The Cat Who Went Into the Closet

-9-

THERE WAS HEAVY frost in Moose County that night. The tumble-down hamlet of Wildcat, the quaint resort town of Mooseville, the affluent estates of West Middle Hummock, the condominiums in Indian Village, the vacation homes in Purple Point, the stone canyons of downtown Pickax, the mansions of Goodwinter Boulevard, the abandoned mineshafts, the airport... all looked mystically hoary in the first morning light.

Qwilleran felt moody as he drank his morning coffee. There was the usual letdown after the excitement and; challenge of doing a show, plus a gnawing regret about the Inchpot crop. Hundreds of acres of potatoes had been lost - after being scientifically planted, fertilized, weeded, sprayed, and prayed over. And now, after hearing Nancy's grim news about the dentures, Qwilleran felt real concern about Gil Inchpot himself.

He was somewhat gladdened, therefore, when Lori Bamba called to ask if her husband could deliver some letters and checks for signing. Nick Bamba was an engineer at the state prison; he shared Qwilleran's interest in crime and the mystery that often surrounds it. Whenever Qwilleran mentioned his suspicions and hunches to his friends, Polly remonstrated and Riker taunted him, but Nick always took him seriously.

He was a young man with alert black eyes that observed everything. "Someone ran a truck over your curb," he said upon arrival.

"Those blasted leaf blowers! They're a slap-happy crew!" Qwilleran complained. "Did you vote this morning?"

"I was first in line. There was a good turnout in Mooseville because of the millage issue. The voters don't get excited about the candidates; one's no better than another. But propose increased millage, and they're all at the polls to vote no. Why don't you run for county office, Qwill? You could make waves."

"I'd rather see Koko's name on the ballot... Will you have coffee or hot cider?"

"I'll try the cider." Nick handed over a folder of correspondence. "Lori says you're getting a lot of fan mail since your 'Big Burning' preview. The Mooseville Chamber of Commerce wants to book the show after the holidays."

"I trust the members are all over eight years old," Qwilleran said testily.

They carried their cider mugs into the library, and Nick remarked, "I see you've got an elevator. Does it work?"

"Definitely. We used it at the preview of our show. Adam Dingleberry was here in his wheelchair."

At that point Koko walked into the library with deliberate step and rose on his hind legs to rattle the closet doorknob.

"What's old slyboots got on his mind?" Nick asked.

"This is the only closet in the house that's locked, and it drives him bughouse," Qwilleran said. "All the closets are filled with junk, and Koko spends his spare time digging for buried treasure."

"Has he found any gold coins or diamond rings?"

"Not as yet. Mostly stale cigars and old shoelaces."

"Want me to pick the lock for you? I'll bring my tools next time I'm in town."

"Sure. I'm curious about this closet myself."

"I suppose you heard on the radio about the missing potato farmer, Gil Inchpot. Police are investigating his disappearance ten days ago."

"I heard something about it," Qwilleran mentioned.

"He's quite a successful farmer, you know. I never met the guy, but his daughter was married to a deputy sheriff I know, Dan Fincher. It didn't last long; her father broke it up."

"Why? Do you know?"

Nick shrugged. "Dan isn't very big on particulars. I know that Gil Inchpot is well liked at the Crossroads Tavern and at the farm co-op, but Dan says he's a bully at home."

Qwilleran reached for Nick's cider mug. "Fill 'er up?"

"No, thanks. I've got errands to do - prison business."

"Do you like apples at your house? I've got some you can take home to the kids."

Nick left, carrying a brown paper bag, and after Qwilleran had signed his letters and checks, he took another sackful to the newspaper office.

"I'll trade these for a cup of coffee," he told Junior.

"How's everything going?"

"Jack and Pug have arrived. They're staying at the New Pickax Hotel. Jody doesn't feel like having

company."

"That's wise. Will she come to dinner tomorrow night? Polly is joining us."

"Why don't you make the reservation for six?" said the expectant father, "and we'll see how she feels."

"When is the will being read?"

"Ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Keep your fingers crossed."

While the will was being read in Pender Wilmot's office, Qwilleran was at home, eating an apple and estimating the extent of Euphonia Gage's estate. No doubt she had cashed in heavily when she liquidated her jewels, real estate, fine paintings, and family heirlooms. No doubt her late husband, being financially savvy and not entirely honest, had left her some blue-chip securities. Her recent economies, such as living in a mobile home and wearing seashell jewelry, were no more peculiar than his own preference for driving a used car and pumping his own gas. And, nearing the end of her life, she may have been moved by a nobly generous impulse to provide handsomely for her six great-grandchildren and the one yet unborn.

