The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare tcw-7 Read online

  The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

  ( The Cat Who... - 7 )

  Lilian Jackson Braun

  Lilian Jackson Braun

  The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

  1

  In Moose County, four hundred miles north of everywhere, it always starts to snow in November, and it snows — and snows — and snows.

  First, all the front steps disappear under two feet of snow. Then fences and shrubs are no longer visible. Utility poles keep getting shorter until the lines are low enough for limbo dancing. Listening to the hourly weather reports on the radio is everyone's winter hobby in Moose County, and snowplowing becomes the chief industry. Plows and blowers throw up mountains of white that hide whole buildings and require the occupants to tunnel through to the street. In Pickax City, the county seat, it's not unusual to see cross-country skis in the downtown shopping area. If the airport closes down — and it often does — Moose County is an island of snow and ice. It all starts in November, with a storm that the residents call the Big One.

  On the evening of November fifth, Jim Qwilleran was relaxing in his comfortable library in the company of friends. A mood of contentment prevailed. They had dined well, the housekeeper having prepared clam chowder and escalopes of veal Casimir. The houseman had piled fragrant logs of applewood in the fireplace, and the blaze projected dancing highlights on the leather-bound books that filled four walls of library shelves. From softly shaded lamps came a golden glow that warmed the leather furniture and Bokhara rugs.

  Qwilleran, a large middle-aged man with a bushy moustache, sat at his antique English desk and tuned in the nine o'clock weather report on the radio — one of numerous small portables deployed about the house for this purpose.

  "Colder tonight, with lows about twenty-five degrees," the WPKX meteorologist predicted. "High winds and a good chance of snow tonight and tomorrow."

  Qwilleran flipped off the radio. "If you guys don't object," he said to the other two, "I'd like to leave town for a few days. It's six months since my last trip Down Below, and my cronies at the newspaper think I'm dead. Mrs. Cobb will serve your meals, and I'll be back before the snow flies — I hope. Just keep your paws crossed."

  Four brown ears swiveled alertly at the announcement. Two brown masks with long white whiskers and incredibly blue eyes turned away from the blazing logs and toward the man seated at the desk.

  The more you talk to cats, Qwilleran had been told, the smarter they become. An occasional "nice kitty" will have no measurable effect; intelligent conversation is required.

  The system, he had found, seemed to be working; the pair of Siamese on the hearth rug reacted as if they knew exactly what he was saying. Yum Yum, the affectionate little female, gazed at him with an expression that looked like reproach. Koko, the handsome and muscular male, rose from the spot where he had been lounging in leonine majesty, walked stiffly to the desk, and scolded with earsplitting yowls. "Yow-ow-OW!"

  "I was expecting a little more understanding and consideration," the man told them.

  Qwilleran, at the age of fifty or so, was coping with a unique midlife crisis. After a lifetime of living in large metropolitan areas, he was now a resident of Pickax City, population 3,000. After a career as a hardworking journalist getting by with a modest salary, he was now a millionaire — or billionaire; he was not quite sure. At any rate, he was the sole heir to the Klingenschoen fortune founded in Moose County in the nineteenth century. The bequest included a mansion on Main Street, a staff of three, a four-car garage, and a limousine. Even after a year or more he found his new lifestyle strange. As a newsman he had been concerned chiefly with getting the story, checking the facts, meeting the deadline, and protecting his sources. Now his chief concern, like that of every other Moose County adult, seemed to be the weather, especially in November.

  When the Siamese reacted negatively to his proposal, Qwilleran tamped his moustache thoughtfully for a moment. "Nevertheless," he said, "it's imperative that I go. Arch Riker is leaving the Daily Fluxion, and I'm hosting his retirement party Friday night."

  In his days of frugal bachelorhood in a one-room apartment, Qwilleran had never hungered for money or possessions, and among his fellow staffers he was not noted for his generosity. But when the Klingenschoen estate finally stumbled through probate court, he astonished the media of the Western world by inviting the entire staff of the Daily Fluxion to a dinner at the Press Club.

