The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Qwilleran said, “The well-organized routine sounds as if Hixie Rice has had a hand in the planning,” he said with a touch of sarcasm, for which Polly rebuked him.

  It was generally thought that Hixie’s brilliant plans always went awry. Thus far, her plans for Pickax Now had been successful. Even the weather had cooperated, and the three-month celebration was almost two-thirds over. Still, Qwilleran could not quell the newsman’s suspicion that everything was going too well.

  FOURTEEN

  Hixie Rice was flying high! Sell-out audiences were having a good cry at The Big Burning and laughing in all the right places at Billy the Kid. Family reunions were a success—with one exception, the shooting. Who really killed the rabbit hunter?

  Everyone was looking forward to the second parade.

  One day Qwilleran entered the following in his journal:

  Today the cats and I were enjoying the gazebo when Culvert McBee came walking up the lane carrying a plastic sack. His mother makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the county! And I was prepared with a limerick:

  Fresh cookies from Mrs. McBee

  Are always received with glee!

  Does she bake each batch

  Of cookies from scratch?

  Or do they grow on a tree?

  How that boy has grown! I remember him when he was a nine-year-old defeating adults in a spelling bee! Since then his parents have encouraged him in a series of worthwhile enterprises, including a backyard shelter for old, sick, abandoned dogs.

  I invited him to sit down, but he said he had to go home and do chores. Yet he showed a certain heel-kicking reluctance to leave.

  “Is something on your mind?” I asked him.

  He said the new girl at the paper found out about his backyard shelter and wants to write about it. His father said no, explaining that people all over the county will be dumping the unwanted dogs on the McBee farm.

  I told Culvert his father is absolutely right! I said I would explain it to the new girl.

  Only yesterday she informed me the cat club had invited her to join it, and enter Jerome in the cat fashion show. He had won one in California.

  I pointed out to her that she was brought here as a journalist to report on such events—not as a joiner of organizations seeking publicity.

  Qwilleran was looking forward to another book signing on Wednesday. The Literary Club was introducing The Historic Hibbard House: text by James Mackintosh Qwilleran and photographs by John Bushland.

  All the best people assembled on the lower floor of The Pirate’s Chest.

  They rose to their feet in a vociferous welcome when the author stepped to the podium and the photographer projected the first image in the darkened room. It was the century-old mansion of eccentric design and curious legend—that had been reduced to ashes overnight.

  Bushland’s photo of the strange architecture made a striking illustration for the dust jacket of The Historic Hibbard House. Stranger still was the color of the jacket—a flowery shade of violet. Qwilleran explained it to the audience:

  “Four generations occupied this house. It was built by a wealthy sawmill owner who could neither read nor write. . . . His son, college-bred, lived his life as a country gentlemen who liked to entertain guests. . . . His grandson was a serious scholar, noted for his library. . . . His great-granddaughter and last of the Hibbards was a professor of drama and poetry. Her name was Violet.”

  The morning after the book signing, Qwilleran walked downtown to Lanspeak’s Department Store to buy a violet-scented gift for Polly, who had originally suggested the color of the book jacket.

  Carol Lanspeak was at the cosmetics counter, arranging a display. “Can you believe it? We’re having a run on violet this morning! I’m going to do a window on the color—with items from all over the store, and with books courtesy of The Pirate’s Chest.”

  For Polly, Carol suggested a light violet scent in a gold filigree bottle. “Do you have time to go back to the office and say hello to Larry?”

  The owner of the store was frowning over record books. “Come in! Come in! Have a cup of coffee, I’m ready to take a break.”

  “I saw you and Carol at the meeting last night.”

  “Compliments on a good presentation. Carol and I knew the Hibbards.”

  “I suppose you know the Ledfields,” Qwilleran said.

  “Quite well, although they don’t socialize like the other old-timers. Our daughter is their physician.”

  “Is that so?” Qwilleran sensed another link in the Ledfield Saga.

  The Lanspeaks were fine old stock like the Ledfields but chose to live in a rambling farmhouse in the hills and join in the business life and community interests of the county. Their daughter was a physician practicing locally and living in Indian Village.

  Suddenly Carol breezed into the office saying in a low voice, “Larry, strangers in jewelry. Would you see what they’re all about?”

  Larry dashed out, and Qwilleran asked, “Are you having any trouble this summer?”

  “We’re seeing a lot of new faces,” she said, “but there are strangers—and strangers! When Larry and I were in New York, trying to get into theatre, we both worked as store detectives—and learned plenty! This year our six-foot-two stockboy from Wildcat has been promoted to store detective, but this is his day off.”

  “Is he a Cuttlebrink?” Qwilleran asked, exhibiting his local savvy.

  “Aren’t they all?” She rolled her eyes.

  She said, “You were asking about the Ledfields. They go to our church, and twenty years ago the Sunday school had a hands-on program for youngsters. Each child adopted a lonely widow or a couple who were childless. They sent handmade greeting cards throughout the year to their ‘adopted’ elders—”

  “Great idea!” Qwilleran said. “Is the program still going?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Carol said. “It was the pet project of Agatha Burns, one of your ‘Late Greats.’

