The Cat Who Played Brahms (20 page)

"He took it in his truck. He took it in with the turkeys. He told me to buy pint bottles so they would fit inside the turkeys."

"That's a new way to stuff a turkey," Qwilleran said, getting a hilarious reaction from the handyman. "If you didn't go to the farm, how did you know what kind of liquor to buy?"

"He came here and talked into the machine. I listened to it when I came here to work. That was nice. I liked that." Something occurred to Tom and he giggled. "He left it behind the moose."

"I always thought that moose looked kind of sick, and now I know why."

Tim giggled some more. He was having a good time. "So you played the cassette when you came here."

"It had some nice music, too."

"Why didn't the farmer just leave you a note?" Qwilleran performed an exaggerated pantomime of writing. "Dear Tom, bring five pints of Scotch and four pints of gin. Hope you are feeling well. Have a nice day. Love from your friend Stanley."

The handyman found this nonsense highly entertaining. Then he sobered and answered the question. "I can't read. I wish I could read and write. That would be nice."

Qwilleran had always found it difficult to believe the statistics on illiteracy in the United States, but here was a living statistic, and he was struggling to accept it when the telephone rang again.

"Hello, Qwill," said a voice he had known all his life. "How's everything up there?"

"Fine, Arch. Did you get my letters?"

"I got two. How's the weather?"

"You didn't call to ask about the weather, Arch. What's on your mind?"

"Great news, Qwill' You'll be getting a letter from Percy, but I thought I'd tip you off. That assignment I told you about—investigative reporting—Percy wants you to come back and start right away. If the Rampage gets someone first, Percy will have a heart attack. You know how he is."

"Hmmm," Qwilleran said.

"Double your salary and an unlimited expense account. Also a company car for your own use-a new one. How's that for perks?"

"I wonder what the Rampage is offering?"

"Don't be funny. You'll get Percy's letter in a couple of days, but I wanted to be the first. . ."

"Thanks, Arch. I appreciate it. You're a good guy. Too bad you're an editor."

"And something else, Qwill. I know you'll need a new apartment, and Fran Unger is giving up hers and getting married. It's close to the office, and the rent is reasonable."

"And the walls are papered with pink roses and galloping giraffes."

"Keep it in mind anyway. Be seeing you soon. Say hello to that spooky cat."

Qwilleran was dizzy with shock and elation, but Tom was starting to leave and he had to thank him once more. He picked up the antique brass inkwell from the top of the bar.

"Here is something I'd like you to have, Tom. It needs polishing, but I know you like brass. It's an inkwell that traveled around the world on sailing ships a hundred years ago."

"That's very pretty. I never had anything like that. I'll polish it every day."

The handyman measured the broken window and drove into Mooseville to buy glass, while Qwilleran sat down to contemplate the offer from the Fluxion. Now that he was leaving this beautiful place he was filled with regret. He should have spent more time enjoying the verdure, the moods of the lake, the dew glistening on a spider web. Now he could look forward to the daily irritations of the office: the pink memos from Percy; electric pencil sharpeners always out-of-order; six elevators going up when a person wanted to go down; VDTs that made the job harder instead of easier. Suddenly he realized how much his knee was paining him.

He propped his leg on a chaise. From the back of a nearby chair, where a hawk had once perched, he was being watched intently by a pair of blue eyes in a brown mask.

"Well, Koko," QwilIeran said, "our vacation didn't turn out the way we expected, did it? But the time hasn't been wasted. We've cracked a one-man crime operation. Too bad we couldn't have stopped him before he got Buck Dunfield. . . . Too bad no one around here will ever know you deserve all the credit. Even if we told them, they wouldn't believe it."

Howling wind and crashing surf drowned out the sound of the Goodwinter car as it pulled into the clearing. Qwilleran hobbled out to greet them—Alexander looking impeccably well-groomed and Penelope looking radiant and a trifle flushed. When they shook hands she added an extra squeeze, and in addition to her perfume there was a hint of mint breath-freshener.

"You're limping," she said.

"I tripped over a toadstool. . . . Come in out of the wind. I think we're going to have a tornado."

Alexander went directly to his previous seat on Yum Yum's sofa. Penelope went to the windows overlooking the turbulent lake and rhapsodized about the view and the cabin's desirable location.

