The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell Read online

  “What’s this all about, young man?” Qwilleran demanded. Koko never did anything without a motive. There was some reason why the cat took exception to the Ledfield heir.

  Qwilleran lost no time in ordering his birthday present from the young widow in Kennebeck, as recorded in his private journal:

  Saturday—Today I met the Kennebeck Knitter. Ordered a sweater—sleeveless. V-neck, tan with brown borders. My birthday gift from Polly, who also coached me.

  Rule One—Call her Veronica. She doesn’t like being called “Mrs.” Does it bring back painful memories?

  Rule Two—Don’t mention her weather predictions. She thinks of them as an embarrassing disease.

  For some reason I expected something spooky about the lady, but she’s attractive, has a winning personality and a mellow speaking voice. Polly says she’s a contralto. She reads the “Qwill Pen” and knows all about Koko and Yum Yum. Her cat is a gray tiger named Tiger. I gave her a yellow “Qwill Pen” pencil, and you’d think it was a gold-plated Parker pen.

  She told me that her church is planning a fall concert with Uncle Louie MacLeod as director and she hopes Polly will bring me.

  She also gave me some of the crunchy home-baked treats she makes for Tiger, but when I put them on the cats’ plates under the kitchen table, they sniffed them and walked away. Twice I saw them return to inspect them, and the third time they gobbled them up! CATS!

  FIVE

  There was no such thing as business as usual in the days prior to the barn sketching. Pat O’Dell’s cleaning crew scoured the interior top to bottom. Then Mrs. Fulgrove came in to dust, polish, and do what she called fluffing up—not forgetting to leave one of her unique notes:

  “One of the kitties’ dishes has a crack in it, which you should get a new one.”

  As for the two “Qwill Pen” columns, Qwilleran employed well-known tricks of the trade.

  On Tuesday he would reprint Cool Koko’s Almanac with bright catly sayings, such as “It’s a wise cat that knows which ankle to rub” and “If at first you don’t succeed howl louder.”

  On Friday he would reprint “by popular demand” witty letters from such readers as Dr. Bruce Abernethy, the pediatrician in Black Creek; Mavis Adams, attorney with HBB&A, and Bill Turmeric, Sawdust City schoolteacher.

  Everyone loved these reprints—except Arch Riker, but his grousing was all an act, since everyone knew the K Fund owned the newspaper.

  Next Qwilleran called his friend John Bushland. Bushy was a prize-winning photographer who had a portrait studio and darkroom in his home and also accepted freelance assignments from the newspaper and anyone else willing to pay. For Qwilleran he always forgot to send a bill. “I owe you one,” he would say, referring to a hair-raising experience they had shared.

  Phoning the photographer, the newsman said, “Bushy, I’m in the soup! Koko destroyed a photo I was supposed to return to someone in Purple Point. I won’t go into details, but I’m taking a group to dinner at the Nutcracker Inn on Saturday night, and I wonder if you’d be there to photograph them. We’ll arrive at seven o’clock.”

  “I have a shoot at eight o’clock, but I can squeeze it in. Any instructions?”

  “I’m chiefly interested in a full-length portrait of the guest of honor—a tall young man with shoulder-length hair, unless he’s had it cut lately. In any case, I’ll be there to point him out. You can also shoot the group as a whole. I’ll explain later. . . . And Bushy, send me a bill; I’ll take it out of Koko’s allowance.”

  On Saturday morning as Qwilleran groomed the Siamese, he said, “It’s not every day we have guests from California, so be on your best behavior. If you mind your manners, you might be included in one of his sketches.”

  The cats were quite calm. As for Qwilleran, he appeared calm, but he was feeling more stage fright than he had felt since playing the lead in a high school production of King Lear.

  A chauffeur-driven limousine brought the guests to the barnyard. That was typical of the well-bred, well-heeled old-timers who lived in Purple Point.

  The young couple who stepped out of the car gazed up at the barn with unabashed awe.

