The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell Read online

  After the parade, Qwilleran and Polly went to the barn for some classical music. Polly had wanted to pack a picnic lunch, but he knew what it would comprise, and he insisted on ordering from the caterer. When they arrived at the barn, Celia Robinson had delivered roast beef and cheddar sandwiches on rye, avocado and papaya salad, and lemon bars.

  Polly was politely enthusiastic over the picnic fare; Qwilleran felt she really preferred that other stuff, but he pretended to be pleased that she was pleased. To take her mind off the calories he said, “I overheard spectators at the parade talking about ‘Shooting and Poisoning.’ Is that some lurid TV special that I’m missing?” (At the barn, the only TV was in the cats’ quarters, and they watched only wildlife features.)

  Polly explained that they were talking about the Kennebeck woman who has second sight and had predicted shooting and poisoning during Pickax Now. This was the first time that she had predicted a crime—man against man.

  “The poisoning I can understand,” he said. “All those family reunions, all those picnics, all that potato salad.”

  “Oh, Qwill . . .” she chided and changed the subject.

  The day after the parade, it was back to work for Qwilleran.

  The families scheduling reunions in Pickax during the summer may have suggested ideas for his twice-weekly column, but his real interest was pure curiosity: He had never been a member of a family.

  In Chicago he grew up with only a mother, his father having died before he was born. No brothers or sisters, no grandparents, no aunts and uncles. Arch Riker was his best friend, and Mr. Riker did fatherly service for both boys: advice, sandlot baseball, trips to the zoo. Even now, the only members of Qwilleran’s “family” were two Siamese cats.

  In Pickax the host families of reunions were exhorted to register their plans and receive help with accommodations, entertainment reservations, and restaurant availabilities.

  Qwilleran went downtown to ask some questions and picked up a copy of the newspaper in the dispenser outside the store. Across the bottom of the front page was a two-line heading:

  THE LAUGH’S ON YOU, FELLAS!

  YOU STOLE A FAKE PICKAX!

  The police chief had been right: Maxine Pratt had been right. Qwilleran shrugged it off and went to the desk in the store lobby, where Thornton Haggis was on duty as registrar, asking, “Do you accept registrations for families of three?”

  Without missing a beat Thorn asked, “Are they interested in sports, plays, music, art shows, antiques? How about a dog show? How about a cat fashion show?”

  “What! Are we having one of those abominations here?” Qwilleran’s shock was genuine.

  “They say they’re very popular all over—with cat clubs, pet owners, and the general public. You’re dragging your feet, Qwill!”

  “Let’s change the subject, Thorn, before I burst a blood vessel.”

  “Well . . . I’m organizing a tour of old cemeteries that might interest you: forgotten graveyards, old tombstones, a few raunchy inscriptions. I have them all catalogued, and the old account books of Haggis Monument Works can tell visitors how much their ancestors paid for their grave markers. At one time in history, five dollars was a lot to pay for a tombstone.”

  “One question, Thorn. What is it that draws so many relatives together—from such great distances? It must be an emotion I’ve never felt.”

  “I daresay. It all boils down to family feeling, a consuming interest in your own flesh and blood—their successes, exploits, travels, even setbacks—a chance to see how the kids have grown, who has dyed her hair, who is gaining weight. It seems to be a middle-class phenomenon.”

  “How many families have signed up, Thorn? Could I spend a morning or afternoon with one group—just to see what they do, what they talk about, what they eat, how far they’ve traveled to be part of Pickax Now?”

  “Take your pick!” said the registrar. “Any one of them would think it an honor. Here’s the list.”

  There were names he had never heard before, and names that were too well known, but “Ogilvie-Fugtree” sounded inviting. He had known Mitch Ogilvie when the young bachelor was managing the Farmhouse Museum and later when he married a descendant of Captain Fugtree. She was a goat farmer, and Mitch was learning to make cheese. They lived in the captain’s historic farmhouse—a tall, stately, Victorian mansion.

  Actually, Qwilleran knew more about the couple than he could use in a column, but he felt comfortable with them.

