“Dunna look for logic up here, laddie,” said Scottie, shaking his shaggy gray head.
“Did the fire marshal fly up to investigate the Picayune fire?”
“We needna call him unless it looks like arson, or somebody dies in the fire. And this one, it were accidental combustion caused by oily rags and solvents in the pressroom.”
“How can you tell when a fire has been set?”
“Are you plannin’ a little arson, laddie?”
“Not in the foreseeable future, Scottie.”
“Weel, if you do, avoid leavin’ a two-gallon jerry can on the premises, painted red and smellin’ like gasoline. And dunna throw the match too soon. The explosion can throw you out the door.”
“Can you tell when the fire starts with an explosion?”
“Aye. If the door is blown off the hinges—that’s one way. And if the walls are charred deep.”
Qwilleran finished his walk, stopping for a cup of coffee at a diner on N. North Street and the Sunday paper at a party store on S. West Street.
In the afternoon, as he was reading the Fluxion and counting typographical errors, the doorbell rang, and when he went to the front entrance he found an elderly face peering from the hood of a parka.
“Good afternoon,” said the caller in a cheerful high-pitched voice. “Do you have any mouseholes you want plugged?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mouseholes. I’m good at plugging mouseholes.”
Qwilleran was puzzled. Workmen always came to the service entrance; they never came on Sunday; and they were usually much younger.
“I was just taking my constitutional,” said the old man. “It’s a nice day for a walk. I’m Homer Tibbitt from the Old Timers Club.”
“Of course! I didn’t recognize you in the parka. Come in!”
“I saw your cat parading around with a mouse at the party, and I thought you might have some mouseholes you want plugged. I’d do it gratis.”
“Let me take your coat, and we’ll sit down and talk about it. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I’ll take some if it’s decaffeinated, and it won’t hurt if you put a drop of brandy in it to start the old furnace working again.”
They went into the library, Mr. Tibbitt walking vigorously with arms and legs flailing in awkward coordination. There was a fire in the grate, and he stood with his back to the warmth. “I’m used to old houses like this,” he said. “I was volunteer custodian at the Lockmaster Museum in the county below. Have you heard of it?”
“Can’t say that I have. I’m new up here.”
“It was a shipbuilder’s mansion—all wood construction—and I plugged fifty-seven mouseholes. In a stone house like this the mice have to be smarter, but we have smart mice in Pickax.”
“What brought you up here to the Snow Belt, Mr. Tibbitt?”
“I was born here, and the old homestead was standing empty. There was another reason, too; a retired English teacher down in Lockmaster was chasing me. They like retired principals. I was principal of Pickax Upper School when I retired. I’m ninety-three. I started teaching school seventy years ago.”
“You should have brought your English teacher to Pickax,” Qwilleran said. “I’ve never heard so many butchered verbs and pronouns.”
The principal gave an angular gesture of despair. “We’ve always tried our best, but there’s a saying up here—if you’ll pardon the grammar: Country folks is different, and Moose County folks is more different.”
Despite his creaking joints, the old man was enormously energetic, and Qwilleran said, “Retirement seems to agree with you, Mr. Tibbitt.”
“Keep busy! That’s the ticket! Now, if you want me to do a survey on the mousehole situation . . .”
Qwilleran hesitated. “We have a janitor, you know. . . .”
“I’ve known Pat O’Dell since he was in the first grade. He’s a good boy, but he hasn’t made a study of mouseholes.”
“Before we launch a campaign against mus musculus, Mr. Tibbitt, I’d like to get some of your recollections on tape for the oral history program—that is, if you would be willing.”
“Turn on the machine. Ask me some questions. Just give me another cup of coffee with a drop of brandy—make it two drops—and be sure it’s decaffeinated.”
The following interview with Homer Tibbitt was later transcribed:
Question: What can you tell us about the early schools in Moose County?
