The Cat Who Went Underground Read online

  “If you’re Young Jake, I presume there’s an Old Jake,” Qwilleran said.

  “My father. Maybe you know him. Dr. Armbruster, surgeon at the Pickax hospital. I’m in pre-med myself. I’m going into surgery.”

  Another idea for the “Qwill Pen,” Qwilleran thought as the GP drove away. He released the Siamese from the guestroom where they had been confined while the trapdoor was open. “Thank you for your quiet and courteous cooperation,” he said. “You’ve earned a treat. Cereal!” Yum Yum bounded to the kitchen, and Koko pranced on his hind legs.

  When the rain stopped around noon, Qwilleran half expected to see the Frantic Chicken pulling into the clearing; Clem never wasted an hour, never missed an opportunity to earn a dollar for his forthcoming marriage to Maryellen. She was a fine young woman, and she was getting a good man.

  There was no action on Saturday afternoon, however, and no phone call. Now everything would have to wait until Monday.

  * * *

  On Sunday the sun was shining, the temperature was pleasant, and Qwilleran dressed with the anticipation of a cub reporter assigned to a good story; in more than twenty-five years of newspapering he had never lost that element of challenge and expectation, though it were only a family reunion. There are no dull stories, he told himself—only dull reporters.

  He sang in the shower, he soaped lavishly, and then the water suddenly ran cold. It was more than a shock to his wet body; it was a vexation to his equanimity. Wrapped in a bathtowel, he padded to the mudroom, where the water heater shared a closet with the washer-dryer combination. The heater gave no clue to its failure; it was neither dripping nor clanking nor blowing off steam. The cylindrical tank was silent and baffling.

  Cursing the ill-advised timing of the mishap, Qwilleran called Glinko once more.

  “You again!” Mrs. Glinko said in great glee. “What’s buggin’ you this time?”

  “The water heater.”

  “Allrighty. I’ll try to find Little Joe. Maybe she’s at church. Ha ha ha!”

  “I’m going out on assignment for the newspaper,” Qwilleran said, “but you have the key, and she knows where everything is.”

  Unhappy about this latest emergency but resigned to the eccentricities of old plumbing, he said goodbye to the Siamese, cautioning them to behave well, and drove to the Wimsey centennial farm on Sandpit Road. He had seen it before—a vast complex of barns, sheds, coops, fences and acreage, with a plaque stating that it had been in the same family for a hundred years. It included a large oldfashioned stone farmhouse with flowerbeds and kitchen garden, a spacious front lawn with ancient lilac bushes, and a farmyard with parking space for the thirty or more cars that were piling in for the reunion.

  Long rows of picnic tables were set up, and families arrived with hampers, coolers, and folding lawn chairs.

  Cecil Huggins was watching for Qwilleran and he introduced him to the elected officers of the family. “What do you want us to do?” they asked.

  “Whatever you normally do,” Qwilleran said. “Forget I’m here.”

  “Well, dive in and get some grub when the dinner bell rings,” they said, “and if you like to pitch horseshoes, there’s always a coupla games going, down by the corn crib.”

  There were all ages in attendance: infants in arms, tots in strollers, oldsters in wheelchairs, pregnant women, children playing with Frisbees, beer-drinking husbands, and older men pitching horseshoes. Qwilleran noticed that men were inclined to talk to men, women talked to women, and mothers of small children talked to mothers of small children, while the elderly sat on lawn chairs under a large spreading tree and talked to each other. Yet, when the dinner bell rang, the entire clan came together in one lively, noisy mix of ages and sexes. Qwilleran counted a hundred and eleven persons, and he imagined that the genealogical tree of this family would resemble the circuitry of a computer.

  There were a few celebrities in the crowd. A young serviceman, home on furlough after completing basic training, was welcomed like a brigadier general. Homage was paid to a new baby as if he were the firstborn of a crown prince. A couple who had recently announced their engagement were showered with effusive sentiments. Qwilleran expected to see Clem and his fiancée accorded the same star treatment, but they were not in evidence.

  Wandering from group to group, listening and observing, he began to speculate that life might have cheated him. He saw cousins and second cousins and third cousins jabbering about family affairs and so happy to see each other. His only “family” consisted of an alienated ex-wife in Connecticut, some hostile in-laws in New Jersey, and two Siamese cats.