Qwilleran thought: The rent just went up to twelve hundred. Won't they be surprised when I break the news!

"It is regrettable," Alexander was saying, "that I was in Washington when this unfortunate incident occurred. My sister tells me you were of great assistance, making many trips back and forth and spending long hours searching through the Klingenschoen archives. It cannot have been a pleasant task."

"There was a lot of material to sift through," Qwilleran said. "Luckily I had a houseguest from Down Below who was willing to help." He refrained from mentioning Koko's contribution; he doubted whether the Goodwinters were ready for the idea of a psychic cat.

"I regret I could not get a return flight in time to attend the memorial service, but it appears that Penelope organized it efficiently and tastefully, and it was well attended."

His sister had wandered over to the table that presented such a convincing picture of authorial industry, and now she dropped onto the other sofa. "Alex, why don't you get to the point? You're keeping Mr. Qwilleran from his writing."

"Ah, yes. The will. A problem has arisen in connection with the will."

"I don't envision any problem," Penelope retorted. "You're inventing one before it arises."

The senior partner threw a remonstrative glance in her direction, cleared his throat, and opened his briefcase. "As you know, Mr. Qwilleran, Fanny left three wills in the safe, written in her own hand. She had written many wills during the years, changing her mind frequently. Only the last three wills were saved (this on our recommendation). They were dated, of course, and only the most recent is valid. Having the three wills gives us an enlightening overview of the lady's feelings in the last few years."

Qwilleran's gaze dropped from the attorney's face to his shoe; the little brown triangle of a face was appearing under the skirt of the sofa. Koko, on the other hand, was perched on the moose head with the authority of a presiding judge.

"The oldest will, which is invalid, bequeathed Fanny's entire estate to a foundation in Atlantic City, for the purpose of rehabilitating a certain section of the city which apparently had nostalgic significance for her. although it would be considered by most of us to be—ah—unsavory."

Yum Yum's paw was reaching out from her hiding place with stealth. Penelope had noticed the maneuver, and her face reflected a heroic effort to control mirth.

Goodwinter went on. "The second will, which is also invalid, I am mentioning merely to acquaint you with the change in Fanny's sympathies. This document bequeathed half her estate to the Atlantic City foundation and the other half to the schools, churches, cultural and charitable organizations, health care facilities, and civic causes in Pickax City. Considering the extent of her holdings there was plenty to distribute equitably, and she had promised sizable sums to all of the aforementioned."

Qwilleran checked Yum Yum's progress and glanced at Penelope, who returned his glance and exploded with laughter.

"Penelope!" her brother said in consternation. "Please allow me to conclude. . . . The most recent will leaves the sum of one dollar to each of the beneficiaries heretofore named—a wise precaution in our estimation, inasmuch as. . ."

"Alex, why don't you come to the point of this discussion," said Penelope, waving a hand gaily, "and tell Mr. Qwilleran that he gets the whole damned thing."

"YOW!" came a howl from the vicinity of the moose head.

Goodwinter cast a quick disapproving eye at Penelope and then at Koko. "Excepting only the token bequests I have indicated, Mr. Qwilleran, you are indeed the sole heir to the estate of Fanny Klingenschoen."

Qwilleran was stunned. "That," the attorney said, "sums up the intent and purpose of the most recent will, dated April first of this year, thus revoking all prior documents. The formal reading of the will is scheduled to take place Wednesday afternoon in our office."

Qwilleran shook his head like a wet dog. He could think of nothing to say. He looked at Penelope for help, but she merely grinned in an idiotic way.

Finally he said: "It's an April Fools' joke." Goodwinter said: "I assure you it is legitimate. The problem, as I see it, might be that the bequest will be challenged by the numerous organizations expecting generous sums."

"They were verbal promises that Fanny made to everyone in town," Penelope reminded her brother. "Mr. Qwilleran's claim is the only legal one."

"Nevertheless, one might foresee a class action suit on behalf of the Pickax charities and civic institutions, questioning Fanny's testamentary capacity, but I assure you.. .

"Alex, you neglected to mention the proviso."

