The Cat Who Went Into the Closet

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  The red light flicked on. Coughing and choking, the announcer rushed from the studio.

  In the hallway beyond the exit door Qwilleran leaned against the wall, recovering from the scene he had just played. A moment later, Hixie joined him. “They love it!” she said. “Especially the part about the boy with his shoes burned off. The kids identify.”

  “Did you see that one swinging her legs in the front row?” Qwilleran asked irritably.

  “She was spellbound!”

  “Well, those white legs were putting a spell on me! I was afraid I’d topple off my chair.”

  “Did you hear the girl crying when you told about the little baby? She created quite a disturbance.”

  “I don’t care if the whole audience cries!” Qwilleran snapped. “Get those white legs out of the front row!”

  When he made his entrance for Scene Two, an instant hush fell upon the room. Surreptitiously he glanced at the front row; the white legs had gone.

  “After a sleepless night, Pickax can see daylight. The smoke is lifting, but the acrid smell of burning is everywhere, and the scene is one of desolation in every direction. Only this brick courthouse is left standing, a haven for hundreds of refugees. Fortunately a sudden wind from the lake turned back the flames, and Mooseville and Brrr have been saved.”

  Qwilleran had not seen the last of the white legs, however. Halfway through Scene Two he was interviewing the Irish innkeeper by phone: “Sir, what news do you hear from Sawdust City?”

  A thick Irish brogue came from the speakers: “It’s gone! All gone! Every stick of it, they’re tellin’. And there’s plenty of sad tales this mornin’. One poor chap from Sawdust City walked into town carryin’ the remains of his wife and little boy in a pail—a ten-quart pail! Wouldja believe it, now?”

  At that tense moment, Qwilleran’s peripheral vision picked up a pair of white legs walking toward the stage. What the devil is she doing? he thought.

  The girl climbed onto the stage, crossed to the exit door at the rear, and went to the restroom.

  The radio announcer went on. “Many tales of heroism and fortitude have been reported. In West Kirk thirteen persons went down a well and stood in three feet of water for five hours. In Dimsdale a mother saved her three children by burying them in a plowed field until the danger had passed . . .”

  The white legs returned, taking a shortcut across the stage. It didn’t faze the audience. At the end of the show they applauded wildly, and the president of the Outdoor Club made Qwilleran and Hixie honorary members. Then she fielded questions while he packed the gear, surrounded by the under-ten crowd. They were fascinated by the tape player, lights, cables, and other equipment being folded into compact carrying cases.

  “I liked it when you talked on the telephone,” one said.

  “How do you know all that stuff?” another asked.

  “Why didn’t everybody get in a bus and drive to Mooseville or Brrr to be saved?”

  “How could he get his wife and little boy in a pail?”

  “I liked the red light.”

  One three-year-old girl stood silently sucking her thumb and staring at Qwilleran’s moustache.

  “Did you like the show?” he asked her.

  She nodded soberly before taking the thumb from her mouth. “What was it about?” she asked earnestly.

  He was relieved when Nancy Fincher came to the stage. “Mr. Qwilleran, it was wonderful! I never liked history before, but you made it so real, I cried.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “As soon as I put these cases in my car, may I invite you for a drink in the café?”

  “Let me carry one,” she said, grabbing the largest of the three. Delicate though she seemed, she handled the heavy case like a trifle.

  When they were established on the wobbly barstools, he asked, “Will you have something to eat? I’m always famished after the show. ‘The Big Burning’ burns up a lot of energy.”

  “Just a cola for me,” she said. “I had supper here, and half of my burger is in a doggie bag in my truck.”

  Qwilleran ordered a boozeburger with fries. “You mentioned that potatoes are a complicated crop to raise,” he said to Nancy. “I always thought they’d be a cinch.”

  Nancy shook her head soberly. “That’s what everybody thinks. But first you have to know what kind to plant—for the conditions you’re working with and the market you’re selling to. Different markets want large or small, whiteskins or redskins, bakers or boilers or fryers.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the subject.”

