The Cat Who Played Brahms (4 page)

"No, I'm on vacation. I'll be around for three months. Is there a barber in town?"

"Bob's Chop Shop at the Cannery Mall. Men's and women's hair styling." Roger handed Qwilleran another copy of the Mooseville brochure. "Are you a fisherman?"

"I can think of things I'd rather do."

"Deep-sea fishing is a great experience. You'd enjoy it. You can charter a boat at the municipal pier and go out for a day or half a day. They supply the gear, take you where the fish are biting, even tell you how to hold the rod. And they guarantee you'll come back with a few big ones."

"Anything else to do around here?"

"There's the museum; it's big on shipwreck history. The flower gardens at the state prison are spectacular, and the prison gift shop has some good leather items. You can see bears scrounging at the village dump, or you can hunt for agates on the beach."

Qwilleran was studying the brochure. "What's this about a historic cemetery?"

"It's not much," Roger admitted. "It's a nineteenth century burial ground, abandoned for the last fifty years. Sort of vandalized. If I were you, I'd take a fishing trip."

"What are these pas ties everyone advertises?"

"It's like a turnover filled with meat and potatoes and turnips. Pasties are traditional up here. The miners used to carry pasties in their lunch buckets."

"Where's a good place to try one?"

"Hats-off or hats-on?"

"What?"

"What I mean-we have some restaurants with a little class, like the hotel dining room, and we have the other kind—casual—where the guys eat with their hats on. For a good hats-off place you could try a little bistro at the Cannery Mall, called the Nasty Pasty.

A bit of perverse humor, I guess. The tourists like it."

Qwilleran said he would prefer real north country atmosphere.

"Right. So here's what you want to do: Drive west along the shore for about a mile.

You'll see a big electric sign that says FOO. The D dropped off about three years ago.

It's a dump, but they're famous for pasties, and it's strictly hats-on."

"One more Question." Qwilleran touched his moustache tentatively, as he did when a situation was bothering him. "How come there are so many blue pickup trucks in this neck of the woods?" "I don't know. I never really noticed." Roger jumped up and went to the side window overlooking the parking lot of the Shipwreck Tavern. "You're right. There are two blue pickups in the lot. . . . But there's also a red one, and a dirty green, and a sort of yellow."

"And here comes another blue one," Qwilleran persisted. It was the truck with the shovels. The agile little man who jumped out of the driver's seat wore overalls and a visored cap and a faceful of untrimmed gray whiskers.

"That's old Sam the gravedigger. He's got a lot of bounce, hasn't he? He's over eighty and puts away a pint of whiskey every day—except Sunday."

"You mean you still dig graves by hand?"

"Right. Sam's been digging graves and other things all his life. Keeps him young. . .

. Look at that sky. We're in for a storm."

"Thanks for the information," Qwilleran said. "I think I'll go and try the pasties."

He glanced at his wrist. "What time is it? I left my watch at the cabin."

"That's normal. When guys come up here, the first thing they do—they forget to wear their watches. Then they stop shaving. Then they start eating with their hats on."

Qwilleran drove west until he saw an electric sign flashing its message futilely in the sunshine: FOO . . .FOO . . . FOO. The parking lot was filled with pickups and vans.

No blue. He thought: Why am I getting paranoid about blue pickups? The answer was a familiar uneasiness on his upper lip.

The restaurant was a two-story building in need of paint and shingles and nails. A ventilator expelled fumes of fried fish and smoking hamburgers. Inside, the tables were filled, and red, green, blue, and yellow caps could be seen dimly through the haze of cigarette smoke. Country music on the radio could not compete with the hubbub of loud talk and laughter.

Qwilleran took a stool at the counter not far from a customer with a sheriff's department patch on his sleeve and a stiff-brimmed hat on his head.

The cook shuffled out of the kitchen and said to the deputy: "We're in for a big one."

The brimmed hat nodded.

"Another roadblock last night?" Two nods.

"Find anything?"

The hat waggled from side to side.

"We all know where the buggers go."

Another nod.

"But no evidence."

The hat registered negative.

The waitress was standing in front of Qwilleran, waiting wordlessly for his order.

"A couple of pasties," he said.

"To go?"

"No. To eat here."

