The Cat Who Wasn't There

Twelve

It was a peaceful Sunday morning. The church bells were ringing on Park Circle as Qwilleran walked downtown to pick up the out-of-town newspapers. At the apple barn, the Siamese huddled in a window to count the leaves that were beginning to fall from the trees. Their heads raised and lowered in unison, following the downward course of each individual leaf. In another week there would be too many to count, and they would lose interest. At noon, Polly phoned.

"I forgot to tell you, Qwill. The Senior Care Facility is trying the Pets for Patients idea this afternoon. I'm taking Bootsie. Would you be willing to take Yum Yum?" "I'll give it a try. What time?" "Two o'clock. Report to the main lobby." "Did you speak to your sisterin-law, Polly?" "Yes. She said doctors usually keep the records of deceased patients for a few years-for their own protection in case of dispute." "I see. Well, thank you. And thank her, also." Shortly before two o'clock he brought the cat carrier out of the broom closet.

"Come on, sweetheart," he said to Yum Yum.

"Come and have your horizon expanded." Koko, usually ready for an adventure, jumped uninvited into the carrying coop, but Yum Yum promptly sped away--up the ramp, around the balcony, and up the next ramp with Qwilleran in pursuit. On the second balcony he was able to grab her, but she slithered from his grasp, leaving him down on all fours. She stopped and gazed at his predicament, but as soon as he scrambled to his feet, she raced to the third balcony. He lunged at her just as she started to crawl along a horizontal beam that was forty feet above the main floor.

"Not this time, baby!" he scolded. It was no small endeavor to evict the stubborn male from the carrier with one hand and install the squirming, clutching, kicking female with the other, and they were the last to arrive at the Senior Care Facility. There was a high decibel level of vocal hubbub, barking, snarling, growling, and hissing in the lobby, which teemed with pet lovers, dogs on leashes, cats in carriers, and volunteers in yellow smocks, known as "canaries" at the facility.

Lisa Compton was there with a clipboard, assigning pets to patients.

Qwilleran asked her, "Are you the new chief of volunteers?" "I've applied for the job," she said, "but today I'm just helping out.

It's our first go at this project, and there are some wrinkles to iron out. Next time we'll stagger the visitors. Who's your friend?" "Her name is Yum Yum." "Is she gentle?

We have an emphysema patient who's requested a pet, and the doctor has okayed a cat, thinking a dog would be too frisky. Yum Yum seems quite relaxed." Qwilleran peered into the carrier, where Yum Yum had struck the dead-cat pose she always assumed after losing an argument.

"Yes, I'd say she's quite relaxed." Lisa beckoned to a canary.

"Would you take Mr. Qwilleran and Yum Yum up to 15-C for Mr.

Hornbuckle? The limit is twenty minutes." In the elevator, the volunteer remarked, "This old gentleman was caretaker for Dr.

Halifax on Goodwinter Boulevard until a couple of years ago. The doctor kept him on even though he couldn't work much toward the end.

Dr. Hal was a wonderful man." The occupant of 15-C was sitting in a wheelchair when they entered--a small, weak figure literally plugged into the wall as he received a metered supply of oxygen through a long tube, but he was waiting eagerly with bright eyes and a toothy grin.

The canary said loudly, "You have a visitor, Mr. Hornbuckle.

Her name is Yum Yum." To Qwilleran she said, "I'll come back for you when the time's up." Yum Yum was relaxed to the consistency of jelly when Qwilleran lifted her from the carrier.

"That's a cat?" the old man said in a strange voice. The nasal prongs made his voice unnaturally resonant, and ill-fitting dentures gave his speech a juicy sibilance.

"She's a Siamese," Qwilleran said, putting the limp bundle of fur on the patient's lap blanket.

"Purty kitty," he said, stroking her with a quivering hand.

"Soft, ain't she? Blue eyes!

Never seen one like this." He spoke slowly in short sentences.

Qwilleran made an attempt to entertain him with anecdotes about Siamese until he realized that the patient would rather talk than listen.

"Growed up on a farm with animules," he said.

"Barn cats, hunt'n' dogs, cows, chickens..." "I hear you used to work for Dr.

Halifax." "Fifty year, nigh onto. I were like family. Mighty fine man, he were.

What's your name?" "Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran." "Been here long?" "Five years." "Y'knowed Dr. Halifax? I were his caretaker. Lived over the garage.

Drove 'im all over, makin' calls.

Many's a time they'd call 'im middle o' the night, and I drove 'im.

Saved lives, we did. Plenty of 'em." Yum Yum sat in a contented bundle on the blanketed lap, purring gently, her forepaws folded under her breast. Occasionally an ear flicked, tickled by a spray of saliva.

