The Cat Who Went Bananas

Chapter 20

Facing east, the glass walls of the Willows provided not only a view of the riverbank but a warm morning sun that Koko and Yum Yum found ideal for washing after breakfast. Qwilleran was basking in its warmth himself, with his second cup of coffee, when the attorney arrived.

`Nice place. Great view,' he said as he dropped his briefcase on the coffee table.

Qwill said, 'It may not give you the shot in the arm you get from the apple barn, Bart, but it should give you an environmental lift.' The Barter family lived in the country, too, but among rolling hills and sheep farms. 'Coffee?'

`By all means. And I picked up a couple of Danish at Tipsy's on the way here.'

They sat at a small table in the window and Qwilleran asked, `Did you come via West Kennebeck? If so, you passed the Hibbard property.'

`Yes, but it's heavily wooded. All you can see is the red roof and the tower. How's the book faring?' `I'm acquainting myself with the history of the family and house — and with Violet, the sole remaining heir. And that's why I called you. She's sixtyish, intelligent — obviously loaded — and with a life expectancy that's extremely iffy. And — without telling anyone — she has just married a younger man!'

`Maybe you should be writing a novel, Qwill. Who is he?' `The actor you saw in the Oscar Wilde play, manager of special events at the bookstore, initiator of the theatre arts programme to be announced in today's paper.'

`Sure, I remember seeing him. He introduced you at the lit club debut. Talented guy — with a lot of polish. What's the problem? Jealousy? He's an outsider.'

The problem is, Bart, that in Lockmaster he has a reputation as a fortune hunter.'

‘Hmff! . . . The plot thickens!'

`She confided in another woman that she went to her attorney last Tuesday to have her will changed. One can only guess: how? I've talked to Violet and to her best friend, and both women have indicated that the preservation of Hibbard House is of greatest importance. And yet . . . This will sound, Bart, as if I've been playing private detective. There are realty professionals in town who dream of developing the Hibbard property as a big commercial venture.'

`There's no law against dreaming, Qwill.'

`Yes, but the realtors are paying guests at Hibbard House and chummy with the new bridegroom. They go duck hunting together on weekends.'

`All very interesting,' the attorney said. 'What do you want from me?'

The Hibbards, according to Maggie Sprenkle, have always been clients of your firm. Since the K Fund is underwriting the book, it behoves us to inquire about the future of the building. Museum? School? Health spa? Gambling casino?'

'I see your point, Qwill.'

`I don't want to know what the dear woman has written in her will. I simply want to know if the property is protected against commercial development. Otherwise, why should I waste my time on the book?'

`You're quite right, Qwill. How urgent is this matter?'

`Top priority! Her condition is precarious.'

At the pizza party Connie had mentioned that she was taking a week off to get settled, and Qwilleran had mentioned that he needed to interview her about life in today's Hibbard House.

`Your place or my place?' she asked. 'Mine is a mess.'

On Monday afternoon she rang his doorbell, excusing her frazzled appearance but saying she needed to relax for a half hour.

He offered her coffee or a soft drink, and she chose the latter. `I've been warned about your coffee, Qwill. They say it's one degree short of illegal.'

`Where would you like to sit?' he asked. 'At the table in the window, or in one of the sofas where the cats hang out?'

`A sofa with cat hairs. I'm exhausted!'

Qwilleran served the drink, placed a tape recorder on the coffee table, and said, 'How does the hoary old mansion adapt to modern living?'

`Well, on the second floor there are four large bedrooms with high ceilings and canopy beds. Each has its own sitting room and luxurious bath in what was called the "water closet" in the days before indoor plumbing. The second generation of Hibbards did a lot of entertaining, and guests stayed a week or a month. It's like living in a movie set - fun for a year or so but not the kind of place where you'd like to spend the rest of your life. Actually, the other two women are also leaving. The one who's a hospital supervisor is taking a position in Rochester, and the one who's a teacher is getting married.'

Qwilleran said, 'Then there will be only male guests?'

