The Cat Who Played Brahms (8 page)

Koko was shifting position on the antlers, standing on his hind legs and reaching up with a front paw as if searching for a toehold. The moose head was mounted on a varnished wooden plaque that was hung 'on the uneven log wall. Koko was trying to thrust his paw into one of the crevices behind the plaque. After some experimental footwork he finally braced himself well enough to reach the aperture. His paw ventured warily into the opening. Something rattled inside. Koko tried harder, stretched longer, still muttering to himself.

Qwilleran walked closer, and when the prize fell out of the crevice and bounced off the antler, he caught it. "What's this? A cassette!"

It was a blank tape that had been used for home-recording. Side A was inscribed 1930

Favorites in what appeared to be Aunt Fanny's handwriting. Side B was labeled More 1930

Favorites. There was no dust on the clear plastic case.

Qwilleran took the cassette to the stereo and removed the Brahms concerto that had been in the player ever since he arrived. "Wait a minute," he said aloud. "This is not the way I left it." The cassette had been reversed, and the flip side, offering Beethoven, was faceup.

Koko's trophy produced bouncy music: renditions of My Blue Heaven, Exactly Like You, and others of the period, all with the dubious fidelity of old 78s. It was a strange collection to hide behind a moose head.

Qwilleran finished listening to Side A and then flipped it over. There was more of the same. Then half- way through Little White Lies a voice interrupted—an unprofessional voice—an ordinary man's voice, but forceful. After a brief and surprising message, the music resumed. He rewound the cassette and played it again.

The demanding voice cut in: "Now hear this, my friend. You get busy or you'll be sorry! You know what I'll do! You gotta bring up more stuff. I can't payoff if you don't come up with the loot. And we've gotta make some changes. Things are gettin' hot. You come and see me Saturday, you hear? I'll be at the boat dock after supper."

The tape had been used recently. It was only the day before that Koko had stepped on the buttons and played the Brahms. Someone had been there in the meantime and had either taped the message or listened to it, afterwards replacing the Brahms concerto upside-down. Someone had also stolen a gold watch and a gold pen, but that had happened earlier.

Unidentified visitors were walking in and out of the cabin in the casual way that Aunt Fanny found so neighborly.

Someone had undoubtedly climbed on a bar stool to reach the moose head, and Qwilleran checked the four pine stools for footprints, but the varnished surfaces were clean.

Koko was watching intently as Qwilleran tucked the cassette into a dresser drawer.

"Koko," the man said, I don’t like this open-door policy. People are using the place like a bus terminal. We've got to find a locksmith. . . And if you are ever in danger, or if Yum Yum is in danger you know what to do."

Koko blinked his eyes slowly and wisely.

-6-

Mooseville, Friday Dear Arch,

I'm too tight to buy you an anniversary card, but here's wishing you and your beautiful bride a happy twenty-fourth and many more to come. It seems only yesterday that you dropped the wedding ring and I lost your honeymoon tickets.

Well, since coming to Mooseville I've discovered that all civilization is divided into two parts: Up Here and Down Below. We have friendly people up here who read the Fluxion—also mysterious incidents that they try to cover up.

Yesterday I went fishing and hooked something that looked like a human body.

When I reported it to the sheriff's office, no one seemed particularly concerned. I know it wasn't an accidental drowning. I have reason to believe it was homicide—manslaughter at least. I keep wondering: Who was that guy in the lake? Why was he there? Who tossed him in?

I got into some poison ivy, but I'm okay now. And early this morning I thought someone was stealing my tires, but it was a seagull making a noise like a car-jack.

The eateries up here are so-so. For a restaurant reviewer it's like being sent to Siberia.

Qwill P.S. Koko has some new tricks-answering the phone and playing the stereo. In a few years he'll be working for NASA.

The fog was lifting. From the windows of the cabin it was possible to see nearby trees and the burial place of the septic tank. Although Old Sam had filled the depression and leveled it neatly, the cats had resumed their previous occupation of staring in that direction.

When the telephone rang on Friday morning Koko leaped from the windowsill and raced to the bar. Qwilleran was close behind but not fast enough to prevent him from dislodging the receiver. It fell to the bar top with a crash.

