The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare (11 page)

“Recessive genes,” Qwilleran said. “He resembles his grandmother.”

“You are a charming man, Mr. Qwilleran. I wish Junior might have had you for a father.”

“You are a charming woman, Mrs. Gage.”

They both paused for a moment of mutual admiration, and he found himself wishing she were thirty years younger. Spirit – that’s what she had – spirit! Probably the result of all that breathing.

“Do you think Junior shows promise?” she asked.

“Great promise, Mrs. Gage. You can be proud of him. Were you aware that the Picayune was failing?”

“Of course I was aware. I tried to help. I don’t know what that man did with my money, unless…”

“Unless what, Mrs. Gage?”

“I’ll be perfectly frank. Let it all hang out, as Junior says. You see, I learned in a roundabout way that Senior had been making frequent one-day trips Down Below. To Minneapolis, as a matter of fact. If my son-in-law had ever shown any spirit, I would have guessed it was another woman. Under the circumstances, I could only deduce that he was gambling as a last resort – gambling and losing.”

“Has it occurred to you that his death may have been suicide?”

She looked startled. “Senior would not have the spirit, Mr. Qwilleran, to take his own life.”

Upon leaving, he said, “You are an excellent subject for an interview, Mrs. Gage. I hope we can meet again – perhaps for dinner some evening.”

“I shall be delighted to accept if the invitation is still good in the spring. I leave for Florida tomorrow,” she said. “This has been such a pleasure, Mr. Qwilleran. Now don’t forget to breathe!”

Qwilleran was in a good mood that evening as he lounged in his favorite leather chair in the library, stroking the cat on his lap and waiting for a book to hit the carpet. He had stopped remonstrating; the book trick was becoming a game that he and Koko played together. The cat pulled out a title; Qwilleran read aloud, accompanied by purrs, iks, and yows.

On this occasion Koko’s selection was The Life of Henry V, a good choice, Qwilleran thought. He thumbed through the pages for a passage he liked: the king’ s pep talk to his troops. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends; once more!”

Koko assumed his listening position, sitting tall and attentive on the desktop, his tail curled around his front paws, his blue eyes sparkling black in the lamplight.

It was a powerful speech, filled with graphic detail. “But when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger!”

“Yow!” said Koko.

With such an appreciative audience Qwilleran was not shy about dramatizing the script. With a terrible look in his eyes he wrinkled his brow, stiffened his sinews, bared his teeth, stretched his nostrils, and breathed hard. Koko was purring hoarsely.

Bellowing at full volume, Qwilleran delivered the last line: “Cry God for Harry! England and Saint George!”

“YOW-OW!” Koko howled. Yum Yum fled from the room in alarm, and Mrs. Cobb came running.

“Oh! I thought you were being murdered, Mr. Q.”

“Merely reading to Koko,” he explained. “He seems to enjoy the sound of the human voice.”

“It’s your voice he likes. Last night everyone was saying you should join the theater group,” she said.

When the household returned to its normal calm, a name flashed across Qwilleran’s mind – Harry Noyton. He had had dealings with Harry Down Below. The man was a reckless entrepreneur who was always searching for a new challenge or a financial gamble. No matter how absurd the proposition, Harry always made it pay. He was currently living alone in Chicago, in a penthouse atop an office tower he had built.

On an impulse Qwilleran dialed Noyton’s apartment, and a subhuman voice stated that he could be reached at his London hotel.

“How’s that for a coincidence?” Quilleran asked Koko. “Harry’s in England!” He glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. It would be the middle of the night in London. All the better! Noyton had often roused him from sleep at an unearthly hour, and without apology.

He dialed the London hotel, expecting it to be the Saint George, but it was Claridge’s. When Noyton’s voice came on the phone he sounded as vigorous as he did at high noon; his energy was phenomenal.

“Qwill! How’s the boy? I hear you’re living high on the hog since leaving the Flux. What’s cookin’? I know you never spend a quarter on a phone call unless it’s urgent.”

“How would you like to be a newspaper tycoon, Harry?”

“Is the Fluxion up for sale?”

Qwilleran described the situation in Pickax, adding, “It would be a crime to prostitute a century-old newspaper as an advertising throwaway. The county needs a paper, and the Picayune name is part of everyone’s life. It’s had national publicity this week, and there’s more to come. If someone made the widow a better offer, she might see the light.”

