Qwilleran whispered to Polly, “I wish my mother could have seen this. She would have flipped.”
The church was noted for its excellent acoustics; the chorus was well rehearsed; the soloists and instrumentalists were professionals; the pipe organ was magnificent. It was a performance Qwilleran would never forget—for more reasons than one.
Toward the end of the oratorio Mr. O’Dell slipped out, giving an explanatory nod to Qwilleran. The orchestra played the opening bars leading up to the first explosive and spine-tingling hallelujah. The king and his royal party rose; the audience rose; and Qwilleran lost himself in the majesty of the music and his own personal nostalgia.
The hallelujahs built up with mounting intensity and joyous celebration, ascending to that dramatic moment—that breathtaking pause—the two seconds of hollow silence!
In that fraction of a fraction of time Qwilleran heard a false note—the wail of a siren. Bruce Scott, seated several rows ahead, slid out of the pew and scuttled up the aisle. Two other men made quick exits. Qwilleran scowled. It was unfortunate timing for the fire siren.
The “Hallelujah” chorus ended, and an aria began. Then a door behind Qwilleran opened, and an usher tapped his arm and whispered.
Qwilleran was out of his seat instantly, running across the narthex and down the steps. On the other side of the park the museum was aglow—not with light but with a red glare.
“Oh, my God! The cats!” he yelled.
He dashed across the street, dodging traffic. He cut through the park, plowing frantically through deep snow. Flashing red and blue lights surrounded the building. More sirens were sounding.
“The cats!” he shouted.
Black-coated figures were unreeling lines and hoisting ladders. “Stay back!” they ordered.
Qwilleran dashed past them. “The cats!” he bellowed.
The red glare spread to the second-story windows. Glass exploded and tongues of flame licked out.
“Stop him!”
He was headed for the back door, nearest the kitchen.
“Keep him out!”
Strong arms restrained him. He looked up and saw the glare spreading to the third floor. Ladders went up. Windows shattered, and black smoke billowed out.
Qwilleran groaned in defeat.
Monday, November twenty-fifth. Qwilleran turned on the radio in the bedroom of his garage apartment. “Headline news at this hour: The Klingenschoen Museum on Park Circle was totally destroyed by fire Sunday night, the result of arson, according to fire chief Bruce Scott. A charred body found in the building, allegedly that of the arsonist, has not yet been identified. Thirty fire fighters, four tankers, and three pumpers responded, with surrounding communities assisting the Pickax volunteers. No firemen were injured. . . . We can expect warmer temperatures today and bright sunny skies—”
“Sunny!” Qwilleran muttered, snapping off the radio. He stared with mournful eyes at the gray scene outdoors: the cold, heavy, leaden sky . . . the ground black with frozen mud and soot . . . the smoke-damaged skeleton of a three-story fieldstone building that had once been a showplace. The windows, doors, and roof were gone, and the blackened stone walls enclosed a mountain of charred rubble. The acrid smell of smoke that hung over the ruin also seeped into his apartment.
Polly walked to his side and held his hand in silent sympathy.
“Thank you for helping me get through this ghastly night,” he said. “Are you warm enough?” She was wearing a pair of his pajamas. “We didn’t get heat until an hour ago. The power came on about five o’clock, but the phone is still dead. The last fire truck didn’t leave until daylight.”
Gazing at the depressing sight, Polly said, “I can’t understand it.”
“It’s beyond comprehension. Would you like coffee? There’s nothing here for breakfast except frozen rolls. What time are you due at the library?”
“YO-W-W-W!” came a loud and demanding howl from the adjoining room.
“Koko heard a reference to breakfast,” Qwilleran said as he went to open the door of the cats’ parlor.
They walked out with expectant noses and optimistic tails.
“Sorry,” he said. “The only aroma this morning is stale smoke. There’s no food until I go to the store. Just be glad you’re alive.”
“Here comes Mr. O’Dell,” Polly said.
“Better go and get dressed.”
She grabbed her clothes and disappeared into the bathroom as the houseman plodded up the stairs.
