The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-6-

Flames were leaping into the black sky, and the bulky figures of firefighters were silhouetted against the orange and red inferno. Powerful headlights glared, and blue lights flashed. Fire trucks, sheriffs cars, and the pickups of volunteers were angled in every direction. Another truck, a pumper from a nearby town, was approaching from the north.

Qwilleran had covered major fires for metropolitan newspapers Down Below but none as troubling as this simple farmhouse totally ablaze. Where was Maude Coggin? Had she managed to escape?

Water lines were trained on the flames, producing the hiss of steam and clouds of black smoke. With no wind, there was little danger of sparks igniting the Art Center; even so, a hose was showering the roof. Qwilleran spotted the fire chief in his white helmet; all others were anonymous in their black gear, yellow-striped for visibility. As soon as the flames were put down, some of those men went in with airpacks and came out with blackened faces and lowered heads.

The sheriff’s yellow tape was stretched to define the danger zone, and Qwilleran moved around the perimeter, trying to see something - anything. The waiting ambulance was inside the tape, and officers from the Pickax Police and sheriff’s department only shrugged. “Maybe no one was home,” one of them said encouragingly. The nightman from the Something knew nothing either; he was snapping routine shots that would look like any other fire-scene photos.

Qwilleran stayed until the house and outbuildings burned to the ground, leaving only mounds of charred rubble. Emergency vehicles started to back away. One firefighter lumbered up to him and said, “We’re pullin’ back, Mr. Q, but a couple of us’ll stick around to watch for hotspots.”

His face was soot-covered, but Qwilleran recognized the voice. “Are you Rollo? What about the woman who lived here?”

“Gone! … gone! Damn shame! Couldn’t get in to make a rescue. Place went up like a matchbox. Burned up in her chair. Even if we coulda reached her, smoke got her first, most likely.”

Thinking of the recent vandalism, Qwilleran asked about the possibility of arson.

“The chiefll be investigatin’.”

The coroner’s car arrived, and Qwilleran turned away walking slowly to his van.

For the rest of the night he slept poorly, if at all, unable to shake off the mental image of Maude Coggin in her Morris chair, with her high-laced boots propped on a wooden crate, grinning girlishly and boasting about her age. She had been determined to live another ten years.

He visualized the headline: “Woman, 93, dies in farm fire.” The morning news on WPKX would give the tragedy about twenty seconds, with another twenty seconds for the good news: the Art Center was saved. Beverly Forfar would be annoyed by the excessive mud on the highway and the shower of soot over everything. On the other hand, she would hardly grieve over the instantaneous disappearance of the “eyesore,” with its rusty truck and bothersome livestock.

The Siamese sensed Qwilleran’ s troubled mood and refrained from pestering him until their hunger pangs exceeded their compassion. Then they raised their voices in protest, Yum Yum in her ear-piercing shriek and Koko with a different tune, in a minor key like the mournful bleating of a sheep: aaaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaa. Qwilleran threw off his churned bedclothes and took the shortcut down to the kitchen, via the spiral staircase, where he fed the cats, activated the coffeemaker, and phoned the city room at the Something.

“Who covered the fire?” he asked.

“Dave shot a roll of film and got a noncommittal statement from the fire chief. They’re investigating the cause of the fire, of course. It’s not much of a story. Do you know anything, Qwill? It happened practically in your backyard.”

“I could supply some basic facts, but I wouldn’t want…”

“Don’t worry. We won’t mention your name.” The entire staff observed what they called the Q Gag Rule.

“Okay, here goes,” Qwilleran began. “The occupant of the house was Maude Coggin, ninety-three years old. Native of Little Hope. She and her late husband, Bert, started with one acre, back when they couldn’t afford a horse. Maude had to be yoked to the plow - something she boasted about in later life. The farm grew to a hundred acres, which she rented out to other farmers after her husband’s death. She kept the original farmhouse, which was without modem conveniences, but she liked the primitive life. Raised chickens. Kept a small garden. Grew turnips and kale.”

“Could we get a quote from someone who knew her?” the editor asked.

“You could quote a neighbor as saying that Mrs. Coggin was proud of being able to look after herself. Her long life she owed to hard work. She was lively for her age and could read the Moose County Something without glasses. She was also a one-woman rescue league for decrepit old dogs that no one wanted… Does that wrap it up?”

“It wraps it up and ties it with ribbon. Thanks, Qwill.”

“No name, remember.”

“Right! No name. But… hold on! All Dave got last night was the usual fire film. Do you know of any pictures of her - or the house?”

“Mmmm … I might have a source. Let me work on it.” He was thinking about Culvert. If the boy’s camera work equaled his vocabulary, it might work.

