The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Unlike the Daily Fluxion, which had a metropolitan circulation approaching a million, the antiquated presses of the Picayune clanked out thirty-two hundred copies of each issue. While the Fluxion adopted every technological advance and journalistic trend, the Picayune still resembled the newspaper founded by Junior’s great-grandfather. Four pages, printed from hand-set type, carried classified ads and social gossip on the front page. Pancake breakfasts, ice cream socials, and funerals were covered in depth, while brief mentions of local politics, police news, and accidents were relegated to the back page or omitted entirely.

  Qwilleran banged his fist on the bell, and Junior Goodwinter came pelting down the wooden stairs from the editorial office above, followed by a large white cat.

  “Who’s your well-fed friend?” Qwilleran asked.

  “He’s William Allen, our staff mouser,” said Junior casually, as if all newspapers had a mouser on the staff.

  As managing editor he wrote most of the copy and sold most of the ads. Senior Goodwinter, owner and publisher, spent his time in the composing room, wearing a leather apron and a square paper hat folded from newsprint, setting foundry type in a composing stick while wearing an expression of concentration and rapture. He had been setting type since the age of eight.

  Junior called out to him, “S’long, Dad. Back in a few days.”

  The preoccupied man in the composing room turned and said kindly, “Have a good time, Junior, and be careful.”

  “If you want to drive my Jag while I’m gone, the keys are on my desk.”

  “Thanks, Son, but I don’t think I’ll need it. The garage said my car should be ready by five o’clock. Be careful, now.”

  “Okay, Dad, and you take care!”

  A look of warmth and mutual appreciation passed between the two, and Qwilleran momentarily regretted that he had never had a son. He would have wanted one exactly like Junior. But perhaps a little taller and a little huskier.

  Junior grabbed a sack of newspapers and his duffel bag, and the two men drove to the airport. Together they were a study in generation gap: Qwilleran a sober-faced man with graying hair, luxuriant moustache, and mournful eyes; Junior a fresh-faced excited kid in running shoes. Junior opened the conversation with an abrupt question:

  “Do you think I look too young, Qwill?”

  “Too young for what?”

  “I mean, Jody thinks no one will ever take me seriously.”

  “With your build and your youthful face, you’ll still look like fourteen when you’re seventy-five,” Qwilleran told him, “and that’s not all bad. After that, you’ll change overnight and suddenly look like a hundred and two.”

  “Jody thinks it would help if I grew a beard.”

  “Not a bad idea! Your girl comes up with some good ones.”

  “My grandmother says I’d look like one of the Seven Dwarfs.”

  “Your grandmother sounds like a sweet person, Junior.”

  “Grandma Gage is a character! My mother’s mother, you know. You must have seen her around town. She drives a Mercedes and honks the horn at every intersection.”

  Qwilleran showed no surprise. He had learned that longtime residents of Moose County were militant individualists.

  “Have you heard from Melinda since she left Pickax?” Junior asked.

  “A couple of times. They keep her pretty busy at the hospital. She’ll be better off in Boston. She’ll be able to specialize.”

  “Melinda never really wanted to be a country doctor, but she was hot to marry you, Qwill, and move into your mansion.”

  “Sorry, I’m not good husband material. I discovered that once before, and it wouldn’t be fair to Melinda to make the same mistake again. I hope she meets a good man her own age in Boston.”

  “I hear you’ve got something going with the head librarian now.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his pepper-and-salt moustache. “I don’t know what your picturesque expression implies, but let me state that I enjoy Mrs. Duncan’s company. In this age of video-everything, it’s good to meet someone who shares my interest in literature. We get together and read aloud.”

  “Oh, sure,” said the younger man with a wide grin.

  “When are you and Jody thinking of marrying?”

  “On the salary Dad pays me I can’t even afford an apartment of my own. I’m still living with my parents at the farmhouse, you know. Jody makes twice what I do, and she’s only a dental hygienist.”

  “But you own a Jaguar.”

