Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Played Brahms

Rosemary said: "I don't like the idea of your new entanglement. It's probably that blonde she mentioned." "Did you notice that card? The blonde had a black cat. It sounds like the postmistress. The dark male sounds like her husband." "Or Koko," Rosemary said.

The return walk along the beach was in silence, as each pondered the advice of the cards. One could hear the squeaking of the sand underfoot. Qwilleran made one observation: "Mildred has lost her nervous laugh since the tragedy next door." At the porch entrance they clanged the brass bell for the sheer pleasure of hearing its pure tone, and when Qwilleran unlocked the door and threw it open for Rosemary, Koko was on the threshold, with Yum Yum not far behind. Koko was carrying a single red tulip in his mouth.

"It's a peace offering," Qwilleran told Rosemary, but he knew very well that Koko never apologized for anything. The cat was trying to convey information, and it was not in the field of horticulture… Tulips… Tulips… Qwilleran's moustache was sending him signals. The tulips came from the prison gardens. Nick was employed at the prison… He glanced at his watch and grabbed the phone.

Lori answered. "You caught me just in time, Mr. Qwilleran. I was about to lock up and go home." "You mean you actually lock the post office in Mooseville?" "Seems silly, doesn't it?" she said. "But it's federal regulations." He made the requisite remarks about the weather and then said: "Would you and Nick like to come over tomorrow evening to have a drink and meet the cats and watch the sunset? I have a charming guest from Down Below, and I don't know how much longer she can stay." Lori's acceptance was almost too effusive, and Qwilleran said to Rosemary later: "You'd think it was an invitation to the White House or Buckingham Palace." She raised her eyebrows. "Did I hear you say that your charming guest might not stay much longer?" "Merely an innocent social prevarication intended to lend convincing authenticity to an alarmingly abrupt invitation." "You must be feeling good," Rosemary said. "You always get wordy when you're feeling good."

"What shall I wear to visit Aunt Fanny?" Rosemary asked on Wednesday morning. "I'm all excited." "You look nice in your white suit," Qwilleran said. "She'll be dressed like Pocahontas or the Empress of China. I'm going to wear my orange cap." He knew Rosemary was not enthusiastic about his new headgear. On the road to Pickax he pointed out the turkey farm.

"Mildred brought us some turkey from the farm one day, and it was the best I've ever tasted." "That's because it was raised naturally," Rosemary explained. "And it was fresh. No preservatives." Near the old Dimsdale Mine he pointed out a dilapidated boxcar doing business as a diner. "I call it the Dismal Diner. We're having dinner there tonight." "Oh, Qwill! You're kidding." As they neared Pickax he said: "I have a hunch Aunt Fanny will like you. You might find out why she rented to those divers last summer. And tell her the pickax disappeared from the cabin." "Why me?" "I'm going to take a walk and let you girls get acquainted. You could mention the murder of Buck Dunfield and see how she reacts. I'm also curious to know why an eighty- nine-year-old woman with a live-in bodyguard carries a handgun in a county that has no crime." "Why don't you ask the questions and I'll take a walk." Rosemary suggested. "I'm no good at snooping." "With me she's evasive. With another woman she might open up. She likes women lawyers and women doctors, I happen to know." They drove past crumbling buildings that had been shaft houses for the mines, past old slag heaps that made unnatural bumps in the landscape, past rows of stone rectangles that had been the foundations of miners' cottages. Then the road reached the crest of a hill, and Pickax City lay in the valley below, with the circular park in dead center.

"Fanny lives on the circle," Qwilleran said. "Best location in town. Her ancestors made a pile of money in mining." When they pulled into the driveway of the great fieldstone house, Tom was working on the perfectly groomed lawn and his blue pickup was parked in front of the carriage house.

Qwilleran waved to him and noticed that the growth on the young man's lip was beginning to resemble a moustache.

Aunt Fanny greeted them in a flowing purple robe of Middle Eastern design with borders embroidered in silver. A purple scarf was knotted about her head, and her long dangling earrings were set with amethysts. Rosemary was spellbound, and Aunt Fanny was volubly cordial.

Qwilleran brought up an insignificant rear as the hostess swept them into the large pretentious dining room for lunch. He tried hard to pretend he was enjoying his cup of tomato soup, half a tuna sandwich, and weak coffee. He listened in amazement as Rosemary gushed and twittered and Aunt Fanny proved she could answer questions in a normal way.

"When was this lovely old house built?" Rosemary asked.

"Over a hundred years ago," Aunt Fanny said. "In horse-and-buggy days it was considered the grandest house in town. Would you like me to show you around after lunch?

Grandfather brought over Welsh stonemasons to build the house, and there's an English pub in the basement that was imported from London, piece by piece. The third floor was supposed to be a ballroom, but it was never finished." "While you ladies are taking the grand tour," Qwilleran said, "I'd like to walk downtown, if you'll excuse me. I want to see the Picayune offices." "Oh, you journalists!" Aunt Fanny said with a coy smirk. "Even when you're on vacation you can't forget your profession. I admire you for it!" Leaving the house, Qwilleran looked for Tom, but the handyman and the blue truck had gone.

The commercial section of Main Street extended for three blocks. Stores, restaurants, a lodge hall, the post office, the home of the Picayune, a medical clinic, and several law offices were all built of stone with more exuberance than common sense. Cotswold cottages nestled between Scottish castles and Spanish forts. Qwileran gave the Picayune office a wide berth and turned Into the office of Goodwinter and Goodwinter. "I don't have an appointment," he told the gray-haired secretary, "but I wonder if Mr. Goodwinter is available. My name is Qwilleran." The secretary was undoubtedly a relative; she had the narrow Goodwinter face. "You've just missed him, Mr. Qwilleran," she said pleasantly. "He's on his way to the airport and won't be back until Saturday. Would you like to speak to his partner?" The junior partner bounded out of her office in a cloud of expensive perfume, extending a well-manicured hand, and smiling happily. "Mr. Qwilleran! I'm Penelope. Alex has told me about you. He's attending a conference in Washington. Won't you come in?" She too had the long intelligent face that Qwilleran had learned to recognize, but it was softened by a smile that activated tantalizing dimples.

Qwilleran said: "I just dropped in to report on something your brother discussed with me." "About the mysterious liquor purchases?" "Yes. I don't find any evidence that our elderly friend is tippling." "I agree with you," said the attorney. "That's my brother's private theory. He thinks she's developing a whiskey voice. I say it's hormones." "How do you account for the houseman's liquor purchases?" "He must buy it to treat friends. He has an apartment in the carriage house, and he must have some social life of a sort, or it would be a very lonely life." "He's a strange young man." "But gentle and rather sweet," Penelope said. "He's a good worker and carries out orders perfectly, and some of our affluent families would kill to get him." "Know anything about his background?" "Only that a friend of Fanny's in New Jersey arranged for Tom to come out here and help her. Isn't she a remarkable woman? She amassed her fortune in the days before women were supposed to have brains." "I thought she inherited her money." "Oh, no! Her father lost everything in the Twenties. Fanny saved the family property and went on to make her own millions. She'll be ninety next month, and we're giving a party. I hope you'll join us. How are you enjoying Mooseville?" "It's never dull. I suppose you know about the murder." She nodded without any emotion, as if he had said: "Do you know it's Wednesday?" "It was a shocking thing to happen in a place like Mooseville," he said. "Do you have any theories?" She shook her head.