“And how about funeral arrangements, Qwill? Who’ll have that information?”

“Good question. Let me work on that, too. I’ll get back to you.”

Qwilleran replaced the receiver but sat motionless, thinking of the poor woman who “mound” her own business - a virtual recluse even though she claimed to drive her own truck - where? To the bank? To church? To the store? She seemed to live well on fresh eggs, coffee, turnips, and kale… and perhaps milk from the McBee cows and occasional rice pudding from the McBee kitchen. Who would handle her funeral arrangements? Would the epitaph on her tombstone be exactly the way she wanted it? Would she even have a tombstone? Who would handle her estate? Would her descendants know that she was gone - or care?

Qwilleran’s impulse was to phone the McBee farm. He had a bantering acquaintance with Rollo at the coffee shop and a hand-waving acquaintance when their vehicles passed on the backroad. Both Rollo and his brother Boyd were volunteer firemen, however, and had been on duty most of the night. Rollo would be sleeping; Culvert would be at school; Mrs. McBee did accounting for other farmers and might be making calls. Yet, surely they would have an answering machine. The Coggin story was on deadline. There was no time to waste. He took a chance. To his relief, a woman answered.

“Mrs. McBee? This is your neighbor up

the road, Jim Qwilleran. I’m sure Rollo is sleeping after his grueling night.”

“He’s dead to the world! When he came home, he was so exhausted and so broken up, he just sat down and cried, and so did I! Culvert was so upset when he heard the news, I let him stay home from school. He always pretended Maude was his great-great-grandmother … Shall I tell Rollo to call you when he wakes up?”

“If you will. Meanwhile, the newspaper wants to know about funeral arrangements. Mrs. Coggin has been part of Moose County history for almost a century, and the Something wants to give her proper recognition. What can I tell them about a funeral for her?”

“Well, she wasn’t a churchgoer, but I could ask our pastor to read a service, and he’d be only too willing.”

“Would you like me to contact the funeral home? The K Fund will handle expenses. The important thing is to give her a dignified and respectful farewell.”

“That would be very kind of you, Mr. Q.”

“Also, when Culvert came to visit me the other day, he mentioned taking pictures of Mrs. Coggin. Do you think they’re suitable for publishing in the paper?”

“Well, I don’t know. Would you like to see them?”

“I would, definitely, but we’re on a tight deadline. If you’ll have them ready, I’ll drive past in ten minutes and pick them up.”

He took the fast route via Main Street and Base Line, and Culvert ran out to meet him with a photo developer’s envelope. From there Qwilleran drove directly to the newspaper and threw the packet on the picture editor’s desk. They looked at them together: Maude hanging washing on the line, peeling turnips, digging in the yard, picking tomatoes, feeding chickens, feeding the bedraggled dogs, and more.

“Better than I expected,” said the editor, choosing three and returning the rest. The ones he selected were Maude at the wheel of her truck (a close-up), Maude hanging laundry (action), and Maude feeding the dogs (a heartbreaker).

“Don’t forget to give him a credit line,” Qwilleran said. “He’s only nine years old, and it’ll be a thrill. His name is Culvert McBee. C-u-l-v-e-r-t.”

“Culvert? Are you sure?”

“Am I sure this is Moose County? And don’t forget to pay for the shots, regular freelance fee.”

While in town, Qwilleran visited the Dingleberry Funeral Home and gave specific instructions. Their records showed the date and location of Bert Coggin’s interment; a companion grave site had been provided for his wife. They could even identify the stonecutter who inscribed the tombstone: H&H Monuments on Sandpit Road. Proudly the younger Dingleberry brothers pointed out that their archives went back five generations - to the days when furniture stores sold coffins and did undertaking on the side.

Next, Qwilleran called on his attorney, G. Allen Barter, who was accustomed to his client’s breezy approach to matters of law. He said, “Don’t ask if she’d filed a will, Bart; she didn’t even have running water. There could be heirs, but she didn’t know where they are. There must be money in the bank, because she recently sold a hundred acres of prime farmland… It’s your baby, Bart. Do whatever is necessary and bill the K Fund. If you need to ask questions, the families who knew her longest and most intimately are Rollo and Boyd McBee of Pickax Township. I’m just trying to expedite things.”

With those details off his mind,

Qwilleran drove home by way of Trevelyan Road and the scene of the fire. Yellow tape still surrounded the site, which now looked sadly small for a house, shed, chicken coop, and outhouse. One could see where each of them had stood twelve hours

before. The lone firefighter remaining on duty said, “We’re watching it because of the new building across the road. An easterly wind is coming up.”