"Two?"

Qwilleran found himself nodding an affirmative.

"You want I should hold one back and keep it hot till you eat the first one?"

"No, thanks. That won't be necessary."

The conversation at the tables concerned fishing exclusively, with much speculation bout an approaching storm. The movement of the lake, the color of the sky, the behavior of the seagulls, the formation of the clouds, the feel of the wind—all these factors convinced veteran fishermen that a storm was coming, despite predictions on the local radio station.

When Qwilleran's two pasties arrived they completely filled two large oval platters.

Each of the crusty turnovers was a foot wide and three inches thick. He surveyed the feast. "I need a fork," he said.

"Just pick' em up," the waitress said and disappeared into the kitchen.

Roger was right. The pasties were filled with meat and potatoes and plenty of turnip, which ranked with parsnip at the bottom of Qwilleran's list of edibles. He chomped halfway through the first pasty, lubricating each dry mouthful with gulps of weak coffee, then asked to have the remaining artifacts wrapped to take home. He paid his check glumly, receiving his change in dollar bills that smelled of cigar smoke.

The cashier, a heavy woman in snugly fitting pants and a Mooseville T-shirt, leered at his orange cap and said: "All ready for Halloween, Clyde?"

Glancing at her blimplike figure he thought of an apt retort but curbed his impulse.

He returned home with one and a half pasties in soggy waxed paper and discovered some new developments. The damaged screen in the porch door had been replaced, and the hawk-spotted furnishings had been cleaned. There was a can of insect spray in the kitchen.

Additional cassettes were stacked on the stereo cabinet. And his watch was missing. He clearly remembered placing it on a bathroom shelf before showering. Now it was gone. It was an expensive timepiece, presented to him by the Antique Dealers' Association at a testimonial dinner.

With mystification and annoyance muddling his head he sat down to think. Koko rubbed against his ankles, and Yum Yum jumped upon his knee. He stroked her fur absently as he reviewed the last twenty-four hours.

First there was the sunken grave; the cats were still mesmerized and kept returning to their vantage point in the guest-room window. Next there were the footsteps on the roof; the intruder was heading for the chimney when frightened away by light and noise. This morning there had been the incredible odor at the post office. And why did Roger discourage him from visiting the old cemetery? The Chamber of Commerce brochure recommended it to history buffs, photographers, and artists interested in making rubbings of nineteenth century tombstones.

And now his watch had been stolen. He had another he could use, but the missing watch was gold and had pleasant associations. Would Aunt Fanny's trusted employee attempt a theft so easily traceable? Perhaps he had a light-fingered helper; after all, a lot of work had been accomplished in a very short time.

Qwilleran's reverie was interrupted by the sound of a vehicle moving slowly up the driveway, tires crunching on gravel. It had the purring motor of an expensive car.

The cats were alerted. Koko marched to the south porch to inspect the new arrival. Yum Yum hid under one of the sofas.

The man who stepped out of the car was an alarming sight in this northern wilderness.

He wore a business suit, obviously tailor-made, and a white shirt with a proper striped tie. There was a hint of cologne, a conservative scent. His long thin face was somber.

"I presume you are Miss Klingenschoen's nephew," he said when Qwilleran advanced. "I'm her attorney.. . “

"Is anything wrong?" Qwilleran cut in quickly, alarmed by the funereal tone.

"No, no, no, no. I had business in the vicinity and merely stopped to introduce myself. I'm Alexander Goodwinter."

"Come in, come in. My name is Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran."

"So I am aware. Spelled with a W," the attorney said. "I read the Daily Fluxion. We all read the Fluxion up here, chiefly to convince ourselves that we're fortunate to live four hundred miles away. When we refer to the metropolitan area as Down Below, we are thinking not only of geography." He seemed entirely at ease in the cabin, seating himself on Yum Yum's sofa and crossing his knees comfortably. "I believe a storm is imminent.

They can be quite violent up here."

The newsman had learned that any conversation in the north country opened with comments on the weather, almost as a matter of etiquette. "Yes," he said with a declamatory flourish, "the texture of the lake and the lambency of the wind are rather ominous."

When the attorney gave him a wary look, Qwilleran quickly added: "I'd offer you a drink, but I haven't had a chance to stock up. We arrived only yesterday."

