The Cat Who Went Bananas

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Someone’s first and last. Why do you ask?”

  “My sister in Horseradish has recently divorced her first husband, and she’s joined a First Husband’s Club. The gals get together and bash their first husbands. She says they have a ball!”

  “I can imagine,” Qwilleran said. “I’d like to hear a recording of the proceedings.”

  “It’s nothing nasty, only humorous.”

  “I see . . . Is this organization exclusive with Horseradish? Or does it have chapters countrywide?”

  “So far, I believe it’s purely local. You know they’re mostly berserk in that town. . . . Well, I’ve got to get to the station. There’s some violent weather in the offing.”

  As Qwilleran walked with Wetherby to his car, another vehicle pulled into the barnyard bringing Peggy, Kenneth, and the trunkful of research. The three persons were introduced.

  “Oh, Mr. Goode!” she cried. “Your weathercasts are . . . so good!”

  “Thanks. Call me Joe.” He looked unusually pleased.

  Peggy was wearing a slim-legged red jumpsuit and looked what Qwilleran considered “fetching.” He said, “Peggy is chief assistant to Dundee, the bibliocat. I’m her understudy. Kenneth is the new copy facilitator at the newspaper.”

  “Wish I could stay,” Wetherby said with genuine regret, “but I’m due at the station.”

  As he went to his car, he threw a backward glance at Peggy, and as Qwilleran escorted the young couple to the barn, she threw a backward glance at Wetherby.

  “Shall I bring the trunk, Mr. Q?” Kenneth asked.

  “Come in and see the barn first, and have some refreshments” was the answer.

  “Oh, wow! Oh, wow!” said the copy facilitator, flinging his arms wide.

  “If you want a thrill, go to the top of the ramp and see the view from there. But watch your step; Koko has started stealing banana peels.”

  Peggy was on her knees hugging the cats, who had come running.

  Qwilleran thought, Those rascals! They know a pushover when they meet one; they’re playing it to the hilt.

  She declined a drink, saying she had to feed Dundee and then work at her computer.

  Kenneth obviously wanted to stay. He said he could walk home.

  “Agreeable young woman,” Qwilleran said when she had driven away.

  “She’s nuts about cats,” the young man said.

  “Everyone’s nuts about something. It’s clear she’s not local. What brought her here—do you know?”

  “She’s from Vegas. A fortune-teller told her to come here. She’d been through a nasty divorce. You know how she has all that hair covering her forehead? It covers a bad scar that she blames her ex-husband for.”

  “Well, I hope she’s happy here. She seems to be an asset to the community. . . . Would you like to bring in the trunk?”

  The contents were in good order. Kenneth had done fine work, and Qwilleran remunerated him, saying he’d enlist his services again. “How do you like your job at the Something? What brought you here in the first place? Not a fortune-teller, I imagine.”

  The young man showed signs of wanting to talk but feared he should not. His eyes darted.

  Qwilleran knew to keep silent and look sympathetic; something about his brooding gaze and drooping moustache inspired confidence.

  “I’ve got a suspect under surveillance,” Kenneth said abruptly.

  His listener raised a hand. “Say no more. I understand.” He understood only that this was copyboy playing at being an investigator—or an investigator disguised as a copyboy. Either way, it would be unfair to spoil his game. Remembering Kenneth’s interest in City of Brotherly Crime, he assumed he was a copyboy pretending to be undercover—just as Celia Robinson operated as a secret agent when she first came to Moose County.

  It was almost eleven P.M. when the phone rang. Qwilleran was reading a bedtime story to the Siamese and he switched voices hopefully to the mellifluous “good evening” that had given Polly a frisson of pleasure in the past, B.P.C. (Before Pirate’s Chest).

  “Qwill, you old geezer!” came the strident tones that he knew well.

  “Lyle, you old dunderhead! You got back live from Saint Paul!”

  “I’ve been back for a week—in time for all the hoopla downtown. Lisa was riding high until the news broke about the theft. What’s your take on that little matter?”

