Cat Who Saw Red

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Qwilleran snorted into his mustache and dropped the letters in a desk drawer. He lighted his pipe and stretched out in his lounge chair, and Yum Yum cuddled on his lap—until Koko scolded her. Then she promptly deserted the man and went to lick Koko’s nose and ears.

  Suddenly Qwilleran felt lonely. Koko had his Yum Yum. Bunsen had his Janie. Riker had his Rosie.

  He telephoned Rosemary Whiting. “I hope it’s not too late. I need some moral support . . . You know those vitamins you gave me for the cats? I’ve never popped a pill down a cat’s gullet.”

  Within a few minutes she knocked on the door of Number Six, wearing a red silk tunic and harem pants, with her licorice-black hair tied back in a young-looking ponytail. Qwilleran answered her knock just as Charlotte Roop climbed the stairs with a glass of steaming milk on a little tray. Miss Roop said good evening, but her greeting was cool.

  The cats were waiting, and they knew something was up. They were bracing themselves.

  Qwilleran said, “Let’s take Koko first. He’s the more sensible of the two.”

  “Hello, Koko,” Rosemary said. “You’re a beautiful cat. Here’s a candy. Open up! There!” She had merely put a hand around the back of Koko’s head, forced his mouth open, and dropped a pill into the yawning pink cavern. “It’s really simple when you know how.”

  “I hate to think what will happen if Koko gets any healthier,” Qwilleran said.

  Just then Koko lowered his head, opened his mouth, and deposited the pellet at Qwilleran’s feet. It was slightly damp but otherwise as good as new.

  “Well! We’ll try it again. It always works,” said Rosemary, undismayed. “We’ll just push it down a little farther. Qwill, you watch how I do it. Press his jaw open at the hinge; pull his head back until you can see clear down his throat; and then—plop! Now we stroke his throat so that he is forced to gulp.”

  “It looks easy,” Qwilleran said, “but I think Koko is cooperating because you are a lovely lady . . . Oops!” Koko coughed, and up came the pill, shooting across the room and disappearing in the shaggy pelt of the bear rug. “Don’t worry about it, Rosemary. I have a confession to make. I really lured you over here because I wanted someone to talk with.”

  He told her about the love letters he’d found in the jardiniere, the uncanny brilliance of Dan’s exhibition pottery, and the trapdoor in the clay room. “Dan told us there were rats down there.”

  “Rats!” Rosemary shook her head. “Mr. Maus is very particular. He has the exterminators check the building regularly.”

  He told her about the visit from William’s girlfriend and about the peephole in the wall, overlooking the kiln room.

  “But can’t it be seen from the other side?”

  “It’s camouflaged by the mural in the kiln room. I looked for it while we were in there taking pictures.”

  Rosemary asked if she could read the love letters. “Believe it or not,” she said, “I’ve never in my life received a love letter.” She moved to the bed, turned on the lamp, and curled up among the pillows. As she read, her eyes grew moist. “The letters are so lovely.”

  On a sudden impulse Qwilleran pitched the cats into the bathroom, threw their blue cushion in after them, and slammed the door. They howled for a while and then gave up.

  It was midnight when Rosemary left and the indignant animals were released from their prison. Koko stalked about the apartment, complaining irritably.

  “Live and let live,” Qwilleran reminded him. He was moving around the apartment himself, aimlessly, fired with ambition but devoid of direction. He sat down at the typewriter, thinking he could write a better love letter than that ridiculous Popsie. The typewriter still bore Koko’s message from the night before: pb.

  “Pb!” Qwilleran said aloud. “Pb!” He remembered the crocks in the pottery, with their cryptic labels. He jumped up and went to the dictionary as his mustache sent him frantic signals.

  “Pb: Latin Plumbum,” he read aloud. “Chemical symbol for lead!”

  FIFTEEN

  The second appearance of Qwilleran’s Prandial Musings—in the Tuesday edition of the Daily Fluxion—dealt with the culinary virtuosity of Robert Maus, member of the important downtown law firm of Teahandle, Hansblow, Burris, Maus and Castle. The column was wittily written, and Qwilleran accepted congratulations from copyboys and editors alike when he went to the office to open his mail.

