The Cat Who Wasn't There

Thirteen

That was the week that Moose County was discovered by the media.

Overnight it became the Teddy Bear Capital of the nation.

Qwilleran's story and Bushy's photographs ran in the Moose County Something with a teaser on the front page and the full treatment on the back page. It was picked up by the wire services and published in several major newspapers around the country, and a television crew flew up from Down Below on Thursday to film the collection and interview the collectors. During the week there was also a series of break-ins in the affluent Purple Point area, but this untimely happening was played down while the TV people were around. It was also the week of the Goodwinter tag sale, and on Friday afternoon Qwilleran attended the preview. Goodwinter Boulevard was a broad, quiet avenue off Main Street with two stone pylons at the entrance to give it an air of exclusivity. A cul-de-sac with a landscaped median and old-fashioned street lights, it extended the equivalent of three blocks, ending at a vest-pocket park with an impressive monument. The granite monolith rose about twelve feet and bore a bronze plaque commemorating the four Goodwinter brothers who founded the city. Their mansions--and those of other tycoons who had made fortunes in mining and lumbering--lined both sides of the boulevard.

Qwilleran usually found it a pleasant place for a walk, having interesting architecture and virtually no traffic--only an occasional car turning into a side drive and disappearing into a garage at the rear. Friday afternoon was different. The ban on curb parking was lifted, and both sides of the streets were lined with parked cars bumper-to-bumper, while other vehicles cruised hopefully and continually, waiting for someone to leave. Many had to give up and park on Main Street. As for the sidewalks, they teemed with individuals going to and from the preview, with a large group gathered in front of No. 180. Qwilleran approached a woman on the fringe of the crowd and asked her what was happening. She squealed in delight at recognizing his moustache and said, "Oh, you're Mr. Q!

They won't let us in until some of the others come out. I've been out here since eleven. Wish I'd brought my lunch." No one showed impatience. They chatted sociably as they edged closer to the entrance of the mansion. Qwilleran slipped around to the rear and used his press card for admittance, although the well-known overgrown moustache would have accomplished the same end. He entered a kitchen large enough to accommodate three cooks, where a Bid-a-Bit employee at the coffee urn offered him a cup. He accepted and sat down on a kitchen chair just as Foxy Fred walked in from the front of the house, wearing a red jacket and his usual western hat.

Qwilleran, turning on his tape recorder, asked him, "How do you size up this collection?" "Four generations of treasures going at giveaway prices!" said the auctioneer, who was not known for understatement.

"Most prestigious sale in the history of Moose County! Fifty or seventy-five years from now, our grandkids will be proud to say they own a drinking mug or a pair of nail clippers that belonged to a great twentieth-century humanitarian!" "But Fred, this kind of sale raises havoc with a quiet neighborhood," Qwilleran said.

"Why didn't you cart the goods away and hold an auction in a tent out in the country?" "The customer requested a tag sale, and the customer is always right," said Foxy Fred, gulping down a cup of coffee.

"Well, I gotta get back where the action is." In the large rooms on the main floor the ponderous heirloom furniture had been pushed back and rugs had been rolled up. Long folding tables were loaded with china, crystal, silver, linens, and bric-a-brac. The interior had the sadness of a house that had not seen a formal dinner, afternoon tea, or cocktail party for twenty-five years, the span of Mrs. Goodwinter's illness. Curious crowds moved up and down the aisles, examining the items, checking the prices and muttering comments, while red-jacketed attendants announced repeatedly, "Keep moving, folks! Lots more waiting to get in." There were also three roving security guards, making themselves highly visible and looking seriously watchful.

Qwilleran dodged from aisle to aisle, asking viewers, "Why are you here? ... See anything you like? ... How are the prices? ... Will you come back tomorrow to buy? ... Did you know the Goodwinter family?" He himself spotted a silver pocketknife he wouldn't mind buying; engraved with the doctor's initials, it was priced at $150.

