Cat Who Brought Down the House, the Unabridged Audio Read online

  “No. He lives in Lockmaster but has use of the guest room on Pleasant Street.”

  At the Mackintosh Inn, supper was being served in the ballroom on the lower level. A horseshoe table was set with twenty places and a full complement of candles and flowers. The lights in the chandeliers were turned low. And a trio was playing romantic Hispanic music: accordion, violin, and guitar.

  Qwilleran muttered, “They didn’t find those guys in Moose County!”

  “Probably from Lockmaster,” Polly ventured.

  There were place cards, and Qwilleran found himself between Thelma and Dick.

  Thelma explained, “Perhaps you wondered about ‘California cuisine.’ That’s what I served in my dinner club—a nouvelle approach, with accents on vegetables and fruits and seafood in dishes created with originality. I always considered James Beard to be my guru. He was from the West Coast, you know. I have twenty-two of his cookbooks.”

  The music stopped suddenly. Dick said a few words of welcome, and then Thelma surprised everyone by asking a blessing. The music resumed, and servers rolled in carts of lobster and mango in a lemon sauce. This was followed by ramekins of oxtail ravioli, sauced with tomato, basil, and capers. Conversation that was lively at the reception was positively exuberant under the spell of California cuisine.

  At one point Dick said to Qwilleran, “What did your barn look like before you bought it?”

  “I didn’t buy it; I inherited it—a drive-through apple barn with nothing inside but lofts and ladders—plus bats, rats, and wild cats. An architect from Down Below had the vision and determination to make it what it is.”

  “And a hefty commission, I’ll bet. It must have cost you a fortune!”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache.

  Undaunted, Dick went on. “It’s a lot of cubic space for one man. If you’d ever feel like recouping your investment, I know a developer who could convert it into an apartment complex.”

  “A possibility, though not in the foreseeable future,” Qwilleran replied stiffly.

  Throughout the repast Qwilleran had shown a genuine interest in Thelma’s parrots. There were five: Esmeralda, Pedro, Lolita, Carlotta, and Navarro. All were Amazons, noted for their intelligence and conversational ability.

  “Come and meet them, Ducky!” was Thelma’s enthusiastic invitation. “Come for breakfast tomorrow. Janice will make waffles with fruit sauce. Not too early.” A time was set: 10 A.M.

  As Qwilleran drove Polly home to Indian Village, he asked, “What did you think of Thelma’s hat?” (It had a stiff two-inch brim and puffy crown of layered patches of satin, velvet, damask, and tweed—like leaves, in various shades of green, with a green chiffon sash ending in a handmade green rose.)

  Polly said, “Only someone with her good posture and authoritative manner could wear it.”

  He was on the verge of mentioning his breakfast invitation, but a tremor on his upper lip stopped him. He stroked his moustache with a heavy hand as he returned to the barn from Indian Village.

  When Qwilleran arrived home, Yum Yum rubbed against his ankles warmly but Koko was on the fireplace cube, pointedly aloof and obviously disapproving of something. A note from Celia, left on the kitchen counter, explained it:

  “Chief—after you left, Koko acted very strange—prowling and bristling his fur and spitting at everything. I think he smelled the dog. I talked to him and gave him a treat, and he calmed down.”

  Qwilleran thought, Alexander had been here before, but Koko observed him from the rafters far overhead . . . this time a strange presence was invading his territory in his absence.

  He sat down at his typewriter to sum up successes of the evening.

  Sunday, April 13—Well, it’s over! Thelma has been adequately welcomed, toasted, and admired—wild hat and all. As usual in such gatherings there is always a gadfly with a tiny camera who flits around taking candid shots of guests eating, yawning, kissing someone else’s spouse, or whatever. What do they do with the prints? Are they ever developed? Is there any film in the camera?

  Thelma’s assistant was the candid-nut tonight, but her shots were all of Thelma. Are the prints catalogued and filed? Or kept in a barrel? They must have thousands of them if . . .

  His typing was interrupted by an imperative howl from Koko. The cats’ bedtime ritual had been neglected. There was supposed to be a session of reading aloud, followed by a snack and then lights-out.

