The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell Read online

  When Qwilleran drove to the reunion on Saturday afternoon, he could hear sounds of revelry in the quiet countryside long before he came upon the scene.

  His first impression upon arrival was one of color, quite unlike the somber aspect of the farm in previous years, when Kristi’s entire herd of goats had been tragically wiped out.

  Now the grass seemed greener, the old brick redder, and the colorful attire of folks on holiday resembled a garden in motion.

  Dozens of celebrators were laughing, jabbering, running around, playing games, guzzling soft drinks.

  Men were pitching horseshoes, young people were playing badminton. Their elders huddled in lawn chairs, and his tape recorder picked up chatter like this:

  “He’s had several promotions, so they’re doing all right financially.”

  “Do you like the color Helen dyed her hair?”

  “I didn’t see you at Gail’s wedding; it was lovely!”

  “Isn’t that radio rather loud?”

  “I never thought Kristi would have children, but the twins are adorable!”

  “Max and Theo arrived together. Does that mean they’re not feuding?”

  “Uncle Morry bought their plane tickets.”

  “That dear man! So much money and he can’t enjoy it.”

  “He won’t be with us much longer.”

  “Why is Morry so good to those boys? They have no ambition.”

  “Morry says the rest of us have everything we want.”

  “Have you seen the Wilsons’ new house? It’s very modern!”

  “Their son went to college on a basketball scholarship.”

  “Laura’s talking about a divorce. Too bad.”

  “How do you feel about goats? Kristi’s mad about them.”

  “She says goat’s milk is good for the digestion.”

  “I should try it. Isn’t that radio awfully loud?”

  Qwilleran asked Kristi how they handled overnight accommodations. She said, “The kids like the tents in the backyard, and the older folks sleep in the rooms upstairs. We’ve an elevator now. Others shack up with Ogilvie families around the county.”

  “Who has traveled the farthest?”

  “A Fugtree family from Texas.”

  “Do you make an effort to entertain them?”

  “As you probably know, Mitch is a good storyteller, and I introduce everyone to the goats, who are really sweet and sociable. Also, Mitch explains cheese making.

  “And then, you’ve probably noticed the games at the picnic tables: cards, Parcheesi, checkers, jigsaw puzzles—”

  “Does everyone get along?”

  “The kids have a few squabbles, but Mitch is great at handling them. He’s also organized a committee to figure out how the Ogilvies and the Fugtrees can leave the town of Pickax some useful memento of their visit here.”

  “Any ideas yet?”

  “Not so far.”

  Qwilleran circulated. Many out-of-towners knew who he was and wanted to be photographed with him. It was the moustache they loved.

  He enjoyed talking to two young women, sisters, who played mandolin and flute. Then there were two young men, cousins, who asked him about rabbit hunting in Moose County. And Kristi said the caterer would make hasenpfeffer if they brought back any rabbits.

  When the hunters left for the woods, Qwilleran left to go home and feed the cats. As he told Polly later, “I didn’t want to be there when two grinning hunters returned, clutching rabbits by the ears.”

  On the way home, Qwilleran stopped at the bookstore. He and Polly had decided to forgo their Saturday night dinner date and musicale—this, in anticipation of a busy weekend.

  He said, “Joe has asked me to pick up Clarissa for his party, but Judd Amhurst will take her home. So you and I can finish the evening with a little Mozart and Berlioz at your place.”

  She agreed. “What did you think of the Ogilvie-Fugtree reunion?”

  “Not bad. I can make it sound better than it was.”

  Polly said, “I’m excited about tomorrow afternoon; I’ve seen the Big Burning show a total of four times over the years, but I always weep when you talk about the father who tried to save his two small children.”

  Qwilleran admitted that he choked up himself, no matter how many times he had read that passage.

  In the script the radio announcer said, “And then there was a father who tried to save his two small children, but he couldn’t because his right arm was burned off. Burned off! He had to choose between them!”