Qwilleran greeted him in a minor key. “It’s a sad day, Mr. O’Dell, but we’re thankful you saved the cats.”
“That boy-o there, it was himself that did it, carryin’ on like a banshee an’ scratchin’ the broom closet door that I waxed only a week since. I opened the door, and it was the picnic basket he was wantin’ to get into. Scoldin’ the little one, he was, till she jumped in after himself. You were wantin’ me to leave them in the house, but it was a divil of a row he was makin’, so I carried them over here before goin’ to listen to the music a little. A wonder, it is!”
“Koko knew something was going to happen,” Qwilleran explained. “He sensed danger. Have you heard anything about the arsonist? On the radio they said he’s still unidentified.”
“That I did,” said O’Dell. “My old friend Brodie I stopped to see this mornin’. It’s himself been tryin’ to get you on the phone.”
“The line has been out of order all night. What did Brodie have to say?”
The houseman shook his head dolefully. “Sure an’ I feel sorry for the poor woman—herself in the hospital and her new husband burned to death and a criminal.”
Qwilleran was silent. It was the kind of thing that man would do—burn down the museum to stop his wife from working. He was a madman! He was crazy to think he could get away with it.
“I was there when they were after puttin’ him in a canvas bag,” the houseman said. “It’s black, he was, like a burned hot dog, split open and pink inside.”
“Spare us the details, Mr. O’Dell. Now it’s Mrs. Cobb we have to worry about. We all know how much the museum meant to her.”
“Is there anythin’ I can do, now, for the poor soul?”
“You can take this money, buy some flowers, and deliver them to the hospital. Not pink roses! Wait a minute: I’ll write a note to enclose.”
The houseman left, and Polly emerged from the bathroom wearing the winter-white dress she had worn to the concert. “This is not what I usually wear for a hard day’s work in the stacks,” she said. “How can I explain that I lost my luggage in the museum fire?”
“I’m sorry about your luggage, Polly.”
“I’m sorriest about those four thousand books.”
“It’s the library I’ll miss most of all,” he said. “I saved only one thing. When the auction van delivered the desk, I bribed the porters to bring Mrs. Cobb’s wedding present out of the house, so the Pennsylvania schrank is in the garage along with Ephraim Goodwinter’s old desk.”
The telephone rang, a welcome sound after hours without service. Qwilleran grabbed it. “Yes? . . . It’s been out of order, Dr. Hal. What’s the situation?. . . That’s bad, but there’s worse to come. They’ve identified the arsonist. . . . Would it help if I went to the hospital and had a talk with her? . . . Okay, I’ll let you know how it goes.”
He replaced the receiver and gazed at it thoughtfully.
“What’s the trouble, Qwill?”
“Mrs. Cobb was doing all right until she tuned in her radio and heard the news about the fire. Then it was hysteria-time all over again.”
Polly left for work, and the telephone started to ring—and ring. Friends, associates, and strangers called to voice their horrified reactions and offer condolences. Prying busybodies wanted to know who had set the fire—and why. On Main Street a steady stream of motorists cruised around the Park Circle, gawking at the ruins.
Junior Goodwinter’s phone call from Down Below came as a surprise. “Qwill! I can’t
believe it! Jody got a call from Francesca. She said they haven’t identified the torch.”
“It was Hackpole! One of your own fire fighters.”
“Not anymore! They dumped him last spring for infraction of rules. When and if he showed up for training, he was half-shot.”
Qwilleran said, “I’m greatly distressed about your mother’s accident, Junior. That was a terrible thing.”
“Yeah, I know. What can I say?”
“There’s been no announcement about the funeral.”
“No funeral. I talked to my brother and sister, and we decided to have a memorial service later.”
“How will this affect the revival of the Picayune?”
“No one knows yet, but I have some good news. You know my dad’s fireproof box—it had a key to a vault in Minneapolis. He’d been putting a hundred years of the Picayune on microfilm, and he didn’t want anyone to know he was spending the money.”
“And I have some good news for you,” Qwilleran said. “Your great-grandfather’s desk is in my garage, and it’s yours when you marry Jody.”
