The Cat Who Went Into the Closet

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “What kind of scare?”

  “Well, after I hung up, I saw Betty and Claude watching me. They were waiting in line outside a restaurant. I didn’t know what to do. Should I make up some kind of explanation? Then I thought, What would Clayton do? He’d play it cool. So I walked over to them and said hello, and they invited me to have dinner with them, but I’d eaten already. Whew! I was worried for a while.”

  “You handled it very well,” Qwilleran said. “Do you have anything to report on your last assignment?”

  “Only that the furniture dealer down here will give me $100,000 for the things on the list you sent me, plus $50,000 for everything else in the house. Boy! What I could do with that much money! I’m beginning to wish I’d had a rich sister.”

  Qwilleran made no comment. The same list of antique furnishings had been appraised by Susan Exbridge at $900,000. He said, “Good job, Celia! That’s the kind of information we need.”

  “Thank you, chief. Do you have another assignment for me?”

  “Phase Four of Operation Greenback will be mailed tomorrow.”

  In mailing the briefing he included a Christmas bonus with instructions to buy something exciting for herself.

  MISSION: Operation Greenback, Phase Four

  ASSIGNMENT: Buy an expensive Christmas plant for the manager’s office . . . Tell them you’ll have a surplus of cash when you sell your sister’s possessions; ask if they can recommend a safe investment . . . Inquire if it’s possible to place bets on the dog races without going to the track, since you don’t like crowds.

  Although Qwilleran made generous Christmas gifts and ate more than his share of Christmas cookies, there was not a shred of holiday decoration in his cavernous, sparsely furnished living quarters.

  “How can you stand this gloomy place?” Polly asked him.

  One evening, on her way home from the library, she delivered a green wreath studded with holly berries and tiny white lights. “For your library,” she said. “Just hang it up and plug it in.”

  The pinpoints of light only emphasized the somber effect of dark paneling, old books, and worn furniture, as they sat on the sofa sipping hot cider. The Siamese, sniffing Bootsie in absentia, applied wet noses to Polly’s person, here and there.

  “Out!” Qwilleran scolded, pointing to the door.

  “They don’t bother me,” Polly protested.

  “I expect them to have some manners to match their aristocratic facade . . . Out!”

  They left the room but not immediately. First they thought about it, then scratched an ear and licked a paw, then thought about it some more, then sauntered out.

  “Cats!” Qwilleran said, and Polly smiled with amusement.

  They discussed cat-sitting arrangements for the Christmas weekend. Polly wanted to pick up a key for her sister-in-law. “Lynette lives only a block away, so she’s happy to come twice a day. She loves cats and considers it a privilege.”

  Soon Koko returned, carrying in his jaws a small square paper packet, which he dropped at Qwilleran’s feet.

  Picking it up, Qwilleran read the label: “Dissolve contents of envelope in three pints of water and soak feet for fifteen minutes . . . Foot powder! Where did he find that?”

  Polly, ordinarily given to small smiles, was overcome with mirth. “Perhaps he’s telling you something, dear.”

  “This isn’t funny! It could be poisonous! He could tear the paper and sprinkle the powder on the floor, then walk in it and lick his paws!” He dropped the packet in a desk drawer.

  After Polly had gone on her way, Qwilleran had another look at the foot powder and read the precaution: “Poisonous if ingested. Keep away from children and pets.” At the same time he realized how many of Koko’s discoveries were associated with feet: corn plasters, a man’s sock, a woman’s slipper, shoelaces, toenail clippers, an inner sole, a buttonhook, a shoe-polishing cloth—even a man’s spat! Either the cat had a foot fetish or he was trying to communicate. As for his occupation with Confederate currency, canceled checks, and the safe, was that related to the financial skulduggery that was becoming evident?

  Qwilleran pounded his moustache as a sensation on his upper lip alerted him. He glanced at his watch. It was not too late to phone Homer Tibbitt. The nonagenarian lived in a retirement complex with his new wife, who was a mere octogenarian, and they were known to observe an early bedtime.

  “Homer, this is Qwill,” he said in a loud, clear voice. “I haven’t seen you in the library lately. Aren’t you doing any historical research?”

