The Cat Who Robbed a Bank Read online

  Polly introduced Qwilleran to members of her library board, and he introduced the innkeeper to Polly.

  The young man said, “Lucky I brought my tux! I didn't think I'd need it 400 miles north of everywhere, but my mother said I might want to get married.”

  Polly whispered to Qwilleran, “He won't have long to wait. He has good looks and personality.”

  “And a good job,” Qwilleran mumbled.

  Suddenly the music stopped, the lights blinked for attention, and a bagpiper swaggered into the hall playing Scotland the Brave. He was Andrew Brodie, the police chief, doing what he liked best.

  Then the mayor stepped to the microphone and thanked the Klingenschoen Foundation for revitalizing downtown's foremost landmark. G. Allen Barter thanked Fran Brodie for her creative input. She thanked the K Fund for supplying the wherewithal so generously. And Barry Morghan thanked his lucky stars for bringing him to Pickax as innkeeper. “You're invited to tour the facility from bottom to top,” he told the guests, “and continue to enjoy our hospitality here and in Rennie's coffee shop.” There was a stampede up the stairs to the main lobby.

  When Polly saw the portrait, she cried, “Qwill! She's lovely! So serene! So distinguished! I'm going to call her Lady Anne, after the heroine of the Scottish Rebellion. I must congratulate Paul Skumble!”

  The artist, looking like a gnome in his bifurcated beard, was talking to prospective patrons. He had painted Polly's portrait earlier in the year, and when he saw her he opened his arms wide and said, “Baby, you look like an angel!”

  She responded with light laughter, while Qwilleran said to the artist, “And you look like the devil.”

  “I feel like a penguin in these duds.”

  “You don't look like one. They have shorter legs.”

  Polly interrupted the banter. “Paul, you're a genius. You painted Lady Anne's soul!”

  “That's my specialty. Painting souls.”

  The police chief was wandering around the lobby looking dumbfounded at the decor. “Pretty fancy,” he said to Qwilleran.

  “Your daughter deserves credit for doing a great job! The old hotel was grim.”

  “But it was clean,” Brodie said.

  “Will your department be busy next week, guarding the jewels?”

  “Nah. He doesn't need anything from us. He's been here lots of times without incident. It's all private. Valuables kept in the hotel safe. No problem.”

  Someone clutched Qwilleran's arm and said, “That portrait spooks me!” It was Arch Riker. “It's exactly how she looked when we were growing up. I'd go over to your house, and she'd play Flight of the Bumblebee for me. I always listened with my mouth hanging open; how could fingers move so fast?”

  “Yes, she was good at vivace, wasn't she?”

  “All you could play was Humoresque, double slow.”

  “I was faster at stealing second base,” Qwilleran said ruefully. “I sometimes wish I'd practiced more, but the piano was not my forte.”

  At that moment the publicity man interrupted. He wanted a shot of Qwilleran with the painting.

  “Only if the artist is included,” he replied. “I'm here as an accident of birth; Skumble deserves the credit for doing the impossible.”

  In a lobby alcove outfitted as a reading room Fran Brodie was giving a tour-guide spiel on Gustav Stickley. A portrait of the turn-of-the-century cabinetmaker hung on the wall; he wore a bow tie, pince-nez glasses on a cord, and a cryptic smile.

  “What did that smile mean?” Fran asked her small audience, all of whom seemed enraptured by her melodious voice and stunning gown. “He was a writer, philosopher, and cabinetmaker, and yet he came from humble beginnings on a Wisconsin farm, the eldest of eleven children. Cruel fate made him head of the family at the age of twelve, and he had to drop out of school and work in a stoneyard. Still, he educated himself by reading. He hated stone and developed a passion for wood. His furniture designs with plain, honest structural lines and a reverence for wood were made from 1901 to 1915 and had many imitators. . . . The framed pictures grouped over the trestle tables are enlargements of the 'cozy cottage' drawings in Stickley's magazine, The Craftsman.”

  Another center of attention in the lobby was the new reception desk with its front panel of iridescent ceramic tiles typical of the period. Behind it stood four young persons in black blazers with the Mackintosh crest. One of them was Lenny Inchpot, who had been on the desk when the bomb went off and a chandelier fell in the lobby. He still had a slight scar on his forehead. Now he was captain of the desk clerks, who worked in four six-hour shifts. He himself worked evenings. All were MCCC students.