  Qwilleran showed the chauffeur the exit circle. Then he shook hands with Harvey Ledfield—tall, young, and serious in mien, with a healthy crop of shoulder-length hair in the tawny color of an Irish Setter. The young woman, who said she was Clarissa Moore, extended a hand with a businesslike grip that belied her dimpled smile and curly blond hair. Qwilleran thought, Wait until Joe lays eyes on her. He’ll light up like Times Square!

  The cats were watching from the kitchen window, and Qwilleran explained to his guests, “This is the back door. The front door is in the rear. That’s what happens when you convert a drive-through apple barn into something it was never intended to be.”

  They walked around to the rear (or front) on a flagstone path between weeds and wildflowers tended with loving care by Pat O’Dell’s landscape crew.

  Then they entered through the custom-made double doors—staring and speechless until Clarissa said, “It’s so . . . overwhelming . . . I could cry!”

  Qwilleran liked her immediately. He liked her even more when he discovered she was a journalism major in her fourth year.

  Still speechless, Harvey wandered around carrying a camp stool, sketch pad, and pencil box. He was looking for vantage points for sketching. Clarissa asked, “Where are your cats, Mr. Qwilleran?”

  “Call me Qwill. Koko and Yum Yum are overhead somewhere, giving you a security check. . . . Feel free to walk up the ramps to the roof, Harvey. The scene from every level is incredible.”

  “I can see that!” the young man said. “You two—just keep out of my way and let me think.”

  Qwilleran and Clarissa went to the gazebo with refreshments.

  She said, “I’m sorry I didn’t meet your cats. Aunt Doris showed me a scrapbook of your columns, and a lot of them were about Cool Koko.”

  “Do you have cats?” he asked.

  “I have a British Shorthair named Jerome. He has won prizes. Do you know Brits? They have round heads, perky ears, and great golden eyes.” She produced a snapshot from her shoulder bag.

  “He has a look of nobility,” Qwilleran said, “and I’ve never seen such lush fur on a Shorthair—or such a rich gray!”

  “It’s called blue,” she corrected him.

  “Interesting. Does Harvey like cats?”

  “No. He’s never known any. When I was growing up in Indiana, we had cats around all the time.”

  “There are excellent journalism schools in the Midwest; may I ask why you chose California?”

  She flashed her dimples. “On a vacation out there, I discovered downhill skiing and it seemed like a good idea . . . but sometimes I get homesick.” She waved her arm at the landscape. “It would be fun to work for a paper like the Moose County Something. . . . What’s down this little lane?”

  He said, “It leads to the back road. There’s an art center down there, and they’re having a craft show that you might enjoy. If you want to amble down and see the show, I’ll go indoors and give Harvey some moral support.”

  Harvey was sitting quietly on the camp stool, looking up at the balconies and ramps and then down at his drawing pad. His concentration was too intense to interrupt but as Qwilleran watched, there was a blur of movement overhead and a cry of alarm. Harvey fell off his stool and a cat darted away up the ramp and out of sight.

  Qwilleran rushed to the casualty on the floor. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay. . . . Surprised, that’s all . . . It was like a bombshell—but soft. Was it the cat?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not vicious. Maybe he was playing games. He has a strange sense of humor.”

  Harvey stood up and shook himself. “I think I’ve done enough sketching.”

  Qwilleran thought, There was no blood, thank God. Koko’s claws were sheathed. Did he think that tawny head of hair was on a dog?

  “Go out to the
gazebo and go down the lane. Clarissa has already gone down to the art center. They’re having a craft show.”

  Harvey took his advice and they returned an hour later looking pleased. They had bought a fine turned-wood bowl as a hostess gift for Aunt Doris. And they had met an older man who told some fantastic stories about the apple orchard and the barn.

  “We told him we were visiting you,” Clarissa said, “and he said he knows you very well.”

  “Did he have white hair? That’s Thornton Haggis, third-generation stonecutter, with a degree in art history. Since retiring he’s taken up wood turning as a hobby.”

  “I think Pickax would be a wonderful place to live!” she said.

