The Cat Who Robbed a Bank Read online

  Qwilleran's reverie was interrupted by a pinch on the elbow and the sound of a woman's well-modulated voice: “Well, what do you think of the old dump?”

  He gulped involuntarily. “Fran, I wish my mother could see this.”

  “Wait till you see the interior!”

  They dashed across the street during a lull in the traffic, and as they stood at the foot of the broad front steps she explained, “This is the ceremonial entrance. In the rear we have a carriage entrance at ground level, close to the parking lot and with immediate access to the elevators.”

  “Elevators? Plural?” he asked in pleasure and surprise.

  “Two of them. They operate like a dream! No clanking, no jerking, no stopping between floors. Isn't it wonderful? . . . Now, before we go inside, I want to brief you on a couple of details. The interior is done in the Arts and Crafts period. Do you know about that?”

  “Vaguely. Tell me.”

  “It came after Victorian and before Art Deco. In England the leader was William Morris . . . in Scotland, Charles Rennie Mackintosh . . . in the U.S., Gustav Stickley. Their designs are in museums and private collections. We've furnished the inn with new versions of historic originals. . . . Got it?”

  “Got it. Let's go.” As they walked slowly up the steps he gazed at the entrance doors in admiration. “Old?”

  “No. Custom-made for us in North Carolina. The wood is fumed oak. The etching was inspired by a William Morris tapestry.”

  In the lobby Qwilleran, who was not prone to gasp, actually gasped! The mood was hospitable, the colors warm: rust, mellow browns, and other earth tones. There was much fumed oak . . . ceiling beams where none had been before . . . large leather-cushioned chairs with wide wood arms . . . tables with ceramic tile tops . . . lamps with wood bases, pyramidal shades of mica, and pull chains! The mica gave a golden glow. The new reception desk had a welcoming air.

  “The old one,” Qwilleran observed, “resembled the booking desk at the police station.” Then he saw the large oil painting on the far wall: a life-size portrait of a woman seated at a piano. “That's her! That's exactly how she looked!”

  It was a portrait of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran in a peach-colored dress. Paul Skumble, the portraitist from Lockmaster who refused to copy photographs, had painted her likeness from Qwilleran's memories: “People said she looked like Greer Garson but with larger eyes . . . Her hair was brown and medium-length; she called it a pageboy . . . Her hands looked slender and fragile at the keyboard; she had a baby grand . . . I remember a peach-colored dress with pearl buttons down the front, and a bracelet with foreign coins dangling from it.”

  From this sketchy description the artist had created an astounding likeness complete with bracelet. And he had gone to the trouble of finding a video of an old Greer Garson movie.

  Qwilleran said to Fran, “Actually she never wore the bracelet while playing the piano. It jangled. But we won't tell anyone.”

  “She has a gracious aristocratic look.”

  “True, but I didn't think of it in those terms when I was a kid. I just thought it was motherliness—a kind of calm, fond assurance that 'mother knows best.' . . . I have to phone Paul and congratulate him.”

  “Wait till tomorrow,” she suggested. “He's coming to the reception.”

  “In his usual ragged jeans and paint-spattered T-shirt?”

  “Please! I personally dragged him to Bruce's Tuxedo Rental and talked him into trimming his beard—just a trifle, not enough to crush his personality. . . . Are you ready to see the rest of the building?”

  The dining room was now the Mackintosh Room—with white tablecloths and black-lacquered Stickley chairs. They had square-spindled backs and upholstered seats covered in the Mackintosh tartan. That was red, with a dark green stripe, and the carpet was dark green. The focal point on the back wall was a large Mackintosh crest in wrought iron, said to come from a Scottish castle gate. It had a cat rampant and the clan motto: Touch not the cat bott a glove.

  The coffee shop was now called Rennie's and was done in the style of a Glasgow tea room designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh.

  There was a ballroom on the lower level that would be the scene of the opening reception, Mr. Delacamp's Tuesday Tea, and all future luncheon meetings of the Boosters Club.