  “I grew up with potatoes.”

  “Don’t stop. Tell me more.” He was concentrating on the burger, which was enormously thick.

  “Well, first you have to have the right kind of soil, and it has to be well drained. Then you have to know the right time to plant and the right kind of fertilizer. Then you worry about crop diseases and weeds and insects and rain. You need enough rain but not too much. And then you have to gamble on the right time to harvest.”

  “I have a new respect for potato farmers . . . and potatoes,” he said.

  A soft look suffused Nancy’s face. “When Mom was alive, we used to dig down with our fingers and take out the small new tubers very carefully, so as not to interfere with the others. Then we’d have creamed new potatoes with new peas.”

  Gary Pratt shuffled up to them. “Are you folks ready for another drink or anything?”

  “Not for me,” she said. “I have to stop and check Pop’s mailbox and then go home and take care of my dogs. I’ve been working at the clinic all day.”

  The two men watched her go, lugging her oversized shoulderbag.

  “Quite a gal,” Gary said. “She has that tiny little voice, and you think she doesn’t have much on the ball, but the thing of it is, she’s a terrific racer, and she really knows dogs. I tried to date her when she came back from Alaska, but her old man didn’t like my haircut. So what? I didn’t like the dirt under his fingernails. Anyway, Nancy still had a thing for Dan Fincher. Women think he’s the strong, silent type, but I think he’s a klutz.”

  “Interesting if true,” said Qwilleran, making light of the gossip. “What’s the latest on the weather?”

  “Heavy frost tonight. Snow on the way.”

  On the trip back to Pickax Qwilleran drove through farming country, where the bright headlights of tractors in the fields meant that farmers were working around the clock to beat the frost. He felt a twinge of remorse. If he had acted sooner, the Klingenschoen clout might have saved Gil Inchpot’s crop.

  He was carrying a sample of boozeburger for the Siamese. “After my faux pas this morning,” he told them, “I owe you one.” Later, the three of them were in the library, reading Robinson Crusoe, when the sharp ring of the telephone made all of them jump.

  Qwilleran guessed it would be Junior, announcing that Jody had given birth; or it would be Polly, inquiring about the show in Brrr; or it would be Arch Riker, saying that Breze was suing the paper because the other candidates sounded better than he did.

  “Hello?” he said, ready for anything.

  “Mr. Qwilleran,” said a breathless voice, “Gary gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I discovered something when I got to Pop’s house, and I notified the police, but I wanted to tell you because you’ve been so kind and so interested.”

  “What was it, Nancy?”

  “When I got to the farm, I cut my hand on the mailbox pretty bad, so I went indoors for some antiseptic and a bandage. And in a medicine cabinet I saw Pop’s dentures in a glass of water. He would never leave home without his dentures!”

  Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingertips as he thought of the partial denture in the desk drawer. He glanced at the Siamese. Yum Yum was pedicuring her left hind foot; Koko was sitting there looking wise.

  NINE

  THERE WAS HEAVY frost in Moose County that night. The tumble-down hamlet of Wildcat
, the quaint resort town of Mooseville, the affluent estates of West Middle Hummock, the condominiums in Indian Village, the vacation homes in Purple Point, the stone canyons of downtown Pickax, the mansions of Goodwinter Boulevard, the abandoned mineshafts, the airport . . . all looked mystically hoary in the first morning light. Qwilleran felt moody as he drank his morning coffee. There was the usual letdown after the excitement and challenge of doing a show, plus a gnawing regret about the Inchpot crop. Hundreds of acres of potatoes had been lost—after being scientifically planted, fertilized, weeded, sprayed, and prayed over. And now, after hearing Nancy’s grim news about the dentures, Qwilleran felt real concern about Gil Inchpot himself.

  He was somewhat gladdened, therefore, when Lori Bamba called to ask if her husband could deliver some letters and checks for signing. Nick Bamba was an engineer at the state prison; he shared Qwilleran’s interest in crime and the mystery that often surrounds it. Whenever Qwilleran mentioned his suspicions and hunches to his friends, Polly remonstrated and Riker taunted him, but Nick always took him seriously.

