While he was scrambling around the kitchen floor on his hands and knees, Hixie phoned and said excitedly, “I’m checking out of the hospital and moving in with Dr. Herbert’s mother! He says she was born in Paris. I can brush up on my French!”
“Glad you’re getting out before the Big Snow,” he said.
“Shall I mail these Florida snapshots back to you?”
“If it isn’t too much trouble. Did anyone look familiar?”
“Well,” said Hixie, “there’s a man with upswept eyebrows—a middle-aged man. And there’s a young woman in a yellow convertible—”
“They’re the ones,” he interrupted. “Who are they?”
“I’m not sure, but . . . do you remember the gate-crashers at the preview of our show? The woman was wearing an obvious wig.”
“Thanks, Hixie. That’s all I need to know. Enjoy your stay with Madame Herbert.”
Qwilleran returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. The Siamese were still on the refrigerator. “What were Betty and Claude doing in Pickax?” he asked them. “And why did they attend the preview?”
THIRTEEN
QWILLERAN WAS INCLINED to discount the tales of the Big Snow. For six winters he had heard about this local bugaboo, which was never as nasty as predicted. Yet, every year the residents of Moose County prepared for war: digging in, mobilizing snowplows and blowers, enlisting snowfighters, deploying troops of volunteers, disseminating propaganda, and stockpiling supplies. Every day a virtual convoy of trucks brought necessities from Down Below: food, drink, videos, batteries, and kerosene.
Everyone had some urgent task to finish or goal to achieve before the white bomb dropped: Hixie to get out of the hospital, Jody to get into the hospital and have her baby, Lori to finish Qwilleran’s correspondence, and Nick to deliver it. Qwilleran’s only important business was to do three shows: for a women’s group on Saturday, for the Senior Care Facility on Sunday, and for a school on Monday.
Friday morning he was drinking coffee and conversing idly with the Siamese when, suddenly, Koko heard something! The cats were always hearing something. It might be a faucet dripping, or a truck on Main Street shifting gears, or a dog barking half a mile away. This time Koko stretched his neck, swiveled his noble head, and slanted his ears toward the foyer. Qwilleran investigated. There was a moving van across the street, backing into Amanda Goodwinter’s driveway. She was Junior’s elder relative, a cantankerous businesswoman, and a perennial member of the city council.
Qwilleran hurried into boots and parka and climbed over the piles of snow that the sidewalk blowers had thrown into the street and the city plows had thrown back onto the sidewalk. A truck from the Bid-a-Bit Auction House had lowered its ramp, and Amanda herself was on the porch, directing the operation. She looked dowdier than ever in her army surplus jacket, Daniel Boone hat, and unfastened galoshes.
“Amanda! What’s going on here?” Qwilleran hailed her as he plunged through the drifts.
“I’m getting out before the Big Snow! I’m selling everything! I’m moving to Indian Village!”
“But what will you do with your house?”
“It’s sold! Good riddance! I always hated it!”
“Who bought it?”
“Some real estate vulture from Down Below!”
He joined her on the porch and teased her by saying, “You’ll be sorry! Pickax is attracting investors. Land values will go up.”
“Nothing’ll go up on this godforsaken street until the property owners get off their hind ends and permit re-zoning . . . Stop! Stop!” she screamed at the movers, who were struggling with a hundred-year-old black walnut breakfront, twelve feet wide. “You’re scratching the finish! Take the drawers out! Watch the glass doors!”
At the same moment a second moving van pulled up to the Wilmot house. Qwilleran shrugged, pulled up the hood of his parka, and trudged the length of the boulevard, counting for-sale signs. There were only four left, out of a recent seven. He enjoyed walking in snow and took the opportunity to hike downtown to the church where he would present “The Big Burning” the following afternoon.
The fellowship hall in the church basement was a large room paneled in pickled pine, with a highly waxed vinyl floor and a good solid platform. The custodian told Qwilleran he could use the men’s restroom for exits and entrances. Seventy-five women were expected for lunch at noon, and they’d be ready for the show at one o’clock. Everything appeared to be well organized, and Qwilleran was impressed by the facilities.
