The Cat Who Saw Red (13 page)

“You think there might be a jealous husband in the picture?”

“It’s just a guess. Hey, why don’t you and I open a detective agency? It wouldn’t take much capital… Look out! Here comes Professor Moriarty again.”

“Wudjus like some more butter?” asked the waiter.

For a while Qwilleran concentrated on his hamburger, which had been grilled to the consistency of a steel-belted radial tire, and William concentrated on satisfying his youthful appetite.

“I have to get up at six tomorrow morning,” he remarked. “Gotta go to the farmers’ market with Mickey.”

“I wouldn’t mind going along,” Qwilleran said. “It might be a story.”

“Never been there? It’s a gas! Just meet us in the kitchen at six-thirty. Want me to call you?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got an alarm clock. Three of them, counting the cats.”

William ordered strawberry cheesecake for dessert. “Best wallpaper paste I’ve ever eaten,” he said.

Qwilleran ordered black coffee, which was served in a mug with the flavor of detergent lingering on the rim. “By the way,” he said, “did you ever watch Joy Graham when she was using the wheel?”

His guest nodded, his mouth full of cheesecake.

“Which wheel did she use?”

“The kick-wheel. Why?”

“Never the electric?”

“No, she has to do everything the hard way, when it comes to pottery. Don’t ask me why. I know she’s a friend of yours, but she does some wacky things.”

“She always did.”

“Know what I overheard at the dinner last Monday? She was talking to Tweedledee and Tweedledum —”

“The Penniman brothers?”

William nodded. “She was trying to sell them some old papers she found in the pottery somewhere. She said they could have them for five thousand dollars!”

“She was kidding,” Qwilleran said, without conviction.

They left the Petrified Bagel after the waiter’s final solicitation: “Wudjus like a toothpick?”

Qwilleran went home on the bus. William was going to visit his mother.

“It’s her birthday,” the houseboy explained, “and I’ve bought her some cheap perfume. It doesn’t matter what you give her; she makes insulting remarks about everything, so what’s the use?”

In the Great Hall at Maus Haus, Dan was again working on the exhibit, pushing and pulling massive tables and benches into position for the display of pots. He was humming “Loch Lomond.”

Qwilleran forgot his morning irritation with the publicity-seeking potter. “Here, let me help you,” he offered.

Dan looked at Qwilleran warily, and his mouth dropped open. “Sorry if I said anything to get you riled up. I didn’t know Maus would go blabbing it around.”

“No harm done.”

“It’s your money. It’s your business what you do with it, I guess.”

“Forget it.”

“Got a postcard today,” Dan said. “Mailed from Cincinnati.”

Qwilleran gulped twice before answering. “From your wife? How’s everything?” He tried to speak casually. “Will she be back for the champagne party?”

“Guess not. She wants me to mail her summer duds to her in Miami.”

“Miami!”

“Yep. Guess she’s going to soak up some sunshine before she comes home. Do her some good. Give her a chance to think things over.”

“No bad feeling then?”

Dan scratched his head. “Husband and wife have to keep their identity, especially when they’re artists. She’ll get rid of that fuzzy feeling and come back, sassy as ever. We have our blowups; what couple doesn’t?” He smiled his twisted smile, so much an imitation of Joy’s smile that Qwilleran felt his flesh crawl. It was grotesque.

“It’s a funny thing,” Dan went on. “I used to ride her all the time about shedding hair all over the place. If it wasn’t cat hairs floating around, it was her own — long ones — turning up in the clay and everywhere else. But you wanta know something? I kinda miss those aggravations when she’s away. You ever been married?”

“I had a go at it once.”

“Why don’t you come up for a drink tomorrow night? Come on up to the loft.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that.”

“Might give you a sneak preview of the exhibition. Don’t mind telling you I’ve come up with some dandies that’ll rock ‘em back on their heels. When you see your art critic, put a bug in his ear, if you know what I mean.”

Qwilleran went up to Number Six, massaging his mustache as he climbed the stairs. The cats were alert and waiting for him.

“Well, what do you think of that development, Koko?” he said. “She’s off to Miami.”

“Yow!” Koko replied — ambiguously, Qwilleran thought.

“She hates Florida! She told us so, didn’t she? And she’s always been allergic to sunlight.”

And then Qwilleran had a second thought. Perhaps his $750 check had financed a vacation with that food buyer — Fish, Ham, or whatever his name was — in the Sunshine State! Once again Qwilleran felt like a fool.