  Cecil Huggins asked Qwilleran how he was enjoying his new bike and suggested some back roads to explore. “Try MacGregor Road,” said the merchant. “There’s a mighty pretty stretch after the pavement ends.”

  Qwilleran was well aware of that pretty stretch; Polly Duncan’s hideaway was on MacGregor Road.

  “And then, if you’re feeling ambitious,” Cecil said, “someday you might try the Old Brrr Road. It was abandoned after they built the lakeshore highway in the twenties, and it’s all gone back to nature. Totally! My grandfather used to have a general store on Brrr Road at what they called Huggins Corners. Not a stick of it left! But it was a thriving emporium in its day. I guess that’s how I got into the hardware business. Storekeeping is in my blood.”

  Mrs. Huggins joggled her husband’s elbow. “Tell Mr. Q about Grandpa and the loaf of bread.”

  “Yes, that’s a good one!” Cecil laughed. “I should write some of these down. You see . . . Grandma used to bake bread to sell in the store, and Grandpa always lined up the fresh loaves on the counter near the door, where customers could smell ’em as soon as they walked in. The bread was right next to the ‘chawin’ terbaccer’ and the penny candy. Don’t tell me they didn’t know about merchandising in those days . . . Well, there was an old geezer who used to come in to swipe crackers out of the barrel—or a dill pickle when he thought no one was looking.”

  “He had a pile of money buried in his backyard,” Mrs. Huggins said, “but he hated to spend a penny.”

  “That’s right. Josh Cummins, his name was. And on his way out of the store after a game of checkers with his cronies around the stove, he’d always pick up a loaf of bread—the one nearest the door—and never pay for it. It griped Grandpa more and more every time, but he didn’t want to collar the old guy and accuse him. You don’t do that in a small town. So he thought of a scheme. He told Grandma to bake a loaf of bread with a dirty sock in it.”

  “And I guess socks really got dirty in those days,” put in Mrs. Huggins.

  “So Grandma baked the bread, and Grandpa put that loaf nearest the door when Josh was about to leave the store,” Cecil said. “And sure enough, the old guy picked it up and walked out . . . Never stole another loaf!”

  “They never found the money buried in his backyard,” said Mrs. Huggins.

  “That’s right,” said her husband, “and they never will. It’s paved over now, for the high school parking lot. And they never found what old Mr. Klingenschoen buried on his property at the lake. All kinds of valuables, they say—back in the 1920s—just before he died, when he was a little tetched in the head. You ought to start digging, Mr. Q.”

  “Sorry, Cecil. I don’t want to pay any more income tax.”

  “There goes the dinner bell!” said Mrs. Huggins, as someone tugged at a rope and clanged a large cast-iron farm bell mounted on a high post.

  The long tables were loaded with fried chicken, baked beans, and Cornish pasties; ham sandwiches, deviled eggs, potato salad, homemade pickles, and gelatine molds of every color; chocolate cakes, berry pies, and molasses cookies.

  When the dinner bell rang a second time, there was a brief business meeting, and prizes were awarded to the oldest person in attendance, the youngest, and the family traveling the farthest distance. Then they all scattered—the elderly back to their chairs under the tree, the young ones to a field for softball, a few
men to the front porch for a big league broadcast, and the young mothers to the farmhouse where they bedded down their tots for naps.

  Qwilleran sauntered among the crowd, eavesdropping, as they talked about fishing, crops, television, funerals, babies, recipes, accidents, surgery, and the good old days.

  Two women were arguing about the right way to make Cornish pasties. “My grandfather,” said one, “went to the Buckshot Mine every day with a pasty in his lunch bucket, and my grandmother made pasties every day of her life. I have her recipe, and I know for a fact that she never used anything but meat and potatoes and a little onion.”

  The other said, “Well, in my family a pasty wasn’t a pasty unless it had a little turnip.”

  “Never!” said the first. “My grandmother would sooner poison the well!”

