The Cat Who Played Brahms (5 page)

"So much for pasties," he said as he opened a can of red salmon.

An evening chill was descending and he tried to light a fire. There were twigs and old newspapers in a copper coal scuttle, split logs in the wood basket, and long matches in a brass holder, but the paper was damp and the matches only glowed feebly before expiring.

He made three attempts and then gave up.

After the nerve-wracking drive from Down Below and two sleepless nights, he was weary.

He was also disoriented by the sudden change from concrete sidewalks to sand dunes, and by odd situations he did not I understand.

He went to the row of windows overlooking the lake—a hundred miles of water with Canada on the opposite shore. It shaded from silver to turquoise to deep blue. How Rosemary would enjoy this view! As he tried to imagine it through her eyes he heard an eerie whistling in the tops of the tallest pines. There was no breeze—only the soft shrill hissing. At the same time, the Siamese—who should have been drowsy after their feast of salmon—began prowling restlessly. Yum Yum emitted ear-splitting howls for no apparent reason, and Koko butted his head belligerently against the legs of tables and chairs. Within minutes the lake changed to steel gray dotted with whitecaps. Then a high wind rushed in without warning. The whitecaps became breakers crashing in maelstroms of foam. When the tall pines started to sway, the maples and birches were already bending like beach grass. Suddenly rain hit the windows with the: staccato racket of machine gun fire. The gale howled; the surf pounded the shore; tree limbs snapped off and plunged to the ground.

For the first time since his arrival Qwilleran felt really comfortable. He relaxed.

The peace and quiet had been insufferable; he was used to noise and turmoil. It would be a good night to sleep.

First he had an urge to write to Rosemary. He put a sheet of paper in the typewriter and immediately ripped it out. It would be more appropriate to write with the gold pen she had given him for his birthday.

Rummaging among the jumble on his writing table he found yellow pencils, thick black Fluxion pencils, cheap ballpoints, and an old red jumbo fountain pen that had belonged to his mother. The sleek gold pen from Rosemary was missing.

-4-

Qwilleran slept well, lulled by the savage tumult outdoors. He was awakened shortly after dawn by the opening chords of the Brahms Double Concerto. The cassette was still in the player, and Koko was sitting alongside it, looking pleased with himself. He had placed one paw on the "power" button, activating a little red light, and another on "play."

The storm was over, although the trees could be heard dripping on the roof. The wind had subsided, and the lake had flattened to a sheet of silver. Everywhere there was the good wet smell of the woods after a heavy rain. The birds were rejoicing.

Even before he rolled out of bed Qwilleran's thoughts went to the stolen pen and the stolen watch. Should he report the theft to Aunt Fanny? Should he confront Tom? In this strange new environment he felt it was a case of foreign diplomacy, requiring circumspection and a certain finesse.

Koko was the first to hear the truck approaching. His ears snapped to attention and his body became taut. Then Qwilleran heard the droning of a motor coming up the hilly, winding drive. He pulled on some clothes hastily while Koko raced to the door and demanded access to the porch, his official checkpoint for arriving visitors. Qwilleran's tingling moustache told him it would be a blue truck, and the message was correct. A stocky little old man was taking a shovel from the truck-bed.

"Hey, what's going on here?" Qwilleran demanded. He recognized the gravedigger from the parking lot of the Shipwreck Tavern.

"Gotta dig you up," said Old Sam, heading for the grave on the east side of the cabin.

"What for?" Qwilleran slammed the porch door and raced after him.

"Big George be comin' soon."

"Who told you to come here?"

"Big George." Old Sam was digging furiously. "Sand be heavy after the storm."

Qwilleran spluttered in a search for words. "What—who—look here! You can't dig up this property unless you have authorization."

"Ask Big George. He be the boss." Sand was flying out of the shallow hole, which was becoming more precisely rectangular. Soon the shovel hit a concrete slab. "There she be!"

After a few more swings with the shovel Old Sam climbed out of the hole, just as a large dirty tank truck lumbered into the clearing that served as a parking lot.

Quilleran strode to the clearing and confronted the driver. "Are you Big George?"

"No, I'm Dave," said the man mildly, as he unreeled a large hose. "Big George is the truck. The lady in Pickax—she called last night. Told us to get out here on the double.

Are you choked up?"

"Am I what?"

"When she calls, we jump. No foolin' around with that lady. Should've pumped you out last summer, I guess."

