Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

His face was soot-covered, but Qwilleran recognized the voice. “Are you Rollo? What about the woman who lived here?”

“Gone! … gone! Damn shame! Couldn’t get in to make a rescue. Place went up like a matchbox. Burned up in her chair. Even if we coulda reached her, smoke got her first, most likely.”

Thinking of the recent vandalism, Qwilleran asked about the possibility of arson.

“The chiefll be investigatin’.”

The coroner’s car arrived, and Qwilleran turned away walking slowly to his van.

For the rest of the night he slept poorly, if at all, unable to shake off the mental image of Maude Coggin in her Morris chair, with her high-laced boots propped on a wooden crate, grinning girlishly and boasting about her age. She had been determined to live another ten years.

He visualized the headline: “Woman, 93, dies in farm fire.” The morning news on WPKX would give the tragedy about twenty seconds, with another twenty seconds for the good news: the Art Center was saved. Beverly Forfar would be annoyed by the excessive mud on the highway and the shower of soot over everything. On the other hand, she would hardly grieve over the instantaneous disappearance of the “eyesore,” with its rusty truck and bothersome livestock.

The Siamese sensed Qwilleran’ s troubled mood and refrained from pestering him until their hunger pangs exceeded their compassion. Then they raised their voices in protest, Yum Yum in her ear-piercing shriek and Koko with a different tune, in a minor key like the mournful bleating of a sheep: aaaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaa. Qwilleran threw off his churned bedclothes and took the shortcut down to the kitchen, via the spiral staircase, where he fed the cats, activated the coffeemaker, and phoned the city room at the Something.

“Who covered the fire?” he asked.

“Dave shot a roll of film and got a noncommittal statement from the fire chief. They’re investigating the cause of the fire, of course. It’s not much of a story. Do you know anything, Qwill? It happened practically in your backyard.”

“I could supply some basic facts, but I wouldn’t want…”

“Don’t worry. We won’t mention your name.” The entire staff observed what they called the Q Gag Rule.

“Okay, here goes,” Qwilleran began. “The occupant of the house was Maude Coggin, ninety-three years old. Native of Little Hope. She and her late husband, Bert, started with one acre, back when they couldn’t afford a horse. Maude had to be yoked to the plow - something she boasted about in later life. The farm grew to a hundred acres, which she rented out to other farmers after her husband’s death. She kept the original farmhouse, which was without modem conveniences, but she liked the primitive life. Raised chickens. Kept a small garden. Grew turnips and kale.”

“Could we get a quote from someone who knew her?” the editor asked.

“You could quote a neighbor as saying that Mrs. Coggin was proud of being able to look after herself. Her long life she owed to hard work. She was lively for her age and could read the Moose County Something without glasses. She was also a one-woman rescue league for decrepit old dogs that no one wanted… Does that wrap it up?”

“It wraps it up and ties it with ribbon. Thanks, Qwill.”

“No name, remember.”

“Right! No name. But… hold on! All Dave got last night was the usual fire film. Do you know of any pictures of her - or the house?”

“Mmmm … I might have a source. Let me work on it.” He was thinking about Culvert. If the boy’s camera work equaled his vocabulary, it might work.

“And how about funeral arrangements, Qwill? Who’ll have that information?”

“Good question. Let me work on that, too. I’ll get back to you.”

Qwilleran replaced the receiver but sat motionless, thinking of the poor woman who “mound” her own business - a virtual recluse even though she claimed to drive her own truck - where? To the bank? To church? To the store? She seemed to live well on fresh eggs, coffee, turnips, and kale… and perhaps milk from the McBee cows and occasional rice pudding from the McBee kitchen. Who would handle her funeral arrangements? Would the epitaph on her tombstone be exactly the way she wanted it? Would she even have a tombstone? Who would handle her estate? Would her descendants know that she was gone - or care?

Qwilleran’s impulse was to phone the McBee farm. He had a bantering acquaintance with Rollo at the coffee shop and a hand-waving acquaintance when their vehicles passed on the backroad. Both Rollo and his brother Boyd were volunteer firemen, however, and had been on duty most of the night. Rollo would be sleeping; Culvert would be at school; Mrs. McBee did accounting for other farmers and might be making calls. Yet, surely they would have an answering machine. The Coggin story was on deadline. There was no time to waste. He took a chance. To his relief, a woman answered.

“Mrs. McBee? This is your neighbor up

the road, Jim Qwilleran. I’m sure Rollo is sleeping after his grueling night.”

“He’s dead to the world! When he came home, he was so exhausted and so broken up, he just sat down and cried, and so did I! Culvert was so upset when he heard the news, I let him stay home from school. He always pretended Maude was his great-great-grandmother … Shall I tell Rollo to call you when he wakes up?”

“If you will. Meanwhile, the newspaper wants to know about funeral arrangements. Mrs. Coggin has been part of Moose County history for almost a century, and the Something wants to give her proper recognition. What can I tell them about a funeral for her?”

“Well, she wasn’t a churchgoer, but I could ask our pastor to read a service, and he’d be only too willing.”

“Would you like me to contact the funeral home? The K Fund will handle expenses. The important thing is to give her a dignified and respectful farewell.”

“That would be very kind of you, Mr. Q.”

“Also, when Culvert came to visit me the other day, he mentioned taking pictures of Mrs. Coggin. Do you think they’re suitable for publishing in the paper?”

“Well, I don’t know. Would you like to see them?”

“I would, definitely, but we’re on a tight deadline. If you’ll have them ready, I’ll drive past in ten minutes and pick them up.”

He took the fast route via Main Street and Base Line, and Culvert ran out to meet him with a photo developer’s envelope. From there Qwilleran drove directly to the newspaper and threw the packet on the picture editor’s desk. They looked at them together: Maude hanging washing on the line, peeling turnips, digging in the yard, picking tomatoes, feeding chickens, feeding the bedraggled dogs, and more.

“Better than I expected,” said the editor, choosing three and returning the rest. The ones he selected were Maude at the wheel of her truck (a close-up), Maude hanging laundry (action), and Maude feeding the dogs (a heartbreaker).

“Don’t forget to give him a credit line,” Qwilleran said. “He’s only nine years old, and it’ll be a thrill. His name is Culvert McBee. C-u-l-v-e-r-t.”

“Culvert? Are you sure?”

“Am I sure this is Moose County? And don’t forget to pay for the shots, regular freelance fee.”

While in town, Qwilleran visited the Dingleberry Funeral Home and gave specific instructions. Their records showed the date and location of Bert Coggin’s interment; a companion grave site had been provided for his wife. They could even identify the stonecutter who inscribed the tombstone: H&H Monuments on Sandpit Road. Proudly the younger Dingleberry brothers pointed out that their archives went back five generations - to the days when furniture stores sold coffins and did undertaking on the side.

Next, Qwilleran called on his attorney, G. Allen Barter, who was accustomed to his client’s breezy approach to matters of law. He said, “Don’t ask if she’d filed a will, Bart; she didn’t even have running water. There could be heirs, but she didn’t know where they are. There must be money in the bank, because she recently sold a hundred acres of prime farmland… It’s your baby, Bart. Do whatever is necessary and bill the K Fund. If you need to ask questions, the families who knew her longest and most intimately are Rollo and Boyd McBee of Pickax Township. I’m just trying to expedite things.”