  “Sign me up for a Saturday afternoon visit, Thorn,” he said. “And by the way, I sent a young couple down to the art center Saturday, and they bought one of your bowls for a gift. I hear you mesmerized them with some of your tall tales.”

  “I don’t know about that, but they said they were visiting the Ledfields in Purple Point, so I completed their education.”

  One morning Qwilleran said to the attentive Siamese, “Your uncle George is coming again. Do your ablutions before he gets here, and don’t forget to wash behind your ears.”

  “Uncle George” was G. Allen Barter, the attorney. To Qwilleran he was “Bart”—more of a pun than most persons realized.

  When Bart arrived, the four trooped into the dining room, single file, ready for business.

  The attorney said, “I searched my briefcase backwards and forward for that news photo of Harvey Ledfield. So did my wife, who has an eagle eye. Today is her birthday, by the way, and I’m taking her to dinner at the Boulder House Inn—just the two of us.”

  From a pencil holder Qwilleran plucked a fat yellow lead pencil stamped “Qwill Pen” in gold. “Give her this—with my birthday wishes, Bart.”

  “She’ll be ecstatic! She’s won three pens in your reader competitions, and she displays them like silver trophies.”

  Qwilleran said, “You married a Gemini, you lucky dog! That means she’s not only eagle-eyed but strong, kind, talented, smart, physically attractive—”

  “How do you know all this esoteric guff?”

  With a feigned show of modesty Qwilleran said, “I happen to be a Gemini myself.”

  “I should have suspected one of your sly tricks! . . . What are those photos?” He pointed toward two eight-by-ten glossies.

  “Oh, those!” Qwilleran said casually. “When I took my guests to dinner at the Nutcracker Inn on Saturday night, there happened to be a news photographer in the lobby, and he made shots of my party and the guest of honor, solo. You might like to give them to Harvey’s aunt to replace the missing news clipping.”

  “Very kind of you, Qwill. And how did the sketching go?”

  “He seemed to be impressed. His fiancée is charming. They walked down the lane to the art center and bought a turned-wood bowl for Harvey’s aunt. It’s a work of art—but a far cry from the silver-and-porcelain bowls she probably has in her collection.”

  With an abrupt change of mood the attorney said, “I had a call from one of their secretaries this morning, canceling their appointment. Both Mr. and Mrs. Ledfield are ‘indisposed.’ Allergy symptoms.”

  “How many secretaries do they have?” Qwilleran interrupted.

  “One to handle their financial undertakings, which are extensive, and one to handle their collectibles.”

  Qwilleran said, “I hope their condition is nothing serious.”

  “My wife calls this area Pollen Paradise. Every second person you meet has a red nose, red eyes, and a box of tissues. One would think the Ledfields, having lived here for three generations, would know how to deal with pollen.”

  Qwilleran thought, There were questions that could be asked, but attorneys don’t talk about their clients, especially to a newspaperman.

  Uncle George changed the subject. “How did the cats react to having an architectural draftsman in their private domain?”

  “Yum Yum stayed out of sight, but Koko surprised us all with his interest in the operation. . . . And, by the way, Bart, someone was telling me that the Ledfields are bequeathing their historical collections to Moose County
for the establishment of a museum—provided the county erects a suitable building. Is that a fact?”

  “It’s in the will, but I don’t see it happening in the foreseeable future. The Ledfields appear to be long-lived. Nathan’s father lived to be eighty and his grandfather ninety.”

  “But that was before freeway fatalities, plane crashes, and deranged snipers,” Qwilleran said. “Not to mention [he added whimsically] a new strain of hay fever imported from Outer Space.”

  “Yow!” Koko interrupted petulantly. His noontime snack was behind schedule.

  “Meeting adjourned,” the attorney said as he stuffed papers into his briefcase.

  SEVEN

  On Friday morning, as Qwilleran was preparing their breakfast, the cats huddled on top of the bar, waiting for the sideshow. They liked to be entertained, and he liked an audience. On this occasion he recited from his collection of limericks:

  I live with a pair of Siamese

  Who think they can do whatever they please.

  They subsist on steak

  And truffles and cake

  And lobster and six kinds of cheese.

