The Cat Who Went Into the Closet

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “You said you did the driving. Did she still have her yellow sport coupe?”

  “No, she sold that, and we took my navy blue sedan. She called it an old lady’s car. I thought she was being funny, but she was serious.”

  “And where would you two ladies drive?”

  “Mostly to the mall—for lunch and to buy a few things. She liked to eat at a health food place.”

  “Would you say she was happy at the Park of Pink Sunsets?”

  “I think so. She went on day trips in the activity bus, and she liked to give talks at the clubhouse.”

  “What kind of talks?”

  Mrs. Robinson had to think a moment. “Mmmm . . . diet and exercise, music, art, the right way to breathe . . .”

  “Were these lectures well attended?”

  “Well, to tell the truth, they weren’t as popular as the old movies on Thursday nights, but a lot of people went because they didn’t have anything better to do. Also they had tea and cookies after the talk. Mrs. Gage paid for the refreshments.”

  Qwilleran said, “I met Mrs. Gage only once and that was for a short time. What was she like?”

  “Oh, she was very interesting—not like the ones that are forever talking about their ailments and the grandchildren they never see. The park discourages young visitors. You have to get a five-dollar permit before you can have a visitor under sixteen years of age, and then it’s only for forty-eight hours. Clayton likes to spend the whole Christmas week with me, because he doesn’t like his stepmother. She’s too serious, but his granny laughs a lot. Maybe you’ve noticed,” she added with a giggle.

  “How old is Clayton?”

  “Just turned thirteen. He’s a very bright boy with a crazy sense of humor. We have a ball! Last Christmas he figured out how to beat the system. When I picked him up at the airport, he was wearing a false beard! The sight of it just broke me up! He said I should introduce him to my neighbors as Dr. Clayton Robinson of Johns Hopkins. I went along with the gag. It’s lucky that none of our neighbors have very good eyesight.”

  “Did he have his skateboard?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Yow!” said Koko in a voice loud and clear.

  “Do I hear a baby crying?” Mrs. Robinson asked.

  “That’s Koko, my Siamese cat. He’s auditing this call.”

  “I used to have cats, and I’d love to have one now, but pets aren’t allowed in the park. No cats, no dogs, not even birds!”

  “How about goldfish?”

  “Oh, that’s funny! That’s really funny!” she said. “I’m going to ask for a permit to have goldfish, and see what they say. They have no sense of humor. Last Christmas Clayton brought me a recording of a dog singing ‘Jingle Bells.’ Maybe you’ve heard it. ‘Woof woof woof . . . woof woof woof!’ ”

  “Yow!” Koko put in.

  “Was Mrs. Gage amused?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Not exactly. And the management of the park threw a fit!”

  “Who are these people who issue five-dollar permits and throw fits?”

  “Betty and Claude. He owns the park, and she’s the manager. I don’t think they’re married, but they’re always together. Don’t get me wrong; they’re really very nice if you play by the rules. Then there is Pete, the assistant, who takes over when they’re out of town. He’s handy with tools and electricity and all that. He fixed my radio for nothing.”

  “How did Mrs. Gage react to all the restrictions?”

  “Well, you see, she was quite friendly with Betty and Claude, and she got special treatment, sort of. They took her to the dog races a lot. She enjoyed their company. She liked younger people.”

  “Including Dr. Clayton Robinson?”

  His grandmother responded to the mild quip with peals of laughter. “Clayton would love to meet you, Mr . . . .”

  “Qwilleran. Did he get away with the beard trick?”

  “Oh, we didn’t hang around the park too much. We went to the beach and movies and video arcades and antique shops. Clayton collects old photos of funny-looking people and calls them his ancestors. Like, one is an old lady in bonnet and shawl; he says it’s his great-grandfather in drag. Isn’t that a hoot?”

  “Your grandson has a great future, Mrs. Robinson.”

  “Call me Celia. Everybody does.”

  “Talking with you has been a pleasure, Celia. You’ve given me a graphic picture of Mrs. Gage’s last home. Just one serious question: Does anyone have an idea why she took her life?”