  The guestrooms, furnished in Stickley, were Fran's chief pride. She said, “I've traveled extensively and stayed in luxury hotels with lavish furnishings but no place to put anything down! That's my pet peeve, and I designed these rooms to be functional as well as attractive.”

  Qwilleran asked, “Where will Mr. Delacamp camp while he's here?”

  “In the presidential suite. No president ever stayed here, but there's still an adjoining room for the Secret Service, and it'll be used for his assistant.”

  “I hope he likes cats.” Qwilleran pointed to a building across the street. An upstairs apartment had five windows with a cat in each, sitting on the sill and watching the flow of traffic below.

  “Aren't they adorable?” Fran said. “They're watching pigeons on the roof of the inn.”

  “Or making a traffic survey. Who lives there?”

  “Mrs. Sprenkle. The Sprenkle family owns the whole block. When her husband died, she sold their country house and moved downtown. She likes the action. He liked peace and quiet. Why does a man who can't stand noise marry a woman who can't stand silence?”

  “It's the Jack Sprat law. She has unusual curtains. Is she a client of yours?”

  “No. Amanda has done her work for forty years. It's all Victorian. You'd hate it, Qwill! . . . And now, would you like to meet the manager before you leave? He's from Chicago.”

  The door to the manager's office on the second floor was standing open, and a clean-cut young man in suit and tie was working at the desk.

  Fran said, “Barry, would you like to meet Mr. Q?”

  Before she could make the introductions, he jumped up with hand extended. “I'm Barry Morghan, spelled with a GH.”

  “I'm Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW. Welcome to—”

  “Excuse me, you guys. I have to run along,” Fran said. “See you both at the reception.”

  “Have a chair, Mr. Qwilleran,” said the manager.

  “Call me Qwill. It's shorter, more forceful, and saves energy. I hear you're from Chicago. So am I, a Cubs fan from birth. What brings you to the backwoods?”

  “Well, you see, I'd been assistant manager in a big hotel and decided this was a good career move. I'd always liked the hospitality field. My dad was a traveling man and sometimes took me along. I liked staying in different hotels, and my first ambition was to be a bellhop and wear one of those neat uniforms. I was pretty young then. Now I like the idea of being an innkeeper. I trained at Cornell.”

  “Would you say the inn is getting off to a good start?”

  “Absolutely!” Barry consulted a calendar. “Champagne reception tomorrow night. Big family reunion on Labor Day. Formal afternoon tea Tuesday. Boosters Club luncheon Wednesday. All rooms booked for the Labor Day weekend and the Scottish weekend! And dinner reservations are going fast for the Mackintosh Room. We have this great chef from Chicago, you know. Your paper has interviewed him for Thursday's food page. The whole staff is excited. All the hiring was done before I got here—by Mr. Barter's office. It was his idea to hire MCCC students part-time. He's a great guy!”

  G. Allen Barter was junior partner in the Pickax law firm of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter, and he was Qwilleran's representative in all matters pertaining to the Klingenschoen Foundation. Since the K Fund owned the inn, he was CEO.

  Qwilleran said, “I know Bart very well. He says you need a place to live, and there's a carriage house apartment on my property that's available—four rooms, furnished. It's only a few blocks from downtown.”

  “Great! I'll take it!” the manager said. “I've been sleeping here, but I've got a van full of personal belongings that I'd like to offload.”

  “You'd better look at it fir
st,” Qwilleran said. “I'll show it to you any time.”

  “How about right now?”

  Within minutes he was following Qwilleran's vehicle south on Main Street, around the Park Circle and into the parking lot of the K Theatre. They stopped at a fieldstone carriage house with carriage lanterns on all four corners.

  “Great!” he exclaimed as he jumped out of his van.

  “I warn you, the stairs are narrow and steep. It was built in the nineteenth century when people had small feet and narrow shoulders. You'll be interested to know it's said to be haunted—by a young woman whose name was Daisy.”

  “Great!”

  “After you unpack, you can drive through the woods to my place, and I'll offer you a drink.”

  “Great!”

  “By the way,” Qwilleran said, “how do you feel about cats?”

  “Anything that walks on four legs and doesn't bite is a friend of mine!”