  “But one of the Happy Endings is that Diane has grown up and become a physician and has ‘adopted’ Doris and Nathan, who enjoy the luxury of receiving house calls.”

  “Beautiful story,” Qwilleran said.

  Following the visit with Carol and Larry, Qwilleran wrote a note to their daughter, drove to Indian Village, and dropped it in her mailbox:

  Thursday

  Dear Diane,

  Were your ears burning this morning? Your parents were telling me about Agatha Burns’s idea for Sunday school—and how your adopted “aunt” became a lifelong friend.

  The reason I’m writing: A mutual friend has been trying to get in touch with Doris and is told repeatedly that she is unwell. She’s concerned.

  Qwill

  In early evening, Diane phoned. “I know you’re busy, and I appreciate your taking the time to notify me. I checked her condition this afternoon and found it wise to consult an allergy specialist in Lockmaster. We both think we should have an environmental investigation. Those old houses are terribly damp. Thank you for the tip.”

  When Qwilleran phoned Polly at eleven o’clock, she was effervescing with news. “Clarissa returned Doris’s diamond ring, as you suggested, and today Doris sent it back to Clarissa with a touching note. It said, ‘I think of you as the daughter I never had!’ Clarissa is keeping the ring in a safety box at the bank, but first she had it appraised by a jeweler in Lockmaster.”

  “Did she say what it’s worth?”

  “No. And I didn’t ask, dear!” Polly said archly.

  “I admire your restraint,” he replied, equally arch.

  Having enjoyed that bit of badinage, they settled down to their usual exchange of news.

  “Wetherby’s giving a pizza party for Clarissa’s guest,” Polly said.

  “That comes as no surprise,” replied Qwilleran.

  “Do you want to go to the cat auction, Qwill?”

  “It’s one event I can afford to skip, although I’m curious to know how Foxy Fred is going to handle those kittens with
out terrifying them.”

  “Peggy says it’s going to be filmed.”

  “Good! Sign me up for two videos.”

  “Well, à bientôt, dear.”

  “À bientôt!”

  Before he could call “treat” to the cats, the phone rang again. Obviously, Polly had an afterthought. He picked it up.

  “On second thought, I’ll take three videos,” he said.

  “What? What? . . . Qwill. Is this Qwill?” came a distraught voice. It was Maggie Sprenkle.

  “Sorry. I thought it was someone else. Is this Maggie? What’s wrong. This is Qwill.”

  “Oh, Qwill! Have you heard the bad news?” Panic was added to the aging voice.

  “No! What’s the trouble?”

  “There’s been a terrible accident! Foxy Fred fell out of a tree. His back is broken.” She stopped to wail in anguish!

  Qwilleran was silent with shock and what it would mean.

  “Did you hear me, Qwill?”

  “This is terrible! What was he doing in the tree?”

  “Cutting off a branch that had tent worms, they say. Lost his footing on the ladder.”

  “What will this do to the auction plans?” After he had said it, he knew it was a stupid question.

  “You’ll have to come to the rescue, Qwill! You’re the only one who can do it. People are coming from all over the state. TV crews, too.”

  “What can I say, Maggie? Will you let me think about it?”

  “You can’t! You can’t! No one else can do it!” She was still sobbing, and he began to worry about her having a stroke.

  “All right. All right. Calm down, Maggie. Have a cup of tea, and don’t worry about a thing. I’ll do it. We’ll talk about it in the morning. No problem. . . . Do you hear?”

  Stunned, he returned to the kitchen to give the cats a treat, then conducted them wordlessly to their sleeping quarters on the third level and watched them hop into their respective baskets. Their door was left open, so they could roam during the night, observing who-knows-what feline rituals. Qwilleran always closed his own door.

  On this occasion he retired fearing he would not sleep, and he was right. He had entertained doubts about the kitty auction when it was Foxy Fred’s responsibility; now he envisioned a new problem. The kittens had been rehearsing, but not in a strange building before a large—and probably overexcited—audience.

  One o’clock. Two o’clock. At two-thirty he became aware of a scratching at his door and a rattling of his door handle.

  He jumped out of bed, and there they were—a couple of cool cats. Koko looked around as if saying, “Here we are!”

  “You rascals!” Qwilleran said, as he sprawled in his thinking chair. The cats joined him—Yum Yum cozily on his lap and Koko on the arm of the chair, from which he stared at the man’s forehead. A calm invaded the room. Qwilleran thought, Anyone who can play the lead in King Lear at the age of fifteen and direct a high school production of Life with Father at the age of sixteen should be able to handle a cat auction. . . . Think of it as show-biz . . . with a cast of forty scene stealers! . . . An audience of cat lovers will be a pushover! . . . We’ll not only get their money, we’ll show them a good time!

  He shooed the cats out of the room and went to bed.

  “Wanna wanna wanna wanna . . . bidda bidda bidda bidda.”

  He mesmerized himself to sleep.

  FIFTEEN

  The Siamese sensed something was queer on Friday morning. Their breakfast had been served at seven A.M., and his and her plates had been accidentally reversed under the kitchen table.