As he arrived home, Nick Bamba was pulling into the driveway. “Come on in, Nick, and have a hot drink,” he said hospitably.
“Not this time,” Nick declined. “I have a dozen errands to do before the Big Snow.” He handed over a folder. “Here’s your correspondence from Lori, and I’ve brought my tool kit. I’ll pick the lock in the library. Are you all ready for the Big Snow?”
“Polly has been nagging me about that,” Qwilleran said, “but my vast experience convinces me that it’s never as big as the kerosene dealers would have us believe.”
“How long have you been here? Five years? The seventh year is always the really big one. Trust me!” Nick tackled the closet lock in professional fashion while dispensing advice. “You need a camp stove and kerosene heater in case of a long power outage . . . canned food, not frozen, in case you’re snowbound . . . five-gallon jugs of water in case a water main busts . . . fresh batteries for your radio and flashlights.”
“What do they do at the prison?” Qwilleran asked.
“We have generators. So does the hospital. Remember not to use your elevator after it starts to snow hard; you could be trapped in a blackout.” Nick opened the closet door, collected his tools, and accepted Qwilleran’s thanks, and on the way out he said, “If you’re not concerned about yourself, Qwill, think about your cats.”
Koko lost no time in entering the closet. It was filled with files in boxes and drawers, and a small safe stood open and empty. When Qwilleran left to go shopping for canned food, the cat was sitting in the safe like a potentate in a palanquin.
Throughout the weekend a storm watch was in effect, but Suitcase Productions presented all three scheduled shows to capacity audiences. By Monday afternoon Wetherby Goode announced a storm alert and said he was prepared for the worst; he had a sleeping bag in the studio as well as a package of fig newtons.
Monday evening Koko and Yum Yum began to behave abnormally, dashing about and butting furniture. They showed no interest in food or RobinsonCrusoe. Eventually Qwilleran shut himself in his bedroom to escape the fracas, but he could still hear bursts of madcap activity. He himself slept fitfully.
Shortly after daybreak a peaceful calm settled on the house. Peering out the window, he witnessed a rare sight: the entire sky was the vivid color of polished copper. A weather bulletin on WPKX made note of the phenomenon and warned that it was the lull before the storm. Duck hunters and commercial fishermen were advised to stay on shore and resist the temptation to make one more haul before the end of the season.
By mid-morning large flakes of snow began to fall. Shortly after, the wind rose, and soon fifty-mile-an-hour gusts were creating blizzard conditions.
At noon the WPKX newscast announced: “A storm of unprecedented violence is blasting the county. Visibility is zero. Serious drifting is making roads impassable. All establishments are closed with the exception of emergency services. Even so, fire fighters, police, and medical personnel attempting to respond to calls are blinded by the whirling snow and are completely disoriented. State police have issued these directives: Stay indoors. Conserve water, food, and fuel. Observe safety precautions in using kerosene heaters and wood-burning stoves. In case of power failure, use flashlights or oil lanterns; avoid candles. Be prepared to switch radios to battery operation. And stay tuned for further advisories.”
On Goodwinter Boulevard it was snowing in four directions: down, up, sideways and in circles. Strangely, the Siamese, having accomplished their advanc
e warning, settled down to sleep peacefully.
At three o’clock WPKX reported: “Two duck hunters from Lockmaster left shore in a rented boat west of Mooseville early this morning and have not been seen since that time. Their boat was found bottom-up, blown high on the shore near Brrr . . . Distress calls from commercial fishing boats are being received, but the sheriff’s helicopter is grounded in the blizzard, and rescue crews are unable to launch their boats in the mountainous waves. Thirty-five-foot waves are reported on the lake.”
Then the power failed, and when Qwilleran tried to call Polly, the telephone was dead. The blizzard continued relentlessly, hour after hour, and he experienced the unnerving isolation of a house blanketed with snow. Without mechanical noises and without the sound of street traffic, the unnatural stillness left a muffled void that only amplified the howling of the wind, and a cold darkness settled on the rooms as snow drifted against the windows.
