The Cat Who Went Into the Closet

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  The chief shot him a veiled look. “The wife takes care of that.”

  “Oh, ho! Now I understand why you’re always advocating matrimony! I knew there was some ulterior reasoning.”

  Brodie scowled. “What’s on your mind, besides leaves?”

  “Do you know a guy named Gil Inchpot?”

  “Potato farmer. Brrr Township.”

  “Right. His daughter’s worried about him. He’s disappeared. His truck’s gone. He abandoned his dog. And he decamped when the potatoes were ready to harvest.”

  “That’s the sheriff’s turf,” Brodie pointed out. “Did she report it to the sheriff’s department?”

  “She talked to a deputy named Dan Fincher.”

  “That guy’s a lunkhead! I used to work for the sheriff, and I have firsthand evidence.”

  “Well, the lunkhead laughed it off, said Inchpot was off on a binge somewhere.”

  “The daughter should notify the state police. They cover three counties. Do you know the license number of the missing vehicle?”

  “No, but it’s a blue Ford pickup, and I have Inchpot’s address, in case you want to run a check on it—with that expensive computer the taxpayers bought for you.”

  “Seeing as how it’s you,” Brodie said, “I’ll run down the number and turn it over to the state police post.”

  “That’s decent of you, Andy. If you ever want to run for mayor, I’ll campaign for you.”

  The chief scowled again. “It would do me good to give Dan Fincher a swift kick in the pants, that’s all.”

  SIX

  WHEN QWILLERAN RETURNED home after his discussion with the police chief, Goodwinter Boulevard was transformed. All the leaves had been blown from the front lawns and sidewalks into the gutters, in preparation for the vacuum truck on Saturday. He found a lawn service vehicle parked behind the house, and three industrious young men with backpack blowers were coaxing the backyard leaves into heaps.

  “Did Junior Goodwinter hire you?” Qwilleran asked one of them, feeling guilty that he had failed to take care of it himself. “Send the bill to me, but first, answer one question: What happens to these huge piles of leaves?”

  “We’ll be back tomorrow to finish up. We’ve run out of leaf bags,” said the boss of the crew. “It’s been a busy day. Everybody’s in a rush to get rid of the leaves before snow flies.”

  “What happens if a big wind comes up tonight and blows these piles all over the yard?”

  “We get another day’s work, and you get another bill,” the lawnman said with a guffaw.

  As the backpackers went on their merry way, Qwilleran walked about the yard through rustling leaves—a joyous activity he remembered from boyhood. Suddenly, through the corner of his eye, he saw something crawling through the shrubs that bordered the property. He was prepared to yell “Scat!” when he realized it was the attorney’s son. He called out sternly, “Is there something you want, young man?”

  Timmie Wilmot scrambled to his feet. “Is Oh Jay over here?”

  “I don’t know anyone of that name.”

  “He’s our cat. A great big orange one with bad breath.”

  “Then he’d better not hang around here,” Qwilleran said in a threatening voice.

  “I’m afraid he’ll go out in the street and get sucked up in the leaf sucker.” The boy was looking anxiously about Qwilleran’s yard. “There he is!” He ran across the grass to a pile of leaves that effectively camouflaged a marmalade cat. Grabbing the surprised animal around the middle, he staggered back across the yard, clutching the bundle of fur to his chest, the orange tail dangling between his knees and the orange legs pointing stiffly in four directions. The pair reached the row of shrubs on the lot line and crawled through the brush to safety.

  Indoors, the Siamese were concerned chiefly with Qwilleran’s recent association with a dog-handler who also raised Siberian huskies. Their noses, like Geiger counters detecting radiation, passed over every square inch of Qwilleran’s clothing, their whiskers registering positive.

