Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
RECIPES
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Cat Who Talked Turkey
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2004 by Lilian Jackson Braun
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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ISBN: 978-1-1012-1482-4
A JOVE BOOK®
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Electronic edition: February, 2005
Titles by Lilian Jackson Braun
THE CAT WHO COULD READ BACKWARDS
THE CAT WHO ATE DANISH MODERN
THE CAT WHO TURNED ON AND OFF
THE CAT WHO SAW RED
THE CAT WHO PLAYED BRAHMS
THE CAT WHO PLAYED POST OFFICE
THE CAT WHO KNEW SHAKESPEARE
THE CAT WHO SNIFFED GLUE
THE CAT WHO WENT UNDERGROUND
THE CAT WHO TALKED TO GHOSTS
THE CAT WHO LIVED HIGH
THE CAT WHO KNEW A CARDINAL
THE CAT WHO MOVED A MOUNTAIN
THE CAT WHO WASN’T THERE
THE CAT WHO WENT INTO THE CLOSET
THE CAT WHO CAME TO BREAKFAST
THE CAT WHO BLEW THE WHISTLE
THE CAT WHO SAID CHEESE
THE CAT WHO TAILED A THIEF
THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS
THE CAT WHO SAW STARS
THE CAT WHO ROBBED A BANK
THE CAT WHO SMELLED A RAT
THE CAT WHO WENT UP THE CREEK
THE CAT WHO BROUGHT DOWN THE HOUSE
THE CAT WHO TALKED TURKEY
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS:
THE CAT WHO HAD 14 TALES
SHORT & TALL TALES
THE PRIVATE LIFE OF THE CAT WHO . . .
Dedicated to Earl Bettinger,
The Husband Who . . .
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Earl, my other half—for his husbandly love, encouragement, and help in a hundred ways.
To my research assistant, Shirley Bradley—for her expertise and enthusiasm.
To my editor, Natalee Rosenstein—for her faith in The Cat Who . . . from the very beginning.
To my literary agent, Blanche C. Gregory, Inc.—for a lifetime of agreeable partnership.
To the real-life Kokos and Yum Yums—for their fifty years of inspiration.
PROLOGUE
In Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere, everyone likes Jim Qwilleran. Not only because he’s a rich bachelor who likes to give his money away. Not only because he writes a lively column for the local newspaper. Not only because he dares to be different. (He lives alone, in a barn, with two cats.) True, he cuts a commanding figure: tall, well built, middle-aged, and adorned with a luxuriant moustache that is admired by men and adored by women. But the good folk of Moose County like Qwilleran because he listens!
As a journalist, he is trained to listen, and he never leaves home without a tape recorder in his pocket. Then, too, a sobering crisis in midlife has given him a sympathetic understanding reflected in his brooding gaze and his knack for saying the right thing.
According to his driver’s license, he is James Mackintosh Qwilleran, spelled with a Qw. To his friends he is “Qwill.” To everyone else he is “Mr. Q.”
Since relocating in Moose County, where the early settlers had been Scots, Qwilleran became aware of his Scottish heritage. (His mother had been a Mackintosh.) He wore a kilt on occasion, warmed to the sound of bagpipes, and quoted Robert Burns: “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft agley.” And he would explain, “It means the plans go haywire.”
One particular summer his own plans were ambitious. Besides writing the twice-weekly “Qwill Pen” column for the Moose County Something, giving readings at public libraries of the new book he had just published, and starting to write another book . . . besides all these personal interests, he would help plan the Pickax City Sesquicentennial for the following year, take an interest in the new bookstore being built in Pickax—and more!
Then everything went haywire.
ONE
One of Qwilleran’s “Qwill Pen” columns recently made this statement: “A town without a bookstore is like a chicken with one leg.”
His devoted readers agreed—even those who had never bought a book in their life. And the Klingenschoen Foundation in Chicago, which managed Qwilleran’s inheritance, considered a new bookstore a worthwhile investment.
For fifty years the late Eddington Smith had sold pre-owned books in a picturesque building behind the post office. Two days after his death it burned to the ground, and millions of printed pages were reduced to ashes. This would be the ideal site for a new bookstore. It was the end of an era and the beginning of a bright new adventure for readers. It would be built on the historic site where Eddington’s grandfather had once shod horses and forged rims for wagon wheels. Perhaps that was not the blacksmith’s only means of supporting his family. There had long been rumors. . . .
