THE CRITICS ARE PURRING OVER THE CAT WHO . . . SERIES!
“FANS WILL GO BANANAS.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“BRAUN GIVES FANS WHAT THEY CRAVE.”
—Publishers Weekly
“LIKE DROPPING IN ON OLD AND VERY DEAR FRIENDS.”
—The Tampa Tribune
“BRAUN KEEPS BOTH PAWS PLANTED ON THE SIDE OF CHARMING.”
—Los Angeles Times
“DELIGHTFUL . . . [THE CATS] STEAL THE SHOW.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“ENJOYABLE.”
—People
“COMPELLING.”
—Mystery News
“BRAUN’S FANS DEVOUR THESE TALES AND KEEP COMING BACK FOR MORE.”
—The Chattanooga Times
“GLORIOUS CAPERS . . . PURR-FECTLY WONDERFUL!”
—Inside Books
“THOROUGHLY DELIGHTFUL . . . SHEER READING ENJOYMENT.”
—Detroit Free Press
“THE MIX OF CRIME AND CATS [IS] CATNIP TO READERS WHO LIKE BOTH.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
Read ALL the CAT WHO . . . mysteries!
THE CAT WHO COULD READ BACKWARDS: Modern art is a mystery to many—but for Jim Qwilleran and Koko it turns into a mystery of another sort . . .
THE CAT WHO ATE DANISH MODERN: Qwill isn’t thrilled about covering the interior design beat. Little does he know that a murderer has designs on a local woman featured in one of his stories . . .
THE CAT WHO TURNED ON AND OFF: Qwill and Koko are joined by Yum Yum as they try to solve a murder in an antique shop . . .
THE CAT WHO SAW RED: Qwill starts his diet—and a new gourmet column for the Fluxion. It isn’t easy—but it’s not as hard as solving a shocking murder case . . .
THE CAT WHO PLAYED BRAHMS: While fishing at a secluded cabin, Qwill hooks onto a murder mystery—and Koko gets hooked on classical music . . .
THE CAT WHO PLAYED POST OFFICE: Koko and Yum Yum turn into fat cats when Qwill inherits millions. But amid the caviar and champagne, Koko smells something fishy . . .
THE CAT WHO KNEW SHAKESPEARE: The local newspaper publisher has perished in an accident—or is it murder? That is the question . . .
THE CAT WHO SNIFFED GLUE: After a rich banker and his wife are killed, Koko develops an odd appetite for glue. To solve the murder, Qwill has to figure out why . . .
THE CAT WHO WENT UNDERGROUND: Qwill and the cats head for their Moose County cabin to relax—but when a handyman disappears, Koko must dig up some clues . . .
THE CAT WHO TALKED TO GHOSTS: Qwill and Koko try to solve a haunting mystery in a historic farmhouse . . .
THE CAT WHO LIVED HIGH: A glamorous art dealer was killed in Qwill’s high-rise—and he and the cats reach new heights in detection as they try to solve the case . . .
THE CAT WHO KNEW A CARDINAL: The director of the local Shakespeare production dies in Qwill’s orchard—and the stage is set for a puzzling mystery . . .
THE CAT WHO MOVED A MOUNTAIN: Qwill moves to the beautiful Potato Mountains—where a dispute between residents and developers boils over into murder . . .
THE CAT WHO WASN’T THERE: Qwill’s on his way to Scotland—and on his way to solving another purr-plexing mystery . . .
THE CAT WHO WENT INTO THE CLOSET: Qwill’s moved into a mansion . . . with fifty closets for Koko to investigate! But among the junk, Koko finds a clue . . .
THE CAT WHO CAME TO BREAKFAST: Qwill and the cats scramble for clues when peaceful Breakfast Island is turned upside down by real-estate developers, controversy—and murder . . .
THE CAT WHO BLEW THE WHISTLE: An old steam locomotive has been restored, causing excitement in Moose County. But murder brings the fun to a screeching halt . . .
THE CAT WHO SAID CHEESE: At the Great Food Explo, scheduled events include a bake-off, a cheese tasting, and a restaurant opening. Unscheduled events include mystery and murder . . .