“Hell, I’ll talk to the widow. I’m good at talking to widows.”

Qwilleran believed it. Noyton was a self-made man with a talent for attracting women as well as money, although he had never acquired any polish. Even in a tailor-made three-piece suit he succeeded in looking like a scarecrow. He had several ex-wives and was always looking for another.

“I’m flying home tomorrow,” he said. “How do I get to Pickax? Never heard of the place.”

“You fly to Minneapolis and then pick up a hedgehopper to Moose County. Sorry I don’t know the schedule. Probably they’ve never had one.”

“I’ll charter something. I’ll get there somehow. Nobody can keep me on the ground for long.”

“Better get here before snow flies.”

“I’ll give you a ring from Minneapolis.”

“Good! I’ll pick you up at the airport, Harry.”

With a comfortable feeling of accomplishment, Qwilleran began his nightly house check and, in so doing, found another pigskin book on the floor. This time it was All’s Well That Ends Well.

“It hasn’t ended yet, old boy,” he told Koko as he dropped the two protesting cats into the wicker hamper.

He was right. At two o’clock in the morning he was roused from sleep by a telephone call from Jody.

“Mr. Qwilleran, I’m so worried. Juney hasn’t come home.”

“Maybe he went to his mother’s house. Have you called there?”

“There was no answer. Pug has gone back to Montana, and Mrs. Goodwinter is probably staying… in Indian Village. I called Grandma Gage earlier, and she thought Juney was still Down Below. I even called Roger, his friend in Mooseville.”

“Then we’d better notify the police. I’ll call the sheriff. You sit tight.”

“I’m going crazy, Mr. Qwilleran. I feel like going out and looking for him myself.”

“You can’t do that, Jody. You should call a friend and have her stay with you. How about Francesca?”

“I hate to call her so late.”

“I’ll call her for you. A police chief’s daughter is used to emergencies. Now you hang up so I can call the sheriff. And drink some warm milk, Jody.”

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER SIXTEENTH. “Possibility of snow squalls today with falling temperatures. Presently it’s twenty-five degrees. Last night’s low, fifteen… And now for the news: A hunter reported missing early this morning has been found by sheriffs deputies aided by state troopers. Junior Goodwinter is listed in fair condition at Pickax Hospital, suffering from exposure and a broken leg.”

As Qwilleran later learned from police chief Brodie, a deputy on routine patrol of side roads on the opening day of hunting season had spotted the red Jaguar parked near a wooded area. When Junior was reported missing, they were able to start the search at that point, using tracking dogs and the mounted posse, a volunteer group of farmers who were expert horsemen.

“It seems to me,” Qwilleran said to Mrs. Cobb at the breakfast table, “that no one should go hunting alone. Too many hazards.”

“Herb always goes alone,” she said.

Qwilleran thought, That guy can’t find anyone to go with him. Uncharitable thoughts came to his mind whenever Hackpole was mentioned. Aloud he said, “If he’s taking you to dinner tonight, why not bring him in for a drink before you leave?”

“That would be nice,” she said. “We’ll have it right here in the kitchen. He’ll be more comfortable here.”

“Would he like a tour of the museum?”

“Well, to tell the truth, Mr. Q, he thinks art objects are dust catchers, but I’d like to show him the basement.”

“You’ve never told me anything about his background,” Qwilleran said, although he had heard about it from Junior.

“He grew up here. After a hitch in the army he worked on the East Coast, married, and had a couple of kids. They’re grown-up now, and he doesn’t even know where they are.”

That fits the picture, Qwilleran thought.

“He came back to Moose County because of his wife’s allergies, but she didn’t like country life and she left him.”

Ran off with a beer truck driver, Qwilleran had heard. “He’s a very lonely man, and I feel sorry for him.”

“Has he shown you the farmhouse?”

“Not yet, but I know what I want to do – strip the wallpaper, paint the walls white, and stencil them.”

“Would you like to have the big pine wardrobe? If so, it’s your wedding present.”

She gasped. “You mean the Pennsylvania German schrank? Oh, I’d love it! But are you sure you want to part with it?”

“My life will never be the same without it,” he said. “I expect to have anxiety attacks and periods of great depression, and I may have to go into therapy, but I want you to have the schrank.”

“Oh, Mr. Q, you’re kidding me again.”

“Have you set a date?”

