The Cat Who Went Bananas

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “The Big Boys in Chicago are pleased with the sales of your other three titles,” Bart said. “I’m sure they’ll welcome another.”

  When Qwilleran arrived at the Edd Smith Place, volunteers in green vests were bustling about and Dundee was investigating the computer. A woman in a tailored black pantsuit came forward with hand outstretched. “I’m Violet Hibbard, and you’re the redoubtable Mr. Q.”

  He took her hand, bending over it slightly in the courtly way he had with women of a certain age. “I’ve always wanted to meet someone called Violet! Are you prepared to tell all?”

  “I’m looking forward to it. Shall we repair to one of the meeting rooms?”

  Qwilleran liked her vocabulary and her personality—not overly friendly, and not suspiciously charming, but . . . vibrant and intelligent. As they walked down the hall, Qwilleran detected a light scent that was probably violet. They sat in one of the meeting rooms.

  For openers he said, “There is talk about publishing a book on the Hibbard House as a historic masterpiece in Moose County.”

  “It would please me greatly, and you’re the only one I’d trust to write it, Mr. Q.”

  “Please call me Qwill, because I’m going to call you Violet.”

  “Then may I ask you a question? Have you ever acted on the stage? I recognize a certain quality in your voice and in your bearing that suggests a theatre background.”

  Pleased by the compliment but wanting to keep the conversation light, he replied, “In high school I was the youngest King Lear in the annals of Shakespeare. Miraculously, no one laughed at the gray beard.”

  “That’s because you were sincere. Did you ever act professionally?”

  “No. I did a few plays in college but then switched to journalism. Recently, though, I learned something that indicates I have acting in my genes. My father, who died before I was born, was an actor with a road company playing in Chicago when my mother met him. He had the lead in what she called a dismal Russian play.”

  “No doubt it was The Lower Depths, Gorky’s best play and the only one that would be playing in the U.S. at that time.”

  “Is that so?” he said in surprise. “Then listen to this. Twenty years later, I was in college and playing the role of Satine, the philosophical crook in The Lower Depths! In the last act he has a long, highly dramatic scene. While I was intoning the lines with vehemence and strong gestures, I had a sudden feeling of déjà vu that gave me goose bumps! Only recently did I see some of my mother’s correspondence at the time, in which she mentioned the Russian play!”

  “Do you remember any of your lines?”

  “A few.” He thought a moment, stood up, and then proclaimed in what he called his Carnegie Hall voice:

  “Shut up, you fools! You lie like the Devil! You’re all as dumb as stones! . . . I know what lying means. The weakling—and whoever is a parasite to his own weakness—they both need lies. But the man who is free, who is strong—he needs no lies. Truth is the religion of the free man . . . and why can’t a crook speak the truth, since honest people at times speak like crooks.”

  Qwilleran looked at his hands as if remembering how he had used them in his argument.

  Violet cried, “Bravo! I felt a tremor of emotion myself!”

  Dundee came running to see what was happening.

  “Do you have a special interest in drama?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Drama and poetry—the two subjects that were my specialty.” Then with a roguish glance she added, “Have you played any Shakespeare since King Lear?” She asked it with a twinkle in her eyes, which Qwilleran suddenly realized were violet. Was it natural? Could it be done with contact lenses? Didn’t Elizabeth Taylor have violet eyes? Yum Yum’s blue eyes had a violet tint.

  Snapping out of his pondering, he replied, “In college I played Brutus in Julius Caesar and Bottom in Midsummer Night’s Dream. Most recently I was rehearsing with the Pickax Theatre Club for Arsenic and Old Lace. I was the crazy brother. Unfortunately, it never opened, but that’s a long story.”

  “With your Teddy Roosevelt moustache, you were well cast. Did you ever do any Mark Twain readings?”

  Obviously they had much to talk about, and Qwilleran said, “I think we should have dinner some evening. We haven’t begun to discuss Molière, Ibsen, and Euripides. I could suggest the Old Grist Mill Friday night.”

  “I’d be delighted!” she cried, her eyes flashing violet again.