  “Tyrants!” Qwilleran muttered as he followed Koko to the bookshelves. The cat hopped nimbly to an upper shelf and shoved down a leather-bound book. Qwilleran caught it before it reached the floor. (He had been an acclaimed shortstop in college baseball. Who would think that his fielding skill would be put to use in such a mundane manner?) C’est la vie, he thought.

  Koko’s choice was A Child’s Garden of Verses, and Qwilleran was not in the mood for Robert Louis Stevenson’s poetry. “Try again!” he said.

  Down came another R.L.S. winner: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It was vetoed again. “Sorry, but it’s not your style.”

  The three of them finally settled down with the same author’s Travels with a Donkey until the phone rang.

  A woman’s hushed and horrified voice said, “Qwill, this is Janice. Don’t come tomorrow! Something terrible has happened!”

  “Something wrong with Thelma?” he said quickly.

  “No. But I can’t talk about it. Just don’t come tomorrow. . . ,” and she added in alarm, “Please, don’t say anything about this to anyone!”

  A few hours after this enigmatic phone call, Qwilleran was asleep in his suite on the first balcony, and the Siamese were supposed to be asleep on the third balcony. He always left their door open (for a number of reasons) and always closed his own. Rudely he was awakened by a bloodcurdling howl outside his door! He knew it well; it was Koko’s death howl! The cat had an uncanny way of knowing the moment of a wrongful death. The clock on the night table said it was 3:15 A.M. Immediately it brought to mind the “something terrible” that had happened on Pleasant Street following the party.

  But what could he do? Call the police and say that his cat was howling?

  Koko had done what he considered his duty and had returned to his balcony. After an hour of puzzling thought and aimless speculation, Qwilleran, too, went to sleep.

  9

  On Monday morning Qwilleran was listening to the weather prediction on WPKX while preparing the cats’ breakfast. It was something choice, left over from the reception, that Celia saved for them. The Siamese watched intently.

  Not bothering to turn the radio off, Qwilleran heard newsbites from the two counties to the south. From Lockmaster: A new president had been appointed for the Academy of Arts. . . . The date had been set for the annual flower show. . . . A local chess player had won a tournament in Milwaukee. From Bixby: A drug bust in Bixton had jailed four men and three women. . . . A couple had been killed in a motorcycle accident on Highway 12. . . . An unidentified male was found shot to death at the wheel of a rented van.

  At that moment a bloodcurdling howl came from Koko’s throat. Once again, it was Koko’s death howl. But why was the cat concerned about an unidentified driver of a delivery van in Bixby County . . . unless . . . it had something to do with Janice’s cryptic phone call of the night before. There had been horror and fear in her voice. Qwilleran devised an oblique way of investigating.

  First, he called Burgess Campbell and congratulated him on a successful party. “Has Pleasant Street recovered from the excitement? Did anyone consume too much champagne or oxtail ravioli?”

  “I didn’t hear any ambulance sirens,” the Duke replied. “And let me say that everyone thanks you for opening your fabulous barn for the occasion.

  “My pleasure,” Qwilleran said.

  “There were some scatterbrained suggestions from the Thackerays,” Burgess went on. “Thelma thought the barn would make a wonderful restaurant—with kitchen and bar on the main floor and dining on the open balconies
and waiters whizzing up and down the ramp on roller skates. . . . And Dick visualized it as a twelve-unit apartment complex, if you wanted to install elevators and a whole lot of plumbing. . . . The odd thing is, Qwill, that you can’t guess whether they’re kidding or being serious.”

  “Very true, Burgess. I always suspect women who wear crazy hats and men who wear two-tone shoes.”

  Next, Qwilleran phoned Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design and was not surprised to hear that Fran Brodie was taking a week off. He called her in Indian Village.

  “Qwill, I’m beat!” she groaned. “No one knows how hard I’ve worked for that woman—and her inflated ego!”

  “You did a heroic job.”

  “And now she has another design project she wants me to handle. I’m going to sic her on Amanda. That’ll be the battle of the century. Thelma Thackeray versus Amanda Goodwinter!”