  As for Qwilleran, he was having a Continental breakfast at the animal shelter with the two chairpersons of the kitty auction, both of them residents of Winston Park. Peggy Marsh was the young computer programmer who went to The Pirate’s Chest twice a day to feed Dundee and “tidy up” his private domain. Judd Amhurst was the retiree who divided his time between the bookstore (managing special events) and the animal shelter (bathing the scruffy abandoned dogs brought to the shelter by rescue officers).

  At the shelter the forty kittens occupied group cages but were transferred to their personal “limousines” for the rehearsal. One by one Qwilleran lifted them out of their baskets for fondling and sweet talk. They were hypnotized by the resonance of his voice and fascinated by his moustache.

  Peggy said, “At the community hall tomorrow there’ll be an audience of hundreds, according to the advance ticket sales, but the kittens will be mildly sedated.”

  “The main problem,” said Qwilleran, remembering Koko’s disastrous stage debut, “will be to keep the audience from shouting and screaming.”

  Judd said they could arrange to print some signs in a hurry: QUIET! KITTENS ASLEEP! “They could have an artist do some sketches of them; folks could take them home for a donation.”

  The rehearsal ended with coffee and sweet rolls from Lois’s Luncheonette.

  Judd said, “Did you know that her son is starting a lunchwagon, to be parked at special events? It’ll be in the parking lot tomorrow.”

  Peggy said, “We’re printing souvenir programs for the auction, listing kittens’ formal names, nicknames, and markings.”

  Finally, Judd said, “If this auction is a success, we’ll try one with puppies, and I’d buy one if they permitted dogs at Winston Park.”

  Qwilleran said, “Why not take the plunge tomorrow, Judd? I was a dog man myself until I came under the spell of you-know-who.”

  You-know-who were waiting on Qwilleran with what he considered a lack of enthusiasm. He took a shower and put his clothes in the washer. His housemates still greeted him as if his morning had been spent in illegal or immoral activity.

  He gave them a treat. He brushed their coats. He read to them about bug and bird voices in Hawthorne’s book, then toted them to the gazebo to experience bugs and birds firsthand. For himself he took the cell phone and some chocolate chip cookies.

  All three of them seemed to feel a strangeness in the atmosphere. Everything was still, as if waiting for something. The sky, though sunny, was a sick yellow.

  Then the phone calls started.

  Clarissa called to say that her friend Vicki was arriving in late afternoon and was excited about adopting a kitten but would be unable to stay for Monday’s parade because she was starting a new job on Tuesday at an important ad agency.

  Qwilleran commented, “For anyone who has seen the Tournament of Roses in California, the Tournament of Peonies in Pickax will be no great loss.”

  Then Polly called praising Qwilleran for his noble offer to handle the auction and regretting that she could not attend; she had to work. She mentioned that Dundee had been acting freakish all day, as if he sensed a change in the weather.

  In late afternoon Wetherby Goode phoned, saying in glum tones, “They’re gonna shoot the weatherman for sure when they hear the six P.M. forecast.”

  Qwilleran said, “Better come here for a nip before you go to the station, Joe—since you predict this may be the last we’ll ever hear.”

  He carried everyone and everything indoors to hear the bad news.

  “The sad truth is this,” said the meteorologist when he was seated at the bar with a drink and a bowl of mixed nuts. “That storm front that’s been stalled over Canada all summer is starting to move over the lakes. It should hit here Sunday. High winds, torrential rain! What they call a Northern Hurricane. You might as well cancel The Big Burning. People won’t want to drive. The rain comes in sheets. We can expect power outages. Does this barn have a generator? If not, better move back to the Village temporarily. We’re equipped to take care of blackouts. And our streets are paved.”

  Qwilleran said, “I hope your weathercast tonight isn’t going to scare the public away from my auction tomorrow.”

  “No, it’s intended to give them time to stock up on flashlight batteries, canned soup, and cat and dog food.”

  On Saturday morning, the Forty Famous Felines were being transported in their group
cages to the community hall, where they were given a light repast with a little something added to make them feel good about their adventure. The volunteers who attended them were accustomed to speaking in soothing voices, and they would transfer each kitten to his limousine in the proper order. A few salty tears would be shed over kittens like Prince Hal, Lorna Doone, and Rum Tum Tugger, who were going out into the wide world.

  From the waiting room on the lower level, each limousine would be brought to the stage, carried by MCCC spotters, trained for the assignment. The bleak stage was made friendly by a few potted plants lent by florists, and the auctioneer’s table in center front was softened with a paisley shawl lent by Maggie Sprenkle herself. Qwilleran was wearing his silk shirt in a neutral color that would show the kittens’ markings to advantage. Purposely, his moustache had not been trimmed.

  As the excited audience began to gather, spotters pointed to signs saying: QUIET! KITTENS ASLEEP!

  Four-page catalogs were handed out, listing twenty males and twenty females by their glamorous names, their nicknames, along with markings and eye color.

  When the seats were filled on the main floor and balcony, the main doors were closed, and the welcome was made by Maggie Sprenkle, an important figure in the local aristocracy as well as animal welfare.