"I had an interesting experience the other day," he began. "It might support your theory, although I have no actual evidence. How about you?" "I've been doing some snooping, and I'm getting there. Something may break very soon." "Okay. Let me tell you what happened to me. Did you ever hear of a boat called the Minnie K?" The newsman went on to recount the entire fog-bound tale, not missing a single detail.
Buck listened attentively, forgetting to relight his pipe. "Too bad we don't know the name of the boat where the guys were having the fight." "It probably docks in the same godforsaken area where we boarded the Minnie K. It was a sleazy part of the shoreline. I haven't been back there since the fog lifted, so I don't know how much activity there is in the vicinity." "I know that area. It's the slum of the waterfront. Mooseville would like to see it cleaned up, but it's beyond the village limits. Want to drive out there with me — some day soon?" "Be glad to. I'm having company from Down Below for about a week, but I can work it in." "Gotta be going," Buck said. "Thanks for the booze. I've gotta get rid of a sinkful of dirty dishes before the old gals get home and give me hell. I've got a wife and a sister on my tail all the time. You don't know how lucky you are." He looked at the sky. "Storm tonight." He left the same way he had come, slipping and sliding down the dune to the beach. The leggy girls were returning from their walk, and Buck fell into step behind them, throwing an OK finger-signal to Qwilleran up on the porch.
Koko was still sitting under the chair, very quiet, folded into a compact bundle.
There was something about the visitor that fascinated him. Qwilleran also appreciated this new acquaintance who spoke his language and enjoyed the challenge of detection. They would have a few investigative adventures together.
The day was unusually calm. Voices could be heard from the fishing boats: "Anybody wanna beer?… Nah, it's time to go in." There was something portentous about the closeness of the atmosphere. One by one the boats slipped away toward Mooseville. There was a distant rumble on the horizon, Koko started throwing himself at the legs of tables and chairs, while Yum Yum emitted an occasional shriek. By nightfall the storm was overhead. The rain pelted the roof and windows, claps of thunder shook the cabin, and jagged bolts of lightning slashed the night sky and illuminated the lake.
8
When the sirens went screaming down the highway, Qwilleran was having his morning coffee and one of Aunt Fanny's cinnamon buns from the freezer, thawed and heated to pudding consistency in the microwave. Several acres of woods separated the cabin from the main road, but he could identify the sound of two police cars and an ambulance speeding eastward. Another accident! Traffic was getting heavier as the vacation season approached. Vans, recreation vehicles, and boat trailers were turning a country road into a dangerous thoroughfare.
That morning Qwilleran had lost another round in his feud with the fireplace. Why, he asked himself, can a single cigarette butt start a forest fire when I can't set fire to a newspaper with eleven matches? When he finally managed to ignite the sports section, smoke billowed from the fireplace and flakes of charred newsprint floated about the room before settling on the white linen sofas, the oiled wood floors, and the Indian rugs.
After breakfast he began to clean house. He started by dusting the bookshelves and was still there two hours later, having discovered books on Indians, raccoons, mining history, and common weeds. The dissertation on poison ivy included a sketch of the sinister vine. At once Qwilleran left the cabin with book in hand to scout the woods beyond the septic tank — that particular area that monopolized the cats' attention.
All of nature was reacting ebulliently to the violence of the recent storm. Everything was cleaner, greener, taller, and more alive. Two little brown rabbits were gnawing pine cones. Small creatures rustled through the ground cover of pine needles and last year's oak leaves. There was no poison ivy, however. Back to the dusting, Qwilleran thought.
Then another opportunity for procrastination presented itself. He had never entered the toolshed except to select a canoe paddle. It was a cedar hut with a door, no window and no electric light. Immediately inside the entrance were the paddles, long-handled garden tools, and a ladder. The far end of the shed was in darkness, and Qwilleran went back to the cabin for a flashlight. As he expected, his activities were being monitored by two Siamese in the east window.
In the inner gloom of the shed the flashlight beam picked out paint cans, coils of rope, a garden hose, axes, and — against the far wall — a dingy cot with a limp pillow.
On the wall above hung faded magazine pages with a two-year-old dateline and the unmistakable razzle-dazzle of Las Vegas. Mosquitoes were bounding off Qwilleran's neck and ears, and a loud buzzing suggested something worse. Qwilleran made a quick exit.
