The Cat Who Went Into the Closet

-3-

THE NEWS OF Euphonia Gage's suicide was surprising, if not incredible. "What was her motive?" Qwilleran asked Arch Riker.

"We don't know yet. We'll run a died-suddenly on the front page of tomorrow's paper and give it the full treatment Wednesday. Junior is drafting an obit on the plane and will fax it when he arrives down there and gets a few more details. Meanwhile, will you see if you can dig out some photos? Her early life, studio portraits - anything will be useful. She was the last of the Gages. Junior says she left some photo albums in the house, but he doesn't know exactly where."

As Qwilleran listened to the publisher's directive, he felt a fumbling in his pocket and reached down to grab a paw. "No!" he scolded. "What'd you say?"

"Nothing. Yum Yum was picking my pocket."

"Well, see what you can find for Wednesday. Usual deadline. Sorry to bother you tonight."

"No bother. I'll give you a ring in the morning."

Before resuming the reading of Robinson Crusoe, Qwilleran added the purple ribbon bow to what he called the Kao K'o Kung Collection in a desk drawer. It consisted of oddments retrieved by one or more cats from the gaping closets of the Gage mansion: champagne cork, matchbook, pocket comb, small sponge, pencil stub, rubber eraser, and the like. Yum Yum left her contributions scattered about the house; Koko organized his under the kitchen table, alongside their water dish and feeding station.

As the day ended, Qwilleran felt a welcome surge of relief and satisfaction; "The Big Burning" had been successfully launched and enthusiastically received. He slept soundly that night and would not have heard the early-morning summons from the library telephone if eight bony legs had not landed simultaneously on tender parts of his supine body.

Hixie Rice was on the line, as bright and breezy as ever. "Pardonnez-moi! Did I get you out of bed?" she asked when Qwilleran answered gruffly. "You sound as if you haven't had your coffee yet. Well, this will wake you up! We have two bookings for our show, if the dates are okay with you. The first is Thursday afternoon at Mooseland High School. That's a consolidated school serving the agricultural townships."

"I'm not keen about doing the show for kids," he objected.

"They're not kids. They're young adults, and they'll love it!"

"Of course. They love anything that gets them out of class, including chest X-rays," he said with precoffee cynicism. "What kind of facility do they have?"

"We'll be doing the show in the gym, with the audience seated in the bleachers. The custodian is constructing a platform for us."

"What's the second booking?"

"Monday night at the Black Bear Caf‚. It's the annual family night for the Outdoor Club, and they were going to have a Laurel and Hardy film, but Gary urged them to book 'The Big Burning' instead."

"Maybe we can play it for laughs," Qwilleran muttered.

"At the high school we're scheduled for the sixth period, and we should get there at one o'clock. I'll be out in the territory, so I'll meet you there. It's on Sandpit Road, you know... And would you be a doll, Qwill, and glue my cuesheet on a card, s'il vous plait? It'll be sturdier and easier to handle... See you Thursday afternoon. Don't forget to bring the complex computerized sound and light system," she concluded with a flippant laugh.

A grunt was his only reply to that remark. As he hung up the receiver he felt certain misgivings. Performing for a hand-picked audience of civic leaders had been a pleasure, but a gymful of noisy, hyperkinetic "young adults" from the potato farms and sheep ranches was a different ballgame. He pressed the button on his coffeemaker and was comforted somewhat by the sound of grinding beans and gurgling brew.

Meanwhile, he fed the cats, and whether it was the soothing sight of feline feeding or the caffeine jolt of his first cup, something restored his positive attitude, and he tackled Riker's assignment with actual relish.

It was not as easy as either of them supposed. There were no photos of Euphonia Gage in the desk drawers. The closet in the library was locked. In the upstairs bedroom where Koko had found the purple ribbon, the closets were stuffed with outdated clothing, but no photographs. Returning to the library he surveyed the shelves of somber books collected by several generations of Gages: obsolete encyclopedias, anthologies of theological essays, forgotten classics, and biographies of persons now unknown. Sitting in the worn leather desk chair, he swiveled idly, pondering this mausoleum of the printed word.

It was then that he glimpsed a few inches of brown tail disappearing behind a row of books at eye level. Koko often retired to a bookshelf to escape Yum Yum's playful overtures. He failed to appreciate aggressive females, preferring to do the chasing himself. So now he was safely installed in the narrow space behind some volumes on nutrition, correct breathing, vegetarian diet, medicinal herbs, Hindu philosophy, and similar subjects of interest to the late Mrs. Gage.

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache, suspecting why Koko preferred these books to the Civil War histories on the same shelf. Could it corroborate the theory about cats and energy? Could Euphonia's innate verve have rubbed off on these particular bindings? In earlier years he would have scoffed at such a notion, but that was before he knew Koko. Now Qwilleran would believe anything!

