The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell Read online

  “He could be on the concert stage, Qwill! . . . Excuse me.” Thornton was called indoors to the phone, and Qwilleran walked back up the lane more slowly and thoughtfully than he had walked down.

  Around six P.M. Qwilleran phoned Maggie Sprenkle at home, when she would be having a bowl of hot chicken soup and a green leafy salad after a hard day at the animal shelter. Her dining table seated six, and he could imagine her five ladies keeping her company, one on each chair, sitting quietly. In a Victorian palace, even the cats behaved like royalty. They never even spoke until spoken to—and then only with ladylike mews.

  When assured that he was not interrupting dinner, Qwilleran asked, “Did you see the spread on the auction in today’s paper?”

  “I did indeed! Who wrote it? The name is new to me.”

  “The new feature writer from California, who has just arrived with her cat, a British Shorthair. She’ll be assigned to cover the kitty auction, no doubt, and she’ll do a good job. Clarissa would feel honored to meet your ladies, having admired them from across the street.”

  “How did she happen to find Pickax, Qwill?”

  “Interesting story! The Ledfields’ nephew brought her here as his fiancée, and since he had given her no ring, Doris gave her one of her diamonds. However, Harvey turned out to be a cat hater, and Clarissa dropped him.”

  “I can well imagine,” Maggie said vehemently.

  “But she liked it here, and the newspaper was glad to get her. However, a problem has arisen; she’d like to return the ring, and she can’t reach Doris. Only secretaries and housekeepers come to the phone.”

  Maggie said, “There’s one thing about Nathan Ledfield that Jeremy and I had to learn. He’s a perfectionist—and very proper. Everything has to be just so! To appear in public with the sniffles and a box of tissues—as I sometimes do—would be unthinkable for Nathan, and Doris has to live by his rules. So . . . when they’re suffering from allergies—the polite word for coughs and sneezes—it’s understandable why Nathan wouldn’t want Doris to talk on the phone.”

  Maggie said with finality, “Tell the young lady to come and see me about the kitty auction, and we’ll have a nice long talk.”

  When Qwilleran conveyed the invitation, he told Clarissa, “Maggie is from the moneyed families of Purple Point. Her great-grandmother owned a successful coal mine; she wore a long black dress with a little lace collar and carried a shotgun. Maggie prefers to live in the city and do humanitarian work. She’s made it fashionable to volunteer at the animal shelter, and families now visit the shelter in their Sunday-best clothes on weekends, to see the cats and dogs, since we have no zoo. I warn you, Clarissa! Maggie has a very persuasive personality, and she doesn’t even carry a shotgun.”

  The hot topic of conversation in coffee shops, at bridge clubs, and on the grapevine during late June was the Heirloom Auction—particularly the anonymity of donors.

  The Lincoln copperplate in Tuesday’s paper, the grandfather clock on Wednesday, the Victorian teacups on Thursday . . . who had donated them? Why the secrecy? The guesses and arguments that resulted constituted the best publicity the auction could have enjoyed!

  Qwilleran knew the provenance of the three teacups, and he prepared to outbid any and all. He would give them to three women he knew.

  Such was the suspense engendered by the Heirloom Auction series that tickets were sold out by Thursday night.

  For Qwilleran, finding a subject for Friday’s “Qwill Pen” was a problem. Clarissa’s four-part series had said it all! The auction’s charitable purpose, its organization and implementation, the enthusiasm of the student volunteers, and the generosity of the unnamed donors. Anything the “Qwill Pen” might say would be redundant, and yet readers would be disappointed if he overlooked the auction completely.

  His solution: a nostalgic piece on the first auction he ever attended—and how he succeeded in outbidding an antique dealer for a historic roll-top desk. Purposely he neglected to mention the name of its famous, or infamous, owner—Ephraim Goodwinter. He knew the omission would bring a flood of mail from curious readers, keeping the office manager overworked for a week. Arch Riker would go into a rage over the “sly trick,” although, Qwilleran knew, the editor in chief liked enthusiastic reader response.

  When Qwilleran went to the paper to file his Friday copy, he passed the feature department and Clarissa caught his eye. She jumped up and joined him in the hallway. “Could we talk for a minute, Qwill?” She waved toward the empty conference room.

