The Cat Who Went Bananas

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Qwilleran said, “You’ve got the right idea, Maggie. Don’t stop thinking. I’m moving to the Village for the winter and plan to start writing, but first I have to visualize the whole book and what I can do to make it distinctive.” He drained his teacup and stood up.

  “Wait a minute! Sit down!” she said.

  He sat down.

  “What do you think about Violet’s sudden marriage, Qwill?”

  “What can I say? Love is like lightning. It can strike anywhere.”

  “You’re being polite. You know this was a marriage of convenience! Violet is twenty years his senior and extremely wealthy! And I told you about her health problem. Lately she’s been having headaches and touches of numbness that worry me. I’m sure they worry her, too, although she’s careful not to show it. I know her, Qwill! When we were growing up, we were like sisters. We’re still close friends. Why didn’t she tell me about her intentions! Did she think I’d try to stop her? . . . What do you know about Alden Wade, Qwill?”

  “Only that he has many talents and a pleasing personality—”

  “And a taste for older women with money!”

  In a flash, Qwilleran remembered Janice’s confidential gossip that the marriage announcement was being delayed until Violet could change her will. He also remembered the realty man’s dream of “developing” the Hibbard property.

  Maggie had stopped for breath; her face was reddening.

  “Calm down, Maggie. Take a deep breath. Violet is an intelligent woman, and she must know what she’s doing. Who’s her attorney? She must be getting good advice.”

  “The family always retained the Hasselrich people. After the old man died, I’m sure she stayed with the firm.”

  “They’re highly reputable. They wouldn’t let Violet do anything foolish.”

  “I’m sorry, Qwill. Excuse my outburst. It’s just that . . . I haven’t had anyone to talk to.”

  “I understand perfectly. And the K Fund has a stake in the future of Hibbard House now. I’ll draw it to their attention. Has Violet been in touch with you since the Friday announcement?”

  “No. I tried to call her. I think she’s avoiding me.”

  “It’s been only forty-eight hours.”

  “You’re right, Qwill. You’ve said exactly what Jeremy would have said if he were here.”

  That evening, when Qwilleran and Polly drove to the Boulder House Inn on the lakeshore, it was their first genuine Saturday-night dinner date in a long time. There was no mention of the Book Log Computer System.

  “How’s Dundee?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Oh, he’s so happy! Not frisky—just happily interested in whatever is happening in the store. You know the table where we feature the book of the week? Well, recently we did a table on A Place Called Happiness, and Dundee jumped up and presided over it like an author waiting to ‘pawtograph’ his books.”

  “Who wrote it?”

  “A psychologist, Dr. Dori Seider. It’s selling very well and is up for discussion at the next meeting of the lit club. One of the Green Smocks thinks we should send a copy, anonymously, to our cranky mayor.”

  “Amanda wouldn’t read it,” Qwilleran said. “She’d throw it at the messenger.”

  “Dr. Seider has two cats, you’ll be glad to know. I have an autographed book that you can borrow, Qwill. She quotes John Milton’s Paradise Lost: ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.’ What do you think of that?”

  Qwilleran later recorded the rest of the evening in his personal journal.

  Saturday, October 4—There’s something magical about the Boulder House: the lake view, walking on the beach, the sky full of sunset, Squunk cocktails on the parapet. Not to mention Rocky, the cat, who always greets us with ankle rubbing, a high compliment.

  Polly’s soft voice and musical laugh have returned. First I gave her a limerick I wrote a few weeks ago, when her sense of humor was below par:

  A literacy maven named Polly

  Says slang expressions are folly.

  She refuses to say

  “Drop dead!” or “No way!”

  Or “Dingbat” or “Oops!” or “By golly!”

  Then I gave her a brilliant new recording of Saint-Saëns’s Third Symphony, and we went to the barn and listened to it.

  NINETEEN

  On Sunday afternoon Qwilleran and two nervous Siamese would leave for their winter address. The more the departure was delayed, he had learned, the more nervous they became, as if they feared they would be left behind!