"Sittin' on her brisket, she is! She's happy!" He had a happy grin of his own. Qwilleran said, "I know Dr. Halifax worked long hours, taking care of his patients. What did he do for relaxation? Did he have any hobbies, like fishing or golf?" The old man looked furtive as if about to reveal some unsavory secret.

"Painted pitchers, he did. Di'n't tell nobody." "What kind of pictures?" Qwilleran asked, envisioning something anatomical.

"Pitchers of animules. Thick paint, it were. Took a long time to dry.

" "What did he do with them?" Melinda had never mentioned her father's hobby; in fact, she had avoided talking about her family.

"Put 'em away. Di'n't give 'em to nobody. Warn't good enough, he said." "What did you think of them, Mr. Hornbuckle?" With a guilty grin he said, "Looked like pitchers in the funny papers." "Where did he go to paint them?" "Upstairs, 'way in the back. Nobody went there, oney me. We got along good, him and me. Never thought he'd go first, like he did." Yum Yum was stirring, and she stretched one foreleg to touch the oxygen tube.

"No, no!" Qwilleran scolded, and she withdrew.

"Minds purty good, don't she?" "Mr. Hornbuckle, do you know that Dr.

Hal's daughter is a doctor now? She's following in her father's footsteps." The old man nodded.

"She were the smart one. Boy din't turn out so good." "In what way?" Qwilleran had a sympathetic way of asking prying questions and a sincerity that could draw out confidences.

"He were into scrapes all the time. Police'd call, middle o' the night, and I'd drive the doctor to the jail. It were too bad, his ma bein' sick and all--always sick abed." "What happened to the boy finally?" "Went away. Doctor sent 'im away. Paid 'im money reg'lar if fen he din't come back." "How do you know this?" "It were through a bank in Lockmaster. Drove down there reg'lar, I did. Took care of it for the doctor. Never told nobody." Qwilleran asked, "Wasn't the young man eventually killed in a car accident?" "That he were! Broke the doctor's heart. Di'n't make no difference he were a rotten apple; he were his oney son... Funny thing, though..." "Yes?" Qwilleran said encouragingly.

"After the boy died, the doctor kep' sendin' me to the bank, reg'lar, once a month." "Did he explain?" "Nope." "Didn't you wonder about it?" "Nope.

"Twarn't none o' my business." There was a knock on the door at that moment, and the canary entered.

"Time for Yum Yum to go home, Mr. Hornbuckle. Say goodbye to your visitors." As Qwilleran lifted the cat gently from the lap blanket, she uttered a loud, indignant "Not-not-now!" "Likes me, don't she?" said the old man, showing his unnatural dentures.

"Bringer ag'in. Don't wait too long!" he said with a cackling laugh.

"Mightn't be here!" Downstairs in the lobby, Lisa asked for comments to chart on her clipboard.

"A good time was had by all," Qwilleran reported.

"Yum Yum cuddled and purred, or croodled, as they say in Scotland. Is Polly Duncan here?" "No, she and Bootsie came early. They've gone home." Arriving at the barn, Qwilleran released Yum Yum from the carrier, and she strolled around the main floor like a prima donna, while Koko tagged after her, sniffing with disapproval. He knew she had been to some kind of medical facility. Later, Qwilleran phoned Polly and asked, "How did the macho behemoth perform this afternoon?" "The visit wasn't too successful, I'm afraid. We were assigned to an elderly farm woman who had lost her sight, and she complained that Bootsie didn't feel like a cat. Too sleek and silky, I imagine. She was used to barn cats." "We had an emphysema patient, and I thought Yum Yum might turn into a fur tornado when she saw the oxygen equipment, but she played her role beautifully. She croodled. She's a professional croodler." "Cats know when someone needs comforting," Polly said.

"When Edgar Allan Poe's wife was dying in a poor cottage without heat or blankets, her only sources of warmth were her husband's overcoat and a large tortoise-shell cat." "A touching story, if true, " Qwilleran commented.

"I've read it in several books. Most cats are lovable." "Or loo some as the Scots say. By the way, I promised Mildred we'd tell her all about Scotland. How will it be if we take her to dinner at Linguini's next Sunday? We'll invite Arch Riker, too." Polly thought it would be a nice idea. Actually, the following Sunday was her birthday, but he pretended not to know, and she pretended not to know that he knew. The next morning he walked downtown to buy her a birthday gift, but first he had to hand in his copy at the newspaper.

In the city room he picked up a Monday edition and read his Bonnie Scots cut lines to see if anyone had tampered with his carefully worded prose. Then he read the large ad on page three: TAG SALE Estate of Dr. Halifax Goodwinter At the residence, 180 Goodwinter Boulevard Sale: Saturday, 8 A.M. to 6 P.M. Preview: Friday, 9 A.M.

to 4 P.M.

