The Cat Who Went Into the Closet

-7-

QWILLERAN AND THE dog-handler were standing in the farmyard. "Well, you don't want to listen to my troubles all day," Nancy said with a gulp. "Do you want to go and see the dogs?"

"First, let's sit down and talk for a while. I've seen them, and I've heard them," he said dryly.

"You should hear them before a race! They love to hit the trail, and they go wild when they're waiting for the starting flag."

They entered a small mobile home where they were greeted by a large, friendly, all-American, farm-type, cork-colored mongrel whose wagging tail was wreaking havoc in the tight quarters.

"Good boy!" Qwilleran said while being lashed by the amiable tail.

"This is Pop's dog," Nancy said. "Where would you like to sit?" She brushed debris from a couple of chair seats and hastily picked up litter from the floor.

"Is it okay if I tape this interview?" He placed a small recorder on a nearby table, and a swipe of the tail knocked it off.

"I'd chain him outdoors, but he'd drive the other dogs crazy," she said apologetically. "Corky! Go in the other room!" She pointed, and obediently he walked six feet away and stretched out with his chin on his paw.

"You have a way with dogs," Qwilleran complimented her. "How did you get into this specialty of yours?"

"Well, I spent a couple of years in Alaska, and when I came home I bought a sled and a pair of huskies - Siberians. They're smaller than Alaskans but stronger and faster." Her small, wavering voice became stronger as she warmed up to her subject.

"Then you're the one who started the sport here?"

"It was easy. When somebody tries dog-sledding on a beautiful winter day, they're hooked! I'll take you for a ride after we get some snow."

"How do you accommodate passengers?"

"You ride in the basket, and I ride the runners."

"Hmmm," he murmured, thinking he'd feel foolish sitting in a basket pulled by a pack of dogs. "Are all sled dogs as frisky as yours?"

"If they're good racers. A high attitude is what they should have. Mine are born to be racers, not pets, but I love them like family."

"What else makes a good racer?"

"Hard muscles in the right places. A good gait. And they have to like working in a team."

"Training them must be a science," Qwilleran said. "I don't know about that, but it takes a lot of patience."

"I believe it. How many dogs make a team?"

"I've seen as many as twenty in Alaska. I usually run eight."

"How do you drive them?"

"With your voice. They learn to take orders. Would you like a cola, Mr. Qwilleran?"

He said yes, although it ranked with tea at the bottom of his beverage list.

Nancy went on with enthusiasm as she opened a can. The shy, inarticulate, almost pathetic young woman became self-possessed and authoritative when talking about her vocation. "Each dog has a partner. They're paired according to the length of their stride and their personality. They become buddies. It's nice to see."

"Isn't it a great deal of work?"

"Yes, but I love feeding them, brushing them, socializing, cleaning up after them. Do you have dogs?"

"I have cats. Two Siamese. When do the race meets start?"

"After Christmas. We're training already. You should see us tearing around the back roads with the dogs pulling a wheeled cart! They know snow is on the way. They're getting so excited!" She showed a picture of a dog team pelting down a snowy trail; out of a total of thirty-two canine feet, only four seemed to be touching the ground.

"I believe they're flying!" Qwilleran said in amazement.

His willingness to be amazed, his sympathetic manner, and his attitude of genuine interest were the techniques of a good interviewer, and Nancy was relaxing and responding warmly. He could read her body language. Take it easy, he told himself; she's vulnerable. In businesslike fashion he asked, "Did you attend veterinary school?"

"I wanted to, but I got married instead - without telling my parents."

"How did they react?" She looked at the tape recorder, and he turned it off.

"Well... Pop was furious... and Mom got cancer. I had to be nurse for her and housekeeper for Pop." Shrugging and wetting her lips, she said, "Dan didn't want a part-time wife."

"And that led to your divorce?"

She nodded. "When Mom died, I went to Alaska to get away from everything, but dog-sledding brought me back."

"And your father - how did he react to your return?"

"Oh, he was getting along fine. He had a housekeeper three days a week and a new truck and a harvester with stereo in the cab and half a million dollars' worth of drain tile. He was a lot nicer to me than before, and he gave me a piece of land for my mobile home and kennels... I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I guess it's because you're so understanding."

"I've had troubles of my own," he said. "One question occurred to me: Is your father a gambler?"