That evening, his guests were late in arriving at the Old Stone Mill. He and Polly sat waiting and talking about the election results. As everyone expected, Gregory Blythe had been re-elected. He was an investment counselor, a good administrator, and a former high school principal with Goodwinter blood on his mother's side. The public had forgotten the scandal that ousted him from the education system in Pickax, and he was always sober when he conducted city council meetings.

After half an hour Polly asked, "What do you suppose has happened to them? Junior is always so punctual. Perhaps he's taken Jody to the hospital."

"I'll phone their house," Qwilleran said.

To his surprise, Jody answered. "He left about half an hour ago to pick up Pug and Jack," she said. "I decided not to go. I hope you don't mind." She sounded depressed.

"Do you feel all right, Jody?"

"Oh, yes, I'm all right, considering..."

When the hostess conducted the tardy guests to the table, Qwilleran rose to greet three unhappy faces: Pug as distraught as a Montana rancher who has had to shoot her favorite horse; Jack as glum as a California advertising executive who has lost his major client; Junior as indignant as an editor who is being sued for libel.

Introductions were made, chairs were pulled out, napkins were unfolded, and Polly tried to make polite conversation: "Are you comfortable at the hotel?... How do you like Montana?... Have you adjusted to sunny California?" Her efforts failed to elevate the mood.

"What would you like to drink?" Qwilleran asked. "Champagne? A cocktail? Pug, what is your choice?"

"Bourbon and water," she said, pouting.

"Scotch margarita," said Jack grimly.

"Rye on the rocks," said Junior, fidgeting in his chair.

While they were waiting to be served, Qwilleran talked about the weather for five minutes: the weather last month, the outlook for the rest of this month, the prediction for next month... all of this to fill the void until

the drinks arrived. Then he raised his glass. "Would anyone like to propose a toast?"

"To bad news!" Junior blurted.

"To a royal rip-off" said Jack.

"Oh, dear," Polly murmured.

"Sorry to hear that," Qwilleran said.

Scowling, Jack said, "Pug and I flew thousands of miles just to be told that she left us a hundred dollars apiece! I'm damned mad! She was a spiteful old woman!"

"Surprising!" Qwilleran turned to Junior for corroboration.

"Same here," said the younger brother, "only I didn't have to cross the continent to get the shaft."

"I had the impression," Qwilleran remarked, "that your grandmother was a generous person."

"Sure," said Pug. "She put us all through college, but there were strings attached. We didn't know it gave her the privilege to direct our lives, dictate our careers, choose our hobbies, approve our marriages! She was furious when Jack went to the coast and I married a rancher. For a wedding present she sent us a wooden nutcracker."

Polly asked, "Can anyone explain the reason for her attitude?"

"If you're looking for excuses, I can't think of any." Junior said, "Here's a typical example of her thoughtlessness. Her ancestors were pioneer doctors here, and she inherited a beautiful black walnut box of surgical knives and saws and other instruments, all pre-Civil War. Why didn't she give them to the Museum of Local History, where they'd mean something? Instead she sold them with everything else."

"She was a selfish egocentric, that's all," said Jack.

"How about your grandfather?" Qwilleran asked. "What was he like?"

"Kind of jolly, although he wasn't around much."

"Our paternal grandmother was different," said Pug. "She wasn't rich, but she was warm and cuddly and loving."

"And she made the best fudge!" Jack added.

There was a nostalgic silence at the table until Qwilleran cleared his throat preparatory to introducing a sensitive subject. "If you're all left out of the will, who are the beneficiaries?"

The three young people looked at each other, and Junior said bitterly, "The Park of Pink Sunsets! They get everything - to build, equip, and maintain a health spa for the residents. She revised her will after she got to Florida."

Polly said, "It's not unusual for the elderly to forget family and friends and leave everything to strangers they meet in their final days. That's why wills are so often contested."

"Well, if it's any consolation," Qwilleran said in an effort to brighten the occasion, "Junior owns the contents of the locked closet in the library, which may be full of Grandpa Gage's gold coins and Grandma Gage's jewelry."

