The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Qwilleran closed his eyes and thought of nothing but warmth and dryness and safety. Vaguely he heard a teakettle whistling, a telephone being jiggled, water being sponged into a pail.

  When Polly returned with a mug of hot tea on a tray, she said, “The phone’s dead. The lines must be down. I wonder if I should bring you a warm footbath. How do you feel? Do you want to sit up and drink some tea?” She took the thermometer from his mouth and studied it.

  Qwilleran was beginning to feel like himself. He rose to a sitting position without assistance. He accepted the mug of tea with a grateful glance at Polly. He sipped it and uttered a long, deep sigh. Then he spoke his first words. “For this relief, much thanks, for it is bitter cold.”

  “Thank God!” She laughed and cried. “You’re alive! What a fright you gave me! But you’re all right. When you quote Shakespeare, I know you’re all right.”

  She threw her arms around his blanketed shoulders and nestled her head on his chest. At that moment the power failed. Half of Moose County blacked out, and the cottage was thrown into darkness.

  Friday, November twenty-second. Qwilleran opened his eyes in a small bedroom filled with dazzling light.

  “Wake up, Qwill! Wake up! Come and see what’s happened!” Someone in a blue robe was standing at the window, gazing rapturously at the scene outdoors. “We’ve had an ice storm!”

  He was slow to wake, Groggily he remembered the night before: Polly . . . her tiny cottage . . . the blizzard.

  “Don’t lie there, Qwill. Come and see. It’s beautiful!”

  “You’re beautiful,” he said. “Life is beautiful!”

  It was cool in the bedroom, although a comforting rumble and roar somewhere in the cottage indicated that the space heater was operating. Dragging himself out of bed, he wrapped himself in a blanket, and joined Polly at the window.

  What he saw was an enchanted landscape, dazzlingly bright in a cold, hard November sun. The wind was still. There was a hush over the countryside, now glazed with a thin film of sparkling ice. Fields were acres of silver. Every tree branch, every twig was coated with crystal. Power lines and wire fences were transformed into strings of diamonds.

  “I can’t believe we had a howling blizzard last night,” he said. “I can’t believe I was wandering around in a whiteout.”

  “Did you sleep well?” she asked.

  “Very well. And not because of tramping through the snow or eating too much roast beef. . . . I smell something good.”

  “Coffee,” she said, “and scones in the oven.”

  The scones were dotted with currants and served with cream cheese and gooseberry jam.

  “The hedge you followed in the blizzard,” Polly said, “is a row of berry bushes, planted by the MacGregors years ago. He lets the people on the next farm pick them, and then they supply us with preserves. . . . Is something bothering you, Qwill?”

  “Mrs. Cobb will be worried. Is the phone working?”

  “Not yet. The power came on half an hour ago.”

  “Do the snowplows come down this road?”

  “Eventually, but we’re not on their priority list. They do the city streets and main highways first.”

  “Have you heard anything on the radio?”

  “Everything’s closed—schools, stores, offices. The library won’t open until Monday. All meetings are canceled. They cleared the helicopter on the hospital roof and airlifted a patient this morning. Many cars were abandoned in snowdrifts. The body of a man was found in a car that had run off the road. He was asphyxiated. Do you carry a shovel in your trunk, Qwill?”

  He shook his head guiltily.

  “If you’re stranded, you have to clear the snow away from the tail pipe, you know, so you can run the heater.”

  “If we’re going to be snowbound,” Qwilleran said, “I’d rather be snowbound here with you than anywhere else. It’s so peaceful. How did you find this place?”

  “My husband was killed on this farm while he was fighting a barn fire, and the MacGregors were very kind to me. They offered me the hired man’s cottage rent-free.”

  “What happened to the hired man?”

  “He’s an extinct species. The farmers have employees now, who live in ranch houses in town.”

  “Don’t you worry about your landlord in weather like this?”

  “He’s in Florida. His son drove him to the airport on Tuesday. I have to feed his pet goose during the winter. Did you ever hear of a goose-sitter?”

  The kitchen was suddenly quiet. The space heater had done its job and clicked off. The refrigerator had finished rechilling. The pump had filled the tank and was silent. Then the silence indoors and out was broken by a distant rumble.

  “The snowplow!” Polly cried. “How very unusual!”