  “Well . . . we’re not supposed to talk about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, this isn’t the first suicide we’ve had, and Claude is afraid it’ll reflect on the park. But Mr. Crocus and I have whispered about it, and we can’t figure it out.”

  “Who is Mr. Crocus?” Qwilleran asked with renewed interest.

  “He’s a nice old gentleman. He plays the violin. He had a crush on Mrs. Gage and followed her around like a puppy. He misses her a lot. I hope he doesn’t pine away and die. There’s a big turnover here, you know, but there’s always someone waiting to move in. They’ve already sold Mrs. Gage’s house to a widower from Iowa.”

  “Considering all the restrictions, why is the park so desirable?”

  “Mostly it’s the security. You can call the office twenty-four hours a day, if you have an emergency. There’s limousine service to medical clinics, although you pay for it. They recommend doctors and lawyers and tax experts, which is nice because we’re all from other states. I’m from Illinois. Also, there are things going on at the clubhouse, and there’s the activity bus. Would you like to see some snapshots of Mrs. Gage on one of our sightseeing trips? Maybe you could use them with your article.”

  Qwilleran said it was an excellent suggestion and asked her to mail them to him at the newspaper office.

  “What was the name of it, did you say?”

  “The Moose County Something.”

  “I love that! It’s really funny!” she said with a chuckle. “I’ll write it down.”

  “And do you mind if I call you again, Celia?”

  “Gosh, no! It’s fun being interviewed.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to see the obituary that ran in Wednesday’s paper. I’ll send two copies—one for Mr. Crusoe.”

  “Crocus,” she corrected him. “Yes, he’d appreciate that a lot, Mr. Qwilleran.”

  “For your information, I’m usually called Qwill.”

  “Oh! Like in quill pen!”

  “Except that it’s spelled with a Qw.”

  “Yow!” said Koko.

  “I’d better say goodnight and hang up, Celia. Koko wants to use the phone.”

  The last sound he heard from the receiver was a torrent of laughter. He turned to Koko. “That was Mrs. Robinson at the Park of Pink Sunsets.”

  The cat was fascinated by telephones. The ringing of the bell, the sound of a human voice coming from the instrument, and the mere fact that Qwilleran was conversing with an inanimate object seemed to stimulate his feline sensibilities. And he showed particular interest in the Florida grandmother with lively risibility. Qwilleran wondered why. He thought, Does he know something I don’t? Koko’s blue eyes were wearing their expression of profound wisdom.

  “Treat!” Qwilleran announced, and there was the thud of galloping paws en route to the kitchen.

  EIGHT

  ON MONDAY MORNING Qwilleran was weighing the advantages of staying in bed versus the disadvantages of listening to a feline reveille outside his door. The decision was made for him when the telephone rang in the library. He hoisted himself out of bed, put his slippers on the wrong feet, and padded down the hall.

  “Hey, Qwill!” came the familiar voice of Junior Goodwinter. “I need help! Tomorrow’s election day, and we’re gonna do a run-down on the candidates in today’s paper. Would you handle one for us? It’s an emergency. Everyone’s pitching in, even the maintenance guy.”

  “Now’s a helluva time to think of it,” said Qwilleran in the grumpy
mood that preceded his first cup of coffee. He looked at his watch and computed the length of time before the noon deadline.

  “Don’t blame me! Arch came barging in half an hour ago with the idea, and he’s the boss.”

  “What’s he been doing for the last two weeks, besides courting Mildred?”

  “Listen, Qwill, all you have to do is question your candidate on the list of issues, but not on the phone. Personal contact.”

  Qwilleran growled something inaudible. There were three candidates for the mayoralty, seven for two vacancies on the city council, and six for one post on the county board. “Okay,” he said, “of the sixteen incumbents, outsiders, nobodies, and perennial losers, which one is assigned to me?”

  “George Breze.”

  “I might have known you’d give me an airhead.”

  “Stop at the office first to get a list of the issues. Deadline is twelve noon, so you’d better get hopping.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Qwilleran—unbreakfasted, unshaved, and only casually combed—reported to the newspaper office. Junior handed him a list. “Just tape the interview. We’ll transcribe it.”