“Oh, wow!” Junior yelled.
The telephone kept on ringing. Hixie Rice called to inquire if the Siamese were safe and if they needed food. Shortly after, her high-heeled boots were clicking up the stairs, and she delivered a doggie bag of chicken cordon bleu.
“I was absolutely devastated when I heard about the fire,” she said, looking about for an ashtray. “Mind if I smoke, Qwill?”
“Okay with me,” he said, “but don’t blow smoke at the cats. It’ll turn their fur blue.”
She pocketed her cigarettes. “I should give them up. They say the damn things cause wrinkles.”
“Cup of coffee?” Qwilleran suggested.
“If it’s your famous instant poison, no thanks.”
“Any news about your chef and his knives?”
“Brace yourself,” Hixie said. “Did you hear about the unidentified body found in a car stuck in a snowdrift? Well, that was Tony, fleeing to Canada in my car!”
“You really know how to pick ’em, Hixie.”
“When I told you he escaped through the washroom window, I didn’t tell you the whole story. Tony was a French Canadian living here illegally. He changed his name and bleached his hair. I could live with that, but . . . he tried to defraud the insurance company.”
“That’s bad.”
“He sold his car to a chop-shop and reported it stolen. That man was an insurance investigator. The first time he came snooping around, Tony took off in the camper and spent a few days in the woods—”
“On my property! You told me he’d gone to see his sick mother in Philadelphia. And now what? Does the loss of your partner affect your job?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about, Qwill. My boss was planning a Caribbean cruise with the Goodwinter woman until she decamped with another man and got killed.”
“So he wants you to go in her place,” Qwilleran guessed.
“Well, he has the reservations and the tickets. . . .”
“Hixie, you’re a one-woman true-story magazine. If you’re looking for advice, I have no comment to make.”
“That’s okay. I just wanted to bounce off you. You’re so sympathetic.”
When Hixie had clicked down the stairs in her pencil-heeled boots, Qwilleran prepared for his visit to the hospital, wondering about Mrs. Cobb’s wedding night: Did he threaten to torch the museum? Why didn’t she warn us?
He found her sitting in an armchair in her pink robe, staring out the window without her eyeglasses. There were pink carnations and snapdragons on her bedside table, but her radio had been removed. A note propped against the flower vase read: “We miss you—Koko and Yum Yum.”
“Mrs. Cobb,” he said quietly.
She groped on the windowsill for her glasses. “Oh, Mr. Q! I feel so terrible about everything. I was afraid the cats were trapped in the fire, and I almost died! But now I know they’re safe. The flowers are so pretty. I could cry, but I don’t have any tears left. When I heard about the museum, I wanted to kill myself! I was sure Herb did it. Did he do it?”
Qwilleran nodded, slowly and regretfully. “The body has been identified. The evidence is all there. I’m sorry to bring you this sad news.”
“It doesn’t matter. The worst has happened. And I feel so guilty. It’s all my fault. Why did I get involved with that man? He did it to spite me—to get his own way.”
Qwilleran pulled up a chair and sat down. He spoke gently. “I know it’s painful for you, Mrs. Cobb, but no one is blaming you.”
“I’ll go away when I get out of here. I can live in Saint Louis. I’ve called my son.”
“Don’t run away. Everyone likes you. They consider you a valuable asset to the Historical Society and the city. You could open an antique shop—do appraisals—set up a catering business—start a cookie factory. You belong here now.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go—anywhere to live. That was my home.”
“I imagine the Goodwinter house will be yours. . . .”
“Oh, I could never live there . . . not after what happened.”
“It’s Junior’s ancestral home. He’d want it occupied by someone like you—with your love for old houses.”
“You don’t understand. . . .”
Qwilleran’s drooping moustache and mournful eyes were compellingly sympathetic. “If you talk about it, you might feel better. Yesterday morning you came trudging through the snow in a weakened condition, after being ill all night. He did something grossly offensive to upset you.”
“It was what he told me.”
Qwilleran knew when to be silent.
“He was drinking. He always got talkative and boastful when he had a few. I didn’t mind that.”
Qwilleran nodded with understanding.