"Ah, yes. The assets—bank accounts, investments, real estate, etc.- are held in trust for five years with the entire income going to you, Mr. Qwilleran, provided you consent to make Pickax your residence for that period of time and maintain the Klingenschoen mansion as your address—after which time the trust is dissolved and the estate is transferred to you in toto."

There was silence in the room, and stares all around.

A window slammed in the guest room.

Goodwinter looked startled. "Is there someone else in the house?"

"Only Tom," Qwilleran said. "He's fixing a broken window."

"Well?" Penelope asked. "Don't keep us in suspense."

"What happens if I decline the terms?"

"In that case," Goodwinter said, "the will specifies that the entire estate goes to Atlantic City."

"And if it goes to Atlantic City," Penelope added, "there will be rioting in the city of Pickax, and you will be lynched, Mr. Qwilleran."

"I still think you're pulling my leg," he said.

"There's no reason why Fanny should make this. . . this incredible gesture. Until a couple of weeks ago I hadn't seen her for forty years or more."

Goodwinter reached into his briefcase and drew out a paper covered with Fanny's idiosyncratic handwriting. "She claims you as her godchild. Your mother was a friend she regarded as a sister."

Penelope giggled. "Come on, Alex, tie your shoelace and let's go. I have a dinner date tonight."

Tom's pickup truck had already gone when the attorneys drove away, following handshakes and congratulations. Penelope had staggered a little, Qwilleran thought. Either she had been celebrating something, or she had been drowning her disappointment.

Thu-rump . . . thu-rump . . . thu-rump. It was the familiar sound of a cat jumping down from the moose head in three easy stages.

"Well, Koko," Qwilleran said, "what do you think about that?"

Koko rolled over on the base of his spine and licked his tail assiduously.

-16-

In a daze Qwilleran prepared a dish of turkey for the Siamese. He was so preoccupied with the bombshells dropped by Arch Riker and Alexander Goodwinter that he prepared a cup of instant coffee for himself minus the essential ingredient. Then he carried his coffee mug to the lakeside window and sipped the hot water without noticing that something was lacking.

Foaming white breakers pounded the shore; the beach grasses rippled in the wind; the trees waved their branches frantically; even the little wildflowers bobbed their heads bravely under the tumultuous sky. He had never seen anything so violent and yet so beautiful. This could be mine, he thought. Had anyone ever faced such a crucial career choice? His two selves argued the case:

The Dedicated Newsman said: It's the opportunity of my entire career. Investigative reporting—what I've always wanted to do.

The Canny Scot countered: Are you crazy? Would you pass up Fanny's millions for a job with a midwestern newspaper? The first time the Fluxion gets slapped with a lawsuit, Percy will change his mind. Then where will you be? Back on the restaurant beat—or worse.

But I'm a newsman. Reporting is my life! It's not a job; it's what I do.

So buy your own newspaper with Fanny's money. Buy a chain of newspapers.

I never wanted to be a newspaper tycoon. I like to get out in the field, dig up stories, and bang them out with two fingers on an old black manual typewriter.

If you own the paper, you can do anything you damn please. You can even set the type, like the guy at the Picayune.

And I don't need a lot of money or possessions. I've always been satisfied, with what I earned.

But you're not getting any younger, and all you've got in the bank is $1,245.14. Forget the Fluxion pension, it won't keep the cats in sardines.

I'd have to live in Pickax, and I need the stimulation of a big city. I've never lived in a small town.

You can fly to New York or Paris or Tokyo any time you feel like it. You can even buy your own plane.

"YOW!" cried Koko in his most censorious voice. He was still waiting for his evening meal. Qwilleran had absent-mindedly put the plate of turkey in the cupboard with the telephone.

"Sorry, kids," he said. He waited for Koko's reaction to the food. Twice this remarkable cat had rejected turkey from Stanley Hanstable's farm—until he succeeded in getting his message across. Now he devoured it with gusto. "Yow . . . gobble gobble. . . yow," Koko said as he gulped the white meat, leaving the dark meat for Yum Yum.

Qwilleran felt the need to talk to someone with a larger vocabulary and he telephoned Roger MacGillivray. "What time are you through at the office? . . . Why don't you run out here for a drink? . . . No, don't bring Sharon. Not this time. I want to speak to you privately."