  “By the way,” Qwilleran said, “I phoned Celia Robinson in Florida last night.”

  “Tell me about it later,” the editor said as both phones on his desk started to ring.

  George Breze was a one-man conglomerate who operated his sprawling empire from a shack on Sandpit Road, surrounded by rental trucks, mini-storage buildings, a do-it-yourself car wash, and junk cars waiting to be cannibalized. Usually there was merchandise for sale under a canvas canopy, such as pumpkins in October, Christmas trees in December, and sacks of sheep manure in the spring. His parking lot was always full on Saturday nights. Teens were admonished not to stop there on the way home from school.

  Breze was one of two candidates opposing the incumbent mayor, the well-liked Gregory Blythe. On the way to interview him, Qwilleran stopped for breakfast at the Dimsdale Diner, where the number of pickups in the parking lot assured him that the coffee hour was in full swig. Inside the decrepit diner the usual bunch of men in feed caps gathered around a big table, smoking and shouting and laughing. They made room for Qwilleran after he had picked up two doughnuts and a mug of coffee at the counter.

  “What’s the latest weather report?” he asked.

  “Heavy frost tonight,” said a sheep rancher.

  “Light snow later in the week,” said a farm equipment dealer.

  “The Big Snow is on the way,” a trucker predicted.

  “Who’s our next mayor?” Qwilleran then asked.

  “Blythe’ll get in again. No contest,” someone said. “He drinks a little, but who doesn’t?”

  “Do you see George Breze as a threat?”

  The coffee drinkers erupted in vituperation, and the county agricultural agent said, “He’s exactly what we need, a mayor with wide experience: loan shark, ticket fixer, ex-bootlegger, part-time bookie, tealeaf reader . . .”

  The last triggered an explosion of laughter, and the group broke up.

  Qwilleran caught the ear of the ag agent. “Do you know Gil Inchpot?”

  “Sure do. He shipped out a week ago without harvesting his crop or fulfilling his contracts. He must’ve cracked up.”

  “Is there any chance of hiring fieldhands to dig his potatoes? The K Foundation has funds for economic emergencies.”

  “Don’t know how you could swing it,” said the agent, removing his cap to scratch his head. “Everybody’s short of help, and they’re racing to get their own crops in before frost.”

  “Inchpot always helped other people in a pinch,” Qwilleran argued.

  “That he did; I’ll give him credit. Gimme time to think about it, Qwill, and pray it doesn’t freeze tonight.”

  With this scant encouragement Qwilleran drove to the Breze campaign headquarters on Sandpit Road and found the candidate seated behind a scarred wooden desk in a ramshackle hut. He was wearing a blue nylon jacket and red feed cap.

  “Come in! Come in! Sit down!” Breze shouted heartily, dusting off a chair with a rag he kept under his desk. “Glad you called before comin’ so I could cancel my other appointments.” He spoke in a loud, brisk voice. “Cuppa coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I never drink when I’m working.”

  “What can I do you for?”

  “Just answer a few questions, Mr. Breze.” Qwilleran placed his tape recorder on the desk. “Why are you running for office?”

  “I was born and brought up here. The town’s been good to me. I owe it to the people,” he answered promptly.

  “Do you believe you’ll be elected?”

  “Absolutely! Everybody knows me and likes me. I went to school with ’em.”

  “What do you plan to accomplish if elected mayor?”

  “I want to help the people with their problems and keep the streets clean. Clean streets are important.”

  “Would you favor light or heavy industry for economic development in Pickax?”

  “Light or heavy, it don’t matter. The important thing is to make jobs for the people and keep the streets clean.”

  “What do you think about the current controversy over sewers?”

  “It’ll straighten out. It always does,” Breze said with a wave of the hand.

  “There’s talk about township annexation. Where do you stand on that issue?”

  “I don’t know about that. I don’t think it’s important. Jobs—that’s what matters.”

  “Do you support the proposal to install parking meters in downtown Pickax?”