  He planned to take a guest: Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor of the Pickax Picayune, Moose County's only newspaper. Dialing the newspaper office, he said, "Hi, Junior! How would you like to goof off for a couple of days and fly Down Below for a party? My treat. Cocktails and dinner at the Press Club."

  "Oh, wow! I've never seen a Press Club except in the movies," said the editor. "Could we visit the Daily Fluxion offices, too?"

  Junior looked and dressed like a high school sophomore and exhibited an innocent enthusiasm that was rare in a journalist with a cum laude degree from a state university.

  "We might sneak in a hockey game and a couple of shows, too," Qwilleran said, "but we'll have to keep an eye on the weather reports and get back here before snow flies."

  "There's a low-pressure front moving down from Canada, but I think we're safe for a while," Junior said. "What's the party all about?"

  "A retirement bash for Arch Riker, and here's what I want you to do: Bring a Picayune newscarrier's sack and a hundred copies of your latest issue. After the dinner I'll say a few words about Moose County and the Picayune, and that'll be your cue to jump up and start distributing the papers."

  "I'll wear a baseball cap sideways and yell, 'Extra! Extra!' Is that what you want?"

  "You've got it!" Qwilleran said. "But the authentic pronunciation is 'Wuxtree!' Be ready at nine o'clock Friday morning. I'll pick you up at your office."

  The early-morning weather broadcast on Friday was not encouraging: "A low-pressure front hovering over Canada increases the possibility of heavy snow tonight and tomorrow, with winds shifting to the northeast."

  Qwilleran's housekeeper expressed her fears. "What will you do, Mr. Q, if you can't get back here before snow flies? If the storm is the Big One, the airport will be closed for goodness knows how long."

  "Well, I'll tell you, Mrs. Cobb. I'll rent a dogsled and a pack of huskies and mush back to Pickax."

  "Oh, Mr. Q!" she laughed. "I never know whether to believe you or not."

  She was preparing an attractive plate of sautéed chicken livers with a garnish of hard-cooked egg yolk and bacon crumbles, which she placed on the floor. Yum Yum gobbled her share hungrily, but Koko declined to eat. Something was bothering him.

  Both cats had the shaded fawn bodies and brown points of pedigreed seal-point Siamese: brown masks accentuating the blueness of their eyes; alert brown ears worn like royal crowns; brown legs elegantly long and slender; brown tails that lashed and curled and waved to express emotions and opinions. But Koko had something more: a disconcerting degree of intelligence and an uncanny knack of knowing when something was... wrong!

  That morning he had knocked a book off a shelf in the library .

  "That's bad form!" Qwilleran had told him, appealing to his intelligence. "These are old, rare, and valuable books — to be treated with respect, if not reverence." He examined the book. It was a slender leather-bound copy of The Tempest — one of a thirty-seven-volume set of Shakespeare's plays that had come with the house.

  Experiencing slight qualms, Qwilleran replaced the book on the shelf. It was an unfortunate choice of title. He was determined, however, to fly Down Below for the party, despite Koko and Mrs. Cobb and the WPKX meteorologist.

>   An hour before flight: time he drove his energy-efficient compact to the office of the Picayune to pick up Junior and the sack of newspapers. All the buildings on Main Street were more than a century old, constructed of gray stone in a variety of inappropriate architectural styles. The Picayune headquarters — squeezed between the imitation Viennese lodge hall and the imitation Roman post office — resembled an ancient Spanish monastery.

  A satisfying smell of ink pervaded the newspaper office, but the premises had the embalmed look of a museum. There was no ad taker at the scarred front counter. There was no alert and smiling receptionist-only a bell to ring for service.

  Qwilleran perused the silent scene: wooden filing cabinets and well-worn desks of golden oak ... dangerous-looking spindles for spiking ad orders and subscriptions... old copies of the Picayune. yellow and brittle, plastered on walls that had not been painted since the Great Depression. Beyond the low partition of golden oak and unwashed glass was the composing room. A lone man stood before the typecases, oblivious to everything except the line of type he was setting with darting movements of his hand.

