The Cat Who Wasn't There

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “I thought her patients were deserting her.”

  “Most of Dr. Hal’s male patients transferred, but women are flocking to the clinic in droves.”

  The hot rolls came to the table, and Qwilleran applied his attention to enjoyment of the food, but his imagination was flirting with the idea of Melinda’s mistakes. Doctors are not always right, he told himself. She could have been wrong about Irma’s death. Wisely, he refrained from mentioning it to Polly.

  The house salad, served after the entrée, was a botanical cross section of Bibb lettuce surrounded by precise mounds of shredded radish, paper-thin carrot, and cubed tofu, drizzled with gingered rice wine vinaigrette dressing and finished with a veil of alfalfa sprouts and a sliver of Brie.

  “And for dessert tonight,” Trilby recited, “the chef has prepared a delicate terrine of three kinds of chocolate drenched in raspberry coulis.”

  “I’m fighting it,” Polly said wistfully.

  “I surrender,” said Qwilleran.

  After a demitasse that smelled like almonds and tasted like a hot fudge sundae, they drove back to Pickax in the comfortable silence of a pair of well-fed ruminants. Finally Qwilleran asked, “How was your dinner with the Hasselriches last night?”

  “Rather depressing. They’re going through a bad period.”

  “Do you know if . . . uh . . . Irma’s medical records were returned to them?”

  “I don’t know. Is that customary?”

  “I have no idea,” he said, “but one would think they might be turned over to the family by the attending physician.”

  “Why do you ask, Qwill?”

  “No particular reason. As a matter of curiosity, though, why don’t you ask your sister-in-law, discreetly, what happens to the records of a deceased patient?”

  “I suppose I could do that. I’ll see her at church tomorrow.” They had arrived at Polly’s carriage house. “Will you come up for a little reading?”

  “Is that all?” he asked. “I could use a large cup of real coffee.”

  He had brought Memoirs of an Eighteenth Century Footman for reading aloud. “It’s a true story,” he explained, “about the orphan of a Scottish gentleman, who became a veritable prince of servants, with gold lace on his livery and a silk bag on his hair.”

  With its Scottish background and unbowdlerized style, it proved to be more interesting than they expected, and it was late when Qwilleran returned to the barn.

  The Siamese were prancing in figure eights, demanding their overdue bedtime snack, and he gave them their crunchy treat before checking his answering machine. There was a message from Nick Bamba: “Got some good news for you. Call whenever you get in. We’ll be watching the late movie.”

  It was two o’clock when he called the Mooseville number. “Are you sure I’m not calling too late?” he asked.

  Lori assured him, “With all the commercials they throw in, the movie won’t be over till four. I’ll let you talk to Nick.”

  “Hey, Qwill!” said her husband. “I saw the maroon car again tonight!”

  “You did? Where was it?”

  “Parked on Main Street in Mooseville. He could have been in the Shipwreck Tavern or he could have been in the Northern Lights Hotel.”

  “More likely the tavern.”

  “And that’s not all. Lori went to a baby shower in Indian Village, and she saw the same car leaving the parking lot.”

  “What do you suppose he was doing among all those yuppies?”

  “I dunno. Maybe looking for a victim . . . Sorry, I shouldn’t kid about it.”

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do until he makes an overt move,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll tell you one thing: I’m not letting Polly go out alone after dark!”

  Nick had barely hung up when the phone rang again, and Qwilleran assumed he was calling back; no one else in Moose County would call at that hour. He picked up the receiver. “Yes, Nick.”

  “Nick? Who’s Nick?” asked a woman’s voice. “This is Melinda. Hi, lover!”

  Annoyed, he said stiffly, “Isn’t that epithet somewhat obsolete under present circumstances?”

  “Ooh! You’re in a beastly mood tonight! What can we do about that . . . huh?”

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “I’m expecting an important call.”

  “Are you trying to brush me off, lover? My feelings are hurt,” she said with coy petulance. “We used to be such good friends! Don’t you remember? We were really attracted to each other. I should have trapped you three years ago—”

  “Melinda,” he said firmly, “I’m sorry but I must hang up and take another urgent call.” And he hung up. To Koko—who was standing by as usual, with disapproval in his whiskers—he said, “That was your friend Melinda. She’s over the edge!”