  “I’ll meet you there as soon as I throw my copy on Junior’s desk.”

  “Aren’t you a little late?”

  “With malice aforethought,” he explained. “When we’re close to deadline, he doesn’t have time to change anything. Editors like to edit.”

  In the managing editor’s office, Junior grabbed the copy and rang for the copyboy. “Looks as if your girl’s turning out all right, Qwill.”

  “She’s not my girl. She applied for a job, and Arch hired her.”

  He joined Clarissa in the conference room.

  In the empty room they sat at one corner of the long table.

  “First let me compliment you on the auction series,” he said. “You tackled the subject in depth without being stuffy.”

  “Thank you. It’s my training. Did you have R and R when you were in J school?”

  “It depends what you mean by those initials.”

  “Research and report. Each semester we were assigned a topic and had to explore it in depth and then write a report.”

  “What sort of topic?”

  “Oh . . . the Volstead Act . . . the anatomy of cats . . . the naming of the original forty-eight states . . . mold as an environmental concern. The rule was: Collect all the available information—and then ask one more question.”

  “Did you have a favorite?”

  “The naming of states was fun. Did you know that individuals react psychologically more strongly to state names beginning with a vowel than those beginning with a consonant? Texas is not only bigger than Ohio but has three strong consonants in the spelling.”

  “Hmmm. Under the circumstances, I’d say little Ohio has done quite well, despite all the vowels. Eight American presidents have come from Ohio, not to mention Thomas Edison and the Wright brothers.” He could have mentioned Clark Gable, Doris Day, Cy Young, and Irma Bombeck, but Clarissa was rattling on.

  “Are you from Ohio?” she asked.

  “No, but the ‘Qwill Pen’ ran a series on nearby states called ‘Know Your Neighbor.’”

  “I’d love to be a columnist,” Clarissa said wistfully.

  “Don’t be too sure! A reporter gets an assignment and writes the necessary coverage, but a columnist always starts with nothing but a deep hole to fill.”

  Suddenly Arch Riker appeared in the doorway. “You two clear out! I’m having a meeting in this room.”

  “But I won’t keep you, Qwill. I just wanted to give you some good news.”

  “You’ve had an offer from The New York Times.”

  With great joy she announced, “My best friend in California is coming for the Fourth of July weekend to attend the cat auction and bid on a kitten!”

  “Good! Be sure to tell Maggie Sprenkle. It’ll sound good in the publicity. Would he . . . or she . . . like to see The Big Burning? There are house seats available.”

  “She’s my classmate from J school, but she went into advertising. She also writes short stories and has sold a couple to crime magazines. She’s hoping to find some juicy plot material while she’s here.”

  He huffed into his moustache. He said, “Does your friend have a name? I hear the situation is so crowded on the West Coast, they’re resorting to numbers.”

  On Friday night Qwilleran was sprawling in his lounge chair and reading to the Siamese. Yum Yum liked to sit on his lap and snuggle up to his ribs. The baritone vibrations reminded her, he had been told, of her mother’s heartbeat while in the womb. Koko sat tall on the
arm of the chair. Suddenly the phone rang, and Koko fell off. Yum Yum disappeared.

  It was Polly, too excited to wait for his eleven o’clock call. “Qwill I have the most thrilling news! Orders are pouring in for the books you’ll be signing next Wednesday. Already I’ve reordered twice.”

  “How do you account for that, Polly?”

  “People tell me they’re going to send books all over the country—to friends who grew up here and knew rumors of the enchanted castle in the woods. And Bushy’s photos of the interiors will add to the excitement. Aren’t you thrilled?”

  Arrangements were made, sentiments were exchanged, and Qwilleran returned to his reading, only to be interrupted by the phone again.

  “Qwill! I forgot to tell you the world-shaking news. Our crotchety mayor came into the store today and actually bought a book! What’s more, she was congenial, according to the Green Smocks!”

  “What did she buy?” he asked.

  “You know it would be unethical to reveal customers’ purchases,” she said teasingly.

  “You’re just being rascally. Go back to your book. What are you reading?”