  Harvey scowled at her, and Qwilleran quickly changed the subject, briefing them for the evening: They would meet Polly Duncan, who knew Aunt Doris. . . . They would visit the bookstore named after the pirate’s chest buried on the site. . . . They would have dinner at the historic Nutcracker Inn, famous for its eccentric brickwork and black walnut interior.

  No mention was made of a bibliocat at the bookstore or the resident feline at the inn.

  When they picked up Polly at The Pirate’s Chest, Clarissa was quick to notice the bronze sculpture of a cat on a pedestal in the park. Harvey was shown the pirate’s chest excavated on the site of the new building. Then Clarissa staged a maudlin scene with Dundee. Later, driving to the inn, the two women charmed each other with girl talk in the backseat, and Qwilleran entertained the guest of honor with a capsule account of Moose County’s two-century history.

  At the Nutcracker Inn there was time to walk down to the creek where ducks and ducklings performed their well-rehearsed ballet in return for morsels of bread that the host happened to have in his pocket.

  In the lobby of the inn they were met by a sleek black cat named Nicodemus—and the photographer.

  With hints from the host, Bushy snapped full-length portraits of the guest of honor, while Clarissa gushed over Nicodemus. Then Wetherby Goode appeared, and Qwilleran requested a group shot of the four guests. Before anyone knew what was happening, the photographer was dismissed with a wink and the group went in to dinner.

  At the table it took Clarissa and the weatherman all of sixty seconds to discover they were ailurophiles. He said his Jet Stream knew more about an approaching storm than the meteorologists did. She said her Jerome had won first prize in a cat fashion show, costumed as Santa Claus. Polly related how her Siamese had a personality problem until she changed its name from Bootsie to Brutus. Qwilleran told how Koko had found a missing person buried in a sand dune.

  Then Harvey told, solemnly, about Koko’s aerial attack, and the other three guests found it hilariously funny. And when Wetherby quipped about “raining cats and dogs” the two women were convulsed with laughter again.

  Harvey was not amused. Qwilleran gave a signal, and the weatherman went to the piano and played “Kitten on the Keys” very fast.

  Later, during dinner, Clarissa said, “I saw a distinguished-looking man with a guide dog downtown. Who is he?”

  The three locals talked all at once:

  “Burgess Campbell, blind from birth.”

  “Comes from a very old family.”

  “His dog is Alexander.”

  “He lectures on American history at the community college.”

  “Burgess, not the dog,” said Wetherby.

  After a few smirks they went on.

  “He instills his students with a sense of creative community involvement,” Qwilleran added.

  “He sounds wonderful. Wish I could interview him for my school paper.”

  “We’re leaving early Monday morning,” Harvey snapped.

  To change the mood Polly said, “Tell them about the Civilian Fire Watch, Qwill.”

  He nodded sagely. “First you have to understand that two hundred square miles of this county were destroyed by forest fire in 1869. Ever since, the population has dreaded wildfires in the dry season. Burgess’s students organized a round-the-clock patrol of country roads by volunteers working in four-hour shifts and reporting by cell phone. Everyone cooperated enthusiastically.”

  Wetherby said, “Tell them about your historical show on the Great Fire.”

  “It will run for thirteen Sunday matinees, starting tomorrow; and I can get you two tickets if you’re interested.”

  Harvey said, “I’m afraid we have to spend Sunday with my aunt and uncle.”

  “Too bad,” Wetherby said. “Perhaps you’ll be back before the summer’s over.” He eyed Clarissa invitingly.

  After the other three had left for Purple Point, Qwilleran and Polly drove to Pickax.

  He said, “You and Clarissa seemed to spend a long time in the ladies’ room, if you’ll pardon an indelicate observation.”

  “She wanted to talk,” Polly said. “It amused her that she and Harvey were given separate rooms at opposite ends of a very long hall. Then Doris was shocked that Harvey had not given her an engagement ring. He said he couldn’t afford one, so Doris gave him one of her diamonds to put on Clarissa’s finger in a solemn ceremony—which Harvey thought was silly. Clarissa was deeply touched.”

  “Hmmm” was Qwilleran’s only comment.