The man seized it. "Hello? Hello?"

"Oh, there you are," said the gravel voice from Pickax. "I was worried about you, dear. I called yesterday and the phone made the most unusual noises. When I called back I got a busy signal. I finally told the operator to cut in, and she said the phone was off the hook, so I sent Tom out there to investigate. He said the receiver was lying on the bar—and no one was home. You should be more careful, dear. I suppose you're pre-occupied with your book. How is it progressing? Are you still. . ."

"Aunt Fanny!"

"Yes, dear?"

"I spent the day in town. and my cat knocked the receiver off. It's a bad habit he's developed. I'm sorry about it. I'll start keeping the phone in the kitchen cupboard. if the cord will reach."

"Be sure to close the windows whenever you go out, dear. A squall can come up suddenly and deluge the place. How many chapters of the book have you written? Do you know when it will be published? Tom says the big jack pine has been cut down. He'll be out there tomorrow with a log-splitter. Have you noticed the canoe under the porch? The paddles are in the toolshed. Don't go out in rough weather, dear, and be sure to stay close to shore.

Now I won't talk any more because I know you want to get back to your writing. Some day you can write my life story, and we'll both make a fortune."

Wearing his orange cap, of which he was getting inordinately fond, Qwilleran drove to Mooseville to mail the letter to Arch. At the post office he sniffed warily but detected only fresh floor wax.

His next stop was the Cannery Mall, where he decided the aroma of smoked fish was not entirely unpleasant after all. At the medical clinic the young doctor was sitting at the reception desk, reading a gourmet magazine. He was right about her green eyes; they sparkled with youth and health and humor.

"Remember me?" he began, doffing his cap. "I'm the patient with the Cemetery Syndrome."

"Glad to see you're not as grouchy as you were yesterday."

"The shot took effect immediately. Do you get many cases like mine?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "Ivy poisoning, second-degree sunburn, infected heel blisters, rabid squirrel bites—all the usual vacation delights."

"Any drownings?"

"The police emergency squad takes care of those. I hope you're not planning to fall in the lake. It's so cold that anyone who falls overboard goes down once and never comes up.

At least, that's the conventional wisdom in these parts." She closed her magazine. "Won't you sit down?"

Qwilleran settled into a chair and smoothed his moustache nervously. "I'd like to ask you a question about that shot you gave me. Could it cause hallucinations?"

"Extremely unlikely. Do you have a history of hallucinating?"

"No, but I had an unusual experience after the shot, and no one believes I saw what I saw. I'm beginning to doubt my sanity."

"You may be the one person in ten million who had an abnormal reaction," the doctor said cheerfully. "Congratulations!”

Qwilleran regarded her intently, and she returned his gaze with laughing eyes and fluttering eyelashes.

He said: "Can I sue you for malpractice? Or will you settle for a dinner date?"

"Make it a quick lunch, and I can go right now," she said, consulting her watch. "I never refuse lunch with an interesting older man. Do you like pasties?"

"They'd be okay if they had flaky pastry, a little sauce, and less turnip."

"Then you'll love the Nasty Pasty. Let's go." She threw off the white coat that covered a Mooseville T-shirt.

The restaurant was small and designed for intimacy, with two rows of booths and accents of fishnet, weathered rope, and stuffed seagulls.

Qwilleran said: "I never thought I'd be consulting a doctor who is female and half my age and easy to look at."

"Better get used to the idea," she said. "We're in plentiful supply. . . . You're in good shape for your age. Do you exercise a lot?"

"Not a great deal," he said, although "not at all" would have been closer to the truth. "I'm sorry, doctor, but I don't know your name."

"Melinda Goodwinter ."

"Related to the attorney?"

"Cousin. Pickax is loaded with Goodwinters. My father is a GP there, and I'm going to join his office in the fall."

"You probably know Fanny Klingenschoen. I'm borrowing her log cabin for the summer."

"Everyone knows Fanny—for better or worse. Maybe I shouldn't say that; she's a remarkable old lady. She says she wants to be my first patient when I start my practice."

"Why do you call her remarkable?"

"Fanny has a unique way of getting what she wants. You know the old county courthouse?

