In a few minutes he reported to Unit Four. “Where are the cats?”
“Koko’s upstairs predicting the weather. He plans to apply for your job. Yum Yum’s under the sofa. She doesn’t care for lightning.”
“Who does? I gave a talk on lightning at the clubhouse last year and asked how many people enjoy electrical storms. Not one hand went up. A few said they found thunderstorms exciting, provided it wasn’t too loud and one had something to drink!”
“Is it true that you shouldn’t stand under a tree during an electrical storm?”
“Absolutely! Lightning goes for tall targets. Trees are tall. The intense heat boils the sap and explodes the tree.”
“One more question, Joe. What exactly is sheet lightning?”
“Sometimes the lightning flash is obscured by clouds, which are then brightly illuminated. During sheet lightning, the flash seems to come from everywhere, lighting up the whole sky. That’s what we’ve been getting for the last hour. . . . But enough of that. I learned something electrifying in Horseradish this week. I raced over there for a birthday party following my forecast, and I met the girl who was going to marry Ronnie Dickson this fall. You remember his fatal accident, Qwill?”
“I remember. The official report blamed the use of drugs plus alcohol.”
“Well, according to this girl, Alden Wade was the one who suggested uppers to Ronnie, saying they were in common use for stage fright. She and her friends think Alden wanted to get rid of Ronnie. There was a whispering campaign in Horseradish about the sniping of Mrs. Wade. Alden’s stepson and Ronnie were the instigators. No one knows what happened to the stepson, but Ronnie sure is out of the picture.”
“Interesting,” Qwilleran said. “Do you buy that story, Joe?”
“Well . . . she’s an intelligent girl—very serious, very sincere. Thanks for the drink, Qwill.” He jumped up. “Gotta get home and talk to Jetboy. He’s a big, strong tomcat, but when there’s an electrical storm, I have to sit and hold his paw.”
“Does you credit, Joe,” Qwilleran said as he accompanied his neighbor to the front door.
When he returned, Koko and Yum Yum were sitting in the middle of the floor, regarding him intently. Their bedtime snack was past due.
TWENTY-FOUR
Qwilleran marched the Siamese up to their sleeping room on the balcony, said goodnight, and closed the door. The latter was merely an end-of-the-day gesture; Koko could open the door whenever he felt like going downstairs to watch the nightlife on the riverbank.
In the adjoining quarters, Qwilleran completed his bedtime ablutions and was settling down for a few pages of the Wilson Quarterly before lights-out, when he heard a crash downstairs and the sounds of a minor riot! He rushed up to the balcony railing and heard snarling and growling.
Qwilleran’s first thought was that Koko had teased a coyote into crashing through the window wall and creating panic . . . but no! It was only Koko having a cat fit, as he always did before a major storm. He swooped around and around, knocking down lamps, decorative objects, side chairs, kitchen utensils, and everything on Qwilleran’s writing table.
“Koko! No!” he thundered in a voice intended to slow the cat down. Koko went on looking for havoc to create.
“Treat!” came the magic word. Koko went on rolling in the lush pile of the shag rug that was now littered with salted almonds from the nut bowl.
There were distant rolls of thunder and one loud roar ending in a frightening crack! like a battery of rifle shots.
Koko calmly stood up, using a luxurious shudder to divest his fur of salt. Then he walked calmly upstairs, leaving Qwilleran to clean up the mess.
The man was in no mood to tidy the place thoroughly at that hour. He straightened furniture and a few kitchen utensils and shook his head over the rugful of salted nuts. But it was late. He was tired. The Siamese were both in their room, and he retired to his own room.
Claps of thunder were punctuating the growing rumble and roar in the western sky. Bolts of lightning forked down from the clouds. Through his upstairs window there was a panorama of electrical turbulence such as Qwilleran had never seen. Once, a huge ball of fire seemed to bounce across the distant treetops as if looking for a lofty target. Awed by the scene, he hardly heard the police sirens. But he saw a sudden burst of light in the midnight sky, and he heard the honk-honk of fire trucks approaching from two, then three directions! His blood chilled. Lightning sought the highest target! Out there to the northwest was the Big House on the Hill!