“He used to tell me about doing heroic things in the army. I didn’t believe half of it. But he liked to talk that way, and it did no harm. Once he told me that his father killed Senior’s father in a fight, and his uncle helped to lynch Ephraim Goodwinter. He was proud of it! I was so stupid! I went along with it and flattered him.” She sighed and looked out the window.
“And then . . . on Saturday night at the hotel . . .”
“He started bragging about killing deer out of season . . . overcharging customers . . . cheating on his taxes. He thought that was smart. He said he did the ‘dirty work’ for XYZ Enterprises. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know whether to believe him.” She looked to Qwilleran for approval or disapproval.
He gave a neutral nod and looked encouraging.
“It was my wedding night!” she cried in anguish.
“I know. I know.”
“Then he told me how his shop did repairs for the Goodwinter cars, and he knew Gritty very well. He kept a bottle in his office and they drank together. Him and a Goodwinter! He seemed to think it was an honor! I guess it’s all right to tell you this; she’s gone now. They’re both gone.”
There was a long pause. Qwilleran waited patiently.
After taking a deep breath, Mrs. Cobb said, “Gritty wanted to get rid of her husband and marry Exbridge, but Senior was broke, and she wouldn’t get anything in a divorce. If he died accidentally there would be money from insurance and the sale of the newspaper and antiques and all that.”
She had been calm at the beginning, but now she was clenching and unclenching her hands, and Qwilleran said, “Relax and take a few deep breaths, Mrs. Cobb. . . . This is a pleasant room. I had this room when I fell off my bike, but they’ve changed the hideous wall color.”
“Yes, it’s a pretty pink,” she said. “Like a beauty shop.”
“Is the food satisfactory?’
“I haven’t any appetite, but the trays look nice.”
“The cookies are terrible—take my word for it. They should get a few of your recipes.”
She attempted a wan smile.
After a while Qwilleran asked, “Did Herb tell you
what actually happened to Senior Goodwinter?”
Mrs. Cobb looked out of the window, then down at her hands. “Senior took his car to Herb’s garage for winterizing.” Her voice was shaking. “Herb did something to it—I’ve forgotten what it was—so it would go out of control and burst into flames . . .”
“. . . when it hit a bad bump like the old plank bridge?”
She nodded.
“Is that how he bought the farmhouse cheaply?”
She gulped and nodded again.
“And torching the Picayune building was part of the deal?”
“Oh, Mr. Q! It was terrible! I told him he was a murderer, and he told me I was a murderer’s wife and I’d better keep my mouth shut if I knew what was good for me. He looked terrible! He was going to hit me! I ran in the bathroom and locked the door and got sick. Then he went to sleep and snored all night. I wanted to run away! I got dressed and sat up until morning. When he started to wake up, I ran out of the room—left my wedding suit, purse, everything.”
“Then that’s how he got the key to the museum.”
She groaned, and her face—usually so cheerful—looked drawn and miserable.
* * *
When Qwilleran returned to his apartment he opened a can of tuna fish, flaked it, and arranged the morsels on a plain white china plate. “No more home-cooked food,” he told the Siamese. “No more gourmet meals. No more antique porcelain dishes.”
They gobbled the tuna with heads down and tails up, like ordinary cats. Yet Koko’s behavior had been extraordinary. Two hours before the museum fire he had wanted to get out of the building; he knew what was coming. What else did he know?
Did he sense that Mrs. Cobb’s marriage would end in disaster? How else could one explain his bizarre performance on the pink roses of the rug? And when he uprooted the herb garden, did he perceive some semantic connection with Herb Hackpole? No, that explanation was too absurd even for Qwilleran’s vivid imagination. More likely, Koko was simply chewing the leaves as cats like to do, and he got a little high on an herb related to catnip. Yet, they were questions that would never be answered.
Even more perplexing was Koko’s attraction to Shakespeare. Could he smell the pigskin covers, or the neat’s-foot oil used to preserve the leather, or some rare nineteenth-century glue used in the bindings? If so, why did he concentrate on Hamlet?
The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare Page 17
