The Cat Who Went Bananas

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Qwilleran had met Judd Amhurst briefly at Hibbard House one evening, and they had exchanged the fraternal handshake of Squunkers. A growing number of thirsty citizens of Moose County were adopting the local mineral water as their drink of choice.

  Now Connie suggested Judd as the best source of contemporary trivia about the Big House on the Hill.

  So Qwilleran phoned and invited him to the Village for an afternoon of memories about Hibbard House. As Qwilleran recalled, he was a retired engineer, distinguished by a crop of snow-white hair. It was not as full and rampant as that of Thornton Haggis, but it had the same kind of attraction for Koko and Yum Yum.

  They met him in the foyer of Unit Four, with tails waving.

  Judd asked, “Are these the two characters who write the ‘Qwill Pen’ column?”

  “The secret is out! I hope it won’t go any further. Have you visited Indian Village before?”

  “I’ve attended a couple of meetings of the bird club, and once I gave a talk on the birds of the Hibbard estate. It took a lot of research, but I enjoyed it.”

  Qwilleran said, “It sounds like data that could be used in the book. Do you have your notes?”

  “Better yet, the bird club taped my remarks, and a transcription should be available.”

  They sat in the two lounge sofas, facing each other across the opulent pile rug.

  “It’s even shaggier than Alden’s,” Judd said. “His sitting room is quite modern.”

  Then he explained that the four male residents had quarters in a stone guest house down the hill from the main building.

  “Cyrus, the first Hibbard, was in the sawyer business and was infatuated with wood—which is all very well, but his descendants have lived in fear of fire ever after.”

  Qwilleran said, “I’d like to tape this.”

  The following account was recorded:

  Violet’s grandfather, Geoffrey, was educated at schools in New England and abroad and was a highly social creature. He would invite his whole fraternity up in the summer, a few at a time. They would arrive by train, which had replaced the stagecoach. They would spend a couple of weeks, housed in a guest house of quarry stone that Geoffrey built down the hill on the edge of a picturesque pond. It was a common frog pond, and the bullfrogs kept the guests awake with their amorous croaking. He had given the elegant guest house a snooty French name, but waggish guests changed it to the Froggery, and frog legs à la Provençal were frequently on the menu.

  Dinners were black-tie every night, Violet said, with music by a string trio, footmen to serve, and a butler to pour.

  But the twentieth century was making life more casual, and her father, Jesmore, was more interested in literature than entertaining, so the Froggery was boarded up. It came to life only when Violet inherited—with a new name. Alden called it the Old Rock Pile.

  The facilities are fantastic. Each of our suites has a sitting room lavishly furnished, and a whirlpool bath. Evenings in the main house are made very special by Violet’s hospitality. . . . That’s the story!

  Qwilleran turned off the tape recorder and asked, “Are you a duck hunter like the others?”

  “No. I’m a bookworm. What attracted me to the residence was the extensive library. Violet gave a lot of books to ESP, but there are hundreds remaining—not current bestsellers but famous oldies, like Portrait of a Lady and Mill on the Floss.

  “What I like about Alden is that he can discuss books. I’ve never known anyone else who shared my particular interest. Otherwise, we watch sports on TV and play cards.”

  Qwilleran inquired politely if Alden’s marriage had put a crimp in Ping-Pong tournaments, card games, and so on.

  “No,” he said. “She’s quite a bit older, you know, and not in the best of health, they say, so she retires early and Alden can stay up playing Ping-Pong or pinochle.

  “And speaking of ESP, as we were, I was a Saturday regular at Edd Smith’s shop. I spent a lot of time on his ladder and bought a lot of sardines for Winston. Your speech at the lit club brought it all back.”

  The two men gazed into space for a few moments until Qwilleran asked, “How did the residents at Hibbard House react to Violet’s sudden marriage?”

  “We all said the right things, but no one said what he was really thinking. Alden’s a good guy—talented and all that—but he comes on a little strong. . . . I’m talking more than I should. Don’t quote me.”

