The Cat Who Robbed a Bank Read online

  As Qwilleran approached the double doors, two Siamese cats watched from the sidelights, standing on their hindlegs with their forepaws on the low windowsill. Entering the foyer he had to wade through weaving bodies and waving tails, circling him, doubling back, rubbing his ankles, and getting under his feet—all the while yowling in the operatic voices of Siamese. The tumultuous welcome would have been flattering if Qwilleran had not consulted his watch. It was feeding time at the zoo!

  “What have you guys been doing this afternoon?” he asked as he prepared their dinner. “Anything worthwhile? Solve any world problems? Who won the fifty-yard dash?” The more you talk to cats, the smarter they become, he believed.

  The long, lean, lithe muscular one was Kao K'o Kung, familiarly known as Koko. His female companion was Yum Yum—small, dainty, shy, although she could shriek like an ambulance siren when she wanted something and wanted it immediately. Both had pale fawn-colored fur and seal brown masks, ears and tails. Her eyes were blue tinged with violet, and their appealing kittenish gaze could break hearts. Koko's deeper blue eyes had a depth that suggested secret intelligence and untold mysteries.

  They were indoor cats, but the barn interior was as big as all outdoors to a small creature weighing ten pounds or less. The space, a hundred feet in diameter, was open to the roof. A ramp spiraled up the walls and connected the balconies on three levels. In the center stood a huge white fireplace cube with white stacks soaring to the cupola, and it divided the main floor into functional areas: dining, lounging, foyer, and library. The kitchen was under a balcony, half hidden by an L-shaped snack bar.

  In the daytime a flood of light came through triangles and rhomboids of glass. Pale colors prevailed—in the bleached timbers, upholstered furniture, and Moroccan rugs. After dark, when a single switch activated indirect lights and artfully placed spotlights, the effect was nothing less than enchanting.

  Qwilleran's favorite haunt was the library area. One wall of the fireplace cube was covered with bookshelves, and the shelves were filled with secondhand classics purchased from a local bookseller. A library table held the telephone, answering machine, and writing materials. In a capacious lounge chair with an ottoman, Qwilleran liked to read aloud to the Siamese or draft his column on a legal pad with a soft lead pencil.

  On the last day of August, before going out to dinner, he read to the cats from a book selected by Koko. He was the official bibliocat. He prowled the bookshelves and liked to curl up between the biographies and the nineteenth-century English fiction. At reading time it was his privilege to select the title, although Qwilleran had the power of veto. They had been reading Greek drama. Koko could sense which book was which, and he repeatedly sniffed The Frogs by Aristophanes.

  “Okay, we'll do it once more,” Qwilleran said, “but this is the last time!” Both cats liked the froggy chorus that he dramatized so colorfully: brekekekex koax koax. Yum Yum's eyes grew wide, and a rumble came from Koko's chest.

  “Those cats are just like little kids,” Qwilleran said at dinner that night. “When I was three years old, I wanted to hear Jack and the Beanstalk over and over again. It was in desperation that my mother taught me to read so young.”

  He was dining with the chief woman in his life, a charming companion of his own age, whose gentle voice, soft smile, and agreeable disposition camouflaged a will as strong as Yum Yum's. She was Polly Duncan, director of the public library. She always wore something special for their dates, and this time it was a green silk dress with a necklace of long slivers of silver alternating with beads of green jade.

  “You look lovely!” he said. He had learned not to say, “You look lovely tonight.” That would imply that she usually looked unlovely. Polly was sensitive about the niceties of speech.

  Pleased, she said, “Thank you, dear. And you're looking very handsome!”

  He always wore a coat and tie, well coordinated, when having dinner with Polly. It was a compliment they paid each other.

  They had a reservation at Onoosh's in downtown Pickax, a cafe with the exotic murals, lamps, brasses, and aromas of the Mediterranean rim. Ethnic foods were finally being accepted 400 miles north of everywhere, although it had been a slow process. Seated at the brass-topped tables were foodists with adventurous palates, vacationers from out of town, and students from Moose County Community College, who were eligible for a discount.