  From the west window they could see plumes of snow being blown as high as the treetops. Then the machine came into view, followed by a smaller plow and a sheriff’s car. The convoy stopped in front of the farmhouse, and the small plow started on the driveway. Eventually the sheriff’s car pulled up to the door.

  “Mr. Qwilleran here?” the deputy asked.

  Qwilleran presented himself. “My car’s in the ditch somewhere along the road.”

  “Saw it,” said the deputy. “I can take you into town . . . if you want to go,” he added, glancing at the woman in a blue robe.

  Qwilleran turned a disappointed face to Polly. “I’d better go. Will you be all right?”

  She nodded. “I’ll phone you as soon as the lines are repaired.”

  The deputy politely turned away as the two said goodbye.

  Riding back to Pickax with the officer, Qwilleran said, “I guess this storm was the Big One.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did it do much damage?”

  “The usual.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Just came looking. Got a call from the Pickax police chief and the mayor and the road commissioner.” He picked up the microphone. “Car ninety-four to Dispatch. Got him!”

  Pickax, the city of gray stone, was now smothered in white and glittering with ice. The Park Circle looked like a wedding cake. At the K mansion every window, door, and railing was crested with inches of snow, and Mr. O’Dell was riding the snowblower, clearing the driveways.

  Mrs. Cobb greeted Qwilleran with a show of relief. “I was worried sick because of the way the cats were acting,” she said. “They knew something was wrong. Koko howled all night.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Asleep on the refrigerator—exhausted! I didn’t sleep a wink myself. It started to snow right after you left, and I was afraid you’d lose your way or get stuck. The phones were dead, but as soon as they fixed them I called everyone I knew, even the mayor.”

  “Mrs. Cobb, you’re shaking. Sit down, and let’s have a cup of tea, and I’ll tell you about my experience.”

  When he had finished, she said, “The cats were right! They knew you were in trouble.”

  “All’s well that ends well. I’ll call Hackpole’s garage to pull me out of the ditch. Now how about the wedding? Is everything going according to plan?”

  “We-e-el,” she said uncertainly, with her eyes lowered.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “Well, Herb is starting to say he doesn’t want me to work after we’re married—at least, not here at the museum. He thinks I should stay at home and . . . and . . .”

  “And what?”

  She moistened her lips. “Do the bookkeeping for his business operations.”

  “WHAT!” Qwilleran shouted, “And waste your years of experience and knowledge? The man’s crazy!”

  “I told him there wouldn’t be any wedding if I couldn’t work at the museum,” she said defiantly.

  “Good for you! That took courage. I’m glad you asserted yourself.” He knew how much she wanted a home of her own, and a husband. Not just a man. A husband.

  “Anyway, he backed down, so I guess everything’s okay. My wed
ding suit arrived—pink suede—and it’s gorgeous! My son sent it from Saint Louis, and it doesn’t need a single alteration. He’d be here for the wedding if the flying wasn’t so iffy. Besides, they’re expecting their baby any day now. I hope it’s a boy.”

  Qwilleran preferred to avoid domestic details, but the housekeeper wanted to chatter about the wedding plans.

  “Susan Exbridge is going to wear gray. I’ve ordered our corsages—pink roses—and pink rosebuds for you and Herb.”

  “I know you don’t want a reception,” Qwilleran said, “but we ought to crack a bottle of champagne and toast the bride and groom.”

  “That’s what Susan said. She wants to bring some caviar and steak tartare.”

  At those words two sleeping brown heads on top of the refrigerator were promptly raised.

  Qwilleran repressed a chuckle as he pictured Hackpole wearing a pink rosebud and reacting to fish eggs and raw meat. “How about background music?” he suggested. “We should put a cassette in the player.”

  “Oh, that would be lovely. Would you choose something, Mr. Q?”

  The Bartered Bride, he thought. “And where do you want to hold the ceremony?”

  “In the drawing room, in front of the fireplace. Let me show you what I have in mind.”

  They left the kitchen, followed by the Siamese, who liked to be included in domestic conferences.

  “We could face the magistrate across a small table,” Mrs. Cobb said. “A fire in the fireplace would make it cozy, and we’d put a bowl of pink roses on the table, to tie in with the roses in the rug.”