  “How do you get these plum assignments?” he was asked at the Press Club that noon. “How much weight do you expect to gain on your new beat? . . . Do you mean to say that the Flux is footing the bill? The comptroller must have flipped.”

  He spent a day at the office, writing a column on the whimsical theories of Max Sorrel: “If you want to test a guy’s sincerity,” Max had said, “serve him a bad cup of coffee. If he praises it, he’s not to be trusted.”

  In the middle of every paragraph he was interrupted, however, by phone calls: from the electric company, objecting to Maus’s hotly argued preference for gas cooking; from the aluminum industry, protesting the gourmet’s antipathy to foil jackets on baked potatoes; from purveyors of ketchup, processed cheese, and frozen fish, all of which made Robert Maus shudder.

  One interruption was a blustering phone call from old Teahandle, senior partner of the law firm. “Did Robert Maus authorize that article in today’s paper?” he demanded.

  “He didn’t read the finished copy,” said Qwilleran, “but he allowed me to interview him.”

  “Humph! Are you aware that one of our major clients is a manufacturer of electric ranges?”

  “Even so, Maus is entitled to his opinion, don’t you think?”

  “But you didn’t have to print it!” the partner snapped. “I shall discuss this with Mr. Maus when he returns to the city.”

  Between answering complaints and accepting compliments, Qwilleran made some phone calls of his own. Koko had left the letter Z in the typewriter that morning, and it inspired the newsman to call Zoe Lambreth, a painter he had known briefly but well when he first came to the city. He read Zoe a list of artists’ names he had copied from an old newspaper account of the scandal at the pottery.

  “Are any of these people still around?” he asked.

  “Some of them have died,” Zoe said in the melodic voice that always captivated him. “Herb Stock has retired to California. Inga Berry is head of the pottery department at Penniman School. Bill Bacon is president of the Turp and Chisel Club.”

  “Inga Berry, you say? I’d like to interview her.”

  “I hope you’re not raking up that old scandal,” the painter said. “Inga refuses to talk about it. All the ‘slovenly Bohemians’ mentioned in the newspapers eventually became important members of the art community, and yet they’re still hounded by reporters. I don’t understand newspapers.”

  Next, Qwilleran telephoned Inga Berry, plotting his course carefully. She answered in a hearty voice, but as soon as he identified himself as a feature writer for the Daily Fluxion, her manner stiffened. “What do you want?”

  He talked fast and summoned all his vocal and verbal charm. “Is it true, Miss Berry, that pottery is considered the most enduring of the crafts?”

  “Well . . . yes,” she said, taken by surprise. “Wood crumbles, and metal corrodes, but examples of pottery have survived for thousands of years.”

  “I understand that pottery is due for a renaissance—that it might eclipse painting and sculpture as an art form within ten years.”

  “Well, I don’t know . . . Well, perhaps yes!” the instructor said as she considered the flattering prospect. “But don’t quote me. You’ll have all the painters and sculptors yelling for my blood.”

  “I’d like to discuss the subject with you, Miss Berry. I have a young friend—one of your students—who paints a glowing picture of your contribution to the art of ceramics.”

  “Oh, he does, does he? Or is it a she?” Miss Berry was warming up.

  “Do you know William Vitello?”

 
“He’s not in my classes, but I’m aware of him.” She chuckled. “He’s hard to overlook.”

  “Have you seen him in the last couple of days?”

  “I don’t believe so. We haven’t had any major catastrophes at the studio, so he must be absent.”

  “By the way, Miss Berry, is it usual to use lead in the composition of glazes?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s quite usual. Lead causes the pigment to adhere to the clay.”

  “Isn’t it poisonous?”

  “We take precautions, of course. Would you like to visit our studio, Mr.—Mr. . . .”

  “Qwilleran, spelled with a Q-w. That’s very kind of you, Miss Berry. I have a great curiosity about potting. Is it true that clay begins to smell bad when it ripens?”

  “Yes, indeedy! The longer you keep it, the more it gains in elasticity. Actually it’s decomposing.”

  During this conversation the receptionist in the feature department was signaling to Qwilleran; two incoming phone calls were waiting. He shook his head and waved them away.