  “I agree with the police that it’s an opportunist from Down Below. Tell Lisa: The good news is that the extra publicity will probably sell all the books in the jelly cupboard.”

  “You always were a confounded optimist, Qwill! . . . Are you in good voice for tomorrow night?”

  “Have no fear about the speaker, Lyle. Worry whether we’ll have an audience, considering that we’re not serving refreshments.”

  To take his mind off the Edd Smith saga that had filled his head for the last forty-eight hours, Qwilleran selected a book from his journalism library that Violet Hibbard had wanted to give him. It brought to mind that their first spirited dinner date would not be repeated. He had begun to see her as a successor to the longtime dining companion that he seemed to be losing. It was the quality and subject matter of the conversation that had made both women interesting.

  Both Qwilleran and the retired professor liked Shakespeare, and he would be willing to give Lord Byron an educated try. But now the lady had acquired a husband. Was it Judd, the retired engineer at the guest house? He was the right age, and only a short meeting had proved him to be congenial and talkative—though probably not about sonnets and Russian plays.

  Polly had spoiled him in that respect; she could happily spend a half hour discussing the meaning of a single word.

  SIXTEEN

  On the morning of the lit club debut, Qwilleran met Alden Wade at the bookstore to discuss arrangements. Two of the lower-level meeting rooms would be thrown into one to accommodate fifty chairs, with a center aisle for projection equipment.

  At the front of the room would be a low platform and a lectern and a row of three potted plants sent to the bookstore by well-wishers. Behind the speaker, a plain white wall would make a scene for the slides—not as a picture show but as pictorial atmosphere. John Bushland would come in to test the facilities in advance.

  “About timing,” Alden said. “The doors open at seven-thirty. The business meeting starts at eight with election of officers.”

  “What time do you want me to report?”

  “Between eight and eight-thirty. Use your key and come in the side door. Stay in the office with Dundee until we’re ready to introduce you.”

  “Does Dundee make his entrance with me?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Dundee stays in the office all evening. He’s too much of a scene stealer. Any questions?”

  “What to wear?”

  “I’d say . . . jacket, no tie. And by the way, the parking lots at north and south ends will both be full, but there’ll be a space reserved at the side door for you.”

  Qwilleran found it a pleasure to do business with Alden; he was always so well organized.

  At the barn, Koko’s frantic cavorting in the kitchen window brought Qwilleran indoors on the double. Strangely, the phone had not started to ring. Stranger still, when it did ring, it was an unusual call from Moira MacDiarmid.

  “Qwill, I need to discuss something with you. Is this a suitable time?”

  “There’s nobody here but two nosy cats, and they can be trusted. What is it, Moira?”

  “I know Kip and I talked about having dinner with you and Polly soon, but my husband abhors gossip, and this is rather . . . speculative.”

  Qwilleran’s curiosity was piqued. Although not prone to spread gossip, he was willing to listen to it, especially when it was called “speculation.” What his friend’s wife was suggesting was a private conference—not easy to do in either Lockmaster or Pickax without arousing suspicion. He got the message.

  “Are you there, Qwill?”

  “I’m here. I’m thinking
. I need a topic for Tuesday’s column, and—since Dundee has been such a hit in these parts—a dissertation on the marmalade breed would be of great interest to my readers. Since you’re the sole authority on the subject, an interview with you would be expedient. Could you spare time tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Oh, Qwill!”

  “How many residents do you have in your cattery at the moment? Could they be available for interviewing tomorrow afternoon at one-thirty?”

  After a few guarded words on Moira’s part and a few noncommittal words on Qwilleran’s, they hung up. He was chuckling to himself; there was nothing like a little intrigue to add zip to the daily routine. As for Koko, he was sitting on the kitchen counter, listening. How had he known the phone was going to ring? How had he known the caller was a cat breeder in the next county?

  Koko jumped off the counter and went under the kitchen table, where he stared at his empty plate. Qwilleran gave him a morsel of Gouda cheese and had a slice of it himself.