  For starters Polly had a dry sherry and Qwilleran ordered Squunk water on the rocks with a twist, a local mineral water.

  “What's the latest gossip at the library?” he asked. It was a center of information in more ways than one. “Has the Pickax grapevine blown a gasket over Mr. Delacamp?”

  “No, no!” she corrected him with excitement. “The latest news is about Amanda! Haven't you heard?”

  “I heard the rumor in July, while you were in Canada, but she denied it.”

  “She changed her mind several times after that, but I think she was building up suspense. There's nothing naive about Amanda!”

  “So what's the latest?” he asked impatiently. As a journalist he always felt uncomfortable if he didn't know the latest.

  “Well! Today was the deadline, and she picked up her petition at city hall at nine a.m. Eight hours later, she returned it with the required number of signatures—five percent of registered voters! She stood in front of Toodle's Market and Lanspeak's and created quite a stir, as you can well imagine.”

  “That's our Amanda!” Qwilleran gloated.

  There was only one illustrious Amanda in Pickax. As owner of the design studio on Main Street she had decorated the homes of well-known families for forty years. She had served on the city council for twenty years—always outspoken and sometimes cantankerous. The locals loved her for her fearless individualism, and that included her eccentric dress and grooming. Now she was daring to challenge the incumbent mayor in the November election—a politician who had held office for five terms, simply because his mother was a Goodwinter.

  That was the big name in Pickax. The four Goodwinter brothers had founded the city in 1850.

  But the mayor's name was Gregory Blythe. His challenger was Amanda Goodwinter!

  Qwilleran said, “I predict she'll win by a landslide.”

  A bright young woman in an embroidered vest served them baba ghanouj and spanokopetes, and he said, “I wish my mother could see me now—eating spinach and eggplant. And liking it!” Then he asked, “What's the latest on Old Campo?”

  “How can you be so derisive?” Polly rebuked him. “The jealousy among our male population is ludicrous! A few members of my library board are on his guest list, and they say he's a grand gentleman with polished manners and great charisma!”

  “I hear he always has a girl Friday who travels with him and happens to be young, sexy, and related by blood.” He said this with an ounce of sarcasm.

  Polly replied in all seriousness, “He's training family members to take over the business when he retires. . . . Or so I'm told,” she added. “But the big news is that Carol has asked me to pour at his celebrated Tuesday Tea! Those opals you gave me were ordered by Carol from a Chicago jeweler. That was Delacamp's firm, and so I'm suddenly in the inner circle.”

  “Just what does he do when he's in town?”

  “Well, first he gives an exclusive tea for potential customers. Then families with heirloom jewelry to sell invite him to their homes, and those who wish to buy vintage jewelry from his private collection make appointments to meet him in his hotel suite.”

  Qwilleran considered the situation briefly and then asked, “If he's so discriminating, how did he react to the old hotel with its broken-down elevators and wretched food?”

  “He had the good taste not to criticize or make fun of it. . . . I don't mind telling you, Qwill: I'm having stage fright about pouring tea for him.”

  “Nonsense, Polly. You're always in control, and now that you've had your surgery, you're healthier and livelier and more admirable than ever.”

  The young
waitress serving the entrees grinned to see “an older couple” holding hands across the table.

  “Don't snicker,” Qwilleran told her. “It's an old Mediterranean custom.”

  For a few moments they contemplated the presentation of food on the plate—stuffed grape leaves for her, curried lamb for him—and the subtlety of the flavors. Then he asked, “What are you wearing to the reception Saturday night?”

  “My white dinner dress and the opals. Are you wearing your kilt with your dinner jacket?”

  “I think it would be appropriate.”

  The grand opening of the refurbished hotel would be a black-tie event at three hundred dollars a ticket, proceeds going to Moose County's Literacy Council. There would be champagne, music, and a preview of the renovated facility.

  Qwilleran said, “I'm getting a preview of the preview. Fran Brodie is sneaking me in.”