  “Have no fear. This is merely local color . . . for my ears only! What I need now is the kind of folklore that’s soaked up in the woodwork of old buildings, myths and mysteries.”

  “I’ll scout around. Violet’s father left a diary—”

  “Perfect!”

  “I’ll ask her if I can see it . . . and even if she says I can’t, I know where it is.”

  He stood up to leave, and the Siamese—who had been listening to his every word for reasons of their own—stepped aside to let him pass.

  “Nice cats!” he said.

  “They’re on their best behavior. You should be here when a big storm is coming and they go bananas!”

  “Do you let them out?”

  “Never!”

  “That’s good,” Judd said. “There are coyotes in the woods this year.”

  Late in the afternoon, Qwilleran felt thumping vibrations coming through the wall to the north. The Siamese felt it, too, and stared at the wall. He knew what they did not know—Wetherby was rehearsing a piano number to play just before his six-o’clock weather forecast.

  When the thumping stopped, Qwilleran phoned his neighbor. “Joe, do you require a booster shot before tonight’s program?”

  “I’ll hop over there!”

  “Bring your saltshaker and feather.”

  Koko and Yum Yum met him at the door. They knew he lived with Jet Stream. Drinks were served, and the two men sat in facing sofas, while the cats took up positions on the pile rug.

  The host began. “It has been reported that you were seen at the Palomino Paddock, disporting with an unidentified female. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “What are you? A policeman? I never disport! I don’t even know what it means. Your operatives have me confused with someone else. Actually, I was there with the girl you introduced me to and we had an agreeable time, except that she comes on heavy with computer-fab. She wanted me to buy one. I told her I prefer the piano.”

  “What’s your theme song for tonight? Since they soundproofed the walls, I have to wait for the program.”

  Wetherby burst into song: “There’s no sun up in the sky! Stormy weather!”

  Hearing the booming voice, both cats levitated and shot from the room.

  “Thanks a lot!” he shouted after them. “Seriously, Qwill, we’re in for a rough time. Stock up on firewood, flashlight batteries, bottled water, and canned soup.”

  At eleven o’clock Qwilleran and Polly enjoyed their traditional telephone nightcap.

  She had found a recipe for mulligatawny. He was reading Mencken. She was thinking of buying a new winter coat. He had kidded Joe about “disporting” with an unidentified female. They both said a lingering “à bientôt.”

  After that Qwilleran fell asleep promptly and slept soundly until almost one A.M. when his bedside telephone rang loudly and urgently, or so it seemed to a sleepbefuddled mind. He growled something incoherent into the mouthpiece.

  A woman’s voice sobbed, “Forgive me, Qwill, for calling so late. This is Maggie. I have sad news. I had to tell someone.”

  “That’s all right, Maggie. What has happened?”

  “We’ve lost our dear Violet!” There was a torrent of sobbing.

  This was the phone call he expected to receive eventually, but not so soon. “Sad news indeed,” he murmured.

  “They called me a half hour ago. It was inevitable. But now that it’s happened, I’m in shock! I don’t know how to deal with it. We were like sisters.”

  “Just cry, Maggie. Tears are a great healer, so don’t be afrai
d to cry your eyes out. When you can cry no more, you’ll feel a great calm, and then you’ll think of a way to honor Violet’s memory.”

  “You’re right, Qwill. That’s exactly what Jeremy would have said.” Her voice trailed off, and he thought he heard a heartrending wail before she hung up.

  His advice was based on experience, and he knew it would work. He imagined her five “ladies” gathering around to comfort her, as all cats know how to do. The Siamese sensed something was amiss, and they were whimpering outside his door. He opened it and let them in.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Qwilleran thought about Violet on Thursday morning as he fed the cats and himself (in that order). He thought about her ingratiating personality and intelligence and love of poetry and drama. He thought about her shattered romance in early years and her strange marriage in later life. He hesitated to call it a romance. Yet who could tell? And what would happen now? Whatever . . . he felt driven to complete the book. He could imagine the pleasure it would have given her; the photographs of cozy corners, family treasures, and architectural wonders. The text, he was sure, would have delighted her. That was what he had to concentrate on now, relating historic incidents with affection and humor rather than journalistic objectivity. In other words, he planned to write what she would have liked to read. He would dedicate the book simply “To Violet.” And there would be a handsome photograph of her, selected from the Hibbard archives with the aid of Maggie.