  That was the evening that fifty good folk of Moose County met at The Pirate’s Chest to found the Pickax Literary Club. They elected Lyle Compton president, Mavis Adams vice president, Jill Handley secretary, Gordie Shaw treasurer, and Alden Wade program chairman.

  The keynote speaker, sporting a green blazer and trimmed moustache, drove to the bookstore, found his reserved parking space, and let himself in the side door. Peggy was feeding the cat.

  “Dundee is dining fashionably late this evening,” Qwilleran said.

  “I’m running behind schedule with my work, but he doesn’t mind,” she said. “Why are you sneaking in the back door, Mr. Q? You’re the star of the whole show!”

  “I was told to report here and stay out of sight until called to the platform. . . . And by the way, would your overworked computer be able to do a little research for the ‘Qwill Pen’?”

  “Love to! Sit down and tell me about it.”

  “Did you see the dedication of the bookstore? There was some ruckus about ribbon cutting. How did the custom originate? When? Where? Why? I need it early next week.”

  At that moment there was a knock on the door, and Qwilleran followed Alden to the meeting room.

  “Stay outside the entrance, Qwill, until I give you a grand introduction—everything but the trumpets. Then burst through the door and go to the platform with a masterful stride. You know how to grab an audience!”

  Qwilleran waited until he heard “James Mackintosh Qwilleran.” He waited another three seconds, then entered briskly, throwing the salute that downtown pedestrians knew so well. All fifty of them rose to their feet in a torrent of applause.

  After all, he was more than a popular columnist and a sympathetic listener to anyone with a problem. He was the modest presence behind the K Fund and everything it had done for the county.

  He nodded graciously and used two hands, palms down, to coax them back into their seats.

  The lights dimmed, except for one soft downlight over speaker and lectern. On the back wall appeared a blowup of an old gray-on-gray photo; a frail little man in front of a little old bookshop.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we would not be here tonight, launching a literary club under the auspices of a first-class bookstore, if it were not for the late Eddington Smith.”

  (More applause)

  “For fifty years he sold pre-owned books in the quaint old shop where this building now stands. Before that his father peddled books from door to door, and Eddington went along as a willing helper when he didn’t have to go to school.”

  Visual: Father and son standing alongside a horse-drawn van: “Smith Book Wagon.”

  “The books were sold on credit: Ten cents down and the rest later. Eddington told me that none of their charge customers ever defaulted.

  “Did you ever think that Eddington was a rather elegant name for the modest Edd that we knew? It was his mother’s maiden name. She taught school in the days of one-room schoolhouses.”

  Visual: Severe-faced woman in high-necked blouse, holding book and ruler.

  “The ruler, we presume, was for rapping the knuckles of slow students. Edd always spoke fondly of his father but never mentioned his mother. Perhaps his knuckles had been rapped once too often.”

  (Laughter)

  “But before the stern mother and book-loving father . . . there was Eddington’s grandfather.”

  Visual: Old oak tree.

  “And thereby hangs a tale.

  “Upon the formation of Moose County, the founding fathers needed to establish a county seat, centrally located. And there—where two trails intersected in the wilderness—they found a rusty pickax in a tree stump. It was an omen! A backwoods building boom commenced overnight, and a local blacksmith was kept busy producing nails to build homes and shops. Then he was kicked in the head by a horse! No blacksmith . . . no nails!

  “At the height of the panic, a stalwart young man walked into town and said he was a blacksmith.

  “ ‘Can you make nails?’ he was asked.

  “ ‘Of course I can make nails.’

  “ ‘What’s your name?’

  “ ‘John.’

  “ ‘John what?’

  “The cocky young man said, ‘That’s all the name you need to make nails.’

  “It was highly irregular, but they needed nails, so his name was put on the town rolls as John B. Smith, the initial standing for ‘Black.’

  “John was a tall, brawny fellow. To quote the poet: ‘He had large and sinewy hands and muscles like iron bands.’ All the young women were after him, it was said, but the one he married was considered the best catch. Not only could she cook and sew but she could read and write—skills that were scarce among the early settlers.

