The Cat Who Wasn't There

Six

On the morning of Day Ten the members of the Bonnie Scots Tour placed their luggage in the corridor at seven-thirty instead of six thirty having voted unanimously to amend Irma's orders and start sleeping an extra hour. Qwilleran walked down the hall to Polly's room and knocked on the door.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"Good morning, dear. I was about to plug in the tea-maker. Would you like a cup?" "No, thanks. I simply want you to know I'm leaving the tour as soon as we reach Edinburgh." "Has something happened at home?" she asked anxiously.

"No. I simply have a strong desire to get back to Pickax, that's all." He fingered his moustache significantly.

"I'm changing my flight." "Would you like company, Qwill?" "Don't you want to see Edinburgh? It's a magnificent city. I've had many newspaper assignments there." "Frankly, my heart isn't in this tour since Irma died, and it may seem foolish, but... I'm lonesome for Bootsie." "Give me your ticket and I'll phone the airline," he said.

In changing their flights, he also upgraded their reservations to first class. Even though he was reluctant to spend money on transportation, he needed the extra space for his long legs and wide shoulders, and--after ten days of small talk with the heterogeneous Bonnie Scots family-he wanted privacy for a sustained conversation with Polly.

Twenty-four hours later they had said goodbye to their traveling companions and were airborne-- Qwilleran stretching his legs luxuriously, Polly sipping champagne, and both of them enjoying the pampering of VIP'S.

"I wonder if Bootsie has missed me," Polly said.

"I've never left him for more than a weekend. My sister-in-law takes good care of him, but there isn't the rapport that he has with me." "Mildred says Koko's been chewing my sweaters. That means he's lonely, even though she's feeding him haute cuisine and perverting him with dubious diversions, like tarot cards." The champagne bottle made the rounds again, and delectable hors d'oeuvres were served, prompting Polly to say, "Do you realize we were never offered any haggis in Scotland?" "We never heard any bagpipes, either," he added.

"Or saw anyone dancing the hornpipe." "In fact, we never really met any Scots. We were always with our own group, a little bit of Moose County on foreign soil." This was followed by a regretful silence until Polly said, "On the credit side, I survived the trip without bronchitis, although I decided not to take my vitamin C. The capsules were too large and hard to swallow." "Your bronchitis in England last year was all psychological, because I wasn't with you." "What a sweep of vanity comes this way!" she said, quoting Shakespeare with glee.

"A little vanity is a good thing," he retorted.

"That's a questionable aphorism, if I ever heard one! Who said that?" she demanded.

"I did." Polly lapsed into a sentimental reverie induced by the champagne. At length she said, "I've missed you, darling. We haven't had any time to ourselves on this trip." "I've missed you, too, Polly." "I feel so sad about Irma, and I couldn't even attend her funeral. She was probably buried two days ago." "I don't think so," Qwilleran said slowly and soberly.

"There's been a complication." "What do you mean?" Polly snapped out of her brooding mood, then gasped as he reported the bizarre odyssey of Irma's casket.

"Well," she said after a while, "I have something surprising to report, too." "Let's hear it." Polly hesitated, as if pondering where to begin.

"Well... when I turned over Irma's briefcase to Larry, I withheld one small personal file and put it in my luggage, thinking to give it to her parents. Then Bruce disappeared, and no one knew his last name, so I searched this file without finding a clue. But there was one letter that I think you should see." She rummaged in her carry-on bag and extracted a document envelope tied with tape. In it was a folded sheet of notepaper that she handed to Qwilleran.

"Read this." Dear Irma, Thank you from the bottom of my heart! Bruce will do a good job for you. He's an excellent driver, no mistake. He's had an awful time finding work since he got out, but he's promised to stay clean now. Do give him a proper talking to. He'll listen to you. I know you two meant a lot to each other when we were young. My brother is a good sort really, and I expect he's quite learned his lesson. Bless you! Don't forget to ring me when you reach Edinburgh.

For auld langsyne Katie Qwilleran read the note twice. So that was the way it was! he thought. Irma and Bruce were--which at Youthful sweethearts? Former lovers? And Bruce had been in prison, for what? Larceny? A narcotics violation? Irma apparently knew about his record. Did she hire him in spite of it? Or because of it? Qwilleran's cynicism was close to the surface where Irma was concerned. There was more to this story, he suspected. Polly was waiting to hear his reaction to the letter.

"What do you think, Qwill?" "Did the envelope have her full name and return address?" he asked.

"There was no envelope." "There was gossip throughout the tour about Irma's nightly excursions with Bruce. Did she ever explain to you?" "Not a word, and I was determined not to mention it. She was a responsible adult, and it was none of my business. She always came in after I was asleep, apparently creeping around in the dark without turning on the lights or making a sound. It was considerate of her, I thought." "If Bruce stole Mrs. Utley's luggage, he wasn't as "clean" as Irma was led to believe." "It would seem so," Polly agreed.

