The Cat Who Played Brahms (6 page)

The Chamber of Commerce brochure gave directions: Go east to Pickax Road and turn south for five miles; enter the cemetery on a dirt road (unmarked) through a cobblestone gate.

The route passed the landscaped grounds that were evidently the prison compound, It passed the turkey farm, and Qwilleran slowed to watch the sea of bronze-feathered backs rippling in the farmyard. Ahead of him a truck was. turning out of a side road and heading toward him, one of those ubiquitous blue pickups. As it passed he waved to the driver, but the greeting was not returned. When he reached the cobblestone gate he realized the truck had come from the cemetery.

The access to the graveyard was merely a trail, rutted and muddy after the storm. It meandered through the woods with a clearing here and there, just big enough for a car to pull off and park; there was evidence of picnicking and beer-drinking. Eventually the trail branched in several directions through a meadow dotted with gravestones. Qwilleran followed the set of ruts that appeared to have been recently used.

Where the tire marks stopped he got out of the car and explored the burial ground. It was choked with tall grasses and vines, and he had to tear them away to read the inscriptions on the smaller stones: 1877-1879, 1841-1862, 1856-1859. So many infants were buried there! So many women had died in their twenties! The larger family monuments bore names like Schmidt, Campbell, Trevelyan, Watson.

Trampled grasses suggested a slight path leading behind the Campbell stone, and when he followed it he found signs of recent digging. Dried weeds had been thrown across freshly turned soil, barely concealing the brown plastic lid of a garbage pail. The pail itself, about a twelve-gallon size, was buried in the ground. Qwilleran removed the cover cautiously. The pail was empty.

He returned the hiding place to its previous condition and drove home, wondering who would bury a garbage pail in a cemetery—and why. The only clue was a tremor on his upper lip.

Before going to dinner in Mooseville he prepared a dish of tuna for the Siamese.

"Koko, you're not earning your keep," he said. "Strange things are happening, and you haven't come up with a single clue." Koko squeezed his blue eyes languidly. Perhaps the cat's sleuthing days were over. Perhaps he would become nothing but a fussy consumer of expensive food.

At that moment Koko's ears pricked up, and he bounded to the checkpoint. The distant rumble of an approaching vehicle became gradually louder until it sounded like a Russian tank. A red pickup truck was followed by a yellow tractor with a complicated superstructure.

The driver of the truck jumped out and said to Qwilleran: "You got a jack pine that's ready to fall on the house? We got this emergency call from Pickax. Something about the power lines. We're supposed to take the tree down and cut it up."

The tractor extended its skybox; the chain saws whined; three men in visored caps shouted; Yum Yum hid under the sofa; and Qwilleran escaped to Mooseville half an hour before the appointed time for dinner.

The Northern Lights Hotel was a relic from the 1860s when the village was a booming port for shipping lumber and ore. It was the kind of frame building that should have burned down a century ago but was miraculously preserved. In style it was a shoebox with windows, but a porch had been added at the rear, overlooking the wharves. Qwilleran sat in one of its rustic chairs and indulged in his favorite pastime: eavesdropping.

Two voices nearby were in nagging disagreement. Without seeing the source Qwilleran guessed that the man was fat and red-faced and the woman was scrawny and hard-of-hearing.

"I don't think much of this town," the man said in a gasping, wheezing voice. "There's nothing to do. We could've (gasp) stayed home and sat on the patio. It would've (gasp) been cheaper."

The woman answered in a shrill voice, flat with indifference. "You said you wanted to go fishing. I don't know why. You've always hated it."

"Your brother's been blowing off about the fishing up here for (gasp) six years. I wanted to show him he wasn't the only one (gasp) who could land a trout."

"Then why don't you sign up for a charter boat, the way the man said, and stop bitching?"

"I keep telling you—it's too expensive. Did you see how much they want (gasp) for half a day? I could buy a Caribbean cruise for (gasp) that kind of dough."

Qwilleran had checked the prices himself and thought them rather steep.

"Then let's go home," the woman insisted. "No sense hanging around."

"After driving all this way? Do you know what we've spent on gas (gasp) just to get up here?"

Roger appeared at that moment, wearing a black baseball cap.

