The Cat Who Robbed a Bank Read online

  3. Putting the Stone. The contestant had to balance a sixteen-pound stone ball with one hand at shoulder height, then heave it. Another win for Bixby.

  4. Throwing the Box. A fifty-six-pound box-weight with ring attached had to be flung over a bar. Moose County won but only by default when the leading Bixby contender ran afoul of the rules.

  5. Tossing the Caber. This feat was performed with a twenty-foot cedar log weighing more than a hundred pounds, and it required skill as well as strength.

  A number of big men took the field for the caber toss, but Moose County's Boze Campbell was the most formidable.

  “He's the desk clerk,” Qwilleran told Big Mac. “A woodsman by trade. A latter-day Paul Bunyan, from what I hear.”

  One by one the contenders tossed the pole in the air, hoping it would land at “twelve o'clock.” If it soared and then fell flat, the crowd would groan “Aw-w-w!” It was supposed to flip end-over-end in midair. That was the art! Each man had three tries.

  To Qwilleran there was something suspenseful about the caber toss. He had his camera ready, and he snapped pictures of the entire ritual: Boze swaggering onto the field . . . Lenny saying something in his ear . . . Boze taking a confident stance at the end of the pole that lay on the ground. An official stood at the other end, facing Boze—then picked up his end and “walked it” hand-over-hand to an upright position. Boze was squatting with feet wide apart as the pole was leaned against his shoulder. He concentrated. With fingers interlocked he hoisted it to vertical. The crowd was silent as it balanced precariously. Then Boze ran awkwardly forward a few paces before tossing the caber. It soared! It flipped end-over-end! It landed as close to twelve o'clock as could be imagined.

  Three times Boze accomplished the incredible feat, and the crowd surged onto the field, cheering and whooping, and Boze's teammates lifted him to their shoulders. Photographers from all three county newspapers scurried about. The hero wore a bland smile.

  “Historic event!” said Big Mac.

  “Front page news,” said Qwilleran.

  “Let's get out of here before the Bixby crowd riots.”

  “They won't. The sheriff's dog is here, and his mere presence keeps the rowdies under control.”

  He had to go home and dress for dinner. Big Mac had to attend a business meeting of the curling club, of which he was treasurer. “Are you interested in curling, Qwill?”

  “You mean, that sport where they slide big stones around a rink and sweep the ice furiously with little brooms?”

  “Something of that sort.”

  “It's an old man's game.”

  “Not anymore! It's for all ages, male and female. It has Olympic status, requiring skill. And it's a social sport.”

  “How social can you be in temperatures below freezing?”

  “We play on an indoor rink.”

  “Well, I might be available,” Qwilleran said, “if you need a broomkeeper.”

  A delegation of three from Indian Village—Polly and the Rikers—arrived at the barn at six-thirty and trooped through the back door into the kitchen with the nonchalance of frequent visitors.

  Qwilleran asked, “Shall we have a libation before we go to the inn? Our reservation is for seven-thirty.”

  “I'll have the usual,” said Arch.

  “The usual,” Mildred said.

  “The usual,” Polly echoed.

  While the drinks were being prepared, Polly filled the nut bowls, and the Rikers strolled about with nosy familiarity: “You've got some new bar stools! What did you do with the old ones? . . . Where are the kitties? . . . Koko's on top of the fireplace, looking at us suspiciously. . . . There's Yum Yum on a bar stool with her dainty paws crossed. She's adorable!”

  Arch spotted the newly acquired wastebasket. “It's a Chinese water bucket! Not terribly old—probably eighteenth century.” He hefted it by the carved wooden handle. “It weighs a ton!”

  “That's so Yum Yum can't tip it over,” Qwilleran said, “when she fishes in the wastebasket for treasures.” He passed a tray with one dry sherry, one Scotch, one dubonnet, one ginger ale.

  Arch was always quick with a toast. “Here's to old friends who know you well but still like you!” He helped himself to a handful from the nut bowl. “Brazil nuts! Qwill's going first-class.”

  “Honey, go easy on the Brazil nuts,” his wife said. “They're loaded with calories!”