"Just in the football pool at the tavern. He never even buys a lottery ticket... Would you like another cola?" Corky had just rejoined the group, and a swish of his tail had swept Qwilleran's beverage off the table.

"No, thanks. Let's go out and see what a sled looks like."

The seven-foot sled, like a basket on runners, was in a small pole barn, where it shared space with a snowplow, snow blower, and other maintenance equipment.

"It's made of birch and oak," Nancy said. "This is the handrail. That's the brake board down there. It's held together with screws and glue and rawhide lacing. I varnish it before each sledding season."

"A work of art," Qwilleran declared. "Now let's meet your family."

The dogs anticipated their coming. Puppies in a fenced yard were racing and wrestling and jumping for joy. The adults raised a high-decibel clamor that Nancy quieted with a secret word. They were lean, handsome, high-waisted, long-legged animals in assorted colors and markings, with slanted blue eyes that gave them a sweet expression.

"These two are the lead dogs, Terry and Jerry. They're the captains, very brainy. Spunky and Chris are the wheel dogs, right in front of the sled."

Both Qwilleran and Nancy turned as a police vehicle pulled into the yard. It was a sheriff's car, and an officer in a wide-brimmed hat stepped out.

She shouted, "Hi, Dan! This is Mr. Qwilleran from the newspaper."

Qwilleran, recognizing the deputy's reticent and almost sullen attitude, said, "I believe we've met. You rescued me after a blizzard a couple of years ago."

The deputy nodded.

"Mr. Qwilleran is going to write up my dog team, Dan."

"But we'll hold the story until after snow flies. I'll work on it and call if I have any more questions... Beautiful animals. Interesting sport. Good interview." He moved toward his car.

"You don't have to leave," she protested.

"I have to go home and feed the cats," he explained, making an excuse that was always accepted.

Nancy accompanied him to his car. "Gary says you're living in Mrs. Gage's big house."

"That's right. I'm renting it from Junior Goodwinter, her grandson." He noticed a flicker in her eyes, which he attributed to memories of the high school prom, but it was something else.

"I've been in that house many times," she said. "It's huge!"

"Did you know Mrs. Gage?"

"Did I! My mother was her housekeeper for years and years. Every year Mom took me there for Christmas cookies and hot chocolate, and Mrs. Gage always gave me a present."

"That was gracious of her," Qwilleran said. "What did you think of her?"

"Well, she didn't fuss over me, but she was... nice."

Now he had one more adjective to describe the enigmatic Euphonia Gage, and another reason to call Florida and quiz her talkative neighbor.

"Do you like apples?" he asked Nancy before leaving. He handed her a brown paper bag.

Back at the mansion he submitted to the Siamese Sniff Test. After an afternoon with Corky and twenty-seven Siberian huskies, he rated minus-zero. Their investigation was cut short by a ringing telephone.

"Hey, Qwill!" said an excited Junior Goodwinter. "Can you stand some good news?"

"It's a boy," Qwilleran guessed.

"No, nothing like that; Jody's still here, getting antsy. But somebody wants to buy the Gage mansion! I just got a long distance phone call!

"Congratulations! Who's making the offer?"

"A realtor in Chicago."

"Is it a good offer?"

"Very good! What do you suppose it means? The house wasn't even listed for sale. And why should they pick mine when there are seven for-sale signs on the street? I'll bet Grandma Gage tipped someone off before she died."

"Don't ask questions," Qwilleran advised. "Take the money and run."

"I'm going to tell them it's rented until spring, so don't worry about having to move out, Qwill."

"I appreciate that. And let's not tell Polly until the deal's closed. She'll be upset about losing the carriage house."

"Okay, I won't. Golly! This is the best news I've had since I-don't-know-when."

"Good things come in threes," Qwilleran said. "Maybe Jody will have twins. By the way, was there a woman in the Gage family by the name of Cynara?"

"I don't think so. How do you spell it?"

"Like the poem: C-y-n-a-r-a."

"Nope. Doesn't ring a bell."

At a suitable hour - late enough for the fifty-percent discount but not too late for a Pink Sunset resident - Qwilleran placed a call to Florida, and Koko leaped to the desk in anticipation. "Arrange your optic fibers," Qwilleran advised him. "This may be enlightening." The cat's whiskers and eyebrows curved forward.

When a woman's cheery voice answered, he asked in a rich and ingratiating tone, "May I speak with Celia Robinson?"