No one was amused, and Junior replied, "There's nothing in that closet but her private papers, and I'm instructed to burn them."

Then Jack said, "If anyone thinks we're sticking around for the memorial service tomorrow night, they can stuff it! We've changed our flight reservations."

"That hotel," Pug said, "is the worst I've ever experienced! I can't wait to get out of this tank town!"

Qwilleran said, "I think we should all have another drink and order dinner." He signaled for service.

"I second the motion," Junior said. "Enough gnashing of teeth! Let's enjoy our food, at least... How are your cats, Qwill?" To his sister and brother he explained, "Qwill has a couple of Siamese."

Polly said, "Qwill, dear, tell them about Koko and the cleaning closet."

He hesitated, trying to recollect the incident in all of its absurdity. "Well, you see, where I live in the summer, there's a closet for Mrs. Fulgrove's prodigious collection of waxes, polishes, detergents, spray bottles, and squirt cans."

"Is that woman still cleaning houses?" Pug asked. "I thought she'd be dead by now."

"She's still cleaning and still complaining about cat-hairs. I always leave the house to avoid her harangues. One day I came home after the dear lady had left and found the male cat missing! But the female was huddled in front of the cleaning closet, staring at the door handle. I yanked open the door, and out billowed a white cloud. It filled almost the whole closet, obliterating shelves, cans, and bottles. And above it all was Koko, sitting on the top shelf, looking nonchalant. Mrs. Fulgrove had accidentally shut him in the closet, and he had accidentally activated the can of foam carpet cleaner."

"Or purposely," Junior added. "I reported the story in my column, and the manufacturer sent me enough foam cleaner to do all the rugs in Moose County."

After that interlude, everyone was somewhat relaxed though not really happy, and Qwilleran was relieved when the meal came to an end. As the party was leaving, Junior handed him an envelope.

"Forgot to give you this, Qwill. It came to the office today, addressed to you."

It was a pink envelope with a Florida postmark and the official logo of the Park of Pink Sunsets. He slid it into his pocket.

On the way home to Goodwinter Boulevard, Qwilleran said to Polly, "Well, the mood at our table was not very favorable for the consumption of food. I apologize for involving you."

"It could hardly be called your fault, Qwill. How were you to know? The entire situation is regrettable."

"I don't suppose you want to attend the memorial service tomorrow night."

"I wouldn't miss it!" Polly's tone was more bitter than sweet.

Qwilleran dropped her off at her carriage house, saying he would pick her up the next evening. He was in a hurry to open the letter from Florida.

Sitting at his desk he slit the pink envelope - a chunky one with double postage - and out fell some snapshots as well as a note. Celia had remembered how to spell his name; that was in her favor.

Dear Mr. Qwilleran,

I enjoyed talking to you on the phone. Here are the snaps of Mrs. Gage with some other people from the park. We were on a bus trip. I'm the giddy-looking one in Mickey Mouse ears. That's Mr. Crocus with Mrs. Gage and a stone lion. Hope you can use some of these with the article you're writing.

Yours very truly,

Celia Robinson

Spreading the snapshots on the desk, Qwilleran found the diminutive Euphonia neatly dressed in a lavender pantsuit and wide-brimmed hat, while her companions sported T-shirts with the Pink Sunset logo splashed across the front. Also conservatively dressed in tropical whites was an old man with a shock of white hair; he and the stone lion could have passed for brothers. The Siamese, always interested in something new, were on the desktop, sitting comfortably on their briskets and idly observing. Then, apparently without provocation, Koko rose to his feet with a guttural monosyllable and sniffed the pictures. There was something about the glossy surface of photographs that always attracted him. Studiously he passed his nose over every one of the Florida pictures and flicked his tongue at a couple of them.

"No!" Qwilleran said sharply, worrying about the chemicals used in processing.

"Yow!" Koko retorted in a scolding tone of his own and then left the room. Yum Yum trailed after him without so much as a backward look at the man whose lap she so frequently commandeered.

An uneasy feeling crept across Qwilleran's upper lip, and he patted his moustache as he examined the snapshots the cat had licked. Sandpaper tongue and potent saliva had left rough spots on the surface. In both of them Euphonia looked happy and pert, posed with a yellow sports car in one shot and with the Pink Sunset tour bus in the other. More important than the damage, however, was the realization that two of her companions looked vaguely familiar. He had no idea who they were or where he had met them or under what circumstances.