Furniture, antiques, art, household equipment, books, clothing, jewelry, linens, china, silver, crystal, personal effects. All items tagged. All prices firm. All sales final. No deliveries. Dealers welcome. Curb parking permitted.

Managed by: Foxy Fred's Bid-a-Bit Auctions "Did you see the ad for the Goodwinter sale?" Carol Lanspeak asked him when he went to the Lanspeak Department Store to buy a gift.

"Melinda hasn't said a word to the Historical Society. One would think she'd give the museum first choice--or even donate certain items." "I suppose she has a lot on her mind," Qwilleran said.

"How's her Lady Macbeth progressing?" Carol, who had been arranging a scarf display in the women's department, steered him away from the hovering staff who were eager to wait on Mr. Q. He was a regular customer, and they all knew that Polly wore size 16, liked blue and gray, preferred silver jewelry, and avoided anything that required ironing. Before answering his question, Carol said, "This is off the record, I hope." "Always." "Well, Larry finds her very hard to work with. She never looks at him when they're acting together, and there's nothing worse! She acts for herself and doesn't give him anything to play against. Very bad!" "Is Dwight aware of this?" "Yes, he's given her notes several times. Granted we have another ten days to rehearse, but... I don't know about Melinda. Did you hear that she lost another patient? Wally To.whistle's grandmother. Perhaps you saw the obituary." "What can you expect, Carol? She inherited all of Dr. Hal's octogenarian and nonagenarian patients with one foot in the grave." "Well..." Carol said uncertainly, "our daughter got her M.D. in June and is interning in Chicago. Melinda wants her to come back and join the clinic. Naturally, Larry and I would love to have her living here rather than Down Below, but we're not sure it's the wise thing to do, considering..." She shrugged.

"What do you think?" "What does your daughter think?" "She wants to stay in Chicago." "Then let her stay there. It's her decision. Don't interfere." "I guess you're right, Qwill," Carol admitted.

"Now what can we do for you?" "I need a birthday gift for Polly. Any ideas?" "How about a lovely gown and robe set?" She showed him a blue one in size 16. "Fine! Wrap it up," he said.

"Nothing fancy, please." He was a brisk shopper.

"White box with blue ribbon?" "That'll do... Now, what do I need to know about the box office job tomorrow?" "Just report a few minutes early," Carol said.

"I'll meet you there and explain the system." At one-thirty the next day, Qwilleran said to the Siamese, "Well, here goes! Let's hope I don't sell the same seat twice." He had sold baseball programs at Comiskey Park and ties at Macy's, but he had never sold tickets in a box office. He walked to the theatre, through the woods and across the parking lot, where there appeared to be an unusual profusion of cars for a Tuesday afternoon. In the lobby, the ticket purchasers were milling about as if it were opening night.

"Hi, Mr. Q," several called out as he pushed through to the box office. The window was shuttered, but there was a light inside, and Carol admitted him through the side door.

"Can you believe this crowd?" she remarked.

"Looks like we've got a hit show! Now, here's what you do. When customers first come up to the window, ask them what date they want, and pull the seating chart for that performance. Seats already sold have been x-ed out on the chart.

" The chart of the auditorium showed twelve rows of seats on the main floor and three in the balcony--twenty seats to the row, divided into left, right, and center sections.

"Next, ask them how many tickets they want and where they want to sit.

All seats are the same price. Then you take the tickets out of this rack; they're in cubbyholes labeled according to row. Be sure to x-out the seats they're buying... Then take their money. No credit cards, but personal checks are okay. Any questions?" "What's that other rack?" "Those are reserved tickets waiting to be picked up. You probably won't have any pickups so early in the game, but you'll get phone orders. When you sell tickets by phone, put them in the pickup rack, and don't forget to x-out the seats on the chart." Carol pulled out a drawer under the counter.

"There's the till, with enough small bills to make change. Lock it when you're through, and lock the box office when you leave." "What do I do with the keys?" "Put them in the bottom of the tall-case clock in the lobby. It's all very simple.

" The hard part, Qwilleran discovered, was on the other side of the window. He opened the shutters and faced his public. They had formed a queue, and there were about forty in a line that snaked around the lobby. The first at the window was a small, nervous woman with graying hair and wrinkled brow.

"Do you know me?" she asked.

"I'm Jennifer's mother." "Jennifer?" he repeated.

"Jennifer Olson. She's in the play." "No doubt you'll want tickets for opening night," he guessed, reaching for the Wednesday chart.

