The Cat Who Went Bananas

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Are you hooked, too?” Qwilleran asked.

  They pumped hands again, this time exchanging the fraternal handshake known only to “Squunkers.”

  Qwilleran found the retired engineer congenial. So did Violet, apparently.

  She said he had known her father and might be able to supply material for the book.

  Qwilleran told Violet they should get together for dinner again and discuss Wordsworth and Chekhov.

  After his dinner with the heiress of the Hibbard estate, Qwilleran wrote the following in his personal journal:

  Friday, September 26—Why did I agree to write a book on that residential monstrosity? It’s not only grotesque on the outside but hard to photograph on the inside! I must be slipping! After seeing the dark woodwork and ponderous furnishings, I made a feeble effort to postpone the project, but the dear lady seemed in a hurry to proceed. Did she think that—after all these years—the place would burn down in the next week?

  Her great fear, I learned, was that the property would fall into the hands of developers, who would tear it down and build condos and a shopping mall. The publication of a book would give it the status of a national treasure, and the county might legislate against the commercial exploitation of the site . . . but national treasure?

  Anyway, I promised to line up the photographer ASAP and read the trunkful of documents she gave me. They go back to circa 1925. Maybe I’ll have an assignment for Kenneth sooner than either of us expected.

  Later that night, Moira MacDiarmid called. “Oh, Qwill! We saw Dundee on TV tonight. We’re so proud of him!”

  “He’s an asset to the bookstore,” Qwilleran said. “I don’t know whether he’ll increase the sale of books, but he’ll surely promote the demand for marmalade cats! What can I do for you?”

  “Our daughter, Kathie, has just flown in from Down Below to be maid of honor at her best friend’s wedding tomorrow. She’s dying to see Dundee in his new environment. She’s the one who trained him for a public career, you know. But she has to fly back to school Sunday night, and we wondered if you could use your pull to sneak us in the back door of the bookstore Sunday afternoon.”

  “I have a key. No problem. What time?” he asked.

  ELEVEN

  Qwilleran had set his alarm early for Saturday morning expecting Opening Day at the bookstore to be more of a problem than a success. He first phoned Polly in Indian Village, but a message on her answering machine said that she could be reached at the bookstore anytime after eight A.M.

  Store hours started at nine-thirty, leading Qwilleran to deduce that she had left home very, very early . . . or had spent the night in downtown Pickax—at the hotel or at a friend’s apartment or (not likely) in a sleeping bag on the floor of her office.

  He phoned The Pirate’s Chest and listened to a message: “Store hours are nine-thirty to five.”

  He started the coffeemaker and fed the cats, but they showed no interest in the preparation of their food. Nervously they hopped on and off the kitchen counter, staring through the window with ears pricked to an angle denoting Full Alarm!

  Stepping outdoors, Qwilleran realized the source of their anxiety. To the west, toward Main Street, there was a constant hum of traffic punctuated by the screaming and blasting of police and emergency vehicles. He grabbed his orange hat, press card, and cell phone and headed for the action.

  The road through the woods debouched into the theatre parking lot. It was jammed! Main Street was clogged with cars, and all curbs were parked bumper to bumper, legally or illegally. Sidewalks were thronged with pedestrians who had left their cars in the parking lots of churches and library and county buildings and were streaming toward the center of town.

  Qwilleran pushed through the crowd, barking, “Coming through! Step aside, please!”

  People made way for him joyfully. They were in a holiday mood. They said, “Hi, Mr. Q! Takin’ Koko to meet Dundee?” They were on their way to see a real pirate’s chest, a sculpture of Winston, a live bibliocat, and a five-thousand-dollar book.

  Qwilleran continued on his way through the crowd, stopping once to shelter in a doorway and call on his cell phone.

  “You’re in early,” he said when Polly answered.

  “Everyone’s here to plan our strategy,” she said with her usual calm. “All the staff is here, plus three security guards. The public will be admitted a few at a time and routed through the store, down the stairs to the ESP, and up the basement stairs to the north parking lot.”