  “It was a stroke of genius to rename the hotel, considering its grim reputation in the past.”

  “The new sign is going up Thursday.”

  Conversation lapsed into trivia:

  The theatre club was opening its season with Night Must Fall.

  The art center had been unable to replace Beverly Forfar.

  Celia Robinson had married Pat O'Dell and had moved into his big house on Pleasant Street, leaving the carriage-house apartment vacant.

  When finally they left the restaurant, Qwilleran asked, “Would you like to stop at the barn and see my new calendar?”

  “For just a minute. I have to go home and feed the cats.”

  It was twilight when they drove into the barnyard. A faint, dusky blue light seemed to bathe the world. It was the breathless moment after sunset and before the stars appeared, when all is silent . . . waiting.

  “Magical,” Polly said.

  “The French have a word for it: l'heure bleue.”

  “There's a French perfume by that name. I imagine it's lovely.”

  Eventually they went indoors to look at the calendar, and eventually Polly went home to feed Brutus and Catta. Qwilleran took the Siamese out to the screened gazebo, and the three of them sat in the dark. The cats liked the nighttime. They heard inaudible sounds and saw invisible movement in the shadows.

  Suddenly Koko was alert. He ran to the rear of the gazebo and stared at the barn. In two or three minutes the phone rang indoors. Qwilleran hurried back to the main building and grabbed the receiver after the sixth or seventh ring.

  The caller was Celia Robinson O'Dell, who had been his neighbor in the carriage-house apartment. “Hi, Chief!” she said cheerfully, her voice sounding young for a woman of her advancing age. “How's everything at the barn? How are the kitties?”

  “Celia! I've been trying to call you and extend felicitations on your marriage, but you're hard to reach.”

  “We took a little honeymoon trip. We went to see Pat's married daughter in Green Bay. He has three grandchildren.”

  “How do you like living on Pleasant Street?”

  “Oh, it's a wonderful big house with a big kitchen, which I need now that I'm going into the catering business seriously. But I enjoyed living in the carriage house and running over with goodies for you and the kitties. I can still cook a few things for your freezer, you know, and Pat can deliver them when he does your yardwork.”

  “That'll be much appreciated by all three of us.”

  “And if there are any little . . . secret . . . missions that I can handle for you . . .”

  “Well, we'll see how that works out. Give Pat my congratulations. He's a lucky guy.”

  As Qwilleran hung up the phone, he stroked his moustache dubiously, fearing that his espionage stratagem was collapsing. He liked to snoop in matters that were none of his business—propelled by curiosity or suspicion—and he had relied on Celia to preserve his anonymity. She was an ideal undercover agent, being a respectable, trustworthy, grandmotherly type. And, as an avid reader of spy fiction, she enjoyed being assigned to covert missions. There had been briefings, cryptic phone calls, hidden tape recorders, and secret meetings in the produce department at Toodle's Market. Now, as a married woman, how long could she retain her cover?

  As for Qwilleran, there was nothing official about his investigations. He simply had an interest in crime, stemming from his years as a crime reporter for newspapers Down Below—as locals called the metropolitan areas to the south. In recent years he had uncovered plenty of intrigue in this small community, and in doing so he had won the trust and friendship of the Pickax police chief. It was an association that would continue, with or without his secret agent.

  TWO

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1—Let sleeping dogs lie.

  Qwilleran had written a thousand words in praise of September for the “Qwill Pen” column, and he invited readers to compose poems about the ninth month. He wrote, “The best will be printed in the 'Qwill Pen' and will win a Qwill pencil, stamped in gold.” Everyone knew that his favorite writing tool was a fat yellow pencil with thick soft lead.

  “Always figuring out ways to get the subscribers to do your work for you,” the managing editor bantered.

  “Reader participation is the name of the game. They love it!”

  “Who's paying for all the pencils you're giving away?”

  “You can take it out of my meager salary.”

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2—Don't count your chickens before they're hatched.