Beginning way back when my mother was a schoolmarm, they were built of logs—just one room with desks around the walls, hard benches with no backs, and a potbellied stove in the middle. And they were drafty! She taught in one school where the snow blew through the chinks, and there were rabbit tracks in the snow on the floor.
What was required of a teacher in those days?
My mother walked three miles to school and got there early enough to sweep the floor and start a wood fire in the stove. She taught eight grades in one room—without any textbooks! Her pay was a dollar a day plus free board and room with a farm family. Male teachers were paid two dollars.
How many students did she have in that one room?
Thirty or forty enrolled, but only half of them ever showed up for classes.
What subjects did she teach?
She was supposed to teach the three Rs, history, geography, grammar, penmanship, and orthography. She also organized games and special programs, and she was required to lecture on the evils of drink, tobacco, and tight corsets.
How about team sports? Was there athletic competition?
They played games at recess, and there was rivalry between schools, but it was over spelling matches, not football.
Had conditions improved when you started to teach?
We still had one-room schools, but they were well built, and we had textbooks. We still didn’t have indoor plumbing. . . . Could I bother you for another cup of coffee? My mouth gets dry.
Did you know any of the Goodwinters connected with the newspaper?
I retired before Junior was born, but I had his father in my classes. Senior was a quiet boy with a one-track mind. I grew up with Titus and Samson, and I knew the old man. When I was eleven years old I worked as a printer’s devil after school. Ephraim Goodwinter made plenty of money in mining, but he was greedy. Ever hear about the explosion that killed thirty-two men? The engineers had warned Ephraim, but he wouldn’t spend the money on safety measures. After the explosion he tried to make it right by donating a public library.
Is it true he hanged himself?
Aha! That’s one of Moose County’s dirty little secrets. The family said it was suicide, and the coroner said it was suicide, but everybody knew he was lynched, and everybody knew who was in the lynching party. The whole town turned out for his funeral. They wanted to be sure he didn’t come back, the saying was.
What happened to Titus and Samson?
There was a cock-and-bull story about Samson’s horse being frightened by a flock of blackbirds and that’s how he was killed. Then Titus was murdered by the Picayune wagon driver. Died with his derby hat on his head.
Who was the wagon driver?
Zack Whittlestaff. This county is full of curious names: Cuttlebrink, Dingleberry, Fitzbottom—almost Elizabethan. I used to have a Falstaff in one of my classes, and a Scroop. Straight out of Shakespeare, eh?
Would you say there was a vendetta against the Goodwinters?
Well, the relatives of the explosion victims hated Ephraim, you can be sure of that. Zack was one of them. He was a ruffian. No good in school. Married a Scroop girl. I had their two children in my classes. The girl got into trouble and drowned herself. Left a suicide note addressed to her cat—probably the only living being that loved the poor girl.
End of interview.
The recording session was interrupted by a phone call from Minneapolis. Harry Noyton was on his way. His chartered plane would arrive at the Pickax airport at five-thirty.
“How’s the wea
ther up there?” Noyton asked.
“No snow, but it’s cold. I hope you’re bringing warm clothing.”
“Hell, I don’t own any warm clothes. I grab a heated taxi when I want to go somewhere.”
“There are no taxis in Moose County,” Qwilleran said. “We’ll have to buy you some long johns and a hat with earflaps. Meet you at five-thirty.”
He allowed plenty of time for driving. Airport Road ran through deer country. At dusk they would be feeding and moving around. Gun hunters had been in the woods for three days, stirring them up and making them nervous. Qwilleran drove cautiously.
While waiting for the plane to land he had a few words with Charlie. “Do you think we’ll get any snow this winter?”
“It’s kinda late, but when it comes it’ll be the Big One.”
“I hear you’ve lost a good customer.”
“Who?”
“Senior Goodwinter.”
“Yeah. Too bad. He was a nice fellah. Killed himself with work. Most people are always taking off for Florida or Vegas or somewhere, but all he ever did was fly down to Minneapolis on business and come back the same day. That’s why I say he killed himself with work. Fell asleep at the wheel, most likely.”