THE CAT WHO TAILED A THIEF: A rash of petty thievery and a wealthy woman’s death leave a trail of clues as elusive as a cat burglar . . .
THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS: Spring comes to Moose County—and a young cat’s fancy turns to crime solving . . .
THE CAT WHO SAW STARS: UFOs in Mooseville? When a backpacker disappears, Qwill investigates a rumored “abduction”—with the help of his own little aliens . . .
THE CAT WHO ROBBED A BANK: As the Highland Games approach, Qwill tries to make sense of Koko’s sudden interest in photographs, pennies, and paper towels . . .
THE CAT WHO SMELLED A RAT: A drought plagues Moose County—and a bewildering murder case plagues Qwill and the cats . . .
THE CAT WHO WENT UP THE CREEK: While visiting Black Creek, Qwill and the cats must solve the murder of a drowned man before they’re up the creek without a paddle . . .
THE CAT WHO BROUGHT DOWN THE HOUSE: Koko’s stage debut is postponed when Qwill suspects the cat’s costar may be guilty of murder . . .
THE CAT WHO TALKED TURKEY: A body’s been found on Qwill’s property, and now he and the cats will have to determine who committed this fowl deed . . .
THE CAT WHO WENT BANANAS: Koko finds a bunch of clues when an out-of-town actor dies mysteriously . . .
THE CAT WHO DROPPED A BOMBSHELL: As Pickax plans its big parade, Qwill and the cats cope with an approaching storm—and two suspicious deaths . . .
THE CAT WHO HAD 60 WHISKERS: News of a fatal bee sting has Koko’s whiskers twitching—and Qwill itching to find out more . . .
And don’t miss. . .
THE CAT WHO HAD 14 TALES: A delightful collection of feline mystery fiction!
SHORT & TALL TALES: LEGENDS OF MOOSE COUNTY
Legends, stories, and anecdotes from four hundred miles north of everywhere . . .
THE PRIVATE LIFE OF THE CAT WHO . . .
A charming collection of feline antics that provides an intimate look at the private lives of those extraordinary Siamese cats Koko and Yum Yum.
Titles by Lilian Jackson Braun
THE CAT WHO COULD READ BACKWARDS
THE CAT WHO ATE DANISH MODERN
THE CAT WHO TURNED ON AND OFF
THE CAT WHO SAW RED
THE CAT WHO PLAYED BRAHMS
THE CAT WHO PLAYED POST OFFICE
THE CAT WHO KNEW SHAKESPEARE
THE CAT WHO SNIFFED GLUE
THE CAT WHO WENT UNDERGROUND
THE CAT WHO TALKED TO GHOSTS
THE CAT WHO LIVED HIGH
THE CAT WHO KNEW A CARDINAL
THE CAT WHO MOVED A MOUNTAIN
THE CAT WHO WASN’T THERE
THE CAT WHO WENT INTO THE CLOSET
THE CAT WHO CAME TO BREAKFAST
THE CAT WHO BLEW THE WHISTLE
THE CAT WHO SAID CHEESE
THE CAT WHO TAILED A THIEF
THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS
THE CAT WHO SAW STARS
THE CAT WHO ROBBED A BANK
THE CAT WHO SMELLED A RAT
THE CAT WHO WENT UP THE CREEK
THE CAT WHO BROUGHT DOWN THE HOUSE
THE CAT WHO TALKED TURKEY
THE CAT WHO WENT BANANAS
THE CAT WHO DROPPED A BOMBSHELL
THE CAT WHO HAD 60 WHISKERS
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS:
THE CAT WHO HAD 14 TALES
SHORT & TALL TALES
THE PRIVATE LIFE OF THE CAT WHO. . .
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
THE CAT WHO KNEW SHAKESPEARE
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 1988 by Lilian Jackson Braun.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright
fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
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For more information, visit penguin.com.