  TWELVE

  IT WAS A peaceful Sunday morning. The church bells were ringing on Park Circle as Qwilleran walked downtown to pick up the out-of-town newspapers. At the apple barn, the Siamese huddled in a window to count the leaves that were beginning to fall from the trees. Their heads raised and lowered in unison, following the downward course of each individual leaf. In another week there would be too many to count, and they would lose interest.

  At noon, Polly phoned. “I forgot to tell you, Qwill. The Senior Care Facility is trying the Pets for Patients idea this afternoon. I’m taking Bootsie. Would you be willing to take Yum Yum?”

  “I’ll give it a try. What time?”

  “Two o’clock. Report to the main lobby.”

  “Did you speak to your sister-in-law, Polly?”

  “Yes. She said doctors usually keep the records of deceased patients for a few years—for their own protection in case of dispute.”

  “I see. Well, thank you. And thank her, also.”

  Shortly before two o’clock he brought the cat carrier out of the broom closet. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said to Yum Yum. “Come and have your horizon expanded.”

  Koko, usually ready for an adventure, jumped uninvited into the carrying coop, but Yum Yum promptly sped away—up the ramp, around the balcony, and up the next ramp with Qwilleran in pursuit. On the second balcony he was able to grab her, but she slithered from his grasp, leaving him down on all fours. She stopped and gazed at his predicament, but as soon as he scrambled to his feet, she raced to the third balcony. He lunged at her just as she started to crawl along a horizontal beam that was forty feet above the main floor. “Not this time, baby!” he scolded.

  It was no small endeavor to evict the stubborn male from the carrier with one hand and install the squirming, clutching, kicking female with the other, and they were the last to arrive at the Senior Care Facility. There was a high decibel level of vocal hubbub, barking, snarling, growling, and hissing in the lobby, which teemed with pet lovers, dogs on leashes, cats in carriers, and volunteers in yellow smocks, known as “canaries” at the facility. Lisa Compton was there with a clipboard, assigning pets to patients.

  Qwilleran asked her, “Are you the new chief of volunteers?”

  “I’ve applied for the job,” she said, “but today I’m just helping out. It’s our first go at this project, and there are some wrinkles to iron out. Next time we’ll stagger the visitors. Who’s your friend?”

  “Her name is Yum Yum.”

  “Is she gentle? We have an emphysema patient who’s requested a pet, and the doctor has okayed a cat, thinking a dog would be too frisky. Yum Yum seems quite relaxed.”

  Qwilleran peered into the carrier, where Yum Yum had struck the dead-cat pose she always assumed after losing an argument. “Yes, I’d say she’s quite relaxed.”

  Lisa beckoned to a canary. “Would you take Mr. Qwilleran and Yum Yum up to 15-C for Mr. Hornbuckle? The limit is twenty minutes.”

  In the elevator, the volunteer remarked, “This old gentleman was caretaker for Dr. Halifax on Goodwinter Boulevard until a couple of years ago. The doctor kept him on even though he couldn’t work much toward the end. Dr. Hal was a wonderful man.”


  The occupant of 15-C was sitting in a wheelchair when they entered—a small, weak figure literally plugged into the wall as he received a metered supply of oxygen through a long tube, but he was waiting eagerly with bright eyes and a toothy grin.

  The canary said loudly, “You have a visitor, Mr. Hornbuckle. Her name is Yum Yum.” To Qwilleran she said, “I’ll come back for you when the time’s up.”

  Yum Yum was relaxed to the consistency of jelly when Qwilleran lifted her from the carrier.

  “That’s a cat?” the old man said in a strange voice. The nasal prongs made his voice unnaturally resonant, and ill-fitting dentures gave his speech a juicy sibilance.

  “She’s a Siamese,” Qwilleran said, putting the limp bundle of fur on the patient’s lap blanket.

  “Purty kitty,” he said, stroking her with a quivering hand. “Soft, ain’t she? Blue eyes! Never seen one like this.” He spoke slowly in short sentences.

  Qwilleran made an attempt to entertain him with anecdotes about Siamese until he realized that the patient would rather talk than listen.

  “Growed up on a farm with animules,” he said. “Barn cats, hunt’n’ dogs, cows, chickens . . .”

  “I hear you used to work for Dr. Halifax.”

  “Fifty year, nigh onto. I were like family. Mighty fine man, he were. What’s your name?”