  He told the potter, “I’ve taken an apartment at the old pottery on River Road. It’s a fascinating place. Are you familiar with it?”

  There was a chilling pause on the other end of the line. “You’re not going to bring up the subject of Mortimer Mellon, are you?”

  “Who is he?” Qwilleran asked with an outrageous display of naiveté.

  “Never mind. Forget I mentioned him.”

  “I was going to tell you,” he said in his most engaging voice, “that my apartment has a secret window overlooking the kiln room, and my curiosity is aroused. What might its purpose be?”

  There was another pause. “Which studio do you have?”

  “Number Six.”

  “That used to be Mr. Penniman’s.”

  “I didn’t know he was an artist,” Qwilleran said. “I thought he was a newspaper publisher and financier.”

  “He was a patron of the arts, and his studio served as a—as a—”

  “Pied-à-terre?” the newsman supplied.

  “You see,” Miss Berry added cautiously, “I used to work in the Penniman pottery in the early days.”

  He expressed surprise and then inquired if she planned to attend the opening of the Graham exhibition.

  “I hadn’t intended to, but . . .”

  “Why don’t you come, Miss Berry? I’ll personally keep your champagne glass filled.”

  “Maybe I shall. I never waste time on social openings, but you sound like an interesting young man. Your enthusiasm is refreshing.”

  “How will I recognize you, Miss Berry?”

  “Oh, you’ll know me. I have gray hair and bangs and a bit of a limp. Arthritis, you know. And of course I have clay under my fingernails.”

  Pleased with his own persuasiveness, Qwilleran hung up and finished the Max Sorrel column in high spirit. He handed in his copy to Riker and was leaving the office with spring in his step, when his phone rang again.

  A man’s voice said, “You write that column on restaurants, yeah?”

  “Yes, I write the gourmet column.”

  “Just wanna give you some advice, yeah? Lay off the Golden Lamb Chop, yeah?”

  “For what reason?”

  “We don’t want nothin’ in the paper about the Golden Lamb Chop, y’understand?”

  “Are you connected with the restaurant—sir?”

  “I’m just tellin’ you. Lay off or you’re liable to lose a lot of advertisin’ in the paper, yeah?” There was a click on the line.

  Qwilleran reported the call to Riker. “He sounded like one of the bad guys in an old gangster movie. But now they don’t threaten to bump you off; they threaten to withdraw their advertising. Did you know there’s an underground movement afoot to ruin Sorrel’s restaurant?”

  “Ho-hum, I’ll check it out with the boss,” Riker said with a bored sigh. “We have your cheese column for tomorrow, and then the farmers’ market piece, but we can’t run what you wrote about the Petrified Bagel ‘Embalmed shrimp! Delicious toothpicks!’ Are you out of your mind? What else have you lined up?”

  “The Friendly Fatties. I’m going there tonight.”

  “Any word from Joy?”

  “No word. But I’m building up a case. If I can get just one break . . .”

  Qwilleran met Hixie Rice at the Duxbury Memorial Center. She was looking oddly unglamorous, despite a frizzy wig and a snugly fitted orange-and-white polka-dot ensemble.

  “Do I look dumb?” she asked. “I just lost my eyelashes. I’m a loser, that’s all. Everywhere except on the bathroom scales. C’est la vie!”

  The dinner meeting of the Friendly Fatties—all sixteen tons of them—was held in a public meeting room at the center, which was noted for the mediocrity of its cuisine.

  There was a brief sermon on Thinking Thin. The week’s champion losers were announced, and a few backsliders—Hixie among them—confessed their sins. Then cabbage juice cocktails were served, followed by a light repast.

  “Ah! Another thin soup!” Hixie exclaimed in feigned rapture. “This week they actually dragged a bouillon cube through the hot water. And the melba toast! Best I’ve tasted since I was a girl in Pigeon, Michigan, and ate the shingles off the barn roof . . . Do you think this is really hamburger?” she asked Qwilleran when the main course arrived. “I think it’s grape seeds stuck together with epoxy glue. Don’t you love the Brussels sprouts? They taste like—mmmmm—wet papier-mâché. But wait till you try the dessert! They make it out of air, water, coal tar, disodium phosphate, vegetable gum, and artificial flavoring. Et voilà! Prune whip!”

