The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (9 page)

Arch spotted the newly acquired wastebasket. “It's a Chinese water bucket! Not terribly old—probably eighteenth century.” He hefted it by the carved wooden handle. “It weighs a ton!”

“That's so Yum Yum can't tip it over,” Qwilleran said, “when she fishes in the wastebasket for treasures.” He passed a tray with one dry sherry, one Scotch, one dubonnet, one ginger ale.

Arch was always quick with a toast. “Here's to old friends who know you well but still like you!” He helped himself to a handful from the nut bowl. “Brazil nuts! Qwill's going first-class.”

“Honey, go easy on the Brazil nuts,” his wife said. “They're loaded with calories!”

“That's what makes them good!”

Polly complimented Mildred on her interview with Chef Wingo.

“If he's so good,” Arch asked, “why did he leave Chicago for a hick town like this?”

“Why did you come up here?” Qwilleran retorted. The two men had known each other since kindergarten in Chicago.

“Because I'm big-hearted, and you needed me to run the paper.”

“You don't kid us! You wanted to get away from Down Below. You wanted to be a big frog in a small pond.”

They talked about the demographic shift toward small towns . . . the Delacamp murder and the news blackout . . . Boze Campbell's gold medal for winning the caber toss . . . the proposed tri-county curling league.

Then Mildred handed Qwilleran a gift-wrapped box. “Happy whatever! Open it!”

Inside layers of tissue was a round covered box made of spalted maple.

“You mind reader!” Qwilleran said. “I wanted to buy this, and you'd beaten me to it! How can I thank you? It's a sensational piece of woodturning. Look how precisely the cover fits! I'll keep it on the library table, near the phone.”

Then Arch handed him a small flat package that could be nothing but a compact disc. “I know you like classical piano music, Qwill, and this guy is a master! Play a few tracks before we go.”

Qwilleran slipped the CD into the stereo, and they listened to a little Mozart, a little Beethoven, and then Rimsky-Korsakov.

“Hey! Listen!” Qwilleran shouted. “
Flight of the Bumblebee
!”

“That should bring back memories,” Arch said.

At the same time there were two thumps as Koko jumped down from the fireplace cube. He approached the stereo cautiously and sniffed the speakers.

“You know what he's looking for, don't you?” Qwilleran asked. Koko's head jerked to right and left, and he sat up on his haunches and pawed the air. When the short piece ended, he returned to his perch.

“Clever cat!” Arch said.

“Clever composer,” said Qwilleran.

 

They drove to dinner in the Rikers' car. Mildred informed them, “There will be two menus. One is the traditional soup-and-salad-and-entree. But I suggest we all try the New Century Dining—five small courses as an adventure in tasting. Chef Wingo maintains that discriminating diners are bored with the sixteen-ounce and baked potato.”

“Speak for yourself, Wingo,” said Arch.

They parked in the lot behind the inn and were walking toward the carriage entrance when Qwilleran stopped abruptly and picked up something from the pavement. “A penny,” he said. “A lucky penny.”

“Heads or tails?” Mildred asked.

“I believe it was heads.”

“That's double-luck.”

“Here! You take it!”

“No! No! Finders keepers! Take it home and put it in the spalted box.”

Arch said, “I wouldn't bend over for anything less than a quarter. The penny, I predict, will soon be obsolete. The smallest coin will be a nickel.”

Polly said she was glad; pennies were a nuisance.

“Do you know,” he went on, “that my wife is a secret penny-dropper?”

She nudged him. “You're not supposed to tell, honey.”

“Tell me! I'm seriously interested,” Polly insisted.

“Well . . .” Mildred began slowly, “I've had so much good luck in recent years—” She stopped and glanced at her husband. “I decided to spread it around. When I get pennies in change, I drop them here and there, one at a time, for someone else to find. In stores, on the street, at a gas pump, at the post office—anywhere. It makes me feel good to know I'm making someone else feel good.”

“Charming idea!” Polly said.

“My wife's a wonderful woman,” Arch said. “And I'll bet ten to one she's a better cook than this Wingo character.”

In the lower lobby they were faced with a choice: to ride the elevator to the main lobby or walk up the grand staircase. Arch wanted to ride—and conserve his energy for more important things, like taking out the trash.