  But first he had things to do. High on the list was Polly’s grocery shopping. He had a key to her condo, enabling him to refrigerate perishables. And he had a standing invitation to a pickup dinner of leftovers as a reward for his kindness. There were always errands for him to do at the bank, post office, and drugstore as well as at Toodle’s Market. And on this occasion he had an urge to visit Andy Brodie.

  The police department was in the rear of the City Hall building, up one flight.

  The sergeant on the desk waved Qwilleran through the gate and toward the glass-enclosed office where the chief could be seen growling at the computer.

  “Come in, laddie! Rest your bones!” the chief barked in a Scots accent. “How’s the rugged life in the wilderness?”

  “I miss our spur-of-the-moment nightcaps, Andy. The cats miss you, too. Koko wants me to ask you if the Lockmaster sniping case was ever closed.”

  “Nope.”

  “There was something about a member of the family being involved—on the grapevine, that is. Was that ever under investigation?”

  “Yep. It was dropped for lack of evidence. They had to go easy because he was a prominent citizen.”

  “Apparently the situation in Lockmaster became too unfriendly; the prominent citizen moved to Moose County. Did you know that?”

  “Yep.”

  “He’s made a big hit here. In fact, he married the older woman who’s the sole heir to the four-generation Hibbard fortune. I’m sure you know that. It was in the paper last Friday.”

  “Yep.”

  “The bride died early this morning,” Qwilleran said. “There’ll be a bulletin on the front page today. Cause of death: brain aneurysm.”

  “Och, mon! What does your smart cat think about this hanky-panky?”

  “Well, the man has been to the barn twice, and both times Koko was conspicuous by his absence. The second time Koko arranged for him to slip on a banana peel. You figure it out!”

  Arriving home at the Willows, Qwilleran realized that the condo offered Koko a greater showcase for his talents than the barn had ever done. Instead of a single kitchen window in which to prance, he had three. There was a tall narrow sidelight alongside the front door. The dining ell, which served as writing studio as well, had a horizontal window with a wide ledge. The kitchen had another horizontal window above the sink counter.

  When Qwilleran drove up, Koko was performing in all three windows—not easy to do, but he was a fast operator. His agitation indicated messages on the answering machine, which turned out to be from Lisa Compton, Burgess Campbell, the Lanspeaks, and others—friends wanting to talk to friends in a moment of mourning.

  Qwilleran first returned the call from Maggie.

  “Oh, Qwill! Thank you so much for what you said last night. Today I feel a blessed calm and a resolve to do something constructive.”

  “Good! Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Your help with a memorial service would be much appreciated. I’m Violet’s executor, and I want to plan a tribute she would approve of. I wondered if you would deliver the eulogy. You have such a wonderful voice and such a compelling presence.”

  “Don’t get carried away, Maggie. I think someone like Burgess Campbell would be more suitable. His family has known her family for generations, and he and she worked together on the board of ESP. His lectures at the college are outstanding for content and style, not to mention that chesty Scottish voice. And with Alexander by his side, it would make a moving farewell to a dear friend. Violet liked dogs, you know.”

  “Perfect! Perfect! I’m so glad I talked with you, Qwill.”

  “One more thought, Maggie. Poetry and drama were Violet’s great loves. Readings from great writers would be highly appropriate. Polly could read one or two of Byron’s shorter works, and I’d consider it a privilege to deliver a passage from Shakespeare.”

  Later that afternoon a phone call came from Alden Wade. Qwilleran offered the bereaved husband condolences with a promise to pursue the book project with renewed dedication—as a tribute to a wonderful woman.

