The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell Read online

  Qwilleran gulped. He had been warned. They were going to ask him to be auctioneer! “Sounds like a good idea! I’m sure you could get Foxy Fred to handle it gratis. He would be very good at kidding the audience and pitting bidder against bidder. An out-of-town audience would eat it up!”

  “You’re very right, Qwill! We’ve asked him and he’s going to do it. And here’s what the volunteers suggested. Instead of putting anonymous animals on the block, give them all famous names—like my ladies!”

  “Excellent idea!” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “As a matter of fact . . . yes!” Maggie said. “Could you make up a list of names that are well known? We’d start with kitties.”

  “With pleasure! They’d be names from literature and legend—no contemporary figures. Politicians or movie stars or others in the news would turn it into a joke. The names can still have a light connotation: Peter Pan, Cholly Knickerbocker, Rosie O’Grady, Goody Two-Shoes. That would be perfect for a female with two white paws.”

  “Oh, I’m so excited, Qwill! How soon can you give us a list? We have some sharp-witted volunteers who will love fitting the names to the right kitties.”

  “In fact, Maggie, I’ll pay a visit to the shelter. Colors and marking might suggest ‘Cinderella’ for all white; ‘Bonnie Lassie’ for an orange marmalade mix; ‘Tom Sawyer’ for a male with jaunty markings on the head. . . . Enough of this! I could stay here all day! . . . Just let me ask you one question: Do you know the Ledfields?”

  He was prompted solely by a free-ranging curiosity that was part of his profession. Maggie’s response was more than he anticipated.

  “Why, yes! Nathan and Doris were our neighbors in Purple Point! Jeremy and I dined with them often. Nathan is a wonderful man—played the violin. Doris accompanied him on the piano. She’s a sweet, retiring person—sad, because she’s childless, and the Ledfields have always felt strongly about continuing the bloodline. They have only a nephew in California.”

  “He visited here last weekend, Maggie, to make sketches of my barn for an architectural project. He’s entering college in the fall.”

  “Really? That will please his aunt and uncle. I believe his name is Harvey. He was here last winter. Harvey’s parents were killed in a car crash on the freeway.”

  Maggie’s cagily secretive expression caused Qwilleran to remark, “A terrible tragedy!”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but everyone knows that Nathan’s brother was the black sheep of the family—a burden and an embarrassment. When they died, that left Harvey the only heir to the Ledfield fortune, so Nathan sent him a pair of plane tickets, and he visited here with a friend, a personable young man. Nathan found the friend an interesting conversationalist but he was disappointed in Harvey. All the young man could talk about was a glamorous ski lodge in the mountains, which he wanted his uncle to back.”

  “Any luck?” Qwilleran asked.

  “You jest!” Maggie replied. “Nathan considered it a frivolity, and the two youths didn’t stay long. Nathan would prefer to put his heir through college.”

  “Did you meet Harvey? No? It’s just as well, Maggie. He’s a cat hater. . . . And now I must tear myself away from your fascinating company.”

  Maggie said, “You’re so kind and understanding, Qwill! And always so concerned about people. . . . Don’t forget the list of cat names.”

  On the way out he noticed a small framed photo on a bookshelf. Two couples in a rose garden.

  “The handsome one is my Jeremy,” Maggie said. “Doris and I are sitting on a bench that Jeremy copied from the one in Monet’s A Garden at Giverny. My husband did beautiful things with wood. The framed calligraphy is Jeremy’s work, too—a quotation from the Desiderata: ‘With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,/it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.’ ”

  Maggie added, “Jeremy was unable to walk; he was thrown from a horse when he was a young man. . . . Do you have a copy of the Desiderata, Qwill? I have one on my wall, and it’s the first thing I see every morning. I have a copy for you, if you have a good place to post it.”

  He promised to thumbtack it on the bulletin board in his writing studio.

  With another look at the photograph in the rose garden, Qwilleran came to several conclusions: Jeremy was indeed handsome and grew beautiful roses. . . . Maggie looked then, as she does now, very much in charge. . . . Nathan was not tall but broad-shouldered, serious—a picture of the concert violinist and keeper of the family dignity. . . . Doris was small and frail and devoted to her husband; she looked at him instead of at the photographer.