  “Hell’s bells!” the historian retorted. “She won’t let me out of the house in winter! She hides my overshoes!” His voice was high and cracked, but his delivery was vigorous. “Never marry a younger woman, boy! If I drop a pencil, she thinks I’ve had a stroke. If I drop a shoe, she thinks I’ve broken a hip. She’s driving me crazy! . . . What’s on your mind?”

  “Just this, Homer: You were in the Lockmaster school system for many years, and I wonder if you knew a family by the name of Foote.”

  “There are quite a few Footes in Lockmaster . . . or should I say Feete?” Homer added with a chuckle. “None of them left any footprints in the sands of time.”

  “You’re in an arch mood tonight,” Qwilleran said with a chuckle of his own. “The Foote I’m curious about is Lena Foote, who should have been a student between 1934 and 1946.”

  “Lena Foote, you say?” said the former principal. “She must have been a good girl. The only ones I remember are the troublemakers.”

  Another voice sounded in the background, and Homer turned away to say to his wife, “You don’t remember that far back! You can’t remember where you left your glasses ten minutes ago!” This was followed by muffled arguing and then, “Do you want to talk to him yourself? Here! Take the phone.”

  A woman who sounded pleasantly determined came on the line. “This is Rhoda Tibbitt, Mr. Qwilleran. I remember Lena Foote very well. I had her in high school English, and she showed unusual promise. Sad to say, she didn’t finish.”

  “Do you know anything about her parents? Her father was Arnold Foote.”

  “Yes, indeed! I begged her parents to let her get her diploma, but they were poor farmers and needed the income. She went into domestic service at the age of fifteen, and that’s the last I knew. Do you happen to know what happened to her?”

  “Only that she died of cancer a few years ago, after a relatively short life as a farmwife, mother, and employed housekeeper,” Qwilleran said. “Thank you for the information, Mrs. Tibbitt, and tell that ornery husband of yours that your memory is better than his.”

  “The testimonial is appreciated,” she said, “and let me take this opportunity to wish you a very happy holiday.”

  Qwilleran was disappointed. He had learned nothing about Nancy’s mother, and yet . . . Koko always had a motive for his actions—almost always. The more peculiar his behavior, the more likely it was to be important. Now there were all those references to feet!

  On an impulse he called directory assistance and asked for the number of Arnold Foote in Lockmaster. There was no listing for that name. He pondered awhile. The public library was open until nine o’clock. He phoned and asked a clerk to look up Foote in the Lockmaster directory. There were fourteen listed, she said, with locations in various parts of the county.

  “Give me the phone numbers of the first three,” he asked.

  He first tried calling Foote, Andrew. The woman who answered told him in no uncertain terms, “We don’t know anything about that branch of the family. We’ve never had anything to do with them.”

  He phoned Foote, Charles. A man said, “Don’t know. Long time since I saw Arnold at the farm co-op.”

  Finally there was Foote, Donald. “I heard he’s in a nursing home but don’t know for sure. His wife died, coupla years ago.”

  Before Qwilleran could plan his next move, he received an excited call from Celia Robinson. “I know it’s after six o’clock,” she said, “but I simp
ly had to try to reach you!”

  “What news?” he asked with intense interest.

  “Your check! It’s so generous of you! I’ve always wanted a three-wheel bike. A lot of ladies have them here and ride all over the park. Is that being too extravagant?”

  “That’s what Christmas presents are all about, and you’re deserving,” he assured her. “And how about your assignment?”

  “I talked to Betty and Claude and wrote it all down,” Celia said. “There’s something called ‘bearer bonds’ that would be good for me, because my heirs could cash them easily if anything happened to me. Also there are some private boxes in the office safe, and I can have one for the bonds and any cash I don’t want to put in the bank. If I win at the dog races, you see, there’s a way of collecting without having to report it. They have an agent at the track.”

  “Beautiful!” Qwilleran murmured.

  “Clayton flies in tomorrow, and I’ll explain Operation Greenback in the car, driving in from the airport. I can hardly wait to see Wrigley!”