  Later he phoned the restaurant. “I’d like to reserve a table for two. This is Jim Qwilleran.”

  “Hi, Mr. Q! This is Derek. It’s been a long time since we saw you and Mrs. Duncan.”

  “I’m not taking Mrs. Duncan, Derek, so watch your step!”

  “Oh-oh! I put my foot in my mouth again. Sorry! . . . Do you have a choice of table, Mr. Q?”

  Amiably, Qwilleran said, “The one beneath the scythe, if it’s available.” The restaurant walls were decorated with old-time farm implements. “Just be sure it’s firmly attached to the wall.”

  Qwilleran chuckled over Derek’s innocent faux pas as he prepared dinner for the Siamese. They sat tall, shoulder to shoulder, waiting. What was going through their little brown heads? he wondered. He had run out of homilies to inspire them and witticisms to entertain them. He paraphrased a little Shakespeare: To be fed, or not to be fed, that is the question. They flicked neither an ear nor a whisker. All they wanted was their food.

  “Okay, you ungrateful brats. I’m going to dinner at Lois’s, and I may or may not bring you a treat. Today’s special is meat loaf.” Qwilleran knew very well why he talked to the cats. It was to hear the sound of a human voice in the cavernous emptiness of the barn.

  He put on his owl-proof orange baseball cap and carried a flashlight: The days were getting shorter. He went by way of Walnut Street in order to check the readiness of the park.

  The shrouded statue stood calmly, waiting for the next day’s unveiling and Friday’s “Qwill Pen” column, which would list the public’s guesses as to its design. Some guesses made sense; some were ludicrous, good for a laugh; some were unprintable. The mysterious obelisk stood waiting in a kind of form-fitting canvas bag that had been dropped over it. To remove it, a grappling hook or a mechanical claw might be lowered from a helicopter, lifting the shroud and carrying it away, leaving onlookers on the ground to ooh and aah! It was an unlikely premise but not impossible. Qwilleran had learned that anything can happen in Pickax.

  A male voice behind him said, “Hi, Mr. Q. Got it figured out?” It was the bearded copy facilitator from the newspaper.

  “I was just wondering how they plan to unveil it. There isn’t enough width on the paths to accommodate a derrick. . . . All I can say is: It had better be something good under that shroud, or the public will riot. . . . How do you like your new job?”

  “I like it! Everybody’s very friendly.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

  “Kenneth. In the city room they call me Whiskers,” he said with a grin.

  “Is that so?” Qwilleran replied seriously. “I have a cat by that name. Very intelligent animal. That’s because he has sixty whiskers instead of the usual forty-eight.”

  The copyboy looked skeptical and changed the subject abruptly. “Mr. Q, could I ask you a big favor?”

  “Of course! But I reserve the right to refuse if it’s illegal or hazardous to the health.”

  “I have one of your books. Would you sign it for me?”

  “If I wrote it, I’ll sign it. Which one do you have?” Qwilleran had recently written a collection of local legends, the text for a book of Moose County photographs, and a think-piece on life with Koko and Yum Yum.

  So he was stunned when Ken said that he owned City of Brotherly Crime.

  “What? . . . Where? . . . How?”

  “I got it somewhere in Ohio. A public library was having a book sale.”

  “Amazing! It’s been out of print for twenty years. I have a copy that Edd Smith found for m
e after a long search.”

  “It must be valuable,” Ken said, “although I didn’t pay much for it. It’s in my luggage. I haven’t unpacked everything yet. I just moved into one of these apartments.”

  “Then take it to the paper Friday morning, and I’ll be happy to sign it when I file the copy for my column.”

  Happier, he thought, than anyone would understand. He had never dreamed that he would be asked to sign the long-forgotten and totally unmourned tome. He had written it while working in Philadelphia, and it had made him no friends.

  Then Qwilleran had meat loaf and mashed potatoes at Lois’s, where he heard gossip about couples who elope to Bixby County, a county noted for quick marriage licenses and accommodating judges. Qwilleran walked home with a slight detour past the bookstore. Sure enough, Polly’s car was the only one in the parking lot; she was working late again. He rang the doorbell at the side entrance.

