The Cat Who Went Bananas Read online

  “He’s alone.”

  “Where’s his friend?”

  “Maybe they broke up.”

  The scene onstage was a posh bachelor flat in nineteenth-century London. A butler with painfully rigid dignity entered in slow motion, carrying a silver platter of cucumber sandwiches.

  The whisperer in row six said, “He owns the department store.”

  When the glamorous Gwendolen entered, it was whispered, “Her dad’s the police chief.”

  Everyone in the immediate vicinity was restless with annoyance, and Qwilleran wondered how to squelch the commentary without resorting to violence. Then one of the actors spoke some pithy lines in a rich baritone, and the voice said, “That’s him! That’s him! His wife was shot!”

  And a booming voice in the same row bellowed, “Shut up!”

  The whispering stopped. The dialogue onstage never missed a beat. And the audience went on responding to the witty lines and ludicrous characters with chuckles and murmurs of delight. Lady Bracknell, with a Queen Mary hat adding inches to her height, was received with quiet amusement.

  During intermission, when Qwilleran went to the lobby to stretch his legs, he met the Comptons at the drinking fountain. Lyle was superintendent of schools; Lisa was a retired educator now serving as volunteer captain of the Edd Smith People.

  Lyle said, “What did you think of the fracas in the sixth row? No wonder Lockmaster people think we’re barbarians in Moose County.”

  Lisa said, “That was our intrepid Ernie Kemple who came to the rescue. It took nerve to do what he did, but it didn’t faze the members of the cast.”

  Qwilleran said, “Actors can’t afford to be distracted by disturbances in the audience. Once I was onstage with an actress in Noel Coward’s Private Lives and a loud guffaw in the front row made her forget her lines—completely! I’ll never forget that experience, and it was thirty years ago!” The lobby lights blinked. He added quickly, “Lisa, could you meet me at the bookstore for an interview about the ESP?”

  “I’ll be there all day tomorrow.”

  They returned to the auditorium.

  The two seats behind Qwilleran remained vacant for the rest of the show.

  How Polly would have enjoyed the play! In a way it was his own fault that she was not there, he decided. He should never have had the K Fund underwrite a bookstore for Polly to manage. He had suggested it only because she was disenchanted with her work at the library. She had allowed herself to be consumed by the new challenge.

  He missed dining out with Polly two or three times a week . . . weekend walks on the lakeshore and on the banks of the Ittibittiwassee, and evenings of classical music at the apple barn, where the music system was superb and the acoustics were fabulous. Once, he recalled, they were dining at the Grist Mill and spent ten minutes discussing the meaning of “perspicuity” and “perspicacity”; then they skipped dessert in order to hurry home and consult Webster’s Unabridged. Should they go to her place or his place?

  She had the newest edition, the third; he had the second edition, which he really preferred. He had bought the third edition, he explained, but it was in the cats’ quarters, where they used it as a scratching pad.

  Soon, Qwilleran now hoped, his life with Polly would return to normalcy. He went home and had a large dish of ice cream—diet or no diet.

  FOUR

  On Saturday morning Qwilleran walked to the bookstore to interview Lisa Compton—through the patch of woods in his property, up Main Street, and around behind the post office. In motor-minded Pickax, he was a familiar sight in his orange baseball cap. For him it was a safeguard—not only in traffic but in the woods, where a predatory owl might otherwise mistake his good head of hair for furry prey.

  The bookstore turned its back to the post office loading docks and faced Walnut Street—a gray stucco edifice blending with the century-old stone buildings of the city. Double doors opened into a vestibule with a large doormat, obligatory in a town called the Buckle of the Snow Belt. Custom-imprinted, the mat did not say “Welcome to The Pirate’s Chest” or “Please Wipe Your Feet” but . . . “Don’t Let the Cat Out!”

  For further practical reasons it had been decided to carpet the interior in charcoal gray instead of a lively green to match the bibliocat’s magical eyes, but lively green smocks on the personnel were an acceptable compromise. They bustled about their bookish chores, but there was no sign of Polly. Either she had taken his advice and slept late or she had ignored his advice and was putting in a few more hours at the library.