Upstairs, the crowds were less dense. Chests and dressers and disassembled beds were pushed back, and long tables were piled with blankets, towels and such. Clothing filled portable racks. One room, which was empty, had obviously been Melinda's; she had removed her furnishings to her apartment, but her distinctive fragrance lingered.

At the rear of the second floor there was a large room that no one entered, although an occasional viewer would poke a head through the doorway and back away quickly. It was two stories high and had three large north windows. This had been Dr.

Hal's studio. Hanging in every wall space and filed on floor-to ceiling shelves like books were brightly colored paintings on stretched canvas or rectangles of wall-board, and hundreds more were stacked on the Bid-a-Bit tables. It was the output, Qwilleran surmised, of twenty-five lonely years. None was bigger than an ordinary book. All were flat, two-dimensional depictions of animals against unrealistic landscapes of kelly green and cobalt blue. Red cats and turquoise dogs stood on hind legs and danced together.

Orange ducks with purple beaks faced each other and quacked sociably.

Tigers and kangaroos flew overhead like airplanes. These were the "animules" that had caused old Mr. Hornbuckle both wonderment and amusement. A sign saying "Pictures $1.00" prompted Qwilleran to run downstairs to the kitchen and phone the high school where Mildred Hanstable taught art as well as home ec.

"She's in class at this hour," said an anonymous voice in the school office.

"This is urgent! Jim Qwilleran calling! Get her on the phone!" He was willing to throw his name around when it served a good purpose.

"Just a minute, Mr. Q." A breathless art teacher came on the line.

"Mildred, this is Qwill," he said.

"I'm at the Goodwinter house previewing the tag sale, and there's something here that you must definitely see!

How fast can you make it over here?" "I'm free next hour, but the period's just started." "Cut class! Get here on the double! You'll be back before anyone misses you. Come in the back way. Use my name.

" Meanwhile he went upstairs and closed the door to Dr. Hal's studio.

When Mildred arrived, they climbed the servants' stairs from the kitchen, Qwilleran explaining, "Dr. Hal had a secret hobby. He painted pictures." "My God!" Mildred gasped when she saw them.

"My words exactly! They're marked a dollar apiece, and no one is interested. A hundred dollars would be more appropriate. They might sell for a thousand in the right gallery. I don't know anything about art, but I've seen crazier stuff than this in museums." "It's contemporary folk art," she said.

"They're charming! They're unique!

Wait till the art magazines get hold of these!" "Wait till the psychologists get their claws into them! It's the Noah's Ark of a madman." "I'm weak," Mildred said.

"I don't know what to say." "Go back to your class. I simply wanted an opinion to corroborate my own hunch." "What are you going to do about it, Qwill?" "First, take the decimal point out of that sign. Then notify the K Foundation." Reluctantly the art teacher tore herself away from the bizarre collection, and Qwilleran went back to asking questions downstairs: "Do you collect antiques? ... Are you a dealer? ... Have you ever seen a sale to equal this? ... What do you plan to buy?" It was while taping their uninspired answers that he caught a glimpse of a bushy-haired, bushy-bearded young man in jeans and faded sweatshirt, wearing a fanny pack. He was browsing among odds and ends on a table toward the rear of the main floor. Qwilleran's moustache bristled; he remembered that shaggy head from the reading room at the public library. It had been three months before, but he was sure this was the person who drove away in a maroon car with a Massachusetts plate and who was later identified as Charles Edward Martin. The man was reading labels on old LP records and fingering household tools. He examined the initials on the silver pocketknife. He picked up a cast-iron piggy bank and shook it; there was no rattle. Sidling up to him, Qwilleran asked in a friendly way, "Quite a bunch of junk, isn't it?" "Yeah," said the fellow.

"Find anything worth buying?" "Nah." "What do you think of the prices? Aren't they a bit high?" The young man shrugged. Hoping to hear him say a few words with an eastern accent, Qwilleran remarked, "I have a feeling we've met somewhere. Ever go to the Shipwreck Tavern in Mooseville?" "Yeah." "That's where I've met you! You're Ronald Frobnitz!" Qwilleran said.