He had resumed his desultory housecleaning when he heard a rumbling in Koko's throat.
The cat rushed to the windows overlooking the lake. Moments later a lone walker on the beach started to climb the dune. Mildred Hanstable's head was bowed, and she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
Qwilleran went out to meet her. "Mildred! What's wrong?" "Oh, God!" she wailed. "It's Buck Dunfield." "What's happened?" "He's dead!" "Mildred, I can't believe it! He was here yesterday and healthy as an ox." She all but collapsed in his arms, and he took her indoors and seated her on a sofa. "Can I get you something? Tea? A shot of whiskey?" She shook her head and controlled herself with effort. Koko watched, his eyes wide with alarm. "Sarah and Betty got home — from Canada — a little while ago and — and found him in the basement — workshop." She put her hands over her face. "Blood allover. He'd been killed — beaten — with one of the — one of the big — candlesticks." Her words drowned in her tears, and Qwilleran held her hand and let her cry it out, while he coped with his own shock and outrage.
When she was calm she said, between fits of sniffling: "Sarah passed out — and Betty came screaming over to my house — and we called the police. I told them I hadn't heard anything — not even the machinery. The storm drowned everything out." "Do you know if the motive was burglary?" "Betty says nothing was touched. I'm shattered. I don't know what I'm doing. I'd better go home. Sharon and Roger are coming over as soon as they can." "Let me walk you home." "No, I want to walk alone-and straighten myself out. Thanks, though." Qwilleran tried to straighten out his own thinking. First he had to deal with the bitter realization that violence like this could take place in Mooseville. Could it be someone from Down Below? The area was being inundated by outsiders… Then there was genuine grief. He liked Buck Dunfield and had looked forward to a summer of good talk and shared adventures… And there was anger at the senseless killing. Buck had been so glad to be alive and to be doing something useful… After that came uneasiness. No matter what the local custom, locks on doors were now an imperative. He hurried to the phone and called Pickax.
"Aunt Fanny! This is Jim calling from Mooseville. I want you to listen carefully. This is important. I need to find a locksmith immediately. I must have locks on these doors, or keys for the existing locks. Someone entered my neighbor's house and killed him.
Someone has also been using this cabin for some shady purpose. I know this is Sunday, but I want to be able to call a locksmith early tomorrow. The whole idea of leaving doors open to strangers is unsafe, absurd, and medieval!" There was a long pause before the scratchy baritone response: "Bless my soul! My dear boy, I didn't realize a journalist could get so upset. You are always so contained. Never mind! Hang up, and I'll make some arrangements. How is the weather on the shore? Did you have thunder and lightning last night?" Qwilleran replaced the receiver and groaned. "What do you bet," he asked Koko, "that she'll send Tom, the resident genius?" To Yum Yum, who came struggling out from under the sofa, he said: "Sorry, sweetheart, I didn't know I was shouting." To himself he said: Fanny didn't even ask who had been murdered.
Barely ten minutes elapsed before a car could be heard winding its careful way among the trees and over the rolling dunes. Koko rushed to his checkpoint on
the porch. The visitor was a young man with curly black hair, dressed in Mooseville's idea of Sunday Best: a string tie with his plaid shirt and jeans, and no cap.
With deference in his tone and courteous manner he said: "Good afternoon, Mr.
