The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-19-

On Friday afternoon when Qwilleran walked down the lane to pick up his newspaper and mail, he knew the Art Center would be closed, as a gesture of respect for one of their valued artists - closed for three days, in fact. Yet, there was a car in the parking lot: a yellow convertible backed up to the side door. Beverly Forfar was loading boxes into it.

“What are you doing?” Qwilleran called out to her. “Burglarizing the collection?”

“I’ve resigned,” she said soberly. “It’s too much for me! I’m going back Down Below where I can get a quiet job in a museum.”

“Well, we’re certainly sorry to see you go,” he said, “but if you think you’ll be more comfortable down there, that’s the thing to do, and I wish you well… but we’ll never find a manager quite like you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Q. Mr. Haggis has promised to keep an eye on the place until a manager is found.”

Then Qwilleran had a brilliant idea. He said, “Do you remember that man who won the Whiteness of White intaglio in the raffle? His sister-in-law had picked it up and was supposed to ship it to him in San Francisco, but there’s been an unexpected development. Professor Frobnitz has taken a chair at a university in Japan. He wants the intaglio given to someone who’ll appreciate an artwork of that quality and sophistication. Would you like to have it? I understand it’s quite valuable.”

“Oh, I’d love it!” she cried. “How nice of you to think of me! And what a beautiful going-away present! I’ll always think of you when I look at it, Mr. Q.”

“How soon are you leaving?” he asked. “I can pick it up from his sister-in-law and deliver it here.”

After retrieving it from his broom closet and delivering it, Qwilleran thought about the events that had driven Beverly Forfar from her post: first, the farm mud that tracked into the Art Center… the ugly farmhouse and rusty truck across the road… the dogs and chickens running onto the highway… then the fire that sprinkled the Art Center with soot, while the firefighters’ hoses created more mud… followed by the breakin and theft of Daphne’s drawings… and the bane of her life: Jasper! … the trespassers in the Click Club… the threat of a ring road funneling heavy trucks past the Art Center… and finally the murder of an artist! If anyone deserved a thousand-dollar intaglio, it was Beverly Forfar.

Qwilleran had been caught up in a rush of events and problems in recent weeks, and now that it was allover and his participation no longer needed, he felt restless. It was Saturday afternoon, and Polly was having her final sitting for Paul Skumble. He himself was scheduled to officiate at a small ceremony at the library. Meanwhile he took off in his van for destinations unplanned.

His first stop was Amanda Goodwinter’s studio. “Has everything simmered down in Indian Village?” he asked.

“Arrgh!” she growled. “When they locked up that dunderhead, they left his parrot there without food, and the blasted bird has squawked nonstop for thirty-six hours! Not only was he noisy; he had a filthy mouth! At three-thirty this morning I phoned the sheriff at home - got him out of bed - and said, ‘You get over here and pick up that neighborhood nuisance in the next ten minutes, or I’ll personally see that you never get reelected! Put him in a foster home… send him to Parrot Rehab… do anything! But get him out of here, and bring some peanuts with you, or he’ll chew your arm off up to the elbow!’ … Well, a deputy showed up in five minutes, and I haven’t heard so much as a floor squeak ever since.”

From there Qwilleran drove to Mooseville, having invented an excuse for visiting Elizabeth’s boutique. He found the proprietor fluttering around the shop in gauzy garments and a state of elation.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she gloated. “The Barbecue is closed, and Derek’s back at a full schedule at MCCC! I’m really sorry about the Butterfly Girl, though. Derek said she was a decent person who didn’t belong in that place. I would have handled her paintings, but they were too pricey for tourists and too representational for the yachting crowd… What can I do for you, Qwill?”

“I’d like a gift for Polly. We have something to celebrate.”

“How wonderful! Why not a lounge outfit?” Elizabeth suggested. “She likes caftans, and I have a lovely handwoven cotton in saffron, with a hundred tiny tucks running vertically from neck to hem. Very simple! Very elegant!”

“I’ll take it,” he said.

On the way back to Pickax, Qwilleran stopped at the stoneyard to see Thornton Haggis. In spite of his buoyant mop of white hair and friendly gold-rimmed glasses, he looked mournful. “A sad day for the art community,” he said. “How did she let herself get into such a mess?”

“Too late for questions,” Qwilleran said. “She’s gone, and so are her Painted Ladies.”