  “Where will Dundee be?”

  “In the show window to the south of the entrance, along with displays of books, his cushion, his rag doll, and his toothbrush. People lining up to be admitted will pass the window and swoon over the charming scene. Indoors, the guards will say, ‘Keep moving, folks! Ten thousand more are waiting to get in!’ ” She said it without excitement, as if it had been in the textbook on how to run a bookstore.

  “Would you let me know if there’s anything I can do for you?”

  “Thank you, Qwill, but Alden Wade is here to manage activity on the selling floor, Lisa has a crew of volunteers downstairs, and a young man from the Winston Apartments offered to run errands. He’s rather scruffy but nice. He’s a friend of Dundee’s Peggy. It was her idea to put Dundee in the show window, out of harm’s way.”

  “How does he feel about it?” Qwilleran asked, being accustomed to a male cat with pronounced ideas of his own.

  “Dundee is very agreeable, very well adjusted.”

  “I see. . . . Well, I’ll phone you later if it won’t be an intrusion.”

  “Not at all!” Polly sounded so businesslike.

  Qwilleran turned around and went home. She had all the help she needed.

  At the barn the Siamese digested their breakfast as they lay in a patch of sunlight—a triangle of sunlight that was created by one of the odd-shaped windows. In a few minutes it would move away, to their mystification, and they would crawl to a new sunny venue without really waking up.

  Qwilleran made a fresh cup of coffee and tackled Violet’s trunkful of documents representing a century of life in the ancestral mansion. Her scholarly father had reduced the collection from thousands to hundreds and placed them in chronological order. Even so, it would require a prodigious amount of research. Qwilleran phoned Kenneth and left a message.

  The young man called back in a few minutes, somewhat out of breath. “Hi, Mr. Q! I’ve been doing errands for Mrs. Duncan—coffee and stuff, you know. What’s up? Something interesting, I hope.”

  “I think you’ll find it so. It’s a research project. It would mean scouting a trunkful of old papers, looking for material to be used in a book.”

  “I like it already! When do I start?”

  “Yesterday. We have a short deadline. As soon as the traffic problem eases up, I’ll deliver the trunk. I also recommend a dinner conference, if you’re free. Onoosh’s Café has booths and a little privacy. Do you like Mediterranean fare?”

  “I’ve never had any. Lockmaster had a Mediterranean place called Ports of Call, but we always hung out at the Green Turnip.”

  “I hesitate to inquire about their menu,” Qwilleran said.

  “It’s just a burger joint, but it was named after a horse. Green Turnip never won any races, but everybody loved him.”

  The deal was made. The time was set.

  Kenneth said, “If it’s the kind of restaurant where I should have a haircut, the girl next door will give me one.”

  Qwilleran said, “It might be a good idea.”

  At five o’clock, when the bookstore doors were supposed to be closed, Qwilleran phoned Polly and was not surprised to hear a weary voice.

  “Qwill, I’m exhausted! The lineup of sightseers has been constant for almost eight hours—not that I do floor duty, but the mere presence of all those people wears one down. Do you understand? I was hoping we could have dinner tonight, but I’m afraid . . .”

  “That’s perfectly all right, Polly.”
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  Considering his dinner conference, it was not only all right but highly advisable! He had known her long enough to predict her reactions. She disapproved of the trivial books that he wrote, calling them a waste of his true talent. And she would consider a book on the questionable Hibbard House to be the ultimate in trivia. She could never understand that Qwilleran considered himself a reporter, not a critic. It was a reporter’s job to report, he maintained. In his early days he had been a crime reporter; now he reported on life as it was lived 400 miles north of everywhere. The Hibbard House was no architectural gem, but it was part of Moose County history, to be treated objectively and with more understanding than ridicule.

  In Violet’s trunk there was an envelope of family photos, and Qwilleran selected four—to represent the four-generation dynasty of individualists.

  Cyrus as an old man, with a cane in each hand and a shawl over his head.

  Geoffrey, the country gentleman, in riding attire, with a whip looped in his hand.