The blizzard lasted sixteen hours, during which Qwilleran found he could neither read nor write nor sleep. Then the wind subsided. The Big Snow was over, but it would take almost a week for the county to struggle back to normal. Broadcasting was limited to weather updates and police news on the half hour:
“The worst storm in the history of Moose County was the result of a freak atmospheric condition. Three low-pressure fronts—one coming from Alaska, one from the Rocky Mountains, and one from the Gulf of Mexico—met and clashed over this area. Winds of seventy miles an hour were recorded as thirty-two inches of snow fell in sixteen hours. Drifts of fifteen to thirty feet have buried buildings and walled up city streets and country roads, paralyzing the county.”
For the next two days Qwilleran lived life without power, telephone, mail delivery, daily newspapers, or sociable pets. Koko and Yum Yum appeared to be in hibernation on the library sofa. His own intentions to catch up on his reading and write a month’s supply of copy for the newspaper were reduced to a state of jittery boredom. Even when snowplows started rumbling and whooshing about the city streets, cars were still impounded in their garages and residents were imprisoned in their houses. The health department warned against overexertion in digging out.
On the morning of the fourth day Qwilleran was in the library, eating a stale doughnut and drinking instant coffee prepared with not-quite-boiling water, when the shrill and unexpected bell of the telephone startled him and catapulted the Siamese from their sofa. It was Polly’s exultant voice: “Plug in your refrigerator!”
“How are you, Polly? I worried about you,” he said.
“Bootsie and I weathered the storm, but I lacked the energy to do anything. I had planned to wash the kitchen walls, clean closets, and make Christmas gifts. How are you faring?”
“Strangely, I’m getting tired of canned soup and stale doughnuts.”
“We’ll be prisoners for a few days more,” she predicted, “but fortunately we’re in touch with the outside world.”
Qwilleran immediately called the outside world, but all lines were busy. The gregarious, garrulous populace of Pickax seemed to be making up for lost time.
WPKX went on the air with more storm news, good and bad:
“The first baby born during the Big Snow is a seven-pound girl, Leslie Ann. The parents are Mr. and Mrs. Junior Goodwinter. Mother and child are snowbound at the Pickax hospital.
“In rural areas many persons are reported missing. It is presumed that they lost their way in the blizzard and have frozen to death. Homes have burned to the ground because help could not reach them. Much livestock is thought to be frozen in fields and barns. Bodies are still washing ashore from wrecked boats.”
The sound of Polly’s voice and the rumbling of the refrigerator restored Qwilleran’s spark of life. He did some laundry, washed the accumulation of soup bowls in the kitchen sink, and eventually reached Junior to offer congratulations.
“Yeah, I got her to the hospital just before the storm broke and then had to rush home to take care of our little boy. I still haven’t seen the baby,” Junior said. “But hey, Qwill, let me tell you about the call I got from Down Below just before the phones went dead. It was some guy who deals in architectural fragments. He wanted to buy the light fixtures and fireplaces in Grandma’s house!”
“You mean he wanted to strip this place?” Qwilleran asked in indignation.
“I told him to get lost. Boy, he had a lot of nerve! How do you suppose he found out what we’ve got?”
“I could make an educated guess. How valuable are the fixtures?”
“Susan Exbridge could tell you exactly. I only know that the chandeliers on the main floor are real silver, and the ones in the ballroom are solid brass and copper, imported from France before World War I . . . Anyway, I thought you’d be shocked, the way I was.”
After five o’clock Qwilleran phoned Celia Robinson. “Good evening,” he said in the ingratiating tone that had melted female defenses for years. “This is Jim Qwilleran.”
“Oh! Thank you so much for the chocolate cherries!” she gushed. “They’re my absolute favorite! But you didn’t have to do it.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“I’ve been watching the weather on TV. Was it very bad up where you are?”
“Very bad. We’ve been snowbound for four days, with no meltdown in sight. Meanwhile, Celia, I’m working on my profile of Mrs. Gage and need to ask a few more questions. Do you mind?”