  “That’s privileged information.”

  And so it went.

  It was the kind of bantering that always made Qwilleran’s cats run around in circles. Why? Someday he would write a book. . . .

  THIRTEEN

  There was plenty to talk about that weekend—in the coffee shops, on the street corners, over the grapevine.

  About the murder at the family reunion: “They’ve let the suspect go because of not-enough-evidence, but it looks like murder to me.” . . . “That’s what happens when you have a lot of strangers coming into town.” . . . “Thank God it wasn’t one of us.”

  About the new feature writer at the newspaper: “Why did they have to go to California to get somebody?” . . . “Do you like the way she writes?”

  About the Heirloom Auction: “Did you see that copper picture of Lincoln in the paper?” . . . “My grandmother had a gold locket with Lincoln’s picture on the front, his autograph on the back, and inside there was a smidgeon of cloth from the vest he was wearing when he was shot. The locket disappeared.” . . . “A lot of family treasures are coming out of the closet! They’re not telling who-gives-what. Does it have something to do with income tax?”

  About the Big Burning show: “You haven’t seen it? I’ve seen it three times.” . . . “My great-grandparents lost their house, barns, livestock, everything! Lucky to escape with their kids.”

  About the weather: “Do you think this good weather will keep up?” . . . “It’s nice for parades and family reunions, but not so good for crops.” . . . “A good rain would wash the pollen away, too. Notice how many people are complaining about allergies?”

  An editorial in Friday’s paper was headlined:

  CAMPBELL’S KIDS DO IT AGAIN

  It praised the MCCC students of Burgess Campbell, who learned lifetime skills while contributing to the well-being of the community. Prodded by their mentor, they challenged a problem, devised an original solution, involved the General Public, and accomplished wonders. The General Public deserved much of the credit, but it was the enthusiasm of the young people that enlisted their support.

  The editorial said: “There has never been an activity center for seniors. Burgess Campbell has donated an old downtown building; money to equip it is being raised by auctioning heirlooms donated by old families and collected by a crew of Kids. Local merchants, organizations, and news media are supporting it.”

  On Saturday morning auction-goers lined up in front of the Community Hall, waiting to buy tickets: five dollars for spectator seats in the balcony, twice that for persons intending to bid; they were given numbered flash cards.

  Small objects were displayed on long tables lining the walls; large items were displayed on the platform. All had DO NOT TOUCH signs, and were under the watchful eye of security guards disguised as hosts and hostesses. There was even background music—not recorded but live: bouncy rhythms played by electric guitar, clarinet, and flute.

  The emcee said, “Please take your seats: yellow tickets on the main floor, green tickets in the balcony.”

  There was a moment’s hush, and then the chairman of the Kids extended a welcome and introduced Moose County’s favorite auctioneer, “who is donating his expertise today, Foxy Fred.” (Tumultuous applause!)

  He entered wearing his usual outfit, which included sombrero, red neckerchief, and cowboy boots. “Howdy! Howdy!” he said. “As you good people know, there will be no noise of any kind while bidders are bidding and the porters and spotters are doing their job.”

  The porters and spotters and cashiers wore MCCC T-shirts, white on blue, with red neckerchiefs. All were emotionless, staring pointedly at the audience until there was an absolute hush.

  Then a porter carried a framed picture to the platform. Glancing at the tag, Foxy Fred said, “What we have here is an early-twentieth-century trolley car poster in mint condition, advertising a big bowl of healthy, crispy, crunchy breakfast cereal with strawberries and cream. What am I offered?”

  “A hundred!” came a man’s authoritative voice.

  “A hundred I’ve got. Who’ll make it two?”

  “Two hundred!” came a voice that WPKX listeners recognized. There were gasps from the audience.

  “Are you gonna let him get away with this rare piece of Americana?”

  “Three!” shouted Qwilleran.

  “Three I’ve got. Make it four . . .”

  Wetherby flashed his card.

  “Four I’ve got . . . Make it five? Make it five?”

  The audience held its collective breath.