  “Is that something new? I haven’t heard about it. Free parking is best for the people.”

  “What do you think of the education system in Pickax?”

  “Well, I went to school here, and I turned out all right.” The candidate laughed lustily.

  “Do you think the police department is doing a good job?”

  “Absolutely! They’re a good bunch of boys.”

  “In your opinion, what is the most important issue facing the city council?”

  “That’s hard to say. Myself, I’m gonna fight for clean streets.”

  Qwilleran thanked Breze for his cogent opinions and delivered the tape to the paper. “Here’s my interview with the Great Populist,” he told Junior.

  “Sorry to brush you off this morning,” said the editor. “What did you want to tell me about Celia Robinson?”

  “Only that I talked with her for half an hour and didn’t get a single clue to your grandmother’s motive.”

  “I know you like to get to the bottom of things, Qwill, but frankly, I’ve got too many other things on my mind. Jack and Pug are flying in tomorrow. The reading of the will is Wednesday in Wilmot’s office. The memorial service is Thursday night. And every time the phone rings, I think it’s Jody, ready to go to the hospital.”

  “Then I won’t bother you,” Qwilleran said, “but count on dinner Wednesday night, and let me know if there’s anything I can do. I could drive Jody to the hospital if you’re in a bind.”

  After stopping for lunch, he went home and parked under the porte cochere. Even before he approached the side door, he could hear the commotion indoors, and he knew he was in trouble. Two indignant Siamese were yowling in unison, pacing the floor and switching their tails in spasms of reproach.

  “Oh, no!” he groaned, slapping his forehead in guilt. “I forgot your breakfast! A thousand apologies! Junior threw me a curve.” He quickly emptied cans of boned chicken and solid-pack tuna on their plate. “Consider this a brunch. All you can eat!”

  That was his second mistake. All the food went down, but half of it came up.

  Qwilleran spent the afternoon preparing for his third performance of “The Big Burning,” and when he drove to the Hotel Booze at seven o’clock, the parking lot was jammed. The Outdoor Club was in the café, enjoying boozeburgers, when he set up the stage in the meeting room. There were extra chairs, he noted, the front row being a mere six feet from the platfor
m.

  “Largest crowd they’ve ever had!” Hixie Rice exulted as she tested the sound and lights, “and I’ve got bookings for three more shows!”

  A rumble of voices in the lobby announced the approaching audience, and Qwilleran ducked through the exit door, while Hixie shook hands with the officers of the club and seated the youngsters in the front rows.

  With his ear to the door he heard the first notes of “Anitra’s Dance” and counted thirty seconds before making an entrance and mounting the stage. “We interrupt this program to bring you a bulletin on the forest fires that are rapidly approaching Moose County . . .”

  In the first three rows eyes and mouths were wide open. A small girl in the front row, whose feet could not reach the floor, was swinging them back and forth continuously. Her legs, in white leggings, were like a beacon in the dark room. When the old farmer’s voice came from the speakers, the legs swung faster. The old farmer was saying:

  “I come in from my farm west o’ here, and I seen some terrible things! Hitched the hosses to the wagon and got my fambly here safe but never thought we’d make it! We come through fire rainin’ down out of the sky like hailstones! Smoke everywhere! Couldn’t see the road, hardly. Hay in the wagon caught fire, and we had to throw it out and rattle along on the bare boards. We picked up one lad not more’n eight year old, carryin’ a baby—all that were left of his fambly. His shoes, they was burned clean off his feet!”

  The white legs never stopped swinging, back and forth like a pendulum: left, right, left, right. Qwilleran, aware of the movement through the corner of his eye, found himself being mesmerized. He had to fight to maintain his concentration on the announcer’s script:

  “Here in Pickax it’s dark as midnight. Winds have suddenly risen to hurricane fury. Great blasts of heat and cinders are smothering the city. We can hear screams of frightened horses, then a splintering crash as a great tree is uprooted or the wind wrenches the roof from a house. Wagons are being lifted like toys and blown away! . . . There’s a red glare in the sky! . . . Pickax is in flames!”