  Among the elderly men reminiscences were flying like the bees buzzing around the lilacs. A white-haired man wearing a blue ribbon labeled “Oldest” ventured to say, “When I started comin’ to these shindigs, there was always a lineup at the outhouse, or the Cousin John as they used to call it. Now they rent a coupla them portable things. Times sure has changed.”

  One of his listeners said, “How about banks? Used to be you could go see the banker at home after supper, and he’d walk downtown with you and open up the bank if you was strapped for cash. Didn’t have any of them time locks and alarms and cameras and such.”

  Eventually Qwilleran found Maryellen Wimsey among a group of young women. “Where’s Clem?” he asked.

  “He couldn’t be here,” she said simply.

  “He’s not ill, I hope. He didn’t report for work yesterday, and he wasn’t in the parade on Friday.”

  “He’s out of town,” the girl said, her gaze wavering.

  “Will he be back tomorrow? I’m expecting him at the cabin. We’ve got to get the shingles on that roof.”

  “I hope so,” she said uncertainly.

  Qwilleran glanced at the group under the big tree. “Do you know which one is Emma Wimsey?”

  “Yes,” said Maryellen brightly, as if glad to change the subject. “She’s in a wheelchair. She’s the one with a blue sweater.”

  As he approached the congregation of oldsters he was hailed by an exuberant woman wearing a yellow blazer with a “We Care” emblem. “Mr. Qwilleran, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Irma Hasselrich.”

  “Of course,” he said. “You’re the attorney’s daughter, and you’re a volunteer at the Senior Care Facility in Pickax.”

  Among the casually dressed picnickers she was conspicuous for her well-styled hair, her careful makeup, and the good cut of her clothes. Ms. Hasselrich was not young, but she was strikingly attractive.

  “Oh, aren’t you wonderful to remember!” she exclaimed. “You came to the facility last year to interview one of the ladies.”

  “A farmwife, as I recall. Mrs. Woolsmith, I believe her name was. How is she?”

  “The dear soul passed on,” said Ms. Hasselrich sweetly. “She was ninety-five and had nearly all her own teeth.”

  “And what brings you here today?” Qwilleran asked.

  “I chauffeured three of our residents in the lift-van. I brought Abner Huggins, who won the prize for the oldest, and Emma Huggins Wimsey, eighty-nine, and Clara Wimsey Ward, eighty-two.”

  “I’d like to meet Emma Wimsey. They say she has an interesting story to tell. I’d like to get it on tape.”

  “She’ll be delighted!” said the volunteer. “She used to teach school, and you’ll find her very articulate. Her heart is weak now, but her memory is good . . . Emma! Emma, dear! You have a visitor!”

  “Who is it? Who is it?” cried a faltering voice in great expectation.

  “A reporter from the newspaper. I think he wants to hear your story about Punkin.”

  “Oh, dear! I’ve never been written up in the paper except when I married Horace. Do I look all right?”

  “You look lovely . . . Emma, this is Mr. Qwilleran.”

  Emma Wimsey was a frail woman with thinning white hair, whose cheeks had been lovingly blushed, probably by Ms. Hasselrich. Though she appeared fragile, she was very much alive, and on her sweater was an enamel pin in the shape of a cat with a long curved tail. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  Qwilleran took her tiny hand warmly. “Mrs. Wimsey, it is my pleasure,” he said. He had a courtly manner with persons over seventy, and it always pleased them.

  Ms. Hasselrich suggested wheeling the chair to a quiet place, and they found a shady spot on the far side of the lilacs. “Are you warm enough, dear?” asked the volunteer.

  Qwilleran brought lawn chairs and set up his tape recorder. “Why did you call your cat Punkin, Mrs. Wimsey?” he began.

  “She was orange, and she came to me on Halloween. I was six years old. We were such good friends! We had a secret game that we played . . .” Her voice faded away, wistfully.

  “What was your secret game, Mrs. Wimsey?”

  “Well, after my mother put me to bed every night and closed the bedroom door, Punkin would come and scratch under the door, as if she was trying to get in. I’d jump out of bed and grab her paw. She’d pull it away and stick another paw under the door. Oh, we had such fun, and we never got caught!”

  “How long did this secret game continue?” Qwilleran asked. “I mean, for how many years?”