`They say there's a waiting list for accommodations, but temporarily it will be strictly stag. The men's quarters are in the old guest house a hundred yards behind the main building. I've never been invited to one of their slosh parties, but you might talk to the Wix brothers or Judd Amhurst. Judd is very nice. Frankly, we thought Violet should have married him. But he has family in Texas, and they want him to move down there to be with his grandchildren.'

With questioning, Connie told about a twenty-foot Christmas tree in the foyer one year . . . picnic suppers on the veranda in summer with deer coming to the porch for a handout ... bridge and ping-pong tournaments . . . and, after Alden's arrival, dramatic readings in the library and classical concerts in the music room.

With amusement Qwilleran thought of the duck-hunting Wix brothers sitting still for a dramatic reading . . . 'Did everyone participate willingly in every activity?' he asked.

Connie thought a moment. 'While Violet was house mother, we all went along with everything she suggested. She's such a gracious hostess, you know. But after Alden joined our happy family, nothing was quite the same. Violet was highly impressed with his sophistication and allowed him to call the plays . . . Should I be telling you all these family secrets, Qwill?'

`I'll use discretion,' he assured her.

Then he added, with the confidential tone that had melted icebergs, 'Off the record, was Violet's marriage well received?'

Frowning, Connie said, 'Not exactly. I don't know about the men, but to the girls it seemed like a bad choice. Don't ask me why. It's just a feeling . . .’

At six o'clock Kenneth arrived in his rental car, carrying two dinner boxes from Lois's, and was greeted by Qwilleran and two eager Siamese.

‘Wait'll you hear what I've got!' he said, patting the recording kit.

`Come in! We'll listen while the food's reheating. Sit over there.' Qwilleran indicated two cushiony sofas facing each other across the lush shag rug. It was clearly handmade, a wild tangle of long pile.

`Some rug!' Kenneth said.

The cats think so, too.'

Qwilleran served Q cocktails, and they listened to a male voice - not old, not young - telling the following tale:

My name is Henry Newsome, retired painter and paper hanger. I never worked on the Hibbard House. They always hired those high-priced decorators from Down Below. But when_l was growing up, my mother talked about it. She'd been a live-in maid-of-all-work when she was a young girl. That would be almost a hundred years ago. I'm eighty. Her name was Lavinia, and that's what I'll call her.

(Slight cough)

Excuse me. It's just an allergy. Now, Mr MacMurchy says you're interested in stories about that big old barn. No disrespect intended. My mother used to tell one story that would make a good movie. That's what we thought when we were kids. Anyway, here goes:

Mr Geoffrey was master of the house back then; that's what they were called then. Lavinia said he was a nice man. The mistress was kind of hard to please. They had one daughter, and she was a problem. In those days she was just called a bad girl. She ran off with a man to Milwaukee, or someplace like that. No one was allowed to speak her name.

(Cough)

Well, he turned out to be a wife beater, and she came back to Hibbard House with her baby. Of course, she was in the doghouse. Her mother kept saying, 'I told you so!' Lavinia felt sorry for her.

(Cough)

One of Lavinia's jobs was to give the baby some fresh air, weather permitting. They had a real fancy baby carriage, and she wheeled it around and around the dirt roads on the property. There was no pavement in those days. Automobiles were just coming in. The Hibbards had one -all open, with side curtains.

One day Lavinia was pushing the carriage when suddenly an automobile came up alongside. Almost frightened her to death. There were two men in it, and one jumped out and grabbed the baby! Then they took off in a cloud of dust! Lavinia went screaming into the house. `They stole the baby! They stole the baby!' She thought it was her fault, and she was so sick, they put her to bed. Mrs Hibbard said to her disgraced daughter, 'I told you so!' And the poor girl went out to a pond on the property and drowned herself.

(Cough)

Lavinia didn't want to work there any more, so she left, but she told us that no one knew what happened to the baby, and no one tried to find out.

`Good story, Ken! Get a few more as good as that, and we'll list you as assistant editor.'