  Neither surmise was true. “Mrs. Duncan is out having her hair done,” Qwilleran was informed. “Mrs. Compton is waiting for you downstairs.”

  There was nothing downbeat about “downstairs” at the bookstore. One experienced a sense of majesty in walking down the broad staircase, stepping on the wide treads, and gazing up at the pirate’s chest on the wall above—the real chest, which had been buried on the site since the 1850s.

  To the right was the flexible suite of meeting rooms. To the left was Edd Smith’s Place. Volunteers wearing green vests with the ESP logo busied themselves at the computer, on the stepladder, or at other tasks made enjoyable by Dundee’s presence. Lisa Compton made introductions and then whisked Qwilleran away to a meeting room, where he taped the following:

  What was the first book in the history of Moose County? Make a guess.

  Probably a prayer book belonging to a pastor who came here with his flock. The early settlers were intrepid and hardworking, but few were literate. Even in the boom years, the owner of all the sawmills along the coast could neither read nor write. In the late nineteenth century wealthy families built mansions with impressive libraries, the status symbol of the day. The shelves were filled with leather-bound, gold-tooled books that they would never read. Then, in the twentieth century a middle class emerged, and they read for pleasure.

  What did they read?

  The classics—but also the new romances, mysteries, adventure stories. They bought books on art, poetry, and etiquette. Edd Smith’s father sold books door-to-door for nickels and dimes. These are the books that are being donated to the ESP today.

  How does the ESP work?

  The Pirate’s Chest has allocated half of the lower level for the Edd Smith Place. Volunteers, called the Edd Smith People, will staff the shop, and proceeds go to the Literacy Council and the annual Eddington Smith scholarships.

  Are folks donating enough books to stock the shelves?

  Well! For starters there was the front-page announcement that a prominent citizen had donated a hundred books. Although no name was mentioned, everyone guessed it was you and wanted to participate. Volunteers have also solicited books from acquaintances, picked them up, and catalogued them. In memory of Eddington Smith . . . that dear little man! Everyone wants to carry on his work!

  Isn’t it a formidable task, managing this operation, Lisa?

  I couldn’t do it without a dedicated board of directors. They help me make decisions, solve problems, and maintain enthusiasm among the volunteers. Burgess Campbell, Maggie Sprenkle, Dr. Abernethy, and Violet Hibbard. I’m deeply grateful for their support.

  Qwilleran turned off the tape recorder. “I’ve never met Violet Hibbard,” he said in an aggrieved tone. As a journalist, he expected to know everyone and everything on his beat.

  “She’s a wonderful woman, recently retired after a career teaching English lit in eastern colleges.”

  “How old is she?”

  “About our age. She took early retirement when she inherited the Hibbard House. She’s the last of the Hibbards, and a developer wanted to buy it, tear it down, and build condos. The thought of it makes me shudder! Do you know the Hibbard mansion, Qwill?”

  “I know where it is, but I’ve never seen it. I understand it’s been pictured in national magazines.”

  “Yes. In a county filled with stone mansions, it’s built entirely of wood, and miraculously it has survived forest fires, lightning, arson and accide
nts with wood-burning stoves and fireplaces, and human carelessness. Violet has undertaken to preserve it as a high-class guest house. . . . There’s a story for you, Qwill. And Violet would love to meet you. She adores your column!”

  Qwilleran automatically liked readers who adored his column. With a nonchalant shrug he said, “Give me a ring when she’s going to be in the shop. I’ll drop in.”

  When Qwilleran walked home from the bookstore and emerged from the woods, Koko was doing his jumping-jack act in the kitchen window. It meant that there was a message on the answering machine. Sure enough, the red light was blinking, and the message was from Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist (real name: Joe Bunker).

  “Hey, Qwill! This is Joe. Did Polly tell you the latest from Indian Village? I’ll pop in on my way to the studio and we’ll shoot the breeze. Will you be there around four-thirty? Leave a yes or no on the answer box.”

  Qwilleran’s answer was yes. What was the news that Polly hadn’t told him?