There was a trill of laughter. "I know it's you, Clayton. You can't fool your old grandmother. Does your mother know you're calling?"

"I'm afraid I'm not Clayton. I'm a colleague of Junior Goodwinter, Mrs. Gage's grandson. I'm calling from Pickax. My name is Jim Qwilleran."

She hooted with delight tinged with embarrassment. "Oh, I thought you were my prankish grandson, changing his voice. He's a great one for playing practical jokes. What did you say your name was?"

"Jim Qwilleran. Junior gave me your number."

"Yes, he was here for a few days. He's a nice boy. And I know all about you. Mrs. Gage showed me the articles you write for the paper. What's the name of the paper?"

"The Moose County Something."

"I knew it was a funny name, but I couldn't remember. And I loved your picture! You have a wonderful moustache. You remind me of someone on TV."

"Thank you," he said graciously, although he preferred compliments on his writing. Clearing his throat he began, "The editor has assigned me to write a profile of Euphonia Gage, and I'd like to talk with someone who knew her in Florida. Were you well acquainted with her?"

"Oh, yes, we were next-door neighbors, and I sort of looked after her."

"In what way? I'm going to tape this if you don't mind."

"Well, I checked up on her every day, and I'd always drive her where she wanted to go. She didn't like driving in the bumper-to-bumper traffic we have around here. She was eighty-eight, you know. I'm only sixty-eight."

"Your voice sounds much younger, Mrs. Robinson."

"Do you think so?" she said happily. "That's because I sing."

"In nightclubs?" he asked slyly.

Mrs. Robinson laughed merrily. "No, just around the house, but I used to sing in a church choir before I moved down here. Would you like to hear me sing something?"

Qwilleran thought, I have a live one here! "I was hoping you'd suggest it," he said. He expected to hear "Amazing Grace." Instead she sang the entire verse and chorus of "Mrs. Robinson" in a clear, untrained voice. Listening, he tried to visualize her; it was his custom to picture strangers in his mind's eye. He imagined her to be buxom and rosy-cheeked, with partly gray hair and seashell earrings. "Brava!" he shouted when she had finished. "I've never heard it sung better."

"Thank you. It's Clayton's favorite," she said. "You have a nice voice, too... Now, what was I telling you about Mrs. Gage? She didn't like to be called by her first name, and I don't blame her. It sounded like some kind of old-fashioned phonograph."

"You said you did the driving. Did she still have her yellow sport coupe?"

"No, she sold that, and we took my navy blue sedan. She called it an old lady's. I thought she was being funny, but she was serious."

"And where would you two ladies drive?"

"Mostly to the mall - for lunch and to buy a few things. She liked to eat at a health food place."

"Would you say she was happy at the Park of Pink

Sunsets?"

"I think so. She went on day trips in the activity bus, and she liked to give talks at the clubhouse."

"What kind of talks?"

Mrs. Robinson had to think a moment. "Mmmm... diet and exercise, music, art, the right way to breathe..

."

"Were these lectures well attended?"

"Well, to tell the truth, they weren't as popular as the old movies on Thursday nights, but a lot of people went because they didn't have anything better to do. Also they had tea and cookies after the talk. Mrs. Gage paid for the refreshments."

Qwilleran said, "I met Mrs. Gage only once and that was for a short time. What was she like?"

"Oh, she was very interesting - not like the ones... that are forever talking about their ailments and the grandchildren they never see. The park discourages young visitors. You have to get a five-dollar permit before you can have a visitor under sixteen years of age, and then it's only for forty-eight hours. Clayton likes to spend the whole Christmas week with me, because he doesn't like his stepmother. She's too serious, but his granny laughs a lot. Maybe you've noticed," she added with a giggle.

"How old is Clayton?"

"Just turned thirteen. He's a very bright boy with a crazy sense of humor. We have a ball! Last Christmas he figured out how to beat the system. When I picked him up at the airport, he was wearing a false beard! The sight of it just broke me up! He said I should introduce him to my neighbors as Dr. Clayton Robinson of Johns Hopkins. I went along with the gag. It's lucky that none of our neighbors have very good eyesight."

"Did he have his skateboard?" Qwilleran asked.

"Yow!" said Koko in a voice loud and clear.

"Do I hear a baby crying?" Mrs. Robinson asked.

"That's Koko, my Siamese cat. He's auditing this call."