"Did she ever mention this Katie person to you?" "No, she was secretive about her Scottish connections, but that was characteristic of her. We never knew how much was bottled up in that cool exterior." Qwilleran said, "If we could identify Katie, the police would have something to work with, at least. One would expect Irma to carry an address book in her briefcase--or a list of phone numbers if she planned to call friends in Scotland." "Perhaps it was in her handbag," Polly suggested.

"I packed it without examining the contents and sent it home in her luggage. Melinda was to turn everything over to the Hasselriches." "Her parents might know Katie's name and whereabouts.

If not, you could ask them for the address book on the pretext of notifying Irma's Scottish friends about her death... In fact," he added, "Bruce might be listed." There were signs that dinner was about to be served. Individual tables were unfolded from the chair arms, and white tablecloths were whisked across them, followed by linen napkins, wineglasses, tiny vases of fresh flowers, and four page menu presentations. Qwilleran said, "We can assume that turbulence is not in their flight plan." They ordered vichyssoise, tournedos of beef, and Caesar salad. After a while he asked, "What will happen at the Senior Care Facility? Will they be able to replace Irma?" "The administrators always said they'd have to hire a professional if Irma retired. Lisa wants to apply for the job." "She'd be pretty good, I think." "Before we left for Scotland," Polly said, "Irma was working on a project called Pets for Patients, with volunteers bringing their cats and dogs to the facility on certain days to boost morale. If it goes through, I'd be willing to take Bootsie. How about you, Qwill?" "I'd take Yum Yum, but I doubt whether Koko would cooperate. He has his own ideas and doesn't always do what cats are supposed to do." They ordered creme caramel for dessert, and after coffee Qwilleran presented Polly with a small white box bearing a monogram: CRM. It was a handmade silver brooch in the form of a peacock feather, combined with blue-green enamel and a smoky quartz crystal mounted in the eye of the feather.

"It's beautiful!" she cried.

"I love peacock feathers! What is the stone?" "A cairngorm from the Cairngorm mountains in Scotland. This is one of the designs being made in the Charles Rennie Mackintosh style." "It will be perfect on my batwing cape. Thank you so much, dear." "Are you going to watch the movie?" he asked. The screen was being lowered at the front of the cabin.

"I'd rather take a nap," she said.

"I'm going to look at this magazine, if my reading light won't disturb you." Window shades were drawn to shut out the brilliant sunlight, while passengers either put on their earphones to watch the film, or went to sleep, or both. He held the magazine open to a feature on Tlingit art, but he was thinking rather than reading. If he could discover the bus driver's identity, he would turn the information over to the Pickax police chief and let him follow through. Reviewing the Scottish tour in his mind, Qwilleran searched for clues in the behavior of Irma as well as Bruce. The tapes he had recorded might reveal forgotten details. Their content was intended as material for "Straight from the Qwill Pen," but it could serve another purpose now... His magazine dropped to his lap, and he fell asleep until the cabin was again flooded with light and another meal was served. By the time the plane landed in Chicago, and by the time they claimed their baggage and went through Customs and Immigration, it was too late to continue to Moose County. They stayed overnight at an airport inn and caught the shuttle flight in the morning. At the Moose County Airport Qwilleran's white four-door was waiting in the long-term parking structure, a new building made possible by a grant from the K Foundation. Polly said, "I remember when the terminal was a shack without chairs or indoor plumbing." "I remember when we had to park our cars in a cow pasture and be very careful," Qwilleran said, "and that was only five years ago." "I can hardly wait to see Bootsie," she said on the way to Pickax.

"I'm looking forward to seeing my two rascals also." When they arrived at Polly's carriage-house apartment, she ran up the stairs while Qwilleran followed with her luggage.

"Bootsie!" she cried.

"How's my little boy? Did you miss me?" The husky Siamese approached with curiosity, appraised her coolly, then turned abruptly and walked away, leaving his adoring human crushed. Qwilleran said, "That's your punishment for abandoning him. After he thinks you've suffered enough, he'll smother you with affection. I expect the same treatment when I get home." After two weeks of picturesque inns and impressive castles, he had forgotten that the converted apple barn was such a wondrous bit of architecture. The octagonal structure had a rough stone foundation that looked like thirteenth-century Scotland, and the weathered shingle siding was crowned by a slate roof. There were no furry creatures spying on him from the windows, however. They were in the kitchen, sitting contentedly on top of the refrigerator, watching Mildred Hanstable as she slid a casserole into the oven.

They looked down on Qwilleran with condescension.