  Jesmore, the gentleman scholar, in tweeds, seated in an impressive library.

  Violet, the professor, in cap and gown, holding a large volume—probably Byron’s poems.

  “Yow!” came a shattering announcement in Qwilleran’s ear. Time for dinner.

  At Onoosh’s, Kenneth was impressed by the brasstopped tables, beaded chandeliers, and exotic aromas—and also the attention accorded his host. Onoosh came out of the kitchen in her chef’s toque to greet them, and the waitstaff seemed overjoyed.

  Qwilleran asked his guest, “What will you have to drink while we’re ordering dinner?”

  “What are you having?”

  “A Q cocktail, nonalcoholic. It’s Squunk water with a dash of cranberry juice.”

  “Doesn’t sound good, but I’ll try it.”

  “Live dangerously,” Qwilleran said. “Meanwhile, I suppose you wonder what this is all about. Do you have a notebook or tape recorder?” First he explained the project: a book to be published by the K Fund about the historic Hibbard House built in the 1850s—the oldest frame structure in the county, occupied by four generations of Hibbards.

  “Your job,” he said to Kenneth, “will exercise your news sense, looking for ‘the story’ instead of statistics. The stories will be buried in that trunk I delivered to you: letters, documents, and news clips. What happened to the Hibbard family in a century and a half? How were they affected by wars, great storms, epidemics, accidents, crimes? But also look for honors awarded and prizes won, weddings and funerals, parties and hobbies. Get the idea?”

  “Got it!” Kenneth said. “I can hardly wait to get started.”

  “Now let’s look at the menu.”

  He suggested hummus as an appetizer . . . then lamb shish kebab and spanakopita, with baklava for dessert.

  Then over cups of Greek coffee Qwilleran determined to satisfy his curiosity about “Whiskers,” as Kenneth was called—without prying. The young man seemed reluctant to talk about himself, but little by little the following facts evolved:

  He liked the Winston Park apartments. Everyone was young. The rent was reasonable. He could walk to work. He didn’t have a car. The Luncheonette was just around the corner. He liked the people at the bookstore. Everyone was friendly, even the cat.

  “Do you like cats?” Qwilleran asked.

  “I don’t know. We just had barn cats on the farm. We had mostly dogs and horses. Where did Dundee get his name?”

  “In a nutshell: Orange cats are called marmalades, and Dundee is a Scottish city, long famous for orange marmalade. Do you know why it’s an old tradition for bookstores to have cats? Think about it.”

  Kenneth said, “I suppose . . . for the same reason we had barn cats—to get rid of rodents.”

  “Right! Do you still visit your farm?”

  After some hesitation Kenneth said, “The farm was sold. Both my parents are dead.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Qwilleran murmured. He could think of other questions, but Kenneth showed signs of withdrawal. So Qwilleran asked, “Anything more you need to know regarding your assignment?”

  “About newsworthy items—what do I do with them when I find them?”

  “Give each one a reference number. Put it in a separate box. List the item and its reference number on a chart.”

  “I’ll start tomorrow!”

  TWELVE

  Sunday, noon. The Siamese had enjoyed their midday snack and were washing up when Qwilleran sat down at the desk to find a number in the phone directory. Immediately, Yum Yum sprang to the desktop and assumed a hostile pose. How did she know he was about to call Fran Brodie? The two females had been feuding since Day One.

  Fran was the most glamorous woman in town, a talented member of the theatre club, the police chief’s daughter, and second in command at Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design.

  She answered the phone in a sulky, morning-after voice.

  With forced enthusiasm he said, “Fran, let me extend belated compliments on your performance as Gwendolen!”

  “Thank you. Too bad they had to cancel the show. . . . I hear you’re starting an amazing new project!”

  “Where did you hear it?”

  “Never mind where. Say it isn’t so. That ancient monstrosity!”

  In a tone of authority he said, “Elsewhere they have George Washington’s oak tree and Benjamin Franklin’s printing press. We have the Hibbard House! Yours not to criticize. It rose from the sawdust of a million trees a century and a half ago, in spite of fire, flood, hurricane, and decorating snobs.” He knew that it irritated her to hear interior design called “decorating.”