  “Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran.”

  “Been here long?”

  “Five years.”

  “Y’knowed Dr. Halifax? I were his caretaker. Lived over the garage. Drove ’im all over, makin’ calls. Many’s a time they’d call ’im middle o’ the night, and I drove ’im. Saved lives, we did. Plenty of ’em.”

  Yum Yum sat in a contented bundle on the blanketed lap, purring gently, her forepaws folded under her breast. Occasionally an ear flicked, tickled by a spray of saliva.

  “Sittin’ on her brisket, she is! She’s happy!” He had a happy grin of his own.

  Qwilleran said, “I know Dr. Halifax worked long hours, taking care of his patients. What did he do for relaxation? Did he have any hobbies, like fishing or golf?”

  The old man looked furtive as if about to reveal some unsavory secret. “Painted pitchers, he did. Di’n’t tell nobody.”

  “What kind of pictures?” Qwilleran asked, envisioning something anatomical.

  “Pitchers of animules. Thick paint, it were. Took a long time to dry.”

  “What did he do with them?” Melinda had never mentioned her father’s hobby; in fact, she had avoided talking about her family.

  “Put ’em away. Di’n’t give ’em to nobody. Warn’t good enough, he said.”

  “What did you think of them, Mr. Hornbuckle?”

  With a guilty grin he said, “Looked like pitchers in the funny papers.”

  “Where did he go to paint them?”

  “Upstairs, ’way in the back. Nobody went there, oney me. We got along good, him and me. Never thought he’d go first, like he did.”

  Yum Yum was stirring, and she stretched one foreleg to touch the oxygen tube.

  “No, no!” Qwilleran scolded, and she withdrew.

  “Minds purty good, don’t she?”

  “Mr. Hornbuckle, do you know that Dr. Hal’s daughter is a doctor now? She’s following in her father’s footsteps.”

  The old man nodded. “She were the smart one. Boy di’n’t turn out so good.”

  “In what way?” Qwilleran had a sympathetic way of asking prying questions and a sincerity that could draw out confidences.

  “He were into scrapes all the time. Police’d call, middle o’ the night, and I’d drive the doctor to the jail. It were too bad, his ma bein’ sick and all—always sick abed.”

  “What happened to the boy finally?”

  “Went away. Doctor sent ’im away. Paid ’im money reg’lar iffen he di’n’t come back.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “It were through a bank in Lockmaster. Drove down there reg’lar, I did. Took care of it for the doctor. Never told nobody.”

  Qwilleran asked, “Wasn’t the young man eventually killed in a car accident?”

  “That he were! Broke the doctor’s heart. Di’n’t make no difference he were a rotten apple; he were his oney son . . . Funny thing, though . . .”

  “Yes?” Qwilleran said encouragingly.

  “After the boy died, the doctor kep’ sendin’ me to the bank, reg’lar, once a month.”

  “Did he explain?”

  “Nope.”

  “Didn’t you wonder about it?”

  “Nope. ’Twarn’t none o’ my business.”

  There was a knock on the door at that moment, and the canary entered. “Time for Yum Yum to go home, Mr. Hornbuckle. Say goodbye to your visitors.”

  As Qwilleran lifted the cat gently from the lap blanket, she uttered a loud, indignant “N-n-now!”

  “Likes me, don’t she?” said the old man, showing his unnatural dentures. “Bring ’er ag’in. Don’t wait too long!” he said with a cackling laugh. “Mightn’t be here!”

  Downstairs in the lobby, Lisa asked for comments to chart on her clipboard.

  “A good time was had by all,” Qwilleran reported. “Yum Yum cuddled and purred, or croodled, as they say in Scotland. Is Polly Duncan here?”

  “No, she and Bootsie came early. They’ve gone home.”

  Arriving at the barn, Qwilleran released Yum Yum from the carrier, and she strolled around the main floor like a prima donna, while Koko tagged after her, sniffing with disapproval. He knew she had been to some kind of medical facility.

  Later, Qwilleran phoned Polly and asked, “How did the macho behemoth perform this afternoon?”

  “The visit wasn’t too successful, I’m afraid. We were assigned to an elderly farm woman who had lost her sight, and she complained that Bootsie didn’t feel like a cat. Too sleek and silky, I imagine. She was used to barn cats.”