“Why didn’t you call me? I wanted to see them take off.”

“Frankly, I didn’t have the heart.”

“Ramsbottom will be paying the piper at long last, if that’s any consolation, My sons were talking to the county engineer. It looks like the twelve acres of paving will be ditched. The hundred acres he bought from Maude Coggin will be going up for sale - to help cover legal fees, I suppose.”

Qwilleran asked, “Have you heard anything about the cemetery expansion? That was part of the hundred acres.”

“I think that deal hadn’t really gone through. The news must have been leaked prematurely, for some nefarious reason… Do you have time for lunch?”

“Not today, thanks. I have another appointment.”

His appointment was at the public library, where he was to draw the winning names for the two mascots.

At the library a crowd of a hundred or more waited for the drawing. Qwilleran took his place behind the circulation desk, on which were two boxes of names and one nonchalant he-cat.

“Tradition requires,” he announced, “that we draw three names, and the third is the winner. All in favor?”

“Yea!” they shouted. It was the loudest clamor that had ever shaken the walls of that cathedral of information.

He stirred the contents of the she-cat box and withdrew the first non-winner: Bertha. There was a disappointed “Aw!” from one person in the crowd.

The next non-winner was Minnie K, bringing a number of regretful wails. Minnie K was a prominent figure in Moose County history, but that was a long, indelicate story; the K stood for Klingenschoen.

Qwilleran shook the box vigorously before drawing the winning ticket. “And she-cat will hereinafter be known as …Katie!”

There was a scream of delight, followed by applause from the others.

“Where is she? Katie, come and take a bow!”

Someone found her, and he held her up for all to see. She was soft and fluffy, quite different from the sleek Siamese he brushed daily. He would be in the doghouse when he returned home; Yum Yum would resent his being chummy with another female.

The audience waited expectantly for the next drawing. To prolong the suspense Qwilleran recited a limerick he had composed for the occasion:

An amorous tomcat named Jet Loved every she-cat he met, But one day he got ill And they gave him a pill, And now he’s suing the vet.

The limerick was received with laughter and screaming - another affront to the staid old building. Qwilleran went on: “Okay, friends, are you ready to name this handsome fellow who is said to be a retired gentleman cat?”

“Yea!”

The first ticket drawn was… Moose. The second was… Dickens. “And the winning name is” - Qwilleran. blinked at the. Ticket - “the winning name is Mackintosh!” It was his own middle name.

A young woman was squealing and jumping up and : down. “That’s my ticket!” she shouted.

“Good choice! What gave you the idea?”

“My family has an apple orchard. I thought we could call him Mac.”

“And so,” Qwilleran concluded, “let us welcome as official library mascots, Mac and Katie, who will do their purr-sonal best to make this a friendly place to browse or borrow books!”

In the days that followed, Moose County had more on its collective mind than Mac and Katie, or the spelling champs, or even the tragedy at Bloody Creek. ; In coffee shops and on street comers they talked about nothing but “the commish.” All who had voted for him, praised his barbecue, winked at his kickbacks, and accepted his small bribes began circulating unsavory stories. They all knew what had really happened in the Campbell scandal. They all knew about Bunny. They said his wife was a saint; she’d stand by him, in spite of everything. They speculated that the house in the Hummocks would be sold, and Mrs. Ramsbottom would go to live in Ittibittiwassee Estates… Even so, some were confident that “the commish” would wiggle” out of the charges.

Qwilleran and his attorney moved fast to arrange for the purchase of the Coggin land by the K Fund, which would put it in conservation for agricultural use: A search for Coggin heirs, as required by law, had so far produced no claimants for the contents of the coffee can.

Then there was an interesting political side effect: the sudden death of the proposed “weed laws” and “road improvements” in West Middle Hummock. Since their promoter was awaiting trial on criminal charges, the legislation was unpopular with both the lawn faction and the naturalists in that picturesque community.

One afternoon Paul Skumble delivered Polly’s portrait to the barn and helped to hang it in the suite on the first balcony.

“I like it,” Qwilleran said as he wrote the check. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, I’m quite proud of it,” the artist admitted. “I think I captured her innate intelligence and compassion.

She was a charming subject - cooperative and never bored or nervous.”

“I wonder what will happen to your portrait of Ramsbottom. The restaurant is closed.”

