The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-1-

Following an unseasonable thaw and disastrous flooding, spring came early to Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere. In Pickax City, the county seat, flowerboxes on Main Street were blooming in April, birds were singing in Park Circle, mosquitoes were hatching in the bogs, and strangers were beginning to appear in the campgrounds and on the streets of downtown.

One afternoon in late May, a brown van pulled into a parking lot alongside a small green sedan, and a man wearing a black jersey slipped out of the driver’s seat. He glanced furtively to the left and right, and, leaving the motor running, he opened the tailgate. Then he unlocked the trunk of the sedan and quickly transferred something from his vehicle to the other, after which he lost no time in driving away. An out-of- towner, witnessing the surreptitious maneuver, might have described him as a Caucasian male, middle-aged, about six feet two, with slightly graying hair and an enormous pepper-and-salt moustache. On the other hand, any resident of Pickax (population 3,000) would have recognized him immediately. He was James Mackintosh Qwilleran, columnist for the Moose County Something and-by a fluke of fate-the richest man in northeast central United States. He had reason to be furtive about the parking-lot caper. In Pickax, everyone knew everyone’s business and discussed it freely on the phone, on street corners, and in the coffee shops. Individuals would say:

“It’s nice that Polly Duncan got herself such a rich boyfriend. She’s been a widow for a heck of a long time.”

“That green sedan she drives - he gave it to her for a birthday present. Wonder what she gave him.”

“He does her grocery shopping at Toodle’s Market while she’s at work, and puts the stuff in her car.”

“Makes you wonder why they don’t get married. Then she could quit her job at the library.” The sidewalk gossips knew it all. They knew that Qwilleran had been an important crime reporter Down Below, as they called the mega-cities south of the Forty-Ninth Parallel. They knew that something sinister had wrecked his career. They would say:

“Then he come up here, by golly, and fell kerplunk into all them millions! Talk about luck!”

“More like billions, if you ask me, but he deserves it. Nice fella. Friendly. Nothin’ highfalutin about Mr. Q!”

“You can say that again! Pumps his own gas. Lives in a barn with two cats.”

“And danged if he don’t give most of his dough away!”

The truth was that Qwilleran was bored with high finance, and he had established the Klingenschoen Foundation to distribute his wealth for the betterment of the community. This generosity, plus his genial personality, had made him a local hero. For his part, he was contented with small-town life and his relationship with the director of the library. Still, his brooding gaze carried a burden of sadness that made the good folk of Moose County ask each other questions.

One Thursday in May he went to the newspaper office to hand in copy for his column, “Straight from the Qwill Pen.” Then he stopped at the used bookstore and browsed for a while, buying a 1939 copy of Nathanael West’s book, The Day of the Locust. At Toodle’s Market he asked Grandma Toodle to help him select fruit and vegetables for Polly. These he transferred to her car on the library parking lot, hoping to avoid notice by the ubiquitous busybodies.

That touchy business completed, he was driving home when he heard sirens and saw flashing lights heading south on Main Street. With a journalist’s instinct he followed the emergency vans, at the same time calling the city desk on the car phone.

“Thanks, Qwill,” the city editor said, “but we were tipped off earlier, and Roger’s already on his way there.”

The speeding vehicles, including Roger’s gray van, turned into the street leading to the high school. By the time Qwilleran arrived on the scene, the reporter was snapping newsphotos of a gruesome accident in front of the school.

Scattered about were the remains of two wrecked cars, victims covered with blood, broken glass everywhere. One passenger appeared to be trapped inside the worst wreck. Horrified students crowded the school lawn, restrained by a yellow cordon of police tape. Ambulance crews were in action. A drunk driver was

hustled to a patrol car. Stretcher bearers rushed one serious case to a medical helicopter that had landed on the school parking lot. Meanwhile, groans and cries rose from the shocked onlookers as they recognized their bloodied classmates. Finally the rescue squad’s metal cutters sliced through the car body to reach the trapped victim, who was taken away in a body bag.

At that point the principal’s voice on the public address system ordered all students to return to the building at once and report to the auditorium.

Qwilleran, watching the rescue with mounting wonder, stroked his moustache in perplexity and beckoned to the reporter, who had started packing his photo gear.

Roger looked up. “Hey! I like that

black shirt, Qwill. Where’d you get it?”

“Never mind the shirt! What goes on here?”

“You don’t know?” The reporter glanced around before saying in a confidential tone, “Mock accident. To discourage underage drinking. Tomorrow night’s the Spring Fling.”

“Do you think it will work?”