"I see you're dressed for evening," Qwilleran said. "You didn't tell me it was formal."

"I collect 'em," Roger explained. "I've got seventeen so far. If you've got any enemies, I should warn you about that orange cap of yours; you'd make a perfect target."

They hung their caps with a dozen others on a row of pegs outside the hotel dining room, then took a side table underneath a large tragic painting of a three-masted schooner sinking in a raging sea.

"Well, we had a perfect day," Qwilleran said, opening with the obligatory weather report. "Sunny. Pleasant breeze. Ideal temperature."

"Yes, but the fog's starting to roll in. By morning you won't be able to see the end of your nose. It's no good for the trolling business."

"If you ask me, Roger, the artwork in this room isn't any good for the trolling business. Every picture on the wall is some kind of disaster at sea. It scares the hell out of me. Besides, the charter boats charge too much—that is, too much for someone like me who isn't really interested in fishing."

"You should try it once," Roger urged. "Trolling is a lot more exciting, you know, than sitting in a rowboat with a worm on a hook."

Qwilleran looked at the menu. "If the lake is full of fish, why isn't there one local product on the menu? Nothing but Nova Scotia halibut, Columbia River salmon, and Boston scrod."

"It's all sport-fishing here. The commercial fisheries down the shore net tons of fish and ship them out."

To Nova Scotia, Massachusetts, and the state of Washington, Qwilleran guessed.

Roger ordered a bourbon and water; Qwilleran, his usual tomato juice. A cranky-looking couple took a table nearby, and he noted smugly that the man was red-faced and obese and the woman wore a hearing aid.

Roger said: "Is that all you drink? I thought newsmen were hard drinkers. I studied journalism before I switched to history ed. . . . Say, you've got me counting blue pickups, and I found out you're right. My wife always says people in northern climates like blue. . . . Do you live alone?"

"Not entirely. I've adopted a couple of despotic Siamese cats. One was orphaned as the result of a murder on my beat. The female was abandoned when she was a kitten. They're both purebred, and the male is smarter than I am."

"I have a hunting dog—Brittany spaniel," Roger said. "Sharon has a Scottie. . . .

Were you ever married, Qwill?"

"Once. It wasn't an overwhelming success."

"What happened?"

"She had a nervous breakdown, and I tried to pickle my troubles in alcohol. You ask a lot of questions, Roger. You should have stuck to journalism." The newsman said it with good humor. He had spent his entire career asking questions, and now he enjoyed being interrogated.

"Would you ever get married again?"

Qwilleran allowed the glimmer of a smile to twitch his moustache. "Three months ago I would have said no; now I'm not so sure." He rubbed the backs of his hands as he spoke; they were beginning to itch. The bartender at the Press Club had predicted he would get hives from drinking so much tomato juice, and perhaps Bruno was right.

The fat man at the next table seemed to be listening, so Qwilleran lowered his voice.

"The police set up a roadblock Monday night. What was that all about? There was nothing in the paper or on the radio."

Roger shrugged. "Roadblocks are a social activity up here, like potluck suppers. I think the cops do it once in a while when things get dull."

"Are you telling me there isn't enough crime in Moose County to keep them busy?"

"Not like you have in the city. The conservation guys catch a few poachers, and things get lively at the Shipwreck Tavern on Saturday nights, but the cops spend most of their time chasing accidents—single-car accidents mostly. Someone drives too fast and hits a moose, or kids get a few beers and wrap themselves around a tree. There's a lot of rescue work on the lake, too; the sheriff has two boats and a helicopter."

"No drug problem?"

"Maybe the tourists smoke a few funny cigarettes, but—no problem, really. What I worry about is shipwreck-looting. The lake is full of sunken ships. Some of them went down a hundred years ago, and their cargoes are on public record. The looters have sophisticated diving equipment—cold-water gear, electronic stuff, and all that. There's valuable cargo down there, and they're stripping the wrecks for private gain."

"Isn't that illegal?"

"Not yet. If we had an underwater preserve protected by law it would be a big boost for tourism. It could be used by marine historians, archaeologists, and sport-divers."

"What's holding you back?"

"Money! It would take tens of thousands for an archaeological survey. After that we'd have to lobby for legislation."