  Unlike the Daily Fluxion, which had a metropolitan circulation approaching a million, the antiquated presses of the Picayune clanked out thirty-two hundred copies of each issue. While the Fluxion adopted every technological advance and journalistic trend, the Picayune still resembled the newspaper founded by Junior's great-grandfather. Four pages, printed from hand-set type, carried classified ads and social gossip on the front page. Pancake breakfasts, ice cream socials, and funerals were covered in depth, while brief mentions of local politics, police news, and accidents were relegated to the back page or omitted entirely.

  Qwilleran banged his fist on the bell, and Junior Goodwinter came pelting down the wooden stairs from the editorial office above, followed by a large white cat.

  "Who's your well-fed friend?" Qwilleran asked.

  "He's William Allen, our staff mouser ," said Junior casually, as if all newspapers had a mouser on the staff.

  As managing editor he wrote most of the copy and sold most of the ads, Senior Goodwinter, owner and publisher, spent his time in the composing room, wearing a leather apron and a square paper hat folded from newsprint, setting foundry type in a composing stick while wearing an expression of concentration and rapture. He had been setting type since the age of eight.

  Junior called out to him, "S'long, Dad, Back in a few days."

  The preoccupied man in the composing room turned and said kindly, "Have a good time, Junior, and be careful."

  "If you want to drive my Jag while I'm gone, the keys are on my desk."

  "Thanks, Son, but I don't think I'll need it. The garage said my car should be ready by five o'clock, Be careful, now."

  "Okay, Dad, and you take care!" A look of warmth and mutual appreciation passed between the two, and Qwilleran momentarily regretted that he had never had a son. He would have wanted one exactly like Junior. But perhaps a little taller and a little huskier.

  Junior grabbed a sack of newspapers and his duffel bag, and the two men drove to the airport. Together they were; a study in generation gap: Qwilleran a sober-faced man with graying hair, luxuriant moustache, and mournful eyes; Junior a fresh-faced excited kid in running shoes. Junior opened the conversation with an abrupt question:

  "Do you think I look too young, Qwill?"

  "Too young for what?"

  "I mean, Jody thinks no one will ever take me seriously."

  "With your build and your youthful face, you'll still look like fourteen when you're seventy-five," Qwilleran told him, "and that's not all bad. After that, you'll change overnight and suddenly look like a hundred and two."

  "Jody thinks it would help if I grew a beard."

  "Not a bad idea! Your girl comes up with some good ones."

  "My grandmother says I'd look like one of the Seven Dwarfs."

  "Your grandmother sounds like a sweet person, Junior."

  "Grandma Gage is a character! My mother's mother, you know. You must have seen her around town. She drives a Mercedes and honks the horn at every intersection."

  Qwilleran showed no surprise. He had learned that longtime residents of Moose County were militant individualists.

  "Have you heard from Melinda since she left Pickax?" Junior asked.

  "A couple of times. They keep her pretty busy at the hospital. She'll be better off in Boston. She'll be able to specialize."

  "Melinda never really wanted to be a country doctor, but she was hot to marry you, Qwill, and move into your mansion."

  "Sorry, I'm not good husband material. I discovered that once before, and it wouldn't be fair to Melinda to make the same mistake again. I hope she meets a good man her own age in Boston."

  "I hear you've got something going with the head librarian now."

  Qwilleran huffed into his pepper-and-salt moustache. "I don't know what your picturesque expression implies, but let me state that I enjoy Mrs. Duncan's company. In this age of video-everything, it's good to meet someone who shares my interest in literature. We get together and read aloud."

  "Oh, sure," said the younger man with a wide grin. "When are you and Jody thinking of marrying?"

  "On the salary Dad pays me I can't even afford an apartment of my own. I'm still living with my parents at the farmhouse, you know. Jody makes twice what I do, and she's only a dental hygienist."

  "But you own a Jaguar."