"Pumped what?"

"The septic tank. We had to get Old Sam outa bed this morning, hangover and all. He digs; we pump. No room for the back-hoe in here. Too heavily wooded. You new here? Sam'll come and fill you in later. He doesn't fill all the way; makes it easier next time.

Unless you want him to. Then he'll level it off."

Old Sam had driven away, but now a black van appeared in the clearing, driven by a slender young man in a red, white, and blue T-shirt and a tall silk opera hat.

Qwilleran stared at him. "And who are you?"

"Little Henry. You having trouble? The old lady in Pickax said you'd catch on fire any minute. Man, she's a tough baby. Won't take no excuses." He removed his topper and admired it. "This is my trademark. You seen my ads in the Picayune?"

"What do you advertise?"

"I'm the only chimney sweep in Moose County. You should be checked every year. . . .

Is that your phone ringing?”

Qwilleran rushed back into the cabin. The telephone, which stood on the bar dividing kitchen from dining area, had stopped ringing. Koko had nudged the receiver off the cradle and was sniffing the mouthpiece.

Qwilleran grabbed it. "Hello, hello! Get down! Hello?" Koko was fighting for possession of the instrument. "Get down, dammit! Hello?"

"Is everything all right, dear?" the deep voice said after a moment's hesitation. "Did the storm do any damage? Don't worry about it; Tom will clean up the yard. You stick to your typewriter. You've got that wonderful book to finish. I know it will be a bestseller. Did you see Big George and Little Henry? I don't want anything to go wrong with the plumbing or the chimney while you're concentrating on your writing. I told them to get out there immediately or I'd have their licenses revoked. You have to be firm with these country people or they go fishing and forget about you. Are you getting enough to eat? I've bought some of those divine cinnamon buns to keep in your freezer. Tom will drive me up this morning, and we'll have a pleasant lunch on the porch. I'll bring a picnic basket. Get back to your writing, dear."

Qwilleran turned to Koko. "Madame President is coming. Try to act like a normal cat.

Don't answer the phone. Don't play the music. Stay away from the microwave."

When Big George and Little Henry had finished their work, Qwilleran put on his orange cap and drove to Mooseville to mail his letter to Rosemary and to buy supplies. His shopping list was geared to his culinary skills: instant coffee, canned soup, frozen stew. For guests he laid in a supply of liquor and mixes.

In the canned soup section of the supermarket he noticed a black-bearded young man in a yellow cap with a spark-plug emblem. They stared at each other.

"Hi, Mr. Qwilleran."

"Forget the mister. Call me Qwill. Aren't you Roger from the tourist bureau? Roger, George, Sam, Henry, Tom, Dave. . . I've met so many. people without surnames, it's like biblical times."

"Mine's a tough one: MacGillivray."

"What! My mother was a Mackintosh!"

"No kidding! Same clan!"

"Your ancestor fought like a lion for Prince Charlie."

"Right! At Culloden in 1746."

"April sixteenth."

Their voices had been rising higher with surprise and pleasure, to the mystification of the other customers. The two men pumped hands and slapped backs.

"I hope that's Scotch broth you're buying," Roger said.

"Why don't we have dinner some night?" Qwilleran suggested. "Preferably not at the FOO."

"How about tonight? My wife's out-of-town."

"How about the hotel dining room! Hats-off."

Qwilleran returned to the cabin to shower and shave in preparation for the visit of Aunt Fanny and the remarkable Tom—gardener, chauffeur, handyman, errand boy, and petty thief, perhaps. Shortly before noon a long black limousine inched its way around the curves of the drive and emerged triumphantly in the clearing. The driver, dressed in work clothes and a blue visored cap, jumped out and ran around to open the passenger's door.

Out came Indian moccasins with beadwork, then a fringed suede skirt, then a leather jacket with more fringe and beadwork, then Aunt Fanny's powdered face topped with an Indian red turban. Qwilleran noticed that she had well-shaped legs for an octogenarian soon to be a nonagenarian.

"Francesca! Good to see you again!" he exclaimed. "You’re looking very. . . very. . . sexy.”

"Bless you, my dear," she said in her surprising baritone voice. "Little old ladies are usually called chipper or spry, and I intend to shoot the next fool who does." She reached into her fringed suede handbag and withdrew a small pistol with a gold handle, which she waved with abandon.

"Careful!" Qwilleran gasped.