  Moving fifteen miles away to Indian Village was no easier than moving fifteen thousand. Friends, neighbors, and business connections had to be notified.

  Chief Brodie always volunteered to keep an eye on the property. Mrs. Fulgrove would come in and empty the refrigerator, taking home any food she might be able to use; a few frozen desserts were purchased and added to the freezer to make it worth her while. And Pat O’Dell’s crew would secure the premises against the winter weather.

  Before leaving town, Qwilleran wanted to take one last walk through the woods and around Winston Park.

  Walking back to the barn, Qwilleran realized that it would be the last of these pleasurable strolls for six months: Emerging from the patch of dense woods into the barnyard, checking the kitchen window for the welcoming committee, unlocking the door, being surrounded by waving tails . . . how could he describe the good feeling he experienced?

  On this Sunday afternoon there was only one cat signaling from the window, indicating a message on the machine. Wetherby Goode wanted him to call. First, though, he had to phone his attorney—at home.

  “Sorry to bother you on Sunday, Bart.”

  “No bother. It’s a pleasure. Our office got the message that you’re moving to the Village today.”

  “Yes, and I wonder if you would stop at my condo on your way into town tomorrow morning. I have something quite interesting to discuss. Same condo—Unit Four in the Willows.”

  Then Qwilleran phoned Unit Three. “Joe, we’re leaving for the Village. What’s up?”

  “Dr. Connie is now in Unit Two. The Willows has a full house again. How’ll it be if you all shuffle over to my place for a pizza supper? Polly will do the salad. Linguini’s will deliver pizza and spumone, and we’ll have beer, wine, and Squunk water for the Squunks.”

  “Okay with me! Is there anything I can contribute?”

  “You might sing a song. I’ll play the piano.”

  The Siamese had spent several winters in the condo, but when they emerged from their travel coop, everything was new and strange. Even the fresh water in their drinking bowl was suspect—and the shag rug in front of the fireplace—and the plates on which their dinner was served. But by the time Qwilleran returned from the pizza party, they would be chasing each other up and down the stairs, rolling voluptuously on the shag rug, and burrowing behind the sofa pillows, looking for last winter’s treasures.

  Meanwhile, Qwilleran changed into something that would impress his host and evoke the admiration of Polly and Dr. Constable.

  At Unit Three, Qwilleran was greeted by Jet Stream, a husky tiger as extroverted as the man he lived with.

  To the veterinarian he said, “Dr. Constable! What lured you away from Hibbard House?”

  “Call me Connie,” she said. “Well, you see, my divorce just became final, and I wanted to start a new lifestyle. I want to be able to cook and have pets and entertain guests. How are Koko and Yum Yum?”

  “They’re glad to have their favorite doctor in the neighborhood. Is it the blue coat you wear? Everyone else at the clinic wears white.”

  “This is not for publication,” said Connie, who was wearing blue denims. “I wear blue to make my eyes look blue.”

  “But it’s true that cats respond to blue. Yellow and blue are the colors they see best, although they live in a world of fuzzy pastels.”

  They went on at some length about the vision of cats until Wetherby interrupted.


  “Are you two guys plotting to rob a bank? The pizza’s here! Come and get it while it’s hot!”

  As they walked toward the dining area, Qwilleran said to Connie, “As you know, I’m writing a book about Hibbard House. If you hear any tales about the old landmark that I can use or even if I can’t—please let me know.”

  At the table, the host said, “Connie, you’re lucky to be arriving at this time. Now that the K Fund masterminds the Village, the roof doesn’t leak, the windows don’t rattle, the floors don’t bounce, and the walls between units are soundproofed. We’re entering our Civilized Period.”

  Polly said, “There’s a bird club that meets at the clubhouse once a week, and the path along the riverbank is ideal for birding. There’s also a bridge club and an art club.”

  Qwilleran added, “And they keep the roads snowplowed and the walks shoveled. Linguini’s and Tipsy’s Tavern are nearby. In fact, we’re close to the Hummocks and not far from Hibbard House.”

