“You idiot!” Qwilleran greeted the patient. “If you’re going to break a leg, why not pick a more comfortable place?”
Jody said, “He caught a bad cold in the woods, but it didn’t go into pneumonia. He wants to stay in the hospital until his beard grows.”
“Nowhere else to go,” Junior said hopelessly. “The farmhouse is sold. The furniture is being auctioned off Wednesday. I can’t stay with Jody; all she’s got is a studio apartment.”
“We have some spare beds you’re welcome to use,” Qwilleran said.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Well, wipe that bleak look off your face. I have some good news. An acquaintance of mine from Down Below wants to buy a newspaper. He’s prepared to offer your mother three times what XYZ has offered, and he’ll sink a bundle into a new printing plant.”
Junior looked wary. “Is he crazy?”
“Crazy and loaded. He owns office buildings, hotels, ball clubs, a chain of restaurants, and a couple of breweries in the U.S. and abroad, and he likes the idea of owning a newspaper. He might get into magazines later on.”
“I don’t believe it. I’m hallucinating. Or you’re hallucinating.”
Jody cried, “Oh, Juney! Isn’t that fabulous?”
Qwilleran went on. “Noyton is here now. The city fathers are gung ho. The plan is for Arch Riker to be the publisher, and you’ll be managing editor of a real newspaper. I know some young journalists Down Below who are disenchanted with the city, and they’ll find this a good place to raise a family. They won’t earn as much as they did Down Below, but it costs less to live up here. Who knows? We might get Noyton to finance a decent airport and buy an airline. We’ll have to monitor his enthusiasm, though, or he’ll build a fifty-story hotel in the middle of a cornfield.”
Junior was speechless.
“Oh, Juney,” his little friend kept squealing, “say something.”
“Are you sure it’s going through?”
“Noyton never backs down.”
“But my mother has this . . . close connection with Exbridge.”
“Connection! She’s having an affair with Exbridge, and you know it. But if she’s as hungry as it appears, she’ll forget about XYZ and go for the larger fish. Not only will Noyton jingle hard cash in her ears; he’ll turn on the charm. Women like him.”
“Is he married?” asked Jody.
“Not at the moment, but he’s too old for you, Jody.”
She giggled.
“He’s interested in buying the old presses in the barn also, to start a newspaper museum. Your father would be pleased, Junior.”
“Oh, wow!”
“Jody,” said Qwilleran, “would you get us some coffee from the cafeteria? And some of those oatmeal cookies made out of cardboard and sawdust?” He handed her a bill and waited for her to disappear. “Before she returns, Junior, answer a few questions, will you? Do you think your father’s accident might have been suicide?”
Junior stared. “I don’t think—he’d do—anything like that?”
“He had bankrupted the family. Your mother was having an affair. And there might be another reason.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember that stranger in a black raincoat who came up here on the plane? You thought he was a traveling salesman. I think he was an investigator of some kind. If your father was involved in anything shady, he might have known the man was coming. . . .”
“My dad wouldn’t do anything illegal,” Junior protested. “He didn’t have that kind of mind.”
“Next question: Could it have been murder?”
“WHAT!” Junior almost jumped out of his cast. “Why would . . . who would . . .?”
“Skip that one. What was in the metal box you tried to save after the fire?”
“I don’t know. Dad was very secretive about it, but I knew it was important.”
“How big was it?”
Junior sneezed and reached for a tissue. “About as big as a tissue box.”
“I hear Jody coming. Tell me this: Why was your father making frequent one-day trips to Minneapolis?”
“He never told me.” Junior’s face turned red. “But I know he wasn’t getting along with my mother.”
Jody returned with the coffee. “No oatmeal cookies left, so I brought molasses.”
“They taste like burnt tires,” Junior said after a couple of nibbles. “How was the turnout at the preview, Qwill?”
“Full house! I’ve started interviewing the Old Timers and taping oral histories. Got any suggestions? I’ve got your grandmother and Homer Tibbitt on tape.”
“Mrs. Woolsmith,” Jody said in a small voice. “She’d be a good one.”