  “Be sure to stress the need for secrecy,” Qwilleran reminded her. “Tell Clayton we’re investigating financial fraud, and the victim may have had fears or suspicions that she confided to Mr. Crocus.”

  “Don’t worry. Clayton is a regular bloodhound. If we find out anything, is it okay to call you during the holidays?”

  “Of course. Have a merry Christmas, Celia.”

  “Same to you, chief.”

  As soon as Qwilleran hung up, Koko walked across the desk and faced him eyeball to eyeball, delivering a trumpetlike “Yow-w-w!” that pained the aural and olfactory senses.

  “What’s your problem?” Qwilleran asked. In answer, the cat knocked a pen to the floor and bit the shade of the desklamp, then raced around the room—over the furniture, up on the bookshelves, into the closet and out again, all the while uttering a rumbling growl.

  When Koko staged a catfit, it was a sure sign that Qwilleran was in the doghouse. “Oh-oh! I goofed!” he said, slapping his forehead. He had told Celia she could phone during the holidays; she would drive across town through dense traffic—just to call him—and he would be in Purple Point. He had been unforgivably thoughtless.

  Koko had calmed down and was grooming the fur on his underside, and Qwilleran was faced with the problem of calling her on a phone that she insisted was bugged. He gave her an hour to drive back to the park before calling her mobile home. She was surprised to hear his voice.

  In a tone of exaggerated jollity he said, “Just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas before I leave town for the weekend. I’ll be gone for three days.”

  “Oh,” she said, unsure how to respond. “Where are you going, Mr. Qwilleran?”

  “To a Christmas Eve wedding out of town. I won’t be back home until Monday evening.”

  “Oh . . . Who’s getting married?”

  “My boss.”

  “That’s nice. Give him my congratulations.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Will it be a big wedding?”

  “No, just a small one. It’s a second marriage for both of them. So . . . you and Clayton have a happy holiday, Celia.”

  “Same to you . . . uh . . . Mr. Qwilleran.”

  Hanging up the phone, he was sure she had got the message, and he complimented himself on handling it well. He turned to say to Koko, “Thank you, old boy, for drawing it to my attention.” But Koko wasn’t there. He was in the closet sitting in the safe.

  On the morning of December 24 Qwilleran packed his rented formal wear for the wedding in Purple Point, all the while pondering the Euphonia Gage swindle. It was now clear to him what had happened to her money. Whether or not Clayton could coax anything out of Mr. Crocus, Qwilleran believed he had a good case to present to Pender Wilmot.

  He called the attorney’s office, and a machine informed him they would be closed until Monday. The Wilmots were now living in the fashionable suburb of West Middle Hummock, and he tried their residence. A childish voice answered, and he said, “May I speak to your father?”

  “He isn’t here. He went to a meeting. They have some lunch and sing a song and tell jokes. What do you want him for?”

  “It’s a business matter, Timmie.”

  “D’you want a divorce? Do you want to sue somebody?” the boy asked helpfully.

  “Nothing like that,” said Qwilleran, fascinated by the initiative of the embryo lawyer. “What else does he do besides divorces and lawsuits?”

  “He writes wills. He wrote my will, and I signed it. I’m leaving my trains to my sister and all my wheels to my cousins and all my videos to the school.”

  “Well, have your father call me, Timmie, if he gets home before three o’clock. My name is Qwilleran.”

  “Wait till I get a pencil.” There was a long wait before he returned to the line. “What’s your name?”

  “Qwilleran. I’ll spell it for you. Q-w-i-l-l-e-r-a-n.”

  “Q?”

  “That’s right. Do you know how to make a Q? . . . Then W . . .”

  “W?” asked Timmie.

  “That’s right. Q . . . W . . . I . . . Have you got that? Then double-L . . .”

  “Another W?” Timmie asked.

  A woman’s voice interrupted. “Timmie, your lunch is ready . . . Hello? This is Mrs. Wilmot. May I help you?”

  “This is Jim Qwilleran, and I’d like Pender to call me if he gets home before three. I was in the process of leaving a message with his law clerk.”

  “Pender is having lunch with the Boosters, and then they’re delivering Christmas baskets, but we’ll see you at the wedding tonight.”