  “That's what makes them good!”

  Polly complimented Mildred on her interview with Chef Wingo.

  “If he's so good,” Arch asked, “why did he leave Chicago for a hick town like this?”

  “Why did you come up here?” Qwilleran retorted. The two men had known each other since kindergarten in Chicago.

  “Because I'm big-hearted, and you needed me to run the paper.”

  “You don't kid us! You wanted to get away from Down Below. You wanted to be a big frog in a small pond.”

  They talked about the demographic shift toward small towns . . . the Delacamp murder and the news blackout . . . Boze Campbell's gold medal for winning the caber toss . . . the proposed tri-county curling league.

  Then Mildred handed Qwilleran a gift-wrapped box. “Happy whatever! Open it!”

  Inside layers of tissue was a round covered box made of spalted maple.

  “You mind reader!” Qwilleran said. “I wanted to buy this, and you'd beaten me to it! How can I thank you? It's a sensational piece of woodturning. Look how precisely the cover fits! I'll keep it on the library table, near the phone.”

  Then Arch handed him a small flat package that could be nothing but a compact disc. “I know you like classical piano music, Qwill, and this guy is a master! Play a few tracks before we go.”

  Qwilleran slipped the CD into the stereo, and they listened to a little Mozart, a little Beethoven, and then Rimsky-Korsakov.

  “Hey! Listen!” Qwilleran shouted. “Flight of the Bumblebee!”

  “That should bring back memories,” Arch said.

  At the same time there were two thumps as Koko jumped down from the fireplace cube. He approached the stereo cautiously and sniffed the speakers.

  “You know what he's looking for, don't you?” Qwilleran asked. Koko's head jerked to right and left, and he sat up on his haunches and pawed the air. When the short piece ended, he returned to his perch.

  “Clever cat!” Arch said.

  “Clever composer,” said Qwilleran.

  They drove to dinner in the Rikers' car. Mildred informed them, “There will be two menus. One is the traditional soup-and-salad-and-entree. But I suggest we all try the New Century Dining—five small courses as an adventure in tasting. Chef Wingo maintains that discriminating diners are bored with the sixteen-ounce and baked potato.”

  “Speak for yourself, Wingo,” said Arch.

  They parked in the lot behind the inn and were walking toward the carriage entrance when Qwilleran stopped abruptly and picked up something from the pavement. “A penny,” he said. “A lucky penny.”

  “Heads or tails?” Mildred asked.

  “I believe it was heads.”

  “That's double-luck.”

  “Here! You take it!”

  “No! No! Finders keepers! Take it home and put it in the spalted box.”

  Arch said, “I wouldn't bend over for anything less than a quarter. The penny, I predict, will soon be obsolete. The smallest coin will be a nickel.”

  Polly said she was glad; pennies were a nuisance.

  “Do you know,” he went on, “that my wife is a secret penny-dropper?”

  She nudged him. “You're not supposed to tell, honey.”

  “Tell me! I'm seriously interested,” Polly insisted.

  “Well . . .” Mildred began slowly, “I've had so much good luck in recent years—” She stopped and glanced at her husband. “I decided to spread it around. When I get pennies in change, I drop them here and there, one at a time, for someone else to find. In stores, on the street, at a gas pump, at the post offic
e—anywhere. It makes me feel good to know I'm making someone else feel good.”

  “Charming idea!” Polly said.

  “My wife's a wonderful woman,” Arch said. “And I'll bet ten to one she's a better cook than this Wingo character.”

  In the lower lobby they were faced with a choice: to ride the elevator to the main lobby or walk up the grand staircase. Arch wanted to ride—and conserve his energy for more important things, like taking out the trash.

  The main lobby was teeming with guests—many wearing tartans, most of them in town for the Scottish Gathering, several talking about the painting of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran. The spelling of her last name was either Scottish or Danish, they said; in either case she was probably named after Lady Anne, heroine of the Scottish Rebellion in the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie.

  At the entrance to the Mackintosh Room the lanky Derek Cuttlebrink towered over the maître d's desk. He seated Qwilleran's party at the best table, in front of the fabled Mackintosh crest, and presented the menu cards with a flourish. Then he whispered in Qwilleran's ear, “Gotta question to ask you—later.”