When Noyton galumphed off the plane, he had a light raincoat flapping around his lanky figure, and he carried a traveling bag just large enough for a razor and an extra shirt. That was his style. He boasted he could fly around the world with a toothbrush and a credit card.
“Qwill, you old rooster! You look like a farmer with those boots and that hat!”
“And you look like a visitor from outer space,” Qwilleran said. “You’ll frighten the natives with that three-piece suit. First thing tomorrow we’ll take you to Scottie’s Men’s Shop and buy some camouflage. . . . Buckle up, Harry,” he added as he turned on the ignition in his small car.
“Hell, I never fastened a seat belt in my life, except on planes.”
Qwilleran turned off the ignition and folded his arms. “There are ten thousand deer in Moose County, Harry. This is the rutting season. At this time of evening all the bucks chase all the does back and forth across the highway. If we hit a buck, you’ll go through the windshield, so buckle up.”
“Jeez! The odds are better at the Beirut airport!”
“Last winter a buck chased a doe down Main Street in Pickax, and they both went through the plate-glass window of a furniture store. Landed in a water bed.”
Noyton fastened his seat belt and stared anxiously at the road for the next ten miles, while Qwilleran scanned the cornfields and thickets for movement.
“If we encounter a buck, Harry, do you want me to hit him broadside and risk having his hooves come through the windshield, or shall I try to avoid him and land upside down in a ditch?”
“Jeez! Do I have a choice?” said Noyton, gripping the dashboard with both hands.
When they reached the outskirts of Pickax, Qwilleran said, “Here’s the program. Tomorrow I turn you over to the mayor and the economic development people. He’ll put you in touch with the widow—and she’s a merry one, I might add. Tonight I’ll take you to dinner at the Old Stone Mill. After that there’s a bedroom suite awaiting you at the palace I inherited. You have your choice of Old English with side curtains on the bed, or Biedermeier with flowers painted on everything, or Empire with enough sphinxes and gryphons to give you nightmares.”
“To tell the truth, Qwill, I’d be a helluva lot more comfortable in a hotel. It gives me more flexibility. I had a meal in Minneapolis, and now I’d like to turn in. Any objection?”
“None at all. The New Pickax Hotel is centrally located near the city hall.”
“Building new hotels, are they?” Noyton said with obvious approval.
“The New Pickax Hotel was built in 1935 after the original hotel burned down. It has a part-time bellhop, color TV in the lobby, indoor plumbing, and locks on the doors.”
He dropped Noyton at the hotel entrance. “Call me tomorrow when you’re rested, and I’ll pick you up for breakfast. I want a private talk with you before turning you over to the mayor.”
At the end of the day Qwilleran and his two friends relaxed in the library for a while before lights-out. Yum Yum sat on his lap with her back in a convenient position for stroking, and Koko sat tall and alert on the desktop, awaiting conversation.
Qwilleran began in an even, conciliatory tone. “I don’t know’ what to say to you, Koko. You’re not usually destructive—unless you have a reason. Why did you ruin the herb garden?”
The cat squeezed his eyes and made a small sound without opening his mouth.
“It won’t do any good to act contrite. The damage is done. If you’re trying to alienate our splendid housekeeper, you’re cutting off your whiskers to spite your face. You won’t eat half so well when she’s married and living somewhere else.”
Koko hopped from the desk to the bookshelf and started pawing at the set of plays.
“No readings tonight. I’ve had a full day. But we’ll play Mr. Tibbitt’s tape and see how it sounds.”
The small portable recorder made the old man’s high-pitched voice even more nasal and shrill, and Koko shook his head and batted his ears with a paw.
There was the ring of a telephone bell on the tape, and the recording came to an abrupt end. Qwilleran stroked his moustache reflectively. “Ephraim was lynched,” he said aloud. “Titus was knifed. The other brother—Samson—was probably ambushed. And Senior was . . . what? Was his death an accident? Or was it suicide? Or was it murder?”