He turned on his shortwave radio and heard a squeaking voice“ . . . fire at the Hibbard estate on West Kennebeck Road. Firefighters from four communities responding . . .”
Qwilleran’s sole reaction was: Thank God Violet didn’t live to see this happen!
He slept hardly at all that night. The Siamese stole quietly into his room to give the solace they seemed to know was needed.
The glow in the sky continued after the thunder and lightning faded away. There was no one he could call in the middle of the night, and no one called him until six-thirty A.M.
An urgent voice said, “Qwill, this is Junior. Did you hear—”
“Yes, I heard.”
“We’re getting out an Extra. Early deadline. Could you come downtown to help?”
Qwilleran dressed in a hurry, skipped his coffee, threw some dry food in the cats’ plates, and drove to the news office. Whatever they wanted him to do would help staunch the emotions that flooded his mind.
He wrote a description of the house, wrote cutlines for Bushland’s photos, and suggested someone who might supply information.
When the edition hit the street, the news covered the front page and the picture page. The banner headline was . . .
HISTORIC MANSION BURNS TO GROUND
And a sidebar was headed:
HERO KILLED TRYING TO RESCUE DOG
As soon as the newspaper was put to bed, Qwilleran went directly home, avoiding the town gossips—whose information had come from WPKX or the grapevine.
At home he erased all messages on his answering machine, except one. The others, he decided, could call again or buy a newspaper. The only person he wanted to talk with was Judd Amhurst. He had recommended Judd to the editor as the best source of personal information. Now he phoned his private number at the Old Rock Pile. When old Geoffrey Hibbard built it a century before, down the hill from the main house, little did he know that it would be the only remaining structure when all else had burned.
Judd arrived at the Willows looking ten years older than he did before the fire. Qwilleran himself felt ten years older.
They shook hands solemnly, forgetting to use the fraternal handshake, and the guest chose coffee instead of Squunk water.
Qwilleran waved him toward one of the sofas. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Judd was carrying a briefcase, which he placed on the coffee table. He said, “It’s good to get away for an hour or so. The sight of that mountain of ashes makes me ill. It’s depressing to be a witness to the end of something.
“In the Old Rock Pile last night, we’d been playing cards and were ready to call it a day when there was a deafening thunderclap and a blinding flash of lightning. It sounded too close! We jumped up from the table and ran outside. Then it sounded like an explosion! Alden called nine-one-one. We could see flames. We ran up the hill. All kinds of sirens were screaming! Suddenly Alden yelled, ‘The dog! The dog! The dog!’ Tasso was shut up in a room next to the kitchen. We tried to stop Alden but he sprinted for the burning house, shouting the dog’s name! The firefighters yelled at him, but he kept on going. . . . That was the last we saw of him. The paper said both Alden and the dog probably died of smoke inhalation, but the two of them burned along with that old, wooden relic.”
Qwilleran said, “You must have been absolutely stunned!”
Judd nodded. “We couldn’t think. We couldn’t talk with any sense. We certainly couldn’t sleep, but we were penned up in the Old Rock Pile because
the air was filled with smoke. The Wix boys found a bottle in Alden’s room and proceeded to knock themselves out. I looked at his bookcase for something that might take my mind off the disaster. And that’s when I saw a title that jolted me back to my senses.”
Judd reached for the briefcase and unclasped it.
“There was a copy of Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon! That is the rare book that was stolen from the ESP!”
“But thousands have been printed over the years,” Qwilleran reminded him.
“Yes, but this copy was autographed and a first edition . . . and inside the back cover was the ESP sticker with catalogue number!” He drew it from the briefcase and handed it over.
Qwilleran looked at the sticker and murmured, “What can I say? It’s hard to believe that Alden would steal it and then report it stolen!”
