"Yow!" said Koko, and Qwilleran felt a significant twinge in the roots of his moustache.
9
Monday, November eighteenth. "An unexpected cold snap brought temperatures as low as five degrees in Pickax last night, six below in Brrr, but a warming trend is indicated with a few snow flurries this afternoon."
Qwilleran snapped off his car radio with an impatient gesture. Despite the predictions, Moose County had yet to see even a light dusting of snow. He was driving to the New Pickax Hotel in the limousine that he had inherited from the Klingenschoen estate, the better to impress the visitor from Down Below.
When Noyton saw the long black vehicle, he said, "Jeez! Qwill, you've really got it made! How come? Did you marry oil? No one ever told me why you left the Fluxion. I thought you retired to write a book."
“It’s a long story,” Qwilleran said. “First I want to show you where I live and treat you to one of my housekeeper’s memorable breakfasts.”
“You — with a housekeeper as well as a limo? I remember when you lived in a furnished room and rode the bus.”
“Actually I live over the garage, and I’m turning the house into a museum.”
In a state of wonder Noyton walked into the K mansion and said, “I know kings in Europe that don’t live this good. One thing I want to know: Why am I here? Why don’t you finance this newspaper yourself?”
It was a question that Qwilleran was tired of hearing. He explained his position. “I’m a writer, Harry, not an entrepreneur.” He related the history of the Picayune and reiterated the county’s crying need for a newspaper.
“Who’s going to run it?” was Noyton’s first question.
“Arch Riker has just left the Fluxion. He’s a great editor and knows the business inside out. Junior Goodwinter is the last of a long line of newspaper Goodwinters. He’s a trained journalist. His academic record is tops, and he has boundless energy and enthusiasm.”
“Sounds like my kind of joe. Who’s the widow?”
“Gritty Goodwinter ... “
“I like her already!”
“She wants to sell the newspaper to a close personal friend who’ll only exploit the name of the hundred-year-old publication. Of course, you could forget the Picayune and start something called the Backwoods Gazette or the Moose Call, but the Picayune had a million dollars’ worth of publicity last week and is due for more in a national news magazine.”
“I got the picture,” Noyton said. “We’ll get the paper away from those bastards.”
“Mrs. Goodwinter also has a barnful of antique printing presses. You could start a newspaper museum.”
“I like it!” Noyton exclaimed. “What made you think of me, anyway?”
Qwilleran hesitated. They were eating breakfast, and Koko was under the table hoping someone would drop a strip of bacon. “Well, it’s like this: Your name just popped into my head.” How could he explain to a man like Noyton that the cat had drawn his attention to a certain book? No, it was too farfetched.
After breakfast the two men paid a visit to Scottie’s Men’s Shop. The proprietor burred his r’s and sold Noyton a raccoon car coat, an Aussie hat, and some tooled leather boots. For the rest of the day the big ungainly man with a craggy face was highly visible in Pickax.
He was seen leaving the hotel, entering the city hall, driving around with the mayor, lunching with influential men at the country club, walking out of the law office, walking into the bank, dining with the Goodwinter widow, and eating a twenty-ounce steak with two baked potatoes.
It was rumored that he was a Texan buying oil rights that would make Moose County farmers rich. Or he was a speculator promoting offshore drilling that would ruin the tourist industry. Or he was the advance man for a nuclear power plant that would leak radiation, contaminate the drinking water, and kill the fish. Or he was a Hollywood scout for a major movie to be made in Moose County. The rumors were reported by Mrs. Cobb, who had heard them from Mrs. Fulgrove, who had been told by Mr. O’Dell.
Meanwhile Qwilleran made a morning visit to the hospital to see the young newspaper editor who was known for his boundless energy and enthusiasm. Junior was slumped in a chair with his leg in a cast, his face unshaven, and his expression disgruntled. Jody was flitting about, trying to be cheerful and useful, but Junior was being stubbornly morose.
“You idiot!” Qwilleran greeted the patient. “If you’re going to break a leg, why not pick a more comfortable place?”