Junior scratched his emerging beard. “You should be able to find some who remember the mines and the pioneer farms and the fishing industry before powerboats.”
“Mrs. Woolsmith lived on a farm,” Jody said softly.
“I need a subject with a reliable memory,” Qwilleran said.
“You’ll still have to drag it out of them,” Junior warned him. “The Old Timers like to talk about their blood pressure and their dentures and their great-grandchildren.”
Jody said, “Mrs. Woolsmith has almost all her own teeth.”
“Well, give it some thought,” Qwilleran said to Junior. “There’s no hurry.”
“Wait a minute! I’ve got it! There’s a woman in the senior care facility,” Junior suddenly recalled. “She’s over ninety, but she’s sharp, and she spent all her life on a farm. Her name is Woolsmith. Sarah Woolsmith.”
Jody picked up her coat and shoulder bag and walked quietly from the room.
“Hey, where’s she going?” Junior yelled.
Following his session at the hospital, Qwilleran went to lunch at Stephanie’s, wondering about Senior’s metal box and his frequent trips to Minneapolis. Junior’s red-faced embarrassment meant that he knew or suspected the reason. Young people who are quite casual in their own relationships can be strangely embarrassed by the sexual adventures of their elders. As he was musing about this curious reaction, he heard a familiar voice at the table behind him.
A man was ordering a roast beef sandwich with mustard and horseradish. “Trim the fat, please. And bring a tossed salad with Roquefort dressing and no cucumber or green pepper.”
The voice had a clipped twang that Qwilleran had heard before. He rose and walked in the direction of the men’s room, glancing at his neighbor as he passed. It was the so-called historian he had confronted in the library. The man had exchanged his buttoned-down image for more casual attire—less conspicuous in Moose County—but there was no doubt about his identity. He was the stranger whose previous visit had coincided with Senior’s fatal accident—or suicide—or murder.
Qwilleran spent the rest of his lunch hour sifting the possibilities. He composed scenarios involving the metal box . . . adultery . . . gambling . . . the drug connection . . . espionage. In none of them did the mild-mannered typesetter seem to fit.
Tuesday, November nineteenth. “Warmer today, with highs in the upper twenties. Some chance of snow this afternoon, with blizzard conditions developing Wednesday. Currently our temperature is nineteen.”
“That’s terrible!” Mrs. Cobb said. “Tomorrow’s the auction, and it’s way out in the country. They say the hotel’s already full of out-of-town dealers. They came for the preview this afternoon.”
“Don’t worry. If they predict a blizzard, it’ll be a nice day,” Qwilleran said with the cynicism of a Moose County weather nut. “How will they handle an auction in a house like that? It’s nothing but a series of small rooms.”
“The actual auction will probably be in the barn. The posters and radio announcements said to dress warm. Foxy Fred is handling it, so everything will be done right. I’m going to the preview this afternoon to pick up a catalogue. What time is Miss Rice coming? The cats are hungry.”
At Hixie’s suggestion the Siamese had been
given only a teaspoonful of food for breakfast—only enough to keep them from chewing ankles. The idea was that Koko should be ravenously hungry for this screen test, and Yum Yum had to suffer with him. They yowled constantly while Qwilleran ate his eggs Benedict. They paced the floor, got underfoot, and screeched when a foot accidentally came down upon a tail.
Koko evidently knew that Hixie was responsible for this outrage. Upon her arrival he greeted her with a button-eyed glare and a switching tail.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Koko,” she said. He turned and walked stiff-legged into the laundry room, where he scratched the gravel in his commode.
“Here’s my scenario,” she explained to Qwilleran. “We start with a shot of the front door, which denotes elegance and wealth at a glance. Then we enter the foyer, and the camera pans from the French furniture to the grand staircase to the crystal chandelier.”
“It sounds like prime-time soap opera.”
“Next we zoom to the top of the staircase, where Koko is sitting, looking bored.”
“Who’s going to direct this?” Qwilleran wanted to know.
Hixie ignored the question. “Then the butler announces in a starchy voice that pork liver cupcakes are served. That’s voice-over. You can do the voice-over, Qwill. Immediately Koko runs downstairs, flowing in that liquid way he has, and the camera follows him into the dining room.”
