The Cat Who Went Into the Closet

-8-

ON MONDAY MORNING Qwilleran was weighing the advantages of staying in bed versus the disadvantages of listening to a feline reveille outside his door. The decision was made for him when the telephone rang in the library. He hoisted himself out of bed, put his slippers on the wrong feet, and padded down the hall.

"Hey, Qwill!" came the familiar voice of Junior Goodwinter. "I need help! Tomorrow's election day, and we're gonna do a run-down on the candidates in today's paper. Would you handle one for us? It's an emergency. Everyone's pitching in, even the maintenance guy." "Now's a helluva time to think of it," said Qwilleran in the grumpy mood that preceded his first cup of coffee. He looked at his watch and computed the length of time before the noon deadline.

"Don't blame me! Arch came barging in half an hour ago with the idea, and he's the boss."

:What's he been doing for the last two weeks, besides courting Mildred?"

"Listen, Qwill, all you have to do is question your candidate on the list of issues, but not on the phone. Personal contact."

Qwilleran growled something inaudible. There were three candidates for the mayoralty, seven for two vacancies on the city council, and six for one post on the county board. "Okay," he said, "of the sixteen incumbents, outsiders, nobodies, and perennial losers, which one is assigned to me?"

"George Breze."

"I might have known you'd give me an airhead."

"Stop at the office first to get a list of the issues. Deadline is twelve noon, so you'd better get hopping."

Fifteen minutes later, Qwilleran - unbreakfasted, unshaved, and only casually combed - reported to the newspaper office. Junior handed him a list. "Just tape the interview. We'll transcribe it."

"By the way," Qwilleran said, "I phoned Celia Robinson in Florida last night."

"Tell me about it later," the editor said as both phones on his desk started to ring.

George Breze was a one-man conglomerate who operated his sprawling empire from a shack on Sandpit Road, surrounded by rental trucks, mini-storage buildings, a do-it-yourself car wash, and junk cars waiting to be cannibalized. Usually there was merchandise for sale under a canvas canopy, such as pumpkins in October, Christmas trees in December, and sacks of sheep manure in the spring. His parking lot was always full on Saturday nights. Teens were admonished not to stop there on the way home from school.

Breze was one of two candidates opposing the incumbent mayor, the well-liked Gregory Blythe. On the way to interview him, Qwilleran stopped for breakfast at the Dimsdale Diner, where the number of pickups in the parking lot assured him that the coffee hour was in full swig. Inside the decrepit diner the usual bunch of men in feed caps gathered around a big table, smoking and shouting and laughing. They made room for Qwilleran after he had picked up two doughnuts and a mug of coffee at the counter.

"What's the latest weather report?" he asked.

"Heavy frost tonight," said a sheep rancher.

"Light snow later in the week," said a farm equipment dealer.

"The Big Snow is on the way," a trucker predicted."

"Who's our next mayor?" Qwilleran then asked.

"Blythe'll get in again. No contest," someone said. "He drinks a little, but who doesn't?"

"Do you see George Breze as a threat?"

The coffee drinkers erupted in vituperation, and the county agricultural agent said, "He's exactly what we need, a mayor with wide experience: loan shark, ticket fixer, ex-bootlegger, part-time bookie, tealeaf reader..."

The last triggered an explosion of laughter, and the group broke up.

Qwilleran caught the ear of the ag agent. "Do you know Gil Inchpot?"

"Sure do. He shipped out a week ago without harvesting his crop or fulfilling his contracts. He must've cracked up."

"Is there any chance of hiring fieldhands to dig his potatoes? The K Foundation has funds for economic emergencies."

"Don't know how you could swing it," said the agent, removing his cap to scratch his head. "Everybody's short of help, and they're racing to get their own crops in before frost."

"Inchpot always helped other people in a pinch," Qwilleran argued.

"That he did; I'll give him credit. Gimme time to think about it, Qwill, and pray it doesn't freeze tonight."

