The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (11 page)

“Did you ever save up enough to buy your horse?” Qwilleran asked.

“No, but I bought a two-wheeled bike—a dollar down and a dollar a month. I couldn't believe it when they said I could take it home and ride it before it was paid for! It seemed like incredible largesse on the part of the general store.”

Rhoda had poured the tea and handed him a cup, saying, “Stop talking and drink it while it's hot.”

“She's a tyrant about hot tea! Wants me to scald my gums!”

She murmured to Qwilleran, “He forgets to drink it and then complains because it's cold. I didn't know about his quaint foibles when I married him.”

“Bosh! You knew everything! You'd been chasing me for years!”

“You didn't run very fast, dear.”

Qwilleran interrupted the comedy routine that the happy couple repeated on every visit. “I suppose there was no income tax in those days.”

“Not until I had my first teaching assignment. It was in a one-room schoolhouse with a potbellied stove. I didn't earn much money, and at the end of the year the government took four dollars away from me. For income tax, they said. I thought I'd been robbed! Now all you hear from Washington is: seventy million . . . twelve billion . . . six trillion! Sounds like the old Kingfish character on the radio. You don't remember him. You're too young.”

Qwilleran said, “Homer, you should start writing your autobiography.”

“There's plenty of time for that,” the old man said testily. “I intend to live until that villain in the mayor's office is thrown out on his ear!”

“Then you'll live forever, dear,” said Rhoda, explaining to Qwilleran, “Mr. Blythe is automatically reelected every term because his mother was a Goodwinter.” Between sips of tea she was snipping a scrap of black paper with tiny scissors.

“May I ask what you're doing?” Qwilleran asked.

“Cutting a silhouette of you. My grandmother taught me how. It was a popular art in Victorian days. She had a silhouette signed by Edouarte that would be quite valuable today, and she promised to leave it to me, but my cousin in Ohio got it.”

“Rhoda and her rascally relatives!” Homer complained. “They're driving me to an early grave!”

Qwilleran said, “I have no relatives at all, and I'd gladly settle for a couple of rascals.”

“Take some of Rhoda's, Qwill! Take her two cousins in Ohio.”

She said, “But . . . the aunt Fanny you inherited from . . .”

“She was my mother's best friend—not my real aunt.”

“And how is dear Polly? I haven't seen her since we moved out here. I used to drive Homer to the library every day, and I always had a little chat with Polly.”

“Do you find it stimulating enough—living out here?”

“Oh, yes! We have book clubs and discussion groups and lectures. Last week we had a speaker from the Literacy Council. Do you know it's easier to teach adults how to read than to teach children? Adults have developed certain skills and talents and are more realistic.”

Homer was showing signs of drowsiness, and Qwilleran thought it was time to leave. Rhoda gave him his silhouette in an envelope, saying, “Put this in a little frame and give it to Polly. She'll want to put it on her desk at the library. Your head has very good lines.”

As soon as he reached the parking lot he opened the envelope. The silhouette was hardly larger than a postage stamp, yet it was a recognizable likeness. The moustache protruded more than he thought it should. Perhaps it needed trimming. The head was a little flat on top, but generally he agreed that the lines of his head were good. On the way home he stopped at Lanspeak's and bought a small frame in the gift shop.

•      •      •

In the the early evening, as Qwilleran was preparing the cats' dinner, Koko muttered a small growl and jumped to the counter to peer out the window. In a minute or two a small red car came out of the woods—Celia Robinson's car. Yet he always welcomed her with anticipation, not growls.

Going out to meet the vehicle, Qwilleran saw a strange woman at the wheel. She rolled the driver's window down and said, “Mr. Qwilleran? Celia Robinson wanted me to deliver some things. She's very busy.” She handed over the three cartons that were on the passenger seat.

“That was thoughtful of her. Are you her new assistant?”

“Yes, sir.” He summed her up as healthy-looking but plain, with glasses and with hair drawn tightly back.

“And what is your name?” he asked pleasantly.

“Nora, sir.”

“Thank you, Nora . . . Follow the driveway around the big tree, and you'll be headed back to Main Street.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

As soon as the cartons were in the refrigerator Qwilleran phoned Celia and told her how much he appreciated the food delivery.

