The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-4-

Before attending the grand opening of the Art Center, four friends met for Sunday brunch at Qwilleran’s barn. Qwilleran and Arch Riker had been fellow journalists Down Below. More than that, they had been classmates since kindergarten. When the Moose County Something was about to be launched, Riker moved north to realize his dream and become publisher and editor-in-chief of a small-town broadsheet. Besides reveling in his career change, he was enjoying marriage to a local woman of quite some status in the community.

Mildred Hanstable Riker had taught fine and domestic arts in Moose County schools for thirty years before becoming food writer for the Something. She was a warm-hearted humanitarian, a great cook, and a paragon of pleasing plumpness. Riker himself had a paunchy figure, and his ruddy face radiated mid-life contentment. Polly Duncan completed the foursome.

Brunch preliminaries were held in the gazebo, where the screened panels on all eight sides gave the impression of being pleasantly lost in the woods. The foursome pulled chairs into a semicircle overlooking the bird garden: the Siamese sat complacently at their feet, watching the crows, mourning doves, and blue jays.

Bloody Marys were served, with or without vodka, and Arch proposed a toast: “May the roof never fall in, and may

friends never fallout!” Then he asked Qwilleran in all seriousness, “When are you going to put in your lawn?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding! I don’t want to hear, or smell, any power mowers on my property! In that wide open space beyond the bird garden Kevin Doone is putting in a meadow of native grasses, wildflowers, and forbs. He’s made a study of natural landscaping.”

“What are forbs?”

“To tell the truth, I’m not sure. Some kind of plant. My dictionary is vague about forbs, but I trust Kevin.”

Mildred said, “He’s very good. He’s landscape consultant for Indian Village. Otherwise, the developers would have the whole complex looking like a golf course.”

Arch said, “For someone who grew up on the sidewalks of Chicago, Qwill, you’ve become a sudden lover of nature.”

“Only if I don’t have to water it, fertilize it, weed it, spray it, or prune it.”

There was a startling interruption as a crow chased a squirrel, the one flapping its wings threateningly and the other running for its life. Qwilleran explained the social situation: “Small birds throw seeds out of the feeder; large birds pick them up off the ground, but the squirrels try to muscle in. The politics and economics of a bird garden are more complicated than I care to contemplate. Let’s talk about something simple, like the newspaper business.”

“Okay,” Arch said. “You saw the announcement of the adult spelling bee to benefit the literacy program. We’re underwriting it, and I’m happy to say the business community is very supportive.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“Hixie suggested it, although it’s been done in cities Down Below - quite successfully, I understand.”

Qwilleran thought, Here we go again! Hixie Rice, the newspaper’s promotion director, had a long history of brilliant ideas that ended in disaster, through no fault of her own. Her most recent debacle had been the Moose County Ice Festival that melted into oblivion in February. Failure never daunted her; she bounced back with yet another worthwhile idea.

Arch said, “We lost our shirt on the Ice Festival, but an adult spelling bee should be foolproof. Business firms and other organizations pay a fee to enter a team and compete for atrophy, and the public pays an admission fee to applaud their favorite spellers. The audience has fun, and the sponsors get favorable publicity. I don’t see how anything can go wrong… You’re looking dubious, Qwill.”

“Not at all! I’m all in favor of promoting literacy. The more people who can read, the greater our circulation and the more ads we sell and the more fan

mail I get.”

“Oh, Qwill! I hope you’re joking and not just being cynical,” Polly protested.

“I was recently shocked,” he said, “to learn that a well-known businessman in Pickax can neither read nor write. He’s gone to great lengths to conceal the fact.”

“Who? Who?” they clamored.

“That’s privileged information.”

A beeper sounded, and the two women jumped up. “Time to start the frittata,” Polly said. “We’ll ring the dinnerbell when we’re ready.” They returned to the bam, laughing and chattering.

The men sat back in their chairs and gazed into the woods, at peace with the world. Neither of them spoke. They had been friends long enough to make silences comforting.

After a while Arch said, “When are we going to fly Down Below for a weekend ballgame?”

“Exactly what was on my mind! We should check the schedules.”

“Do you think the girls will want to go along?”

“They enjoyed it last year - the shopping, that is, and the show Saturday night,” Qwilleran recalled. “Let’s sound them out.”

“I noticed a new baseball book on your coffee table. Don’t tell me you broke down and bought a book that’s less than fifty years old!”