The subject was supposed to say, "No, I'm Charles Martin," or better yet, "Chahles Mahtin." Instead he shook his head and scuttled away.

Noting that the silver pocketknife had scuttled at the same time, Qwilleran followed him to the front door, hindered by the crowds.

The man was moving fast enough to make good time but not fast enough to arouse the suspicion of the security guards. Qwilleran thought, That Chahles Mahtin is smaht! He followed him through the milling hordes on the sidewalk--all the way to Main Street, where the suspect drove off in a maroon car with a Massachusetts plate.

Qwilleran, who was without his car at the moment, jogged to the police station, hoping to catch Brodie in the office, but the chief was striding out of the building.

"Do you have a minute, Andy?" Qwilleran asked urgently.

"Make it half a minute." "Okay. I attended the preview of the Goodwinter sale and saw someone who is undoubtedly Charles Edward Martin." "Who?" "The guy I suspect of being the Boulevard Prowler. I tried to get him inffccversation, but he was close-mouthed. When Polly was threatened three months ago, you checked the registration and came up with the name of Charles Edward Martin. The same car has been spotted three times in the last few days: headed for Shantytown, parked near the Shipwreck Tavern, and pulling out of the parking lot at Indian Village." "Probably selling cemetery lots," Brodie quipped as he edged toward the curb.

"I can't pick him up for driving around with a foreign license plate.

Has Polly been threatened again? Has he been hanging around the boulevard after dark?" "No," Qwilleran had to admit, although he pounded his moustache with his fist. How could he explain? Brodie might accept the idea of a psychic cat, but he'd balk at a moustache that telegraphed hunches.

"Tell you what to do, Qwill. Get your mind off those damned license plates. Come to the lodge hall for dinner tonight. It's Scottish Night. Six o'clock. Tell 'em at the door you're my guest." Brodie jumped into a police car without waiting for an answer. Qwilleran went for a long walk. While he walked, he assessed his apprehensions in connection with the Boulevard Prowler.

As a crime reporter and war correspondent he had faced frequent danger without a moment's fear. Now, for the first time in his life, he was experiencing that heart-sinking sensation--fear for the safety of another. For the first time in his life, he had someone close enough to make him vulnerable. It was a realization that warmed his blood and chilled it at the same time. As for Brodie's patronizing invitation, he was inclined to ignore it. He knew many of the lodge members, and he had passed the hall hundreds of times-a three-story stone building like a miniature French Bastille--but he had never stepped inside the door. True, he had a certain amount of curiosity about Scottish Night, but he decided against it.

Brodie's cheeky attitude annoyed him. And how good could the food be at a lodge hall? In that frame of mind he returned to the apple barn, expecting to thaw some sort of meal out of the freezer. The Siamese met him at the door as usual and marched to the feeding station, where they sat confidently staring at the empty plate. Well aware of priorities in that household, Qwilleran opened a can of boned chicken for the cats before checking his answering machine and going up the ramp to change into a warmup suit. And then it happened again! He was halfway to the balcony when Koko rushed him. This time he heard the thundering paws on the ramp and braced himself before the muscular body crashed into his legs.

"What the devil are you trying to tell me?" he demanded as Koko picked himself up, shook his head, and licked his left shoulder. In the past Koko had thrown irrational cat fits when Qwilleran was making the wrong decision or following the wrong scent. Whatever his present motive, his violence put Brodie's invitation in another light, and Qwilleran continued up the ramp--not to change into a warmup suit but to shower and dress for Scottish Night. He drove to the lodge hall on Main Street, and as he parked the car he saw men in kilts and tartan trews converging from all directions. At the door he was greeted by Whannell MacWhannell, the portly accountant from the Bonnie Scots Tour, who looked even bigger in his pleated kilt, Argyle jacket, leather sporran, tasseled garters, and ghillie brogies.

"Andy told me to watch for you," said Big Mac.