The main lobby was teeming with guests—many wearing tartans, most of them in town for the Scottish Gathering, several talking about the painting of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran. The spelling of her last name was either Scottish or Danish, they said; in either case she was probably named after Lady Anne, heroine of the Scottish Rebellion in the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie.

At the entrance to the Mackintosh Room the lanky Derek Cuttlebrink towered over the maître d's desk. He seated Qwilleran's party at the best table, in front of the fabled Mackintosh crest, and presented the menu cards with a flourish. Then he whispered in Qwilleran's ear, “Gotta question to ask you—later.”

Arch Riker looked suddenly pleased. “Listen! No music! No jazz! No show tunes! No electronic noise! I can eat my dinner in peace!”

His wife explained, “Chef Wingo believes in entertaining you with good food. He maintains that the voices of happy diners are the real music.”

“Hear! Hear! He sounds like my kind of guy! . . . Let me look at his crazy new menu.”

The wait staff consisted of young men and women from MCCC, wearing white shirts, black trousers, and plaid bow ties. The one who came to Qwilleran's table delivered a well-rehearsed speech: “A traditional menu is available for those who prefer, but Chef Wingo recommends New Century Dining with
its five courses: soup, appetizer, salad, savory, and dessert. Take your time and don't be afraid to order three savories and two desserts.”

Qwilleran asked Mildred, “Should I know what a savory is?”

“To me, it's a little surprise—a change of flavor at the end of the meal and before the dessert.”

The four of them studied the bewildering variety of options.

Arch said he would throw himself on the mercy of the chef and say, “Just bring me something good to eat.”

Polly thought she could make a meal of four savories and a salad—and no dessert. She would have a toasted cheese roulade, a curried chicken liver cr pe, eggplant and avocado tartlet with cashews, and deviled crab on the half shell. Her salad would be baby spinach leaves, mandarin orange slices, and crumbled Stilton with a tomato vinaigrette dressing.

One by one they took the plunge.

First came the fun-bites, with the compliments of the chef: little somethings that he concocted on the spur of the moment—no two alike. Each guest was served a single bite-size morsel: smoked salmon sandwiched between two thin slices of strawberry and topped with a dab of sour cream and sprinkling of toasted pine nuts . . . a cherry tomato stuffed with lobster and hazelnuts . . . half a shrimp on a potato chip, crowned with a peppery tomato aspic and a miniature gaufrette of cucumber . . . an inch cube of turkey terrine smothered in black bean salsa and capers.

Comments varied: “What is it? . . . Just enjoy it and don't ask questions . . . How many more fun-bites can he invent?”

Polly asked, “How many more poems can be written? How much more music can be composed?”

Qwilleran said, “Tell that to Wingo, and you'll get free desserts for a year!”

At their table, and at surrounding tables, there was more conversation about food than about the election, the World Series, and the new car models. Chef Wingo would have approved. At one point Polly flashed her new cameo ring. Mildred found it breathtaking, and even Arch was impressed. They wanted to hear her personal reactions to the jeweler. She described the excesses of the afternoon tea: the hats, the hand-kissing, the French maids. “It's interesting,” she added with a mischievous glance at Qwilleran, “for the first time in history, they had a security guard watching everyone with his hand on his gun.”

Arch said wisely, “Apparently Delacamp had been tipped off that something was afoot.”

There were desserts—rum cake, lemon souffle, chocolate praline cheesecake, blackberry cobbler—and then it was over.

•      •      •

On the way out of the Mackintosh Room Qwilleran asked the others to wait while he had a few words with the maître d'.

“How'd you like your dinner?” Derek asked.

“It was better than Chet's Bar & Barbecue. . . . What's on your mind?”

“The police have been around, asking questions. They haven't talked to anybody in the kitchen yet, but some of the staff witnessed an incident last Tuesday and wondered if they should report it.”

“What kind of incident?”

“Well, Delacamp went into the kitchen and Wingo chased him out with a skillet.”