“It should give them a jolt. Students got a sudden order to leave the building immediately because of contamination in the ventilating system. I got a little queasy myself when I saw all the blood… and I knew it was fake!”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “To tell the truth, Roger, it would have fooled me if your deskman hadn’t said the paper was tipped off earlier. What did he mean by that?”

“We got a release on the story about an hour ago. The whole thing was a fantastic job of planning and secrecy.”

“Got time for a cup of coffee at Lois’s?”

“Sure. There’s another assignment at two-thirty, but it’s only a kids’ art show. I can be late.” Roger headed for his van. “Meet you there.”

Lois’s Luncheonette, just off Main Street, was a shabby eatery that had been feeding downtown workers and shoppers for thirty years. Lois Inchpot - the loud, bossy, hard”working proprietor - served large portions of moderately priced comfort food to loyal customers who considered her a civic treasure. The restaurant was empty when the two newsmen arrived.

“What’ll you guys have?” Lois yelled through the kitchen pass-through. “The lunch specials are off! And we’re low on soup!”

“Just coffee,” Qwilleran called to her, “unless you have any apple pie left.”

“One piece, is all. Flip a coin.”

Roger said, “You take it, Qwill. I’d just as soon have lemon.”

He was a pale young man with a neatly trimmed beard, stark black against his unusually white complexion. A former history teacher, he had switched to journalism when the Moose County Something was launched. He was married to the daughter of the second wife of the publisher. Nepotism in Moose County was not only ethically acceptable but enthusiastically practiced.

“So!” Qwilleran began. “How come I didn’t know about this melodrama at the school?” More than anything else he disliked being uninformed and taken by surprise. “Who dreamed it up, anyway?”

“Probably the insurance companies. What’s so amazing, they were able to keep it under wraps in spite of all the different organizations and personnel involved.”

“And in spite of our three thousand nosey Nellies and congenital gossips,” Qwilleran added. “All of Pickax knows I’ve started doing Polly’s grocery shopping, even though I slink around like a footpad.”

“That’s the price you pay for living in a crime-free, unpolluted paradise,” the younger man said. “What did you think of the kids who did the playacting? They’re all students who’ve been affected in some way by drunk drivers. What did you think of their bloody makeup? It was done by paramedics from EMS.”

“They all did a convincing job, and I’ll bet they actually enjoyed it, but will their efforts accomplish anything?”

“I hope so. Everyone’s being asked to sign a pledge not to drink at school parties.”

Lois interrupted with two plates of pie in one hand, two mugs of coffee in the other, and forks and spoons in her apron pocket. “If you guys spill any thin’, clean it up!” she ordered with swaggering authority. “I just finished settin’ up for supper, and my help don’t come on till four-thirty.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Qwilleran said with a show of meekness. To Roger he put the usual question: “Anything new at the paper?”

“Well, there was some vandalism last night that would have made a sensational story, but - “

“So much for your crime-free paradise,” Qwilleran interrupted.

“Yeah… well…At the editorial meeting this morning there was the usual go-round. I know you newsguys from Down Below are hipped on the public’s right to know, but we have different ideas up here, If we reported the vandalism in any depth, we’d be (a) boosting the perpetrator’s ego, (b) encouraging copycats, and (c) starting a witch-hunt.”

“So you decided in favor of censorship,” Qwilleran said to tease him.

“We call it small-town responsibility!” A flush came to Roger’s pale face. He was a native of Moose County, and Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor, was a fourth-generation native. Arch Riker, the publisher, was a transplant from Down Below, reluctant to abandon his journalistic integrity, Qwilleran had lived in the north country long enough to appreciate both sides of the argument.

“What’s this about a witch-hunt?” he asked.

“Well, in every small town there’s an element that’s itching to be another Salem. Last night somebody spray-painted the front of an old farmhouse with the word witch in big yellow letters, two feet high. An old woman lives there alone, She’s in her nineties and kind of odd, but this neck of the woods is full of oddballs.”

Qwilleran felt a tremor on his upper lip and tamped his moustache with his knuckles. “Which farmhouse?”

“The old Coggin place on Trevelyan Road, right in back of your property.”

“I know the house, but I’ve never met the occupant. Is she a dowser, by any chance?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Qwilleran said, “My column in Tuesday’s paper was about dowsing, you know, sometimes called waterwitching. It’s controversial Down Below. How do you feel about it?”

” Most people around here wouldn’t start to drill a well without hiring a dowser to pick the spot,” Roger said. “It sounds crazy - using a forked stick to locate undergound water - but they say it works, so I don’t knock it. Qwill, how do you keep coming up with ideas for the ‘Qwill Pen’? I would’ve run dry along time ago.”