ISBN: 978-1-101-66377-6
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / June 1988
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Table of Contents
Praise for the Cat Who . . . series
Read all the Cat Who . . . mysteries
Titles by Lilian Jackson Braun
Chapter ONE
Chapter TWO
Chapter THREE
Chapter FOUR
Chapter FIVE
Chapter SIX
Chapter SEVEN
Chapter EIGHT
Chapter NINE
Chapter TEN
Chapter ELEVEN
Chapter TWELVE
Chapter THIRTEEN
Chapter FOURTEEN
Chapter FIFTEEN
Chapter SIXTEEN
About the Author
In Moose County, four hundred miles north of everywhere, it always starts to snow in November, and it snows—and snows—and snows.
First, all the front steps disappear under two feet of snow. Then fences and shrubs are no longer visible. Utility poles keep getting shorter until the lines are low enough for limbo dancing. Listening to the hourly weather reports on the radio is everyone’s winter hobby in Moose County, and snowplowing becomes the chief industry. Plows and blowers throw up mountains of white that hide whole buildings and require the occupants to tunnel through to the street. In Pickax City, the county seat, it’s not unusual to see cross-country skis in the downtown shopping area. If the airport closes down—and it often does—Moose County is an island of snow and ice. It all starts in November, with a storm that the residents call the Big One.
On the evening of November fifth, Jim Qwilleran was relaxing in his comfortable library in the company of friends. A mood of contentment prevailed. They had dined well, the housekeeper having prepared clam chowder and escalopes of veal Casimir. The houseman had piled fragrant logs of applewood in the fireplace, and the blaze projected dancing highlights on the leather-bound books that filled four walls of library shelves. From softly shaded lamps came a golden glow that warmed the leather furniture and Bokhara rugs.
Qwilleran, a large middle-aged man with a bushy moustache, sat at his antique English desk and tuned in the nine o’clock weather report on the radio—one of numerous small portables deployed about the house for this purpose.
“Colder tonight, with lows about twenty-five degrees,” the WPKX meteorologist predicted. “High winds and a good chance of snow tonight and tomorrow.”
Qwilleran flipped off the radio. “If you guys don’t object,” he said to the other two, “I’d like to leave town for a few days. It’s six months since my last trip Down Below, and my cronies at the newspaper think I’m dead. Mrs. Cobb will serve your meals, and I’ll be back before the snow flies—I hope. Just keep your paws crossed.”
Four brown ears swiveled alertly at the announcement. Two brown masks with long white whiskers and incredibly blue eyes turned away from the blazing logs and toward the man seated at the desk.
The more you talk to cats, Qwilleran had been told, the smarter they become. An occasional “nice kitty” will have no measurable effect; intelligent conversation is required.
The system, he had found, seemed to be working; the pair of Siamese on the hearth rug reacted as if they knew exactly what he was saying. Yum Yum, the affectionate little female, gazed at him with an expression that looked like reproach. Koko, the handsome and muscular male, rose from the spot where he had been lounging in leonine majesty, walked stiffly to the desk, and scolded with earsplitting yowls. “Yow-ow-OW!”
“I was expecting a little more understanding and consideration,” the man told them.
Qwilleran, at the age of fifty or so, was coping with a unique midlife crisis. After a lifetime of living in large metropolitan areas, he was now a resident of Pickax City, population 3,000. After a career as a hardworking journalist getting by with a modest salary, he was now a millionaire—or billionaire; he was not quite sure. At any rate, he was the sole heir to the Klingenschoen fortune founded in Moose County in the nineteenth century. The bequest included a mansion on Main Street, a staff of three, a four-car garage, and a limousine. Even after a year or more he found his new lifestyle strange. As a newsman he had been concerned chiefly with getting the story, checking the facts, meeting the deadline, and protecting his sources. Now his chief concern, like that of every other Moose County adult, seemed to be the weather, especially in November.
When the Siamese reacted negatively to his proposal, Qwilleran tamped his moustache thoughtfully for a moment. “Nevertheless,” he said, “it’s imperative that I go. Arch Riker is leaving the Daily Fluxion, and I’m hosting his retirement party Friday night.”
In his days of frugal bachelorhood in a one-room apartment, Qwilleran had never hungered for money or possessions, and among his fellow staffers he was not noted for his generosity. But when the Klingenschoen estate finally stumbled through probate court, he astonished the media of the Western world by inviting the entire staff of the Daily Fluxion to a dinner at the Press Club.