  There were a few minutes of silence, and then Polly said, “Don’t forget the Heirloom Auction next Saturday. Have you thought of anything you can donate?”

  “Only the twistle-twig rocker, but I donated it to a charity auction once before and had to buy it back because Koko went on a hunger strike. The myth is that anyone sitting in it will think great thoughts.”

  “Where do you keep it?” Polly asked. “I haven’t seen it for years!”

  “Well, the barn interior looks best with no-nonsense contemporary. I keep the twistle-twig in the cats’ apartment. Yum Yum gives it a wide berth, but Koko likes the bowl-shaped seat. Well, see you tomorrow after the show.”

  As Qwilleran drove back to the barn, it occurred to him that the twistle-twig rocker might account for Koko’s remarkable psychic ability. Qwilleran had always attributed the cat’s foresight to his sixty whiskers—sixty instead of the standard forty-eight; but perhaps that crafty little animal had also been sitting in the bowl-shaped seat of the twistle-twig and thinking extraordinary thoughts.

  The “Smart Koko” was dancing in the kitchen window when Qwilleran drove into the barnyard; it meant there was a message on the answering machine.

  A man’s voice said, “Qwill! Don’t run anything in the paper about the reunion! We have some bad trouble here! This is Mitch.”

  Unable to believe his ears, Qwilleran listened to the message a second time. At the same moment Koko, who was right at his elbow, stretched his neck and uttered a howl that would chill the blood.

  It started in his lower depths and ended in an unearthly shriek! It was not the first time Qwilleran had heard Koko’s death howl, and he knew what it meant. Wrongful death . . . someone . . . somewhere.

  Linking Mitch’s cryptic message and Koko’s doleful one, Qwilleran refrained from phoning the farmhouse for more particulars; he could imagine the frenzy that had replaced the happy scene.

  Instead, he took a shortcut; he phoned the newspaper.

  TEN

  The newspaper published no edition over the weekend, but a deskman was always on duty in the city room, answering the phone and listening to the squawking of the police-band radio.

  Qwilleran recognized the voice that came on the wire. “Is this Barry? Qwill here. Any trouble reported in the North Middle Hummocks? I just received a queer tip.”

  “Yeah, the sheriff and his dog are searching for a missing person. Rabbit hunter. Probably some guy at a family reunion got lost in the woods.”

  “Or got shot by another rabbit hunter,” Qwilleran said, thinking of Koko’s anguished howl.

  “Ain’t it the truth, Qwill! Out where we live, there are so many rifle shots in the woods, come weekend, that it sounds like the Fourth of July. How they can avoid shooting each other is a mystery. . . . Hold it! . . .”

  Qwilleran waited. But both he and Koko had the answers.

  The cynical deskman came back on the line.

  “What’d I tell ya? Another rabbit hunter bit the dust. Only ten thousand left. Gotta hang up.”

  Qwilleran preferred not to picture the scene at the goat farm, and he regretted that his friends would be deprived of good news coverage. As for himself, his time and recording tape would not be wasted. He could write an anonymous description of an ideal family reunion, where all the adults are happy and all the children are well behaved and all the conversation is upbeat and all the food is delicious.

  On the other hand, he could cut his losses and scrap his n
otes. He and Polly discussed it on the phone that night. She had worked at the bookstore so that her assistant could entertain visiting relatives. She needed to rest up before a busy Sunday: church, then lunch with the Rikers, after which they would go to the Big Burning show downtown, and then there would be Wetherby’s supper party.

  Clarissa had dropped into the bookstore and was thrilled with her new job and looking forward to the pizza party but was worried about the health of Aunt Doris and Uncle Nathan. Clarissa wanted to return the valuable ring and explain the breakup with Harvey, but she could talk only with a housekeeper.

  Qwilleran listened to it all with appropriate reactions but contributed no newsbites of his own. He merely said he would like to go into a trance on Sunday before switching identities with an imaginary nineteenth-century newscaster. He said he would see Polly at Joe’s party.