"He's upstairs, tuning up the doodle sack but don't tell him I called it that." Most of the men gathering in the lounge were in full Highland kit, making Qwilleran feel conspicuous in a suit and tie. As a public figure in Pickax he was greeted heartily by all.

"Are you a Scot?" they asked.

"Where did you get the W in your name?" "My mother was a Mackintosh," he explained, "and I believe my father's family came from the Northern Isles. There's a Danish connection somewhere--way back, no doubt." The walls of the lounge were hung with colorful clan banners-reproductions, MacWhannell explained, of the battle standards that were systematically burned after the defeat at Culloden.

"What tartan are you wearing?" Qwilleran asked him.

"Macdonald of Sleat.

The MacWhannells are connected with that clan, somewhere along the line, and Glenda liked this tartan because it's red. Why don't you order a Mackintosh kilt, Qwill?" "I'm not ready for that yet, but I've been boning up on Mackintosh history--twelve centuries of political brawls, feuds, raids, battles, betrayals, poisonings, hangings, assassinations, and violent acts of revenge. It's amazing that we have any Mackintoshes left." At a given signal the party trooped upstairs to the great hall, a lofty room decorated wall-to-wall with weaponry. Six round tables were set for dinner, each seating ten. At each place a souvenir program listed the events of the evening and the bill of fare: haggis, tat ties and nee ps Forfar bridies, Pitlochry salad, tea, shortbread, and a "wee dram" for toasting.

"We'll sit here and save a seat for Andy," said Big Mac, leaning a chair against a table.

"He has to pipe in the haggis before he can sit down." Looking around at the ancient weapons on the walls, Qwilleran remarked, "Does the FBI know about the arsenal you have up here? You could start a war with Lockmaster." "It's our private museum," said his host.

"I'm the registrar. We have 27 broadswords, 45 dirks, 12 claymores, 7 basket hilts, 14 leather bucklers, 12 pistols, 21 muskets, and 30 bayonets, all properly catalogued." Politely Qwilleran inquired about Glenda's health.

"Has she recovered from the stress of the tour?" "Frankly, she should have stayed in Pickax. She doesn't like to travel," her husband explained.

"She'd rather watch video travelogues. I took eight hundred pictures on this trip just for her. She gets a kick out of putting them in albums and labeling them. How about you? Did you stick it out to the end?" "All except Edinburgh, but I'd like to go back there with Polly someday." "We spent a couple of days in Auld Reekie before catching our plane. I left Glenda in the hotel and went out taking pictures. You can get some good bird's-eye views in Edinburgh. I climbed 287 steps to the top of a monument. The castle rock is 400 feet high. Arthur's Seat is 822 feet. Funny name for a hill, but the Scots have some funny words.

How about "mixty-maxty" and whit tie-what tie Don't ask me what they mean." Big Mac was more talkative than he had been with the nervous Glenda in tow, and he had statistics for everything: where 300 witches were burned and who died from 56 dagger wounds. He was interrupted by the plaintive wail of a bagpipe. The rumble of male voices faded away.

The double doors burst open, and a solemn procession entered and circled the room, led by Chief Brodie. Normally a big man with proud carriage, he was a formidable giant in full kit with towering feather "bonnet, " scarlet doublet, fur sporran, and white spats. With the bag beneath his arm and the drones over his shoulder, he swaggered to the slow heroic rhythm of "Scotland the Brave," the pleated kilt swaying and the bagpipe filling the room with skirling that stirred Qwilleran's Mackintosh blood. Behind the piper marched a snare drummer, followed by seven young men in kilts and white shirts, each carrying a tray. On the first was a smooth gray lump; that was the haggis. On each of the other six trays was a bottle of Scotch. They circled the room twice.

Then a bottle was placed on each table, and the master of ceremonies--in the words of Robert Burns--addressed the "great chieftain o' the pu.in' race," after which the assembly drank a toast to the haggis. It was cut and served, and the marchers made one more turn about the room before filing out through the double doors to the lively rhythm of a strathspey. Brodie returned without bagpipe and bonnet to join them at the table.