Out of curiosity he opened the book on herbs and found remedies for acne, allergies, asthma, and athlete's foot. Hopefully he looked under F but found nothing on football knee, which was his own Achilles' heel. He did find, however, an envelope addressed to Junior and mailed from Florida, casually stuck between a new book on cholesterol and an old book on mind power. He opened it and read:

Dear Junior, Ship all my health books right away. I teach a class in breathing twice a week. These old people could solve half their problems if they knew how to breathe. Also send my photo albums. I think they're on the shelf with the Britannica. I'll pay the postage. Thank you for sending the clippings of Mr. Q's column. I like his style. No one down here has the slightest knowledge of how to write. Perhaps you should start a subscription to the paper for me. Send me the bill.

Grandma

The letter, dated two weeks previously, hardly sounded like a potential suicide, and Qwilleran wondered, Had something drastic happened to change her lifestyle or her outlook? It could be sudden illness, sudden grief, personal catastrophe...

Two photo albums were exactly where she had said they would be, and he turned the pages to find the highlights of her life, all captioned and dated as if she expected some future biographer to publish her life. He found a tiny Euphonia in a christening dress two yards long, propped up on cushions; a young girl dancing on the grass in front of peony bushes; a horsewoman in full habit, with the straightest of spines; and a bride in a high-necked wedding dress with an armful of white roses. In none of the photos was there a glimpse of her bridegroom, daughter, parents, or grandchildren - only

an unidentified horse.

Qwilleran narrowed the collection down to ten suitable pictures and telephoned Riker at the office. "Got 'em!" he announced. "How about lunch?"

At noon he walked downtown and tossed the photos on the publisher's desk. Riker shuffled through the pack, nodded without comment, and said, "Where shall we eat?"

"First I want to use your gluepot," Qwilleran said. "Do you have a five-by-seven index card?"

"No. What for?"

"Never mind. Just give me a file folder, and I'll cut it down. I want to paste Hixie's cuesheet on a card for durability."

"Apparently you're expecting a long run," the publisher said with satisfaction.

"Yes, and I'm charging the paper for mileage." They drove in Riker's car to the Old Stone Mill on the outskirts of town, the best restaurant in the vicinity.

"Have you heard from Junior?" Qwilleran asked.

"Give him a break! His plane left only an hour ago."

They were passing the impressive entrance to Goodwinter Boulevard. "How do you and the cats enjoy rattling around in that big house?"

"We're adaptable. Actually, I live in three rooms. I sleep in the housekeeper's old bedroom on the main floor. I make coffee and feed the cats in a huge antiquated kitchen. And I hang out in the library, which still has some furniture - not good, but not too bad."

"Is that where you found the dope on the forest fire?"

"No, it was in an upstairs closet. The house is honeycombed with closets, all filled with junk."

"That's the insidious thing about ample storage space," Riker said. "It sounds good, but it turns rational individuals into pack rats. I'm one of them."

"But Koko is having a field day. Old doors in old houses don't latch properly, so he can open a closet door and walk in."

Riker - who had once had a house and wife and children and cats of his own - nodded sagely. "Cats can't stand the sight of a closed door. If they're in, they have to get out; if they're out, they want in."

"The Rum Tum Tugger syndrome," Qwilleran said with equal sagacity.

In the restaurant parking lot they crossed paths with Scott Gippel, the car dealer. "I heard on the radio that old Mrs. Gage died down south. Died suddenly, they said. Is that true? Suicide?"

"That's what the police told Junior," Riker said.

"Too bad. She was a peppy old gal. I took her Mercedes in trade on a bright yellow sports car. She had me drop-ship it to Florida."

When they entered the restaurant, the hostess said, "Isn't that sad about Mrs. Gage? She had so much style! Always came in here wearing a hat and scarf. The barman kept a bottle of Dubonnet just for her... Your usual table, Mr. Q?"

The special for the day was a French dip sandwich with skins-on fries and a cup of cream of mushroom soup. Riker ordered a salad.

"What's the matter?" Qwilleran inquired. "Aren't you feeling well?"

"Just trying to lose a few pounds before the holidays. Do you have plans for Christmas Eve?"

"That's two months away! I'll be lucky if I survive Thursday afternoon at Mooseland High."

"How would you like to be best man at a Christmas Eve wedding?"

Qwilleran stopped nibbling breadsticks. "You and Mildred? Congratulations, old stiff! You two will be happy together."

"Why don't you and Polly take the plunge at the same time? Share the expenses. That should appeal to your thrifty nature."

"The chance to save a few bucks is tempting, Arch, but Polly and I prefer singlehood. Besides, our respective cats would be incompatible... Have you broken the news to your kids?"

"Yeah, and right away they wanted to know how old she is. You know what they were thinking, that she'll outlive me and collect their inheritance."

"Nice offspring you begot," Qwilleran commented, half in sympathy and half in vindication. For years Riker had chided him for being childless. "Are they coming for the wedding?"

"If the airport stays open, but I doubt it. Fifty inches of snow are predicted before Christmas."

The two men talked about the forthcoming election (the incumbent mayor had a drinking problem) and the high cost of gasoline (when one lives 400 miles north of everywhere), and a good place for a honeymoon (not the New Pickax Hotel).

When coffee was served, Qwilleran brought up the subject that was bothering him. "You know, Arch, I can't understand why Mrs. Gage would choose to end her life."

"Old folks often pull up stakes and go to a sunny climate away from family and friends, and they discover the loneliness of old age. My father found it gets harder to make new friends as years go by. Mrs. Gage was eighty-eight, you know."

