THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

LILIAN JACKSON BRAUN

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Following an unseasonable thaw and disastrous flooding, spring came early to Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere. In Pickax City, the county seat, flowerboxes on Main Street were blooming in April, birds were singing in Park Circle, mosquitoes were hatching in the bogs, and strangers were beginning to appear in the campgrounds and on the streets of downtown.

One afternoon in late May, a brown van pulled into a parking lot alongside a small green sedan, and a man wearing a black jersey slipped out of the driver’s seat. He glanced furtively to the left and right, and, leaving the motor running, he opened the tailgate. Then he unlocked the trunk of the sedan and quickly transferred something from his vehicle to the other, after which he lost no time in driving away. An out-of- towner, witnessing the surreptitious maneuver, might have described him as a Caucasian male, middle-aged, about six feet two, with slightly graying hair and an enormous pepper-and-salt moustache. On the other hand, any resident of Pickax (population 3,000) would have recognized him immediately. He was James Mackintosh Qwilleran, columnist for the Moose County Something and-by a fluke of fate-the richest man in northeast central United States. He had reason to be furtive about the parking-lot caper. In Pickax, everyone knew everyone’s business and discussed it freely on the phone, on street corners, and in the coffee shops. Individuals would say:

“It’s nice that Polly Duncan got herself such a rich boyfriend. She’s been a widow for a heck of a long time.”

“That green sedan she drives - he gave it to her for a birthday present. Wonder what she gave him.”

“He does her grocery shopping at Toodle’s Market while she’s at work, and puts the stuff in her car.”

“Makes you wonder why they don’t get married. Then she could quit her job at the library.” The sidewalk gossips knew it all. They knew that Qwilleran had been an important crime reporter Down Below, as they called the mega-cities south of the Forty-Ninth Parallel. They knew that something sinister had wrecked his career. They would say:

“Then he come up here, by golly, and fell kerplunk into all them millions! Talk about luck!”

“More like billions, if you ask me, but he deserves it. Nice fella. Friendly. Nothin’ highfalutin about Mr. Q!”

“You can say that again! Pumps his own gas. Lives in a barn with two cats.”

“And danged if he don’t give most of his dough away!”

The truth was that Qwilleran was bored with high finance, and he had established the Klingenschoen Foundation to distribute his wealth for the betterment of the community. This generosity, plus his genial personality, had made him a local hero. For his part, he was contented with small-town life and his relationship with the director of the library. Still, his brooding gaze carried a burden of sadness that made the good folk of Moose County ask each other questions.

One Thursday in May he went to the newspaper office to hand in copy for his column, “Straight from the Qwill Pen.” Then he stopped at the used bookstore and browsed for a while, buying a 1939 copy of Nathanael West’s book, The Day of the Locust. At Toodle’s Market he asked Grandma Toodle to help him select fruit and vegetables for Polly. These he transferred to her car on the library parking lot, hoping to avoid notice by the ubiquitous busybodies.

That touchy business completed, he was driving home when he heard sirens and saw flashing lights heading south on Main Street. With a journalist’s instinct he followed the emergency vans, at the same time calling the city desk on the car phone.

“Thanks, Qwill,” the city editor said, “but we were tipped off earlier, and Roger’s already on his way there.”

The speeding vehicles, including Roger’s gray van, turned into the street leading to the high school. By the time Qwilleran arrived on the scene, the reporter was snapping newsphotos of a gruesome accident in front of the school.

Scattered about were the remains of two wrecked cars, victims covered with blood, broken glass everywhere. One passenger appeared to be trapped inside the worst wreck. Horrified students crowded the school lawn, restrained by a yellow cordon of police tape. Ambulance crews were in action. A drunk driver was

hustled to a patrol car. Stretcher bearers rushed one serious case to a medical helicopter that had landed on the school parking lot. Meanwhile, groans and cries rose from the shocked onlookers as they recognized their bloodied classmates. Finally the rescue squad’s metal cutters sliced through the car body to reach the trapped victim, who was taken away in a body bag.

At that point the principal’s voice on the public address system ordered all students to return to the building at once and report to the auditorium.

Qwilleran, watching the rescue with mounting wonder, stroked his moustache in perplexity and beckoned to the reporter, who had started packing his photo gear.