Roger ordered a bourbon and water; Qwilleran, his usual tomato juice. A cranky-looking couple took a table nearby, and he noted smugly that the man was red-faced and obese and the woman wore a hearing aid.
Roger said: "Is that all you drink? I thought newsmen were hard drinkers. I studied journalism before I switched to history ed… Say, you've got me counting blue pickups, and I found out you're right. My wife always says people in northern climates like blue… Do you live alone?" "Not entirely. I've adopted a couple of despotic Siamese cats. One was orphaned as the result of a murder on my beat. The female was abandoned when she was a kitten. They're both purebred, and the male is smarter than I am." "I have a hunting dog — Brittany spaniel," Roger said. "Sharon has a Scottie…
Were you ever married, Qwill?" "Once. It wasn't an overwhelming success." "What happened?" "She had a nervous breakdown, and I tried to pickle my troubles in alcohol. You ask a lot of questions, Roger. You should have stuck to journalism." The newsman said it with good humor. He had spent his entire career asking questions, and now he enjoyed being interrogated.
"Would you ever get married again?" Qwilleran allowed the glimmer of a smile to twitch his moustache. "Three months ago I would have said no; now I'm not so sure." He rubbed the backs of his hands as he spoke; they were beginning to itch. The bartender at the Press Club had predicted he would get hives from drinking so much tomato juice, and perhaps Bruno was right.
The fat man at the next table seemed to be listening, so Qwilleran lowered his voice.
"The police set up a roadblock Monday night. What was that all about? There was nothing in the paper or on the radio." Roger shrugged. "Roadblocks are a social activity up here, like potluck suppers. I think the cops do it once in a while when things get dull." "Are you telling me there isn't enough crime in Moose County to keep them busy?" "Not like you have in the city. The conservation guys catch a few poachers, and things
get lively at the Shipwreck Tavern on Saturday nights, but the cops spend most of their time chasing accidents — single-car accidents mostly. Someone drives too fast and hits a moose, or kids get a few beers and wrap themselves around a tree. There's a lot of rescue work on the lake, too; the sheriff has two boats and a helicopter." "No drug problem?" "Maybe the tourists smoke a few funny cigarettes, but — no problem, really. What I worry about is shipwreck-looting. The lake is full of sunken ships. Some of them went down a hundred years ago, and their cargoes are on public record. The looters have sophisticated diving equipment — cold-water gear, electronic stuff, and all that. There's valuable cargo down there, and they're stripping the wrecks for private gain." "Isn't that illegal?" "Not yet. If we had an underwater preserve protected by law it would be a big boost for tourism. It could be used by marine historians, archaeologists, and sport-divers." "What's holding you back?" "Money! It would take tens of thousands for an archaeological survey. After that we'd have to lobby for legislation." Qwilleran said: "It would be a tough law to enforce. You'd need more boats, more helicopters, more personnel." "Right! And by that time there wouldn't be any sunken cargo to protect." The men had ordered a second round of drinks, but Qwilleran stopped sipping his T J.
He rubbed his itching hands and wrists surreptitiously under the table.
Roger lowered his voice. "See those two guys sitting near the door? They're wreck- divers. Probably looters." "How do you know?" "Everybody knows." When the food was served, Qwilleran rated it E for edible, but the conversation was enlightening. At the end of the meal he remarked to Roger: "Do you think there might be a skunk living under the post office? I went in there yesterday, and the odor drove everyone out of the building." "Probably some hog farmer picking up his mail," Roger said. "If they come into town in their work-clothes, the whole town clears out. You wouldn't believe the way some of their kids come to school. They're not all like that, of course. One of my hunting partners raises hogs, No problem." "Another mystery: A hawk flew through a screened door at the cabin and left a big hole. I can't figure it out." "He was diving for a rabbit or chipmunk," Roger explained, "and he didn't put on the brakes fast enough." "You think so?" "Sure! I've seen a hawk carry off a cat. I was hunting once and heard something mewing up in the sky. I looked up, and there was this poor little cat." Qwilleran thought of Yum Yum and squirmed uncomfortably. There was a moment of silence, and then he said: "A couple of nights ago I heard footsteps on the roof in the middle of the night." "A raccoon," Roger said. "A raccoon on the roof of a cabin like yours sounds like a Japanese wrestler in space boots, I know! My in-laws have a cottage near you. One year they had a whole family of raccoons in their chimney." "Do your in-laws give wild parties? I've heard some hysterical laughing late at night." "That was a loon you heard. It's a crazy bird." The fog was thickening, and the view from the dining room windows was almost obliterated. Qwilleran said he should get back to the cabin.