`You mean that? Mr Haggis steered me to another story — how Hibbard House survived the worst snowstorm of the century, before snowploughs and telephones and radio. There's a woman at the Senior Care Facility whose grandmother worked for the Hibbards. I thought I'd go to see her tomorrow after work, but visitors aren't allowed in the evening. So I asked the boss if I could get a couple of hours off — after the paper's put to bed, you know. I told him it was for you. He said okay.'

They had dinner at the small table in the window, and the cats hung around.

Qwilleran explained, 'They're not begging — just being sociable.'

The two men chewed in friendly silence for a while, and then Kenneth asked, 'Who else lives in this row?'

`Mrs Duncan from the bookstore, a doctor from the pet clinic, and the weatherman.'

Wetherby Goode? He's crazy!'

`He's from Horseradish, and they're all slightly crazy! He has a cat named Jet Stream, a name that's appropriate for more reasons than one . . . Speaking of Horseradish, the last remaining Hibbard has just married a native of that town. It was announced in Friday's paper. Everyone's talking about it.'

Qwilleran paused, sensing a change in his guest's genial mood. Then he continued. 'He's a lot younger than she is — and talented and personable, so he's considered quite a catch. But she's the sole heir to the Hibbard fortune — charming and intelligent — so she's a pretty good catch, too'. . . especially since she's not in the best of health. Everyone is puzzling over their respective motives.'

It was the kind of gossip that Qwilleran used to enjoy at the Press Club, where rumours and impolite facts were exchanged freely.

Kenneth had stopped eating. His face was reddening. Finally he interrupted. 'He's my stepfather.'

`Is that so?' Qwilleran feigned surprise, although he had guessed as much. 'Then his previous wife, who was killed by a sniper, was your mother!'

In a choked voice Kenneth said, 'She married him right after my father died. A lot of people in Lockmaster raised their eyebrows. And then, in a couple of years, she was killed by a sniper while riding her horse on a country trail. The sniper was never apprehended. So you know what people were saying!

`My stepfather is a duck hunter, and he has all kinds of guns, including a Remington "Thirty Aught Six", which would be good for a sniper.'

`How about the official investigation?'

`Insufficient evidence. That's why I went to a police academy out west instead of J school.'

`I can understand your feelings.' It was said in the deeply sympathetic tone that brought forth confidences, confessions, and sometimes just tears. Kenneth jumped up and started walking around the room with his hands in his hip pockets.

`Shall we have some dessert?' Qwilleran asked.

`Thanks, but I've gotta get home.'

Qwilleran said, 'Anything that's said within these walls goes no further, Ken.'

The boy left, and the Siamese followed him to the door. They had been listening.

Qwilleran spent the afternoon making something out of nothing - his way of referring to the `Qwill Pen'. The duck hunting book lent to him by the Wix brothers would be the inspiration, and a column on duck habitat would be appropriate during 'Duck Season', as the hunters called it. The problem was that the book - filled with gorgeous colour photographs - was all about hunting, as its title implied. And hunting was not one of Qwilleran's many interests.

When the Wix brothers had invited him to join one of their shoots, he had said, 'I'm a washout with a rifle.' It was a fib. In his earlier days he had won Kewpie dolls at carnivals for shooting BBs at moving targets, and his marksmanship was much admired by the girls to whom he gave his prizes.

He had been born and bred in a metropolitan area where wildlife was for viewing in a zoo, not for shooting. He could not see himself pointing a gun at a furred or feathered creature.

As for ducks, he remembered the friendly brood that visited him daily when he was vacationing at Black Creek.

Ducks and ducklings skimmed across the quiet water without making a ripple or a splash. He could not imagine taking them home for dinner.

The book told him more than he wanted to know about `waterfowling' - guns, camouflage jackets, waders, duck blinds, and decoys. He learned that a drake is a male duck, and the female is a hen . . . that the daily bag limit allows for more drakes than hens . . . that there were divers, fishers, puddlers, and tree ducks. Species that sounded familiar were the mallards, mergansers, pintails, ring-necks, and buffleheads.

The book was informative as well as handsome, but it told him more than he needed to know - for the `Qwill Pen'.