  Indian Village was an upscale residential area outside the city limits: rustic condos and apartment clusters in a wooded setting. There were nature trails along the Ittibittiwassee River, and there was a clubhouse with a bar, a bridge club, an occasional lecture, and a bird-watcher’s society.

  In the winter when the apple barn was impossible to heat, Qwilleran lived in Unit Four of a strip of condos called the Willows. Wetherby was his next-door neighbor, along with his cat, Jet Stream. Polly lived in Unit One with her Brutus and Catta. For a while Unit Two had been occupied by an ailurophobe, but he left suddenly. “Allergic to cat hair,” his neighbors said with a wink. There was more to the story than they cared to discuss.

  When Wetherby “popped in” at four-thirty, they sat at the bar, and he had a beer while Qwilleran had a ginger ale, asking, “Did you see the play last night, Joe?”

  “Yeah! They did a swell job! I imagine it was a challenge for the actors, but Carol is a great director.”

  “Did you hear the commotion in the audience at the beginning?”

  “Sure did! Only Ernie Kemple would have the guts to shut them up the way he did. He has a voice like a foghorn.”

  Qwilleran said, “Apparently, the culprits were offended; they didn’t return for the second act.”

  “Well, you know, Qwill, people get used to talking while watching TV, and they think it’s okay to do it at the theatre. They left because their feelings were hurt.”

  Koko jumped on the adjoining bar stool as if wanting to join in the conversation.

  “How’s Jet Stream?” Qwilleran asked.

  “He wants to know when you guys are moving back to the Village.”

  “Usually the first of November. . . . But what’s the big news? Did the bird-watchers spot a yellow-bellied sapsucker?”

  “The scuttlebutt is that Unit Two has been purchased—by Alden Wade! Better lock up your girlfriend! He has a reputation as a lady-killer.”

  Why had Polly not mentioned this? Qwilleran wondered. She was always the first to hear a rumor. But calmly he remarked, “It’s about time they found a buyer for Unit Two. It downgrades a neighborhood if a property is vacant too long. . . . Another drink, Joe?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got to amble over to the station.”

  “I hope the new neighbor likes cats,” Qwilleran said, making light of the situation.

  He wondered, after Wetherby had driven away, if Polly had been the one who suggested Unit Two to the personable widower who was going to work at the bookstore part-time, and who was said to be a lady-killer. Wetherby was a native of Lockmaster. He should know.

  The Siamese were standing shoulder to shoulder, waving their tails in unison—a polite reminder that it was dinnertime.

  Qwilleran said, “How would you guys like to move back to the Village earlier this year?”

  He spent the evening writing his review for Monday’s paper, being careful not to praise the two actors from Lockmaster more than hometown members of the theatre club. He also consulted his watch frequently.

  At ten o’clock he phoned Polly. There was no answer. He left a message.

  He had given the cats their bedtime treat and escorted them to their suite on the third balcony when Polly called. Her exhilaration was a far cry from her previous weariness.

  “Qwill! You’ll never guess where I’ve been tonight! To the Oscar Wilde play! Since Alden, one of our staffers, is in the cast, I thought it appropriate to take the Green Smocks, as we call the girls, to see the show. My treat! They loved it! They had all read your Tuesday column, stimulating their interest.” She paused for breath.

  He said, “I’m glad to see you recovered from last night’s doldrums. Do we credit Oscar Wilde or your hairdresser?”

  “Both!” she said with a trilling laugh that he had not heard for some time—not since she had started studying her encyclopedic manual on how to run a bookstore. Before he could comment, she asked, “How was your interview with Lisa Compton?”

  “Quite enlightening. There are some things I’d like to discuss with you. How about Sunday brunch at Tipsy’s tomorrow and then a musicale at the barn? I have a new recording of ‘La Symphonie Fantastique’ that you’ll like.”

  “Well . . . I really should get out my winter wardrobe and prepare for cold weather.”

  “Smart idea! I’m thinking of moving back to the Village earlier because of the weather forecast. . . . By the way, I hear that Unit Two is being purchased.”

  She hesitated before saying, “Oh, really?” It was her all-purpose expression indicating uneasiness, suspicion, alarm, and a desire to evade the subject.