  He arranged some roast beef and boned chub from Toodle’s Deli on a plate and placed it under the kitchen table. Then, turning on the kitchen radio for the weather report, he heard the following announcement instead:

  “The hobgoblins will be out tomorrow night, which is official Beggars’ Night in Pickax. A resolution passed by the city council limits trick-or-treating to one-and-a-half hours, between six o’clock and seven-thirty. Children should stay in their own neighborhoods unless accompanied by an adult. In all cases, two or more children should go together. The police department makes the following recommendations in the interest of safety:

  “Stay on the sidewalk; don’t run into the street. Don’t go into houses if invited. Avoid wearing long costumes that could cause tripping. Don’t eat treats until they have been inspected by a parent or other responsible person. Discard unwrapped cookies and candies immediately. Happy Halloween!”

  Qwilleran turned to the cats, who were washing up. “Did you hear that? It would be more fun to stay home and do homework.”

  Saturday morning, after he had heard the announcement for the third time, he went back to Toodle’s Market and bought a bushel of apples. When he arrived home, his phone was ringing, and Koko was announcing the fact by racing back and forth and jumping on and off the desk.

  “Okay, okay!” Qwilleran yelled at him. “I can hear it, and I know where it is!”

  Junior’s voice said, “Where’ve you been so early? Did you stay out all night? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “I was buying apples for trick-or-treat.”

  “Apples! Are you nuts? They’ll throw ’em at you! They’ll soap your windows!”

  “We’ll see about that,” Qwilleran said grimly. “What’s on your mind? Are you at the office?”

  “I’m going in later, but first: How would you like to take a little ride?”

  “Where?”

  “To the Hilltop Cemetery. Grandma was buried there yesterday—privately.”

  “How come?”

  “Her last wishes, on file in Wilmot’s office, specified no funeral, no mourners, no flowers, and no bagpipes.”

  “That will break Andy Brodie’s heart,” Qwilleran said. The police chief prided himself on his piping at weddings and funerals.

  “It was Grandma’s revenge on the police for all the traffic tickets she got, not that she ever paid them.”

  “Then why are you going to the cemetery this morning?”

  “Somehow,” said her grandson, “it isn’t decent to let her be buried with only the Dingleberry brothers and a backhoe operator in attendance. Want to come along? I’ll pick you up.”

  “I’ll bring a couple of apples,” Qwilleran offered.

  The Hilltop Cemetery dated back to pioneer days when the Gages, Goodwinters, Fugtrees, Trevelyans, and other settlers were buried across the crest of a ridge. Their tombstones could be seen silhouetted against the sky as one approached.

  On the way to the cemetery Junior said, “Pickax lost to Lockmaster again last night, fourteen to zip.”

  “We should give up football and stick to growing potatoes,” Qwilleran remarked.

  “How’s everything at the house?”

  “Koko just came out of a closet with a man’s spat. I haven’t seen one of those since the last Fred Astaire movie. He was dragging it conscientiously to the collection site in the kitchen, staggering and stumbling. His aim in life is to empty the closets, ounce by ounce.”

  “They’ll have to be cleaned out sooner or later.”

  “Watch it!” Qwilleran snapped. Junior had a friendly way of facing his passenger squarely as he spoke, and they narrowly missed hitting a deer bounding out of a cornfield. “Keep your eyes on the road, Junior, or we’ll be residents of Hilltop ourselves.” They were passing through farm country, and he asked Junior if he knew a potato farmer named Gil Inchpot.

  “Not personally, but his daughter was my date for the senior prom in high school.
She was the only girl short enough for me.”

  “You’re no longer short, Junior. You’re what they call vertically challenged.”

  “Gee, thanks! That makes me feel nine feet tall.”

  They parked the car and walked up the hill to a granite obelisk chiseled with the name Gage. Small headstones surrounded it, and there was one rectangle of freshly turned earth, not yet sodded or marked.

  “There she is,” said her grandson. “I was supposed to ship her books to Florida, but I had too many other things on my mind—my job, and the baby coming. I promise, though, she’s going to get a memorial service exactly how she wanted it.”

  “Has her will been read?”

  “Not until my brother and sister get here. Jack has to come from L.A., and Pug lives in Montana. Grandma wrote a new will after moving to Florida. It was in the manager’s safe at the mobile home park, all tied up with red ribbon and sealed with red wax. It will be interesting to know what changes she made.”