“It’s not easy. Fortunately I had a tenth-grade teacher who taught me how to write a thousand words about anything - or nothing. Talk about witches! That woman bewitched us with her big, round, watery eyes! Behind her back we called her Mrs. Fish-eye, but she knew her craft, and she knew how to teach! Every time I sit down at the typewriter to pound out another column, I mutter a thank-you to Mrs. Fish-eye.”

“I wish I could’ve had that kind of impact on kids in my history classes,” said the ex-teacher.

“Maybe you did. Maybe your students never told you. I never told Mrs. Fish-eye how I appreciated her, and now it’s too late. I don’t even remember her real name, and I doubt whether she’s still alive. She was old when I was in tenth grade.”

“You thought she was old. She was probably thirty.”

“True. Very true,” Qwilleran said, staring into his coffee mug.

“Say, Qwill, I’ve been meaning to ask: What’s that skinny bike I see you riding on Sandpit Road?”

“A British Thanet, circa 1950. A collector’s item. It was advertised in a bike magazine.”

“It looks brand-new.”

“It’s called a Silverlight. I can pick it up with my little finger. I believe Thanet was influenced by aircraft design.”

“It’s sure a slick piece of work,” Roger said.

“More coffee?” Lois yelled from the kitchen. She knew Qwilleran never said no to coffee. “Made a fresh pot just for you,” she said as she poured. “Don’t know why.”

“I don’t know why either,” he said to her. “I’m an undeserving wretch, and you’re a good soul with a kind heart and a sweet disposition.”

“Bosh!” she said, smiling as she waddled back to the kitchen.

“How’s your family, Roger?” Qwilleran regretted he could never remember the names and ages of his friend’s offspring, or even how many there were and which sex.

“They’re fine. They’re all excited about Little League soccer. I’m coaching the team, believe it or not - he Pickax Pygmies… How are your cats?” Roger was mortally afraid of cats, and it was an act of courage even to inquire about their health.

“Those fussy bluebloods are glad to be back in the barn after spending the winter in a condo; it cramped their royal style. I’ve just built a gazebo behind the barn so they can enjoy the fresh air and commune with the wildlife.”

“Speaking of barns, Qwill, I’ve got a great favor to ask.” Roger looked at him hopefully. “I’m the only reporter working weekends this month, and there’s a breaking story Saturday afternoon, but. .

. that’s when I’m duty-bound to drive a vanload of kids to the big game with the Lockmaster Lilliputians. I need someone to cover for me.”

“What’s the assignment?” Experience had made Qwilleran wary of substituting. “What’s the barn connection?”

“Well, it’s not exactly as exciting as a three-alarm fire. It’s in the metal storage barn at the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum. It’s a dedication. An open house for the general public.”

“Hmff,” Qwilleran murmured. He remembered arriving in Moose County as a city-bred greenhorn from Down Below. Roger had been the first native to cross his path. Patiently and without ridicule, Roger had explained that the threatening footsteps thudding across the roof after dark were those of a raccoon and not a burglar. The hair-raising screams in the middle of the night were not those of a woman being abducted but a wild rabbit being seized by an owl. “Well, I suppose I could handle it,” he said to the anxious young reporter. “Spot news for Monday, I suppose.”

“Deadline Monday noon. Take pictures. Probably front page… Gee, thanks, Qwill! I really appreciate it!”

Roger looked at his watch. “I’ve gotta jump on my horse.”

“You take off. I’ll get the tab.” The offer was not all magnanimity; at the cash register it was possible to scrounge some turkey or pot roast for the Siamese.

“Do your spoiled brats eat codfish?” Lois inquired as she banged the keys on the old-fashioned machine. “Tomorrow’s special - fish ‘n’ chips.”

“Thank you. I’ll consult them.” He knew very well that Koko and Yum Yum turned up their well-bred noses at anything less than top-grade red sockeye salmon.

Returning home, Qwilleran drove around the Park Circle, where Main Street divided into one-way north-bound and southbound lanes. On the perimeter of the traffic circle were two venerable churches, the stately courthouse, and a public library that resembled a Greek temple. Yet the most imposing structure was a fieldstone cube that sparkled in the sunlight. Originally the Klingenschoen mansion, it was now a small theater for plays and concerts, its gardens paved for parking. The four-stall carriage house was still there, and the apartment above was occupied by a woman who took special orders for meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, and other freezables for a bachelor’s larder.