  “What is Thelma’s new design project?”

  “She’s not telling.”

  “Could it be connected with the old opera house?”

  “More likely a restaurant, featuring California cuisine.”

  “Well, anyway, Fran, you’ve done admirable work, and I’ll make you a margarita whenever you say.”

  Qwilleran continued, “That was a lot of partying for a woman of Thelma’s age. Have you heard how she is this morning?”

  “No, but she was still going strong when I dropped them off at the curb. She invited me in for a nightcap, but I declined and Janice reminded Thelma that she was leaving in the morning for a couple of days in Lockmaster. For someone over eighty, Thelma has a lot of energy. She doesn’t drink, she eats right, and she retires at ten P.M. . . . Maybe I should try it!”

  The conversation was all very interesting, but it offered no clue to the “terrible” thing that had happened at the Thackeray house. The O’Dells lived across the street, and Pat was known for his powers of observation, while Celia was always a secret agent at heart. But the O’Dells would be on their way to Purple Point with chicken pot pies and blueberry muffins for a birthday luncheon.

  Qwilleran left a message on their answering machine under the alias of Ronald Frobnitz. Celia waited until Pat was out of the house before returning the call.

  “What’s up, Chief?” she asked briskly.

  “Did anything unusual happen on Pleasant Street last night?”

  “Well, it was quiet and dark until everyone started coming home. Then the Street was filled with headlights, and people laughing and shouting good-night, and kids leaving their pizza party. It had quieted down when Fran Brodie brought the Thackeray party home and dropped them at the curb. Just as they were turning the indoor lights on, I thought I heard a scream. Pat heard it, too, but said it was the parrots. How’m I doin’, Chief?”

  “If you get tired of the catering business, you can always get a job with the CIA.”

  “Oh, I remembered something else. Before everyone came home from the party, Pat saw a delivery van drive around the back of the Thackeray house—then leave a few minutes later. We decided it was some kind of fabulous welcome gift that made Thelma scream when she came home.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache and thought, How does that explain the panic in Janice’s voice . . . and the reference to something terrible . . . and the urgent plea not to tell anyone?

  “Tomorrow morning, Chief, I’ll get that information you want from downtown.”

  “You can phone it. It’s not classified.”

  “But I want to deliver some chicken pot pies and blueberry muffins, if you think you can use them.”

  Gravely he said, “I imagine I can devise an appropriate way . . . to dispose of them.”

  Celia’s hoot of delight pierced his eardrum as she hung up.

  He had been working on his Tuesday column and now he needed a stretch, so he walked to the public library for the book containing Homer’s favorite poem. The parking lot was nearly filled, and the main room was crowded with men and women of all ages. They had seen the announcement in Friday’s paper: “Autographed photographs of old movie stars from the Thelma Thackeray collection—on temporary exhibition.”

  Eight-by-tens in individual easel-back frames filled the shelves in two showcases: Claudette Colbert, Ronald Colman, Groucho Marx, Joan Crawford, Fred Astaire, Humphrey Bogart, Esther Williams, Edward G. Robinson, and more. An occasional comment interrupted the awed silence of the onlookers.

  Man: “I’m gonna come back when there ain’t such a crowd.”

  Another man: “Valuable collection! One assumes they’re insured.”

  Woman: “My mother used to rave about Ronald Colman.”

  Child: “Mommy! Where’re the kitties?”

  Qwilleran, before leaving the building, stroked the two library cats and dropped coins into the jar that provided for their material needs. “Handsome Mac! Gentle Katie!” he said, wondering if anyone ever read a little Dickens or Hemingway to them.

  The Siamese were waiting for him with stretched necks and pointed ears: They knew he had been fraternizing with the library cats.

  “Read! Read!” he announced, letting them sniff the library book. It was well thumbed, and the binding had been repaired twice by the late Eddington Smith, according to notations inside the back cover. Before taping “Lasca” for Homer’s birthday, he would do a practice reading for Koko and Yum Yum.