  He was a young man with alert black eyes that observed everything. “Someone ran a truck over your curb,” he said upon arrival.

  “Those blasted leaf blowers! They’re a slap-happy crew!” Qwilleran complained. “Did you vote this morning?”

  “I was first in line. There was a good turnout in Mooseville because of the millage issue. The voters don’t get excited about the candidates; one’s no better than another. But propose increased millage, and they’re all at the polls to vote no. Why don’t you run for county office, Qwill? You could make waves.”

  “I’d rather see Koko’s name on the ballot . . . Will you have coffee or hot cider?”

  “I’ll try the cider.” Nick handed over a folder of correspondence. “Lori says you’re getting a lot of fan mail since your ‘Big Burning’ preview. The Mooseville Chamber of Commerce wants to book the show after the holidays.”

  “I trust the members are all over eight years old,” Qwilleran said testily.

  They carried their cider mugs into the library, and Nick remarked, “I see you’ve got an elevator. Does it work?”

  “Definitely. We used it at the preview of our show. Adam Dingleberry was here in his wheelchair.”

  At that point Koko walked into the library with deliberate step and rose on his hind legs to rattle the closet doorknob.

  “What’s old slyboots got on his mind?” Nick asked.

  “This is the only closet in the house that’s locked, and it drives him bughouse,” Qwilleran said. “All the closets are filled with junk, and Koko spends his spare time digging for buried treasure.”

  “Has he found any gold coins or diamond rings?”

  “Not as yet. Mostly stale cigars and old shoelaces.”

  “Want me to pick the lock for you? I’ll bring my tools next time I’m in town.”

  “Sure. I’m curious about this closet myself.”

  “I suppose you heard on the radio about the missing potato farmer, Gil Inchpot. Police are investigating his disappearance ten days ago.”

  “I heard something about it,” Qwilleran mentioned.

  “He’s quite a successful farmer, you know. I never met the guy, but his daughter was married to a deputy sheriff I know, Dan Fincher. It didn’t last long; her father broke it up.”

  “Why? Do you know?”

  Nick shrugged. “Dan isn’t very big on particulars. I know that Gil Inchpot is well liked at the Crossroads Tavern and at the farm co-op, but Dan says he’s a bully at home.”

  Qwilleran reached for Nick’s cider mug. “Fill ’er up?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got errands to do—prison business.”

  “Do you like apples at your house? I’ve got some you can take home to the kids.”

  Nick left, carrying a brown paper bag, and after Qwilleran had signed his letters and checks, he took another sackful to the newspaper office.

  “I’ll trade these for a cup of coffee,” he told Junior. “How’s everything going?”

  “Jack and Pug have arrived. They’re staying at the New Pickax Hotel. Jody doesn’t feel like having company.”

  “That’s wise. Will she come to dinner tomorrow night? Polly is joining us.”

  “Why don’t you make the reservation for six?” said the expectant father, “and we’ll see how she feels.”

  “When is the will being read?”

  “Ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Keep your fingers crossed.”

  While the will was being read in Pender Wilmot’s office, Qwilleran was at home, eating an apple and estimating the extent of Euphonia Gage’s estate. No doubt she had cashed in heavily when she liquidated her jewels, real estate, fine paintings, and family heirlooms. No doubt her late husband, being financially savvy and not entirely honest, had left her some blue-chip securities. Her recent economies, such as living in a mobile home and wearing seashell jewelry, were no more peculiar than his own preference for driving a used car and pumping his own gas. And, nearing the end of her life, she may have been moved by a nobly generous impulse to provide handsomely for her six great-grandchildren and the one yet unborn.

  That evening, his guests were late in arriving at the Old Stone Mill. He and Polly sat waiting and talking about the election results. As everyone expected, Gregory Blythe had been re-elected. He was an investment counselor, a good administrator, and a former high school principal with Goodwinter blood on his mother’s side. The public had forgotten the scandal that ousted him from the education system in Pickax, and he was always sober when he conducted city council meetings.