“I'm working on a big luncheon for tomorrow and thought you wouldn't mind if I sent Nora. What did you think of her?”

“What can I say? She seems to be neat and clean and polite.”

“Yes, she has nice manners,” Celia said. “She worked for the Sprenkles for years as a housemaid and also helped the cook. She's the student I tutored.”

“Is she the one whose letter ran in today's paper?”

“Did they print it? She'll be thrilled!”

“Did you help her with it, Celia?”

“Only with punctuation—and the spelling of a couple of words. Did you open the cartons? The tuna salad is for sandwiches. The bread pudding is laced with chocolate sauce. And I made you a lovely ham loaf.”

“What's the difference between a lovely ham loaf and an unlovely one?”

Her shrill laugh pierced his left ear, and he scowled at the receiver.

“Go back to your chicken â la king,” he said.

When she went back to her kitchen and he went to stock the refrigerator, his mind was not on ham loaf or bread pudding. He was thinking, How did that cat know it was not Celia driving Celia's car?

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 15—
A carriage without a horse goes nowhere
.

 

For the morning reading session Koko selected
Oedipus Rex
again, and his choice was vetoed for the third time. Qwilleran thought, It's more than fish glue in the old binding that attracts him. There might be a hundred-dollar bill leafed between the pages, or a love letter, or the deed to a gold mine. (A brief Gold Rush had been part of Moose County's history.) Riffling through the pages he found nothing—not even a coffee stain or smear of chocolate, confirming his guess that the book had never been read. So the Sophocles volume went back on the shelf, and Qwilleran read from Mark Twain's autobiography—the part about the two tomcats fighting on the roof.

Later he went downtown to buy supplies for the evening's cocktail party. He was inviting Barry Morghan to meet some of the town's movers and shakers. Barry had met Polly on Labor Day. Now he would meet Hixie Rice, promotion director for the Something; Dwight Somers, local public relations counsel; and Maggie Sprenkle, who had connections with all the old moneyed families. After cocktails the guests would be taken to dinner at the Old Stone Mill—the best restaurant in the county until the Mackintosh Room opened.

At the Sip 'n' Nibble Shop Qwilleran purchased champagne (the best label) and mixed nuts (the luxury blend, with plenty of pecans and Brazil nuts). Thoughtfully he bought half a pound of almonds for Polly and anyone else on a diet. Jack Nibble and Joe Sipp were both in the store, talkative as usual. Longtime partners, they had the habit of completing each other's thoughts. They said:

“Didn't know Pickax could be so exciting!”

“New hotel, gold medal winner, and murder—”

“All in one week.”

“The guy they killed came in here once—”

“Looking to buy rum—”

“Ticked off because we handle only wine.”

“Bought some luxury mix, though.”

“His assistant, or whatever, tagged along after him, demurely.”

“His kind likes that kind.”

While Qwilleran was downtown, Pat O'Dell's janitorial service gave the barn what they called a fluff-up: quick tidying, superficial dusting, and vaccuuming here and there.

To stay out of their way, Qwilleran killed an hour at Lois's Luncheonette, having a slice of apple pie and reading the Tuesday Something. Lenny, he expected, would barge in after classes, howling for coffee and pie. Instead, the young man slouched into the lunchroom and went directly to the kitchen for quiet words with his mother. When he emerged with a plate and a mug, Qwilleran hailed him. “Anything wrong, Lenny?”

“Boze didn't show up for work last night,” he replied in a low voice as he slid into the booth. “He had Saturday and Sunday nights off but was supposed to relieve me last night at midnight. No show! No excuse! No nothing! I called his rooming house, but the phone was on the answering machine until six a.m.” Lenny took a gulp of coffee.

“What happens in a situation like that?”

“I notified the resident manager, and she covered for him. But I was really burned, Qwill! I drove around to all the bars until two o'clock, looking for his truck. No luck. He cut his classes this morning, too.”

Qwilleran said, “That was a lot of glory for a neophyte. I admit I wondered how he'd react.”

