The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare
Page 18
Koko lifted his head from the plate of tuna and gave Qwilleran a meaningful stare that made his moustache quiver. What was the plot of the play? Hamlet’s father had died suddenly; his mother remarried too soon; the father’s ghost revealed that he had been murdered; the mother’s name was Gertrude.
A shiver ran down Qwilleran’s spine. NO! he told himself. The similarity to the Goodwinter tragedy was too fantastic; one could go mad pondering such a possibility. Koko’s predilection for Hamlet was strictly a coincidence. That, at least, was what he told himself.
The Siamese had finished their dinner and were washing up. The room now smelled of fish as well as acrid smoke. Opening the window a few inches for ventilation, Qwilleran was wounded by the tragic scene outdoors, the ghost of a noble building. Koko had been trying to communicate, and if he had read the cat’s meaning, this senseless destruction could have been averted.
What happens next? he asked himself. We can’t leave the building in ruins; do we tear it down? The gutted shell was three stories high, solid fieldstone, two feet thick at the base. It occupied a prominent location on Main Street, sharing the Park Circle with the courthouse, public library, and two churches.
Koko jumped to the windowsill, saying “ik ik ik” and wearing a bright-eyed expression of anticipation.
“I’m sorry we haven’t had much conversation lately,” Qwilleran apologized. “Too many distractions. You probably don’t understand the fire and all its ramifications. Will you miss your Shakespeare game? Thirty-seven priceless little books went up in flame. And what shall we do with the remains of the museum?”
As he spoke, it began to snow softly and silently, whitening the frozen ruts and soot-encrusted ice, drawing a merciful white curtain across the ugly scene of devastation.
At the same time Qwilleran slapped his forehead in sudden realization. “I’ve got it! A theater!” he exclaimed.
“YOW!” said Koko.
“Pickax needs a theater. ‘The play’s the thing,’ as Hamlet said. We’ll have a playhouse, Koko, and you can play Richard the Third. . . . Where are you?”
The cat had vanished.
“Where the devil did that cat go?” Qwilleran thundered with a frown.
Koko had returned to his feeding place and was trying to lick the ceramic glaze from the china plate.
Lilian Jackson Braun is the New York Times bestselling author of the beloved Cat Who . . . series and three short story collections.
PHOTO: PATRICIA BECK
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