  Later in the evening, he wrote in his journal:

  Friday—Polly and I are making two lists for Maggie: one for males, one for females. I refuse to call them little boys and little girls.

  The names, we decided, should be important, well known, strong-sounding, even when reduced to a nickname for everyday use. Volunteers will have to match them up with forty little balls of fur, so we supplied more than enough.

  Examples: Rudyard Kipling, Conan Doyle, Lewis and Clark (for twins), Michelangelo, Henry Longfellow, Winslow Homer, Bustopher Jones.

  And then: Betsy Ross, Jane Austen, Lorna Doone, Agatha Christie, Cleopatra.

  One question: Suppose a sweet little Cinderella grows up to have a personality like Attila the Hun? Does the purchaser get a refund?

  EIGHT

  It was the second Tuesday in June, and Qwilleran was polishing his second “Late Great” for the the “Qwill Pen” when the phone rang.

  When Qwilleran answered, he had to chuckle; only his old friend Arch Riker could say “good morning” and make it sound like an accusation.

  The editor in chief barked, “Who’s Clarissa Moore?”

  Assuming a grouchy humor to match, Qwilleran snapped, “Who’s calling? And why do you ask?”

  “She sent us a job application from California! Gave you as a reference.”

  “Oh! Her! Yes, I seem to remember, Arch.” He was playing a role to the hilt. “She and a friend were visiting the Ledfields in Purple Point. I suppose you know who the Ledfields are?”

  “Everyone knows who the Ledfields are! How did you yet involved?”

  “Someone suggested I take the young couple to dinner, since she was headed for a career in journalism. She is young—bright, personable. That’s all I know.” He refrained from mentioning Jerome, the Santa Claus costume, the broken engagement—if it was even a fact.

  “She sent tear sheets of her newswriting and feature stories. Pretty good stuff. She’s from Indiana, so she’d fit in here.”

  “Do you have an opening, Arch?”

  “That’s just it! Jill Handley’s taking a year’s maternity leave. . . . Is your copy in for today?”

  Arch slammed the receiver without waiting for an answer.

  Qwilleran had to smile. Everyone in the city room liked Arch and his Grumpy Boss act. He ran a good paper and had a heart of gold. As his wife said, “Arch doesn’t want anyone to know how happy he is!”

  Qwilleran finished his profile of Agatha Burns, a teacher who lived to the century mark. He quoted three generations of students:

  “I don’t know how she did it, but she really made me want to learn.”

  “Can you imagine? She even made me enjoy Latin.”

  “When the state Board of Education took Latin off the curriculum, some of us kids staged a protest march. It didn’t do any good. After that she taught English and made us get excited about subjects and predicates, and things like gerunds! I haven’t thought about a gerund in twenty years.”

  “My mom went to school in Milwaukee and remembers hating Silas Marner and The Scarlet Letter . . . but Miss Agatha somehow tricked us into enjoying all those old chestnuts. . . . What was her secret? There must be a secret!”

  (Later, when Lisa Compton read the profile, she said, “I know her secret. She knew how to put herself in the students’ shoes; sh
e thought from their viewpoint. Not easy to do!”)

  After filing his copy at the Something, Qwilleran happened upon Gil MacMurchie at the bank. The one was curious about the next parade, and the other was eager to talk about it. They borrowed one of the small conference rooms.

  “How’s it going?” Qwilleran asked, referring to the Fourth of July parade honoring Pickax Now.

  “Let me tell you! We had a setback, but not for long. You see, our slogan was ‘Everything’s Coming Up Roses.’ We were gonna order tons of roses from Down Below, throw them from the floats, drop them from the helicopter! Then somebody reminded us that roses have thorns, and if an eyeball got pricked, the city could get sued.”

  “They had a point,” Qwilleran said.