Jody said, “He caught a bad cold in the woods, but it didn’t go into pneumonia. He wants to stay in the hospital until his beard grows.”
“Nowhere else to go,” Junior said hopelessly. “The farmhouse is sold. The furniture is being auctioned off Wednesday. I can’t stay with Jody; all she’s got is a studio apartment.”
“We have some spare beds you’re welcome to use,” Qwilleran said.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Well, wipe that bleak look off your face. I have some good news. An acquaintance of mine from Down Below wants to buy a newspaper. He’s prepared to offer your mother three times what XYZ has offered, and he’ll sink a bundle into a new printing plant.”
Junior looked wary. “Is he crazy?”
“Crazy and loaded. He owns office buildings, hotels, ball clubs, a chain of restaurants, and a couple of breweries in the U.S. and abroad, and he likes the idea of owning a newspaper. He might get into magazines later on.”
“I don’t believe it. I’m hallucinating. Or you’re hallucinating.”
Jody cried, “Oh, Juney! Isn’t that fabulous?”
Qwilleran went on. “Noyton is here now. The city fathers are gung ho. The plan is for Arch Riker to be the publisher, and you’ll be managing editor of a real newspaper. I know some young journalists Down Below who are disenchanted with the city, and they’ll find this a good place to raise a family. They won’t earn as much as they did Down Below, but it costs less to live up here. Who knows? We might get Noyton to finance a decent airport and buy an airline. We’ll have to monitor his enthusiasm, though, or he’ll build a fifty-story hotel in the middle of a cornfield.”
Junior was speechless.
“Oh, Jueny,” his little friend kept squealing, “say something.”
“Are you sure it’s going through?”
“Noyton never backs down.”
“But my mother has this ... close connection with Exbridge.”
“Connection! She’s having an affair with Exbridge, and you know it. But if she’s as hungry as it appears, she’ll forget about XYZ and go for the larger fish. Not only will Noyton jingle hard cash in her ears; he’ll turn on the charm. Women like him.”
“Is he married?” asked Jody.
“Not at the moment, but he’s too old for you, Jody.”
She giggled.
“He’s interested in buying the old presses in the barn also, to start a newspaper museum. Your father would be pleased, Junior.”
“Oh, wow!”
“Jody,” said Qwilleran, “would you get us some coffee from the cafeteria? And some of those oatmeal cookies made out of cardboard and sawdust?” He handed her a bill and waited for her to disappear. “Before she returns, Junior, answer a few questions, will you? Do you think your father’s accident might have been suicide?”
Junior stared. “I don’t think — he’d do — anything like that?”
“He had bankrupted the family. Your mother was having an affair. And there might be another reason.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember that stranger in a black raincoat who came up here on the plane? You thought he was a traveling salesman. I think he was an investigator of some kind. If your father was involved in anything shady, he might have known the man was coming ... .”
“My dad wouldn’t do anything illegal,” Junior protested. “He didn’t have that kind of mind.”
“Next question: Could it have been murder?”
“WHAT!” Junior al
most jumped out of his cast. “Why would ... who would ... ?”
“Skip that one. What was in the metal box you tried to save after the fire?”
“I don’t know. Dad was very secretive about it, but I knew it was important.”
“How big was it?”
Junior sneezed and reached for a tissue. “About as big as a tissue box.”
“I hear Jody coming. Tell me this: Why was your father making frequent one-day trips to Minneapolis?”
“He never told me.” Junior’s face turned red. “But I know he wasn’t getting along with my mother.”
Jody returned with the coffee. “No oatmeal cookies left, so I brought molasses.”
“They taste like burnt tires,” Junior said after a couple of nibbles. “How was the turnout at the preview, Qwill?”
“Full house! I’ve started interviewing the Old Timers and taping oral histories. Got any suggestions? I’ve got your grandmother and Homer Tibbitt on tape.”
“Mrs. Woolsmith,” Jody said in a small voice. “She’d be a good one.”
Junior scratched his emerging beard. “You should be able to find some who remember the mines and the pioneer farms and the fishing industry before powerboats.”