  Wetherby said, “And the view of the riverbank is super. Ask Jet Stream. . . . Ask Brutus and Catta. . . . Ask Koko and Yum Yum.”

  Later, when they moved to the living room for coffee, he added, “And now Qwill is going to sing a song.”

  “Sorry, I left my music at home. But I’ll entertain you with a limerick about our congenial host.”

  He read from one of the index cards he always had in a jacket pocket:

  A congenial fellow named Joe

  Has learned how to make lots of dough

  By forecasting weather With salt and a feather,

  But sometimes he has to eat crow.

  Everyone laughed. Wetherby proposed a nightcap. Then they said goodnight, and Qwilleran accompanied the two women to their respective doors.

  When he returned to Unit Four, he found two demanding cats and a message from Kenneth on the machine: “Mr. Q, I collected some good stuff. Want me to speed out to your place tomorrow night?”

  Qwilleran called him and said, “Yes, I’d like to get an idea of the stories we can expect from the old-timers. If I order two dinners from Lois’s, could you bring them out here? How does that sound?”

  “I can handle that!” Kenneth said.

  TWENTY

  Facing east, the glass walls of the Willows provided not only a view of the riverbank but a warm morning sun that Koko and Yum Yum found ideal for washing up after breakfast. Qwilleran was basking in its warmth himself, with his second cup of coffee, when the attorney arrived.

  “Nice place. Great view,” he said as he dropped his briefcase on the coffee table.

  Qwill said, “It may not give you the shot in the arm you get from the apple barn, Bart, but it should give you an environmental lift.” The Barter family lived in the country, too, but among rolling hills and sheep farms. “Coffee?”

  “By all means. And I picked up a couple of Danish at Tipsy’s on the way here.”

  They sat at a small table in the window and Qwilleran asked, “Did you come via West Kennebeck? If so, you passed the Hibbard property.”

  “Yes, but it’s heavily wooded. All you can see is the red roof and the tower. How’s the book faring?”

  “I’m acquainting myself with the history of the family and house—and with Violet, the sole remaining heir. And that’s why I called you. She’s sixtyish, intelligent—obviously loaded—and with a life expectancy that’s extremely iffy. And—without telling anyone—she has just married a younger man!”

  “Maybe you should be writing a novel, Qwill. Who is he?”

  “The actor you saw in the Oscar Wilde play, manager of special events at the bookstore, initiator of the theatre arts program to be announced in today’s paper.”

  “Sure, I remember seeing him. He introduced you at the lit club debut. Talented guy—with a lot of polish. What’s the problem? Jealousy? He’s an outsider.”

  “The problem is, Bart, that in Lockmaster he has a reputation as a fortune hunter.”

  “Hmff! . . . The plot thickens!”

  “She confided in another woman that she went to her attorney last Monday to have her will changed. One can only guess: How? I’ve talked to Violet and to her best friend, and both women have indicated that the preservation of Hibbard House is of greatest importance. And yet . . . This will sound, Bart, as if I’ve been playing private detective. There are realty professionals in town who dream of developing the Hibbard property as a big commercial venture.”

  “There’s no law against dreaming, Qwill.”

  “Yes, but the Realtors are paying guests at Hibbard House and chummy with the new bridegroom. They go duck hunting together on weekends.”

  “All very interesting,” the attorney said. “What do you want from me?”

  “The Hibbards, according to Maggie Sprenkle, have always been clients of your firm. Since the K Fund is underwriting the book, it behooves us to inquire about the future of the building. Museum? School? Health spa? Gambling casino?”

  “I see your point, Qwill.”

  “I don’t want to know what the dear woman has written in her will. I simply want to know if the property is protected against commercial development. Otherwise, why should I waste my time on the book?”

  “You’re quite right, Qwill. How urgent is this matter?”

  “Top priority! Her condition is precarious.”

  At the pizza party Connie had mentioned that she was taking a week off to get settled, and Qwilleran had mentioned that he needed to interview her about life in today’s Hibbard House.

  “Your place or my place?” she asked. “Mine is a mess.”

