The Cat Who Played Brahms

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  But there was no will.

  Qwilleran telephoned Penelope to say they would continue the search the next day. He made the chore sound tedious and depressing. In fact, the excitement of Fanny's past life erased the sadness of the occasion, and both he and Rosemary were strangely elated.

  She said: "Let's do something reckless. Let's eat at the Dismal Diner on the way home." The boxcar stood on a desolate stretch of the highway with not another building in sight — only the rotting timbers of the Dimsdale shaft house. There were no vehicles in the pasture that served as a parking lot, but a sign in the door said OPEN, contradicting another sign in one window that said CLOSED.

  The side of the boxcar was punctuated with windows of various sorts, depending on the size and shape available at some local dump. The interior was papered with yellowing posters and faded menus dating back to the days of nickel coffee and ten-cent sandwiches. Qwilleran raised his sensitive nose and sniffed. "Boiled cabbage, fried onions, and marijuana," he reported. "I don't see a ma?tre d'. Where would you like to Sit, Rosemary?" Along the back wall stretched a worn counter with a row of stools, several of them stumps without seats. Tables and chairs were Depression-era, probably from miners' kitchens. There was only one sign of life, and that was uncertain. A tall, cadaverous man, who may not have eaten for a week, came forward like a sleepwalker from the dingy shadows at the end of the diner.

  "Nice little place you've got here," Qwilleran said brightly. "Do you have a specialty?" "Goulash," the man said in a tinny voice.

  "We were hoping you'd have veal cordon bleu. Do you have any artichokes?… No?… No artichokes, Rosemary. Do you want to go somewhere else?" "I'd like to try the goulash," she said. "Do you suppose it's real Hungarian goulash?" "The lady would like to know if it's real Hungarian goulash," Qwilleran repeated to the waiter.

  "I dunno." "I think we'll both have the goulash. It sounds superb: And do you have any Bibb lettuce?" "Cole slaw is all." "Excellent! I'm sure it's delicious." Rosemary was eyeing Qwilleran with that dubious, disapproving look she reserved for his playful moments. When the waiter, who was also the cook, shambled out of his shadowy hole with generous portions of something slopped on chipped plates, she transferred the same expression to a study of the food. She whispered to Qwilleran: "I thought goulash was beef cubes cooked with onions in red wine, with sweet paprika. This is macaroni and canned tomatoes and hamburger." "This is Mooseville," he explained. "Try it. It tastes all right if you don't think about it too much." When the cook brought the dented tin coffeepot, Qwilleran asked genially: "Do you own this delightful little place?" "Me and my buddy." "Would you consider selling? My friend here would like to open a tearoom and boutique." He spoke without daring to look at Rosemary.

  "I dunno. An old lady in Pickax wants to buy it. She'll pay good money." "Miss Klingenschoen, no doubt." "She likes it a lot. She comes in here with that quiet young fellah." When Qwilleran and Rosemary continued their drive north, she said: "There's an example for you. Fanny made irresponsible promises to the poor man, and you're just as bad — with your jokes about tearooms and artichokes." "I wanted to check his voice against the cassette," Qwilleran said. "It doesn't fit the pattern I'm looking for. When you stop to think about it, he doesn't fit the role of master criminal either… although he could be arrested for that goulash. My chief suspect now is the guy who owns the FOO." When they turned into the private drive to the cabin, Rosemary said: "Look! There's a Baltimore oriole." She inhaled deeply. "I love this lake air. And I love the way the driveway winds between the trees and then suddenly bursts into sight of the lake." Qwilleran stopped the car with a jolt in the center of the clearing. "The cats are on the porch! How did they get out? I locked them in the cabin!" Two dark brown masks with blue eyes were peering through the screens and howling in two-part harmony.

  Qwilleran jumped out of the car and shouted over his shoulder: "The cabin door's wide open!" He rushed indoors, followed by a hesitant Rosemary. "Someone's been in here! There's a bar stool knocked over… and blood on the white rug! Koko, what happened? Who was in here?" Koko rolled over on his haunches and licked his paws, spreading his toes and extending his claws.

  From the guest room Rosemary called: "This window's open! There's glass on the floor, and the shutter's hanging from one hinge. The screen's been cut!" It was the window overlooking the septic tank and the wooded crest of the dune.