  “All the time I was growing up. Let me see . . . Punkin died before I went away to teachers college. Normal school, they called it then. Schoolteaching was the most respectable work a respectable young lady could do in those days. My grandfather had the first sawmill in Sawdust City, and we were supposed to be very respectable.” Her eyes twinkled.

  The volunteer said, “Emma, dear, tell Mr. Qwilleran about the fire at the college.”

  “Yes, the fire. I lived in a dormitory and studied hard and forgot all about Punkin’s game. Then one night I suddenly woke up because I heard scratching under the door! For a minute I thought I was back home and Punkin wanted to play. But Punkin was dead! Then I smelled smoke. I ran down the hall shouting, ‘Fire! Fire!’ and pounding on everybody’s door.” She stopped to recall it in her mind’s eye.

  “Did you all escape safely?”

  “Yes, and the firemen came and put the fire out.”

  “Did you tell anyone how you happened to wake up?”

  “Oh, no! They would have laughed at me. But another time I heard the scratching again.”

  “When was that?”

  “After I married Horace. We lived on a farm and had five children, four of them boys . . .” Her concentration wavered as nostalgia swept over her face. She was smiling to herself.

  Ms. Hasselrich said gently, “Tell Mr. Qwilleran about the windstorm, dear.”

  “It was a tornado!”

  “Yes, dear. Tell what happened.”

  “Well, one night while I was carrying my fourth child, I woke up and thought I heard scratching under the door, the way Punkin used to do. I sat up and listened, and the wind was howling something fierce! I woke up Horace, and he jumped out of bed and said, ‘Get the children down in the cellar!’ It was a real tornado, and it blew the roof off our farmhouse. But we were all safe in the cellar.” There was a long pause, and her eyes glazed.

  Qwilleran asked, “Was that the last time you heard scratching under the door?” He waited patiently until she collected her thoughts.

  “No,” she said. “There was one more time, after Horace died and the children were all gone. I sold the farm and bought a little house in the town—Black Creek, it was. I lived alone, you see, and one night that scratching noise woke me up again. I listened hard, and I could hear someone moving around in the kitchen. So I got out of bed and tiptoed to the door, and I could see a flashlight! I don’t remember if I was scared or not. I don’t think I was.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I closed the bedroom door very softly and called the police on my bedroom phone. My sons made me have a bedroom phone. I’d never ha
d one before.”

  “Who was it in the kitchen?”

  “A burglar. They caught him. That was the last time I ever heard the scratching.” Emma turned to the volunteer. “Wasn’t that the last time?”

  “Yes, dear,” said Ms. Hasselrich, “that was the last time you heard the scratching.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wimsey,” said Qwilleran. “That’s a remarkable story. How do you explain it?”

  “It was the Lord’s work,” said the little woman, her eyes shining. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  Emma Wimsey’s story haunted him as he drove back to the cabin. As a journalist he was conditioned to scoff at supernatural tales, but as the daily companion of a Siamese who could sense danger and sometimes transmit such information, he had second thoughts. There was something in this north country—a kind of primeval force—that unsettled one’s educated beliefs.

  When he reached the cabin, he unlocked the door and called out, “Where’s the gang? I’ve brought fried chicken right from the farm!”

  Yum Yum came running.

  “Where’s your sidekick?” he asked her with a glance at the moosehead. “Where are you, Koko? Fried chicken!”

  He expected to hear yikking and yowling, or at least a thump as Koko jumped down from a high place, but there was no audible response.

  “Cereal!” That was their new buzzword.

  Still there was no reply. Suddenly concerned, Qwilleran checked the bunkrooms, searched under bunks, opened closets and kitchen cabinets, opened the shower door—all with mounting anxiety.

  As a chilling thought crossed his mind, he felt tension in his throat and a flush spreading over his face. Joanna had been there to fix the water heater, and she had let Koko get out!

  He tested the hot-water faucet. Yes, she had been there.

  “Oh, God!” he groaned as he rushed from the cabin.

  SEVEN

  Koko was lost!

  Qwilleran ran from the cabin, calling his name. He looked up in the trees. He searched the toolshed. He combed the woods. He plunged down the steps to the beach, calling . . . calling . . .