  After half an hour Polly asked, “What do you suppose has happened to them? Junior is always so punctual. Perhaps he’s taken Jody to the hospital.”

  “I’ll phone their house,” Qwilleran said.

  To his surprise, Jody answered. “He left about half an hour ago to pick up Pug and Jack,” she said. “I decided not to go. I hope you don’t mind.” She sounded depressed.

  “Do you feel all right, Jody?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m all right, considering . . .”

  When the hostess conducted the tardy guests to the table, Qwilleran rose to greet three unhappy faces: Pug as distraught as a Montana rancher who has had to shoot her favorite horse; Jack as glum as a California advertising executive who has lost his major client; Junior as indignant as an editor who is being sued for libel.

  Introductions were made, chairs were pulled out, napkins were unfolded, and Polly tried to make polite conversation: “Are you comfortable at the hotel? . . . How do you like Montana? . . . Have you adjusted to sunny California?” Her efforts failed to elevate the mood.

  “What would you like to drink?” Qwilleran asked. “Champagne? A cocktail? Pug, what is your choice?”

  “Bourbon and water,” she said, pouting.

  “Scotch margarita,” said Jack grimly.

  “Rye on the rocks,” said Junior, fidgeting in his chair.

  While they were waiting to be served, Qwilleran talked about the weather for five minutes: the weather last month, the outlook for the rest of this month, the prediction for next month . . . all of this to fill the void until the drinks arrived. Then he raised his glass. “Would anyone like to propose a toast?”

  “To bad news!” Junior blurted.

  “To a royal rip-off!” said Jack.

  “Oh, dear,” Polly murmured.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Qwilleran said.

  Scowling, Jack said, “Pug and I flew thousands of miles just to be told that she left us a hundred dollars apiece! I’m damned mad! She was a spiteful old woman!”

  “Surprising!” Qwilleran turned to Junior for corroboration.

  “Same here,” said the younger brother, “only I didn’t have to cross the continent to get the shaft.”

  “I had the impression,” Qwilleran remarked, “that your grandmother was a generous person.”

  “Sure,” said Pug. “She put us all through college, but there were str
ings attached. We didn’t know it gave her the privilege to direct our lives, dictate our careers, choose our hobbies, approve our marriages! She was furious when Jack went to the coast and I married a rancher. For a wedding present she sent us a wooden nutcracker.”

  Polly asked, “Can anyone explain the reason for her attitude?”

  “If you’re looking for excuses, I can’t think of any.” Junior said, “Here’s a typical example of her thoughtlessness. Her ancestors were pioneer doctors here, and she inherited a beautiful black walnut box of surgical knives and saws and other instruments, all pre-Civil War. Why didn’t she give them to the Museum of Local History, where they’d mean something? Instead she sold them with everything else.”

  “She was a selfish egocentric, that’s all,” said Jack.

  “How about your grandfather?” Qwilleran asked. “What was he like?”

  “Kind of jolly, although he wasn’t around much.”

  “Our paternal grandmother was different,” said Pug. “She wasn’t rich, but she was warm and cuddly and loving.”

  “And she made the best fudge!” Jack added.

  There was a nostalgic silence at the table until Qwilleran cleared his throat preparatory to introducing a sensitive subject. “If you’re all left out of the will, who are the beneficiaries?”

  The three young people looked at each other, and Junior said bitterly, “The Park of Pink Sunsets! They get everything—to build, equip, and maintain a health spa for the residents. She revised her will after she got to Florida.”

  Polly said, “It’s not unusual for the elderly to forget family and friends and leave everything to strangers they meet in their final days. That’s why wills are so often contested.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation,” Qwilleran said in an effort to brighten the occasion, “Junior owns the contents of the locked closet in the library, which may be full of Grandpa Gage’s gold coins and Grandma Gage’s jewelry.”

  No one was amused, and Junior replied, “There’s nothing in that closet but her private papers, and I’m instructed to burn them.”