  "That was a graduation present from Grandma Gage. She's the only one in the family with dough anymore. I'll inherit when she goes, but it won't be soon. At eighty-two she still stands on her head every day, and she can beat me at push-ups. People in Moose County live a long time, barring accident. One of my ancestors was killed when his horse was spooked by a big flock of blackbirds. My Grandpa Gage was struck by lightning. I had an aunt and uncle that were killed when their car hit a deer. It was November-rutting season, you know — and this eight-point buck went right through the windshield. The sheriff said it looked like an amateur ax murder. Right now, according to official estimates, there are ten thousand deer in this county."

  Qwilleran slowed his speed and starting looking for signs of wildlife.

  "It's bow-and-arrow season, and the hunters are making them nervous," Junior went on. "Early morning or dusk — that's when the deer bound across the highway."

  "All ten thousand of them?" Qwilleran reduced his speed to forty-five.

  "It sure is a gloomy day," Junior observed. "The sky looks heavy."

  "What's the earliest the snow ever flies?"

  "Earliest storm on record was November 2, 1919, but the Big One usually doesn't hit until midmonth. The worst on record was November 13, 1931. Three low-pressure fronts — from Alaska, the Rockies, and the Gulf-slammed into each other over Moose County. Lots of people lost their way in the whiteout and froze to death. When the Big One hits, you better stay indoors! Or if you're caught driving, don't get out of the car."

  Despite the hazards of the north country, Qwilleran was beginning to envy the natives. They had roots! Families like the Goodwinters went back five generations — to the time when fortunes were being made in mining and lumbering. The most vital organizations in Pickax were the Historical Society and the Genealogical Club. On the Airport Road, history was unreeling: abandoned shaft houses and slag heaps at the old mine sites... ghost towns identifiable only by a few lonely stone chimneys... a crumbling railroad depot in the middle of nowhere... the stark remains of trees blackened by forest fires.

  After a few minutes of silence Qwilleran ventured to ask Junior a personal question. "As a graduate of J-school, cum laude, how do you feel about the Picayune? Are you living up to your potential? Do you think it's right to hang back in the nineteenth century?"

  "Are you kidding? My ambition is to make the Pic into a real newspaper," Junior said, "but Dad wants to keep it like it was a hundred years ago. He was counting on us kids to keep up the tradition, but my brother went out to California and got into advertising,
and my sister married a rancher in Montana, so I'm stuck with it."

  "The county could support a real newspaper. Why not start one and let your father keep the Picayune as a hobby? You wouldn't be competing; the Pic is in a class by itself. Did you ever consider anything like that?"

  Junior threw him a look of panic, and the words tumbled out. "I couldn't afford to start a lemonade stand! We're broke! That's why I'm working for peanuts... Every year we go further in the hole. Dad's been selling our farmland, and now he's mortgaged the farmhouse... I shouldn't be telling you this... Mother's been after him for a long time to unload the paper... She's really upset! But Dad won't listen. He keeps right on setting type and going deeper in the red. He says it's his life-his reason for living... Did you ever see him set type? He can set more than thirty-five letters a minute without looking at the typecase." Junior's face reflected his admiration.

  "Yes, I've watched him, and I'm impressed," Qwilleran said. "I've also seen your presses in the basement. Some of the equipment looks like Gutenberg's winepress."

  "Dad collects old presses. He has a whole barnful. My great-grandfather's first press operated with a treadle like an old sewing machine."

  "Would your rich grandmother come to the rescue financially, if you wanted to start a newspaper?"

  "Grandma Gage won't fork over any more dough. She's already bailed us out a couple of times and paid our insurance premiums and put three of us through college... Hey, why don't you start a newspaper, Qwill? You're loaded!"

  "I have absolutely no interest in or aptitude for business matters, Junior. That's why I set up the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund. They handle everything and give me a little pocket money. I spent twenty-five years on newspapers, and now all I want is the time and the quietude to do some writing."

  "How's your book coming?"

  "Okay," said Qwilleran, thinking of his neglected typewriter and cluttered desk and disorganized notes.

  At the airport they parked in the open field that served as long-term parking lot. The terminal was little more than a shack, and the airport manager — who was also ticket agent, mechanic, and part-time pilot — was sweeping the floor. "Are we gonna get the Big One?" he asked cheerfully.