“You know I’m glad to help, Mr. Qwilleran—and not just because you sent me those lovely chocolates.”
“All right. Going back to the morning when you found her body, what did you do?”
“I called the office, and they called the authorities. They came right away.”
Casually he asked, “And how did Betty and Claude react?”
“Oh, they weren’t here. They were out of town, and Pete was in charge. He’s the assistant—very nice, very helpful.”
“Did he appear shocked?”
“Well, not really. We’ve had quite a few deaths, you know, which you can understand in a place like this. Actually we have quite a turnover.”
“Do Betty and Claude go out of town very often?”
“Well, they’re from up north, and they go to see their families once in a while.”
“Where up north?” he asked as if mildly curious.
“It could be Wisconsin. They talk about the Green Bay Packers and the Milwaukee Brewers. But I’m not sure. Want me to find out?”
“No, it’s not important. But tell me: Did Mrs. Gage ever mention her mansion in Pickax? It was in her husband’s family for generations.”
“I know,” said Celia. “She showed a video of it in the clubhouse—not that she wanted to show off, I’m sure, but we visited some historic homes down here, and she thought we’d like to see a hundred-year-old house up north. She had some wonderful things.”
“Did Mr. Crusoe see the video?”
“Crocus,” she corrected. “Yes, and he still talks about it. He comes over to my yard and wants to talk about her. Today he told me something confidential. I’m not supposed to mention it in the park until it’s official, but I can tell you. You probably know already that she left a lot of money to the park to build a health club.”
“How did he know about it?”
“She told him. They were very good friends, I guess. They liked the same things. We all thought it would be nice if they got married. That’s why it’s so sad.”
“Yes,” Qwilleran murmured, then asked, “Do you suppose Mr. Crocus would care to be interviewed for this profile?”
“I don’t know. He’s kind of shy, but I could ask him. Would you like me to break the ice, sort of?”
“Would you be good enough to do that?” he requested. “Your cooperation is much appreciated. And may I call you again soon?”
“You know you don’t have to ask, Mr. Qwilleran. It’s lots of fun answering your questions.”
After the call he dropped into a lounge chair to think, and Yum Yum walked daintily
into the library. “Hello, princess,” he said. “Where have you been?”
Taking that as an invitation, she leaped lightly to his knee, turned around three times, and found a place to settle down.
He adjusted her weight slightly without discommoding her and asked, “What happened to your confrère?”
The muted answer came from the closet—a series of soft thumps that aroused Qwilleran’s curiosity. He excused himself and went to investigate. Koko was batting a small object this way and that, apparently having fun. It was a small maroon velvet box.
Qwilleran intercepted it and immediately called Junior again. “Guess what Koko has just dredged up in one of the closets! A jeweler’s box containing a man’s gold ring, probably your grandfather’s! It’s the only valuable item he’s found.”
“What kind of ring?”
“A signet, with an intricate design on the crown. I’ll turn it over to you as soon as they dig us out.”
“Which can’t be too soon for me,” Junior said. “I’m getting cabin fever.”
“I’ve been talking to Celia Robinson again. Did you know your grandmother had a video of the house when it was still furnished?”
“Sure. She had me film the interior before she broke it up. After she died, I found the tape among her effects and brought it home for the historical museum.”
“Well, for your information, she showed the film at the Park of Pink Sunsets, so we can assume that the park management knew about the lavish appointments. Now I’m wondering if they came to see for themselves—with an ulterior motive. Listen to this, Junior: Betty and Claude were in this house when we previewed ‘The Big Burning.’ They wandered around the rooms with the rest of the crowd.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw them. Hixie saw them. We both wondered who they were. Since then, we’ve identified them from snapshots that Celia sent us. Now you know and I know that nobody—nobody—ever stops in Pickax on the way to somewhere else. They come here for a purpose or not at all, and Betty and Claude don’t strike me as being duck hunters. They must have known about the preview—and the exact date. Could your grandmother have told them? Did she know about it?”
The Cat Who Went Into the Closet Page 14