  “Perfect! I’ll speak with him there.”

  EIGHTEEN

  THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY was scheduled early, so that family and friends of the couple might return home to observe their own Christmas Eve traditions. In midafternoon Qwilleran picked up Polly for the drive to Purple Point. It was a narrow peninsula curving into the lake to form a natural harbor on the northern shore of Moose County. Viewed across the bay at sunset it was a distinct shade of purple.

  In the boom years of the nineteenth century Purple Point had been the center of fishing and shipbuilding industries, but all activity disappeared with the closing of the mines and the consequent economic collapse. Fire leveled the landscape, and hurricanes narrowed the peninsula to a mere spit of sand. Sport fishing revived the area in the 1920s as affluent families from Down Below built large summer residences, which they called fish camps.

  By the time Qwilleran arrived in Moose County, these dwellings were called cottages but were actually year-round vacation homes lining both sides of the road that ran the length of the peninsula. There were few trees, and sweeping winds raised havoc with sand or snow according to season. The approach to the Point was across a low, flat, uninhabited expanse called the Flats, a wetland in summer and an arctic waste following the Big Snow. The county plows kept the road open, building high, snowy banks on both sides, while the individual cottages were walled in by their own snow blowers. It was a surreal landscape into which Qwilleran and Polly ventured on that Christmas Eve.

  What the Lanspeaks called their cottage had a tall-case clock in the foyer, a baby grand piano in the living room, a quadrophonic sound system, and four bedrooms on the balcony. The only reminder of the original fish camp was the cobblestone fireplace. The bride and groom were already there, Riker assisting Larry in the preparation of an afternoon toddy, while Mildred raved about the tasteful decorations. There were banks of white poinsettias, garlands of greens, and a large Scotch pine trimmed with pearlescent ornaments, white velvet bows, and crystal icicles.

  When the guests started to arrive, the wedding party was elsewhere, dressing. The first to pull into the driveway were Junior and Jody Goodwinter, car-pooling with Mildred’s daughter, Sharon, and her husband, Roger MacGillivray. Qwilleran, looking down from the balcony, saw Lisa and Lyle Compton arriving with John Bushland (and his camera) and June Halliburton, who sat do
wn at the piano and started playing pleasant music. Chopin nocturnes, Polly said. Among those from the neighboring cottages were Don Exbridge and his new wife and the Wilmot family, the bespectacled Timmie in his little long-pant suit and bow tie. Hixie Rice hobbled in with her surgical boot, walker, and attentive doctor. They brought the officiating pastor with them, Ms. Sims from the Brrr church, the Pickax clergymen having declined to leave their flocks on Christmas Eve.

  At five o’clock the music faded away, the tall clock bonged five times, and Mildred’s daughter lighted the row of candles on the mantel. An expectant hush fell over the assembled guests. Then the pianist began a sweetly lyrical melody. Schubert’s Impromptu in G Flat, Polly said. Ms. Sims in robe and surplice took her place in front of the fireplace, and—as the tender notes developed into a strong crescendo—the groom and groomsman joined her. In dinner jacket and black tie the groom looked distinguished, and the best man looked especially handsome. There was a joyous burst of music, and all eyes turned upward as Polly walked downstairs from the balcony in her blue crepe and pearls. After a moment’s suspense the tender melody was heard again, and Mildred—who had lost a few pounds—moved gracefully down the stairs in apricot velvet.

  For the first time in his life Qwilleran performed his nuptial duty without dropping the ring. The only ripple of levity came when Timmie Wilmot, standing in the front row, said, “Daddy, how is that lady gonna join those people together?”

  After the ceremony there were champagne toasts and the cutting of the cake. Rightfully, the bride was the center of attention. Mildred—the good-hearted, generous, charitable supporter of worthy causes—was saying, “All the restaurants have been saving their pickle jars for us, and we now have a hundred of them at cash registers around the county, collecting loose change for spaying stray cats. I call them community cats because they don’t belong to anyone but they belong to everyone.”

  Lisa said to Qwilleran, “Who’s feeding Koko and Yum Yum?”