  He said, “Is it too late to stop at the barn for a Mahler symphony?”

  Polly thought it would be an appropriate finale to a most interesting evening. And after all, it was Saturday night.

  The day following the barn sketching, Koko was still not himself. Now Qwilleran knew the origin of the expression “Nervous as a cat.” “Cool Koko,” as he was known, was anything but cool, leading Qwilleran to write the following in his private journal:

  Sunday—Why is Koko acting so unusual? Is he trying to tell me something? In all the years we have lived in the barn, he has never dropped from a balcony onto an innocent bystander! Perhaps Harvey isn’t so innocent. That raises a challenging question!

  Harvey and his fiancée were still in town today, spending time with the aunt and uncle. I’d be curious to know what that entails.

  One thing I know for certain: Koko’s aerial assault was not a mere whim. Nor did the color of the man’s hair tantalize the cat. It’s something deeper than that.

  The guy’s an ailurophobe, but that’s nothing new, and I do believe that Koko considers them more to be pitied than scorned.

  SIX

  On Memorial Day Qwilleran and Polly appeared in the women’s lingerie department on the second floor of the Lanspeak store. Large windows overlooked the parade route, and there were folding chairs borrowed from Dingleberry’s Funeral Home as well as some tall bar stools lent by Harry’s Pub . . . not to mention a few plaster mannequins in chiffon nightgowns, lace-trimmed slips, and black satin teddies.

  Others who had been invited were Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers, Gil MacMurchie, and certain community leaders.

  The Ledfields had been invited because they had lent historic objects for the float, but said they were suffering from allergies; June was the month for sniffing and sneezing in Moose County.

  The audio gags were effective. The sight gags were beguiling. Then came the floats depicting Pickax Then:

  HOW IT ALL STARTED . . . The famous pickax.

  THEY WERE HERE FIRST . . . Wildlife—fine examples of the taxidermist’s art.

  BE IT EVER SO HUMBLE . . . The interior of a pioneer cabin with fire glowing on the hearth, a cook pot on a tripod, mother rocking a cradle, small boy reading a large picture book, older sister sewing, father arriving home with shotgun and a brace of rabbits.

  DEAR OLD GOLDEN SCHOOLDAYS . . . Children sitting on wooden benches, schoolmarm, looking stern and rapping a ruler on a table piled with old books.

  LONG BEFORE SUPERMARKETS . . . A barnyard scene with live cow and farmer with milk pail, chickens in coops, children carrying egg baskets, a sack of corn.

  SUNDAY GO-TO-MEETIN’ . . . Family dressed in their Sunday best, sitting on backless benches, hymnbooks open, preacher pounding the pulpit, choir of three
primly dressed singers.

  THE OLD VILLAGE STORE . . . Clerk measuring calico for a customer, small boy ogling candy jars, loafers playing checkers on the old cracker barrel.

  WITH THIS RING I THEE WED . . . Bride and groom sitting for photographer, box camera on a tripod and his head under a black cloth, attendants throwing confetti at spectators on the sidewalk.

  The parade ended with a laugh: a marching band of clodhoppers wearing raggle-taggle garb, plodding along, hopelessly out of step, playing “Yankee Doodle Dandy” and hitting wrong notes with joyful abandon. They were the high school band—having fun, acting up, burlesquing the Good Old Days.

  The crowd on the sidelines went wild with cheers and whistles, and the distinguished onlookers in the second-floor window laughed and applauded and congratulated Gil MacMurchie for a job well done.

  Qwilleran said, “All the performers on the floats were members of the theatre club and had Carol and Larry for directors. It shows!”

  “I appreciate watching a parade from a comfortable chair—behind glass—but I wonder if we missed some of the sound effects: the farmer playing his harmonica to his cow, for example.” Polly said, “And the three choir singers in the Sunday-meeting scene told me they were going to sing hymns in three-part harmony.”

  Qwilleran scribbled a limerick on an index card—anonymously—and slipped it to Hixie:

  Old folks all remember how

  Every family had a cow.

  Life was slow

  And prices were low,

  But I’d rather live in Pickax now.