  Viyella, a vibrant young woman who worked afternoons, said, “I love meeting people! This is an exciting place to work.”

  Marietta, on mornings, was intensely serious. She hoped to learn a lot on the job.

  Boze, on duty midnight to six, was a big fellow with a bland smile. “Hi!” he mumbled.

  Larry said, “Boze will be tossing the caber at the Highland Games. We're all rooting for him.”

  “I'll be there,” Qwilleran promised.

  Polly drew him aside. “I want you to meet the liveliest, most sensible woman on my library board: Magdalene Sprenkle. She's wearing the famous Sprenkle torsade tonight.”

  “Should I know what that is?”

  “A necklace of twisted strands. Hers is diamonds and pearls. She's hoping to sell it to Mr. Delacamp this year. When her husband was alive, he wouldn't let her part with something that had been in the family for generations.”

  The woman in black velvet and a dazzling choker had a majestic build and hearty manner, and there were cat hairs on the front of her dress. “Call me Maggie,” she said, “because I'm going to call you Qwill.”

  “Do you happen to have five cats?”

  “I do, and I'd have more if I had more windows facing the afternoon sun. They're all strays, adopted from the animal shelter, and they're all ladies!”

  “Do I detect gender bias?”

  “You do, sir! The ladies are sweeter and cuddlier, and yet they stand up for their rights.”

  He nodded as if in agreement. Actually he was thinking about Yum Yum with her sweet, ingratiating ways—and her shrieks of indignation if she didn't get what she wanted when she wanted it! “What are their names?” he asked, knowing that cat-fanciers liked to be asked.

  “They're all named after famous women in history: Sarah, Charlotte, Carrie, Flora, and Louisa May.”

  “Hmmm,” he murmured, recognizing a challenge. “Name them again—slowly.”

  “Sarah.”

  “Bernhardt?”

  “Charlotte.”

  “Bront', of course.”

  “Carrie.”

  “It's got to be Nation.”

  “Flora.”

  “I hope it's Macdonald.”

  “And Louisa May.”

  “That's the easiest. Alcott.”

  “You clever man! I'm going to give you a big hug!” She did, and several cat hairs were transferred from her black velvet to his dinner jacket. “You must come and meet my ladies-in-waiting. But no publicity, please.”

  Polly said, “But how about telling him your great-grandmother's story, Maggie? He's collecting legends of Moose County for a book. Its title will be Short and Tall Tales.”

  “When?” Maggie asked with her usual decisiveness.

  “Friday?” He was never one to waste words.

  The date was made. “Now I have to go and say hello to the mayor and give him a big hug,” she said. “I'm a political hypocrite.”

  Qwilleran and Polly watched her cross the lobby and deposit some cat hairs on His Honor's dinner jacket.

  Although the Mackintosh Room would not be serving until Tuesday evening, it was brightly lighted to show off the clan tartan on the chair seats and the Mackintosh crest on the wall. Derek Cuttlebrink, the six-foot-four busboy who had become a six-foot-eight maître d', was standing at the host's lectern, taking future reservations.


  “Hi, Mr. Q! I see you've booked a table for next Saturday,” he said.

  “I hope the lights are on a rheostat.”

  “Oh sure. We'll turn them way down when we serve. Have you seen the coffee shop? It's kind of far-out for Pickax.”

  Fran Brodie was now standing at the entrance to Rennie's, the converted coffee shop, answering questions. “This was inspired by a Charles Rennie Mackintosh tearoom in Glasgow, designed in the early twentieth century. . . . Yes, it will be on network TV, but I don't know exactly when. . . . Two magazines have already photographed it. . . . Well, I see Rennie's as a stimulating place for an overnight guest to have breakfast, an exciting place for out-of-towners to have lunch or dinner, and a friendly place to have a snack after a tap-dance class. . . . Yes, you can go in and take a table. They're serving refreshments.”

  A framed photograph of the Scottish architect with flowing moustache and an artist's flowing silk tie was hanging in the entrance.

