The Cat Who Saw Red (3 page)

“Nobody loves an art critic,” Qwilleran said. “That’s one newspaper job I wouldn’t want. Otherwise, how do you like it here in the Midwest, Mr. Graham?”

“Wouldn’t give you two cents for this town,” said the potter. Qwilleran’s ear was becoming attuned to his rapid delivery and his liberal use of outdated expressions and clichés. “Expect to work in New York eventually — maybe Europe.”

“Well, I like this part of the country very much,” Joy said defiantly. “I’d like to stay here.” She had always liked everything very much. Qwilleran remembered her boundless enthusiasm.

Graham glanced testily at the dinner table. “Jeepers creepers! When do we get some chow? I could eat a horse.” He waved an empty champagne glass. “This stuff gives you an appetite and no buzz.”

“Do you realize,” Qwilleran asked, “that I haven’t met our host?”

Joy seized his hand. “You haven’t? I’ll take you to the kitchen. Robert Maus is a real lamb pie.”

She led him through a low-ceilinged corridor at the rear of the Great Hall, gripping his fingers and staying closer to him than was necessary. They walked in self-conscious silence.

The kitchen was a large picturesque room, fragrant with herbs and cooking wine. With its ceramic tile floor, beamed ceiling, and walk-in fireplace, it reminded Qwilleran of kitchens he had seen in Normandy. Copper pots and clusters of dried dill and rosemary hung from an overhead rack, while knives and cleavers were lined up in an oak knife block. On open shelves stood omelet pans, soufflé dishes, copper bowls, a fish poacher, salad baskets, and a few culinary objects that remained a mystery to the uninitiated.

Dominating the scene was a towering, well-built man of middle age, immaculate in white shirt, conservative tie, and gold cuff links. He had the dignity of a Supreme Court justice, plus a slight stoop that gave the effect of a gracious bow. A towel was tied around his waist, and he was kneading dough.

When Joy Graham made the introduction, Robert Maus exhibited his floured hands in apology and said in measured tones, after some consideration, “How… do you do.”

He was assisted by a woman in a white uniform, to whom he gave brief orders in a deferential tone: “Refrigerate, if you please… Prepare the sauteuse, if you will… And now the chicken, Mrs. Marron. Thank you.”

He started boning chicken breasts with deft slashes of a murderous knife.

Qwilleran said, “You handle that weapon with a vengeance.”

Maus breathed heavily before replying. “I find it most… satisfying.” He whipped the knife through the flesh, then gave the quivering beast a whack with the flat of the blade. “Shallots, if you please, Mrs. Marron.”

“This is an extraordinary building,” Qwilleran remarked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The attorney considered the comment at length before rendering his verdict. “It would not be unreasonable to describe it… as an architectural horror,” he said. “With all due respect to the patron of the arts who built it, one must concede… that his enthusiasm and resources outweighed his… aesthetic awareness.”

“But the apartments upstairs are adorable,” Joy said. “May I take Jim to the balcony, Mr. Maus?”

He nodded graciously. “If it is your pleasure. I am inclined to believe… that the door to Number Six… is unlocked.”

Qwilleran had never seen anything to equal Number Six. The studio apartment they entered was a full two stories high, and half the outer wall was window, composed of many small panes. The orange glow from a spring sunset was flooding the room with color, and three small leaded-glass windows above the desk were making their own rainbows.

Qwilleran blew into his mustache. “I like this furniture!” It was massive, almost medieval in appearance — heavily carved and reinforced with wrought iron.

“It belongs to Ham Hamilton,” Joy told him. “Sexy, isn’t it? He’ll be sending for it as soon as he knows where he’s going to be situated.”

“You mean he’s moved out?”

“He was transferred to Florida. He’s a food buyer for a grocery chain.”

Qwilleran eyed the apartment avidly — particularly the big loungy chair in bold black-and-white plaid, the row of built-in bookcases, and — wonder of wonder — a white bearskin rug. “Is this place for rent?” he asked.

The question made Joy’s eyes dance. “Oh, Jim! Are you interested? Would you like to live here?”

“It would depend on the rent — and a couple of other things.” He was thinking about Koko and Yum Yum.

“Let’s ask Mr. Maus right away.”

That was the Joy he remembered — all instant decision and breathless action.

“No, let’s wait until after dinner. Let me think about it.”

“Oh, Jim,” she cried, throwing her arms around him. “I’ve thought about you so much — throughout the years.”