  Dusk was falling, and she opened the door cautiously. Then, “Qwill!” she cried. “What a pleasant surprise. Come in! Have a chair!”

  “You’re working late again,” he said with a note of disapproval.

  “There’s so much to do: decisions to make, problems to solve,” she explained. The gentle, musical voice he had always found spine-tingling was now flat and weary.

  He said, “Hold out for three days more, Polly, and then we’ll both be back to normal living. I’ve missed our dinner dates and evenings of music. What did you decide about keys?”

  She brightened somewhat. “We’ve ordered five—one for you, since you’re more or less the godfather of the store.”

  “I’m not sure I understand the title,” he said. “Who gets the other four?”

  “Key One is for me. I unlock the side door and then open the front door for customers who will be waiting to get in—we hope. Key Two is for my assistant, who will have the same responsibilities on my day off. Key Three is for Dundee’s assistant, who will have to come in twice a day, seven days a week, to feed him, put fresh water in his bowl, and attend to his facilities.”

  Qwilleran said, “That’s a demanding assignment. I hope she’s well paid.”

  “She’s quite satisfied with the arrangement. She’s moved into one of those apartments beyond the park and will be available for Green Smock duty if needed. You see, she has a computer and does programming out of her home. And then there’s Key Four for Alden Wade, since many of the special events he manages will take place evenings.”

  When she stopped for breath, Qwilleran asked, “Will the ESP have a key?”

  “Good question, Qwill. The ESP governing board agreed with me that the Edd Smith project is a charitable endeavor on the part of local citizens, and it has space in this building as a charitable gesture on the part of the bookstore. Therefore, it should observe bookstore hours, and the volunteers should come and go through the front door. Also, they should check in and out at the front desk and should park in the north parking lot.”

  “I presume the ESP door on the lower level will be locked when there are no volunteers on duty.”

  “Absolutely! And the shop’s ‘open’ schedule will be posted on that door.”

  “Do they still have an army of volunteers?”

  “The original ‘army’ has completed its task of collecting books and cataloging. Now Lisa has a smaller group of volunteers willing to mind the shop during certain hours. When they report for duty, they’ll pick up the ESP key at the front desk and return it when they close. Lisa will schedule the volunteer shopkeepers, working from her home. There will be one or two a day—never more than three. You ask a lot of questions, Qwill. Are you planning to write something?”

  “Not right away. I’m just curious.” He stood up. “Now I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Not so fast!” Polly said. “Here’s your key to the side door.”

  “Hmmm,” he mused. “Is it honorary? Or do I have responsibilities? If Dundee’s assistant has a Sunday-morning hangover, will I be called to substitute?”

  “Oh, Qwill! The thought never entered my mind, but now that you mention the subject . . . it’s not a bad idea!”

  NINE

  On Thursday morning the Siamese breakfasted grandly on Lois’s meat loaf, while Qwilleran reluctantly sliced bananas into a bowl of dry cereal, wondering why he had found cereal exciting in his boyhood. He had grown up with the packaged variety, and the packaging itself had improved his reading skills. He could spell “ingredients” while other kids were learning to spell “cat” and “dog.” Now, shopping at Toodle’s Market, he had been overwhelmed by the enormous selection—until he spotted a famous slogan: Snap Crackle Pop! He bought two boxes, but the sound effects were somehow less intriguing to his middle-aged ears. He gift-wrapped the second box and dispatched it to Arch Riker’s office by motorcycle messenger, anonymously.

  Within minutes, the phone rang—more impatiently than usual, it seemed—and he purred a pleasant “good morning” into the mouthpiece.

  “What’s the matter with you?” came an exasperated voice. “Are you cracking up?”

  “Just a sentimental reminder of the good old days, Arch.”

  “You ate this stuff! I didn’t eat this stuff! Mine had baseball cards in the box, and pictures of Niagara Falls.”

  “It’s the spirit of the gesture that counts,” Qwilleran said in a syrupy tone.

  Arch growled into the phone, “If you haven’t got anything better to do, get down here and help us put the paper to bed.”