When Qwilleran’s alarm went off on Saturday morning, it was still dark and chill, and he debated whether to fulfill his intentions to forget about the farmers’ market and go back to sleep. Curiosity and a newsman’s relish for an unfamiliar situation convinced him to get up.

He showered and dressed hastily and diced round steak for the cats, who were asleep in the big chair, stretched out in do-not-disturb postures.

By six-thirty Qwilleran was downstairs in the kitchen, where Robert Maus was breaking eggs into a bowl. “Hope you don’t mind,” Qwilleran said. “I’ve invited myself to go the farmers’ market with you.”

“Consider yourself more than welcome, to be sure,” the attorney said. “Please be good enough to help yourself to orange juice and coffee. I am preparing… an omelet.”

“Where’s William?”

Maus took a deep breath before replying. “With William, I regret to say, it is a point of honor to be late for any and all occasions.”

He poured the beaten eggs into the omelet pan, shook it vigorously, stirred with a fork, folded the shimmering yellow creation, flipped it onto a warm plate, grated some white pepper over the top, and glazed it with butter.

It was the best omelet Qwilleran had ever tasted. With each tender, creamy mouthful he recalled the dry, brown, leathery imitations he had eaten in second-class restaurants. Maus prepared another omelet for himself and sat down at the table.

“I hate to see our friend William missing this good breakfast,” said Qwilleran. “Maybe he overslept. Maybe I should hammer on his door.”

He found William’s room at the end of the kitchen corridor and knocked once, twice, then louder, without getting any response. He turned the knob gently and opened the door an inch or two. “William!” he shouted. “It’s after six-thirty!” There was no sound from within. He peered into the room. The built-in bunk was empty, and the bedspread was neatly tucked under the mattress.

Qwilleran glanced around the room. The bathroom door stood open. He tried another door, which proved to be a small, untidy closet. The entire place was in mild disorder, with clothes and magazines scattered in all the wrong places.

He returned to the breakfast table. “Not there. His bed looks as if he hasn’t slept in it, and the alarm clock hasn’t been set. I took him out to dinner last night, and he was going to his mother’s house afterward. Do you suppose he stayed there?”

“Basing an opinion on what I know about the relationship between William and his mother,” said Maus, “I would… deem it more likely that he spent the night with the young lady to whom he appears to be… engaged. I suggest you wear boots this morning, Mr. Qwilleran. The market manufactures an exclusive brand of… mud, composed of wilted cabbage leaves, rotted tomatoes, crushed grapes, and an unidentifiable liquid that binds them together in a slimy black… amalgam.”

The men started for the market in the attorney’s old Mercedes, and as they circled the driveway, Qwilleran thought he saw the enormous tail fins of William’s limousine protruding from the carport on the other side of the house.

“I think William’s car is there,” he remarked. “If he didn’t come home last night, how did his car get back?”

“The ways of the young,” said Maus, “are incomprehensible. I have ceased all attempts to understand their behavior.”

It was true about the mud. A black ooze filled the gutters and splashed up over the sidewalks of the open-air market. There were several square blocks of open sheds where farmers and other vendors sold directly from their trucks. Rich and poor streamed through the cluttered aisles, carrying shopping bags, pushing baby buggies loaded with pots of geraniums, pulling red express wagons filled with produce, or maneuvering chrome-plated, rubber-tired shopping carts through the crowded aisles.

A pickpocket’s heaven, Qwilleran thought. There were women with rollers in their hair, children riding piggyback, distinguished old men in velvet-collared coats, Indian girls with tweed jackets over their filmy saris, teenagers wearing earphones, suburban housewives swaddled in fun furs, and more than the average number of immensely fat women.

Maus led the way between mountains of rhubarb and acres of fresh eggs, past the gallon jugs of honey, the whole pigs, bunches of sassafras, pillows filled with chicken feathers, carrots as big as baseball bats, white doves in cages, and purple cauliflower.

It was a nippy morning, and the vendors stamped their feet and warmed their hands over coke fires burning in oil drums. The smoke mingled with the aromas of apples, livestock, lilacs, and market mud. Qwilleran noticed a blind man with a white cane standing near the lilacs, sniffing and smiling.