With this scant encouragement Qwilleran drove to the Breze campaign headquarters on Sand pit Road and found the candidate seated behind a scarred wooden desk in a ramshackle hut. He was wearing a blue nylon jacket and red feed cap.

"Come in! Come in! Sit down!" Breze shouted heartily, dusting off a chair with a rag he kept under his desk. "Glad you called before comin' so I could cancel my other appointments." He spoke in a loud, brisk voice. "Cuppa coffee?"

"No, thanks. I never drink when I'm working."

"What can I do you for?"

"Just answer a few questions, Mr. Breze." Qwilleran placed his tape recorder on the desk. "Why are you running for office?"

"I was born and brought up here. The town's been good to me. I owe it to the people," he answered promptly.

"Do you believe you'll be elected?"

"Absolutely! Everybody knows me and likes me. I went to school with 'em."

"What do you plan to accomplish if elected mayor?"

"I want to help the people with their problems and keep the streets clean. Clean streets are important."

"Would you favor light or heavy industry for economic development in Pickax?"

"Light or heavy, it don't matter. The important thing is to make jobs for the people and keep the streets clean."

"What do you think about the current controversy over sewers?"

"It'll straighten out. It always does," Breze said with a wave of the hand.

"There's talk about township annexation. Where do you stand on that issue?"

"I don't know about that. I don't think it's important. Jobs - that's what matters."

"Do you support the proposal to install parking meters in downtown Pickax?"

"Is that something new? I haven't heard about it. Free parking is best for the people."

"What do you think of the education system in Pickax?"

"Well, I went to school here, and I turned out all right." The candidate laughed lustily.

"Do you think the police department is doing a good job?"

"Absolutely! They're a good bunch of boys."

"In your opinion, what is the most important issue facing the city council?"

"That's hard to say. Myself, I'm gonna fight for clean streets."

Qwilleran thanked Breze for his cogent opinions and delivered the tape to the paper. "Here's my interview with the Great Populist," he told Junior.

"Sorry to brush you off this morning," said the editor. "What did you want to tell me about Celia Robinson?"

"Only that I talked with her for half an hour and didn't get a single clue to your grandmother's motive."

"I know you like to get to the bottom of things, Qwill, but frankly, I've got too many other things on my mind. Jack and Pug are flying in tomorrow. The reading of the will is Wednesday in Wilmot's office. The memorial service is Thursday night. And every time the phone rings, I think it's Jody, ready to go to the hospital."

"Then I won't bother you," Qwilleran said, "but count on dinner Wednesday night, and let me know if there's anything I can do. I could drive Jody to the hospital if you're in a bind."

After stopping for lunch, he went home and parked under the porte cochere. Even before he approached the side door, he could hear the commotion indoors, and he knew he was in trouble. Two indignant Siamese were yowling in unison, pacing the floor and switching their tails in spasms of reproach.

"Oh, no!" he groaned, slapping his forehead in guilt. "I forgot your breakfast! A thousand apologies! Junior threw me a curve." He quickly emptied cans of boned chicken and solid-pack tuna on their plate. "Consider this a brunch. All you can eat!"

That was his second mistake. All the food went down, but half of it came up.

Qwilleran spent the afternoon preparing for his third performance of "The Big Burning," and when he drove to the Hotel Booze at seven o'clock, the parking lot was jammed. The Outdoor Club was in the caf‚, enjoying boozeburgers, when he set up the stage in the meeting room. There were extra chairs, he noted, the front row being a mere six feet from the platform.

"Largest crowd they've ever had!" Hixie Rice exulted as she tested the sound and lights, "and I've got bookings for three more shows!" A rumble of voices in the lobby announced the approaching audience, and Qwilleran ducked through the exit door, while Hixie shook hands with the officers of the club and seated the youngsters in the front rows.

With his ear to the door he heard the first notes of "Anitra's Dance" and counted thirty seconds before making an entrance and mounting the stage. "We interrupt this program to bring you a bulletin on the forest fires that are rapidly approaching Moose County...

