THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

On Friday afternoon when Qwilleran walked down the lane to pick up his newspaper and mail, he knew the Art Center would be closed, as a gesture of respect for one of their valued artists - closed for three days, in fact. Yet, there was a car in the parking lot: a yellow convertible backed up to the side door. Beverly Forfar was loading boxes into it.

“What are you doing?” Qwilleran called out to her. “Burglarizing the collection?”

“I’ve resigned,” she said soberly. “It’s too much for me! I’m going back Down Below where I can get a quiet job in a museum.”

“Well, we’re certainly sorry to see you go,” he said, “but if you think you’ll be more comfortable down there, that’s the thing to do, and I wish you well… but we’ll never find a manager quite like you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Q. Mr. Haggis has promised to keep an eye on the place until a manager is found.”

Then Qwilleran had a brilliant idea. He said, “Do you remember that man who won the Whiteness of White intaglio in the raffle? His sister-in-law had picked it up and was supposed to ship it to him in San Francisco, but there’s been an unexpected development. Professor Frobnitz has taken a chair at a university in Japan. He wants the intaglio given to someone who’ll appreciate an artwork of that quality and sophistication. Would you like to have it? I understand it’s quite valuable.”

“Oh, I’d love it!” she cried. “How nice of you to think of me! And what a beautiful going-away present! I’ll always think of you when I look at it, Mr. Q.”

“How soon are you leaving?” he asked. “I can pick it up from his sister-in-law and deliver it here.”

After retrieving it from his broom closet and delivering it, Qwilleran thought about the events that had driven Beverly Forfar from her post: first, the farm mud that tracked into the Art Center… the ugly farmhouse and rusty truck across the road… the dogs and chickens running onto the highway… then the fire that sprinkled the Art Center with soot, while the firefighters’ hoses created more mud… followed by the breakin and theft of Daphne’s drawings… and the bane of her life: Jasper! … the trespassers in the Click Club… the threat of a ring road funneling heavy trucks past the Art Center… and finally the murder of an artist! If anyone deserved a thousand-dollar intaglio, it was Beverly Forfar.

Qwilleran had been caught up in a rush of events and problems in recent weeks, and now that it was allover and his participation no longer needed, he felt restless. It was Saturday afternoon, and Polly was having her final sitting for Paul Skumble. He himself was scheduled to officiate at a small ceremony at the library. Meanwhile he took off in his van for destinations unplanned.

His first stop was Amanda Goodwinter’s studio. “Has everything simmered down in Indian Village?” he asked.

“Arrgh!” she growled. “When they locked up that dunderhead, they left his parrot there without food, and the blasted bird has squawked nonstop for thirty-six hours! Not only was he noisy; he had a filthy mouth! At three-thirty this morning I phoned the sheriff at home - got him out of bed - and said, ‘You get over here and pick up that neighborhood nuisance in the next ten minutes, or I’ll personally see that you never get reelected! Put him in a foster home… send him to Parrot Rehab… do anything! But get him out of here, and bring some peanuts with you, or he’ll chew your arm off up to the elbow!’ … Well, a deputy showed up in five minutes, and I haven’t heard so much as a floor squeak ever since.”

From there Qwilleran drove to Mooseville, having invented an excuse for visiting Elizabeth’s boutique. He found the proprietor fluttering around the shop in gauzy garments and a state of elation.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she gloated. “The Barbecue is closed, and Derek’s back at a full schedule at MCCC! I’m really sorry about the Butterfly Girl, though. Derek said she was a decent person who didn’t belong in that place. I would have handled her paintings, but they were too pricey for tourists and too representational for the yachting crowd… What can I do for you, Qwill?”

“I’d like a gift for Polly. We have something to celebrate.”

“How wonderful! Why not a lounge outfit?” Elizabeth suggested. “She likes caftans, and I have a lovely handwoven cotton in saffron, with a hundred tiny tucks running vertically from neck to hem. Very simple! Very elegant!”

“I’ll take it,” he said.

On the way back to Pickax, Qwilleran stopped at the stoneyard to see Thornton Haggis. In spite of his buoyant mop of white hair and friendly gold-rimmed glasses, he looked mournful. “A sad day for the art community,” he said. “How did she let herself get into such a mess?”

“Too late for questions,” Qwilleran said. “She’s gone, and so are her Painted Ladies.”

“Why didn’t you call me? I wanted to see them take off.”

“Frankly, I didn’t have the heart.”