  "Someone broke in to get the cassette," Qwilleran said. "See? He set up a bar stool to reach the moose head. He fell off — or jumped off in panic — and gave the stool a back-kick. I'll bet Koko leaped on the guy's head from one of the beams. His eighteen claws can stab like eighteen stilettoes, and Koko isn't fussy about where he grabs. There's a lot of blood; he could have sunk his fangs into an ear." "Oh, dear!" Rosemary said with a shudder.

  "Then the guy ran out the door-maybe with the cat riding on his head and screeching. Koko's been licking his claws ever since we got home." "Did the man get the cassette?" "It wasn't up there. I have it hidden. Don't touch anything. I'm going to call the sheriff — again." "If my car had been parked in the lot, this wouldn't have happened, Qwill. He'd think someone was home." "We'll pick up your car tomorrow." "I'll have to drive home on Sunday. I wish you were coming with me, Qwill. There's a dangerous man around here, and he knows you've found his cassette. What are you going to tell the sheriff?" "I'm going to ask him if he likes music, and I'll play Little White Lies." Later that evening Rosemary and Qwilleran sat on the porch to watch the setting sun turn the lake from turquoise to purple. "Did you ever see such a sky?" Rosemary asked. "It shades from apricot to mauve to aquamarine, and the clouds are deep violet." Koko was pacing restlessly from the porch to the kitchen to the guest room and back to the porch.

  "He's disturbed," Qwilleran explained, "by his instinctive savagery in attacking the burglar. Koko is a civilized cat, and yet he's haunted by an ancestral memory of days gone by and places far away, where his breed lurked on the walls of palaces and temples and sprang down on intruders to tear them to ribbons." "Oh, Qwill," Rosemary laughed. "He smells the turkey in the oven, that's all."

  14

  Rosemary picked up her car at the Mooseville garage, and Qwilleran picked up his mail at the post office.

  "I heard the bad news on the radio," Lori said. "What a terrible way to go!" "And yet it was in character," Qwilleran said. "You've got to admit it was dramatic — the kind of media event that Fanny would like." "Nick and I want to go to the memorial service tommorrow." He said: "We're on our way to Pickax now, and we're taking the cats. There was a break-in at the cabin yesterday, and we think Koko attacked the burglar and drove him away." "Really?" Lori's blue eyes were wide with astonishment.

  "There was blood on the rug, and Koko was licking his claws with unusual relish. If one of your postal patrons turns up with a bloody face, tip me off. Anyway, I'm not leaving Koko and Yum Yum at the cabin alone until this thing is cleared up. They're out in the car right now, disturbing the peace on Main Street." Rosemary drove her car back to the cabin and parked it in the clearing. Then the four of them headed for Pickax at a conservative speed that would not alarm Yum Yum.

  Rosemary mentioned that the garage mechanic was going to the memorial service.

  "Fanny had a real fan club in Moose County," Qwilleran said. "For a name that used to be despised, Klingenschoen has made a spectacular comeback." He swerved to avoid hitting a dead skunk, and the Siamese raised noses to sniff — alert, with ears back and whiskers forward.

  Rosemary said: "I've been thinking about that odor at the turkey farm. It wasn't a barnyard smell; it was a bad case of human B.O. I think the farmer has a drastic diet deficiency. I wish I could suggest it to his wife without offending her." Next the car hit a pothole, and Yum Yum launched a tirade of Siamese profanity that continued all the way to Pickax.

  Qwilleran parked in the driveway of the imposing stone house with its three floors of grandeur. "Here we are, back at Manderley," he quipped.

  "Oh, is
that the name of the place?" Rosemary asked innocently.

  The two animals were shut up in the kitchen with their blue cushion, their commode, and a bowl of water, while Qwilleran and Rosemary continued their search for the will.

  The library desk was a massive English antique, its drawers containing tax records, birth and death documents, insurance policies, real estate papers, investment information, paid bills, house inventories, and hundred-year-old promissory notes… but no will. The desk in Aunt Fanny's sitting room was a graceful French escritoire devoted to correspondence: love letters from the Twenties; silly chit-chat about «beaux» written by Qwilleran's mother when she and Fanny were in college; brief notes from Fanny's son at boarding school; and recent letters typed on Daily Fluxion letterheads. But still no will.