“Dining room?” Qwilleran muttered doubtfully. The Siamese were accustomed to meals in the kitchen and were reluctant to eat in the wrong location.
Hixie went on with her usual confidence. “Quick shot of the twenty-foot dining table with three-foot silver candelabra and a single elegant porcelain plate. We can use one of the Klingenschoen service plates with the blue border and gold crest and K monogram. . . . Then . . . cut to Koko devouring the pork liver cupcakes avidly. We may need to do several takes, so be prepared to grab him, Qwill. The trick is to avoid rear-end shots.”
“That won’t be easy. Cats are fond of mooning.”
“Okay, you put him on the top stair.”
Koko had been listening with an expression that could be described only as sour. When Qwilleran stooped to pick him up, he slipped from his grasp like a wet bar of soap, streaked down the foyer in a blur of movement, and sprang to the top of the Pennsylvania schrank. From this seven-foot perch he gazed down at his pursuers defiantly. He was sitting dangerously close to a large, rare majolica vase.
“I don’t dare climb up and grab him,” Qwilleran said. “He’s taken a hostage. He probably knows it’s worth ten thousand dollars.”
“I didn’t know he was so temperamental,” Hixie said.
“Let’s have a cup of coffee in the kitchen and see what happens when we ignore him. Siamese hate to be ignored.”
In a few minutes Koko joined them, sauntering into the room with a swaggering show of nonchalance. He sat on his haunches like a kangaroo and innocently licked a small patch of fur on his underside. When this chore was finished he allowed himself to be carried to the top of the staircase.
Hixie directed from below. “Arrange him in a compact bundle on the top step, Qwill, facing the camera.”
He lowered the cat gently to the carpeted stair, but Koko stiffened his body. His back humped, his tail curled into a corkscrew, and all four legs looked out-of-joint.
“Try it again,” Hixie called up to them. “Tuck his legs under his body.”
“You come up and tuck his legs under his body,” Qwilleran said, “and I’ll go down and take the pictures. Your scenario is good, Hixie, but it won’t play.”
“Well, bring him down, and we’ll do a close-up with the catfood to see how he looks on camera.”
Qwilleran lugged Koko into the dining room. By now the cat was a squirming, protesting, nasty, snarling bundle of flying fur.
“Ready, Mrs. Cobb!” Hixie shouted toward the kitchen.
The housekeeper, who was standing by as prop-person, trotted from the kitchen carrying a plate heaped with gray pork paste. “Is this going to be in color?” she asked.
Carefully Qwilleran placed Koko in front of the plate—profile to the camera—while Hixie moved in with her telephoto lens. Koko looked down at the gray blob, with his ears and whiskers swept backward in loathing. He picked up one fastidious paw and shook it in distaste. Then he shook the other paw and slowly walked away, switching his tail.
Qwilleran said, “If you ever need a picture of a cat slowly walking away, Koko is your subject.”
“It was all new and strange to him,” said Hixie, undaunted. “We’ll try it another day.”
“I’m afraid Koko will always be his own cat. He cares nothing for fame and fortune and media exposure. The word cooperation has never been in his vocabulary. Whenever I try to take a snapshot, he rolls over on his haunches, points one leg to heaven in a pornographic pose, and licks his intimate parts. . . . Let’s go and finish our coffee.”
Mrs. Cobb had a fresh pot waiting for them, and she served it in the library with a few of her apricot-almond crescents.
“What’s new in the restaurant business?” Qwilleran asked Hixie.
“Not much. We’ve just hired a busboy named Derek Cuttlebrink. I love funny names. In school I knew a Betty Schipps, who married a man named Fisch, and they opened a seafood restaurant. Do you ever browse through the Moose County phone book? It’s a panic! Fugtree, Mayfus, Inchpot, Hackpole . . .”
“I know Hackpole,” said Qwilleran. “He’s in used cars and auto repair.”