  “It’s a genuine expression of my feelings. Is there anything I can do?” Qwilleran asked.

  “I’d like to tell you about a conversation Violet and I had during our last afternoon together. Would you have a few minutes?”

  “By all means. We’re living at Indian Village now.”

  He gave Alden instructions for reaching the Willows and gave Koko instructions in how to behave.

  “The poor guy has just lost his wife, Koko! Try to show some warmth, some understanding.”

  Koko crept away with head and tail lowered and was not seen for the next few hours.

  When Alden arrived, Qwilleran gripped his hand with feeling and ushered him to one of the loungy sofas.

  The guest declined refreshments and launched into his report: “You probably know that Violet’s grandfather liked to entertain. He’s the one who built the lavish guest house down the hill in the rear. It’s now referred to as the Old Rock Pile—affectionately, not disrespectfully. His guests would stay two weeks or more, enjoying the outdoors during the day, then dressing up and reporting to the main house for a formal dinner and an evening of table games. Are you a card player, Qwill?”

  “I’m afraid not. As a kid I played a yelling, screaming, table-thumping card game called Pit, but that’s all.”

  “Well, Geoffrey offered his guests a Games Gallery with a choice of a hundred table games—everything from chess to mah-jongg. The young people had a choice of Old Maid, Flinch, Chinese checkers, and the like. Old-timers could play dominoes or whist. There was backgammon, Parcheesi, Monopoly—everything. This was between 1900 and 1950, you know.”

  “It sounds as if you have a museum there, Alden.”

  “That’s what Violet said. Even the regular playing cards are in beautiful boxes: carved, hand-painted, or inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She thought a description of the gallery could be included in the text, but you’d have to see it.”

  “Gladly! How about tomorrow?”

  Arrangements were made. Alden went on his way. And Koko came sneaking out from underneath the sofa.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Qwilleran demanded.

  Arriving at Polly’s for dinner that evening, Qwilleran was met by Brutus, the security guard, and Catta, who had the manner of a shy hoyden.

  They supervised while he set up the butterfly table along the window wall, laid it with two place settings, selected the dinner music, and fixed the cat food. Then Polly served a casserole of
mixed leftovers (his not to question what) enhanced by a sprinkling of parsley and toasted almonds.

  While the music system played Chopin nocturnes, they discussed the approaching weather (stormy) and the newly questioned status of Dundee.

  “You see,” Polly said, “people come in to see him and they end up buying a book. The Green Smocks swear that Dundee’s professional charm accounts for fifty percent of purchases. Tax-wise, that means we can take his food, litter, valet services, and vet fees as business expenses. Or we can make him a salaried employee and let him pay for his own upkeep and health insurance. In that case, should he have his own Social Security number and file a tax return?”

  She seemed quite serious about it, so he replied seriously, “I’d hate to see the bookstore or Dundee get into trouble. Ask your accountant to take it up with the Internal Revenue Service.”

  After dinner they turned off the music and discussed readings for Violet’s memorial service.

  Polly said she might read Byron’s short poem “She Walks in Beauty, Like the Night.”

  Qwilleran said Violet reminded him of Portia in The Merchant of Venice. He could read her famous oration: The quality of mercy is not strain’d.

  It was the kind of bookish evening they both enjoyed—the kind that had been missing from their lives during Polly’s indoctrination in the book business.

  All at once there was a flash of electric blue that lighted the night sky surrounding the Willows. It illuminated the interior for half a second through the window wall.

  “Sheet lightning,” Qwilleran said. “Joe has been predicting violent weather for the last couple of days. I’d better walk home before we get a drenching downpour.”

  As he walked toward Unit Four, a van pulled up alongside the curb, and Wetherby Goode called out, “Want a lift?” He was on his way home from his eleven-o’clock stint at WPKX.

  “Want a nightcap? After your hard work on the airwaves,” Qwilleran retorted.

  “Thanks. I’ll stable my horse and bounce right over there.” The sky flashed electric blue again. “Sheet lightning,” he said.