  "Here's something interesting, Qwill," Rosemary said. "From someone in Atlantic City. It's about Tom, asking Fanny to hire him as a man-of-all-work." She scanned the lines hastily. "Why, Qwill! He's an exconvict! It says in this letter he's about to be paroled… but he needs a place to go… and the promise of a job. He's not real sharp, it says… but he's a hard worker… obeys orders and never makes any trouble… Listen to this, Qwill. He took a rap and got ten years… but he's being released for good behavior… Oh, Qwill! What kind of people did Fanny know in New Jersey?" "I can guess," Qwilleran said. "Let's go to lunch." He checked the Siamese; they were perched on their blue cushion on top of the refrigerator and were as contented as could be expected under the circumstances. He found the handyman working in the yard.

  "Hello, Tom," he said sadly. "This is an awful thing that has happened." Tom had lost his bland, boyish expression and looked twenty years older. He nodded and stared at the grass. "Are you going to the memorial service tomorrow?" "I never went to one. I don't know what to do." "You just go in and sit down and listen to the music and the speeches. It's a way of saying goodbye to Miss Klingenschoen. She'd like to know that you were there." Tom leaned on his rake and bowed his head. His eyes brimmed.

  Qwilleran said: "She was good to you, Tom, but you were also a great help to her. Remember that. You made the last years of her life easier and happier." The handyman smeared his wet face with his sleeve. His grief was so poignant that Qwilleran felt — for the first time since hearing the news — a constriction in his throat. He coughed and started talking about the broken window at the cabin. "I've got a piece of cardboard in the window now, but if it rains hard and the wind blows from the east…" "I'll fix it," Tom said quietly.

  The luncheonette that served the second worst coffee in Moose County was crowded at the lunch hour and buzzing with chatter about the Klingenschoen tragedy. No church was large enough for the expected crowd, so the memorial service would be held in the high school gymnasium. Pastors of all five churches would give eulogies. The Senior Citizens' Glee Club would sing. A county commissioner would play taps on a World War I bugle. Fanny Klingenschoen's favorite wicker rocker would be on the platform, and kindergarten children would file past, each dropping a single rosebud in the empty chair.

  There was, of course, much speculation about the will. The great stone house had been promised to the Historical Society for a museum, and the carriage house had been promised to the Art Society for a gallery and studio. It was rumored that a lump sum would go to the Board of Education for an Olympic-size swimming pool. Altogether there was an atmosphere of mingled sorrow and excitement and gratitude among the customers at the luncheonette, especially the younger ones, several of whom were named Francesca.

  Qwilleran said to Rosemary: "I hope she remembered Tom in her will. I hope she left him the blue truck. He takes care of it like a baby." "What if we don't find the will?" "The government and the lawyers will get everything." After lunch the search continued in the drawing room, where a Chinese lacquer desk was stuffed with photographs: tintypes, snapshots, studio portraits, and glossy prints from newspapers. Qwilleran wanted to guess which whiskered chap was Grandfather Klingenschoen, and which bright-eyed girl with ringlets was Minnie K, but Rosemary dragged him away.

  Upstairs there were marble-topped dressers, tall chests, and wardrobes. Rosemary organized the search, taking Fanny's suite herself and directing Qwilleran to the other rooms. Then they compared notes, sitting on the top stair of the long flight that had been the scene of the accident.

  Rosemary said: "All I found was clothing. Real silk stockings and silk lingerie, imagine! White linen handkerchiefs by the gross… lots of white kid gloves turning yellow… everything smelling of lavender. What did you find?" Qwilleran's list was equally disappointing. "Sheets by the ton. Blankets an inch thick, smelling of cedar. Enough white towels for a Turkish bath. And tablecloths big enough to cover a squash court." "Where do we go from here?" "There might be a safe," he said. "It could be built into a piece of furniture or set in a paneled wall or hidden behind a picture. If Fanny was so concerned about concealing the nature of her will, she'd keep it in a safe." "It could take weeks to find it. You'd have to pull the whole house apart." A distant howl echoed through the quiet rooms. "That's Koko," Qwilleran said. "He objects to being shut up for so long. You know, Rosemary, that little. devil has a sixth sense about things like this. We could let him walk through the house and see what turns him on." As soon as Koko was released from the kitchen, he stalked through the butler's pantry into the dining room with the dignity of a visiting monarch, head held regally, ears worn like a coronet, tail pointing aloft. He sniffed ardently at the carved rabbits and pheasants on the doors of the mammoth sideboard, but it stored only soup tureens and silver serving pieces. In the foyer he was entranced by a spot on the rug at the foot of the stairs, until Qwilleran scolded him for bad taste. In the drawing room he examined the keys of the old square piano and rubbed against the bulbous legs. There was nothing to interest him in the library or conservatory, but he found the basement stairs and led the way to the English pub.