  On Monday afternoon she rang his doorbell, excusing her frazzled appearance but saying she needed to relax for a half hour.

  He offered her coffee or a soft drink, and she chose the latter. “I’ve been warned about your coffee, Qwill. They say it’s one degree short of illegal.”

  “Where would you like to sit?” he asked. “At the table in the window, or in one of the sofas where the cats hang out?”

  “A sofa with cat hairs. I’m exhausted!”

  Qwilleran served the drink, placed a tape recorder on the coffee table, and said, “How does the hoary old mansion adapt to modern living?”

  “Well, on the second floor there are four large bedrooms with high ceilings and canopy beds. Each has its own sitting room and luxurious bath in what was called the ‘water closet’ in the days before indoor plumbing. The second generation of Hibbards did a lot of entertaining, and guests stayed a week or a month. It’s like living in a movie set—fun for a year or so but not the kind of place where you’d like to spend the rest of your life. Actually, the other two women are also leaving. The one who’s a hospital supervisor is taking a position in Rochester, and the one who’s a teacher is getting married.”

  Qwilleran said, “Then there will be only male guests?”

  “They say there’s a waiting list for accommodations, but temporarily it will be strictly stag. The men’s quarters are in the old guest house a hundred yards behind the main building. I’ve never been invited to one of their slosh parties, but you might talk to the Wix brothers or Judd Amhurst. Judd is very nice. Frankly, we thought Violet should have married him. But he has family in Texas, and they want him to move down there to be with his grandchildren.”

  With questioning, Connie told about a twenty-foot Christmas tree in the foyer one year . . . picnic suppers on the veranda in summer with deer coming to the porch for a handout . . . bridge and Ping-Pong tournaments . . . and, after Alden’s arrival, dramatic readings in the library and classical concerts in the music room.

  With amusement Qwilleran thought of the duck-hunting Wix brothers sitting still for a dramatic reading. . . . “Did everyone participate willingly in every activity?” he asked.

  Connie thought a moment. “While Violet was house mother, we all went along with everything she suggested. She’s such a gracious hostess, you know. But after Alden joined our happy family, nothing was quite the same. Violet was hig
hly impressed with his sophistication and allowed him to call the plays. . . . Should I be telling you all these family secrets, Qwill?”

  “I’ll use discretion,” he assured her.

  Then he added, with the confidential tone that had melted icebergs, “Off the record, was Violet’s marriage well received?”

  Frowning, Connie said, “Not exactly. I don’t know about the men, but to the girls it seemed like a bad choice. Don’t ask me why. It’s just a feeling. . . .”

  At six o’clock Kenneth arrived in his rental car, carrying two dinner boxes from Lois’s, and was greeted by Qwilleran and two eager Siamese.

  “Wait’ll you hear what I’ve got!” he said, patting the recording kit.

  “Come in! We’ll listen while the food’s reheating. Sit over there.” Qwilleran indicated two cushiony sofas facing each other across the lush shag rug. It was clearly handmade, a wild tangle of long pile.

  “Some rug!” Kenneth said.

  “The cats think so, too.”

  Qwilleran served Q cocktails, and they listened to a male voice—not old, not young—telling the following tale:

  My name is Henry Newsome, retired painter and paper hanger. I never worked on the Hibbard House. They always hired those high-priced decorators from Down Below. But when I was growing up, my mother talked about it. She’d been a live-in maid-of-all-work when she was a young girl. That would be almost a hundred years ago. I’m eighty. Her name was Lavinia, and that’s what I’ll call her.

  (Slight cough)

  Excuse me. It’s just an allergy. Now, Mr. MacMurchy says you’re interested in stories about that big old barn. No disrespect intended. My mother used to tell one story that would make a good movie. That’s what we thought when we were kids. Anyway, here goes:

  Mr. Geoffrey was master of the house back then; that’s what they were called then. Lavinia said he was a nice man. The mistress was kind of hard to please. They had one daughter, and she was a problem. In those days she was just called a bad girl. She ran off with a man to Milwaukee, or someplace like that. No one was allowed to speak her name.