He felt her heart beating, and he whispered, “Why did you disappear? Why did you leave me like that? Why didn’t you ever write and explain?”

She drew away. “It’s a long story. We’d better go down to dinner now.” And she gave him the half-smile that never failed to make his heart somersault.

The table was laid with heavy ceramic plates and pewter serving pieces on the bare oak boards, and it was lighted by candles in massive wrought-iron candelabra. Qwilleran found his place card between Hixie Rice and the white-haired woman, who introduced herself as Charlotte Roop. Joy sat at the far end of the table between Basil and Bayley Penniman, and the only way she could communicate with Qwilleran was with her eyes.

Opposite him sat the bald brute with the facile smile. The man half rose and bowed across the table with his right hand over his heart. “I’m Max Sorrel.”

“Jim Qwilleran of the Daily Fluxion. Haven’t I met you somewhere?”

“I have a restaurant. The Golden Lamb Chop.”

“Yes, I had dinner there once.”

“Did you order our rack of lamb? That’s our specialty. We lose money on every one we serve.” As the restaurateur spoke, he was industriously polishing his silverware with his napkin.

Spoons were raised. Qwilleran tasted the watercress soup and found it delicately delicious, yet he had no overwhelming desire to finish it. A sense of elation had banished his appetite. His thoughts, and his eyes, kept turning to Joy. Now he knew why he had always been attracted to women with translucent skin and long hair. Tonight Joy’s luxuriant brown hair was braided and coiled around her head like a crown. Her dress had the same filmy quality he used to tease her about when she bought curtain remnants and made them into romantic, impractical clothes. What a crazy kid she had been!

William removed the soup bowls from the right, served the clams from the left, and poured a white wine, while whistling a tune off-key. When he had finished serving, he joined the guests at the table, white coat and all, and monopolized the conversation in his immediate vicinity.

“Unorthodox arrangement,” Qwilleran mentioned to Hixie.

“Robert is very permissive,” she said. “He seems stuffy, but he’s a doll, really. May I have some more butter, please?”

“How do you happen to be living here?”

“I’m a copywriter at an agency that handles food accounts. You have to have some special interest in food or Robert won’t rent to you. Miss Roop manages a restaurant.”

“Yes, I manage one of the Heavenly Hash Houses,” said the woman on Qwilleran’s left, twisting her several bracelets. She was a small, sprightly woman, probably nearing retirement age, and she wore an abundance of nondescript costume jewelry. “I went to work for Mr. Hashman almost forty years ago. Before that I was secretary to the late Mr. Penniman, so I know something about the newspaper business. I admire newspaper people! They’re so clever with words… Maybe you can help me.” She drew a a crossword puzzle from the outer pocket of her enormous handbag. “Do you know a five letter word for love that begins with a?”

“It’s a Greek word, pronounced a-g-a-pe.”

“Oh, my!” she said. “You are brilliant!” Delightedly she penciled the word in the vertical squares.

The chicken was served, and again Qwilleran found it easy to abstain. He toyed with his food and listened to the voices around him.

“Do you realize truffles are selling for seventy-five dollars a pound?” Sorrel remarked.

The redhead was saying, “Mountclemens was a fraud, you know. His celebrated lobster bisque was a quickie made with canned ingredients.”

“I’m having so much fun in the attic of this building. I’ve found some old letters and notebooks stuffed away in a dusty jardiniere,” Joy told Basil Penniman.

Rosemary Whiting said, “You can put a sprinkle of wheat germ in almost anything, and it’s so good for you.”

“Everyone knows shrimp cocktail is déclassé!” Hixie announced.

The redhead went on talking: “I know of one cassoulet that cooked for thirty years.”

And Joy added, “You’d be surprised what I’ve found in the attic. It would upset quite a few people.”

The man with the goatee was revealing a cooking secret: “I always grate cheese by hand; a little grated knuckle in the Asiago improves the favor.”

Maus himself, at the head of the table, was speechless in a world of his own making, as he tasted each dish critically, gazing into space and savoring with lips and tongue. Once he spoke: “The croűte, in my opinion, is a trifle too short.”

“On the contrary, it’s exquisite,” Miss Roop assured him. She turned to Qwilleran. “Mr. Maus is a brilliant cook. He’s discovered a way to roast a suckling pig without removing the eyeballs. Imagine!”