"I hope my wife doesn't try driving home tonight," Roger said. "She's been on a buying trip Down Below. She has a little candle and gift shop in the mall. How do you like this money clip? It came from Sharon's shop." He paid his half of the check with bills from a jumbo paper clip that looked like gold.
Qwilleran drove home at twenty miles an hour with the fog swirling in front of the windshield. The private drive up to the cabin was even more hazardous, with tree trunks suddenly appearing where they were not supposed to be. As he parked the car he thought he saw two figures moving away from the cabin, down the slope toward the beach.
"Hello!" he called. "Hello there!" But they disappeared into the fog.
Indoors he first checked the whereabouts of the Siamese. Koko was huddled on the moose head, and Yum Yum cautiously wriggled out from underneath the sofa. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, but he detected the aroma of pipe tobacco. In the guestroom there was a slight impression in one of the bunks, where the cats took their naps, and one of his brown socks was on the floor. Yum Yum had a passion for his socks. Everything else seemed to be in order.
Then he found a note in the kitchen, scribbled on one of his own typing sheets: "Welcome to the dunes. I'm Roger's mother-in-law; See foil package in your fridge.
Thought you might like some roast turkey. Come and see us." That was all. No name. Qwilleran checked the refrigerator and found a generous supply of sliced turkey breast and chunks of dark meat. As he started chopping a portion of it for the cats' dinner, Yum Yum squealed in anticipation, and Koko pranced back and forth, warbling an aria of tenor yowls and ecstatic gutterals.
Qwilleran watched them eat, but his mind was elsewhere. He liked Roger. Under thirty, with coal-black hair, was a good age to be. But the young man had been remarkably glib on the subject of hawks, loons, raccoons, blue trucks, and police roadblocks. How many of his answers were in the interest of tourism? And if the official brochure encouraged tourists to visit the old cemetery, why did Roger try to discourage it? Did he know something about the pail? And if there was no crime in Moose County, why did Aunt Fanny make a point of carrying a gun?
5
Qwilleran was wakened by Yum Yum. She sat on his chest, her blue eyes boring into his forehead, conveying a subliminal message: breakfast. The lake view from the bunkroom windows had been replaced by total whiteness. The fog had settled on the shore like a suffocating blanket. There was no breeze, no sound.
Qwilleran tried to start a blaze in the fireplace to dispel the dampness, using Wednesday's paper and some book matches from the hotel, but nothing worked. His chief concern was the condition of his hands and wrists. The itching was unbearable, and blisters were forming as large as poker chips. Furthermore he was beginning to itch here, there, and everywhere.
He dressed without shaving, fed the cats without ceremony, and — even forgetting to wear his new cap — steered the car nervously through the milky atmosphere.
There was a drug store on Main Street, and he showed his blisters to the druggist.
"Got anything for this?" "Yikes!" said the druggist. "Worse case of poison ivy I've ever s
een. You'd better go and get a shot." "Is there a doctor in town?" "There's a walk-in clinic in the Cannery Mall. You know the mall? Two miles beyond town-an old fish cannery made into stores and whatnot. In this fog you won't be able to see it, but you'll smell it." There was hardly a vehicle to be seen on Main Street. Qwilleran hugged the yellow line, watching the odometer, and at the two-mile mark there was no doubt he had reached the Cannery Mall. He angle-parked between two yellow lines and followed the aroma to a bank of plate glass doors opening into an arcade.
The medical clinic, smelling appropriately antiseptic, was deserted except for a plain young woman sitting at a desk. "Is there a doctor here?" he asked.