  “À bientôt,” she said.

  “À bientôt.”

  Once more Qwilleran played to a full house on Sunday afternoon. The audience reaction was always the same:

  A woman sobbed audibly as she listened to accounts of family tragedies and remembered the stories told in her own family.

  A man blew his nose loudly over the plight of the father trying to save his two children.

  There was heavy silence as the audience pictured hundreds of victims taking refuge in the new brick courthouse, the same building where one now went to pay property taxes or apply for a marriage license.

  “Devastating” . . . “unbelievable . . . “heartbreaking” were the words Qwilleran heard when he appeared in the lobby after the show.

  He was glad to return to the barn and spend a quiet hour or two with the Siamese before leaving for Winston Park to pick up Clarissa.

  When he arrived at her apartment, she was in a festive mood, but a cat of imposing size was sitting calmly in the center of the middle seat cushion of the sofa.

  “Hail to thee, Sir Jerome!” Qwilleran said with a grand gesture.

  The cat observed him with large golden eyes and without a flicker of a whisker.

  To Clarissa, Qwilleran said, “Magnificent creature! What language does he speak?” He was accustomed to the Siamese with their voluble responses and expressive gestures.

  “He’s awed by your moustache.”

  She explained, “I don’t know why he always sits in the exact middle of a chair or cushion or rug—or anything.”

  “He’s a Centrist,” Qwilleran said with authority. “Many cats are Centrists. If they were humans, they’d be halfway between Republicans and Democrats.”

  Before they left Qwilleran complimented Jerome on his blue coat (which he still considered gray) . . . and slyly complimented Clarissa on her gray pantsuit (which was obviously blue).

  Qwilleran noted that his passenger was carrying a large satchel-type handbag, reminding him of Thelma Thackery. Was this California style? He avoided dropping the usual masculine quips. (Bring your own dinner? Planning to stay overnight?) Later he would learn what it contained.

  En route to the party he told her what new faces she would meet: Connie Constable was a vet at the pet hospital, especially good with cats . . . and Judd Amhurst was a retired engineer and now manager of special events at the bookstore.

  Then he remarked, “I hear you have settled in at the paper.”

  “Yes, and everyone is so friendly! Roger MacGillivray introduced me around. . . . Is he married?”

  “Not only married but father of three, whom he’s helping to homeschool. You’ve met John Bushland—prize-winning photographer. Likes to be called Bushy. He and Roger and I were once marooned on a deserted island in a horrendous storm. The three of us are bonded for life.”

  During cocktails and while waiting for the pizza delivery, Wetherby outdid himself at the piano, playing Chopin’s “Minute Waltz.” Then Qwilleran was induced to compose an impromptu limerick about Jerome:

  An out-of-town cat named Jerome

  Says, “I never wanted to roam.

  There’s not enough sun

  And the mice are no fun.

  Show me the way to go home.”

  Then Judd asked Qwilleran if he could write limericks about dogs.

  “I just happen to have one with me.” He drew an index card from his pocket, having expected Judd to bring up the subject sooner or later. The card read:

  There once was a hound with an itch

  Who didn’t know which end was which.

  But he was no fool;

  He went off to school,

  And learned: Every dog has his niche.

  Eventually the subject of the Heirloom Auction took the spotlight. Everyone agreed it was for a good cause and wanted to participate.

  “Clever kids, those students of Burgess’s,” said Wetherby. “They get you coming or going—or both. I donate my grandpappy’s moustache cup—then go to the auction and bid on some other grandpappy’s shaving mug.”

  Polly said, “I’m not in the market for any more objects but I’m donating a lot of my in-laws’ collection.”

  Clarissa said she would attend for the thrill of bidding on something. “The only item I have to donate is nothing that anyone could possibly want. I hang onto it only because my grandmother acquired it when she was young.”

  “What is it?” everyone asked at once.

  “I’ve brought it to show you. Tell me what you think.”