"Yes, ten tickets. Our whole family is going." "Here's what's available, Mrs. Olson. Do you want them all in the same row, or a block of seats?" "What would a block be like?" "It could be two rows of five, one behind the other, or three shorter rows bunched together." "I don't know. Which do you think would be best?" "Well, it's like this," Qwilleran explained.

"If you take a block, it can be closer to the stage. To get a full row you'll have to sit farther back." "Why is that?" "Because," he said patiently, "tickets have already been sold in various rows at the front of the auditorium, as you can see by this chart." He pushed the seating plan closer to the glass and waited for Mrs.

Olson to find her reading glasses. Frowning at the chart, she said, "Which is the front?" "Here's the stage. As you can see, the entire front row is still available, if you don't mind sitting that close." "No, I don't think we should sit in the front row. It might make Jennifer nervous." "In that case, the next full row available is H. That's the eighth row." "I wonder if Grandma Olson will be able to hear from the eighth row." "The acoustics are very good," he assured her.

"What are those?" Mrs. Olson asked. The customers standing in line were getting restless. The man behind her kept looking at his watch with exaggerated gestures. A young woman had a child in a stroller whose fretting had escalated to screams. An older woman leaning on a quad-cane was volubly indignant. And the front doors opened and closed constantly as frustrated ticket purchasers left and new ones arrived.

Qwilleran said, "Mrs. Olson, why don't you walk down into the auditorium and try sitting in the various rows to see how you like the location? Meanwhile, I can take care of these other customers... Take your time, so that you're sure." There was a groan of relief as she left, and Qwilleran was able to serve the entire lineup by the time she returned. The selection had dwindled considerably, but he could offer her an irregular block of seats in the center section.

"But we need three aisle seats," she said.

"My husband is with the volunteer fire department and will have to leave if his beeper goes off. My sister has anxiety attacks and sometimes has to rush out in a hurry. And Grandpa Olson has a bad leg from the war and has to stretch it in the aisle." "Left leg or right leg?" Qwilleran asked.

"It's his left leg. He took shrapnel." "Then you'll have to take the left of the center section or the left of the right section." "Oh, dearie me! It's so confusing. There are so many people to please." Helpfully Qwilleran suggested, "Why not let me select a block of tickets for you, and if your family decides they're not right, bring them back for exchange." "That's a wonderful idea!" she cried gratefully.

"Thank you, Mr. Q. You have been so helpful. And I must tell you how much I enjoy your column in the paper." "Thank you," he said.

"That will be sixty dollars." "And now I need eight more for Saturday night," she said.

"They're for Jennifer's godparents and her boyfriend's family." It crossed Qwilleran's mind that Jennifer probably had two lines to speak, but diplomatically he asked, "Is your daughter playing Lady Macbeth?" "Oh! How strange you should mention that!" Mrs. Olson seemed flustered.

"She's really doing Lady Macduff, but..." "That's a good role. I'm sure you'll be proud of her." The woman scanned the lobby and then said confidentially, "Jennifer has learned all of Lady Macbeth's lines--just in case." "Was that her own idea?" Qwilleran was aware that understudies were a luxury the Theatre Club had never enjoyed. In a near-whisper she said, "Mr. Somers, the director, asked her to do it and not tell anyone. You won't mention this, will you?" "I wouldn't think of it," he said. When Jennifer's mother had left, he thought, So! Dwight is doubting Melinda's capability to play the lead!

And she's already making errors in prescriptions!

What is happening to her? Despite Qwilleran's desire to be rid of Melinda, he could hardly ignore her plight. They had been good friends once. Quite apart from that, he had a newsman's curiosity about the story behind the story. The towering clock in the theatre lobby finally bonged four, and he counted the money, balanced it against the number of tickets sold, locked up, hid the keys, and walked home slowly. Ambling through the cool woods he began to think about Bushy's photographs, particularly three Highland scenes. There was a lonely moor without a tree or a boulder or a lost sheep-totally empty and isolated except for a telephone booth in the middle of nowhere, and Bushy had added a woman digging for a coin in the depths of her shoulder bag. One was a haunting scene of a silvery loch in which floated an uninhabited island with a ruined castle reflected in the still water. In the background a gray, mysterious mountain rose steeply from the loch, and in the foreground a woman sat on a stone wall reading a paperback with her back to the view. Then there was a riot of flowers behind a rustic fence and garden gate, on which hung the Sign: Be ye mon or be ye wumin, Be ye gaun or be ye cumin, Be ye early, be ye late, Dinna fergit tac SHUT THE GATE!

In Bushy's picture there was a woman in the garden, and the gate stood open. The series ought to be titled "Tourism," Qwilleran thought, and as soon as he reached the barn he hunted up Bushy's yellow boxes and pulled out the three photos. Each one had its surface defaced by Koko's rough tongue, and in each photo the woman was Melinda.