  Arch Riker looked suddenly pleased. “Listen! No music! No jazz! No show tunes! No electronic noise! I can eat my dinner in peace!”

  His wife explained, “Chef Wingo believes in entertaining you with good food. He maintains that the voices of happy diners are the real music.”

  “Hear! Hear! He sounds like my kind of guy! . . . Let me look at his crazy new menu.”

  The wait staff consisted of young men and women from MCCC, wearing white shirts, black trousers, and plaid bow ties. The one who came to Qwilleran's table delivered a well-rehearsed speech: “A traditional menu is available for those who prefer, but Chef Wingo recommends New Century Dining with its five courses: soup, appetizer, salad, savory, and dessert. Take your time and don't be afraid to order three savories and two desserts.”

  Qwilleran asked Mildred, “Should I know what a savory is?”

  “To me, it's a little surprise—a change of flavor at the end of the meal and before the dessert.”

  The four of them studied the bewildering variety of options.

  Arch said he would throw himself on the mercy of the chef and say, “Just bring me something good to eat.”

  Polly thought she could make a meal of four savories and a salad—and no dessert. She would have a toasted cheese roulade, a curried chicken liver cr pe, eggplant and avocado tartlet with cashews, and deviled crab on the half shell. Her salad would be baby spinach leaves, mandarin orange slices, and crumbled Stilton with a tomato vinaigrette dressing.

  One by one they took the plunge.

  First came the fun-bites, with the compliments of the chef: little somethings that he concocted on the spur of the moment—no two alike. Each guest was served a single bite-size morsel: smoked salmon sandwiched between two thin slices of strawberry and topped with a dab of sour cream and sprinkling of toasted pine nuts . . . a cherry tomato stuffed with lobster and hazelnuts . . . half a shrimp on a potato chip, crowned with a peppery tomato aspic and a miniature gaufrette of cucumber . . . an inch cube of turkey terrine smothered in black bean salsa and capers.

  Comments varied: “What is it? . . . Just enjoy it and don't ask questions . . . How many more fun-bites can he invent?”

  Polly asked, “How many more poems can be written? How much more music can be composed?”

  Qwilleran said, “Tell that to Wingo, and you'll get free desserts for a year!”

  At their table, and at surrounding tables, there was more conversation about food than about the election, the World Series, and the new car models. Chef Wingo would have approved. At one point Polly flashed her new cameo ring. Mildred found it breathtaking, and even Arch was impressed. They wanted to hear her personal reactions to the jeweler. She described the excesses of the afternoon tea: the hats, the hand-kissing, the French maids. “It's interesting,” she added with a mischievous glance at Qwilleran, “for the first time in history, they had a security guard watching everyone with his hand on his gun.”

  Arch said wisely, “Apparently Delacamp had been tipped off that something was afoot.”

  There were desserts—rum cake, lemon souffle, chocolate praline cheesecake, blackberry cobbler—and then it was over.

  • • •

  On the way out of the Mackintosh Room Qwilleran asked the others to wait while he had a few words with the maître d'.

  “How'd you like your dinner?” Derek asked.

  “It was better than Chet's Bar & Barbecue. . . . What's on your mind?”

  “The police have been around, asking questions. They haven't talked to anybody in the kitchen yet, but some of the staff witnessed an incident last Tuesday and wondered if they should report it.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  “Well, Delacamp went into the kitchen and Wingo chased him out with a skillet.”

  Qwilleran chuckled as he visualized the scene. “Chasing someone with a skillet or rolling pin is more symbolic than threatening. A cleaver would be something else, but . . . actually, Barry Morghan knows about the episode and explained to Delacamp that a city ordinance prohibits guests from entering the kitchen. So tell the kitchen crew they're off the hook; the manager will handle it. They don't have to snitch on their boss.

  “Personally, I think Wingo has a sense of humor. The incident has elements of slapstick comedy. Anyone who'd make a thimble-size sandwich of smoked salmon and strawberries has got to be a joker.”