"So Fanny informed me. We are pleased to have one of her relatives nearby. She is so very much alone—the last of the Klingenschoens."

"We're not. . . really. . . relatives," Qwilleran said with a slight lapse of concentration. He could see Yum Yum's nose emerging stealthily under the skirt of the sofa, not far from the attorney's foot. "She and my mother were friends, and I was encouraged to call her Aunt Fanny. Now she disclaims the title."

"Fanny is her legal name," Goodwinter said. "She was Fanny when she left Pickax to attend Vassar or Wellesley or whatever, and she was Francesca when she returned forty years later." He chuckled. "I find the name Francesca Klingenschoen a charming incongruity. Our firm has handled her family's legal affairs for three generations. Now my sister and I are the sole partners, and Fanny retains Penelope to handle her tax-work and lawsuits and real estate transactions. We have been urging her to sell this place.

Anyone who owns shore property has a gold mine, you may be aware. Fanny should liquidate some of her holdings to expedite—ah—future arrangements. She is, after all, nearing ninety. No doubt you will be seeing her during the summer?"

"Yes, she promised to come up for lunch, and I have a rain check on a steak dinner in Pickax."

"Ah, yes, we all know Fanny's steak dinners," Goodwinter said with a humorous grimace.

"She promises steak, but when the time comes she serves scrambled eggs. One forgives her eccentricities because of her—ah—energetic involvement in the community. It was Fanny who virtually blackmailed the city fathers of Pickax into installing new sewers, repairing the sidewalks, and solving the parking problem. A very—ah—determined woman."

Yum Yum's entire head was now visible, and one paw was coming into view.

The attorney went on: "My sister and I are hoping you will break bread with us before long. She reads your column religiously and quotes you as if you were Shakespeare."

"I appreciate the invitation," Qwilleran said, "but it remains to be seen how sociable I will be this summer. I'm doing some writing." He waved his hand toward the dining table across the room, littered with books, typewriter, paper, pens, and pencils. As he did so, he noticed Yum Yum's paw reaching slowly and cautiously toward the attorney's shoelace.

"I applaud your intentions," Goodwinter said. "The muse must be served. But please remember: the latchstring is out at the Goodwinter residence." After a small cough he added: "Did you find Fanny looking—ah—well when you visited her?"

"Remarkably well! Very active and spirited for a woman of her age. Only one problem:

It's hard to get her attention."

"Her hearing is excellent, according to her doctor. But she seems preoccupied most of the time-in a world of her own, so to speak." The attorney coughed again. "To be perfectly frank—and I speak to you in confidence—we have been wondering if Fanny is—ah—drinking a little."

"Some doctors recommend a daily nip for the elderly."

"Ah, well. . . the truth of the matter is . . . the druggist informs me she has been buying a considerable amount of liquor lately. A bottle of good sherry used to take care of her needs for two months, I am told, but the houseman who does her shopping has been picking up hard liquor two or three times a week."

"He's probably drinking it himself," Qwilleran said.

"We doubt that. Tom has been under close observation since coming to Pickax to work for Fanny, and all reports are good. He's a simple soul but dependable—a competent handyman and careful driver. The local bar-owners assure me that Tom never drinks more than one or two beers."

"What kind of liquor is he buying?"

"Rye, gin, Scotch. No particular label. And only a pint at a time. You might keep this confidential matter in mind when you see Fanny. We all consider her a community treasure and feel a sense of responsibility. Incidentally, if she asks your advice, you might suggest selling the large house in Pickax and moving into smaller quarters. She has had a few fainting spells recently—or so she describes them. You can see why we are all concerned about this gallant little lady. We don't want anything to happen to her."

When the attorney had said goodbye and had tied his shoelace and had driven away, Koko and Yum Yum gave Qwilleran the hungry eye. He scooped the filling from half a pasty, mashed it into a gray paste, warmed it slightly, and spread it on what looked like a handmade raku plate. The Siamese approached the food in slow motion, sniffed it incredulously, walked around it in an effort to discover its purpose, withdrew in disdain, and looked at Qwilleran in silent rebuke, shaking their front paws in a gesture of loathing.