In the first three rows eyes and mouths were wide open. A small girl in the front row, whose feet could not reach the floor, was swinging them back and forth continuously. Her legs, in white leggings, were like a beacon in the dark room. When the old farmer's voice came from the speakers, the legs swung faster. The old farmer was saying:

"I come in from my farm west o' here, and I seen some terrible things! Hitched the hosses to the wagon and got my fambly here safe but never thought we'd make it! We come through fire rainin' down out of the sky like hailstones! Smoke everywhere! Couldn't see the road, hardly. Hay in the wagon caught fire, and we had to throw it out and rattle along on the bare boards. We picked up one lad not more'n eight year old, carryin' a baby - all that were left of his fambly. His shoes, they was burned clean off his feet!"

The white legs never stopped swinging, back and forth like a pendulum: left, right, left, right. Qwilleran, aware of the movement through the corner of his eye, found himself being mesmerized. He had to fight to maintain his concentration on the announcer's script:

"Here in Pickax it's dark as midnight. Winds have suddenly risen to hurricane fury. Great blasts of heat and cinders are smothering the city. We can hear screams of frightened horses, then a splintering crash as a great tree is uprooted or the wind wrenches the roof from a house. Wagons are being lifted like toys and blown away!... There's a red glare in the sky!... Pickax is in flames!"

The red light flicked on. Coughing and choking, the announcer rushed from the studio.

In the hallway beyond the exit door Qwilleran leaned against the wall, recovering from the scene he had just played. A moment later, Hixie joined him. "They love it!" she said. "Especially the part about the boy with his shoes burned off. The kids identify."

"Did you see that one swinging her legs in the front row?" Qwilleran asked irritably.

"She was spellbound!"

"Well, those white legs were putting a spell on me! I was afraid I'd topple off my chair."

"Did you hear the girl crying when you told about the little baby? She created quite a disturbance."

"I don't care if the whole audience cries!" Qwilleran snapped. "Get those white legs out of the front row!"

When he made his entrance for Scene Two, an instant hush fell upon the room. Surreptitiously he glanced at the front row; the white legs had gone.

"After a sleepless night, Pickax can see daylight. The smoke is lifting, but the acrid smell of burning is everywhere, and the scene is one of desolation in every direction. Only this brick courthouse is left standing, a haven for hundreds of refugees. Fortunately a sudden wind from the lake turned back the flames, and Mooseville and Brrr have been saved."

Qwilleran had not seen the last of the white legs, however. Halfway through Scene Two he was interviewing the Irish innkeeper by phone: "Sir, what news do you hear from Sawdust City?"

A thick Irish brogue came from the speakers: "It's gone! All gone! Every stick of it, they're tellin'. And there's plenty of sad tales this mornin'. One poor chap from Sawdust City walked into town carryin' the remains of his wife and little boy in a pail - a ten-quart pail! Wouldja believe it, now?"

At that tense moment, Qwilleran's peripheral vision picked up a pair of white legs walking toward the stage. What the devil is she doing? he thought.

The girl climbed onto the stage, crossed to the exit door at the rear, and went to the restroom.

The radio announcer went on. "Many tales of heroism and fortitude have been reported. In West Kirk thirteen persons went down a well and stood in three feet of water for five hours. In Dimsdale a mother saved her three children by burying them in a plowed field until the danger had passed..."

The white legs returned, taking a shortcut across the stage. It didn't faze the audience. At the end of the show they applauded wildly, and the president of the Outdoor Club made Qwilleran and Hixie honorary members. Then she fielded questions while he packed the gear, surrounded by the under-ten crowd. They were fascinated by the tape player, lights, cables, and other equipment being folded into compact carrying cases.

"I liked it when you talked on the telephone," one said.

"How do you know all that stuff?" another asked.

"Why didn't everybody get in a bus and drive to Mooseville or Brrr to be saved?"

"How could he get his wife and little boy in a pail?"

"I liked the red light."

One three-year-old girl stood silently sucking her thumb and staring at Qwilleran's moustache.