"What's eighty-eight in today's world? People of that age are running in marathons and winning swimming meets! Science is pushing the lifespan up to a hundred and ten."

"Not for me, please."

"Anyway, when Junior phones, ask him to call me at home."

The call from Junior came around six o'clock that evening. "Hey, Qwill, whaddaya think about all this? I can't believe Grandma Gage is gone! I thought she'd live forever."

"The idea of suicide is what puzzles me, Junior. Was that just a cop's guess?"

"No, it's official."

"Was there a suicide note?"

"She didn't leave any kind of explanation, but there was an empty bottle of sleeping pills by her bed, plus evidence that she'd been drinking. Her normal weight was under a hundred pounds, so it wouldn't take much to put her down, the doctor said."

"Did she drink? I thought she was a health nut."

"She always had a glass of Dubonnet before dinner, claiming it was nutritious. But who knows what she did after she started running with that retirement crowd in Florida? If you don't sow your wild oats when you're young, my dad told me, you'll do it when you're old."

"So what was the motive?"

"I wish I knew."

"Who found the body?"

"A neighbor. Around Monday noon. She'd been dead about sixteen hours. This woman called to pick her up for lunch. They were going to the mall."

"Have you talked with this neighbor?"

"Yes, she's a nice older woman. A widow."

"Yow!" said Koko, who was sitting on the desk and monitoring the call.

"Was that Koko?" Junior asked.

"Yes, he's always trying to line me up with a widow who'll make meatloaf like Mrs. Cobb's... So, what happens now, Junior?"

"I'm appointed as personal rep, and Pender Wilmot has told me what to do. She'd sold her condo and was living in a mobile home in a retirement complex called the Park of Pink Sunsets."

"Very Floridian," Qwilleran remarked.

"It's a top-of-the-line mobile home. She bought it furnished from the park management, and they'll buy it back, so I don't have that to worry about. I have to get some death certificates, round up her personal belongings, and ship the body to Pickax. She wanted to be buried in the Gage plot, Pender says."

"When do you expect to be home?"

"Before snow flies, I hope. Sooner the better. I don't care for this assignment."

"Let me know if you want a lift from the airport."

"My car's in the long-term garage, but thanks anyway, Qwill."

Qwilleran replaced the receiver slowly. No known motive! The news was a challenge to one who was tormented by unanswered questions and unsolved puzzles. He had known suicides motivated by guilt, depression, and fear of disgrace, but here was a healthy, spirited, active, well-to-do woman who simply decided to end it all.

"What happened?" he asked Koko, who was sitting on the desk, a self-appointed censor of incoming phone calls. The cat sat tall with his forelegs primly together and his tail curved flat on the desktop. At Qwilleran's question he shifted his feet nervously and blinked his eyes. Then, abruptly, he jerked his head toward the library door. In a blur of fur he was off the desk and out in the hallway. Qwilleran, alarmed by the sudden exit, followed almost as fast. The excitement was in the kitchen, where Yum Yum was already sniffing the bottom of the back door.

Koko's tail bushed, his ears swept back, his whiskers virtually disappeared, and a terrible growl came from the depths of his interior.

Qwilleran looked out the back window. It was dusk, but he could make out a large orange cat on the porch, crouched and swaying from side to side in a threatening way. The man banged on the door, yanked it open and yelled "Scat!" The intruder swooshed from the porch in a single streak and faded into the dusk. Yum Yum looked dreamily disappointed, and Koko bit her on the neck.

"Stop that!" Qwilleran commanded in a gruff voice that was totally ignored. Yum Yum appeared to be enjoying the abuse.

"Treat!" he shouted. It was the only guaranteed way to capture their immediate attention, and both cats scampered to the feeding station under the kitchen table, where they awaited their reward.

Returning to the library, Qwilleran phoned Lori Bamba,

his free-lance secretary in Mooseville, who not only

handled his correspondence but advised him on feline

problems. He described the recent scene.

"It's a male," Lori said. "He's a threat to Koko's territory. He's interested in Yum Yum."

"Both of mine are neutered," he reminded her. "It makes no difference. The visitor probably sprayed your back door."

"What! I won't stand for that!" Qwilleran stormed into the phone. "Isn't there some kind of protection against marauding animals, invading and vandalizing private property - an ordinance or whatever?"

"I don't think so. Do you have any idea where he lives?"

"When I chased him, he headed for the attorney's house next door. Well, thanks, Lori. Sorry to bother you. I'll see my own attorney about this tomorrow."

Blowing angrily into his moustache, Qwilleran strode through the main hall and glared out the front window, where autumn leaves smothered sidewalks, lawns, pavement, and the median. Then, smashing his fist in the palm of his hand, he returned to the library and phoned Osmond Hasselrich of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter. Only someone with the nerve of a veteran journalist would call the senior partner at home during the dinner hour, and only someone with Qwilleran's bankroll could get away with it. The elderly lawyer listened courteously as Qwilleran made his request concisely and firmly. "I want an appointment for tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Hasselrich, and I want to consult you personally. It's a matter of the utmost secrecy."