  By the time Barry Morghan arrived at the barn, the Siamese had been fed and were curled up like shrimp on their respective bar stools, sound asleep. Qwilleran went to the barnyard to greet him. He enjoyed newcomers' expressions of disbelief and awe when the hundred-year-old barn loomed before their eyes and he was not disappointed by his tenant's reaction. “Great!” he said with fervor.

  The interior with its ramps and balconies and giant white cube sent him into further exclamations of astonishment.

  “What do you like to drink? I have a well-stocked bar,” Qwilleran said.

  “I'm not much of a drinker. What are you going to have?”

  “Ginger ale.”

  “Great! I'll have the same.” Barry had changed into casualwear and walked around with his hands in his pants pockets, making comments. “Are those your cats, or are they fur cushions on the bar stools? . . . Have you read all those books? . . . I see you have one of those 'bent' bikes. Do you ride it?”

  There was a recumbent bicycle leaning against a stone wall near the foyer. “It was a gift,” Qwilleran explained. “Now that I'm used to pedaling with my feet elevated, I like it.”

  They lounged in the library area with their ginger ale, and his guest said, “Mind if I chew gum? I'm trying to stop smoking.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Is this a wastebasket?” He dropped the wrapper in a polished wooden receptacle with a carved top handle.

  “It's a wastebasket moonlighting as an antique Chinese water bucket, or vice versa. . . Do you know I haven't chewed gum since I gave up baseball? It was part of the game for me: chomp gum, jerk cap, punch glove, hitch belt.”

  “Why did you give up baseball?”

  “I came out of the military with a bum knee. It plagued me till I moved to Moose County and then disappeared. The natives credited the drinking water. I think the biking cured it.”

  Then the talk turned to the inn: how it had been dreary but clean, how everyone hated the food, how Fran Brodie had worked wonders with the interior. “She's one of our civic treasures,” Qwilleran said.

  “Yeah, she's a dynamo! Is she married?”

  “No, but they're standing in line. Take a number.”

  “What's a good way to meet girls around here?” Barry asked. “Interesting ones, I mean.”

  “It depends on your definition of interesting. There are numerous clubs you can join: theatre, bridge, golf, bird-watching, biking, hiking, and so forth. You can take a class at the art center, go to church, attend Boosters Club luncheons and meet spirited young businesswomen. How about volunteering to teach adults how to read and write? It would look good on your resume,” Qwilleran concluded. “Or in your obituary.”

  “Yow!” came an aggressive comment from a bar stool, where Koko was stretching and yawning.

  “That's Kao K'o Kung, the brains of the family,” Qwilleran said. “He reads minds, knows when the phone is going to ring, and tells time without looking at a clock—all skills denied to you and me. . . . Yum Yum is our glamorcat. She walks like a model on a runway, strikes photogenic poses, and melts hearts with her innocent gaze. But don't be fooled. She'll steal anything small and shiny.”

  The newcomer, dubious about Qwilleran's seriousness, changed the subject. “This is my first experience in a small town. Do you have any advice for me? I mean it! I want to get off on the right foot.”

  “The main thing,” Qwilleran began, “is to remember that everyone knows everyone. Never speak ill of someone; you may be talking to his cousin or son-in-law or fellow clubmember. Play it safe by keeping your eyes and ears open and your mouth closed.”

  “Great . . . And one more question. My older brother likes winter sports and wouldn't mind moving up here. He's a doctor. He'd open a clinic.”

  “What kind of doctor?”

  “Well, that's a family joke. My mother was an RN in obstetrics, and she wanted my brother to be an OB, but he chose to go into dermatology because his patients don't call him up in the middle of the night.”

  Qwilleran chuckled. “All kidding aside, we need your brother. The nearest dermatologist is in the next county.”

  “Great! . . . He considers a small town a good place to raise a family—away from the muggings, car thefts, and shootings that make city life hairy.”

  “Yow!” came a loud comment in a minor key.

  THREE

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 5—Birds of a feather flock together.

  For the first time the daily adage on Culvert's calendar was accidentally apt. In the evening all the prominent birds of Moose County would wear their finest feathers to a charity reception benefiting the cause of literacy. They would be the first to inspect the new Mackintosh Inn and would see their names in the Moose County Something on Monday—perhaps even their photos.