  At that moment there was an explosive snarl behind them. Koko was bushing his tail, arching his back, and showing his fangs. His ears and whiskers were sleeked backward, and his eyes had an evil slant.

  “My heavens! What’s wrong?” Mrs. Cobb cried.

  “He’s standing on the roses!” Qwilleran said. “He always avoids walking on the roses!”

  “He gave me a fright.”

  “He’s having a catfit, or seeing a ghost,” Qwilleran said, but he felt an uneasy quiver on his upper lip, and he smoothed his moustache vigorously.

  As they returned to the kitchen Mrs. Cobb said, “I’m so thankful that you brought me to Pickax, Mr. Q. It’s been a wonderful experience, and I’ve met Herb, and I’m getting married among all the things I love. I’m very grateful.”

  “Don’t get carried away, Mrs. Cobb. You’ve done a great job, and you deserve the best. Are you sure you don’t want to take a week off?”

  “No, we’re just going to have dinner at the Pickax Hotel and spend our wedding night in their bridal suite,” she said. “Then we’ll have our honeymoon trip in the spring. Herb wants to take me fishing in northern Canada.”

  Qwilleran could not imagine her casting for trout any more than he could imagine Hackpole sleeping between pink satin sheets. “But you could take a week right now for rest and relaxation,” he said.

  “Well,” she said almost apologetically, “there’s a committee meeting Monday about the trimming of the Christmas tree, and Sunday night is the Messiah concert and reception in costume. I wouldn’t miss that for anything!”

  “What about Herb?”

  “He won’t mind. There’s something on TV that he likes to watch every Sunday night.”

  Qwilleran had qualms about this marriage, and they were growing stronger. He would feel like a hypocrite, standing up for a man he heartily disliked, but he was doing it for Mrs. Cobb. She was always so generous with her time and effort and good cheer . . . so eager for approval and so embarrassed when praised . . . so knowledgeable in her field and yet so gullible in her emotions . . . so ready to please and adjust to the whims of others—especially a man with muscles and tattoos.

  “You’re still shaking, Mrs. Cobb,” he said. “It’s excitement and lack of sleep. Go upstairs and take it easy. I’ll feed the cats and go out to dinner. And don’t prepare any meals tomorrow; it’s your wedding day.”

  She thanked him profusely and retired to her suite.

  Qwilleran went into the library to select wedding music: Bach for the ceremony and Schubert with the champagne and caviar. Koko followed him and scrutinized each cassette, sniffing some and reaching for others with an uncertain paw.

  “A feline librarian is bad enough,” Qwilleran said. “Please! We don’t want a feline disc jockey.”

  “Nyik nyik nyik,” Koko retorted irritably, swiveling one ear forward and the other back.

  The telephone rang, and the caller said, “The friendly telephone company has resumed service to the peasants on MacGregor Road.”

  The melodic voice made the back of Qwilleran’s neck tingle. “I’ve been thinking about you, Polly. I’ve been thinking about everything.”

  “It turned out beautifully, Qwill, but I shudder to think of you in that whiteout.”

  “I’ve done a little shuddering myself. When can I see you again?”

  “I’d like to drive in for the concert Sunday night.”

  “Why not pack an overnight bag? If you drive home after the concert, you’ll only have to turn around and come back Monday morning. You can have your choice of suites upstairs: English, Empire, or Biedermeier.”

  “I think I’d like an English suite,” Polly said. “I’ve always wanted to sleep in a four-poster bed with side curtains.”

  “YOW!” Koko said.

  Replacing the receiver gently, Qwilleran said, “And you mind your own business, young man!”

  Saturday, November twenty-third. “Cloudy skies and another three inches of snow,” the weatherman was predicting. Nevertheless, the sun was shining, and Pickax was shimmering under the blanket of white that had descended on Thursday. Snow stayed white in Pickax.

  When Qwilleran went to the main house to prepare the cats’ breakfast, Mrs. Fulgrove and Mr. O’Dell were on the job. “Nice day for a wedding,” he remarked.

  “Sure, now, when it comes to marryin’, the devil take the weather,” said the houseman. “When I wedded herself, the heavens thundered an’ the dogs howled an’ the birds fell dead in the road, but for forty-five year we lived together with nary an angry word between us. An’ when she went, God rest her soul, she went sudden with nary a pain or tear.”