“I know one thing: it will appreciate in market value because of the notoriety. Meanwhile, it would be an honor to do your portrait without charge.”

“Are you still adamant about not painting cats?”

“I’m afraid so,” Skumble said.

In Polly’s portrait she sat in a highbacked Windsor against a wall of leather-bound books, wearing a blue dress and pearls and holding a copy of Hamlet. When the Rikers saw it, Mildred said, “It’s one of the loveliest contemporary portraits I’ve ever seen. It depicts gentleness and strength.”

“Humor and dignity,” her husband said.

“Let’s have your portrait done, Millie.”

“Not until I lose twenty pounds.”

“Perhaps he could paint you thinner.”

Polly said, “I’m sure I lost a few pounds on canvas.” The three of them had come to the barn directly from their offices for the unveiling and a brief celebratory drink. While the Siamese observed from the top of the fireplace cube, the foursome sat around the lounge area and exchanged news and views.

Arch said to Qwilleran, “Are you going to leave that bike in the living room? It looks a little eccentric, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I consider it a high-tech art object,” Qwilleran said. “The cats will knock it over when they go racing around - the way they scuttled a few other things I could name.”

“They never go near it.”

Then Mildred announced that they were moving into their beach house for the summer, even though it meant a longer commute to the office. “It will be a good summer for UFO sightings,” she said. “They return every seven years.”

Arch and Qwilleran, who scoffed at visitors from outer space, exchanged dour glances, and Arch said, “My sole reason for summering at the beach is to enjoy the revitalizing lake air in the company of my dear but wacky wife.” And he added that the Moose County Something would publish no photographs of mysterious lights in the night sky.

The guests were looking at their wristwatches. It was time to leave - Polly for her bird club and the Rikers for a dinner party. Qwilleran accompanied them to the parking area, where the farewells were prolonged as everyone thought of something else to say: The library was planning a reception to introduce their new mascots, Polly said. Mildred suggested inviting Derek to bring his guitar. Qwilleran ventured that Derek might compose a folk ballad about Mac and Katie.

The two cars finally pulled away, with tooting and waving, and Qwilleran went indoors to feed the cats. They were not waiting at the door. They were not on the fireplace cube. He stood still and did an eye-search of their usual haunts: the top of the refrigerator, the softest furniture, the balcony railings. No cats!

“Treat!” he shouted, and two furry bodies rose from the basketseat of the recumbent bike. “You jokers! You think that’s funny!” he said. “You like to make a fool of anyone with only two legs!”

All three of them had their treat: roast beef from the deli. Some of it was diced and placed on two plates in the feeding station; some of it was sliced and placed on rye bread with tomatoes and horseradish. Then they all went to the gazebo.

Qwilleran stretched out on a lounge chair overlooking the bird garden, and Yum Yum landed weightlessly on his lap. Koko sat at his feet with an alert eye for movement in the bushes and an alert ear for birdsong. Soon he was chattering an obbligato or mewling a melodic phrase of his own.

Amazing! Qwilleran thought. More and more Koko’s behavior convinced him that this was no normal feline. Koko was a natural predator who was never predatory. He had never been interested in catching mice, although Yum Yum had one or two to her credit. He made buddies of crows and sang for the wrens and robins. He was a house cat who knew when the telephone was about to ring and when something bad was happening half a mile away. He put ideas in one’s head when there were problems to solve and secrets to uncover.

Furthermore, Koko had devised uncatly ways of communicating information. Long before “the commish” was implicated in the Coggin case, Koko was bleating like “a dirty old ram,” although Qwilleran had failed to read the message. Long before Phoebe’s murder, he had taken a dislike to the woodpecker with a red topknot. And now that the case was in the hands of the prosecutor, he had suddenly lost interest in red checkers, the bell with a serpent for a handle, the antique compass, and Nathanael and Rebecca.

Such musings said more about Qwilleran’s imagination than the cat’s communication skills. But where could one draw the line between coincidence and a supercat’s intelligence? Somewhere there was an answer. Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingertips.

There was a noisy flapping of wings as seven crows landed outside the screen and Koko jumped down to greet them - in syllables not too different from their own language.

Qwilleran said to him, “Koko, you are a remarkable, enigmatic, unpredictable, and sometimes exasperating cat!”

Koko turned away from the crows and gave the man a long look before opening his jaws in a wide, unlovely yawn.