“Mrs. Woolsmith lived on a farm,” Jody said softly.
“I need a subject with a reliable memory,” Qwilleran said.
“You’ll still have to drag it out of them,” Junior warned him. “The Old Timers like to talk about their blood pressure and their dentures and their great-grandchildren.”
Jody said, “Mrs. Woolsmith has almost all her own teeth.”
“Well, give it some thought,” Qwilleran said to Junior. “There’s no hurry.”
“Wait a minute! I’ve got it! There’s a woman in the senior care facility,” Junior suddenly recalled. “She’s over ninety, but she’s sharp, and she spent all her life on a farm. Her name is Woolsmith. Sarah Woolsmith.”
Jody picked up her coat and shoulder bag and walked quietly from the room.
“Hey, where’s she going?” Junior yelled.
Following his session at the hospital, Qwilleran went to lunch at Stephanie’s, wondering about Senior’s metal box and his frequent trips to Minneapolis. Junior’s red-faced embarrassment meant that he knew or suspected the reason. Young people who are quite casual in their own relationships can be strangely embarrassed by the sexual adventures of their elders. As eh was musing about this curious reaction, he heard a familiar voice at the table behind him.
A man was ordering a roast beef sandwich with mustard and horseradish. “Trim the fat, please. And bring a tossed salad with Roquefort dressing and no cucumber or green pepper.”
The voice had a clipped twang that Qwilleran had heard before. He rose and walked in the direction of the men’s room, glancing at his neighbor as he passed. It was the so-called historian he had confronted in the library. The man had exchanged his buttoned-down image for more casual attire — less conspicuous in Moose County — but there was no doubt about his identity. He was the stranger whose previous visit had coincided with Senior’s fatal accident — or suicide — or murder.
Qwilleran spent the rest of his lunch hour shifting the possibilities. He composed scenarios involving the metal box ... adultery ... gambling ... the drug connection ... espionage. In none of them did the mild-mannered typesetter seem to fit.
10
Tuesday, November nineteenth. "Warmer today, with highs in the upper twenties. Some chance of snow this afternoon, with blizzard conditions developing Wednesday. Currently our temperature is nineteen."
"That's terrible!" Mrs. Cobb said. "Tomorrow's the auction, and it's way out in the country. They say the hotel's already full of out-of-town dealers. They came for the preview this afternoon."
"Don't worry. If they predict a blizzard, it'll be a nice day," Qwilleran said with the cynicism of a Moose County weather nut. "How will they handle an auction in a house like that? It's nothing but a series of small rooms."
"The actual auction will probably be in the barn. The posters and radio announcements said to dress warm. Foxy Fred is handling it, so everything will be done right. I'm going to the preview this afternoon to pick up a catalogue. What time is Miss Rice coming? The cats are hungry."
At Hixie's suggestion the Siamese had been given only a teaspoonful of food for breakfast — only enough to keep them from chewing ankles. The idea was that Koko should be ravenously hungry for his screen test, and Yum Yum had to suffer with him. They yowled constantly while Qwilleran ate his eggs Benedict. They paced the floor, got underfoot, and screeched when a foot accidentally came down upon a tail.
Koko evidently knew that Hixie was responsible for this outrage. Upon her arrival he greeted her with a button-eyed glare and a switching tail.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Koko," she said. He turned and walked stiff-legged into the laundry room, where he scratched the gravel in his commode.
"Here's my scenario," she explained to Qwilleran. "We start with a shot of the front door, which denotes elegance and wealth at a glance. Then we enter the foyer, and the camera pans from the French furniture to the grand staircase to the crystal chandelier."
"It sounds like prime-time soap opera."
"Next we zoom to the top of the staircase, where Koko is sitting, looking bored."
"Who's going to direct this?" Qwilleran wanted to know.
Hixie ignored the question. "Then the butler announces in a starchy voice that pork liver cupcakes are served. That's voice-over. You can do the voice-over, Qwill. Immediately Koko runs downstairs, flowing in that liquid way he has, and the camera follows him into the dining room."