  “I don’t know who it is, except that it’s a single man. I hope he likes cats,” he added in jest.

  “Where did you hear it?” she asked—defensively, he thought.

  “I don’t recall. Either at the theatre Friday night or at the bookstore today. It will be good to have the unit occupied. I hope he’s congenial. . . . Well, sleep well. À bientôt!”

  “À bientôt,” she echoed with a noticeable lack of spirit.

  Now Qwilleran was sure that Polly had suggested Unit Two to the new man in town. She was always discovering “interesting” men: a Chicago architect, a Canadian professor, an antiques dealer from Ohio . . . and now it appeared to be an actor! Why were women so easily mesmerized by actors? His own mother had fallen for an actor in a traveling company, but that was not all bad.

  Qwilleran had a strong desire for a large dish of ice cream, but in the kitchen there was an aroma of overripe bananas. He had not been observing the doctor’s advice. There were three bananas in the bowl on the bar, a handcrafted ceramic from the local art center. When empty it looked “arty.” With three brownish bananas in it, it looked like a garbage receptacle!

  He dumped them and had a large dish of ice cream.

  FIVE

  On Sunday Qwilleran was a willing guest at an impromptu dinner party, the purpose of which was to empty the Rikers’ refrigerator. Mildred Riker was the food editor of the Moose County Something; her husband, Arch, was editor in chief—and a longtime friend of the “Qwill Pen” columnist. The couple had made a sudden decision to close their house at the lake and return to winter quarters in Indian Village.

  When Mildred called Qwilleran with the invitation, she said, “After Labor Day the cottagers start moving out, and the shoreline gets bleak. If you don’t mind helping us clear out the refrigerator . . .”

  “Always glad to be of assistance,” he said quickly. “I’m very good at emptying refrigerators. How many courses do you think you can squeeze out of the old box?”

  “Five, at least. I called Polly, but she’s not available. I called the Comptons, too. Lyle is out of town, but Lisa will be here. She can tell us all about the rare books they’ve found among the ESP donations.”

  When Qwilleran arrived, the day was sunny enough and the breezes balmy enough to permit cocktails on the deck overlooking the lake. Arch was serving drinks.

  He was comfortably mi
ddle-aged—and plump from too much good eating. Mildred was plump and pretty. Toulouse, the half-starved stray they had rescued, lounged on the top rail of the deck. Now he was plump, too.

  “Where’s your wandering husband?” Qwilleran asked Lisa.

  “He had to leave this morning for a three-day seminar in Saint Paul.”

  Arch said, “I wish I had his job! He gets all these out-of-town trips, paid for by the county, and we never notice any improvement in the school system. Makes you wonder what they do in Saint Paul.”

  “May I quote you?” she asked sweetly.

  Qwilleran found Lisa friendly but authoritative, like a school principal on vacation. She dyed her hair. Lyle was a humorous grouch who was having a hard time saving his. When anyone asked them about their home life, Lisa would say, “We have a lot of fun. I don’t let him get away with anything.”

  Qwilleran said, “Too bad Lyle can’t be here today; I had planned to honor him with a limerick.” He handed Lisa an index card with the following lines:

  A school superintendent named Lyle

  Runs the Moose County system with style.

  He teaches teachers to teach,

  And he makes a good speech,

  But his disposition is vile.

  His wife screamed, “He’ll love it! He’ll have it framed for his office!”

  Arch complained, “How come no one ever writes a limerick about me?”

  “I tried,” Qwilleran said. “I’ve been trying for years! But you’re not a hiker or a biker, and the only other rhyme for Riker is piker.”

  Now, Qwilleran asked, “Does anyone know the Bill Turmeric who writes witty letters to the ‘Vox Pop’ page?”

  “Lyle knows him,” Lisa said. “He teaches English in the Sawdust City system.”

  Mildred said, “He recently maintained that ‘Go!’ is the shortest sentence in the English language.”

  Qwilleran objected. “In our family, ‘No!’ is equally short and to the point. The problem is, no one pays any attention.”

  Then Mildred told Lisa she looked wonderful since volunteering for the ESP.