“Then let me tell you something amusing. When I first took this job I was trying to be ever so charming, remembering faces and greeting customers by name. I’d taken a course to improve my memory, and I was using the association technique. One day Mr. Hackpole came in with some frumpy woman that he was trying to impress, and I called him Mr. Chopstick. He didn’t like it one bit.”
“He has no sense of humor,” Qwilleran said, lowering his voice, “and that ‘frumpy woman’ happens to be Mrs. Cobb, the housekeeper of my choice, whose apricot-almond crescents you’re wolfing down.”
“I’m sorry, but you have to admit she’s frumpy,” Hixie whispered.
“Not any frumpier than a certain advertising woman I used to know Down Below.”
“Touché,” she said. “Why don’t you come to the Mill for lunch today?”
“What’s the special?”
“Chili. Bring your own fire extinguisher.”
Shortly before noon Qwilleran had another visitor. Nick Bamba, husband of his part-time secretary in Mooseville, dropped off a batch of letters to be signed. Nick was greeted effusively by two sniffing Siamese, who seemed to know that he shared living quarters with three cats and a person whose long braids were tied with dangling ribbons. The two men went into the library followed by two vertical brown tails, stiff with importance.
“Time for a drink?” Qwilleran asked. He welcomed the visits of the sharp-eyed young engineer who worked at the state prison and shared his interest in crime. “How’s everything at the incarceration facility?”
“Quiet enough to have me worried,” Nick said. “Make it bourbon. How do you like this weather?”
“It reached six below in Brrr the other night.”
“Windchill factor was thirty-five below.”
“How’s the baby?” Qwilleran could never remember the name or sex of the Bamba offspring.
“He’s fine. He’s a good baby, and healthy, thank God!”
“That’s good to know. Did you take Snuffles to the vet?”
“He says it’s some kind of dermatitis that affects spayed cats. She’s taking hormones now.”
“I appreciated your report on the trespasser, Nick. I notified the sheriff as you suggested.”
“I see you’ve got your property posted now.”
“Mr. O’Dell hurried up there and covered all the bases: no trespassing, no hunting, no camping.”
“He’s a terrific guy,” Nick said. “When I was in high school he bailed me out of some hairy scrapes.”<
br />
“Anything new in Mooseville?”
“There’s never anything new in Mooseville. But . . . you know that camper I spotted on your property last week? It was unusual for this area—sort of citified. Three shades of brown. Custom job. Since then I’ve seen it several times in the parking lot at the Old Stone Mill, back near the kitchen door. Just for the hell of it, I did a rundown on the plates. It’s registered to someone-by the name of Hixie Rice.”
After Nick had left, Qwilleran reflected that Hixie was hardly the outdoor type; he had never seen her in heels lower than three inches.
He went to lunch early and ordered his bowl of chili.
“Did Koko get over his snit?” Hixie asked.
“Apparently. As soon as you walked out the door, he gobbled the pork liver cupcake. . . . Incidentally, who owns that good-looking camper on the parking lot?”
Hixie looked vague. “The brown one? Oh, it belongs to one of our cooks. Her husband works in Mooseville and has to commute sixty miles a day, so he drives their small car, and she drives the gas-guzzler to work.”
What was she hiding? Qwilleran recalled that Hixie had always been a glib liar, though not necessarily a successful one, and she always managed to get involved with a certain fringe element in the romance department. What else had she invented? The invisible chef? His cookbook? His sick mother in Philadelphia?
Wednesday, November twentieth. When the telephone rang at six in the morning, Qwilleran knew it would be Harry Noyton. Who else would have the nerve or insensitivity to call at that hour? He managed a sleepy hello and heard an unbearably cheerful voice say, “Rise and shine! Gonna sleep all day? How about inviting me over for one of those he-man breakfasts?”
“Do you expect me to get the housekeeper out of bed in the middle of the night?” Qwilleran grumbled.
“I’m coming over there anyway. Want to talk to you. I’ll grab a taxi and be there in five minutes.”
“There are no taxis, Harry. You can walk. It’s only three blocks.”
“I haven’t walked three blocks since they let me out of the infantry!”
“Try it! It’s good for you. Don’t go to the main house; come to my apartment over the garage.”
The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare Page 12