“I didn’t buy it. Polly brought it from the library. My record remains clean… Meanwhile, though, I picked up three interesting World War Two books from Eddington’s dustbin: The Pacific War, Fire Over London, and The Last 100 Days. They came from an estate on Purple Point.”

At that point Koko attracted their attention by raising himself into a long-legged stretch with back humped and tail stiff. Then he lowered his front half and stretched his forelegs against the floor, after which he stretched one hind leg. Finally he confronted the men. “Yow!” he said with a volume and clarity that reverberated through the woods.

“What’s bugging him?” Arch asked.

“He knows the dinnerbell is about to ring.”

In a few seconds it rang.

“See? What did I tell you?” Qwilleran said with a touch of pride. “Can you beat that!” Koko was already standing over the canvas tote bag, and with a little assistance from Qwilleran both cats hopped into it, wriggling into place, and the four of them returned to the barn.

The dinnerbell that had summoned them was standing on the console table in the foyer - a cast brass handbell with a coiled serpent for a handle.

“Dutch Baroque,” said Arch, who had learned about antiques from his first wife, Down Below. “Where’d you get it?”

“Amanda’s studio. She said it came from Stockholm.”

“Could be. There was a lot of sea trade between Holland and Sweden at one time… and that Jacobean table is new! Where’d that come from?” He was looking at a small oval table with an oval stretcher and five sturdy turned legs.

“Exbridge & Cobb,” Qwilleran said. “From Iris Cobb’s personal collection.”

“It’s an English tavern table, eighteenth century,” Arch said. “Top worn thin by two centuries of scouring by conscientious barmaids. Bun feet worn off from dragging across a damp stone floor.”

“How about some soft background music to go with that?” Qwilleran suggested.

“I’m serious! It’s the real thing! You can leave me this table when you die.”

“What makes you think you’ll outlive me, you dirty dog?”

“Because Mildred makes him eat salads,” Polly said.

Brunch was served in the dining area, which was seldom used; guests were always taken out to dinner. It began with fruit soup, a concoction of pear and raspberry. Then came mushroom frittata and a warm salad of asparagus and yellow peppers. If Qwilleran had not later found two small yellow cartons in the trash container, he would never have guessed the eggs in the frittata were cholesterol-free. I might have known, he thought.

When they were having coffee in the lounge area, Mildred said, “This is a great day for the art lovers of Moose County.” She had been one of the founders of the Arts Council and was now chairperson of the new Art Center.

“Are they one big happy family?” Qwilleran asked. “Or do you have cliques and politics?”

“Just between us,” she confided, “there is a certain amount of friction. I suppose we’re a microcosm of the whole community, with the normal amount of jealousy, snobbery, and competitiveness - although outwardly we get along. Among the artists themselves, the differences are in matters of style and taste. Most of them do representational art, and in a group show the abstractionists don’t want their work hung on the same wall with the butterflies and shafthouses.”

“How many of your members are active artists?”

“About twenty percent. Thirty percent, I’d say, are true art lovers. That leaves

fifty percent who join because it’s tax-deductible, or whatever.”

Polly said, “A rumor has been circulating at the library that you’re exhibiting nude drawings in the show today.”

Mildred rolled her eyes in exasperation. “We never include nudes in a public exhibition because some people get upset over what they call ‘naked bodies.’ We show figure drawings only at receptions for members.”

“That explains the fifty-percent fringe membership,” Arch said dryly.

His wife squinted at him briefly and then went on. “Some of our artists do very fine life studies, and the one who calls herself simply ‘Daphne’ has won statewide prizes. She’ll be teaching our class in figure drawing with a live model, of course. She has a wonderful understanding of anatomy: cats, dogs, and horses, as well as humans.”

Arch looked at his watch. “Let’s go to the party before they run out of punch. I don’t suppose it’s spiked.”

“You suppose right,” Mildred said.

The two couples walked leisurely down the lane to the Art Center and heard the buzz of celebration even before they emerged from the woods: traffic noise, excited voices, children’s cries. Qwilleran glanced across the road to see if Maude Coggin might be sitting on her porch, rocking and scowling at the intruders, but there was no activity. Dogs and chickens were no doubt locked up out of harm’s way.

The paving around the new building was a gridiron of muddy tire tracks, and a volunteer on the entrance porch was exhorting visitors to wipe their feet thoroughly or take off their shoes. Several pairs were lined up at the door, prompting Arch to ask his wife, “Do you see any cordovan alligator loafers in my size?”