Qwilleran chuckled as he visualized the scene. “Chasing someone with a skillet or rolling pin is more symbolic than threatening. A cleaver would be something else, but . . . actually, Barry Morghan knows about the episode and explained to Delacamp that a city ordinance prohibits guests from entering the kitchen. So tell the kitchen crew they're off the hook; the manager will handle it. They don't have to snitch on their boss.

“Personally, I think Wingo has a sense of humor. The incident has elements of slapstick comedy. Anyone who'd make a thimble-size sandwich of smoked salmon and strawberries has got to be a joker.”

 

Qwilleran invited them back to the barn for a nightcap, and when they drove into the barnyard he jumped out of the car and unlocked the back door, throwing the switch that illuminated exterior and interior. What he saw was more of a surprise than strawberries and salmon; the entire kitchen was swathed in paper towels—over and around appliances, counters, and furniture. Two rolls of towels—from the kitchen sink and the snack bar—had provided fifty or sixty yards of toweling.

“You cats!” he shouted, awe mixed with annoyance.

Somewhat in shock he walked out to meet his guests. “Brace yourselves!” he told them. “The cats have prepared a little surprise for you.”

Polly gasped. “Well! It's a fitting end to an unusual evening!”

Arch said, “Ye gods!”

Mildred called it conceptual art and marveled at the skill and diligence required to carry out the idea.

Koko, on the refrigerator, looked down on his masterwork. It was obviously his doing. Yum Yum was hiding somewhere, feeling guilty; she had a conscience. Koko squeezed his eyes as if accepting the compliments.

The guests, instead of having a nightcap, pitched in to unwrap the kitchen, then said good night. Anything else, they insisted, would be an anticlimax.

After they had gone, Qwilleran called out, “Where's our little sweetheart?” and she came wriggling out from under the sofa. He picked her up and walked around the main floor for a while, massaging her ears and listening to her purr. And all the while he was asking himself, What was the purpose of that remarkable demonstration? Koko never did anything without a reason.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 13—
Better to be the head of a cat than the tail of a lion
.

 

Before he was fully awake, Qwilleran had a flashback to his early boyhood: walking home from first grade with his friend, Archie . . . both watching the sidewalk to avoid stepping on cracks . . . both spotting a lucky penny and grabbing for it . . . fighting about the penny until Archie's mother told them about joint ownership . . . after which they took turns carrying the penny in a pocket. In a few seconds the film of memory had faded, and he was wide awake.

Why, he asked himself, had this fragment of ancient history raced through his mind? Then he remembered the penny he had found on the parking lot and had put in his pocket simply to please Mildred. Where was it now? . . . When Qwilleran went down the ramp to start the coffeemaker, Koko was sitting on the library table—not waiting for the phone to ring but guarding the spalted maple box. Of course! That was where he had put the penny the night before. Did Koko know he was wondering about it? Was he mind-reading again?

“You rascal!” Qwilleran said. “I wish you'd learn to speak English.”

Then he remembered the cat's tour de force with the paper towels. “What was that all about, young man?”

Koko scampered to the feeding station in the kitchen and waited confidently for his plate to be filled.

 

ater in the day Qwilleran drove to Indian Village to pick up Polly for the Scottish Gathering. In this rustic residential complex the trees were turning gold, making a striking background for the stained cedar buildings. There were fourplex apartments, a clubhouse, and clusters of condos along the Ittibittiwassee River. Four in a cluster, they were named The Birches, The Oaks, and so forth. Polly had a unit in The Willows and so did Qwilleran, although he occupied it only in winter, when the barn's cavernous spaces were hard to heat and its half-mile of driveway was blocked with snowdrifts. Indian Village might be in the country, but the county kept the roads clear, because many influential persons lived there. Another occupant of The Willows was Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist; the Cavendish sisters had recently moved to Ittibittiwassee Estates, and their unit, adjacent to Polly's, was vacant, causing her concern. The walls of the condos were thin, and noisy neighbors could be a problem.

Polly was waiting. She and Qwilleran exchanged pleasantries with the cats and then set off for the fairgrounds, both wearing their kilts, white shirts, and the Glengarry cap that had become unisex headgear.

“Lovely evening last night,” she said.

“Very enjoyable.”

“Any idea why Koko rampaged with the paper towels?”

“He was expressing himself.”