All that aside, the site of the nineteenth-century smithy was to be the scene of a ceremonial groundbreaking. The good folk of Moose County liked special events: parades, barn raisings, livestock fairs, long funeral processions, and the like. They had never witnessed a formal groundbreaking. There would be a viewing stand for dignitaries, stirring music by the high school band, and a backhoe garlanded with flowers, to do the digging. It was suggested that the mayor should climb into the operator’s seat and strike the first blow. Her Honor, Amanda Goodwinter, screamed, “Are you crazy? You couldn’t get me on that blasted contraption with those silly flowers if you paid me!”
On Saturday vehicles streamed into Pickax from all directions. Newspapers in three counties were sending reporters and photographers. State police were called in to assist sheriff’s deputies and Pickax police in handling the traffic. There had never been such a celebration in the history of Pickax!
Qwilleran was there, and he described it in his personal journal:
Saturday, May 31—Eddington Smith would turn over in his grave! He was such a modest, honorable gentleman, and he would not want his grandmother’s deathbed confession known. But there are no secrets in Moose County, and it seemed to be generally known that Eddington’s grandfather was not only a blacksmith but a weekend pirate. He tied a red bandanna on his head and sailed under the black flag, preying on ships that brought gold
coins to the New World for the purchase of the beaver pelts that were so much in demand in Europe. The rumor was that the loot was buried in a certain spot, now covered with asphalt.
So, instead of a few hundred spectators, there were a few thousand. County highways as well as city streets were clogged with sensation-seekers. Whole families attended—with picnic lunches and campstools. Would the pirate’s loot be found? Or was it just a rumor? Bets were being placed among friends—nothing over a quarter. The idea was to have something “on the nose” to report to future generations.
Then sirens were heard! The state police were escorting TV teams who had unexpectedly flown up from Down Below in chartered planes. The media in metropolitan areas were always alert for bizarre happenings in the boondocks. And in the digital age, buried treasure was bizarre.
The high school band arrived in a school bus and proceeded to tune up noisily and discordantly for the next half hour, exciting the crowd.
The police strung their yellow tape around the digging area. The dignitaries entered the viewing stand. The backhoe operator was perched in the vehicle’s lofty seat. Cops and deputies with sidearms entered the area and stood facing the crowd.
The band played “Stars and Stripes Forever,” hitting most of the right notes, and the backhoe jockeyed into position. The boom rose, and the bucket dropped with a resounding crack. Onlookers seemed to be holding their collective breath as the machine backed and lunged, bashed and scraped and shoveled. Finally a shout rose from the crowd. The bucket brought up an iron-strapped chest.
Chief Andrew Brodie stepped forward and opened it. He spread his hands palms-down in a negative gesture. The chest was empty!
Groans of disappointment quickly turned into roars of laughter. The good folk of Moose County liked a good laugh, even at their own expense, and this was a good joke. The only ones who weren’t laughing and crowing and whooping were the out-of-town media, and this tickled the locals even more; they liked to hoax outsiders.
Even old-timers in Pickax could not remember a year with so much excitement. The old opera house had been restored for the performing arts! Plans were under way for the city’s Sesquicentennial celebration! The local soccer team had taken the championship away from Bixby County. And the K Fund was building a bookstore.
It was not just a rumor. The ground had already been broken. Polly Duncan, who had directed the public library for twenty years, was resigning in order to manage the new venture. She had gone to Chicago twice to consult the brain trust at the K Fund, as the philanthropic foundation was known.
There was also an incident of an unfortunate nature, but it was being hushed up. The body of a well-dressed man without identification had been found in a wooded area near the beach. He had been shot, execution-style. It happened on the day of the groundbreaking, and rumormongers were determined to find some connection but failed.
Qwilleran walked home from the groundbreaking. His barn was only a few blocks from downtown, but it was screened by a dense patch of woods. Though only a home address to a pair of pampered felines, it was an architectural wonder to residents of Moose County. An octagonal structure a century old, it rose from the barnyard like an ancient castle, four stories high and built of fieldstone and weathered wood siding.
Originally it had stored wagonloads of apples waiting to be pressed into cider. Now the lofts and ladders were gone, and so was the interior gloom. Odd-shaped windows had been cut into the siding at various levels, and all exposed wood surfaces—beams, rafters, and plank walls—had been bleached to a honey color.
There was living space on three balconies, connected by a ramp that spiraled up the interior wall. And in the center of the ground floor, a giant white fireplace cube served the living areas, with stacks rising to the roof forty feet overhead.
To the cats Qwilleran would say, “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”
In reply Koko would yowl and Yum Yum would sneeze delicately.
Now, as he arrived home from the groundbreaking, he looked for the welcoming committee sitting in the kitchen window. They were not there.
After unlocking the door, he found Yum Yum huddled on the blue cushion atop the refrigerator, looking worried. Koko paced the floor, looking uncomfortable.