In the lobby two works donated by local artists were being raffled off to benefit the Arts Council: Duff Campbell’s watercolor, Buckshot Shafthouse by Moonlight, and W. C. Wyckoffs intaglio, The Whiteness of White. The latter was a large square of heavy white paper with a three-dimensional snowflake design pressed into the surface. Recessed under glass and framed in chrome, it looked quite elegant, everyone said, although they bought chances on the watercolor. Qwilleran bought five chances on the intaglio, having a fellow feeling for the neglected artist, whoever he or she might be.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll win it?” Arch mumbled to him.

For anonymity, Qwilleran signed the raffle stubs with his unlisted phone number and an alias.

The manager, Beverly Forfar, looking snappy in a short-skirted suit and high heels, was much in evidence - greeting guests, directing traffic, and watching the white vinyl floor for possible mud. She flashed special smiles at important visitors; otherwise, she was strictly managerial.

In the galleries there was more talking than viewing of art: “Somebody did a nice job of tracklighting here… What do you think they have in the punch? … My cousin has just bought her fourth shafthouse … How do you like the manager’s haircut?”

Guests were dressed as if they had just come from church, or from hiking. There were civic leaders, students in MCCC shirts, oldsters with walking aids, families with small children, and a few strangers, whose identities were being wildly guessed. They were dealers from Down Below, looking for new talent. They were spies from the Lockmaster Art Center, looking for ideas to copy. They were undercover detectives, looking for offensive art or photography.

Qwilleran’s party scattered: Arch to investigate the refreshment table, Mildred to confer with the manager, Polly to meet Paul Skumble. As soon as artist and librarian met, an immediate rapport was evident, and Qwilleran left them alone, wandering off to visit Jasper.

The Butterfly Girl’s studio was crammed with visitors, chanting silly phrases at the parrot and then screaming when he replied, “C’mon, baby, gimme a tickle! … Anybody wanna go to bed? … I’m a go-o-od boy!” He bounced up and down on his perch and ruffled his feathers.

The artist herself stood in a far comer near the window, oblivious to the commotion. She was talking to a good-looking young man with unruly red hair, gazing at him amorously with the lustrous brown eyes that were her best feature. Then, catching sight of Qwilleran, she dragged her companion over to meet “Mr. Q.”

“This is my boyfriend, Jake Westrup,” she said. “He’s the one who gave me Jasper.”

“Yeah. I always wanted a parrot,” the fellow said, “but when I got Jasper home I found out my roommate’s allergic to feathers, and my boss wouldn’t let me have a bird because we handle food, and it’s against the law… Well, I gotta go to work now. Nice to meetcha. Mr. Q … S’long, Monkey. See ya t’night.” He tweaked her chin.

Qwilleran, never having tweaked a woman’s chin in his life, was offended by the man’s impudence, but the Butterfly Girl seemed not to mind. He said to her, “I don’t believe I know your name.”

“Phoebe. Phoebe Sloan. My father has the drugstore downtown.”

“Yes, of course. I know Sloan’s very well. Phoebe is a beautiful name. It comes from the Greek word for bright.”

“My boyfriend doesn’t like it,” she said apologetically. “He calls me - “

Before she could finish, Beverly Forfar stormed into the studio. “You’ll have to throw the blanket over his cage, Phoebe! He’s causing too much annoyance.”

“Big Mama, come to baby!” Jasper squawked.

Qwilleran made a discreet exit and went to see the collage demonstration. The woman who would be teaching a class in the art was doing a self-portrait with bits of torn newspaper. Also exhibited on ledges around the studio were landscapes created with fragments of cloth, snippets of wallpaper, theater tickets, shirt labels, and computer printouts. “You don’t have to be able to draw or paint,” she said. “The bits and pieces are your paint. The process makes you think a little.”

Qwilleran moved on to the next demonstration. A calligrapher, who would teach a class in “beautiful writing,” was using special pens to form the thick-and—

thin letters of modified Old English script. He said, “The practice of scribing began in ancient Rome and became an art in the Middle Ages. Sign up for the class, folks, and thumb your nose at computers!” For a donation to the Art Center, he would scribe any saying to order, at a dollar a word, suitable for framing. Qwilleran ordered three dollars’ worth of Shakespeare, which looked quite profound in modified Old English: Words, words, words!