  Two furry bodies bolted from the bar top and chased each other up and down the ramp—twice. There was something about the rhyme and rhythm of limericks and other homely verses that pricked their psyche and teed off a mad race.

  Returning to the kitchen with appetites whetted, they polished off two plates of turkey scraps from Lois’s Luncheonette. As he watched them enjoying their meal, the phone rang.

  Koko’s ear twitching told him it was friend, not foe.

  “Good morning!” he answered in the unctuously musical voice that amused his close associates.

  “Qwill! I’ve just received a very . . . interesting letter!” It was Polly’s voice, brimming with excitement.

  “About what?” he asked.

  “Wait until you read it!”

  “Would it be too presumptuous to ask who sent it?”

  “Clarissa Moore!”

  “Hmmm . . . Read it to me.”

  “It’s too long and too personal.”

  “Then we’ll go to dinner tonight, and you can bring it with you,” he suggested.

  “Tonight is my Bird Club meeting. Why don’t you come over to the bookstore for a few minutes. You can park your bicycle in the office.”

  He agreed, wondering what Harvey Ledfield’s fiancée could be writing about: Jerome? Invitation to a wedding?

  “I’ll be there as soon as I brush the cats. Want me to pick up something for your lunch?”

  “Thanks, dear, but I’ve brought my lunch.”

  He had guessed as much and he knew what it would be!

  Qwilleran finished brushing the cats and told them he was going to visit Dundee and read a letter from Jerome’s mother. Then he added, “Let’s hope the Ledfield heir isn’t suing you, Koko, for an unprovoked attack!”

  Qwilleran had planned to bike to the newspaper office to file copy for his Friday column, but his built-in itch to know the latest news caused him to detour to the bookstore. He was pedaling his British Silverlight that stopped traffic; on a sunny day it gleamed like a piece of jewelry.

  Qwilleran parked his handsome bike in Polly’s office, and Dundee, who had never seen a bicycle in his young life, gave the wheels the sniff test.

  Qwilleran said, “He’s telling me I need air in the rear tire.”

  “Have a chair,” Polly said. “You’ll need to be sitting down to read this.” She handed him a business envelope with typed address. With a newsman’s lack of personal reaction, he read the letter through—then read it again.

  Dear Polly,

  It was a privilege and pleasure to meet you Saturday night. I wish we lived in the same town. You would be my role model. Sorry I didn’t meet Brutus and Catta.

  Here is a snapshot of Jerome taken when he won first prize in a cat fashion show. He was dressed as Santa Claus. I made his costume: a red coat and red cap with white fur trim and a white fur bib hanging around his neck, supposed to be a beard. It was hilariously funny, and he didn’t object. Jerome is always calm, cool, and collected.

  And now for the bad news—or good, depending on one’s point of view. I’ve broken up with Harvey. I’m still going to call her Aunt Doris and keep in touch. She’s so sweet! To tell the truth, I think she likes me more than she does Harvey!

  When we got home, Harvey told me I’d have to get rid of Jerome! He hates cats. I said he’d have to get a steady job and/or go to college. He said he wouldn’t have to do either because he’ll inherit the Ledfield millions or billions.

  Well! I took off Aunt Doris’s ring and told him I was going to return it to her.

  Harvey is sexy and all that, and he has that gorgeous head of hair—but we’re all wrong for each other. What do you think, Polly? I don’t have anyone to discuss it with, and my family in Indiana wouldn’t understand.

  With best wishes, Clarissa

  “Well . . . What do you think?” Polly asked. “Are you surprised?”

  “I’ll tell you what I think!” he said. “If my girlfriend dressed up her cat like Santa Claus—with a white fur bib—I’d consider it grounds for murder! . . . No! In any marriage there are periodic disagreements, but to start a lifelong union with a built-in disagreement like theirs would be insanity. She’s an ailurophile; he’s an ailurophobe. Koko knew it or he wouldn’t have gone airborne! I tried to pass it off as a catly game, but Koko is no fool. . . . Sorry to be on my soapbox.”

  Dundee, who had been courting customers on the selling floor, came running to enjoy the fun.