"Weel done, laddie," Qwilleran said to him.

"When a Brodie plays the pipe, even a Mackintosh gets goosebumps.

That's an impressive instrument you have." "The chanter's an old one, with silver and real ivory. You can't get 'em like that any more," Brodie said.

"I'm a seventh generation piper. It used to be a noble vocation in the Highlands.

Every chief had his personal piper who went everywhere with him, even into battle. The screaming of the pipes drove the clans to attack and unnerved the enemy. At least, that was the idea." When dinner was served, Big Mac leaned over and asked the chief, "Are you related to the master criminal of Edinburgh, Andy? I saw the place where he was hanged in 1788." "Deacon Brodie? Well, I admit I've got his sense of humor and steel nerves, but he wasn't a piper." Qwilleran said, "We've had a lot of excitement on Goodwinter Boulevard this week, with the TV coverage and the mob that turned out for the preview." "It'll be worse tomorrow," Brodie said with a dour look.

"Why is the sale being held at the house?" "Too many ways to cheat when it's trucked away for an auction. I'm not saying Foxy Fred is a crook, you understand, but Dr. Melinda's a sharpie. Never underestimate that lassie!" "Tell me something, Andy--about those break-ins on Purple Point. We never had break-ins when I first came here, but since they've started promoting tourism, the picture is changing." "You can't blame the tourists for Purple Point; that was done by locals--young kids, most likely--whicho knew when to hit.

They knew the cottages are vacant in September except on weekends.

Besides, they took small stuff. An operator from Down Below would back a truck up to the cottage and clean it out." "What kind of thing did they take?" "Electronic stuff, cameras, binoculars. It was kids." The emcee rapped for attention and announced the serious business of drinking toasts. Tribute was paid to William Wallace, guerrilla fighter and the first hero of Scotland's struggle for independence. MacWhannell said to Qwilleran, "He was a huge man. His claymore was five feet four inches long." Then the diners toasted the memory of Robert the Bruce, Mary Queen of Scots, Bonnie Prince Charlie, Flora Macdonald, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson, the response becoming more boisterous with each ovation. Qwilleran was toasting with cold tea, but the others were sipping usquebaugh. The evening ended with the reading of Robert Burns's poetry by the proprietor of Scottie's Men's Store and the singing of "Katie Bairdie Had a Coo" by the entire assembly with loud and lusty voices, thanks to the usquebaugh. That was followed by a surprisingly sober "Auld Lang Sync," after which Brodie said to Qwilleran, "Come to the kitchen. I told the catering guy to save some haggis for that smart cat of yours." Many of the members lingered in the lounge, but Qwilleran thanked his host and drove home with his foil-wrapped trophy. When he reached the barn the electronic timer had illuminated the premises indoors and out.

"Treat!" he shouted as he entered through the back door, his voice reverberating around the balconies and catwalks. The cats came running from opposite directions and collided head-on at a blind corner. They shook themselves and followed him to the feeding station for their first taste of haggis. As Qwilleran watched their heads bobbing with approval and their tails waving in rapture, an infuriating thought occurred to him: Is this why Koko wanted me to go to the lodge hall?

The notion was too farfetched even for Qwilleran to entertain. And yet, he realized Koko was trying to communicate. Qwilleran wondered, Am I barking up the wrong tree? ... Am I suspecting the wrong person?

... Are my suspicions totally unfounded? And then he wondered, Am I working on the wrong case? He considered Koko's reaction to Melinda's voice on the tapes... the licking of photographs in which she appeared... the whisker bristling when she called on the phone... his hostile attitude after Qwilleran had spent a mere two minutes with her at the rehearsal. It could be Koko's old animosity, remembered through sounds and smells. It could be a campaign to expose something reprehensible: a lie, a lurking danger, a guilty secret, a gross error. That was when Qwilleran dared to wonder, Did Melinda make a mistake in Irma's medication? Could it be that she--not the bus driver-was responsible for Irma's fatal attack?