  “John built a home for his family, using feldspar, a stone that sparkled in the sunlight. He built it with his own hands. In the backyard was a mighty oak tree, and under its spreading branches he set up his anvil.

  “The oak tree has long gone. Either it succumbed to old age and heavy rains . . . or Edd had it removed to make room for more parking spaces that he could rent to downtown workers.

  “Edd, for all his shyness, was a practical man. He first acquired a cat to discourage the mice that were nibbling on the books. But a succession of Winstons became an attraction for tourists and local shoppers alike. By now, everyone knows that the cat’s famous namesake was an American author and not a British prime minister.”

  Visual: Winston, dusting books with his tail.

  “The presence of a live-in cat was not entirely responsible for the food odors that mingled with the mustiness of old books. Besides Winston’s sardines, there were Edd’s favorites—liver and onions, canned clam chowder, and garlic potatoes.”

  (Chuckles)

  “There was a rickety wooden ladder, eight feet high—used by Edd for stocking shelves and by Winston for surveying noisy schoolchildren, and by the book scouts from Down Below, looking for two-dollar books worth a hundred in the rare-book market.

  “Edd liked to tease the scouts. If I happened to be present he would tell outrageous lies about fabulous discoveries made on the upper shelves, and the book scout would almost fall off the ladder.”

  (Ripple of amusement)

  “Edd himself was not a reader, yet he quoted frequently from the great writers of the past. He confessed to me that he had taken the advice of a great British statesman: ‘If a man is not educated, he should own a book of quotations.’ ”

  (Amused murmur)

  “He also repaired books for schools, public libraries, and private collections, and his bookbinding equipment was in the back room of the shop—along with his sleeping cot, a two-burner hot plate, and a portable ice chest.

  “There was a cracked mirror above a rusty old sink, and a shelf with old-fashioned shaving tackle along with a handgun. Later in life he said he was glad he never had to use the handgun because . . . he never had any bullets.”

  (Laughter)

  “Was that a serious sentiment from a l
ittle old man? Or was it an example of pioneer humor? Edd, being descended from pioneers, had inherited their style of humor, although he was not a jokester like the country folk who keep everyone laughing in the coffee shops.

  “Edd and I had a few adventures together. On one occasion we were threatened by an intruder intent on murder. I managed to subdue him, and I shouted to Edd, ‘Call the police!’ In a hesitant voice he asked, ‘What shall I tell them?’ ”

  (Laughter)

  “On one of my visits to the bookstore, Edd told me some good news: The Boosters Club was naming him Merchant of the Year! ‘I can hardly wait to tell my father!’ he said.

  “I looked at him curiously, because I was sure his father was deceased.

  “ ‘I talk to him every night,’ he explained.

  “ ‘How long has he been gone?’ I asked as calmly as I could.

  “ ‘Fourteen years,’ he replied. ‘He has gone to a better land—far, far away.’ And his sober face was suffused with quiet joy.”

  Visual: The images on the back wall began changing in slow, tantalizing succession, with emphases on the blacksmith’s oak tree and the pirate’s chest found during excavation for the new bookstore.

  “Now, my friends, the scandalous rumor that John B. Smith—the blacksmith who made the nails that helped build Pickax—was a weekend pirate! Can we believe that this hardworking husband and father who took his family to church twice a week and built them a house with his own hands and visited his old mother frequently—can we believe he put a red bandanna on his head and a gold hoop in one ear and forced victims at dagger-point to walk the plank?

  “True, there were pirates preying on shipping in the big lakes. True, Edd’s grandfather failed to return from a trip ‘to visit his old mother.’ True, a ‘pirate’s chest’ with iron straps was found under the big oak.

  “But consider this: There were no banks in those days, and it was customary to bury one’s money, usually behind the outhouse.”

  (Chuckles)

  “It’s quite likely that the blacksmith built sturdy chests and sold them for that purpose. It’s quite likely that he did visit his elderly mother at intervals to fix her roof, plant a garden, and scrub the floors. It’s likely that Edd Smith was listening to the delirious babbling of a dying woman when he heard the scandalous secret.