  He slammed down the receiver, and Qwilleran went about his morning chores with satisfaction.

  This was the day of the press preview, and Qwilleran attended the unveiling with his press card sticking out of his vest pocket and his orange baseball cap on his head. As he walked to Winston Park, sirens could be heard; the sheriff’s patrol was escorting the visiting press from the airport.

  Yellow tape roped off an area for news photographers and TV teams. At the center of the area was a mound of immense boulders that might have been left there by a prehistoric earthquake, interspersed with spiky holly shrubs. At its summit was a large cube of polished granite with WINSTON PARK chiseled on all four sides. This was the platform for the tall, cylindrical object about to be unveiled.

  Although there had been no publicity about the event, a modest crowd had gathered outside the yellow tape. They had to step aside for a school bus when it delivered a load of passengers in black leotards and tights—the high-school acrobatic team plus two students with drums. The rumor was true that a derrick would lift the shroud, but it was a human derrick. The black-clothed figures positioned themselves among the boulders, forming a pyramid, at the apex of which was an agile figure with an oversized fishing reel. The drums began a slow, suspenseful roll. The shroud started to rise, revealing an irregular stack of books chiseled from granite and three times the normal size. The drumbeats quickened! More books appeared, piled one on top of another, making a pedestal for a sculpture: a bronze cat, twice life size, sitting tall in an attitude of superior intellect, while his plumed tail draped casually over the column of books.

  “Winston!” shouted the onlookers amid cheers and applause.

  Qwilleran thought, If only Edd Smith could see this!

  The next scheduled event was the official ribbon cutting, and he stayed to watch—but only because it would please Polly if he was there. Later he would describe it in his personal journal.

  Qwilleran left the dedication ceremonies in the same way he had arrived—on foot—waving to the motorists who looked at him and pedestrians who said, “Hi, Mr. Q!”

  Arriving in the barnyard, he waved at the two Siamese, who waited for him in the kitchen window with ears pricked and tails stiffened into question marks. According to Qwilleran’s watch, the performance was less of an affectionate welcome and more of a reminder that their noon snack was ten minutes late. Even before hanging up his orange hat and car keys, he prepared two plates of Kabbibbles, each with a tiny morsel of cheese buried lik
e the prize in a box of Cracker Jack.

  Then he carried a dish of ice cream up the ramp to his studio on the second balcony, where he worked on Friday’s “Qwill Pen” column.

  In the afternoon there was a phone call from Lisa Compton:

  “Qwill! Good news. Edd Smith’s Place is getting its own telephone! We’ve been using an extension of the bookstore phone, and Burgess Campbell said that was bad business practice. He’s going to pay the monthly phone bill. ESP will have its own listing in the telephone directory. Do you have a pencil handy? I’ll give you the number.”

  “Who’s handling the ESP story for the Something?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Roger took the pictures, and Jill’s writing the story. He got a wonderful shot of Dundee examining an Ernest Hemingway book worth five thousand.”

  “Did you tell Jill about the new phone?”

  “We didn’t know about it while they were here,” Lisa said.

  “Then call her at the paper and give her the number. Tell Jill: If a cat answers, callers will be advised to press one and leave a message.”

  “Oh, Qwill.” She laughed. “Would they print that?”

  “There’s no harm in suggesting it; the readers like a laugh,” Qwilleran said. “How did the shooting go?”

  “They loved Dundee! He’s such an extrovert. Dwight’s release described him as ‘official bibliocat’ and said the Edd Smith Place sold pre-owned books priced anywhere from two dollars to five thousand. Naturally, the photographers wanted to see what a five-thousand-dollar book looks like. Alden Wade had volunteered to help us, so we put him in charge of the jelly cupboard. He had the keys hanging around his neck like a wine steward, and he kept an eagle eye on any rare book he took out of the cupboard.”

  “Don’t forget I’ve spoken for the Dr. Seuss book,” Qwilleran said.

  The next call came from Wetherby Goode, who wanted to stop at the barn for a minute en route to the radio station.

  When he arrived, Qwilleran asked, “Do you have time for a libation?”