  “I hope my lecture didn’t go out over the loudspeakers,” Qwilleran said. “What I’m trying to say is this: The only thing Harvey and Clarissa have in common is skiing and I say their so-called engagement was all a pose, on Harvey’s part—planned to mislead Doris and Nathan and sew up the inheritance. . . . No matter, the plot backfired. Harvey will have to try again another year.” And then he asked casually, “What’s on the program at the Bird Club tonight—besides chicken potpie for dinner? I wonder how many pies you can get out of a single chicken?”

  “Oh, Qwill!” she remonstrated.

  “Do you mind looking after my bike while I go downstairs to see if they have anything new in the old-book department?”

  The Edd Smith Place on the lower level had the usual browsers and, as usual, Lisa Compton at the cash register.

  “Qwill, I was just thinking about you! We received several boxes of books from Trawnto Beach, including a book I read when I was twelve. I laughed so hard, I rolled on the floor, and my mother thought I was having convulsions. Have you ever read Three Men in a Boat by a British humorist published in 1889?”

  “No,” he said, “and frankly I’ve never rolled on the floor with laughter.”

  “You can read it aloud to the cats,” Lisa said. “It’s a small book, the kind Koko likes to push off the shelf—if you’re telling the truth. Lyle and I have never had a cat that pushed books off the shelf, and he says it’s a heinous fabrication on your part.”

  “He’s never had a Siamese, that’s his problem. . . . I’ll take the book. How much? Do I get my money back if I don’t roll on the floor?”

  En route to the newspaper office Qwilleran and the British Silverlight received friendly toots from motorists and cheers from admiring pedestrians. One old gentleman shouted in a cracked voice: “Heigh-ho, Silver!”

  In front of the Sprenkle Building, a tall stately woman of advanced age stood on the curb and waved. Qwilleran braked his bike abruptly in front of her and said, “Sorry, madam, you’ll have to hail a taxi. My license doesn’t permit me to transport passengers.”

  “Qwill, you rascal!” she cried. “You say the most outrageous things with a straight face!”

  She was Maggie Sprenkle, one of the town’s most active octogenarians, noted for her volunteer work in animal rescue. After her husband’s death, she sold their Purple Point property and moved into the Sprenkle Building downtown
in order to be closer to her volunteer activities. The ground floor was occupied by insurance and real estate firms; the upper two floors had been transformed into a Victorian palace.

  Maggie asked, “Could you come upstairs for a cup of tea? I have something to discuss with you.”

  “After I’ve filed my copy at the paper.”

  “Come around in the rear,” she said. “There’s room in the back hall to park your bicycle.”

  In half an hour he returned and rang the bell; a buzzer admitted him and the Silverlight, and he rode to the second floor in a small elevator—all this in a hundred-year-old building with a Victorian palace upstairs. There were crystal chandeliers, plush carpet, patterned with roses, and red walls hung with large paintings in gilt frames.

  When she offered him a “nice cup of tea,” he said gently, “Somehow, Maggie, a nice cup of tea seems out of sync with a bicycle ride, even on a British one.”

  She agreed, and served Squunk water with cranberry juice.

  Before sitting down at the carved marble-top table, he paid his respects to the five “ladies” from the animal shelter, who sat in five windows overlooking Main Street traffic. They had names like Florence Nightingale, Sarah Bernhardt, Louisa May Alcott, and so forth.

  “How’s everything at the animal shelter?” he asked.

  “Thanks to the K Fund, we’ve doubled our capacity and hired a second rescue officer. Now, if only we could educate people not to abandon unwanted pets without food, water, or protection from wild animals! A pregnant cat or dog is driven into the country and dropped by the roadside. It breaks my heart! At the shelter, cages are being cleaned and animals bathed by wealthy women volunteers who could be playing afternoon bridge or flying to Chicago for a day’s shopping. . . . You know all this, Qwill. You’ve written columns on it. And you quoted a philosopher: ‘It is better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness.’ We try to place as many orphaned animals as we can. That’s what I wanted to discuss with you: During the summer, while a lot of out-of-staters are here for reunions, why not have a series of animal auctions?”