Lenny wasn't listening. “Did he go on a colossal binge in Bixby? Did he get in a fight down there? Did they drug his beer? Did he fall in with some groupies?”

“How do you think Morghan will feel about it? It's only one night that he goofed off. Saturday and Sunday were—”

“Mr. Morghan is a decent boss, but rules are rules.”

“It could be a traffic accident. Did anyone check the police and the hospitals?”

“The resident said she would. There'd be a radio news bulletin if anything bad happened to a gold medalist. I think Boze is AWOL, and it reflects on me. I'm the one who recommended him for the job. Other people thought I was crazy. . . . You know, Mr. Q, sometimes I think I'm jinxed. I try hard, but something always happens. First, the hotel gets bombed by some psycho, and I lose the only girl I was ever serious about. Also, my job is bombed out for a year. The interim job you got for me turned sour when I was framed. . . . See what I mean?”

Qwilleran said, “If Boze doesn't report tonight, you should file a Missing Person report, and the police will put a tri-county check on his truck.” He stood up to leave. “And don't let me hear any defeatist talk from you! Nothing can get you down, Lenny. You're like Lois!”

 

Polly, first to arrive at the barn that evening, said, “Maggie will be the only native in the party tonight.”

“That's all right,” Qwilleran replied. “It'll show Barry how outsiders adjust to small-town living without losing their identity.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“You might look at the photo—prints of the Gathering on the coffee table and take whatever you want. I ordered extras.”

The dinner guests arrived at the barn in separate vehicles, making the barnyard look like a used-car lot.

Polly had brought a large book from the library, featuring old photos of Moose County: mines, lumber camps, shipyards, sawmills, rooming houses, log cabins, logging wagons. She told Barry Morghan, “You might like to take it home and browse through it, then drop it in the drive-through book box behind the library.”

“Great!” the innkeeper said.

Then Maggie presented him with a framed photo of a grim stone building with a painted sign: HOTEL. She said, “This was the original Pickax Hotel and staff. You might like to hang it in your office.”

On the front steps were the manager, in side-whiskers and frock coat; the hotel's carriage driver, with top hat and whip; and long-skirted, white-capped chambermaids and cooks. All were solemn-faced. The only happy touch was a stray dog of mixed breed, sitting on the sidewalk and enjoying the excitement.

“Great!” Barry said. “I'll have a companion photo taken—the Mackintosh Inn and its smiling staff.”

“And a dog,” Hixie suggested.

Maggie said, “The animal shelter has one exactly like the original. They'll let you borrow him for the photo.”

“The
Something
will run before-and-after shots on the picture page,” Qwilleran promised.

Then Hixie presented Barry with a small gift-wrapped box. “This is a memento of something that never happened—Moose County's First and Probably Last Ice Festival.”

He opened it and found a three-inch lapel button with a polar bear motif.

She said, “It's one of only fifteen thousand that we were stuck with.”

“Great!”

“In fifty or seventy-five years it should be worth something. Hang on to it.”

“I will! I will!” Barry said as he pinned it on his blazer. There was an obvious moment of appreciative rapport between the two, and the others started talking all at once:

“There were some interesting letters to the editor yesterday.”

“How's the Mark Twain Festival coming along? Does anyone know?”

“I saw Homer Tibbitt yesterday. He's as spirited as ever.”

“Where are the cats?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, where are they?” Polly wanted to know.

“They've scrutinized all of you and found you harmless,” Qwilleran replied. “They're sleeping on top of the refrigerator.”

“Would anyone like to see Amanda's campaign poster?” Dwight asked.

“Yes! Yes!”

“Who's Amanda?” Barry asked.

Everyone explained at once: “She's Fran Brodie's boss, owner of the design studio . . . She's going to run for mayor . . . She hates the incumbent! . . . She's been on the city council for ages! . . . She's a little odd, but everyone likes her oddities.”

“What kind of oddities?” Barry asked. “Name two.”

“She's a successful businesswoman but looks like a scarecrow.”

“She speaks her mind and doesn't care where the chips fall.”

“And what about the incumbent? I met him at the opening reception, and he seemed quite . . . smooth.”