He planned to take a guest: Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor of the Pickax Picayune, Moose County’s only newspaper. Dialing the newspaper office, he said, “Hi, Junior! How would you like to goof off for a couple of days and fly Down Below for a party? My treat. Cocktails and dinner at the Press Club.”
“Oh, wow! I’ve never seen a Press Club except in the movies,” said the editor. “Could we visit the Daily Fluxion offices, too?”
Junior looked and dressed like a high school sophomore and exhibited an innocent enthusiasm that was rare in a journalist with a cum laude degree from a state university.
“We might sneak in a hockey game and a couple of shows, too,” Qwilleran said, “but we’ll have to keep an eye on the weather reports and get back here before snow flies.”
“There’s a low-pressure front moving down from Canada, but I think we’re safe for a while,” Junior said. “What’s the party all about?”
“A retirement bash for Arch Riker, and here’s what I want you to do: Bring a Picayune news-carrier’s sack and a hundred copies of your latest issue. After the dinner I’ll say a few words about Moose County and the Picayune, and that’ll be your cue to jump up and start distributing the papers.”
“I’ll wear a baseball cap sideways and yell, ‘Extra! Extra!’ Is that what you want?”
“You’ve got it!” Qwilleran said. “But the authentic pronunciation is ‘Wuxtree!’ Be ready at nine o’clock Friday morning. I’ll pick you up at your office.”
The early-morning weather broadcast on Friday was not encouraging: “A low-pressure front hovering over Canada increases the possibility of heavy snow tonight and tomorrow, with winds shifting to the northeast.”
Qwilleran’s housekeeper expressed her fears. “What will you do, Mr. Q, if you can’t get back here before snow flies? If the storm is the Big One, the airport will be closed for goodness knows how long.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Mrs. Cobb. I’ll rent a dogsled and a pack of huskies and mush back to Pickax.”
“Oh, Mr. Q!” she laughed. “I never know whether to believe you or not.”
&nbs
p; She was preparing an attractive plate of sautéed chicken livers with a garnish of hard-cooked egg yolk and bacon crumbles, which she placed on the floor. Yum Yum gobbled her share hungrily, but Koko declined to eat. Something was bothering him.
Both cats had the shaded fawn bodies and brown points of pedigreed seal-point Siamese: brown masks accentuating the blueness of their eyes; alert brown ears worn like royal crowns; brown legs elegantly long and slender; brown tails that lashed and curled and waved to express emotions and opinions. But Koko had something more: a disconcerting degree of intelligence and an uncanny knack of knowing when something was . . . wrong!
That morning he had knocked a book off a shelf in the library.
“That’s bad form!” Qwilleran had told him, appealing to his intelligence. “These are old, rare, and valuable books—to be treated with respect, if not reverence.” He examined the book. It was a slender leather-bound copy of The Tempest—one of a thirty-seven-volume set of Shakespeare’s plays that had come with the house.
Experiencing slight qualms, Qwilleran replaced the book on the shelf. It was an unfortunate choice of title. He was determined, however, to fly Down Below for the party, despite Koko and Mrs. Cobb and the WPKX meteorologist.
An hour before flight time he drove his energy-efficient compact to the office of the Picayune to pick up Junior and the sack of newspapers. All the buildings on Main Street were more than a century old, constructed of gray stone in a variety of inappropriate architectural styles. The Picayune headquarters—squeezed between the imitation Viennese lodge hall and the imitation Roman post office—resembled an ancient Spanish monastery.
A satisfying smell of ink pervaded the newspaper office, but the premises had the embalmed look of a museum. There was no ad taker at the scarred front counter. There was no alert and smiling receptionist—only a bell to ring for service.
Qwilleran perused the silent scene: wooden filing cabinets and well-worn desks of golden oak . . . dangerous-looking spindles for spiking ad orders and subscriptions . . . old copies of the Picayune, yellow and brittle, plastered on walls that had not been painted since the Great Depression. Beyond the low partition of golden oak and unwashed glass was the composing room. A lone man stood before the typecases, oblivious to everything except the line of type he was setting with darting movements of his hand.
The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare Page 1