At the rear of the parking lot Qwilleran’s brown van passed through an ornamental iron gateway into an ancient grove of evergreens so dense that all was dark and silent even in midday. Suddenly the drive opened into a clearing where a huge structure, more than a hundred years old, loomed like an enchanted castle. This was Qwilleran’s barn, octagonal and four stories high.

The first story was the original fieldstone foundation, with walls so thick that small windows cut in the stone looked like crossbow ports in a medieval fort. Above the foundation the walls were

shingled with weathered wood, and the octagonal roof was centered with a cupola. New windows cut in the walls had odd shapes dictated by the massive interior timbers bracing the structure.

Then there were the doors. In its heyday, this had been a drive-through barn, with doors large enough for a farm wagon and a team of horses. Now the two large openings were filled with glass panels and doors of human scale. A formal double door faced east, leading from the foyer; a single door on the west connected the barnyard with the kitchen.

The interior was even more spectacular. As renovated by an architect from Down Below, it featured a continuous ramp that spiraled up to the roof, connecting balconies on three levels. In

the central open space, which soared a good forty feet, stood a huge white fireplace cube with white cylindrical stacks rising to the roof. The cube divided the main floor into lounge area, library, dining room, and foyer.

Though not especially designed to be cat-friendly, that was what the barn proved to be. The cube, a good eight feet high, was a safe perch just beyond human reach. The ramp was made-to-order for a fifty-yard dash; before each meal, eight thundering paws spiraled to the top and down again. Odd-shaped windows admitted triangles and rhomboids of sunlight that tantalized the cats by moving throughout the day.

Arriving home, Qwilleran parked his van in the barnyard and checked the antique sea chest that stood at the back door and served for package deliveries. It was empty. He stood with his hand on the doorknob as he had a moment’s qualms about his housemates. Were they all right? Had they wrecked the interior in a fit of catly exuberance? Would they meet him with a yowling welcome and waving tails?

When he entered the kitchen, the premises were hushed, with no visible signs of life.

“Koko! Yum Yum!” he shouted - three times with increasing concern - before starting a search. Circling the main floor counterclockwise, he stopped short when he reached the foyer. “You rascals!” he said with relief and rebuke. “You gave me a scare!”

The two elegant Siamese were standing on their hind legs, gazing out the low-silled windows that flanked the front door. They were watching a congregation of seven black crows just outside the glass. They had never seen such birds at such close range. Briefly, they turned glassy eyes toward the person who had called their names, but they were still under the spell of these creatures who strutted in unison like a drill team-all seven to the north, then right-about-face and all seven to the south.

“I’ve brought you guys a treat,” Qwilleran said. Reluctantly they moved away from their posts and followed him to the kitchen, walking stiffly on long slender brown legs. When they reached the sunlight streaming through the west windows, their fawn fur glistened with iridescence and their dark brown masks framed brilliant blue eyes.

Suddenly black noses twitched, brown ears pricked forward, and whiplike brown tails waved in approval. Turkey! It was diced and served on separate plates.

Then Qwilleran produced a white canvas tote bag with the logo of the Pickax Public Library and announced, “All aboard!” He lowered it to the floor and spread the handles. Koko was the first to jump in, settling down in the bottom and making himself as compact as possible. Yum Yum followed, landing on top of him. After some good-natured shifting and squirming, they settled in, and other items were tucked in around them. It was the easiest, quickest, safest way to transport two indoor cats, some reading matter, and a coffee thermos to the gazebo. It was only a few yards from the barn - a free-standing octagonal structure, screened on all eight sides.

It had been the landscaper’s idea to introduce a bird garden to the scrubby barnyard.

“We don’t have many birds around here,” Qwilleran had told him, questioning the proposal.

“Start an avian garden, and they will come!” the enthusiastic young man assured him. “The cats will flip their whiskers! What they like best is the movement of the birds-the flitting, swooping, hopping, and tail-twitching.”

. . So Qwilleran gave the okay, and Kevin Doone brought in selected trees and shrubs, some tall grasses, three birdfeeders, and two birdbaths, one on a pedestal and the other at ground level. The birds came. The Siamese were ecstatic.

Qwilleran reported the success of the gazebo to Polly Duncan when they talked on the phone in the early evening. She thanked him for the groceries and complimented him on his choice of produce.

“Mrs. Toodle gets all the credit,” he said. “I don’t know a zucchini from a cucumber.”

“What did you have for dinner, dear?” Polly asked, always concerned about his casual eating habits.

“I thawed some macaroni and cheese.”

“You should have a salad.”

“I leave the salads to you and the rabbits.” His tone became stem. “Did you take your twenty-minute walk today, Polly?”