  “That was a graduation present from Grandma Gage. She’s the only one in the family with dough anymore. I’ll inherit when she goes, but it won’t be soon. At eighty-two she still stands on her head every day, and she can beat me at push-ups. People in Moose County live a long time, barring accident. One of my ancestors was killed when his horse was spooked by a big flock of blackbirds. My Grandpa Gage was struck by lightning. I had an aunt and uncle that were killed when their car hit a deer. It was November—rutting season, you know—and this eight-point buck went right through the windshield. The sheriff said it looked like an amateur ax murder. Right now, according to official estimates, there are ten thousand deer in this county.”

  Qwilleran slowed his speed and started looking for signs of wildlife.

  “It’s bow-and-arrow season, and the hunters are making them nervous,” Junior went on. “Early morning or dusk—that’s when the deer bound across the highway.”

  “All ten thousand of them?” Qwilleran reduced his speed to forty-five.

  “It sure is a gloomy day,” Junior observed. “The sky looks heavy.”

  “What’s the earliest the snow ever flies?”

  “Earliest storm on record was November 2, 1919, but the Big One usually doesn’t hit until midmonth. The worst on record was November 13, 1931. Three low-pressure fronts—from Alaska, the Rockies, and the Gulf—slammed into each other over Moose County. Lots of people lost their way in the whiteout and froze to death. When the Big One hits, you better stay indoors! Of if you’re caught driving, don’t get out of the car.”

  Despite the hazards of the north country, Qwilleran was beginning to envy the natives. They had roots! Families like the Goodwinters went back five generations—to the time when fortunes were being made in mining and lumbering. The most vital organizations in Pickax were the Historical Society and the Genealogical Club. On the Airport Road, history was unreeling: abandoned shaft houses and slag heaps at the old mine sites . . . ghost towns identifiable only by a few lonely stone chimneys . . . a crumbling railroad depot in the middle of nowhere . . . the stark remains of trees blackened by forest fires.

  After a few minutes of silence Qwilleran ventured to ask Junior a personal question. “As a graduate of J-school, cum laude, how do you feel about the Picayune? Are you living up to your potential? Do you think it’s right to hang back in the nineteenth century?”

  “Are you kidding? My ambition is to make the Pic into a real newspaper,” Junior said, “but Dad wants to keep it like it was a hundred years ago. He was counting on us kids to keep up the tradition, but my brother went out to California and got into advertising, and my sister married a rancher in Montana, so I’m stuck with it.”

  “The county could support a real newspaper. Why not start one and let your father keep the Picayune as a hobby? You wouldn’t be competing; the Pic is in a class by itself. Did you ever consider anything like that?”

  Junior threw him a look of panic, and the words tumbled out. “I couldn’t afford to start a lemonade stand! We’re broke! That’s why I’m working for peanuts. . . . Every year we go further in the hole. Dad’s been selling our farmland, and now he’s mortgaged the farmhouse. . . . I shouldn’t be telling you this. . . . Mother’s been after him for a long time to unload the paper. . . . She’s really upset! But Dad won’t listen. He keeps right on setting type and going deeper in the red. He says it’s his life—his reason for living. . . . Did you ever see him set type? He can set more than thirty-five letters a minute wit
hout looking at the typecase.” Junior’s face reflected his admiration.

  “Yes, I’ve watched him, and I’m impressed,” Qwilleran said. “I’ve also seen your presses in the basement. Some of the equipment looks like Gutenberg’s winepress.”

  “Dad collects old presses. He has a whole barnful. My great-grandfather’s first press operated with a treadle like an old sewing machine.”

  “Would your rich grandmother come to the rescue financially, if you wanted to start a newspaper?”

  “Grandma Gage won’t fork over any more dough. She’s already bailed us out a couple of times and paid our insurance premiums and put three of us through college. . . . Hey, why don’t you start a newspaper, Qwill? You’re loaded!”

  “I have absolutely no interest in or aptitude for business matters, Junior. That’s why I set up the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund. They handle everything and give me a little pocket money. I spent twenty-five years on newspapers, and now all I want is the time and the quietude to do some writing.”

  “How’s your book coming?”

  “Okay,” said Qwilleran, thinking of his neglected typewriter and cluttered desk and disorganized notes.