"Welcome home!" she greeted him.

"How was the trip?" "No one ever said traveling is easy." "How about a cup of coffee?" "As soon as I dump this luggage.

I've been living out of it for two weeks." He carried his bags up the ramp to the balcony, and when he returned he had a small white box in his pocket, with CRM on the cover. The Siamese were still sitting sphinxlike on the refrigerator.

"Did they ever find Irma?" he asked as he slid onto a seat at the snack bar. Mildred poured two mugs of coffee.

"Yes, she finally arrived, and they buried her yesterday, although there was some further unpleasantness. The Dingleberry brothers told Roger--off the record, of course--that the Hasselriches disagreed violently about burial versus cremation." "Did the obit run?" "Yes. On the front page. I left it on the coffee table. It's a lovely write-up... Well, apart from the tragedy, Qwill, how was your adventure?" "I'll know better after I've spent a night in my own bed and recovered from tour trauma." "Did you buy yourself a kilt?" "No, just a couple of ties in the Mackintosh tartan. Speaking of Mackintosh, here's a memento of Glasgow." He pushed the small white box across the bar.

"Oh, Qwill! Thank you so much!" she exclaimed when she saw the peacock feather pin in silver and enamel.

"What's the name of this stone?" "It's a cairngorm, found only in Scotland, I believe." "It was sweet of you to think of me." "It was generous of you to take care of the Siamese, Mildred." "Not a bit! It was a thrill to live in this barn, and the cats were enjoyable company. I wouldn't mind having one just like Koko." "There's no such thing as just-like-Koko," he informed her.

"He's the Shakespeare of cats, the Beethoven of cats, the Leonardo of cats!" Hearing his name mentioned favorably, Koko rose and stretched his rear chassis, then extended his forelegs with spreading toes, after which he jumped down from the refrigerator with a thump and an involuntary grunt and ambled over to Qwilleran to sniff the foreign aromas. Who could say what scents were registered by that twitching nose? Old castles? Heather? Scotch broth? Fishing villages? Sheep?

A distillery? The bones of ancient kings? A battlefield soaked with blood 250 years ago?

"Did the cats misbehave in any way?" Qwilleran asked.

"Well, one of them stole my emery boards-- a whole pack of them, one at a time." "Petty larceny is Yum Yum's department. I owe you a pack. I'll take it out of her allowance. How about Koko?" "He did one naughty thing that gave me a scare," Mildred said.

"I was getting ready to take my diet pill, and he swooped in and snatched it. I was afraid he'd eat it and get sick, but he just punctured the capsule with his fangs." "Yes, he likes to sink them in soft, gummy things, like jelly beans," Qwilleran explained.

"Do I smell macaroni and cheese in the oven? All the time I was eating nettle broth, mutton pie, boiled sheep's tongue, and tripe and onions, I was dreaming about macaroni and cheese." "That's for our lunch," she said.

"I'm leaving some left-overs in the refrigerator for the cats- meatloaf, codfish cakes, terrine of turkey, and there's beef stew for you in the freezer. I've been cooking up a storm while you were away and having a wonderful time." After lunch, Mildred packed and moved out, and Qwilleran shut himself in his balcony suite until an operatic chorus outside his door reminded him it was time for dinner. The three of them snacked informally on the leftovers, and then he sprawled listlessly in his favorite lounge chair with no desire to read the newspaper or play the stereo or write a letter or take a walk or call anyone on the telephone. It was post-vacation lethargy. When the Siamese crowded around, having forgiven him for his unexplained absence, he stroked Yum Yum halfheartedly and told Koko without much conviction that he was a handsome fellow.

Impulsively, Koko jumped from the arm of the chair and walked deliberately to the large square coffee table, where Mildred had left a copy of the Moose County Something. Hopping to the tabletop, he stared down at the newsprint with a nearsighted gaze. Then, arching his back and bushing his tail and sweeping his ears back, he commenced a slow prance around the lead item on the front page. He circled it again and again in a hair-raising ritual that Qwilleran had seen before. It meant that Koko's extra senses were detecting a discrepancy that escaped human perception. Qwilleran felt the familiar crawling sensation in the roots of his moustache. There on page one was the three-column photo of Irma Hasselrich and the half page obituary.

Koko, he remembered, had howled at the exact moment of her death.

Without benefit of satellite he had known what was happening in a remote Scottish hamlet. Was it possible that the cat sensed more than that? Was Koko the source of the subliminal message urging him to return home early? Polly thought she had a remarkable rapport with Bootsie, but it was nothing compared to the mutual understanding that existed between Qwilleran and Koko. But no, he finally decided; it was all absurd imagining.

"I'm punchy from jet lag," he said to the Siamese.

"Let's turn out the lights and call it a day."