"Dear me! The storm did a lot of damage. That jack pine is almost bare. We'll have to remove it. . . . Tom, come here to meet the famous Mr. Qwilleran."

The man-of-all-work stepped forward obediently, removing the blue cap that advertised a brand of fertilizer. His age was hard to guess. An old twenty or a young forty? His round scrubbed face and pale blue eyes wore an expression of serene wonder.

"This is Tom," Aunt Fanny said. "Tom, it's all right to shake hands with Mr.

Qwilleran; he's a member of the family."

Qwilleran gripped a hand that was strong but unaccustomed to social gestures. "How do you do, Tom.

I've heard a lot of good things about you." Thinking of the missing watch and pen he looked inquiringly into the man's eyes, but their open innocent gaze was disarming. "You did a fine job with the porch yesterday, Tom. How did you do so much work in such a short time? Did you have a helper?"

"No," Tom said slowly. "No helper. I like to work. I like to work hard." He spoke in a gentle, musical voice.

Aunt Fanny slipped something into his hand. "Go into Mooseville, Tom, and buy yourself a big pasty and a beer, and come back in two hours. Bring the picnic basket from the car before you leave."

"Tom, do you know what time it is?" Qwilleran asked. "I've lost my watch."

The handyman searched the sky for the sun, hiding in the tall pines. "It's almost twelve o'clock," he said softly.

He drove away in the limousine, and Aunt Fanny said: "I've brought some egg salad sandwiches and a thermos of coffee with that marvelous cream. We'll sit on the porch and enjoy the lake. The temperature is perfect. Now where are those intelligent cats I've heard so much about? And where do you do your writing? I must confess, I'm awed by your talent, dear."

As a newsman Qwilleran was expert at interviewing difficult subjects, but he was defeated by Aunt Fanny. She chattered nonstop about shipwrecks on the lake, bears in the woods, dead fish on the beach, caterpillars in the trees. Questions were ignored or evaded. Madame President was in charge of the conversation.

In desperation Qwilleran finally shouted: "Aunt Fanny!" After her startled pause he continued: "What do you know about Tom? Where did you find him? How long has he worked for you? Is he trustworthy? He has access to this cabin when I'm not here. You can't blame me for wanting to know."

"You poor dear," she said. "You have always lived in cities. Life is different in the country. We trust each other. Neighbors walk into your house without knocking. If you're not there and they want to borrow an egg, they help themselves. It's a friendly way of living. Don't worry about Tom. He's a fine young man. He does everything I tell him to do and nothing more."

A bell rang—the clear golden tone of the ship's bell outside the south porch.

"That's Tom," she said. "He's right on time. Isn't he a marvel? You go and talk to him while I powder my nose. This has been such a pleasant visit, my dear."

Qwilleran went into the yard. "Hello, Tom. You're right on time, even without a watch."

"Yes, I don't need a watch," he said quietly, his face beaming with pride. He stroked the brass bell. "This is a nice bell. I polished it yesterday. I like to clean things. I keep the truck and the car very clean."

Qwilleran was fascinated by the singsong inflection of his voice.

"I saw your truck in Pickax. It's blue, isn't it?"

"Yes. I like blue. It's like the sky and the lake. Very pretty. This is a nice cabin.

I'll come and clean it for you."

"That's a kind offer, Tom, but don't come unless I call you. I'm writing a book, and I don't like people around when I'm writing."

"I wish I could write. I'd like to write a book. That would be nice."

"Everyone has his own talents," Qwilleran said, "and you have many skills. You should be proud of yourself."

Tom's face glowed with pleasure. "Yes, I can fix anything."

Aunt Fanny appeared, good byes were said, and the limousine moved carefully down the drive.

The Siamese, who had been invisible for the last two hours, materialized from nowhere.

"You two weren't very sociable," Qwilleran said. "What did you think of Aunt Fanny?"

"YOW!" said Koko, shaking himself vigorously.

Qwilleran remembered offering Aunt Fanny drink before lunch—a whiskey sour, or a gin and tonic, or a Scotch and soda, or dry sherry. She had declined them all.

Now he had four hours to kill before dining with Roger, and he had no incentive to start page one of chapter one of the book he was supposed to be writing. He might watch the bears at the village dump or visit the prison flower gardens or study shipwreck history at the museum, but it was the abandoned cemetery that tugged at his imagination, even though Roger had advised against it—or perhaps because Roger had advised against it.