  At the airport they parked in the open field that served as long-term parking lot. The terminal was little more than a shack, and the airport manager—who was also ticket agent, mechanic, and part-time pilot—was sweeping the floor. “Are we gonna get the Big One?” he asked cheerfully.

  When the two newsmen boarded the twin-engine plane for the first leg of their journey, they were smart enough to avoid personal conversation. There were fifteen other passengers, and thirty ears would be listening. Moose County had a grapevine that disseminated more news than the Picayune and transmitted it faster than WPKX. Judiciously, Qwilleran and Junior talked about sports until the small plane bumped to a landing in Minneapolis and they boarded a jet.

  “I hope they serve lunch on board,” Junior said. “What are we having for dinner at the Press Club?”

  “I’ve ordered French onion soup, prime rib, and apple pie.”

  “Oh, wow!”

  There was a layover in Chicago before they took off on the final leg of the journey. By the time they landed and rode the coach to the Hotel Stilton and tuned in the weather reports, it was time to go to the Press Club.

  “Will the sportswriters be there?” Junior asked.

  “Everyone—from the top executives to the newest copyboy. I suppose they’re called copy-facilitators now.”

  “Will they think it’s corny if I ask for autographs?”

  “They’ll be flattered,” Qwilleran said.

  At the club Qwilleran was treated as a returning hero, but he reminded himself that anyone would be a hero if he staked the entire staff to dinner and an open bar. A photographer gave him a chummy poke in the ribs and asked how it felt to be a millionaire.

  “I’ll let you know next year, on April fifteenth,” Qwilleran replied.

  The travel editor wanted to know how he enjoyed living in the outback. “Isn’t Moose County in the Snow Belt?”

  “Absolutely! It’s the buckle of the Snow Belt.”

  “Well, anyway, you lucky dog, you’ve escaped the violence of the city.”

  “We have plenty of violence up north,” Qwilleran informed him. “Tornadoes, lightning, hurricanes, forest fires, wild animals, falling trees, spring floods! But nature’s violence is easier to accept than human violence. We never have any mad snipers picking off kids on the school bus, like the incident here last week.”

  “Do you still have the cat that’s smarter than you are?”

  Around the Press Club, Qwilleran had a reputation as an amateur detective; it was also known that Koko was somewhat responsible for his success.

  Qwilleran explained to Junior, “Maybe you didn’t notice, but Koko’s picture is hanging in the lobby, along with the Pulitzer Prize winners. Someday I’ll tell you about his exploits. You won’t believe it, but I’ll tell you anyway.”

  During the happy hour Junior met the columnists and reporters whose copy he read in the outstate edition of the Fluxion, and he could hardly control his excitement. The guest of honor, on the other hand, was noticeably subdued. Arch Riker was glad to cut loose from the Fluxion, but the occasion was saddened by the recent breakup of his marriage.

  “What are your plans?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Well, I’ll spend Thanksgiving with my son in Denver and Christmas with my daughter in Oregon. After that, I don’t know.”

  After the prime rib and apple pie, the executive editor presented Riker with a gold watch, and Qwilleran paid a tribute to his longtime friend. He concluded with a few words about Moose County.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, most of you have never heard of Moose County. It’s the only underground county in the state. Cartographers sometimes forget to put it on the map. Many of our legislators think it belongs to Canada. Yet, a hundred years ago Moose County was the richest in the state, thanks to mining and lumbering. Today it’s a vacation paradise for anyone interested in fishing, hunting, boating, and camping. We have two unique features I’d like to point out: perfect temperatures from May to October, and a newspaper that hasn’t changed since it was founded over a century ago. Junior Goodwinter, the youngest managing editor in captivity, writes all the copy himself. In an age of satellite communication it’s not easy to write with a goose quill and cuttlefish ink. . . . May I introduce Junior and the Pickax Picayune!”

  Junior snatched his baseball cap and sack of papers and dashed about the dining room shouting, “Wuxtree! Wuxtree!” while throwing a clutch of papers on each table. The guests grabbed them and started to read—first with chuckles, then with guffaws. On page 1, in column 1, they found the classified ads:

  FOR SALE: Used two-by-fours in good shape. Also a size 14 wedding dress, never been worn.