  On the way home Hixie said, “Honestly, life is unfair. Why wasn’t I born with a divine figure instead of a brilliant intellect and a ravishingly beautiful face? I can’t get a man because I’m fat, and I stay fat because I can’t get a man.”

  “What you need is a hobby,” Qwilleran advised. “Some new consuming interest.”

  “I’ve got a hobby: consuming food,” she said in her usual glib way, but as they walked up the stairs at Maus Haus, the happy-go-lucky fat girl burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.

  “Hixie! What’s the matter?” Qwilleran asked.

  She shook her head and gave vent to a torrent of sobs.

  He grasped her arm firmly and steered her up the stairs. “Come up to Number Six, and I’ll fix you a drink.”

  His kind voice only made the tears gush more freely, and blindly she went along with him. Koko was alarmed at her entrance; he had never seen or heard anyone cry.

  Qwilleran situated her in the big armchair, gave her a box of tissues, lit a cigarette for her, and poured two ounces of scotch over ice. “Now what’s the reason for the sudden cloudburst?”

  “Oh, Qwill,” she said, “I’m so miserable.”

  He waited patiently.

  “I’m not looking for a millionaire or a movie star. All I want is an ordinary, run-of-the-mill type of husband with a few brains or a little talent, not necessarily both. But do you think I ever meet that kind?” She enumerated a discouraging tally of her near-hits and total misses.

  He had heard this tale of woe before. Young women often confided in him. “How old are you, Hixie?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “You’ve got lots of time.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll ever appeal to the right kind of man. I don’t want to be a swinger, but I attract men who want a swinger and nothing else. Me, I want a wedding ring, a new name, babies—all that corny stuff.”

  Qwilleran looked at her dress—too short, too tight, too bright—and wondered how to phrase some advice. Perhaps Rosemary could take her in hand.

  “May I have another drink?” she asked. “Why is your cat staring at me?”

  “He’s concerned. He knows when someone’s unhappy.”

  “I don’t usually come apart like this, but I’ve just lived through a traumatic experience. I haven’t slept for five nights. Do you mind if I tell you all th
e nasty details? You’re so understanding.”

  Qwilleran nodded.

  “I’ve just ended an affair with a married man.” She paused to observe Qwilleran’s reaction, but he was lighting his pipe. She went on: “We couldn’t come to terms. He wanted me to go away with him, but I refused to go without making it legal. I want a marriage license. Am I a nut?”

  “You’re surprisingly conventional.”

  “But it’s the same old story. He’s reluctant to get a divorce. He keeps putting me off . . . Mmmm, this is good scotch. Why don’t you drink, Qwill?”

  “Too young.”

  Hixie wasn’t really listening. She was intent on her own problem. “Our plans were all made. We were going to live in Paris. I was even studying French, and Dan announced—” She caught her tongue, threw Qwilleran a panicky glance.

  He kept an expressionless face.

  “Well, now you know,” she said, throwing up her hands. “I didn’t mean to let it slip. For God’s sake, don’t—”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not a—”

  “I’d hate for Robert to find out. He’d have a fit. You know how he is. So proper!” She stopped and groaned with chagrin. “And Joy is a friend of yours! Ooh! I really put my foot in it this time. Promise me—Your drinks are so—Haven’t slept for five—I’m so tired.”

  “The scotch will make you sleep well,” Qwilleran said. “Shall I walk you home?”

  She was a little unsteady on her feet, and he escorted her around the balcony to her own apartment just in time to say good evening to a tight-lipped Charlotte Roop, who was coming home from work.

  When he returned to his own place, he found Koko busy tilting pictures.

  “Stop that!” Qwilleran barked. He walked to the Art Nouveau print and took it off the hook, slid the metal plate aside, and peered through the aperture. He saw Dan toss a bundle of rags into one of the small kilns. He saw Dan look through the spyhole of a larger kiln and make a notation in a ledger. He saw Dan set an alarm clock and lie down on a cot.