… who could know anything about the circuitry in Koko’s fantastic little brain? Only a Korzybski could comprehend the cat’s connections between Things and Meanings and Messages.

As he took a second turn around the building he could hear an imperious baritone yowling. Thinking it a protest about the bedtime snack that was behind schedule, Qwilleran went indoors to dish up Kabibbles. There he found Koko alternately jumping at the door handle of the broom closet and running to the window in the foyer. This was no request for food.

It was a subtle hint that he, too, wanted a moonlight excursion, and he wanted it immediately. The cat’s body was trembling with excitement as he was buckled into his gear. Yum Yum, who had an aversion to leather straps, was hiding in one of her many secret places.

The terrain was eerily illuminated by the full moon as the two adventurers set out down the lane, Koko riding on Qwilleran’s shoulder and Qwilleran keeping a firm hand on the leash. The cat could see invisible movement in the underbrush, and he could hear inaudible sounds in the night air. Once a rabbit crossed their path; another time, a waddling raccoon. Once there had been a great homed owl in the woods who hooted in Morse code, but he had moved to wilder habitat after the Art Center was built. Koko liked to give the building a security check, tugging at the leash, walking about the studios, sniffing the aromas of the artists’ turpentine, ink, and tuna sandwiches.

On this occasion Koko’s body vibrated excessively as they neared the gate, and when they reached the Art Center he did his imitation of a pileated woodpecker: a rapid-fire kek-kek-kek-kek-kek-kek-kek like an automatic weapon in the still night. There was no traffic on Trevelyan Road. The empty parking lot looked blue in the moonlight.

When Qwilleran unlocked the front door, he felt a draft of air, as if a window were open. He could see through the main room to the sliding glass doors and the moonlit landscape beyond. One door had been left half open; Beverly would have a fit if she knew, no matter how warm the weather. With Koko still on his shoulder, he closed it. There was no need to turn on lights. The interior had an enchanting chiaroscuro effect. Rectangles of moonlight made a checkerboard out of floor, walls, and furnishings.

At that point Koko struggled to get down and landed on the floor with a thump, where he stood like a statue with legs splayed and ears pricked. Then he pulled toward the studios. The darkness of the long hall was punctuated by pools of moonlight filtering through the studio doors. The floor squeaked under their feet, and Qwilleran thought, New building - squeaking floors - bad construction.

Suddenly the hush was broken by pounding footsteps coming up the basement stairs at the end of the hall, and a tall figure charged toward them in the half-light.

Qwilleran stepped back into the manager’s office, and at the same time Koko flew through the opposite door.

Without intent, they had stretched the leash between them, and the fleeing intruder tripped and fell headlong.

Instantly Koko was on the man’s back, digging in with his claws and rattling a menacing kek-kek-kek-kek-kek-kek-kek. At the same time Qwilleran reached back into the office to flip the wall switch, hoping to find a weapon… there it was! The totem pole.

As the prone figure struggled to rise, Qwilleran tapped him on the back of the head with the wood carving. “Hands behind your head! Don’t move! We have an attack animal here, and he doesn’t fool around!”

The head went down and the hands came up. It was a head as red as the cap on a pileated woodpecker!

With the leash in his left hand and the totem pole under his left arm, Qwilleran reached back into the office for the phone and called 911: “We’re holding an escaped prisoner from the county jail… holding him at the Art Center… on Trevelyan Road.”

The prisoner was quiet. Every time he attempted to move, Koko threatened him with another kek-kek-kek-kek-kek-kek-kek and kneaded his back with his claws. In a matter of minutes the sirens and flashing lights converged on the building. As soon as possible Qwilleran and Koko made an unobtrusive exit. They weren’t needed. The officers had their fugitive.

The next morning the WPKX newscast reported, “A police prisoner who escaped from the county jail last evening was quickly apprehended by city and county officers in a hiding place at the Art Center on Trevelyan Road. As a suspect facing charges of arson and homicide, he will be arraigned today.”