It's an architectural gem, but they were ready to tear it down until Fanny went to work and saved it—single-handedly."

Qwilleran touched his moustache. "Let me ask you something, Melinda. This is beautiful country, and the people are friendly, but I have a gnawing suspicion that something is going on that I don't comprehend. Am I supposed to believe that Moose County is some kind of Utopia?"

"We have our problems," she admitted, "but we don't talk about them—to outsiders.

This is not for publication, but there's a tendency up here to resent visitors from Down Below."

"They love the tourists' dollars, but they don't like the tourists, is that right?"

She nodded. "The summer people are too smooth, too self-important, too aggressive, too condescending, too different. Present company excepted, naturally."

"You think we're different? You're the ones who are different," Qwilleran objected.

"Life in the city is predictable. I go out on assignment, eat lunch at the Press Club, hurry back to the paper to write the story, have dinner at a good restaurant, get mugged on the way home. . . no surprises!”

"You jest. I've lived in the city, and country is better."

The pasties were a success: flaky, juicy, turnipless, and of comfortable size.

Qwilleran felt comfortable with Melinda, too, and at one point he smoothed his moustache self-consciously and said: "There's something I'd like to confide in you, if you don't mind."

"Flattered."

"I wouldn't discuss it with anyone else, but since you're a doctor. . ."

"I understand."

"How shall I begin? . . Do you know anything about cats? They have a sixth sense, you know, and some people think their whiskers are a kind of extrasensory antenna."

"Interesting theory."

"I live with a Siamese, and I swear he's tuned in to some abstruse body of knowledge."

She nodded encouragingly. Qwilleran lowered his voice. "Sometimes I get unusual vibrations from my moustache, and I perceive things that aren't obvious to other people.

And that's not all. In the last year or so my sense of smell has been getting unusually keen—disturbingly keen, in fact. And now my hearing is becoming remarkably acute. A few nights ago someone was walking on the beach a hundred feet away—on the soft sand—and I could hear the footsteps through my pillow: thud thud thud."

"Quite phenomenal," she said.

"Do you think it's abnormal? Is it something I should worry about?"

"They say elephants can hear the footsteps of mice."

"I hope you're not implying that I have large ears."

"Your ears are very well proportioned," Melinda said. "In fact, you're quite an attractive man—for your age."

On the whole Melinda Goodwinter was enjoyable company, although Qwilleran thought she referred to his age too frequently and even asked if he had grandchildren. Nevertheless he was feeling good as he drove home to the cabin; he thought he might start work on his book, or get some exercise. The fog had all but disappeared. Intermittent gusts of offshore breeze were pushing it out to sea, and the lake had a glassy calm. Perfect canoeing weather, he decided.

Qwilleran had not been canoeing since he was a twelve-year-old at summer camp, but he thought he remembered how it was done. He found paddles in the toolshed and chose the longest one. It was easy to drag the aluminum canoe down the sandy slope to the beach, but launching it was another matter, involving wet feet and a teetering lunge into a wobbly and uncooperative craft. When he finally seated himself in the stern and glided across the smooth glistening water, he sensed a glorious mix of exhilaration and peace.

He remembered Aunt Fanny's advice and turned the high bow, which rose out of the water considerably, to follow the shore. A moment later a gust of offshore wind caught the bow, and the canoe swiveled around and headed for open water, but its course was quickly corrected when the breeze abated. He paddled past deserted beaches and lonely dunes topped with tall pines. Farther on was the Top o' the Dunes Club, a row of substantial vacation houses. He fancied the occupants watching and envying him. Two of them waved from their porches.

The offshore breeze sprang up again, riffling the water. The bow swung around like a weathervane, and the canoe skimmed in the direction of Canada a hundred miles away.

Qwilleran summoned all his remembered skills, but nothing worked until the wind subsided again.

He was now farther from shore than appeared wise, and he tried to turn back, but he was out of the lee of the land, and the offshore gusts were persistent, swiveling the bow and making the canoe unmanageable. He paddled frantically, digging the paddle in the water without plan or purpose, desperately trying to turn the canoe. It only drifted farther out, all the while spinning crazily in water that was becoming choppy.