The wind was blowing an odor of wet burnt rubbish across to the Art Center, and Qwilleran thought, Wait till Beverly comes to work and smells that stench! It was not yet noon, but there was a car on the parking lot, a magenta coupe, and a petite woman on the entrance porch was fumbling in a shoulder bag almost as big as herself. He recognized the Butterfly Girl. “Having a problem?” he called out.

“I’m looking for my key,” she said. “I guess it fell out of my keycase.”

“I have one.” He jumped out of the van.

“Isn’t it ghastly, what happened across the road? We’re so lucky it didn’t reach us! Want to come in and say hello to Jasper?”

“Not today, thanks. Have you been here since the breakin Sunday night?”

“No, but Beverly phoned me and told me about my Chinese vase. I’m crushed! My grandmother gave it to me. I phoned her in California, and she said she’s never seen another one like it. I think it was valuable.”

Qwilleran glanced at the devastation across the highway and said, “Too bad.”

Driving toward the barn, he could picture the Siamese raising inquisitive noses and sniffing the acrid aftermath of the fire, all that distance away. Their olfactory sense was phenomenal. He could see Koko through the foyer window, doing his jumping-jack act. That meant the phone was ringing. Qwilleran hurried indoors.

A weary voice said, “You called my house. This is Rollo. I slept in. That fire last night knocked me out - not just the work but the sadness, you know.”

“I understand. Believe me, I do. I talked to your wife, and we worked out funeral details.”

“Yeah, she told me. There’s somethin’ else I need to talk to you about, somewhere private.”

“Want to come over to the barn?” Qwilleran asked. “The gate’s not locked. We’ll have a cup of coffee.”

Rollo McBee was a typical Moose County man of the soil. Fortyish, he was a rugged figure in work clothes, field boots, and a feed cap that he never removed. He looked like someone who rode a tractor, milked cows, built fences, reroofed the barn, repaired his own truck, left mud on the highway, and stayed up all night to fight - a fire. Qwilleran had learned to admire the farmers for their wealth of specialized knowledge, skills, independence, perseverance, and ability to josh about bad weather and financial setbacks - also their willingness to help each other.

“Are you and Boyd twins?” he asked when Rollo arrived.

“Next best thing! Grew up together, sloppin’ hogs and muckin’ the cow barn. .

. Say! This is some place!” He gazed up at the balconies and catwalks. “I remember this barn when it was a rat’s nest. How come you fixed it up?”

“It was just standing here, empty, and breeding rodents, and I met a builder who needed a job. This is his idea.”

“I’ll bet it’s hard to heat.”

“You can say that again! … Let’s sit at the snack bar. How about a sweet roll from the Scottish bakery?”

“You’ve got a lot of books,” Rollo said, looking with wonder at the shelves on the fireplace cube. “My boy’s that way - always readin’. Not interested in bein’ a farmer. Maybe he’s smart. The family farm’s on the way out. Dawn says you borrowed some of his pictures.”

“Yes, and glad to get them. There’ll be two or three in today’s paper, front page. He’ll get a credit line and freelance rate of payment - not bad for a nine-year-old.”

“Don’t spoil him,” his father warned. “Kids get spoiled when things come too easy.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Rollo. He seems like a stable sort. And, by the way, the pictures they didn’t use are on the desk over there. You can take them with you.”

Rollo turned to look at the desk, where Koko and Yum Yum were sitting on their briskets, listening. “What are those? Cats?”

“Siamese… So, where do we stand, Rollo? Dingleberry is handling the funeral. Your wife said she’d line up the pastor. But we want to be sure it’s well attended. There’s nothing sadder than a funeral with only a handful of mourners.”

“No problem. Dawn can round up the Home Visitors Circle at the church. I can fire up members of the Farmers’ Collective.”

“The estate will have to be handled by an attorney, so I alerted G. Allen Barter. The K Fund will cover expenses. You may hear from him if he needs more information, such as whether she had any heirs and where she did her banking.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Rollo said. “When Maude sold her land, she insisted on cash - I mean greenbacks. She didn’t think checks were real money. When the deal was done, she showed me a boxful of money, and it sure didn’t look like a hundred thousand. I asked if she’d counted it. She hadn’t, so I counted one bundle of bills. You’d be surprised how many brand-new bills they can squeeze into one bundle. All hundreds, with Ben Franklin on ‘em. He’s the one said Early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. It don’t work for farmers. It was all propaganda… So, anyway, I offered to drive Maude to the bank right away with that dough, and she said, ‘Not onyer life!’ A lot of old people around here don’t trust banks after what happened in the Depression and last year in Sawdust City. So I wanted to know how she’d keep her money safe. She said, ‘None o’ yer business!’ And that was that! No arguin’ with Maude! Of course, I knew what she aimed to do with it.”