Qwilleran. I hear you have a problem." "Are you the locksmith?" "No, sir. Mooseville doesn't have a locksmith, but I know something about locks. I'm an engineer. My wife:~ and I were having our usual Sunday dinner at the hotel, and Miss Klingenschoen tracked us down. She's a very persuasive woman. I came as soon as I finished my prime rib. Very good prime rib at the hotel. Have you tried it?" "Not yet," Qwilleran said, trying to conceal his impatience. "We've been here just a few days." "That's what my wife told me. She's postmistress in Mooseville." "Lori? I've met her. Charming young lady." Qwilleran relaxed a little. "And your name?" "Dominic. Nick for short. What seems to be the trouble?" After the situation was explained he said: "No problem at all. I'll bring some equipment tomorrow and take care of it." "Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but a man at Top o' the Dunes was murdered. It's been a great shock." "Yes, it's too bad. Everyone is wondering what effect it will have on the community." "You mean people know about it already? They didn't find the body until a couple of hours ago." "My wife heard the news in the choir loft," Nick said. "She sings at the Old Log Church. I heard it from one of the ushers during the offering." "Murder is not what I'd expect in Mooseville. Who would do such a thing? Some camper from Down Below?" "Well-l-l," replied the engineer. "I could make a guess." Qwilleran's moustache bristled. He sensed a source of information. "May I offer you a drink, Nick?" "No, thank you. I'll get back to my wife and my dessert. We like the deep-dish apple pie at the hotel." Qwilleran walked with him to the car. "So you're an engineer. What kind of work do you do?" "I'm employed at the prison," Nick said. "See you tomorrow. " Qwilleran went back to his housecleaning-in the desultory manner that was his specialty. He was shaking the Indian rugs in the parking lot when he heard a sound that made his heart leap: a car with a faulty muffler. Rosemary had never found time to have it replaced. He caught a glimpse of her little car between the trees and gasped. She had a passenger! If she had brought Max Sorrel — that pushy opportunist, that viper with a shaved head and facile smile — there might be another murder in Mooseville. The car disappeared in a gully, then rumbled back into view. Seated next to the driver, mouth agape and eyes staring, was the polar bear rug from the apartment at Maus Haus.
Rosemary tumbled out of the car, laughing at Qwilleran's spluttering amazement. "How- what — how — ?" "The former tenant offered to sell it for fifty dollars, and I thought you could afford that much," she said. "I had fun driving up here with the bear in the front seat, but the state troopers stopped me and said it was a motoring hazard. I pushed the head down under the dashboard, but it kept popping up… What's the matter, dearest?
You're rather subdued." "There's been a shocking incident here," Qwilleran told her, "and if you want to turn around and go home, I won't blame you." "What on earth — ?" A murder, half a mile down the beach." "Someone you know?" He nodded sadly.
Rosemary raised her chin in the determined way she had. "Of course I'm not going home.
I'm going to stay here and cheer you up. You've been too solitary, and you've probably been eating all the wrong food, and you've been spending too much time at the typewriter instead of getting exercise." That was his Rosemary — not as young as some of the women he had been seeing; in fact, she was a grandmother. But she was an attractive brunette with a youthful figure, and she was comfortable to have around. Once, when he had made some foolish attempt at rigorous exercise, she had given him a remarkably skillful massage.
"Please bring in my luggage, dearest, and show me where I'm going to sleep. I'd love to have a shower and a change of clothes. Where are the beautiful cats? I've brought them some catnip." Koko and Yum Yum remembered her from Maus Haus and reacted to her presence without feline warine_ss but also without overt friendliness. Occasionally, when she had visited Qwilleran's apartment, they had been locked in the bathroom.
Rosemary's vitality and dewy complexion and bright eyes were the result, she claimed, of eating the Right Food, some of which she had brought along in a cooler. With the Right Food warming in the oven and the bearskin rug grinning on the hearth, the cabin felt homey and comfortable. Koko walked across the cassette player, and they had music.
"Aimez-vous Brahms?" Qwilleran asked.
"What?" Rosemary often missed the point of his quips.
He inquired about the situation at Maus Haus. "It's terrible. The cook has left. Hixie never says anything funny. Charlotte cries all the time. And one night the immaculate Max had a spot on his tie. You're so lucky to have this cabin for the summer, Qwill. It's so lovely. There are violets and trilliums all along the driveway, and I've never seen so many goldfinches, and the chipmunks are so cute." Rosemary noted and commented on everything: the white linen slipcovers on the sofas, the mauve and turquoise tints of the lake as the sun sank, the tall oak candlestick on the porch, the moose head and crosscut saw over the mantel.
"The pickax! Where's the pickax?" Qwilleran exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "There was an antique pickax up there a week ago. I don't know, Rosemary. People walk in and out of this cabin like it's a bus terminal. It's considered unfriendly to lock doors. My good watch has disappeared and — worst of all — the gold pen you gave me. And now the pickax is missing." "Oh, dear," she said sympathetically.