"Did you like the show?" he asked her.

She nodded soberly before taking the thumb from her mouth. "What was it about?" she asked earnestly. He was relieved when Nancy Fincher came to the stage. "Mr. Qwilleran, it was wonderful! I never liked history before, but you made it so real, I cried."

"Thank you," he said. "As soon as I put these cases in my car, may I invite you for a drink in the caf‚?"

"Let me carry one," she said, grabbing the largest of the three. Delicate though she seemed, she handled the heavy case like a trifle. When they were established on the wobbly barstools, he asked, "Will you have something to eat? I'm always famished after the show. 'The Big Burning' burns up a lot of energy."

"Just a cola for me," she said. "I had supper here, and half of my burger is in a doggie bag in my truck."

Qwilleran ordered a boozeburger with fries. "You mentioned that potatoes are a complicated crop to raise," he said to Nancy. "I always thought they'd be a cinch."

Nancy shook her head soberly. "That's what

everybody thinks. But first you have to know what kind to

plant - for the conditions you're working with and the

market you're selling to. Different markets want large or

small, white skins or redskins, bakers or boilers or

fryers."

"You seem to know a lot about the subject."

"I grew up with potatoes."

"Don't stop. Tell me more." He was concentrating on the burger, which was enormously thick.

"Well, first you have to have the right kind of soil, and it has to be well drained. Then you have to know the right time to plant and the right kind of fertilizer. Then you worry about crop diseases and weeds and insects and rain. You need enough rain but not too much. And then you have to gamble on the right time to harvest."

"I have a new respect for potato farmers... and potatoes," he said.

A soft look suffused Nancy's face. "When Mom was alive, we used to dig down with our fingers and take out the small new tubers very carefully, so as not to interfere with the others. Then we'd have creamed new potatoes with new peas."

Gary Pratt shuffled up to them. "Are you folks ready for another drink or anything?"

"Not for me," she said. "I have to stop and check Pop's mailbox and then go home and take care of my dogs. I've been working at the clinic all day."

The two men watched her go, lugging her oversized shoulderbag.

"Quite a gal," Gary said. "She has that tiny little voice, and you think she doesn't have much on the ball, but the thing of it is, she's a terrific racer, and she really knows dogs. I tried to date her when she came back from Alaska, but her old man didn't like my haircut. So what? I didn't like the dirt under his fingernails. Anyway, Nancy still had a thing for Dan Fincher. Women think he's the strong, silent type, but I think he's a klutz."

"Interesting if true," said Qwilleran, making light of the gossip. "What's the latest on the weather?"

"Heavy frost tonight. Snow on the way."

On the trip back to Pickax Qwilleran drove through farming country, where the bright headlights of tractors in the fields meant that farmers were working around the clock to beat the frost. He felt a twinge of remorse. If he had acted sooner, the Klingenschoen clout might have saved Gil Inchpot's crop.

He was carrying a sample of booze burger for the Siamese. "After my faux pas this morning," he told them, "I owe you one." Later, the three of them were in the library, reading Robinson Crusoe, when the sharp ring of the telephone made all of them jump. Qwilleran guessed it would be Junior, announcing that Jody had given birth; or it would be Polly, inquiring about the show in Brrr; or it would be Arch Riker, saying that Breze was suing the paper because the other candidates sounded better than he did.

"Hello?" he said, ready for anything.

"Mr. Qwilleran," said a breathless voice, "Gary gave me your number. I hope you don't mind."

"That's all right."

"I discovered something when I got to Pop's house, and I notified the police, but I wanted to tell you because you've been so kind and so interested."

"What was it, Nancy?"

"When I got to the farm, I cut my hand on the mailbox pretty bad, so I went indoors for some antiseptic and a bandage. And in a medicine cabinet I saw Pop's dentures in a glass of water. He would never leave home without his dentures!"

Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingertips as he thought of the partial denture in the desk drawer. He glanced at the Siamese. Yum Yum was pedicuring her left hind foot; Koko was sitting there looking wise.