“Bury it?”

“What else? Old-timers bury their valuables ten paces north of the southeast comer of the barn. Then they die, and the stuff is never found. It’s been goin’ on since 1850. If Moose County ever has an earthquake, there’ll be another Gold Rush up here.”

“You think she buried it in the barnyard?”

“I know one thing for sure: nobody hides any thin’ in the house, where it could be hit by lightnin’. Everybody knows that! … See what I’m drivin’ at?”

Qwilleran stroked his moustache. “You’re saying that… as soon as the paper hits the street with news of the fire …”

“All the treasure-hunters will be out there after dark with shovels and lanterns!”

“That’s trespassing.”

“Okay, so the sheriff chases them away, but the new owners of the property will send a back-hoe to clear out the rubble; they’ll really be huntin’ for the buried bucks! I’d hate like heck to see those robbers get their money back that way! Do you realize they paid her one-fourth of what the farm was worth? I felt like tellin’ her she was robbed, but what good would it do? The idea of a hundred thousand knocked her silly! She’d never even seen a bill with Ben Franklin’s picture!”

“They were going to let her live there rent-free,” Qwilleran added. “Who bought the land?”

“A Lockmaster company called Northern Land Improvement. You can’t trust anybody from Lockmaster. All sharpies! Right away they raised the tillage rent to Boyd and me. They also said they wanted to be paid by the quarter - in advance. We’d been payin’ Maude once a month, and we’d paid for April, but they sent a bill for the whole second quarter. We’d already cultivated and bought seed, so we decided to go along with it for the rest of the year. There’s other land we could rent, but Maude’s tract was handy, right between Boyd’s farm and mine.”

Qwilleran said, “I’ve never heard of that company, but I have to admit I don’t know Lockmaster well.”

“I phoned the number on the bill and talked to some fast-talkin’ babe called Bernice but didn’t get anywhere. She was very friendly - friendly like a snake… So now you see why I don’t want those greedy buzzards to dig up the money they paid for the land.”

Suddenly Qwilleran thundered “NO!” in the direction of the desk. The explosive shout sent the cats flying, while assorted desktop items landed on the floor. “Sorry,” he said to his guest. “Koko was licking Culvert’s snapshots. There’s something in the surface of photos that tastes good to cats.” He gathered up the clutter and examined the snapshots. A cat’s saliva always left a rough spot. Only one picture was damaged - a shot of Maude in the barnyard, with her boot on the shoulder of a spade. She was digging a hole, and on the ground beside her was a two-pound coffee can.

It raised the hackles on Qwilleran’ s neck. He said, “Here’s a coincidence, Rollo. Can you identify the wall in this picture?” It was a whitewashed plank wall.

“It’s the outhouse!” the farmer roared. “The back of the outhouse! Let’s go and dig it up!” He was out of his chair and halfway to the door.

“Not so fast!” Qwilleran said. “We’d better clear it with the attorney.”

“Anyway, let’s go down and have a look at it. Then I’ve got to go home and do chores.”

Qwilleran said, “I’ll ride with you, pick up my mail, and walk back.” Then, on the way down the lane, he asked, “I wonder what happened to Mrs. Coggin’s dogs. She let them live in the shed.”

“Believe it or not,” said Rollo, “when I started up here this afternoon, I saw this parade of broken-down mutts comin’ down the highway, headed for our farm. The black one with the bad limp was in the lead, with the others hobblin’ after him. I hollered to Culvert to come and take ‘em in.” There were two vehicles at the site of the fire: a sheriff s car and the pickup belonging to the fire department’s watchman. The latter said to Rollo, “I’m reporting it’s safe to leave now.”

“How long will the yellow tape remain?” Qwilleran asked.

“Till the owners clean it up,” said the deputy. “Till then, it’s a danger spot. Kids could come pokin’ around in the muck, lookin’ for loot.”

“More than that, it’s a health hazard,” Rollo said. “When the outhouse burned down, it left an open latrine. It’s gotta be treated with lime and filled up, or you’ll wind up with a godawful swarm of flies, and the folks across the road’ll have somethin’ worse than mud to write to the paper about.”

The deputy said he’d report it to the board of health.

“Naw, they’ll take a coon’s age to fix it,” said the farmer. “I got some lime in my barn. When I’ve done my chores, I’ll run up here with a shovel and close it up.

Best thing to do. Don’t want to start an epidemic.”