Qwilleran said: "It would be a tough law to enforce. You'd need more boats, more helicopters, more personnel."

"Right! And by that time there wouldn't be any sunken cargo to protect."

The men had ordered a second round of drinks, but Qwilleran stopped sipping his T J.

He rubbed his itching hands and wrists surreptitiously under the table.

Roger lowered his voice. "See those two guys sitting near the door? They're wreck-divers. Probably looters."

"How do you know?"

"Everybody knows."

When the food was served, Qwilleran rated it E for edible, but the conversation was enlightening. At the end of the meal he remarked to Roger: "Do you think there might be a skunk living under the post office? I went in there yesterday, and the odor drove everyone out of the building."

"Probably some hog farmer picking up his mail," Roger said. "If they come into town in their work-clothes, the whole town clears out. You wouldn't believe the way some of their kids come to school. They're not all like that, of course. One of my hunting partners raises hogs, No problem."

"Another mystery: A hawk flew through a screened door at the cabin and left a big hole. I can't figure it out."

"He was diving for a rabbit or chipmunk," Roger explained, "and he didn't put on the brakes fast enough."

"You think so?"

"Sure! I've seen a hawk carry off a cat. I was hunting once and heard something mewing up in the sky. I looked up, and there was this poor little cat."

Qwilleran thought of Yum Yum and squirmed uncomfortably. There was a moment of silence, and then he said: "A couple of nights ago I heard footsteps on the roof in the middle of the night."

"A raccoon," Roger said. "A raccoon on the roof of a cabin like yours sounds like a Japanese wrestler in space boots, I know! My in-laws have a cottage near you. One year they had a whole family of raccoons in their chimney."

"Do your in-laws give wild parties? I've heard some hysterical laughing late at night."

"That was a loon you heard. It's a crazy bird."

The fog was thickening, and the view from the dining room windows was almost obliterated. Qwilleran said he should get back to the cabin.

"I hope my wife doesn't try driving home tonight," Roger said. "She's been on a buying trip Down Below. She has a little candle and gift shop in the mall. How do you like this money clip? It came from Sharon's shop." He paid his half of the check with bills from a jumbo paper clip that looked like gold.

Qwilleran drove home at twenty miles an hour with the fog swirling in front of the windshield. The private drive up to the cabin was even more hazardous, with tree trunks suddenly appearing where they were not supposed to be. As he parked the car he thought he saw two figures moving away from the cabin, down the slope toward the beach.

"Hello!" he called. "Hello there!" But they disappeared into the fog.

Indoors he first checked the whereabouts of the Siamese. Koko was huddled on the moose head, and Yum Yum cautiously wriggled out from underneath the sofa. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, but he detected the aroma of pipe tobacco. In the guestroom there was a slight impression in one of the bunks, where the cats took their naps, and one of his brown socks was on the floor. Yum Yum had a passion for his socks. Everything else seemed to be in order.

Then he found a note in the kitchen, scribbled on one of his own typing sheets:

"Welcome to the dunes. I'm Roger's mother-in-law; See foil package in your fridge.

Thought you might like some roast turkey. Come and see us."

That was all. No name. Qwilleran checked the refrigerator and found a generous supply of sliced turkey breast and chunks of dark meat. As he started chopping a portion of it for the cats' dinner, Yum Yum squealed in anticipation, and Koko pranced back and forth, warbling an aria of tenor yowls and ecstatic gutterals.

Qwilleran watched them eat, but his mind was elsewhere. He liked Roger. Under thirty, with coal-black hair, was a good age to be. But the young man had been remarkably glib on the subject of hawks, loons, raccoons, blue trucks, and police roadblocks. How many of his answers were in the interest of tourism? And if the official brochure encouraged tourists to visit the old cemetery, why did Roger try to discourage it? Did he know something about the pail? And if there was no crime in Moose County, why did Aunt Fanny make a point of carrying a gun?

-5-

Qwilleran was wakened by Yum Yum. She sat on his chest, her blue eyes boring into his forehead, conveying a subliminal message: breakfast. The lake view from the bunkroom windows had been replaced by total whiteness. The fog had settled on the shore like a suffocating blanket. There was no breeze, no sound.