“Smooth like a snake,” said Maggie. “He was the high school principal until a scandal involving girl students. Then he became an investment counselor and ran for mayor. He was elected because his mother was a Goodwinter. He keeps getting reelected for the same reason—not because he's ever done the city any good.”

Dwight had opened his portfolio and produced a poster with a photo of a handsome man and the message: VOTE FOR BLYTHE. He said, “This is the poster that gets him elected every time. Now I'll show you the poster that will beat him in November.”

It was a caricature of a woman with unruly hair, slightly crossed eyes, and a downturned mouth, and the message was: WE'D RATHER HAVE AMANDA.

Polly said, “Everyone knows who she is. She's a real Goodwinter!”

Barry said, “I'll vote for her! Where do I register?”

When Qwilleran went to the refrigerator for another bottle of champagne, Barry followed him and said in a low voice, “Our hero didn't show up for work last night—and no explanation.”

“So I heard. What happens now?”

“Two cuts and he's suspended. After a week he's fired, even if he is a celebrity. You can't run a hotel that way.”

Back in the lounge area, after the cork was popped, Barry asked, “What was the hotel like before it was bombed?”

Everyone groaned. “Dismal! . . . Depressing! . . . But clean!”

Then Dwight told his towel rod story. “When I came to Pickax, I stayed at the hotel a couple of weeks. The bed was okay; the plumbing worked; but the towel rod kept falling off the wall. Every day I reported it, and every day it was fixed. But whenever I took a towel, it clattered to the floor again. Once it crashed in the middle of the night for no reason at all. After I left, the hotel was bombed. Windows blew out. Chandeliers fell. But Fran Brodie reported that the towel rod in 209 was still on the wall!”

“Great story!” said Barry. “We'll give you a weekend in the new 209 without charge.”

 

The restaurant called The Old Stone Mill had been a working gristmill on a rushing stream in pioneer days—with a waterwheel that turned and groaned and creaked. Now the stream had run dry and the wheel was a reproduction, electrically powered. But the original stone walls and ponderous timbers gave the mill a romantic atmosphere for dining. Qwilleran's party had a round table for six, and Barry managed to sit next to Hixie and get better acquainted.

Dwight interrupted their tête-à-tête with a question. “What do you think about Moose County, Barry?”

“It's great! Absolutely great!”

“Do you have any questions to ask Qwill's panel of Pickax pundits?”

“Yes! My brother and his wife are planning to move up here and wondering where to live. Any suggestions?”

“If they want a roomy old-fashioned house, Pleasant Street has some beauties, and they're within walking distance of everything. If they're interested in an apartment or condo, I recommend Indian Village. It's in a wooded area, a short drive from town. I live there.”

“I live there,” said Hixie.

“I live there,” Polly chimed in, “and so does Qwill in the winter. There are walking paths along the river and a clubhouse.”

“Sounds great!” Barry said. “My sister-in-law is an artist, and she asked about the art climate around here.”

Qwilleran answered that question. “We have a new art center for exhibitions, classes, workshops, and lectures. What is her special interest?”

“Batik.”

Polly said, “No one in this area does batik. Maybe she would teach a class.”

“Great! She likes to teach.”

After dinner all but Barry declined Qwilleran's invitation to have a nightcap at the barn. The innkeeper said he had to pick up his library book and the framed picture of the old hotel. Barry said he had had enough champagne but would like some bottled water. Qwilleran poured Squunk water and introduced him to yet another Moose County specialty.

“What's that on the rug?” the visitor asked.

“A Brazil nut!” Qwilleran exclaimed. “Very odd! The cats are never interested in nuts!”

They sat in the lounge area with their mineral water, and Barry said, “I had a great time tonight! Good food. Great people. Hixie is an interesting woman. How long have you known her?”

“A long time. We met Down Below. I was instrumental in bringing her here; there was a job opening, and she wanted a career change. She has clever ideas and boundless enthusiasm.”

“Is she single? Divorced? Any attachments?”

“She was never married, but I don't know about her present status. She and Dwight have apartments in the same building in Indian Village and frequently attend functions together, but that doesn't mean anything.”