"Everything around here is strange. The police set up roadblocks just for fun. Nobody has a last name. There are footsteps on the roof in the middle of the night. The cats spend all their time staring at the septic tank." "Oh, Qwill, you must be exaggerating. You're punchy from eating the wrong food." "You think so? Well, this is a fact: Koko found a cassette hidden behind the moose head, with a threatening message recorded right in the middle of the music. And when I went fishing, I hooked the body of a man." Rosemary gasped. "Who was it?" "I don't know. It went back to the bottom of the lake, and everybody tries to tell me it was an old rubber tire." "Qwill, dearest, are you sure you're getting enough fresh fruit and vegetables?" "You're like all the others," he complained, "but there was one person who believed me, and now he's dead, with his skull bashed in." "Oh, Qwill! Don't meddle with these things. You might be in danger yourself." "We'll see about that," he said. "Let's eat. But first I want to feed the cats. A nice
woman down the beach sent over some meat loaf, and I've conned them into thinking it's p?t de foie gras." "Have you met many nice women down the beach?" Rosemary inquired sweetly. "I thought you were up here to write a book." They talked far into the night. Qwilleran couldn't stop. He told her about the Nasty Pasty and the FOO, cherry blossoms and mosquitoes, agates and gravediggers, the Goodwinters and the Whatleys, shipwrecks and poachers, Little Henry and Big George, Night's Candles and Bob's Chop Shop.
Rosemary could no longer control her yawns, which she tried to disguise as laughs, coughs, and hiccups. "Dearest, I've been driving all day," she said. "Isn't it about time…?" After a prolonged good-night she escaped to the guest room and dislodged the Siamese from their favorite bunk. Qwilleran went to his own bed and thought about Rosemary for ten minutes, worried about the unlocked door for seven, and pondered the mystery of Buck Dun field's murder for four and a half before falling into a deep sleep.
He was waked by horrendous screaming. He leaped out of bed. It was just outside his window. "Rosemary!" he shouted.
"What's that?" she cried. Lights were turned on. Koko dashed about with his ears laid
back. Yum Yum hid. Rosemary came running from the guest room in her red nightgown.
The sound of wordless struggle in the underbrush ceased, and the screams gradually diminished in volume, fading away into the night stillness.
Qwilleran grabbed a flashlight and a poker from the fireplace.
"Don't go out there, Qwill!" Rosemary cried. "Call the police!" "It won't do any good. I reported one incident this week, and they made
me feel like a fool." "Please call them, Qwill. It could be murder, or rape, or abduction. Some woman walking on the beach. It was a woman screaming." "It sounded like a banshee to me." Succumbing to Rosemary's pleas he phoned the sheriff's office. He gave his name and location and described the episode as calmly and objectively as possible.
In answer to a question he said: "No, there's not another house for quarter of a mile, but people walk on the beach in the middle of the night… Yes, it's heavily wooded.
… There were sounds of struggling in the woods. No other voice — just the screams..
.. Very loud at first — utter panic. Then they got weaker and just died away… A what?… Hmmm. Very interesting. Do you think that's what it was?… It certainly did… Well, thank you, officer. Sorry to bother you." Qwilleran turned to Rosemary. "It was an owl, swooping down on a rabbit and carrying it away." "Is that what he said? Well, I don't care; it scared me out of my skin. I'm still shaking. I'd feel a lot safer in your room. Do you mind?" "No, I don't mind," Qwilleran said, grooming his moustache.
"The cats would like it better, too," said Rosemary. "They seem to think I've taken their bed."
9
Qwilleran was feeling particularly happy and agreeable on Monday morning. Although he was not given to using affectionate appellations, he started calling Rosemary "honey." As the day progressed, however, his elation gradually deflated. The first setback occurred when Nick arrived to work on the locks before Qwilleran had had his coffee.
"I see you have a Siamese," Nick said after Koko had inspected him at the checkpoint.
"We have three cats, just ordinary ones. My wife would love to see yours." Recalling the engineer's cryptic remark about Buck Dunfield's murderer, Qwilleran said: "Why don't you bring your wife over some evening — to meet Koko and Yum Yum? I must apologize again for disturbing your meal yesterday." "Think nothing of it. Glad to oblige. Besides, nobody ever says no to Miss Klingenschoen." Nick raised his eyebrows in a good-humored grimace.
The Cat Who Played Brahms Page 8