"I used to have cats, and I'd love to have one now, but pets aren't allowed in the park. No cats, no dogs, not even birds!"

"How about goldfish?"

"Oh, that's funny! That's really funny!" she said. "I'm going to ask for a permit to have goldfish, and see what they say. They have no sense of humor. Last Christmas Clayton brought me a recording of a dog singing 'Jingle Bells.' Maybe you've heard it. 'Woof woof woof... woof woof woof!' "

"Yow!" Koko put in.

"Was Mrs. Gage amused?" Qwilleran asked. "

"Not exactly. And the management of the park threw a fit!"

"Who are these people who issue five-dollar permits and throw fits?"

"Betty and Claude. He owns the park, and she's the manager. I don't think they're married, but they're always together. Don't get me wrong; they're really very nice if you play by the rules. Then there is Pete, the assistant whenever when they're out of town. He's handy with tools and electricity and all that. He fixed my radio for nothing."

"How did Mrs. Gage react to all the restrictions?"

"Well, you see, she was quite friendly with Betty and Claude, and she got special treatment, sort of. They took her to the dog races a lot. She enjoyed their company. She liked younger people."

"Including Dr. Clayton Robinson?" His grandmother responded to the mild quip with peals of laughter. "Clayton would love to meet you, Mr.... "

"Qwilleran. Did he get away with the beard trick?"

"Oh, we didn't hang around the park too much. We went to the beach and movies and video arcades and antique shops. Clayton collects old photos of funny-looking people and calls them his ancestors. Like, one is an old lady in bonnet and shawl; he says it's his great-grandfather in drag. Isn't that a hoot?"

"Your grandson has a great future, Mrs. Robinson."

"Call me Celia. Everybody does."

"Talking with you has been a pleasure, Celia. You've given me a graphic picture of Mrs. Gage's last home. Just one serious question: Does anyone have an idea why she took her life?"

"Well... we're not supposed to talk about it."

"Why not?"

"Well, this isn't the first suicide we've had, and Claude is afraid it'll reflect on the park. But Mr. Crocus and I have whispered about it, and we can't figure it out."

"Who is Mr. Crocus?" Qwilleran asked with renewed interest.

"He's a nice old gentleman. He plays the violin. He had a crush on Mrs. Gage and followed her around like a puppy. He misses her a lot. I hope he doesn't pine away and die. There's a big turnover here, you know, but there's always someone waiting to move in. They've already sold Mrs. Gage's house to a widower from Iowa."

"Considering all the restrictions, why is the park so desirable?"

"Mostly it's the security. You can call the office twenty-four hours a day, if you have an emergency. There's limousine service to medical clinics, although you pay for it. They recommend doctors and lawyers and tax experts, which is nice because we're all from other states. I'm from Illinois. Also, there are things going on at the clubhouse, and there's the activity bus. Would you like to see some snapshots of Mrs. Gage on one of our sightseeing trips? Maybe you could use them with your article."

Qwilleran said it was an excellent suggestion and, asked her to mail them to him at the newspaper office.

."What was the name of it, did you say?"

"The Moose County Something. "

"I love that! It's really funny!" she said with a chuckle. "I'll write it down."

"And do you mind if I call you again, Celia?"

"Gosh, no! It's fun being interviewed."

"Perhaps you'd like to see the obituary that ran in Wednesday's paper. I'll send two copies - one for Mr. Crusoe."

"Crocus," she corrected him. "Yes, he'd appreciate that a lot, Mr. Qwilleran."

"For your information, I'm usually called Qwill"

"Oh! Like in quill pen!"

"Except it's spelled with a Qw."

"Yow!" said Koko.

"I'd better say goodnight and hang up, Celia. Koko wants to use the phone."

The last sound he heard from the receiver was a torrent of laughter. He turned to Koko. "That was Mrs. Robinson at the Park of Pink Sunsets."

The cat was fascinated by telephones. The ringing of the bell, the sound of a human voice coming from the instrument, and the mere fact that Qwilleran was conversing with an inanimate object seemed to stimulate his feline sensibilities. And he showed particular interest in the Florida grandmother with lively risibility. Qwilleran wondered why. He thought, Does he know something I don't? Koko's blue eyes were wearing their expression of profound wisdom.

"Treat!" Qwilleran announced, and there was the thud of galloping paws en route to the kitchen.