He caught up with Mildred in a studio that displayed charcoal drawings of animals. With a few fluid strokes the artist had captured the tranquillity of a well-fed cat, the alertness of a hunting dog, the sheer power of a galloping horse.

“Come and see these wonderful figure studies, Qwill,” said Mildred. “Daphne is going to teach our class in life drawing. The human body is one of the greatest challenges in art.” Unframed drawings, large and small and covered in shrink-wrap, were filed on end in an open bin. Male and female figures were depicted with honesty and elegance - twisting, stooping, relaxing, reaching, running, leaping.

Qwilleran complimented the artist. “You say so much with so few lines! What’s the secret?”

“Anatomy,” said Daphne. “You have to know how the human body is constructed, how the basic masses are connected, how the bones and muscles function. You have to use your brain more than your eye. That’s what I teach.”

Arch was getting impatient. Art was not his area of interest. After signaling the women, he and Qwilleran waited for them on the porch.

“See anything you like?” Arch asked.

“A totem pole about two feet high. I like wood carvings. It would look good on the table in my foyer.”

“And it would be handy to have around in case you have to protect yourself.”

“I told them to put a ‘Sold’ sticker on it. They won’t let it go until the exhibition ends.”

“What do you think of Beverly Forfar?” Arch asked. “I don’t believe that name.”

“Or that hair! It looks like a patent-leather helmet.”

“She’s a big woman. Top-heavy.”

“But with good legs. Neat ankles,” Qwilleran observed.

“High heels do a lot for a woman’s ankles. Fran Brodie’s another.”

“On a scale from one to ten, I’d give Fran a ten and Ms. Forfar a seven.”

“What happened to Fran?” Arch asked. “She hasn’t been to chamber of commerce meetings lately.”

“She’s on vacation. Before that, she was in Chicago, ordering furniture for the hotel do-over.”

“I hope it won’t be anything fussy.”

“She told me it would be Gustav Stickley, whatever that is,” Qwilleran said, “but you can rest assured that everything Fran does is first class.”

“Here come the girls.”

As the four of them walked back to the bam, Qwilleran asked Mildred about the Jasper incident.

“It got a little rowdy because the crowd was taunting him,” she explained. “Under normal circumstances there’s no reason why he can’t stay until Phoebe finds an apartment. Beverly doesn’t like him, that’s the trouble. She’s uptight about many things.”

“Where did you find her? How did she get the job?”

“She’s a native. I had her in art classes when she was a teen. She went Down Below, married, worked in art galleries, and returned to Pickax after her divorce.”

“Well, here’s the reason I’m inquiring, Mildred. If it wouldn’t upset Beverly, I’d like to take Koko to meet Jasper - on a leash, of course.”

“Why not? We ought to give you a key and let you check the building when you pick up your mail. That is, if you don’t mind.”

He agreed, and she gave him the key from her keyring.

Polly said, “Jasper has obviously associated with the wrong companions. We had an Amazon at the bird club at one meeting, and he was a perfect gentleman, with a vocabulary of almost a hundred words. When he heard a bell ring, he’d tell his owner to answer the phone. She was a breeder. He called her ‘honeybunch’ and kissed her ear. He could even sing God Bless America.”

Qwilleran said, “I think I’ll stick with cats… How were the refreshments, Arch? I never got near the table.”

“With my wife chairing the committee, you know they were good! There were some scruffy individuals stuffing cookies into their mouths and pockets, though. I wondered if they were artists or art patrons.”

Then Qwilleran wanted to know about the Butterfly Girl’s paintings. Were they art or commercial illustration?

Mildred said, “You might call them decorative art - not original concepts, but hand-painted - and certainly popular.”

“How about the guy who paints shafthouses?” Arch asked. “He asks a good price, but it can’t take long to knock one out; there’s no detail.”

“They’re impressionist,” his wife said. “You can’t count the boards and the knotholes, but you can feel the light and the weather and the mood. Watercolor is a fluid medium, and you have to work fast, but it takes skill and assurance and artistry.”

Qwilleran said, “If I could be any artist who ever lived, I’d be Winslow Homer.”

“I’d be Mary Cassatt,” Polly said. Mildred nodded. “Her work had simplicity and charm.”

“Am I entitled to make a choice?” Arch asked. “I’d be Charles Schulz.”

The Rikers were driving Polly home, since all three of them lived in Indian Village. Qwilleran said to her, “Phone me when you have time. I want to know what you arranged with Paul Skumble.”

“I will. I will!” she said. She seemed particularly radiant.