“Carol Lanspeak called yesterday, but I didn't have a chance to tell you last night. It's about her lovely collection of French perfume bottles in the powder room. Her housekeeper has found two missing—two of the nicest. Apart from me, the only one to use the powder room was Delacamp's niece.”

“I went in there to look at the collection,” Qwilleran said.

“Yes, but you're not a suspect.”

“Has Carol reported it?”

“No, it was too petty an incident, compared to subsequent happenings . . . And now for the good news. This morning I met my new neighbor. He's an antiquarian book dealer from Boston!”

“You couldn't ask for a quieter neighbor.”

“That's what I thought.”

“Does he know he's moving to Little Antarctica?”

“He's a native of Moose County. He's returning home.”

“Is he interested in winter sports? They're trying to start a curling club.”

“I spoke to him only briefly, but I'm really excited about having a rare book collector next door.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He too was a collector of old books, but they were not rare—just secondhand. He said, “I bought a book from Eddington's this week—something I've always wanted to read. In pretty good condition for the price. Three dollars.”

“What's the title?”

“Twenty questions.” It was a game they often played with book titles.

“Nineteenth century?”

“Yes.”

“Fiction?”

“No.”

“Male author?”

“No.”

“Was she American?”

“No.”

“British?”

“Yes.”

“Did she also write novels?”

“Yes.”

“Has any one of them been made into a film?”

“It's safe to say . . . no.”

“Is the book you found . . . poetry?”

“No.”

“Biography?”

“No.”

“History?”

“No.”

“Hmmm . . . I'm not doing very well, am I? . . . Was her work popular in her time?”

“Rephrase the question.”

“Was the book you bought popular in England?”

“Yes.”

“In America?”

“No.”

“Ah!” Polly said with a look of discovery. “How many questions do I have left?”

“Plenty.” Qwilleran could tell by her attitude that the game was lost.

“Was it a book of travel?”

“Yes.”

“Is she known today for something other than her writing?”

“Yes.”

“Was she the mother of a famous author?”

“Yes.”

“Was his first name Anthony?”

“Yes.”

“Did their last name begin with T?”

“Congratulations!” Qwilleran said. “Mrs. Trollope's
Domestic Manners of the Americans
, published in 1832.”

“I've never read it,” Polly admitted, “but I know she disliked Americans, their manners, their principles, and their opinions. It should be fun to read.”

At the scene of the Gathering Qwilleran and Polly climbed to the top of the bleachers to ensure the best view.

First there were the marching bands, featuring bagpipes and drums and representing the counties of Lockmaster and Bixby. “The very sound of a bagpipe-and-drum band makes me teary-eyed with Scottish pride,” Polly said.

Qwilleran admitted that he liked the sound but was not moved to tears. “Probably because I'm only half Scottish. I'm assuming that my father was a Dane, basing the assumption on the Qw spelling and my fondness for Danish pastry.”

When the first skirling bagpipes and beating drums were heard, however, a chill ran down his spine. Eight ranks of men and women in colorful tartan garb marched in precise formations while playing
Scotland the Brave
. The spectators rose to their feet.

Then came the dancers, performing the Highland Fling and Sword Dance on portable stages while musicians bowed their fiddles in a frenzy. Young women in Highland dress bounced on the balls of their feet, their pleated kilts swirling.

Polly said, “O to be twenty years old—and weightless!”

The traditional kicks and turns and arm positions were done with micrometric exactness.

“They dance on a dime—and do it without looking!” she cried in amazement.

In the Sword Dance they bounced between the crossed blades without touching steel. When they danced in a line of three or four, their gyrations were synchronized right down to a heartbeat.

There was only one male dancer. In announcing his solo, the master of ceremonies said that Highland dancing was originally an athletic challenge for men, requiring both skill and endurance.

Qwilleran said to Polly, “Do you know the bozo who won the gold medal for the caber toss?”

“I'm afraid not. I know several John Campbells, but none could toss anything heavier than a horseshoe.”

The final event was the pibroch, performed by the police chief of Pickax. The centuries-old tradition called for a lone piper to play a succession of pieces increasing in difficulty, all the while walking slowly about the stage. For the piper it was a challenge; for the audience it was a mesmerizing experience, almost spiritual in its effect. The crowd watched in total silence. Polly claimed to have been in a trance.