  Fran said to Qwilleran, “Ancestor of yours? You have his moustache and his eyes.”

  The distinguishing feature of Rennie's was the high-backed Mackintosh chair, about four feet tall and tapered upward. Lacquered black, these chairs surrounded tables lacquered in bright blue or bright green. The white walls were decorated with black line drawings of oversize flowers. Napkins were a bold black-and-white stripe.

  Carol and Larry Lanspeak, seated at a blue table, waved an invitation to Qwilleran and Polly to join them. Everyone liked the Lanspeaks, the affluent but down-to-earth owners of the department store. Both had given up acting careers in New York to carry on the family retailing tradition. Their talents were still put to good use in the theatre club, and all other community projects received their generous support.

  Tonight they were in a festive mood and Larry raised his champagne glass in a toast to the Mackintosh Inn.

  “Here's to the K Fund!” said Carol.

  “Here's to Aunt Fanny Klingenschoen!” Qwilleran said.

  “Here's to Lady Anne,” Polly murmured.

  Carol asked her about her vacation.

  “My sister and I went to Toronto, Montreal, and Quebec City and met the most charming French-Canadian professor. He wants to come here to study Canadian influence in our pioneer days.”

  Qwilleran said, “I spent my vacation in Mooseville and Fishport.”

  “Ah! Fishport!” Larry declaimed in his stage voice. “The home of the covered dish! Where the Hawleys speak only to Scottens, and the Scottens speak only to fish!”

  “I didn't see any covered dishes in Fishport. Should I know what a covered dish is?” Qwilleran asked innocently.

  “Why, it's a dish to pass at a potluck supper!” Carol informed him. “Don't you go to potluck suppers?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Once a city boy, always a city boy,” Polly explained.

  “How does Delacamp feel about potluck suppers?”

  Larry said, “He's a consummate snob.”

  “Let me describe his program,” Carol offered. “He and his assistant arrive on Labor Day by chartered plane. Larry and I greet him at the airport and turn over the Mercedes rental car that he has requested. That evening he's guest of honor at a dinner at the country club. Tuesday afternoon he gives a tea for prospective customers. Guests view his private collection of jewelry and make appointments to go to his suite and buy. Those who have heirloom jewelry to sell make appointments for him to visit their homes.”

  Polly said, “I hear Don Exbridge is furious because his second wife isn't even invited to the tea, while his first wife is invited to pour.”

  Qwilleran said, “I'd like to see what goes on at this affair. Would my press card get me in? I wouldn't write about it—just look.”

  “No no no!” Carol said. “It's for women only. Even Larry isn't admitted, and he sponsors the whole thing.”

  Her husband said, “Old Campo thinks women are more impressionable when their husbands aren't around. They're more likely to spend money.”

  Qwilleran listened in amazement. He was not about to give up. “Perhaps you could sneak me in as part of the wait staff.”

  “The servers are all young women dressed as French maids, Qwill.”

  “If it weren't for my moustache, I could go in drag.”

  Laughter erupted around the blue table.

  “Why are you so determined to crash the party?” Carol asked.

  “I'm congenitally nosy, and I have a professional curiosity.”

  Polly said, “Hell hath no fury like a journalist denied access.”

  “You say the jewels are on display at the tea. What do they do about security?”

  “Nothing. No one has any fears about a robbery, if that's what you're thinking.”

  “And no one had any fears about bombing last year. Times are changing. . . . No doubt Delacamp has the stuff insured, but in the case of a theft, would the inn be liable? Would Delacamp's insurance company sue the inn's insurance company? I think I should go as a security guard, so that the inn is covered.”

  There was a ripple of laughter around the table.

  “I'm serious!”

  Then Larry said with a grin, “Why not?” He himself had played practical jokes, masquerading as a stony-faced butler to enliven a stuffy dinner party . . . playing the role of a drunken citizen to stir up a dreary city council meeting.

  “Yes. Why not?” Carol echoed.

  They looked at each other with conspiratorial merriment.

  “We could find him a uniform in the costume department.”

  “The cap should be a couple of sizes too large.”

  “Dark glasses.”

  “His moustache and hair should be darkened.”

  “He'd need a sidearm in a holster.”