Maus bought mushrooms, fern shoots, scallions, Florida corn, and California strawberries. It amazed the newsman to hear him haggling over the price of a turnip. “My dear woman, if you can afford to sell a dozen for three dollars, how can you — in all decency — ask thirty cents for one?” asked the man who served a ten-dollar bottle of wine with the jellied clams.

At one stall Maus selected a skinned rabbit, and Qwilleran turned away while the farmer wrapped the red, stiffened carcass in a sheet of newspaper and the white-furred relatives of the deceased looked on with reproach.

“Mrs. Marron, I must admit, makes an excellent hasenpfeffer,” Maus explained. “She will prepare the… viands this weekend while I attend a gourmet conclave out of town… for which I happen to be the… master of ceremonies.”

From the open-air market they went into the general market, a vast arena with hundreds of stalls under one roof and a soft carpet of sawdust underfoot. Hucksters with hoarse voices offered spiced salt belly, strudel dough, chocolate tortes, plaster figures of saints, quail eggs, voodoo potions, canned grape leaves, octopus, and perfumed floor wash guaranteed to bring good luck. A nickel-plated machine ground fresh peanut butter. A phonograph played harem music at a record stall. Maus bought snails and some Dutch mustard seed.

For a moment Qwilleran closed his eyes and tried to sort out the heady mix of smells: freshly ground coffee, strong cheese, garlic sausage, anise, dried codfish, incense. A wave of cheap perfume reached his nostrils, and he opened his eyes to see a Gypsy woman looking at him from a nearby stall. She smiled, and he blinked his eyes. She had Joy’s smile, Joy’s tiny figure, and Joy’s long hair, but her face was a hundred years old. Her clothes were soiled, and her hair looked as if it had never been washed.

“Tell the fortune?” she invited.

Fascinated by this cruel caricature, Qwilleran nodded.

“You sit.”

He sat on an upended beer case, and the woman sat opposite, shuffling a deck of dirty cards.

“How much?” he asked.

“Dollar. One dollar, yes?”

She laid out the cards in a cross and studied them. “I see water. You take long trip — boat — soon, yes?”

“Not very likely,” Qwilleran said. “What else do you see?”

“Somebody sick. You get letter… I see money. Lotsa money. You like.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Young boy — your son? Some day great man. Big doctor.”

“Where is my childhood sweetheart? Can you tell me that?”

“Hmmm… she far away — happy — lotsa children.”

“You’re phenomenal. You’re a genius,” Qwilleran grumbled. “Anything else?”

“I see water — so much water. You no like. Everybody wet.”

Qwilleran escaped from the Gypsy’s booth and caught up with his landlord. “Better fix the roof,” he told him. “There’s going to be another biblical-type flood.” He shook himself, as if he might have picked up fleas.

When the two men carried their market purchases into the kitchen at Maus Haus, Mrs. Marron said to Qwilleran, “A man from the newspaper called. He said you should call him. Mr. Piper. Art Piper.”

“Where’ve you been?” Arch Riker demanded when Qwilleran, got him on the phone. “Out all night?”

“I’ve been to the farmers’ market, getting material for a column, and I expect to collect time-and-a-half for getting up at an ungodly hour on my day off. What’s on your mind?”

“I wish you’d help me out, Qwill. Would you drive to Rattlesnake Lake to act as one of the judges in a contest?”

“Bathing beauties?”

“No. Cake-baking. It’s the statewide thing sponsored by the John Stuart Flour Mills. They do a lot of advertising, and we promised we’d send one of the judges.”

“Why can’t the food editor do it?” Qwilleran snapped.

“She’s in the hospital.”

“Been eating her own cooking?”

“Qwill, you’re crabby today. What’s wrong with you?”

“To tell you the truth, Arch, I’d like to stick around here this weekend — to see what I can dig up. Joy’s husband invited me in for a drink tonight. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone, but you know what we discussed in the coffee shop.”

“I know, Qwill, but we’re in a jam. You can take some time off next week.”

“Can’t the women’s department handle this contest?”

“They’ve got a lot of spring weddings to cover. You could make a nice weekend of it, take a company car and drive up this afternoon. You could have a nice dinner at the Rattlesnake Inn — they’re famous for their food — and come back tomorrow night.”

“They’re famous for their bad food, not famous for their good food,” Qwilleran objected. “Besides, how can I enjoy a dinner anywhere and stay on my diet? How can I judge a cake contest and lose any weight?”