“Yow!” said Koko, and Qwilleran felt a significant twinge in the roots of his moustache.
Monday, November eighteenth. “An unexpected cold snap brought temperatures as low as five degrees in Pickax last night, six below in Brrr, but a warming trend is indicated with a few snow flurries this afternoon.”
Qwilleran snapped off his car radio with an impatient gesture. Despite the predictions, Moose County had yet to see even a light dusting of snow. He was driving to the New Pickax Hotel in the limousine that he had inherited from the Klingenschoen estate, the better to impress the visitor from Down Below.
When Noyton saw the long black vehicle, he said, “Jeez! Qwill, you’ve really got it made! How come? Did you marry oil? No one ever told me why you left the Fluxion. I thought you retired to write a book.”
“It’s a long story,” Qwilleran said. “First I want to show you where I live and treat you to one of my housekeeper’s memorable breakfasts.”
“You—with a housekeeper as well as a limo? I remember when you lived in a furnished room and rode the bus.”
“Actually I live over the garage, and I’m turning the house into a museum.”
In a state of wonder Noyton walked into the K mansion and said, “I know kings in Europe that don’t live this good. One thing I want to know: Why am I here? Why don’t you finance this newspaper yourself?”
It was a question that Qwilleran was tired of hearing. He explained his position. “I’m a writer, Harry, not an entrepreneur.” He related the history of the Picayune and reiterated the county’s crying need for a newspaper.
“Who’s going to run it?” was Noyton’s first question.
“Arch Riker has just left the Fluxion. He’s a great editor and knows the business inside out. Junior Goodwinter is the last of a long line of newspaper Goodwinters. He’s a trained journalist. His academic record is tops, and he has boundless energy and enthusiasm.”
“Sounds like my kind of joe. Who’s the widow?”
“Gritty Goodwinter . . .”
“I like her already!”
“She wants to sell the newspaper to a close personal friend who’ll only exploit the name of the hundred-year-old publication. Of course, you could forget the Picayune and start something called the Backwoods Gazette or the Moose Call, but the Picayune had a million dollars’ worth of publicity last week and is due for more in a national news magazine.”
“I got the picture,” Noyt
on said. “We’ll get the paper away from those bastards.”
“Mrs. Goodwinter also has a barnful of antique printing presses. You could start a newspaper museum.”
“I like it!” Noyton exclaimed. “What made you think of me, anyway?”
Qwilleran hesitated. They were eating breakfast, and Koko was under the table hoping someone would drop a strip of bacon. “Well, it’s like this: Your name just popped into my head.” How could he explain to a man like Noyton that the cat had drawn his attention to a certain book? No, it was too farfetched.
After breakfast the two men paid a visit to Scottie’s Men’s Shop. The proprietor burred his r’s and sold Noyton a raccoon car coat, an Aussie hat, and some tooled leather boots. For the rest of the day the big ungainly man with a craggy face was highly visible in Pickax.
He was seen leaving the hotel, entering the city hall, driving around with the mayor, lunching with influential men at the country club, walking out of the law office, walking into the bank, dining with the Goodwinter widow, and eating a twenty-ounce steak with two baked potatoes.
It was rumored that he was a Texan buying oil rights that would make Moose County farmers rich. Or he was a speculator promoting offshore drilling that would ruin the tourist industry. Or he was the advance man for a nuclear power plant that would leak radiation, contaminate the drinking water, and kill the fish. Or he was a Hollywood scout for a major movie to be made in Moose County. The rumors were reported by Mrs. Cobb, who had heard them from Mrs. Fulgrove, who had been told by Mr. O’Dell.
Meanwhile Qwilleran made a morning visit to the hospital to see the young newspaper editor who was known for his boundless energy and enthusiasm. Junior was slumped in a chair with his leg in a cast, his face unshaven, and his expression disgruntled. Jody was flitting about, trying to be cheerful and useful, but Junior was being stubbornly morose.
The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare Page 11