  “Five I’ve got—from the man with a moustache! Now we’re talkin’. . . . Make it six? Make it five-fifty . . . No? . . . Goin’ at five hundred! Five hundred once, five hundred twice—”

  Wetherby shouted, “Five-fifty!”

  The audience roared.

  “Six hundred!” Qwilleran shouted.

  All eyes were on Wetherby, and he shook his head.

  The audience groaned.

  “Six hundred once, six hundred twice. Sold for a measly six hundred—this rare example of antiquity!”

  The audience applauded as a spotter escorted Qwilleran to the nearest cashier.

  Following the crowd-pleasing stunt, the auction settled down to reasonable bidding. Foxy Fred was a genius at manipulating an audience, and he coaxed the top dollar for the four items photographed for the newspaper, while letting other items move quickly. His technique added excitement and promised everyone a chance to take something home. If the bidding was slow, he shocked everyone by giving someone an incredible bargain. Or he mesmerized them with the auctioneer’s chant: “Wanna wanna wanna wanna . . . bidda bidda bidda . . .”

  There were short interludes for stretching legs and chattering, as well as long interludes for flocking to the lower level for cold drinks and sandwiches. Altogether he kept the crowd happy for six hours.

  Polly said, “How does he maintain the pace?”

  “He’s a pro,” Qwilleran said. “I’m waiting to see how he handles the cat auction next Saturday.”

  The Lincoln portrait went for four thousand, the tall case clock for three thousand, and the three porcelain teacups to Qwilleran for three hundred.

  Polly gasped, “Qwill, what are you going to do with them?”

  “Give tea parties,” he said glibly.

  It was an anonymous donation that caused the greatest stir. It had been the last of the important items photographed in the Something—a massive library table of carved oak, with two bulbous legs at one end and a realistic carving of a basset hound standing on hind legs and supporting the table at the other end. It had belonged to the affluent father of Sarah Plensdorf, according to people in the know. Whispered comments were: “Bet she’s glad to get rid of it.” . . . “Who on earth would want such a monster?” . . . “How much do you think they’ll pay?”

&
nbsp; A sealed bid from an agent in Lockmaster—unchallenged—won the table for ten thousand!

  When Qwilleran and Polly left the auction scene, he had his teacups and she had an autographed copy of Mark Twain’s travel book A Tramp Abroad. She said, “It will please Lisa Compton that I bought the book; it belonged to her great-grandmother, who had the thrill of meeting Mark Twain when he lectured here in 1895. . . . Just think, Qwill, he spoke in the old opera house—the very stage where you do The Big Burning. It gives me goose bumps!”

  “Where would your goose bumps like to have dinner?” he asked. “How about the Boulder House Inn—far from the bidding crowd?”

  “I think it would be lovely,” Polly said, ignoring his pun.

  Before driving to the lakeshore, they stopped at the barn to feed the cats. Polly’s cats had an automatic feeder that could be set for any hour, but Koko let it be known that he disapproved of automation.

  From the barn Qwilleran phoned the inn for a reservation, and they drove leisurely through the countryside.

  Polly said, “Everyone’s talking about the ten-thousand-dollar bid from Lockmaster—for the Plensdorf library table. Can you think of anyone down there who would pay that?”

  “Some sharpie who’ll sell it for twenty thousand in Chicago. When they send a truck to pick it up, we should have our spies follow it.”

  She could not be sure whether he was serious or tossing one of his flip remarks. Rather than reveal her naïveté, she remained silent.

  Qwilleran said, “This is the third time I’ve seen Foxy Fred in action. Do you think he will use the same sharp, scolding, bossy tactics with an audience of cat lovers? I should think the right approach would be gentler, appealing to their sentimentality. Also, I can’t visualize the platform procedure of a cat auction.”

  “Well, you remember Peggy, who comes to the store twice a day to feed Dundee, don’t you, Qwill? She’s been volunteering at the animal shelter. She says each cat will arrive onstage in his own ‘limousine’—a picnic basket with lift-up lid and top-handle. His name and other information will be on a tag attached to the handle. And the tags are being hand-lettered and decorated by art students. There’s a soft pad in the bottom of each basket. Each cat is spending a few hours each day in his own private limousine to familiarize himself with the aroma.”