  There was silence as she reached for her large handbag and withdrew a roll of something like a diploma. Tied with ribbon, it was about three inches in diameter and a foot long. When unrolled, it proved to be a three-foot advertisement for a breakfast cereal.

  Sheepishly she said, “A poster from a Detroit trolley car.” She waited, and when there was no comment, said, “It’s really sort of pretty and in good condition. It’s been rolled up for sixty years. When my grandmother was young, she used to ride to work on the trolley car, which was so crowded that passengers had to stand in the aisles and hang onto leather straps, and stare at the ads that filled the space above the windows. . . . I don’t know how Grandma happened to acquire this one. I suppose it was a souvenir of many hours of straphanging.”

  Qwilleran said, “You should donate it, Clarissa, and Joe and I will bid against each other for it—have a little fun. I’ll bid the highest and take it home to hang in the cats’ apartment. It’ll go with their twistle-twig rocker.”

  Wetherby said, “The poster would make a better presentation if framed. I know a guy in Horseradish who’ll frame it for nothing—just to go along with a gag!”

  The others were laughing and cheering them on and Judd said he’d make a few bids for it himself. “Is this what they call shill bidding? Is it ethical?”

  “In this case, it’s just a stunt,” Qwilleran said, “and the proceeds go to a good cause. We’ll get Foxy Fred to make it the first item on the block. It’ll wake up the audience. Get them in the spirit of the occasion. . . . The trick will be, Joe, to decide how high to go. To make it a sensation, it should be an outrageous figure, which the K Fund will cover, of course.”

  During the evening there was plenty of conversation about cats. Jet Stream swaggered among the guests and accepted compliments and crumbs of cheese. Clarissa showed her snapshot of Jerome, the only British Shorthair in the county, she thought. Dr. Connie, newly divorced, had acquired a marmalade, related to Dundee, the bibliocat at the bookstore.

  Polly said that Brutus and Catta had made friends with a wild rabbit, who came out of the woods daily to commune with them through the window wall.

  Qwilleran told them that Koko and Yum Yum were studying crows aiming for a degree in corvidology. He refrained from reporting Koko’s death howl in the case of the missing rabbit hunter.

  Before the evening was over, Wetherby played Mendelssohn’s Presto Agitato, which required incredible nimbleness of fingering. Judd, the engineer, insisted that the music required a pianist to play a thousand notes a minute. Clarissa, the journalist, checked to see if Wetherby had six finger
s on each hand.

  Polly said, “Joe, why aren’t you on the concert stage?”

  “I’m not good enough,” he said. “And I believe if you can’t be good, be fast.”

  The party broke up early. Before leaving with Judd, Clarissa whispered to Qwilleran that she wanted to talk with him about the Ledfields. “Anytime!” he said. Wetherby took her streetcar poster and promised to have it framed overnight.

  Back at the barn, Qwilleran phoned the police chief at home. “Andy, are you interested in talking about rabbit hunters over a thimbleful of Scotch?”

  “I’ll talk about anything over a wee dram!”

  Andrew Brodie lived in the neighborhood and drove into the barnyard within minutes. The Siamese rushed to the kitchen window, either recognizing the sound of the chief’s motor or reading Qwilleran’s mind. They knew the burly Scotsman with the loud voice. Over the years he had progressed from suspicious stranger to admiring friend, calling them “that smart Koko” and “my little sweetheart.” Yum Yum was not only allowed to untie his shoelaces but was expected to do so.

  Brodie made himself at home, sitting at the snack bar, pouring a large “thimbleful” of Scotch and cutting a slice of cheese.

  He said, “M’ wife and some ladies from the church saw your show this afternoon. She said they all had a good cry. It’s not the first time they’ve seen it. How does it feel to give it in the opera house?”

  “Better than church basements, school gyms, and county parks.”

  Brodie commented on the tastiness of the cheese, a Manchego from Spain. He said he’d never heard of it but it was good!