"He's disturbed," Qwilleran explained, "by his instinctive savagery in attacking the burglar. Koko is a civilized cat, and yet he's haunted by an ancestral memory of days gone by and places far away, where his breed lurked on the walls of palaces and temples and sprang down on intruders to tear them to ribbons." "Oh, Qwill," Rosemary laughed. "He smells the turkey in the oven, that's all."
14
Rosemary picked up her car at the Mooseville garage, and Qwilleran picked up his mail at the post office.
"I heard the bad news on the radio," Lori said. "What a terrible way to go!" "And yet it was in character," Qwilleran said. "You've got to admit it was dramatic — the kind of media event that Fanny would like." "Nick and I want to go to the memorial service tommorrow." He said: "We're on our way to Pickax now, and we're taking the cats. There was a break-in at the cabin yesterday, and we think Koko attacked the burglar and drove him away." "Really?" Lori's blue eyes were wide with astonishment.
"There was blood on the rug, and Koko was licking his claws with unusual relish. If one of your postal patrons turns up with a bloody face, tip me off. Anyway, I'm not leaving Koko and Yum Yum at the cabin alone until this thing is cleared up. They're out in the car right now, disturbing the peace on Main Street." Rosemary drove her car back to the cabin and parked it in the clearing. Then the four of them headed for Pickax at a conservative speed that would not alarm Yum Yum.
Rosemary mentioned that the garage mechanic was going to the memorial service.
"Fanny had a real fan club in Moose County," Qwilleran said. "For a name that used to be despised, Klingenschoen has made a spectacular comeback." He swerved to avoid hitting a dead skunk, and the Siamese raised noses to sniff — alert, with ears back and whiskers forward.
Rosemary said: "I've been thinking about that odor at the turkey farm. It wasn't a barnyard smell; it was a bad case of human B.O. I think the farmer has a drastic diet deficiency. I wish I could suggest it to his wife without offending her." Next the car hit a pothole, and Yum Yum launched a tirade of Siamese profanity that continued all the way to Pickax.
Qwilleran parked in the driveway of the imposing stone house with its three floors of grandeur. "Here we are, back at Manderley," he quipped.
"Oh, is that the name of the place?" Rosemary asked innocently.
The two animals were shut up in the kitchen with their blue cushion, their commode, and a bowl of water, while Qwilleran and Rosemary continued their search for the will.
The library desk was a massive English antique, its drawers containing tax records, birth and death documents, insurance policies, real estate papers, investment information, paid bills, house inventories, and hundred-year-old promissory notes… but no will. The desk in Aunt Fanny's sitting room was a graceful French escritoire devoted to correspondence: love letters from the Twenties; silly chit-chat about «beaux» written by Qwilleran's mother when she and Fanny were in college; brief notes from Fanny's son at boarding school; and recent letters typed on Daily Fluxion letterheads. But still no will.
"Here's something interesting, Qwill," Rosemary said. "From someone in Atlantic City. It's about Tom, asking Fanny to hire him as a man-of-all-work." She scanned the lines hastily. "Why, Qwill! He's an exconvict! It says in this letter he's about to be paroled… but he needs a place to go… and the promise of a job. He's not real sharp, it says… but he's a hard worker… obeys orders and never makes any trouble… Listen to this, Qwill. He took a rap and got ten years… but he's being released for good behavior… Oh, Qwill! What kind of people did Fanny know in New Jersey?" "I can guess," Qwilleran said. "Let's go to lunch." He checked the Siamese; they were perched on their blue cushion on top of the refrigerator and were as contented as could be expected under the circumstances. He found the handyman working in the yard.
"Hello, Tom," he said sadly. "This is an awful thing that has happened." Tom had lost his bland, boyish expression and looked twenty years older. He nodded and stared at the grass. "Are you going to the memorial service tomorrow?" "I never went to one. I don't know what to do." "You just go in and sit down and listen to the music and the speeches. It's a way of saying goodbye to Miss Klingenschoen. She'd like to know that you were there." Tom leaned on his rake and bowed his head. His eyes brimmed.
Qwilleran said: "She was good to you, Tom, but you were also a great help to her. Remember that. You made the last years of her life easier and happier." The handyman smeared his wet face with his sleeve. His grief was so poignant that Qwilleran felt — for the first time since hearing the news — a constriction in his throat. He coughed and started talking about the broken window at the cabin. "I've got a piece of cardboard in the window now, but if it rains hard and the wind blows from the east…" "I'll fix it," Tom said quietly.
The luncheonette that served the second worst coffee in Moose County was crowded at the lunch hour and buzzing with chatter about the Klingenschoen tragedy. No church was large enough for the expected crowd, so the memorial service would be held in the high school gymnasium. Pastors of all five churches would give eulogies. The Senior Citizens' Glee Club would sing. A county commissioner would play taps on a World War I bugle. Fanny Klingenschoen's favorite wicker rocker would be on the platform, and kindergarten children would file past, each dropping a single rosebud in the empty chair.
There was, of course, much speculation about the will. The great stone house had been promised to the Historical Society for a museum, and the carriage house had been promised to the Art Society for a gallery and studio. It was rumored that a lump sum would go to the Board of Education for an Olympic-size swimming pool. Altogether there was an atmosphere of mingled sorrow and excitement and gratitude among the customers at the luncheonette, especially the younger ones, several of whom were named Francesca.
Qwilleran said to Rosemary: "I hope she remembered Tom in her will. I hope she left him the blue truck. He takes care of it like a baby." "What if we don't find the will?" "The government and the lawyers will get everything." After lunch the search continued in the drawing room, where a Chinese lacquer desk was stuffed with photographs: tintypes, snapshots, studio portraits, and glossy prints from newspapers. Qwilleran wanted to guess which whiskered chap was Grandfather Klingenschoen, and which bright-eyed girl with ringlets was Minnie K, but Rosemary dragged him away.
Upstairs there were marble-topped dressers, tall chests, and wardrobes. Rosemary organized the search, taking Fanny's suite herself and directing Qwilleran to the other rooms. Then they compared notes, sitting on the top stair of the long flight that had been the scene of the accident.
Rosemary said: "All I found was clothing. Real silk stockings and silk lingerie, imagine! White linen handkerchiefs by the gross… lots of white kid gloves turning yellow… everything smelling of lavender. What did you find?" Qwilleran's list was equally disappointing. "Sheets by the ton. Blankets an inch thick, smelling of cedar. Enough white towels for a Turkish bath. And tablecloths big enough to cover a squash court." "Where do we go from here?" "There might be a safe," he said. "It could be built into a piece of furniture or set in a paneled wall or hidden behind a picture. If Fanny was so concerned about concealing the nature of her will, she'd keep it in a safe." "It could take weeks to find it. You'd have to pull the whole house apart." A distant howl echoed through the quiet rooms. "That's Koko," Qwilleran said. "He objects to being shut up for so long. You know, Rosemary, that little. devil has a sixth sense about things like this. We could let him walk through the house and see what turns him on." As soon as Koko was released from the kitchen, he stalked through the butler's pantry into the dining room with the dignity of a visiting monarch, head held regally, ears worn like a coronet, tail pointing aloft. He sniffed ardently at the carved rabbits and pheasants on the doors of the mammoth sideboard, but it stored only soup tureens and silver serving pieces. In the foyer he was entranced by a spot on the rug at the foot of the stairs, until Qwilleran scolded him for bad taste. In the drawing room he examined the keys of the old square piano and rubbed against the bulbous legs. There was nothing to interest him in the library or conservatory, but he found the basement stairs and led the way to the English pub.