The Cat Who Went Underground (18 page)

He was on the porch with the Sunday papers, throwing each section on the floor as he finished reading it. Yum Yum liked to roll on them, kicking and squirming and having a good time. At one point he went indoors to call Mildred and discuss the events of the previous evening. There was no answer, of course; she and Sharon were chauffeuring Mrs. Ascott back to Lockmaster. While he was letting the phone ring the recommended number of times, however, he heard the unmistakable sound of ripping paper. Koko was standing on a newspaper with his front end down and his hind end elevated and his tail stiffened into a question mark. With teeth aid claws he was shredding the Moose County Something. It was the second time Koko had attacked the “Qwill Pen” column.

“This has got to stop!” Qwilleran scolded. “Shape up, or we’ll ship you to Washington. You can get a job at the Pentagon.”

Why did that cat never shred the Daily Fluxion or the Morning Rampage or the New York Times? Did it have something to do with the quality of the paper or the smell of the ink? Patiently he gathered the torn scraps of newsprint. Koko had destroyed Emma Wimsey’s story about Punkin.

Qwilleran had met many old-timers since moving to Moose County: the incredible Aunt Fanny; Grandma Gage, who did pushups and headstands; Homer Tibbitt, still doing volunteer work at ninety. When he was with them, he felt he was talking with his own grandparents, whom he had never known. Now he had a sudden strong urge to drive to Pickax and visit the Senior Care Facility. He could scout the possibilities of more memoirs. He might take some flowers to Emma Wimsey. He wondered if the Chief Canary would be on duty. Smugly he groomed his moustache with his fingertips.

Sunday afternoon was a popular visiting day at the Facility. Cars filled the parking lot, and relatives were chatting with residents in the lounge, the lobby, and the dining room. The “canaries” flitted about in their yellow smocks, bringing the elderly down from their rooms, watching lest they became overtired or overexcited, then wheeling them back to the elevator.

Irma Hasselrich, in her yellow blazer, was on duty at the reception desk. “Oh, Mr. Qwilleran!” she greeted him. “We’ve all been reading your column about Emma and Punkin. It’s delightful!”

“Thank you,” he said, “but I can’t take credit. It was Emma’s story.”

“We read it to her three times, and it brought tears to her eyes. I myself thought it was beautifully written – with such sincerity and compassion.” Qwilleran preened his moustache with pleasure. Although he affected modesty, he relished compliments about his writing. “Is she allowed to have flowers?” He was carrying a bunch of daisies in a florist’s green tissue.

“Of course. She’ll be thrilled! I’ll have someone bring her down to the reading room, where it’s quiet. We’re getting awfully busy today. By the way, Emma had some discomfort this week, and the doctor is limiting her visits to ten minutes.”

When Emma’s wheelchair rolled into the reading room, she reached forward to clasp Qwilleran’s hand with both of her shrunken ones, her thin lips trembling in a smile. “Thank you… for that beautiful… write-up,” she said, her speech faltering and her voice noticeably weaker. More than ever she appeared fragile and wispy.

“It was a pleasure to write,” he said, “and here’s a small thank-you for sharing your story about Punkin.”

“Oh!” she cried. “I never had any… flowers in… green paper. We never had… money for… fancy things.”

“May I ask, after you went to college, did you teach school?”

“Yes. The school had… one room. There was… a potbellied stove… and oil lamps…”

He tried to ask questions that would focus her attention and jog her memory, but her answers were hesitant and vague. “You told the story of Punkin very well. Do you remember any other tales?”

“I used to know… a lot of stories… I wrote them down… I don’t know where they are.”

“Emma, honey,” said the volunteer, “they’re safe and sound in your room upstairs.” She caught Qwilleran’s eye and tapped her watch. Emma was looking weary.

“We’ll have another visit someday,” he said. “Until then, goodbye.” He clasped her cold hands in his.

“Goodbye,” she said in a wisp of a voice.

As Emma was wheeled away, clutching her daisies, he went to the reception desk to speak with Irma Hasselrich. “She seems to be failing,” he said.

“But you never know!” she said brightly. “These farm-women have tremendous stamina.” Optimism was the policy of the canaries.

“The newspaper is interested in running more memoirs of old-timers. How many residents do you have?”

“Sixty-five, and others on the waiting list.”

“Would it be possible to screen them? The volunteers probably know who has a reliable memory and who has a story to tell.”