  It was a dark paneled room with a stone floor and several tavern tables and crude wooden chairs. The bar was ponderous, and there was a backbar elaborately carved and set with leaded glass. Koko nosed about behind the bar, then struck a rigid pose. In slow motion he approached a cabinet under the bar. He waited, staring at the bottom of the cabinet door. Qwilleran put his finger to his lips. Neither he nor Rosemary dared to move or even breathe. Then Koko sprang. There were tiny squeaks of terror, and Koko pranced back and forth in frustration.

  "A mouse," Qwilleran mouthed in Rosemary's direc tion. He tiptoed behind the bar and opened the cabinet door. A tiny gray thing flew out, and Koko took off in pursuit.

  "Let him go," Qwilleran said. "This is it!" Inside the cabinet was an old black-and-gold safe with a combination lock. "Only one problem. How do we open it?" "Call Nick." "Nick and Lori are coming into town for the service tomorrow. The safe can wait until then. Let's go home and eat that turkey." They bought a copy of the Pickax Picayune and found that Fanny's obituary filled the front page. Even the classified ads that usually occupied column one of page one were omitted. The text of the obituary was set in large type in a black-bordered box in the center of the page, surrounded by white space and then another wide black border. In fine print at the bottom on the page it was mentioned that the obituary was suitable for framing.

  Rosemary read it aloud on the way back to Mooseville, and Qwilleran called it a masterpiece of evasion and flowery excess. "They wrote obituaries like that in the nineteenth century. Wait till I see the editor! It's not easy to write a full-page story without saying anything." "But there are no pictures." "The Picayune has never acknowledged the invention of the camera. Read it to me again, Rosemary. I can't believe it." The headline was simple: Great Lady Called Home; Rosemary read:

  Elevated to the rewards of a well-spent life, without enduring the pangs of decay or the sorrow of parting or pain of sickness, and happy in her consciousness of having completed to the best of her ability her work for mankind, Fanny Klingenschoen at the advanced age of eighty-nine, slipped suddenly into the sleep from
which there is no waking, during the midnight hours of Wednesday at her palatial residence in downtown Pickax. In the few brief moments when The Reaper called her home, she passed from the scene of her joy and happiness, closed her eyes to the world, and smiled as the flickering candle of life went out, casting a gloom over the county such as rarely, if ever, has been felt on a similar occasion.

  No pen can describe the irreparable loss to the community when the cold slender fingers of death gripped the heart strings that inspired so many of her fellow creatures — inspired them for so many years — inspired them with an amplitude of leadership, poise, refined taste, cultivated mind, forthrightness, strength of character and generous nature.

  Born to Septimus and Ada Klingenschoen almost nine decades ago, she was the granddaughter of Gustave and Minnie Klingenschoen, who braved the trackless wilderness to bring social betterment to the rugged lives of the early pioneers.

  Although her spirit has taken flight, her forceful presence will be felt Saturday morning at eleven o'clock when a large number of county residents representing every station of life will assemble at Pickax High School to do honor to a woman of sterling qualities and unassuming dignity.

  Business in Pickax will be suspended for two hours.

  Rosemary said: "I don't know what you object to, Qwill. I think it's beautifully written — very sincere and rather touching." "I think it's nonsense," Qwilleran said. "It would make Fanny throw up." "YOW!" said Koko from the back seat.

  "See? He agrees with me, Rosemary." She sniffed. "How do you know if that's a yes or a no?" They arrived at the cabin in time to hear the telephone struggling for attention inside a kitchen cupboard.

  "Hello, there," said a voice that Qwilleran despised. "Have you got my girl up there? This is your old pal, Max Sorrel." Qwilleran bristled. "I have several girls here. Which one is yours?" After Rosemary had talked with Max she was moody and aloof. Finally she said: "I've got to start driving home tomorrow right after the memorial service." "YOW!" Koko said with more energy than usual, and it sounded so much like a cheer that both Qwilleran and Rosemary looked at him in dismay. The cat was sitting on the mantel, perilously close to the Staffordshire pitcher. One flick of the tail would…