"I'm the doctor," she replied, glancing at his hands. "Where did you go to get that magnificent case of ivy poisoning?" "I guess I picked it up in the old cemetery." "Really? Aren't you a little old for that kind of thing?" She threw him a mischievous glance.
He was too uncomfortable to appreciate badinage. "I was looking at the old gravestones." "A likely story. Come into the torture chamber, and I'll give you a shot." She also gave him a tube of lotion and some advice: "Keep your hands out of hot water. Avoid warm showers. And stay away from old cemeteries." Leaving the clinic Qwilleran was in a sulky humor. He thought the doctor should have been less flip and more sympathetic. By the time he inched his car back to town through the fog, however, the medication was working, bringing not only relief but a heady euphoria, and he remembered that the doctor had attractive green eyes and the longest eyelashes he had ever seen.
At the hotel, where he stopped for coffee and eggs, four men at the next table were complaining about the weather. "The boats won't go out in this soup. Let's get a bottle of red-eye and play some cards." At the table behind him a familiar voice said: "We're not leaving here (gasp) till we go fishing." A shrill flat voice answered: "Why are you so stubborn? You don't even like to fish." "This is different, I told you. We go out (gasp) on thirty-six-foot trollers and catch maybe twenty-pound trout." "You said it was too expensive." "The prices at the main dock are highway robbery, but I found a boat (gasp) that'll take us for fifteen bucks." Qwilleran's thrifty nature sensed an opportunity, and the combination of the medication and the unnatural atmosphere gave him a feeling of reckless excitement. When the couple left the dining room he followed them. "Excuse me, sir, did I hear you say something about a troller that's less expensive?" "Sure did! Fifteen bucks for six hours, Split three ways (gasp) that's five bucks apiece. Not bad. Two young fellahs (gasp) own the boat. You interested?" "Is fishing any good in this weather?" "These young fellas say it doesn't make any difference, By the way," he wheezed, "my name's Whatley — from Cleveland — wholesale hardware." He then introduced his wife, whose manner was frosty, and he volunteered to drive, since he knew the way to the dock. "The boat ties up outside of town. That's why (gasp) it's cheaper, You have to shop around to get a good buy." The trip to the dock was another slow agonizing crawl through earthbound clouds, At one point the three giant electric letters of the FCC glowed weakly through the mist.
Farther on, the Cannery Mall announced itself strongly although the building was invisible. Then there were miles of nothing. Each mile seemed like five. Whatley drove on grimly. No one talked, Qwilleran strained his eyes, peering at the road ahead, expecting to meet a pair of yellow foglights head-on or the sudden taillights of a stalled logging truck.
"How will you know when you get there?" he asked.
"Can't miss it. There's a wreck of a boat (gasp) where we turn off." When the wreck eventually loomed up out of the mist, Whatley turned down a swampy lane bordering a canal filled with more wrecks.
"I'm sorry I came," Mrs. Whatley announced in her first statement of the day.
Where the lane ended, a rickety wharf extended into the lake, and the three landlubbers groped their way across its rotting planks. The water lapped against the pilings in a liquid whisper, and a hull could be heard creaking against the wharf.
Previously Qwilleran had seen the gleaming white fishing fleet at the municipal pier.
Boats with names like Lady Aurora, Queen of the Lake, and Northern Princess displayed posters boasting of their ship-to-shore radios, fishing sonars, depth-finders, and automatic pilots. So he was not prepared for the Minnie K. It was an old gray tub, rough with scabs of peeling paint. Incrustations on the deck and railings brought to mind the visits of seagulls and the intimate parts of dead fish. The two members of the crew, who
were present in a vague sort of way, were as shabby as their craft. One boy was about seventeen, Qwilleran guessed, and the other was somewhat younger. Neither had an alertness that would inspire confidence.
There were no greetings or introductions. The boys viewed the passengers with suspicion and, after collecting their money, got the boat hastily under weigh, barking at each other in meaningless syllables.
Qwilleran asked the younger boy how far out they were planning to cruise and received a grunt in reply.