  “We had an emphysema patient, and I thought Yum Yum might turn into a fur tornado when she saw the oxygen equipment, but she played her role beautifully. She croodled. She’s a professional croodler.”

  “Cats know when someone needs comforting,” Polly said. “When Edgar Allan Poe’s wife was dying in a poor cottage without heat or blankets, her only sources of warmth were her husband’s overcoat and a large tortoiseshell cat.”

  “A touching story, if true,” Qwilleran commented.

  “I’ve read it in several books. Most cats are lovable.”

  “Or loosome, as the Scots say. By the way, I promised Mildred we’d tell her all about Scotland. How will it be if we take her to dinner at Linguini’s next Sunday? We’ll invite Arch Riker, too.”

  Polly thought it would be a nice idea. Actually, the following Sunday was her birthday, but he pretended not to know, and she pretended not to know that he knew.

  The next morning he walked downtown to buy her a birthday gift, but first he had to hand in his copy at the newspaper. In the city room he picked up a Monday edition and read his Bonnie Scots cutlines to see if anyone had tampered with his carefully worded prose. Then he read the large ad on page three:

  TAG SALE

  Estate of Dr. Halifax Goodwinter

  At the residence, 180 Goodwinter Boulevard

  Sale: Saturday, 8 A.M. to 6 P.M.

  Preview: Friday, 9 A.M. to 4 P.M.

  Furniture, antiques, art, household equipment, books, clothing, jewelry, linens, china, silver, crystal, personal effects. All items tagged. All prices firm. All sales final. No deliveries. Dealers welcome. Curb parking permitted.

  Managed by:

  Foxy Fred’s Bid-a-Bit Auctions

  “Did you see the ad for the Goodwinter sale?” Carol Lanspeak asked him when he went to the Lanspeak Department Store to buy a gift. “Melinda hasn’t said a word to the Historical Society. One would think she’d give the museum first choice—or even donate certain items.”

  “I suppose she has a lot on her mind,” Qwilleran said. “How’s her Lady Macbe
th progressing?”

  Carol, who had been arranging a scarf display in the women’s department, steered him away from the hovering staff who were eager to wait on Mr. Q. He was a regular customer, and they all knew that Polly wore size 16, liked blue and gray, preferred silver jewelry, and avoided anything that required ironing.

  Before answering his question, Carol said, “This is off the record, I hope.”

  “Always.”

  “Well, Larry finds her very hard to work with. She never looks at him when they’re acting together, and there’s nothing worse! She acts for herself and doesn’t give him anything to play against. Very bad!”

  “Is Dwight aware of this?”

  “Yes, he’s given her notes several times. Granted we have another ten days to rehearse, but . . . I don’t know about Melinda. Did you hear that she lost another patient? Wally Toddwhistle’s grandmother. Perhaps you saw the obituary.”

  “What can you expect, Carol? She inherited all of Dr. Hal’s octogenarian and nonagenarian patients with one foot in the grave.”

  “Well . . .” Carol said uncertainly, “our daughter got her M.D. in June and is interning in Chicago. Melinda wants her to come back and join the clinic. Naturally, Larry and I would love to have her living here rather than Down Below, but we’re not sure it’s the wise thing to do, considering . . .” She shrugged. “What do you think?”

  “What does your daughter think?”

  “She wants to stay in Chicago.”

  “Then let her stay there. It’s her decision. Don’t interfere.”

  “I guess you’re right, Qwill,” Carol admitted. “Now what can we do for you?”

  “I need a birthday gift for Polly. Any ideas?”

  “How about a lovely gown and robe set?” She showed him a blue one in size 16.

  “Fine! Wrap it up,” he said. “Nothing fancy, please.” He was a brisk shopper.

  “White box with blue ribbon?”

  “That’ll do . . . Now, what do I need to know about the box office job tomorrow?”

  “Just report a few minutes early,” Carol said. “I’ll meet you there and explain the system.”

  At one-thirty the next day, Qwilleran said to the Siamese, “Well, here goes! Let’s hope I don’t sell the same seat twice.” He had sold baseball programs at Comiskey Park and ties at Macy’s, but he had never sold tickets in a box office. He walked to the theatre, through the woods and across the parking lot, where there appeared to be an unusual profusion of cars for a Tuesday afternoon. In the lobby, the ticket purchasers were milling about as if it were opening night.