  “You told me once that you were her sole heir.”

  “That’s what she said at the time, but I think she was just cajoling me into doing something for her. A world-class conniver, that’s what she was!”

  “When Pug and Jack arrive,” Qwilleran suggested, “I’d like to take all of you to dinner at the Old Stone Mill.”

  “Gee! That would be great!”

  “Would you like an apple?”

  The two men stood munching in silence for a while, Junior staring at the grave and Qwilleran gazing around the horizon. “Pleasant view,” he remarked.

  “Pallbearers always hated burials up here. No access road. They have to carry the casket up that steep path . . . Wish I had a flower to throw on the grave before we leave.”

  “We could bury our apple cores. They’d sprout and produce apple blossoms every spring.”

  “Hey! Let’s do it!” Junior exclaimed.

  They scooped out some soil and buried the cores reverently, then drove back to town without saying much until Qwilleran ventured, “You never told me anything about your grandfather.”

  “To tell the truth, my grandparents are closer in death than they ever were in life,” Junior said. “She was into arts and health fads; he was into sports and booze. The Gage shipyard had folded, and he spent his time manipulating the family fortune, not always legally. Grandpa spent two years in federal prison for financial fraud. That was in the 1920s.”

  “If they were so mismatched, why did they marry? Does anyone know?”

  “Well, the way my mother told me the story, Euphonia’s forebears were pioneer doctors by the name of Roff. They’d deliver a baby for a bushel of apples or set a broken bone for a couple of chickens, so the family never had any real money. Somehow Euphonia got pressured into marrying the Gage heir. The Roffs, being from Boston, had a certain ‘class’ that Grandpa lacked, so it seemed like a good deal all around, but it didn’t work.”

  “Was your mother their only child?”

  “Yeah. She called herself a Honeymoon Special.”

  Qwilleran asked to be dropped off at the variety store, where he bought a blue light bulb and a Halloween mask. Then he spent an hour with his recording machine taping weird noises. The Siamese watched with bemused tolerance as their human companion uttered screeches, anguished moans, and hideous laughs into the microphone.

  The performance was interrupted by the telephone, when Gary Pratt called. “Nancy’s here. She wants to tell you something. Okay?”

  “Put her on.”

  In a breathless, little-girl voice Nancy said, “The state police found Pop’s truck!”

  “That was fast. Where was it?”

  “At the airport.”

  “In the parking structure?”

  “No. In the open lot.”

  He nodded with understanding. There was a charge for parking indoors, and most locals preferred to park free in the cow pasture. “Is there any clue as to his destination?”

  “No . . .” She hesitated before continuing in a faltering way. “He never . . . he doesn’t like to travel, Mr. Qwilleran. He’s hardly been . . . out of Moose County . . . except for Vietnam.”

  “Still, some unexpected business transaction may have come up—suddenly. What did the police say?”

  “They told me to report a missing person, and they’ll check the passenger list for flights.”

  “Let me know what they find out,” Qwilleran said. He was beginning to feel genuinely sorry for her, and in an effort to divert her from her worries he said, “You know, Nancy, I’d like to write a column on dog-sledding. Are you willing to be interviewed?”

  “Oh, yes!” she said. “The mushers would love the publicity.”

  “How about tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Well, I want to go to Pop’s house after church to clean out the refrigerator, but I could be home by two.”

  “By the way, what’s the situation in the potato fields?”

  “No severe frost yet. I’m praying he comes back before the crop’s ruined.”

  “Could you hire someone to do the harvesting in an emergency?”

  “I don’t know who it would be. They’re all busy with their own work.”

  “It won’t hurt to ask around, Nancy. And I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

  The hour of hobgoblins approached. Qwilleran tried on his death’s-head mask and prepared a sheet to shroud his head and body. The tape player was set up near the entrance, and at six o’clock he turned on the blue porch lamp that cast an eerie light on the gray stonework. He was ready for them.