"Dining room?" Qwilleran muttered doubtfully. The Siamese were accustomed to meals in the kitchen and were reluctant to eat in the wrong location.
Hixie went on with her usual confidence. "Quick shot of the twenty-foot dining table with three-foot silver candelabra and a single elegant porcelain plate. We can use one of the Klingenschoen service plates with the blue border and gold crest and K monogram... Then... cut to Koko devouring the pork liver cupcakes avidly. We may need to do several takes, so be prepared to grab him, Qwill. The trick is to avoid rear-end shots."
"That won't be easy. Cats are fond of mooning."
"Okay, you put him on the top stair."
Koko had been listening with an expression that could be described only as sour. When Qwilleran stooped to pick him up, he slipped from his grasp like a wet bar of soap, streaked down the foyer in a blur of movement, and sprang to the top of the Pennsylvania schrank. From this seven-foot perch he gazed down at his pursuers defiantly. He was sitting dangerously close to a large, rare majolica vase.
"I don't dare climb up and grab him," QwiIleran said. "He's taken a hostage. He probably knows it's worth ten thousand dollars."
"I didn't know he was so temperamental," Hixie said.
"Let's have a cup of coffee in the kitchen and see what happens when we ignore him. Siamese hate to be ignored."
In a few minutes Koko joined them, sauntering into the room with a swaggering show of nonchalance. He sat on his haunches like a kangaroo and innocently licked a small patch of fur on his underside. When this chore was finished he allowed himself to be carried to the top of the staircase.
Hixie directed from below. "Arrange him in a compact bundle on the top step, Qwill, facing the camera."
He lowered the cat gently to the carpeted stair, but Koko stiffened his body. His back humped, his tail curled into a corkscrew, and all four legs looked out-of-joint.
"Try it again," Hixie called up to them. "Tuck his legs under his body."
"You come up and tuck his legs under his body," Qwilleran said, "and I'll go down and take the pictures. Your scenario is good, Hixie, but it won't play."
"Well, bring him down, and we'll do a close-up with the catfood to see how he looks on camera."
Qwilleran lugged Koko into the dining room. By now the cat was a squirming, protesting, nasty, snarling bundle of flyi
ng fur.
"Ready, Mrs. Cobb!" Hixie shouted toward the kitchen. The housekeeper, who was standing by as prop-person, trotted from the kitchen carrying a plate heaped with gray pork paste. "Is this going to be in color?" she asked.
Carefully Qwilleran placed Koko in front of the plate — profile to the camera — while Hixie moved in with her telephoto lens. Koko looked down at the gray blob, with his ears and whiskers swept backward in loathing. He picked up one fastidious paw and shook it in distaste. Then he shook the other paw and slowly walked away, switching his tail.
Qwilleran said, "If you ever need a picture of a cat slowly walking away, Koko is your subject."
"It was all new and strange to him," said Hixie, undaunted. "We'll try it another day."
"I'm afraid Koko will always be his own cat. He cares nothing for fame and fortune and media exposure. The word cooperation has never been in his vocabulary. Whenever I try to take a snapshot, he rolls over on his haunches, points one leg to heaven in a pornographic pose, and licks his intimate parts... Let's go and finish our coffee."
Mrs. Cobb had a fresh pot waiting for them, and she served it in the library with it few of her apricot-almond crescents.
"What's new in the restaurant business?" Qwilleran asked Hixie.
"Not much. We've just hired a busboy named Derek Cuttlebrink. I love funny names. In school I knew a Betty Schipps, who married a man named Fisch, and they opened a seafood restaurant. Do you ever browse through the Moose County phone book? It's a panic! Fugtree, Mayfus, Inchpot, Hackpole ..."
"I know Hackpole," said Qwilleran. "He's in used cars and auto repair."
"Then let me tell you something amusing. When I first took this job I was trying to be ever so charming, remembering faces and greeting customers by name. I'd taken a course to improve my memory, and I was using the association technique. One day Mr. Hackpole came in with some frumpy woman that he was trying to impress, and I called him Mr. Chopstick. He didn't like it one bit."
The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare tcw-7 Page 11