  HURRY! If your old clunker won’t make it through another winter, maybe you’ll find a better clunker at Hackpole’s Used Car Lot, or maybe you won’t. Can’t tell till you look ’em over.

  FREE: Three gray kittens, one with white boots. Almost housebroke.

  JUST ARRIVED: New shipment of long johns at Bill’s Family Store. Quality ain’t what it used to be, and prices are up from last year, but what the heck! Better buy before snow flies.

  Sharing the front page with these examples of truth-in-advertising were news items with headlines an eighth of an inch high.

  RECORD NEARLY BROKEN

  There were 75 cars in Captain Fugtree’s funeral procession last week—longest since 1904, when 52 buggies and 37 carriages paraded to the cemetery to bury Ephraim Goodwinter.

  BRIDAL SHOWER GIVEN

  Miss Doreen Mayfus was honored at a shower last Thursday. Games were played and prizes awarded. The bride-to-be opened 24 presents. Refreshments included sausage rolls, pimiento sandwiches, and wimpy-diddles.

  ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATED

  Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Toodle celebrated their 70th wedding anniversary at a dinner given by seven of their 11 children: Richard Toodle, Emil Toodle, Joseph Toodle, Conrad Toodle, Donna Toodle, Dorothy (Toodle) Fugtree, and Estelle (Toodle) Campbell. Also present were 30 grandchildren, 82 great-grandchildren, and 13 great-great-grandchildren. The dinner was held at the Toodle Family Restaurant. The sheet cake was decorated by Betsy Ann Toodle.

  During the uproar (everyone was reading aloud) the Press Club manager sidled up to the head table and whispered in the host’s ear. “Long distance for you, Qwill. In my office.”

  Before hurrying to the phone, Qwilleran shouted, “Thanks for coming, everyone! The bar’s open!”

  He was absent from the dining room long enough to make a few phone calls of his own, and when he returned he dragged Junior away from a group of editors and reporters.

  “We’ve gotta get out, Junior. We’re going home. I’ve changed our reservations. . . . Arch, tell everyone goodbye for us, will you? It’s an emergency. . . . Come on, Junior.”

  “What? . . . What?” Junior splu
ttered.

  “Tell you later.”

  “My sack—”

  “Forget your sack.”

  Qwilleran hustled the young man down the steps of the club and pushed him into the cab that waited at the curb with motor running.

  “Hotel Stilton on the double,” he yelled to the driver as the cab shot forward, “and run the red lights.”

  “Oh, wow!” Junior said.

  “How fast can you throw your things in your duffel, kid? We’ve got seven minutes to pack, check out, and get up to the heliport on the hotel roof.”

  Not until they had piled into the police helicopter did Qwilleran take time to explain. “Urgent phone call from Pickax,” he shouted. “The Big One is moving in. Gotta beat it—personal emergency. Get ready to run. They’re holding the plane.”

  When they finally buckled up on the jet, Junior said, “Hey, how did you swing that deal? I’ve never been on a chopper.”

  “It helps if you’ve worked at the Fluxion,” Qwilleran explained, “and if you’ve cooperated with Homicide and plugged the Police Widows’ Fund. Sorry to spoil the rest of our plans.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind missing the other stuff.”

  “We can make a fast connection in Chicago and then catch the TGIF commuter out of Minneapolis. We’re lucky it worked out that way.”

  For the rest of the flight Qwilleran was reluctant to talk, but Junior couldn’t stop. “Everybody was great! The sportswriters said they’d get me into the press box any time I’m in town. . . . The guy that runs the ‘Newsroom Mouse’ column is going to write up the Picayune on Tuesday, and that’s syndicated all over the country, you know. How about that? . . . Mr. Bates said I could have a job any time I want to leave Pickax.”

  Qwilleran reserved comment. He was familiar with the managing editor’s promises; the man had a short memory.

  Junior chattered on. “They hire a lot of women at the Fluxion, don’t they? On the desk, general assignment, heads of departments, photographers. Do you know that redheaded photographer—the one with green stockings?”