  “Lasca” was written by Frank Desprez. Scene: Texas, down by the Rio Grande. Story: A lonely cowboy hangs around bars, maundering over his lost love, remembering how they rode the range on their gray mustangs. One day, without warning, the weather changed, alarming a herd of steers, goading them into a stampede that trampled everything in its path. When the dust cleared Lasca was dead, but her impulsive act of heroism had saved her lover’s life. All was now still on the range, but for a lone coyote, the gray squirrels, a black snake gliding through the grass, a buzzard circling overhead.

  Qwilleran paused. It had been more than a hundred lines of galloping rhythm and deep emotion. Yum Yum was breathing hoarsely; Koko uttered a soft yowl.

  It was the moment when Rhoda Tibbitt always dried her eyes, and Homer always blew his nose.

  The Siamese were sequestered in the gazebo while Qwilleran recorded the poem.

  On Tuesday morning Celia marched importantly into the apple barn and reported, “The opera house property has been held by a bank trust for years and years—no new owner . . . and no permits for remodeling have been issued or even requested.”

  Qwilleran said wryly, “Perhaps the bank is going to rent the space to traveling burlesque shows. The theatre seats were removed long ago, but customers could be told to bring their own floor cushions.”

  “Oh, Chief!” she protested with her ever-ready laugh. “But I drove by to see what was going on, and there was a van in the parking lot with ladders on top, and it was marked BIXBY PAINT AND DECORATING. Pat says everything is cheaper in Bixby County—goods and services and gasoline. We buy our fresh food at Toodle’s Market, but once a week he drives to Bixby to fill up the tank and buy staples.”

  “Just what I wanted to know, Celia. Have you time for coffee or fruit juice?”

  She flopped onto one of the bar stools. “I know you don’t go for gossip, Chief, but I’ve collected some basic intelligence. . . .”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “During the party, Thelma’s assistant hung around the dining room, and we found we have a lot in common: Both of us have farm backgrounds and both of us are involved in food preparation. Janice is from North Dakota.”

  “How did she gravitate to Hollywood and the Thackeray household?”

  “That’s a Cinderella story. She was ten when her mother died, and her father married a woman with three young children. For the next several years, Janice had to help with the kids and the cooking. She had no time for hobbies or sports and felt like dropping out of school and running away from home, but her aunt Patty made her a deal. If Janice would stay and get her diploma, her aunt would lend her th
e money to move to a big city and find work in an office. She had taken a commercial course in school.

  “Actually she was more interested in cooking than typing and thought Hollywood would have a lot of restaurants as well as glamour.

  “Thelma hired her as a dishwasher and Janice worked her way up to assistant chef.”

  “Did she tell you all this at the party?”

  “Well, no . . . She came to the house yesterday morning and asked if she could do anything to help with the luncheon. I took her along in place of Pat; Thelma’s out of town. I feel sorry for that young woman. She doesn’t have a life of her own. For example, she loves cats but Thelma hates them.”

  Qwilleran said, “Too bad she didn’t get a chance to meet Koko and Yum Yum Sunday night. Would she like to drive over here while her boss is away? She can come anytime but should phone first.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Chief.”

  He shrugged modestly. Actually, he saw an opportunity to satisfy his curiosity about the canceled breakfast date, but he said, “The cats enjoy meeting a new admirer who will blubber over them. They’re only human.”

  His quips always delighted her, and she asked, “Where are the little dears? I have to say good-bye before I go home.” She searched in her big floppy handbag.

  “Are you looking for your car keys—or for a possible stowaway, Celia?”

  Yum Yum was in the kitchen, batting and chasing a small shiny toy, while Koko peered down from the top of the refrigerator as if amazed by her kittenish antics.

  Qwilleran explained, “One of my fans Down Below—an older woman who can no longer see to sew—sent me her sterling silver thimble for the cats to play with. She’s the tenth-grade teacher who inspired my writing career. Relatives of hers in Lockmaster send her clippings of my column now and then. I polish the thimble once a week—and hide it in different drawers, but Yum Yum always finds it, and her famous paw can open any drawer that isn’t padlocked.”