  “All right. What’s on your mind, if anything,” she said in a huff of her own.

  “I understand the rooms are large, dark, and overfurnished. Do you have any advice for John Bushland, who will have to photograph them?”

  “Amanda helped them with their furnishings when Jesmore was alive. I’ve done a few things for Violet. I don’t know where to start.”

  He said in a more agreeable voice, “Just give me a few tips for photographing, and I’ll make notes for Bushy. Otherwise, I won’t bother you except to ask you what you think of Alden Wade.”

  “That guy,” she replied with unbridled admiration, “is not only a ball of fire but talented, handsome, and sexy!”

  “I’m glad he has your approval, Fran.”

  Qwilleran wondered what had happened to Dr. Prelligate, president of the community college and number one on Fran’s list. What had happened to all the others? What would Chief Brodie have to say about his fickle daughter?

  The MacDiarmids, mother and daughter, were expected at one o’clock, and Qwilleran walked to the bookstore in advance. Dundee was in the show window, sunning on his cushion, and nonchalantly accepting the plaudits of passersby.

  When the MacDiarmids arrived and the door was unlocked, the feline celebrity came running.

  “He knows me!” Kathie cried, blubbering tears of joy on his marmalade fur. She was tall like her father and had marmalade hair like her mother. She carried Dundee around as they looked at the real pirate’s chest, the special doormat in the vestibule, and the show window where Dundee had charmed the mob the day before. Downstairs the ESP room was locked, but they could look through the glass panel and see the jelly cupboard with its fortune in rare books.

  Moira said, “We must watch the time. Kathie has to catch a plane.”

  “Would you have time to walk around the corner to Granny’s Sweet Shop? She’s famous for her banana splits,” Qwilleran told them.

  Granny was a real grandmother whose grandchildren all worked in the store and seemed to be a happy crew. Chairs and tables were the old soda-fountain style, with twisted wire legs and backrests.

  Kathie ordered a banana split, and while her elders ate their sundaes, she kept looking across the room; then she whispered to her mother. Moira looked in the same direction and shook her head. Kathie persisted. “I know it’s Wesley. He’s grown a beard.”


  Qwilleran looked across the room casually and said, “His name is Kenneth. He’s a copyboy at the Something.” By the time the visitors left for the airport, Kenneth had gone.

  Qwilleran asked Granny about Saturday’s business.

  “Never saw anything like it!” she cried, slapping her forehead. “They were lined up waiting to get in all day! We ran out of ice cream at three o’clock and had to close the doors.”

  Then he asked, “Do you get much business, ordinarily, from the Winston Park apartments?”

  “Oh, yes! They’re nice young people! Always over here drinking ice-cream sodas and malts. Better than a lot of other things they could drink.”

  “The two young people who went out a few moments ago looked familiar to me,” Qwilleran said.

  “Peggy’s her name. They call him Whiskers. Nice kids.”

  Qwilleran had noticed that Peggy picked up the check; Kenneth turned away with his hands in his pockets while she was paying.

  Qwilleran walked home, and when he reached the barnyard he could see a cat in the kitchen window, standing on his hind legs in a state of frenzy. The man was well acquainted with feline telepathy. One frantic cat in the window signified a voice on the answering machine. Two frantic cats meant “Feed us! We’re famished!”

  The phone call was from Alden Wade: “Qwill, let me know if you need anything special for your talk next Thursday. Lectern? Easel? Projector and screen? Dancing girls?”

  Qwilleran groaned and muttered a thank-you. He had forgotten entirely about the first meeting of the literary club! He thought fast.

  There was much he could say about the colorful old bookseller, but he needed visuals to rivet audience attention: large-size photos projected on the wall behind the platform.

  He phoned Kenneth. “Do me a favor tomorrow when you get to the paper. Look in the photo file for glossies of the late Eddington Smith, his bookstore, and his cat. Winston was on the front page after the fire . . . also any pix there might be of the burning building.”