  For this special occasion Qwilleran dressed in Highland evening attire: a kilt in the Mackintosh tartan, a silver-mounted fur sporran, and a dagger in the cuff of his kilt-hose—this with the usual dinner jacket and black tie. Polly wore her white dinner dress with opal jewelry and a shoulder-sash in the Robertson tartan. If asked, she would be pleased to explain that (a) she was a Duncan by marriage and (b) the chief of the Robertson clan had been Duncan of Atholia, a descendent of Celtic earls and kinsman of Robert the Bruce. It amused her to tell them more than they really wanted to know.

  They drove to the reception in her sedan, which seemed more compatible with a white dress and opals—more suitable than a big brown van. She said, “The mayor will be there. How do you think he'll react to Amanda's challenge?”

  “He's a cool cucumber. He won't let on he knows his goose is cooked.”

  At the carriage entrance of the inn they were met by a valet crew of MCCC students who parked their car, leaving them to walk across a red carpet between a battery of media cameras.

  “Just like a Hollywood premiere,” Qwilleran remarked.

  “Not exactly,” she said, glancing at the vintage finery worn by the older guests. These last remaining descendants of the old moneyed families might be aged and infirm but they always turned out in evening attire to support a good cause. The Old Guard, they were affectionately called. Local wags called them the Mothball Brigade; a faint aroma of PCB hovered around the paisley shawls, sable stoles and outdated dinner jackets that came out of deep storage for the occasion.

  The carriage entrance opened into a ground-level lobby with a grand staircase: half a flight up to the main lobby, half a flight down to the ballroom where the champagne was flowing. Like everyone else, Qwilleran and Polly took the descending flight, stopping partway to survey the subterranean hall. It was a scene of glowing chandeliers, huge bouquets of flowers, and hors d'oeuvre tables lighted by candles. Guests stood in clusters, holding champagne glasses. A string trio was playing Viennese waltzes. Servers circulated with trays of champagne and white grape juice.

  There were hot and cold hors d'oeuvre tables, and Arch and Mildred Riker were standing at the former, critiquing the bite-size morsels. She was food editor of the Something; her husband was publisher of the paper
. Both had the appearance of being happily well-fed.

  Qwilleran said to Arch, “I knew I'd find you feeding at the trough.” They were lifelong friends with a license to banter.

  “Don't worry. I've left a few scraps for you.”

  Mildred said, “Try these delightful little crabmeat nothings! I must ask the chef his secret.”

  “He won't tell you,” her husband said.

  “Oh, yes, he will! I interviewed him yesterday, and we turned out to be soul mates. Read all about it on Thursday's food page, dear.”

  Qwilleran said, “How would you two like to be our guests in the Mackintosh Room next Saturday night? I'll reserve a table.”

  “They're booked solid,” Arch said. “You're too late.”

  “Want to bet? The manager and I are soul mates.” He spoke confidently, having made the reservation the day before.

  He and Arch had been bickering chums since boyhood, and sparring was an ongoing way of expressing their friendship.

  “Listen!” Mildred said, “They're playing The Skater's Waltz. It always makes me feel young and thin.”

  “Nothing ever makes me feel young and thin,” Arch complained.

  Eventually the foursome drifted away from the crabmeat souffles, quiche tartlets, smoked trout canapes and goat cheese puffs. They mingled with the other guests:

  Mayor Blythe, being overly charming.

  Amanda Goodwinter, looking dowdy in her thirty-year-old dinner dress. She scowled at the admirers who clustered about her.

  Whannell MacWhannell, the tax consultant, a big Scot wearing a kilt.

  Don Exbridge, the developer, wearing a plaid cummerbund that was all wrong, Big Mac and Qwilleran agreed.

  Fran Brodie, glamorous in a silvery sheath slit to mid-thigh.

  Dr. Prelligate, president of MCCC, being overly attentive to Fran.

  Carol and Larry Lanspeak, modestly inconspicuous as usual, although they were leading lights in the community.