  “There's a wooden gun in the prop room.”

  “How about a German shepherd?”

  Suddenly the image of the county's richest citizen in a guard's uniform with dark glasses and a wooden gun struck them all as hilariously comic.

  Then Polly, with her usual common sense, asked, “How will you explain this caper to Mr. Delacamp?”

  Qwilleran was skilled at fabricating fiction on the spur of the moment. “Well . . . it's a new inn, with new owners, a new insurance policy. The terms require the inn to have a security guard on the premises when valuables are on exhibit.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Larry said.

  “I'll explain it to Barter,” Qwilleran said. “He'll go along. He has a sense of humor.”

  FOUR

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 6—Without a shepherd, sheep are not a flock.

  It was the second day of the craft fair. In the afternoon Qwilleran and Polly walked down the lane to the art center. She had a long list and expected to do most of her Christmas shopping. It was Qwilleran's custom to give edibles and potables for the holidays, but he hoped to find a good-looking pencil-holder for the library table. They saw hand-thrown pots, hand-woven place mats, hand-painted tiles, hand-wrought iron rivets, hand-screened scarves, hand-carved wood salad servers, hand-printed notecards, and hand-stitched wall hangings.

  Then Qwilleran saw Thornton's woodturnings: bowls, plates, candlesticks, vases, and such—lathed to a satin smoothness and decorated with nature's own markings. There were captivating streaks, swirls, wisps, splotches, and squiggles in tints of brown on the pale waxed wood.

  “I use spalted wood,” Thornton explained. “Irregularities caused by fungus, worms, faulty growth, or woodpeckers produce these abstract patterns when turned on a lathe.”

  Qwilleran pointed to a foot-tall container of classical shape with a marbleized veining. “I like that! Do you call it a vase, urn, jar, or what?”

  “A vessel. The shape was used in ancient Egyptian times for transporting water or olive oil. It's turned from a chunk of spalted elm. The small round bowl with a lid is spalted maple.”

  “I'll take both of them.”

  “The small one's sold.” There was a red sticker
on the bottom of it with the initials M.R.

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache in frustration, then said, “How do you produce one of these . . . vessels?”

  “First find a good burl.”

  “Should I know what that is?”

  “It's an unnatural growth on a tree. You rough out your design, wax it, dry it for a few months, chuck it into place on your lathe, turn it, shape it with gouging tools, sand it, finish it with wax or oil.”

  “It obviously takes skill.”

  “And patience. And some intelligence, if you'll pardon my lack of modesty. You learn a lot about trees.”

  “Where did you learn how to do this craft?” Qwilleran asked.

  “I took lessons from a master woodturner in Lockmaster, one-on-one. Believe me, I regret I'm getting such a late start. Woodturning could be a lifetime study.”

  To transport Polly's numerous purchases—and his own spalted elm vessel—back to the barn, Qwilleran ran back up the lane and fetched his van.

  “Where are you going to put the . . . vessel?” she asked.

  “In the center of the coffee table.” It was a low contemporary table, large and square, surrounded by upholstered seating.

  “I think it's an absolutely stunning piece,” she said when she saw it.

  “You should have seen the one that got away,” Qwilleran said. “It was smaller but spectacular—about the size of a grapefruit—a bowl with a domed cover and a small knob on top, turned-in-one with the cover. Amazing! But it was already sold.”

  He had forgotten to look for a pencil-holder. His fat yellow pencils were stuck in a brown coffee mug inscribed As he brews, so shall he drink. He offered anyone a dollar who could identify the author. So far, only Polly had collected.

  LABOR DAY, SEPTEMBER 7—When the cat's away, the mice will play.

  Qwilleran and Polly celebrated by driving out of town for a backyard barbecue. G. Allen Barter and his wife were hosting the party. They had invited the new innkeeper from Chicago and some young men and women of his own age, mostly paralegals from the office of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter.

  The route from Pickax passed several abandoned mines from Moose County's distant past: the Big B mine, the Buckshot (scene of a recent cave-in), and the Old Glory. The sites were fenced with chain link and posted as dangerous, and each had a weathered wood shafthouse towering above the barren scene. These ghostly monuments had a haunting fascination for locals and visitors alike.