“Are you people aware,” Qwilleran asked, raising his voice to attract general attention, “that Mrs. Graham also is an excellent cook? She invented a banana split cake when she was seventeen and won a statewide baking contest.”

Joy blushed attractively. “It was an adolescent’s delight, I’m afraid — with bananas, coconut, strawberries, chocolate, walnuts, marshmallows, and whipped cream.”

“I don’t know about her cooking,” said Max Sorrel, “but she’s a helluva good potter. She made this dinner service.” He tapped his plate with his fork.

“It was very generous of Mr. Maus to give me such a wonderful commission,” Joy said.

Qwilleran looked at the thick-textured plates of silvery gray, flecked and rimmed with brown. “You mean you made all these dishes? By hand? How many?”

“A complete service for twenty-four.”

Sorrel flashed his winning smile at her. “they’re terrific, honey. If I were a millionaire, I’d let you make all the dishes for my restaurant.”

“You’re very sweet, Max.”

“How long did the job take?” Qwilleran asked.

“Hmmm… it’s hard to say —” Joy began.

“That’s nothing,” Dan Graham interrupted in a voice that was suddenly loud. “Out on the Coast I did a six-hundred-piece set for one of the movie big shots.”

His pronouncement had a dampening effect on the conversation. All the heads immediately bent over salads. Suddenly everyone was intent on spearing romaine.

“Tell you something else,” Graham persisted. ‘Wedgwood made nine hundred and sixty-two pieces for Catherine of Russia!”

There was silence at the table until William said, “Anyone for bridge after dinner? It’ll take your mind off your heartburn.”

When Qwilleran went home and told his widowed landlady he was moving, she cried a little, and when he gave her a month’s rent in lieu of notice, Mrs. Cobb shed a few more tears.

The rent at Maus Haus was higher than he had been paying on Zwinger Street, but he told himself that the sophisticated cuisine was appropriate to his new assignment and that the cats would enjoy the bearskin rug. Yet he was fully aware of his real reason for moving.

The cats were asleep on the daybed when he went into his old apartment, and he waked them with stroking. Koko, without opening his eyes, licked Yum Yum’s nose’ Yum Yum licked Koko’s right ear; Koko licked a paw, which happened to be his own; and Yum Yum licked Qwilleran’s hand with her sandpaper tongue. He gave them some jellied clams from Maus Haus, and then he phoned Arch Riker at home.

“Arch, I hope I didn’t get you out of bed,” he said. “You’ll never guess who walked back into my life again tonight… Joy!”

There was an incredulous pause at the other end of the line. “Not Joy Wheatley!”

“She’s Joy Graham now. She’s married.”

“What’s she —? Where did you see —?”

“She and her husband are artists, and they’ve come here from California.”

“Joy’s an artist?”

“They do ceramics. They live in a pottery on River Road, and I’m taking an apartment in the same building.”

“Careful,” Arch warned.

“Don’t jump to conclusions. It’s all over as far as I’m concerned.”

“How does she look?”

“Fine! Cute as ever. And she’s the same impetuous girl. Act now, think later.”

“Did she explain what — or why —?”

“We didn’t have that much time to talk.:

“Well, that’s a bombshell! Wait till I wake up Rosie and tell her!”

“See you tomorrow around noon,” Qwilleran said. “I want to stop at Kipper and Fine on my way to the office and look at their spring suits. I could use some new clothes.”

He whipped off his tie and sank into an easy chair and dredged up whimsical memories: Joy baking bread in her aunt’s kitchen and losing a Band-Aid in the dough; Joy getting her long hair caught in the sewing machine. As a boy he had written poems about her: Joy… coy… alloy. Qwilleran shook his head. It was incredible.

On Tuesday morning — a day that smelled joyously of spring — he spent some of his prize money on a new pair of shoes and a suit in a cut more fashionable than he had owned for some time. At noon he lunched with Arch Riker, reminiscing about old times in Chicago when they were both cub reporters, double-dating Joy and Rosie. In the afternoon he borrowed a station wagon from an antique dealer and moved his belongings to Maus Haus.

Koko and Yum Yum traveled in a canned soup carton with air holes punched in the sides, and all during the journey the box rocked and thumped and resounded with the growls and hisses of feline mayhem. Koko, a master of strategy, went through the motions of murdering Yum Yum whenever he wanted to attract urgent attention, and the little female was a willing accomplice, but Qwilleran knew their act and was no longer deceived.