Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Into The Closet

"Trick or treat!

The clawlike hand dropped apples into the outstretched sacks, and Timmie Wilmot turned to his sister. "Apples!" he said. "Cheapo!"

At seven-thirty Qwilleran was glad to turn off the blue light and shed his mask and sheet.

Soon Polly phoned. "Did you have many beggars?"

"Enough," he said. "I have some apples left over, in case you feel like making eight or nine pies. How about going out to dinner?"

"Thanks, but I couldn't possibly! I'm exhausted after running up and down stairs to answer the doorbell. Why don't you come to brunch tomorrow? Mushroom omelettes and cheese popovers."

"I'll be there! With apples. What time?"

"I suggest twelve noon, and don't forget to turn your clocks back. This is the end of Daylight Saving Time."

Before resetting his two watches, three clock radios, and digital coffeemaker, Qwilleran added several new acquisitions to the collection in the desk drawer: swizzle stick, stale cigar, brown shoelace, woman's black lace garter, handkerchief embroidered "Cynara," and box of corn plasters.

On Sunday morning it was back to Standard Time for the rest of the nation but not for Koko and Yum Yum, who pounced on Qwilleran's chest at seven A.M., demanding their eight o'clock breakfast. He shooed them from the bedroom and slammed the door, but they yowled and jiggled the doorknob until he fed them in self-defence. He himself subsisted on coffee and apples until it was time to walk back to the carriage house. He used his own key and was met at the top of the stairs by a husky Siamese who fixed him with a challenging eye.

"Back off!" Qwilleran said. "I was invited to brunch... Polly, this cat is much too heavy."

"I know, dear," she said regretfully, "but Bootsie always seems to be hungry. I don't know how Koko stays so svelte. When he stretches, he's a yard long."

"I suspect he has a few extra vertebrae. He walks around corners like a train going around a curve; the locomotive is heading east while the caboose is still traveling north... Do I smell coffee?"

"Help yourself, Qwill. I'm about to start the omelettes."

When he tasted the first succulent mouthful, he asked in awe, "How did you learn to make omelettes like these?"

"I prepared one every day for a month until I mastered the technique. That was several years ago, before we were all worried about cholesterol."

"I'm not worried about cholesterol," he retorted."I think it's a lot of bunk."

"Famous last words, dear."

He helped himself to another popover. "Junior's siblings are coming to town for the formalities, and I'm taking them to dinner. I hope you'll join us."

"By all means. I remember Pug when she used to come into the library for books on horses; she married a rancher. Jack went into advertising; he was always a very clever boy."

"Did you know that Mrs. Gage owned Lois's building?"

"Of course. The Gage family has had it for generations."

"Did you ever meet Euphonia's husband?"

"No, our paths never crossed."

"They say he and his wife didn't get along."

With a slight stiffening of the spine Polly said, "I'm not in a position to say, although they never appeared in public together."

"He and Lois seemed to hit it off pretty well."

"Qwill, dear, for someone who deplores gossip, you seem to be wallowing in it today."

"For purely vocational reasons," he explained. "I'm planning an in-depth profile of Euphonia."

Polly nodded knowingly, being familiar with his ambitious writing projects that never materialized.

He went on. "No one has come up with an acceptable motive for her suicide. Junior thinks it has to do with her belief in reincarnation, but I don't buy that explanation."

"Nor I... May I fill your cup, Qwill?"

"It's superlative today. What did you do to it?" he asked.

"Just a touch of cinnamon."

They sipped in contented silence, as close friends can do, Qwilleran wondering whether to tell her about Koko's latest salvage operations. Besides the purple hair ribbon and purple bedroom slipper, there had been an empty vial of violet perfume, an English lavender sachet, and a lipstick tube labeled "Grape Delish." Koko had chosen these mementoes out of an estimated 1.5 million pieces of junk. Why? Could he sense Euphonia's innate energy in purpleness? Or was he trying to communicate some catly message?

"What are you reading these days?" Polly asked.

"For myself, a biography of Sir Wilfred Grenfell, but the cats and I are going through Robinson Crusoe. That was Koko's choice. The opening sentence has 105 words - a maze of principal and subordinate clauses. It's interesting to compare with the staccato effect of simple declarative clauses in Tale of Two Cities, which opens with 120."

Polly smiled and nodded and asked if he would like to hear a Mozart concerto for flute, oboe, and viola. Qwilleran had always preferred a hundred-piece symphony orchestra or thousand-voice choir, but he was learning to appreciate chamber music. All in all, it was a cozy Sunday afternoon until he excused himself, saying he had to interview a breeder of Siberian huskies.

He avoided mentioning that the breeder was a woman - a young woman - a slender young woman with appealing brown eyes and a mass of dark, wavy hair and a little-girl voice.

Half an hour later, when he arrived at the address in Brrr Township, he knew he was in the right place. A twenty-seven-dog chorus could be heard behind the mobile home. The excited huskies were chained to a line-up of individual posts in front of individual shelters. Nancy's truck was not in the yard, and when he knocked on the door there was no answer, except from Corky within. He strode about the yard for a while, saying "Good dogs!" to the frenzied animals, but it only increased the clamor. He was preparing to leave when a pickup with a boxy superstructure steered recklessly into the yard, and Nancy jumped out.

"Sorry I'm late," she said excitedly. "The police came to Pop's house while I was there. They checked the airline, and he never bought a ticket!"

Or, Qwilleran thought, he bought a ticket without giving his right name.

"I don't understand it!" she went on. "Why would he leave his truck there? I was worried about the potatoes, but now I'm worried that something has happened to Pop!"

Sympathetically Qwilleran asked, "Was he having trouble of any kind? Financial problems? Enemies he was trying to avoid?"

"I don't know... I don't see how... He was well liked by the other farmers - always helping them out. When I lived at home, I remember how stranded motorists would come to the house to use the phone. They were out of gas, or their car had broken down. Pop had his own gas pump, and he'd give them a gallon or stick his head under the hood of their car and fix what was wrong. He could fix anything mechanical and was proud of it... So now I'm worrying that he was helping someone out and they took advantage of him. You never know who's driving on these country roads nowadays. It used to be so safe! Everyone was honest. But now... someone could come along and stun my dogs and make off with the whole pack. They stole a big black walnut tree from a farm near here."

The dogs were still barking until she silenced them with a command.

"How old is your father?" Qwilleran asked.

"Fifty-seven."

"When did your mother die?"

"She passed away three - no, four years ago. Pop changed a lot after that."

"Could there be anything new in his lifestyle that you don't know about?"

"You mean... like women? Or drugs?" She hesitated.

A reassuring manner was his stock in trade. "You can tell me, Nancy. I may be able to help."

"Well... he used to be very tight-fisted, but lately he's spending a lot of money."

"Extravagance can be a way of coping with grief. How is he spending the money?" Qwilleran asked.