  Mrs. Cobb was nervous. With no meals to prepare and no rum-raisin squares to bake, she puttered aimlessly about the house, waiting for her hair appointment. The cats were restless, too, sensing an upheaval of some kind. They prowled ceaselessly, and Koko talked to himself with private yows and iks and occasionally shoved a book off the shelf. Qwilleran was glad to escape. At two o’clock he was scheduled to interview Sarah Woolsmith.

  The ninety-five-year-old farm woman was a long-term resident at the senior care facility adjoining the Pickax Hospital, two modern buildings that seemed out of place in a city of imitation castles and fortresses.

  The matron at the reception desk was expecting Qwilleran. “Mrs. Woolsmith is waiting for you in the reading room,” she said. “You’ll have the place all to yourselves, but please limit your visit to fifteen minutes; she tires easily. She’s looking forward to your interview. Not many people want to listen to elderly folks talk about the old days.”

  In the reading room he found a frail little woman with nervous hands, sitting in a wheelchair and clutching her shawl. She was accompanied by the volunteer who had wheeled her down from her bedroom.

  “Sarah, dear, this is Mr. Qwilleran,” the volunteer said slowly and clearly. “He’s going to have a nice visit with you.” In an aside she whispered, “She’s ninety-five and has almost all her own teeth, but her eyesight is not good. She’s a dear soul, and we all love her. I’ll sit near the door and tell you when the time is up.”

  “Where are my teeth?” Mrs. Woolsmith demanded in shrill alarm.

  “Your partial is in your mouth, dear, and you look lovely in your new shawl.” She squeezed the old lady’s arm affectionately.

  Wasting no time on preliminaries, Qwilleran said, “Would you tell me w
hat it was like to live on a farm when you were young, Mrs. Woolsmith? I’m going to turn on this tape recorder.” He held up the machine for her to see, but she looked blankly in several directions.

  The following interview was later transcribed:

  Question: Were you born in Moose County?

  I don’t know why you want to talk to me. I never did any thing but live on a farm and raise a family. I had my name in the paper once when I had a burglar.

  What kind of farming did you do?

  It was in the paper—about the burglar—and I tore it out. It’s in my purse. Where’s my purse? Take it out and read it. You can read it to me. I like to hear it.

  Sarah Woolsmith, 65, of Squunk Corners was sitting alone and knitting a sweater in her living room last Thursday at 11:00 p.m., when a man with a handkerchief over his face burst in and said, “Give me all your money. I need it bad.” She gave him $18.73 from her purse, and he fled on foot, leaving her unharmed but surprised.

  I used to knit in them days. We had seven children, John and me, five of them boys. Two killed in the war. John died in the big storm of ’37. Went to bring in the cows and froze to death. Fifteen cows froze and all the chickens. Winters was bad in them days. I have a ’lectric blanket. Do you have a ’lectric blanket? When I was a young girl we slep’ under a pile of quilts, my sisters and me. Mornings we looked up to see the frost on the ceiling. It was pretty, all sparkly. There was ice in the pitcher when we washed our face. Sometimes we caught cold. Ma rubbed skunk oil and goose grease on our chests. We didn’t like it. (Laughs.) My brother shot wild rabbits, but I could chase ’em and catch ’em. Pa was proud of me. Pa didn’t have a horse. He hitched Ma to the plow, and they tilled the land. I didn’t go to school. I helped Ma in the kitchen. Once she was sick and I had to feed sixteen men. I was only this big. Harvesttime, it was. They was all neighbors. Neighbors helped neighbors in them days.

  Did you ever have time for . . .

  Us womenfolks, we scrubbed clothes in a washtub and made our own soap. I made vinegar and butter. We stuffed pillows with chicken feathers. We had lots of those! (Laughs.) Once a week we took a wagon to town and got the mail and bought a penny stick of horehound candy. I married John and we had a big farm. Cows, horses, pigs, chickens. We hired neighbor boys for huskin’ and shellin’. Nickel an hour. The whitetails came and ate our corn. Once the grasshoppers came and ate everything. They ate the wash on the line. (Laughs.) The neighbor boys worked twelve hours a day, huskin’ and shellin’.