  “So, back to the drawing board. This time we decided on ‘Everything’s Coming Up Peonies!’ We have peonies in every backyard. The Peony Club has a couple of hundred members! And it won’t cost a cent!”

  “Smart thinking, Gil! Is there anything I can do?”

  “Well, yes. Would the ‘Qwill Pen’ care to write about the history of peonies? They go back to ancient times and used to have magical powers. There are books in the library, and you could interview the officers of the Peony Club.”

  (Qwilleran, who was not even sure what a peony looked like, was about to become an authority on yet another subject.) He asked, “Do you know anything about the mansions of Purple Point, Gil?”

  “I ought to! Three generations of my family spent their lives crawling between floors of those old hulks. In the nineteenth century, they didn’t have bathrooms—only water closets, in spite of all their magnificence.”

  “Is that so?” Qwilleran mused, remembering that King George III died in his water closet.

  Gil went on. “Now all the bedrooms have private baths with walk-in showers and gold faucets! It kept our family busy for three generations. We’re not complaining!”

  “Do you know the Ledfields’ place, Gil?”

  “Sure! The Old Manse! They had six bedrooms made into six suites, and the master suite was like a small mansion-within-a-mansion, complete with grand piano. Nice people. They always paid their bills on time . . . and sent their plumber something at Christmas.”

  That night, Qwilleran and Polly dined at Tipsy’s Tavern, a log-built roadhouse north of town, noted for wonderful chicken dinners and memorable brunches. (The owner had his own poultry farm, viewable from the side windows.) The tavern was named after the cat of the original owner. A portrait of Tipsy hung in the main dining room. The staff were all lively women of sixty or more who called Qwilleran “Sonny.” He and Polly went there often.

  Tonight they were seated in a quiet alcove for two, overlooking the poultry yards.

  Polly said, “Last night Arch had a dinner meeting somewhere, and Mildred and I had a nice supper at their place, chattering like magpies all the time. Then we had tea and cookies on the deck, and it was so peaceful and pleasant, we didn’t say a word. Then suddenly Mildred said something I didn’t understand.”

  “Can you tell me what it was?” he asked. “Or is it a female secret?”

  The words were, as Polly recalled them, “The time of many murders is after midnight.”

  Polly explained that there are times when one is alone and contented—or with friends who are quiet and happy, and no one is talking—then suddenly you want to say something but have nothing to say.

  She paused to await Qwilleran’s reaction.

  “Hmmm,” he murmured thoughtfully—a reaction well known to his friends.

  “Mildred said it was a practice sentence when she was learning to type in high school, and it drifts back into her head when it’s completely empty.”

  “I can understand,” he said. “I have a Dickens quotation that serves the same purpose.”

  It was from A Tale of Two Cities: “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.”

  Then Polly confessed hers. “Nothing will come of nothing.” She had inherited it from her father, who was a Shakespeare scholar. Qwilleran knew the play: King Lear. How could he forget?

  At that moment one of the grandmotherly waitresses bustled into the room. “Do you kiddies want dessert?”

  The house specialty was bread pudding with a sauce made with maple syrup from their own trees.

  On the way home Polly said, “Everyone’s talking about your ‘Late Great’ column on Agatha Burns.”

  “I had a warm letter from her niece, who lives in Ittibittiwassee Estates. She sent me one of Agatha’s books. It came by motorcycle messenger. He also almost fell off his bike when he saw Koko hopping around in the kitchen window. The famous Koko! He could hardly wait to tell his wife that he had seen Cool Koko in person.”

  “What was the book?” she asked.

  “Hawthorne’s Mosses from an Old Manse.”

  “How appropriate! The Ledfields call their place the Old Manse!”

  “When I put the book on the coffee table, Koko immediately sat on it. I told him he had good taste in literature, and he blinked his eyes.”

  The next afternoon, as Qwilleran was reading Nathaniel Hawthorne to two unsuspecting Siamese, he had a phone call from Thornton Haggis at the art center.

  “Got a couple of minutes? I’ve got some interesting news.”

  “I’ve just made some fresh coffee, Thorn. Why don’t you trot up here.”