“I didn’t have time, but my bird club meets at the clubhouse tonight, and I’ll go early and use the treadmill in the gym.”

Her voice was soft and low, and she had a gentle laugh that he found both soothing and stimulating. He liked to keep her talking. “Any excitement at the library today?” he asked. “Any anticomputer demonstrations? Any riots?”

Under Polly’s direction, the library had recently been automated, thanks to a Klingenschoen grant, but many subscribers disliked the electronic catalogue. They preferred to make inquiries at the desk and be escorted to the card catalogue by a friendly clerk, who probably attended their church and might even be engaged to marry the son of someone they knew. That was Pickax style.

The bar code scanner and the mouse were alien and suspect.

On the phone, Polly said to Qwilleran, “We need to schedule some hands-on workshops for subscribers, especially the older ones.”

“What did you do with the old card catalogue?” he asked.

“It’s in the basement. I suppose we’ll

- “

“Don’t throw it out,” he interrupted. “Come the revolution, you can move it back upstairs. Someday the pencil-pushers will rise up and overthrow the computerheads, and sanity will return.”

“Oh, Qwill.” She laughed. “You’re on your soapbox again! What did you do today when you weren’t pushing a pencil?” She knew he drafted his twice-weekly column in longhand, while sitting in a lounge chair with his feet propped on an ottoman.

“I picked up an old copy of The Day of the Locust in mint condition. If you’re in the mood for scathing comedy, we might read a portion aloud this weekend. Where would you like to have dinner Saturday night?”

“How about Onoosh’s? I’m hungry for Mediterranean.” Changing her tone, she said, “I heard something bizarre today. You know the old Coggin farmhouse on Trevelyan Road? Someone painted the front of it with the word witch.”

“Yes, I know. The editor thought it wise to keep it out of the paper. How did you find out?” he asked, as if he didn’t know. The library was - and always had been - the central intelligence agency of the community.

“My assistant’s daughter belongs to the Handy Helpers, and they were called in to obliterate the graffiti. The sheriff spotted it on his early morning patrol and alerted them. The paint was gone, I believe, before Mrs. Coggin knew it was there.”

Qwilleran had once written a column about the enthusiastic band of volunteers recruited through all the churches. Some had technical skills; others were simply young people with energy and strong backs. When household emergencies confronted the poor, the aged, or the infirm, this crisis squad was geared to respond on the double.

“Have you ever met Mrs. Coggin?” Polly asked.

“No, but I’ve caught a glimpse of her in her backyard. Not many signs of life around there, except for chickens and dogs.”

“She’s in her nineties, but smart and spunky, they say. I suppose she’s considered eccentric, but the nature of the vandalism was scurrilous!”

As Qwilleran listened, he was stroking his moustache slowly, a gesture meaning his suspicions were being alerted. There might be more to the accusatory epithet than met the eye. His career in journalism had taught him one thing: there’s always a story behind the story.

Polly said, “But I must stop babbling and go to the clubhouse, although I find walking on that treadmill a colossal bore.”

“It’s good for you,” he reminded her. “And salads are good for you, dear! Ŕ bientôt!”

Ŕ bientôt!”

Qwilleran cradled the receiver slowly and fondly. No one else had ever been concerned about his diet; for that matter, had he ever been concerned about anyone’s cardiovascular system? In front of him was a wall of bookshelves covering the fireplace cube and filled with pre-owned volumes from Eddington Smith’s dusty bookshop. The sight of their mellow spines, like the sound of Polly’s mellow voice, always pleased him. He agreed with Francis Bacon: Old friends to trust, old wood to burn, old authors to read.

The titles were arranged in categories, and Koko liked to nestle in snug spaces between Biography and Drama or between History and Fiction. Occasionally he raised his nose to sniff the fish glue used in old bindings. Sometimes he pushed a book off the shelf. It would land on the floor with a thlunk, and he would peer over the edge of the shelf to view his accomplishment. That was Qwilleran’s cue to pick it up and read a few pages aloud, savoring familiar words and thoughts, while the Siamese enjoyed hearing a familiar voice. He had a full, rich voice for reading aloud.

Strangely, the titles the cat dislodged often had prophetic significance, or so it seemed; it could be coincidence. Yet… several hours before the vandals branded the old woman a witch, Koko had shoved The Crucible, an Arthur Miller play, off the shelf. Why would he choose that particular moment to draw attention to a work about the Salem witchcraft trials? Koko never did anything without a motive, and the incident gave Qwilleran an urge to visit Mrs. Coggin.