“I’ll raise the question at a staff meeting this week,” she said, “but we wouldn’t want to discriminate, would we? We might hurt the feelings of some of these dear folks. They’re like children.”

Her gentleness was attractive, Qwilleran thought, yet she had a cultivated sophistication. He was curious about this stunning woman, probably about forty, who had never married, who dedicated her life to helping others, and who still lived with her parents in Indian Village. This much he had gleaned from her father, the jovial attorney for the Klingenschoen Fund.

He said, “You could help a great deal with this project, if you could be good enough to give me some background information on policies of the facility. Perhaps you would be free for dinner some evening.”

“Unfortunately,” she said, “I’ll be on the desk every evening this week, but it’s charming of you to ask.”

“How about Saturday night?”

“I would really love it, but it’s Father’s birthday.”

Before Qwilleran could huff into his moustache, a voice called out, “Mr. Qwilleran! Mr. Qwilleran! I’m glad I caught you.” It was Emma’s canary, waving a shopping bag. “Emma wants you to have these things – to keep.”

“What are they?”

“Just little mementoes, and some stories about her life.”

“Shouldn’t she give them to her family?”

“Her family isn’t really interested, but Emma says you’ll think of something to do with them. There’s a candy box that was a valentine from her husband, probably seventy years ago.”

“Give her my thanks,” he said. “Tell her I’ll write her a letter.”

When he turned back to finish his conversation with the Chief Canary, she had walked away from the desk, replaced by a lesser canary in a yellow smock. “Ms. Hasselrich was needed in a meeting,” she said. “Is there a message?”

There was no message. He carried Emma’s keepsakes to the parking lot, thinking, What am I doing here? I could have been an investigative reporter Down Below.

At the cabin Koko was immediately attracted to the shopping bag and its contents. He took a vital interest in anything new, anything different, any addition to the household, and Mrs. Wimsey’s mementoes – having been on a farm for seventy years – probably retained an enticing scent. Among the notebooks and envelopes and loose papers was the candybox, covered in faded pink brocade that was almost threadbare and topped with a heart outlined in yellowed lace – a pathetic reminder of bygone happiness. Qwilleran stuffed the documents back into the shopping bag and added the candybox to the clutter on the dining table, where Koko applied his inquisitive nose to every inch of the old silk and lace, all the while tapping the table with his tail. Tap tap tap.

CHAPTER 13.

ON MONDAY MORNING as Qwilleran was preparing to serve the Siamese their minced beef mixed with cottage cheese and laced with tomato sauce, there was an explosion in the woods, and a rusty pickup with camper top lurched into the clearing.

“Iggy’s back!” Qwilleran proclaimed in a tone of excitement mixed with dread.

“He must have run out of cigarette money.”

Although eager to confront the man with questions and rebukes, he restrained his urges. He waited until the carpenter oozed out of the truck. As Iggy ambled toward the building site at the pace of a tired snail, Qwilleran followed. “Nice day!” he remarked to the prodigal workman.

“Should be able to finish THEM SUCKERS TODAY,” said Iggy.

“To which suckers are you referring?” Qwilleran asked politely.

“Them boards!” He pointed to the siding.

“Good! And I wish you’d dispose of that rubbish.” Qwilleran indicated the scraps of shingles and torn wrappings. “I have business in Pickax today, but I’ll be back in time to pay your day’s wages. See you after lunch.”

He strode back to the cabin to finish working on the cats’ breakfast but found them on the kitchen counter, finishing the job themselves. Before leaving for Pickax he glanced automatically around the interior, checking for feline temptations, locking up toothbrushes, hiding copies of the Moose County Something, closing all drawers, hiding the telephone in a kitchen cabinet, and leaving no socks lying around.

“Keep an eye on the carpenter,” he told them. “Don’t let him burn down the house.”

He locked the doors, front and back, as he left. There was no need for Iggy to have access to the cabin.

The business in Pickax was the monthly luncheon meeting of the trustees for the Klingenschoen Fund. He stopped at his apartment to pick up some more books, dropped into the newspaper office to trade comradely insults with the staff in the city room, then reported to the meeting place in the New Pickax Hotel, built in 1935. Since that time it had never been redecorated, and the menu had never changed. The natives of Pickax were creatures of habit and tradition.