Mrs. Whatley said: "This is disgusting. No wonder they call these things stink-boats." "Whaddaya want for five bucks?" her husband said. "The Queen Elizabeth?" The passengers found canvas chairs, ragged and stained, and the Minnie K moved slowly through the water, creating hardly a ripple. Mr. Whatley dozed from time to time, and his wife opened a paperback book and turned off her hearing aid. For about an hour the boat chugged through the total whiteness in apathy, its fishy emanations blending with exhaust fumes. Then the engine changed its tune to an even lower pitch, and the boys lazily produced the fishing gear: rods with enormous reels, copper lines, and brass spoons.
"What do I do with this thing?" Qwilleran asked. "Where's the bait?" "The spoon's all you need," Whatley said. "Drop the line over the rail (gasp) and keep moving the rod up and down." "And then what?" "When you get a bite, you'll know it. Reel it in." The Minnie K moved through the placid lake with reluctance. Occasionally the engine died for sheer lack of purpose and started again unwillingly. For an hour Qwilleran waved the fishing rod up and down in a trance induced by the throbbing of the engine and the sense of isolation. The troller was in a tight little world of its own, surrounded by a fog that canceled out everything else. There was no breeze, not even a splash of water against the hull — just the hollow putt-putt of the engine and the distant moan of a foghorn.
Whatley had reeled in his line and, after taking a few swigs from a flask, fell asleep in his canvas chair. His wife never looked up from her book.
Qwilleran was wondering where they were — and why he was there — when the engine stopped with an explosive cough, and the two boys, muttering syllables, jumped down into the hold. The silence became absolute, and the boat was motionless on the glassy lake. It was then that Qwilleran heard voices drifting across the water — men's voices, too far away to be distinguishable. He rested the rod on the railing and listened. The voices were coming closer, arguing, getting louder. There were shouts of anger followed by unintelligible torrents of verbal abuse, then a sharp crack like splitting wood…
grunts… sounds of lunging… a heavy thump. A few seconds later Qwilleran heard a mighty splash and a light patter of spray on the water's surface.
After that, all was quiet except for a succession of ripples that crossed the surface of the lake and lapped against the Minnie K. The fog closed in like cotton bat- ting, and the water turned to milk.
The crew had their heads bent over the contraption that passed for an engine. Whatley slept on, and his wife also dozed. Wonderingly Qwilleran resumed the senseless motion of the fishing rod, up and down, up and down, in exaggerated arcs. He had lost all sense of time and his watch had been left at home because of his itching wrists.
Thirty minutes passed, or an hour, and then there was a pull on the line, sending vibrations down the rod and into his arms. He shouted!
Whatley waked with a start. "Reel it in! Reel it in!" At that magic moment, with the roots of his hair tingling, Qwilleran realized the thrill of deep-sea fishing. "Feels like a whale!" "Not so fast
! Keep it steady! Don't stop!" Whatley was gasping for breath, and so was Qwilleran. His hands were shaking. The copper line was endless.
Everyone was watching. The young skipper was leaning over the rail. "Gaff!" he yelled, and the other boy threw him a long-handled iron hook.
"Gotta be fifty pounds!" Qwilleran shouted, straining to reel in the last few yards.
He could feel the final surge as the monster rose through the water. "I've got him! I've got him!" The huge shape had barely surfaced when he lost his grip on the reel.
"Grab it!" cried Whatley, but the reel was spinning wildly. As it began to slow, the skipper pulled pliers from his pocket and cut the line.
"No good," he said. "No good." "Whaddaya mean?" Whatley screamed at him. "That fish was thirty pounds (gasp) if it was an ounce!" "No good," the skipper said. He swung himself up to the wheelhouse; the younger boy dropped into the hold, and the engine started.
"This whole deal is a fraud!" Whatley protested. His wife looked up from her book and yawned.
"I don't know about you people," Qwilleran said, "But I'm ready to call it a day." The boat picked up speed and headed for what he hoped would be dry land. On the return voyage he slumped in the canvas chair, engrossed in his own thoughts. Whatley had another swig and dozed off.
The Cat Who Played Brahms Page 5