  The weekly luncheon of the Pickax Boosters Club was held at the community hall, with committees reporting on the progress of the Mark Twain Festival scheduled for October. There would be a parade, a square dance, contests, lectures, and more. The so-called presidential suite in the hotel (third floor front) would be renamed the Mark Twain suite. Efforts to name a street after him had received a chilly reaction from residents, who complained that a change in street names resulted only in confusion and expense to property owners. Qwilleran attended and ate his soup and sandwich but refrained from volunteering for anything.

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 3—Every dog has his day.

  For the Siamese the big event was the arrival of a truck delivering new stools for the snack bar. The old ones were as comfortable as a milking stool, yet casual visitors chose to sit there instead of sinking into the deep-cushioned lounge chairs. The new stools were more hospitable. They had backs; they swiveled; their seats were thickly upholstered. The four old stools without backs would go to the thrift shop to be sold for charity.

  As soon as the deliveryman had left, Koko and Yum Yum came out from nowhere to inspect the new furniture. Two noses covered every inch of the wooden legs and backs; then they curled up on two upholstered seats and went to sleep.

  Fran Brodie had ordered them. She was second-in-command at Amanda's interior design studio. She was also the daughter of the police chief and one of the most glamorous young women in town. And on Friday she would be giving Qwilleran a personally conducted tour of the refurbished hotel.

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 4—A short horse is soon curried.

  Qwilleran fed the cats, changed the water in their drinking bowl, policed their commode, brushed their coats, and gave them instructions for the day: “Don't forget to wash behind your ears. Drink plenty of water; it's good for you. Be nice to each other.”

  They looked at him blankly and waited for him to leave so they could enjoy a nap on the new bar stools.

  For his own breakfast he thawed a roll and took it to his studio on the first balcony, along with a mug of extra-strength coffee brewed in his automated coffeemaker. There he finished his Friday column, a tongue-in-cheek dissertation on the advantages and disadvantages of indoor plumbing. Only Qwilleran could write a thousand words on a subject of such delicacy and make it entertaining—as well as educational—without being scatological.

  He handed in his copy to a skeptical managing editor, bantered with the crew in the cityroom, grabbed a burger at Lois's Luncheonette, and browsed among the pre-owned books in the dusty secondhand bookstore. Still he arrived early at the
hotel for his appointment with the designer.

  After the bombing of the historic building, the Klingenschoen Foundation had purchased it from the Limburger estate, and Qwilleran had insisted that a local designer be commissioned to do the interior. Now, while waiting for Fran Brodie, he stood on the sidewalk across the street and contemplated the scene. The three blocks of downtown Main Street reflected an era when the county's quarries were going full blast. Buildings and pavement were made of stone—a bleak prospect until the city's recent beautification effort. Now the chipped flagstone pavements were replaced with brick. Young trees were planted close to the curb. Brick planter boxes were filled with petunias, tended by volunteers.

  In the middle of the block stood the three-story cube of granite that had long been the city's only hotel and most disgraceful eyesore. It had a long history: built in the 1870s . . . gutted by fire in the 1920s and cheaply rebuilt . . . known as an overnight lodging that was gloomy but clean!

  “It was so clean,” said the natives, “that the porcelain was scrubbed off the bathtubs!”

  After being bombed by a psychopath from Down Below, it required a year to rebuild, refurnish and rename. Already two national magazines were interested in photographing the interior.

  Windows that had previously stared balefully on Main Street were now flanked by wooden shutters painted in the theme color of rust. The entrance was more inviting than before; a broad flight of stone steps led up to double doors of beveled wood and etched glass. And across the facade were stainless steel letters mounted directly on the stone. They spelled:

  THE MACKINTOSH INN

  As everyone in Moose County knew, Qwilleran's mother had been a Mackintosh. If she had not been a wartime volunteer, and if she had not met Francesca Klingenschoen in a canteen, and if they had not become lifelong friends . . . there would be no Mackintosh Inn. As a boy he had written letters to “Aunt Fanny.” After his mother's death and numerous crises in his own life, he resumed the correspondence and eventually found himself named as her sole heir.