“Something you ate?” Qwilleran asked in a jocular way.
Suddenly the cat uttered a bloodcurdling howl that started as a growl in his lower depths and ended in a shriek.
Qwilleran shuddered. He recognized Koko’s “death howl”! Someone, somehow, somewhere was the victim of foul play.
There was no explanation, except that some cats, like some humans, seem to have psychic powers.
Koko and Yum Yum were a pair of purebred Siamese with pale fawn-colored bodies accented with seal-brown points. The male had a commanding appearance; the female was daintier and sweeter, although with a mind of her own. Both had the incredibly blue eyes of the breed.
Koko was the communicator of the family. He ordered meals, greeted guests, told them when to go home, and always, always spoke his mind, either in ear-piercing howls or an indecipherable ik-ik-ik.
They knew it was dinnertime and were throwing thought waves in Qwilleran’s direction, sitting under the kitchen table and staring at their empty plates. He chopped turkey from the deli and watched them. Only once did Koko raise his head, and that was to stare at the wall telephone. A few seconds later, it rang. Polly Duncan, the chief woman in Qwilleran’s life, was calling from Chicago, where she had been in conference with bigwigs at the Klingenschoen Foundation. She would be flying home the next morning. Qwilleran said he would pick her up at the airport and asked if she was bringing him something from the big city.
“Yes, and you’ll love it!”
“What is it? Give me a clue.”
“No clues. À bientôt.”
“À bientôt.”
Later that evening, when Qwilleran was reading a thought-provoking treatise from the Wilson Quarterly, Koko jumped onto a bookshelf and yowled; he wanted Qwilleran to read aloud. They enjoyed the sound of his voice, and Yum Yum liked to snuggle up to his rib cage and feel the vibrations. Koko went so far as to select the title, and Qwilleran read the one about the owl and the pussycat who went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat, embellishing the lines with hoots, purrs, and meows. He thought, How can an animal who cannot read or understand the language . . . how can he choose one book over some other? It was something to ponder.
Polly’s plane was due to arrive at noon on Sunday. In Moose County all shuttle flights from Chicago—or anywhere else—were consistently an hour late, and friends and relatives who met the passengers were consistently on time. They liked to stand around and make ludicrous comments about the service. They said:
“The tail fin was loose, and they’d run out of Scotch tape.”
“The pilot had to have her hair done.”
“They forgot to gas up and had to stop in Milwaukee. . . .”
The banter was an old Moose County custom, handed down from pioneer days, when a sense of humor helped the settlers cope with discomforts, hardships, and even disasters.
When the brave little plane finally bounced up to the terminal, Polly was the last one to disembark, descending the ramp warily, as if she believed the myth that it was built of recycled bicycle parts.
Qwilleran stepped forward, took her carry-on, and said he would collect her other luggage—if they could find the can opener to open the baggage compartment. They were discreet in their personal greetings; gossips were always watching for a sign of romance between the librarian and the newsman.
“Decent flight?”
“Bearable,” she replied. “How was the groundbreaking?”
“Predictable. The chest was empty.”
“It should go on permanent display in a glass case in the bookstore.”
“Would you like to stop for brunch at Tipsy’s?”
“I think not, dear,” Polly said. “There has been much wining and dining, in a
ddition to intensive work sessions. I just want to go home, hug my cats, have some cottage cheese and fruit, and get myself together for work tomorrow. . . . It’s so peaceful here!”
They were driving to Indian Village, past sheep ranches, potato farms, and abandoned mine shafts. After a brief silence she added, “Benson is coming here this week.”
“Who?”
“The architect of the bookstore. He wants to confer with the builders. And he’s dying to see your barn. I described it, and he said it sounded architecturally impossible. He’s a very interesting man.”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Every time Polly left Pickax, she met an “interesting” man. First it was the horse trainer in Lockmaster, then the professor in Montreal, and the antiques dealer in Virginia, and now an architect in Chicago.
Polly went on. “The K Fund thinks we should name the bookstore The Phoenix, after the mythical Egyptian bird that rose from the ashes and was reborn.”
“Are they serious? The locals would want to know why we named it after the capital of Arizona. I think we should have a countywide contest for a name.”
“I think you’re right, but I wanted to hear you say it. . . . Did you look in on Brutus and Catta?”
“They’re happy, but I believe your cat-sitter is overfeeding them. As you asked, I filled your refrigerator with everything on your list.”
They were suddenly silent as they drove through the gates of Indian Village—past the gatehouse on the right, past the clubhouse on the left, and onto River Road with its clusters of condos.
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