“The question is—what do I do with it? I was brought up to believe that you never speak ill of the dead. I can’t return it to the ESP without telling where I found it.”
“Mail it back anonymously, Judd, preferably from a Lockmaster or Bixby post office. I have a book mailer you can use.”
“Thanks, Qwill. I knew you’d have a solution.”
“Meanwhile, where are the three of you staying?”
“The Wix boys are going back with their parents. I’m going to check into the motel in Kennebeck. Violet’s attorney is sending someone to pick up our keys and take responsibility for the Old Rock Pile and its contents. I never want to see it again!”
During their nightly phone chat, Qwilleran and Polly grieved over the Hibbard House tragedy and expressed shock over the Alden Wade sacrifice.
Polly said, “I knew he was a dog fancier. He ignored Dundee, and he often mentioned Violet’s hound, an Italian breed I’ve never heard of.”
“I can understand his desperation to save Tasso,” Qwilleran said. “I believe I’d do the same if Koko and Yum Yum were penned inside a burning building.”
“I don’t know how we’ll replace Alden. He did a good job of managing special events, except for the proposed story hour for children. He didn’t feel comfortable with youngsters.”
“And I doubt whether they’d be comfortable with him, Polly. I could suggest a successor. He’s retired, an avid reader, a member of the lit club, a longtime customer of Edd Smith, and a grandfather with white hair. Kids would warm up to him. His name is Judd Amhurst. You can reach him at the Kennebeck Motel.”
“À bientôt, dear, and thank you.”
“À bientôt.”
Qwilleran repaired to his office in the dining ell to work on his personal journal. He wrote with an old gold fountain pen for sentimental reasons and because it flowed well, although it had to be kept under wraps when Yum Yum was around. She and Koko were behind closed doors on the balcony, enjoying their beauty sleep.
Friday, October 10—A day that will live in memory and a mystery that will never be solved publicly. Who stole the rare book from ESP and returned it anonymously? And who was the sniper who killed Alden’s first wife? There will be guesses and gossip ad infinitum.
Malicious talk always circulates around people who are too successful, too proper, too talented, too well spoken, too well dressed, and too-too-much.
A.W. was all of these. Questions will buzz around like flies, and answers will be given with lifted eyebrows and wise smirks. What was behind the brief marriage of Violet and A.W.? Why did his first wife marry him so soon after her husband’s suicide? Was it really suicide? Did Ronnie Dickson take uppers of his own accord, or did A.W. suggest them? And why . . . ?
What would Polly say if she knew about Alden and the stolen book? She would probably quote her father: There’s a little good in the worst of us, and a little bad in the best of us.
Makes one wonder if he’s guilty of the other crimes pinned on him by the gossips. Makes one wonder if Koko sensed something wrong about the guy.
How about Koko’s sudden interest in certain Shakespeare plays: Hamlet’s mother married too soon after her husband’s death; Othello killed his wife.
And how about Koko’s interest in Fables in Slang by George Ade? Alden’s real name was George Wade! That would be an amusing coincidence if you took it seriously. I know Koko’s track record, and, frankly, all of this makes my hair stand on end.
Enough of this! I’m getting punchy!
“Yow!” came a howl too close to Qwilleran’s ear for comfort. Koko had opened his bedroom door, crept stealthily downstairs, and leapt noiselessly to the back of Qwilleran’s chair, where he was now teetering.
“What are you doing down here?” Qwilleran demanded.
Koko sprang to the table and sat on a stack of papers in a ready-for-business pose.
His presence brought back many a recollection. Koko had shown a pointed dislike of Alden by avoiding him. And he had gone one slippery step further—one slippery step, on a banana peel!
Qwilleran closed his journal.
“Okay,” he said to Koko. “Let’s see what we can find in the kitchen.”
He poured some Kabbibbles into the cats’ plates and had a large dish of ice cream for himself.
The Cat Who Went Bananas Page 16