“Next Saturday if it’s all right with you. Herb just wanted us to go to the courthouse, but I told him I wanted to be married here. Susan Exbridge is standing up for me. Would you be willing to be best man?”

He controlled a gulp. “Be glad to, Mrs. Cobb. Do you have a guest list? We’ll have a champagne reception.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think Herb would care for a reception, Mr. Q.”

“Let me know if you change your mind. I want you to have a memorable wedding. You’ve been a valuable asset here.”

“There’s one favor I’d like to ask, if you don’t mind,” she said. “Would you speak to Koko about the herb garden? He keeps moving it around.”

“Did you ever try speaking to a cat about anything?” Qwilleran asked. “He crosses his eyes and scratches his ear and goes right on doing what he was doing.”

“I wouldn’t mention it, but… after I’ve moved the garden into a sunny spot, he moves it into a dark corner. I’ve seen him do it. He stands on his hind legs, puts his paws on the lower shelf, and pushes.”

The corners of Qwilleran’ s mouth twitched as he pictured Koko wheeling the herbs across the stone floor of the solarium like a baby carriage. Sunlight was not plentiful in November, and that cat wanted the best patches of sun for himself.

“Why don’t you ask Hackpole to devise some kind of brake for the wheels?” he suggested.

The doorbell rang.

“Oh, dear! I forgot to tell you,” Mrs. Cobb said. “I guess I’m all discombobulated. Hixie Rice is stopping on her way to work. That’s probably her at the front door.” She jumped up.

“Sit still. I’ll get it.”

Hixie had parked her little car in the circular drive, and she was ogling the front door with its quantity of brass fittings polished to a dazzling brilliance by Mr. O’Dell.

“Everything is so grand, Qwill! You should have a butler, she said as her heels clicked across the white marble vestibule. “Here, I’ve brought you the latest delicacy in our frozen catfood line: lobster nuggets in Nantua sauce with anchovy garnish.”

Koko made an immediate appearance in the foyer and stood staring at Hixie without expression, except for a fishhook curve in his tail.

“I think he remembers me,” Hixie said. “Comment ça va, Monsieur Koko?”

“Eeque, eeque,” he replied. As Qwilleran gave Hixie a tour of the house, Koko followed like an overzealous security guard.

“Gorgeous rugs!” she said as they entered the drawing room.

The two large antique Aubussons were creamy in color, with borders and center medallions of faded pink roses.

“Watch Koko,” Qwilleran said. “He always avoids stepping on the rose pattern.”

“Weren’t the old red dyes made from some kind of bug? Maybe he can smell it.”

“After a hundred years? Don’t try to explain it, Hixie. How about a cup of coffee?”

When they were settled comfortably in the library she gazed at the four thousand leather-bound books. “Did you find it traumatic, Qwill, to inherit a lot of money? Do you feel vulnerable or isolated or guilty?”

“Not particularly.”

“Don’t you find people envious or resentful or hostile?”

“You’ve been reading a book, Hixie. Actually, it’s just a nuisance to have a lot of money, so I turn it over to a philanthropic trust, and they get rid of it quietly.”

She started to light a cigarette, and he stopped her. “City ordinance. No smoking in museums… How’s your friend’s mother?”

“Who?”

“You said Tony’s mother had a stroke and he had to fly to Philadelphia.”

“Oh, she’s getting better, and he’s back here, working on his cookbook,” Hixie said airily. “I’m going to write a book myself, on the rest rooms in country restaurants. They’re not to be believed!”

“Don’t complain. You’re lucky the facilities are indoors. What’s your objection?”

“Well, let me tell you about the North Pole Café in Brrr. They have only one rest room, and you have to dodge a very busy cook and a three-hundred-pound female dishwasher to get there. When I found it, between a garbage can and a sour mop, the room was dark, and I couldn’t find the light switch. So the cook came and pulled a greasy string hanging from the ceiling, and voilŕ! the rest room was flooded with light from a fifteen-watt bulb.

“My next problem: how to close the door. It was wide open – and apparently stuck. When I tried forcing it, a toilet brush and a bleach bottle fell down on my head. You see, they kept the door open by hooking it to a high shelf where they kept the cleaning stuff. I got the thing closed and started groping for the john. I could hear a gurgling sound underfoot, from some kind of drain in the floor. Every once in a while it choked and gurgled and bubbled. I worried about that.