  Qwilleran invited them back to the barn for a nightcap, and when they drove into the barnyard he jumped out of the car and unlocked the back door, throwing the switch that illuminated exterior and interior. What he saw was more of a surprise than strawberries and salmon; the entire kitchen was swathed in paper towels—over and around appliances, counters, and furniture. Two rolls of towels—from the kitchen sink and the snack bar—had provided fifty or sixty yards of toweling.

  “You cats!” he shouted, awe mixed with annoyance.

  Somewhat in shock he walked out to meet his guests. “Brace yourselves!” he told them. “The cats have prepared a little surprise for you.”

  Polly gasped. “Well! It's a fitting end to an unusual evening!”

  Arch said, “Ye gods!”

  Mildred called it conceptual art and marveled at the skill and diligence required to carry out the idea.

  Koko, on the refrigerator, looked down on his masterwork. It was obviously his doing. Yum Yum was hiding somewhere, feeling guilty; she had a conscience. Koko squeezed his eyes as if accepting the compliments.

  The guests, instead of having a nightcap, pitched in to unwrap the kitchen, then said good night. Anything else, they insisted, would be an anticlimax.

  After they had gone, Qwilleran called out, “Where's our little sweetheart?” and she came wriggling out from under the sofa. He picked her up and walked around the main floor for a while, massaging her ears and listening to her purr. And all the while he was asking himself, What was the purpose of that remarkable demonstration? Koko never did anything without a reason.

  EIGHT

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 13—Better to be the head of a cat than the tail of a lion.

  Before he was fully awake, Qwilleran had a flashback to his early boyhood: walking home from first grade with his friend, Archie . . . both watching the sidewalk to avoid stepping on cracks . . . both spotting a lucky penny and grabbing for it . . . fighting about the penny until Archie's mother told them about joint ownership . . . after which they took turns carrying the penny in a pocket. In a few seconds the film of memory had faded, and he was wide awake.

  Why, he asked himself, had this fragment of ancient history raced through his mind? Then he remembered the penny he had found on the parking lot and had put in his pocket simply to please Mildred. Where was it now? . . . When Qwilleran went down the ramp to start the coffeemaker, Koko was sitting on the library table—not waiting for the phone to ring but guarding the spalted maple box. Of course! Tha
t was where he had put the penny the night before. Did Koko know he was wondering about it? Was he mind-reading again?

  “You rascal!” Qwilleran said. “I wish you'd learn to speak English.”

  Then he remembered the cat's tour de force with the paper towels. “What was that all about, young man?”

  Koko scampered to the feeding station in the kitchen and waited confidently for his plate to be filled.

  ater in the day Qwilleran drove to Indian Village to pick up Polly for the Scottish Gathering. In this rustic residential complex the trees were turning gold, making a striking background for the stained cedar buildings. There were fourplex apartments, a clubhouse, and clusters of condos along the Ittibittiwassee River. Four in a cluster, they were named The Birches, The Oaks, and so forth. Polly had a unit in The Willows and so did Qwilleran, although he occupied it only in winter, when the barn's cavernous spaces were hard to heat and its half-mile of driveway was blocked with snowdrifts. Indian Village might be in the country, but the county kept the roads clear, because many influential persons lived there. Another occupant of The Willows was Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist; the Cavendish sisters had recently moved to Ittibittiwassee Estates, and their unit, adjacent to Polly's, was vacant, causing her concern. The walls of the condos were thin, and noisy neighbors could be a problem.

  Polly was waiting. She and Qwilleran exchanged pleasantries with the cats and then set off for the fairgrounds, both wearing their kilts, white shirts, and the Glengarry cap that had become unisex headgear.

  “Lovely evening last night,” she said.

  “Very enjoyable.”

  “Any idea why Koko rampaged with the paper towels?”

  “He was expressing himself.”

  “Carol Lanspeak called yesterday, but I didn't have a chance to tell you last night. It's about her lovely collection of French perfume bottles in the powder room. Her housekeeper has found two missing—two of the nicest. Apart from me, the only one to use the powder room was Delacamp's niece.”