Qwilleran said, “In the Scottish community Andy is considered the master of the pibroch.” And he thought, I'll invite him to the barn for a drink tonight.

 

They were walking back to the brown van in the parking lot when Qwilleran swooped down on a penny and dropped it in his pocket. Polly had not noticed.

On the way home she asked, “What are you writing for your Tuesday column?”

“Glad you asked. Thanks to our conversation on fibs, I'm planning a dissertation on prevarications of all kinds: untruths, falsehoods, canards, whoppers, taradiddles, fibble-fabble, and just plain bull. I'm asking, What is the difference between a little white lie and big dirty one? . . . What are the dangers of lying to your boss, your spouse, a court judge, the Internal Revenue Service? . . . What was the most heinous lie in Shakespeare?”

“In
Othello
,” she replied without hesitation. “Iago maliciously lies about Desdemona's handkerchief, and it leads to her murder.”

“Good! Go to the head of the class. And how about Mark Twain? Did he have anything to say about lies?”

“He had something to say about everything!” She reflected briefly. “He said the difference . . . between a cat and a lie was that . . . a cat has only nine lives.”

That brought up the subject of the Mark Twain Festival. According to old letters and diaries found in Moose County, the author had lectured in Pickax in 1895 while touring the northern states, and he had captivated the audience with his wit and forthright opinions. There was no documented evidence that he had slept at the Pickax hotel; on the other hand, there was no proof that he had not! And the Mackintosh Inn had decided to rename the presidential suite
The Mark Twain Suite
. Already his portrait hung above the bed where Delacamp had been murdered.

Qwilleran told Polly, “The murder in the presidential suite has caused the festival promoters to postpone it until October.”

“Is that a good month?” she asked. “It could be cold.”

“There's a meeting Wednesday to discuss the pros and cons.”

 

Qwilleran dropped Polly at her condo for her Sunday ritual of getting herself together for the workweek. What it entailed he had no idea, and he would never ask. He himself went home to feed the cats and talk to them: “You guys missed a good show this weekend. Next year we'll have a Feline Gathering. Koko can toss the caber, and Yum Yum can dance the Highland Fling on the balls of her paws.”

Whether he talked nonsense or recited the Declaration of Independence, their reaction was the same: purring, looking wide-eyed, and twitching their tails. As he discovered, Koko had done a little caber- tossing of his own; the floor of the library area was littered with the fat yellow pencils that Qwilleran kept in his ceramic pencil holder.

There were fang-marks in the soft wood. “That cat!” he said aloud as he gathered them off the rug. “One day it's paper towels; the next day it's pencils!”

“Yargle!” came a response from the kitchen, as Koko tried to yowl and swallow at the same time.

 

For his own Sunday night supper Qwilleran went to Rennie's at the inn. It was quiet. Weekend guests had checked out, and the week's business travelers had not yet registered. After having a Reuben sandwich, he stopped at the reception desk to chat with Lenny Inchpot.

“How'd you like the games?” the clerk asked. “My mom saw you there with Mr. Mac Whannell and said you two had the best-looking knees at the whole Gathering.”

“That sounds just like your mother!”

“How'd you like Boze's caber toss?”

“Fantastic.”

“When he went to the podium to get the gold medal hung around his neck, I was so proud, I could bust! It's not real gold, but it's a shot in the arm for a guy with no real ambition—except to win the state lottery. One day he asked me, 'How much is a million dollars?' Boze isn't smart, but he's big, and it doesn't hurt to have a muscleman behind the desk after midnight. Another time he asked me why the days were getting shorter. It keeps me on my toes, sort of.”

“How do you answer his questions?”

“Usually I give him a straight answer, best I can, but the other day I went for the joke. He asked me, 'Where's Brazil?' I remembered that line from Charley's Aunt and said, 'Where the nuts come from.' It fell flat, of course, so I told him Brazil's in South America, which is south of North America, and I ended up drawing a map of the western hemisphere on the back of an envelope. See what I mean?”

“What's his chief interest?”

“Eating. Never gets enough food! My mom would be willing to teach him to cook for a living, but . . .”