At the luncheon table Qwilleran remarked, “I see they’ve warmed up the 1935 chicken a la king again.” His humor brought no response from the bankers, accountants, investment counselors, and attorneys who administered the fund, but the high-spirited Mr. Hasselrich said he thought the chicken was rather good.

Following the luncheon the trustees reviewed the Fund’s philanthropies and considered new applications for grants and loans. It was Qwilleran’s money, in the long run, that they were handling, but his mind wandered from the business at hand. He kept combing his moustache with his fingers; something was calling him home to the lakeshore.

He drove back to the beach faster than usual, with the car windows wide open, and the closer he came to the lake, the fresher and more invigorating the air.

When he started up the driveway, however, the atmosphere changed. His eyes started to itch and smart unaccountably. At the same time he became aware of a foul odor… It was smoke! But not wood smoke! He detected noxious fumes from something burning – something toxic. He took the curves and hills of the drive like a roller coaster and jammed on the brake at the top of the dune. The clearing was filled with black, acrid smoke. Iggy’s truck was there, and the carpenter was behind the wheel, blissfully asleep.

“Crazy fool!” Qwilleran muttered, coughing and choking. He jumped out of his car and banged the door of the pickup. “Wake up! Wake up! I didn’t tell you to burn the stuff!” he yelled between fits of coughing.

Iggy climbed slowly out of the cab. The asphyxiating smoke had no effect on his leather lungs.

“Quick! Help me douse it with sand! I’ll get shovels!” Qwilleran ran to the toolshed and threw open the door. What he saw was too improbable to comprehend.

Staring at him from the darkness were two pairs of eyes.

“YOW!” came a voice from the depths of the shed, accompanied by a female shriek.

“How did you get out here?” Qwilleran shouted.

“YOW!” said Koko in indignation.

Qwilleran grabbed a couple of shovels and slammed the toolshed door shut in the faces of two astonished animals.

Working fast, with an occasional assist from Iggy, he smothered the smoldering pile of asphalt shingles and their waterproof wrappers.

When the job was done, he leaned on his shovel, breathing hard. “How did the cats… get into the shed?” he gasped.

“Cats?” asked Iggy. “WHAT CATS?”

“My cats! How did they get out here in the shed?”

“I never seen NO CATS”

“I’ll show you. Get out there to the shed. Move it!”

With some persuasive shoving Iggy trotted down the narrow path to the toolshed.

Qwilleran threw open the door. “Now what do you call those animals?”

The two elegant creatures were pacing back and forth with resentment, their muscles rippling expressively under their silky fur, their whiskers bristling, their ears swiveling, their tails pointed like rapiers.

“What do you call those?” Qwilleran repeated.

“Funny-lookin’ suckers, AIN’T THEY?”

Qwilleran wanted to grab the man by the seat of the pants and throw him out, but he gritted his teeth and paid him for five hours work, after which Iggy drove away in his snorting, battered truck with a debonair wave of the hand and a toothy grin.

Seizing the two cats about the middle, Qwilleran carried them from the toolshed, opened the rattail latch of the porch door with an elbow, and tossed the two culprits on the redwood chaise. They froze in the position in which they landed and glared at him.

“Don’t give me that insolent stare!” he said. “You two have some explaining to do!”

He unlocked the cabin door, stepped into the mudroom – and yelped! There was a hole in the wall, roughly three feet wide and seven feet high. Below it there was a liberal sprinkling of sawdust, with pawprints clearly defined.

“What? What?” Qwilleran spluttered, in the most inarticulate moment of his entire life.

Gradually the facts became clear. Beyond the opening was the roughed-in skeleton of the east wing. Iggy had cut a hole for the connecting door. After that, the lazy loafer had easy access to the cabin and could have napped on a white sofa or, worse yet, in Qwilleran’s bed. Meanwhile, the cats had access to the east wing. Calmly they had walked through the newly sawed opening; casually they had jumped out an un-framed window. But how did they end their journey in the toolshed?

In whatever way they managed the feat, it appeared that they had enjoyed the experience, because they were now peering between Qwilleran’s legs, toe-deep in sawdust, ready to repeat the adventure. Grabbing them, he locked them up, announcing with a declamatory flourish, “Once more into the guestroom, dear friends!” While they howled their protests, he found a sheet of plywood left over from the subfloor and nailed it across the rectangular aperture with angry blows, smashing his thumb in the process.