  The visitor admired the cats, praised the coffee, had some good words to say about Hawthorne.

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Qwilleran said.

  “Do you know the Kennebeck Knitter?”

  “She’s doing a sweater for me.”

  “Do you know about her predictions?”

  Qwilleran said, “Don’t tell me the next parade is going to be rained out! Gil MacMurchie will have a stroke.”

  “Worse than that! Her predictions have always been about natural disasters. Before the last parade, she foresaw man-made crimes for the first time and she still sees it. Shooting and poisoning! She’s not talkin’ about BB guns and tainted potato salad, but real crime! Man-made, not weather-made!”

  “Hmmm,” Qwilleran mused. What could he say?

  Thorn said, “Well, they’re doing a new show at the gallery. They need me to climb the ladder. Thanks for the coffee.”

  NINE

  While Qwilleran waited for a calamity to prove his theory, that everything was going too well for Pickax Now (he was right, of course, but proof would come later), Clarissa arrived, as reported in his private journal.

  Tuesday—Clarissa has arrived.

  No fuss, no muss. She’s a real newswoman—independent; knows her way around; no need for welcoming assistance. Her curls and dimples are misleading.

  So we learn that she and Jerome and luggage arrived by plane, then drove an airport rental car to the Winston Park apartments, where she had reserved a unit by phone. Her first consideration was to stock up on cat food and litter for Jerome’s commode, which apparently came with them from California, although how is not quite clear.

  Although not due to report until next week, she went to the paper and introduced herself, shaking hands, lining up a desk in the feature department and even accepting an assignment for Monday morning. I’d say she’s off to a good start. Joe Bunker just called to say he’s giving a pizza party for our blond bombshell on Sunday night.

  Qwilleran was not surprised to receive a phone call from Wetherby. “She’s here! She’s here!”

  He replied with sly punctilio. “To whom are you referring?”

  “You know who I mean! And I’m giving a pizza party for her Sunday night. Could you pick her up? She has an apartment at Winston Park.”

  “Am I invited to the party, or am I employed to do chauffeur service?”

  “You’re not only invited, you donkey, but I expect you to contribute to the entertainment. How about reciting some of your cat limericks?”

  “If you’ll play ‘Kitten on the Keys’ without exceeding the spe
ed limit.”

  Following this good-old-boy repartee, Qwilleran phoned Clarissa to make arrangements. “I hope you like pizza,” he said.

  “Doesn’t everyone? What time?”

  “Six-thirty. Come as you are.”

  “Will you come in for a minute to say hello to Jerome? He’s dying to meet you.”

  “Sure . . . but tell him not to dress up. His old blue fur will do.”

  Qwilleran had other things on his mind besides Wetherby’s pizza party. He had two columns to write for the “Qwill Pen” . . . perform another Sunday matinee of The Big Burning (three down and only ten to go) . . . make an appearance at a family reunion . . . and keep his own family well fed and happy. If the Siamese felt neglected, they had succinct ways of expressing their displeasure.

  So he cubed some meat loaf from Robin O’Dell Catering and arranged it attractively on two plates. While they dined, he entertained them with an impromptu parody of Gelett Burgess’s wacky verse:

  I’ve never seen a purple cat.

  I never hope to see one.

  But you can bet your breakfast that

  I’d rather see than be one.

  His listeners regarded him in perplexity, as if questioning his sanity. Their catly psyche was not being pricked.

  Of the seven family reunions scheduled for Pickax, Qwilleran chose the Ogilvie-Fugtree gathering. He had known Mitch Ogilvie ever since the young bachelor had been manager of a rural museum in North Middle Hummock; Qwilleran had met Kristi Fugtree when the K Fund helped her register her ancestral home as an historic place. Now they were married and starting a family. She was a goat farmer; Mitch had learned how to make goat cheese. They lived in the house that Kristi’s great-grandfather, Captain Fugtree, built when he returned from the wars: a tall brick mansion in the Victorian style—with a tower. According to legend, a “maiden in distress” once flung herself from the tower “on a dark and stormy night.”