  The first squealing, chattering trio to come up the front walk included a miniature Darth Vader, a pirate, and a bride in a wedding dress made from old curtains. They were carrying shopping bags. Before they could ring the bell, the front door opened slowly, and unnatural sounds emanated from the gloomy interior. “Ooooooooooh! Ooooooooooo!” Then there was a horrifying screech. As the pop-eyed youngsters stared, a shrouded skeleton emerged from the shadows, and a clawlike hand was extended, clutching an apple. The three screamed and scrambled down the steps.

  Later groups were scared stiff but not stiff enough to run away without their treats, so the supply of apples diminished slightly. Many beggars avoided the house entirely. They trooped down the side drive, however, to the brightly lighted carriage house where Polly was distributing candy.

  The last intrepid pair to brave the haunted house were a cowboy with large eyeglasses and a moustache glued on his upper lip, accompanied by a tiny ballerina with a white net tutu and sequined bra over her gray warmup suit. The cowboy pressed the doorbell, and Qwilleran pressed the button on the player: “Oooooooooh! Ooooooooooh!” The spooky wail was followed by a screech and a cackling laugh as a ghostly figure appeared.

  “I know you!” said the cowboy. “You told us about those people burning up.”

  In a sepulchral drone Qwilleran said, “I . . . am the . . . scrofulous skeleton . . . of Skaneateles!”

  The boy explained to his small companion, “He can talk so you don’t know who he is. He’s that man with the big moustache.”

  “What . . . do . . . you want?” the apparition intoned.

  “Trick or treat!”

  The clawlike hand dropped apples into the outstretched sacks, and Timmie Wilmot turned to his sister. “Apples!” he said. “Cheapo!”

  At seven-thirty Qwilleran was glad to turn off the blue light and shed his mask and sheet.

  Soon Polly phoned. “Did you have many beggars?”

  “Enough,” he said. “I have some apples left over, in case you feel like making eight or nine pies. How about going out to dinner?”

  “Thanks, but I couldn’t possibly! I’m exhausted after running up and down stairs to answer the doorbell. Why don’t you come to brunch tomorrow? Mushroom omelettes and cheese popovers.”

  “I’ll be there! With apples. What time?”

  “I suggest twelve noon, and don’t forget to turn your clocks back. This is the end of Daylight Saving
Time.”

  Before resetting his two watches, three clock radios, and digital coffeemaker, Qwilleran added several new acquisitions to the collection in the desk drawer: swizzle stick, stale cigar, brown shoelace, woman’s black lace garter, handkerchief embroidered “Cynara,” and box of corn plasters.

  On Sunday morning it was back to Standard Time for the rest of the nation but not for Koko and Yum Yum, who pounced on Qwilleran’s chest at seven A.M., demanding their eight o’clock breakfast. He shooed them from the bedroom and slammed the door, but they yowled and jiggled the doorknob until he fed them in self-defense. He himself subsisted on coffee and apples until it was time to walk back to the carriage house. He used his own key and was met at the top of the stairs by a husky Siamese who fixed him with a challenging eye.

  “Back off!” Qwilleran said. “I was invited to brunch . . . Polly, this cat is much too heavy.”

  “I know, dear,” she said regretfully, “but Bootsie always seems to be hungry. I don’t know how Koko stays so svelte. When he stretches, he’s a yard long.”

  “I suspect he has a few extra vertebrae. He walks around corners like a train going around a curve; the locomotive is heading east while the caboose is still traveling north . . . Do I smell coffee?”

  “Help yourself, Qwill. I’m about to start the omelettes.”

  When he tasted the first succulent mouthful, he asked in awe, “How did you learn to make omelettes like these?”

  “I prepared one every day for a month until I mastered the technique. That was several years ago, before we were all worried about cholesterol.”

  “I’m not worried about cholesterol,” he retorted. “I think it’s a lot of bunk.”

  “Famous last words, dear.”

  He helped himself to another popover. “Junior’s siblings are coming to town for the formalities, and I’m taking them to dinner. I hope you’ll join us.”

  “By all means. I remember Pug when she used to come into the library for books on horses; she married a rancher. Jack went into advertising; he was always a very clever boy.”