Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
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 WENT INTO THE CLOSET
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1993 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.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1417-6
A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
Jove and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: May, 2002
Jove 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 HAD 14 TALES
(short story collection)
THE CAT WHO ROBBED A BANK
in hardcover from G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Dedicated to Earl Bettinger,
the husband who . . .
ONE
THE WPKX RADIO announcer hunched over the newsdesk in front of a dead microphone, anxiously fingering his script and waiting for the signal to go on the air. The station was filling in with classical music. The lilting “Anitra’s Dance” seemed hardly appropriate under the circumstances. Abruptly the music stopped in the middle of a bar, and the newscaster began to read in a crisp, professional tone that belied the alarming nature of the news:
“We interrupt this program to bring you a bulletin on the forest fires that are rapidly approaching Moose County after destroying hundreds of square miles to the south and west. Rising winds are spreading the scattered fires into areas already parched by the abnormally hot summer and drought conditions.
“From this studio in the tower of the courthouse in Pickax City we can see a red glow on the horizon, and the sky is hazy with drifting smoke. Children have been sent home from school, and businesses are closed, allowing workers to protect their families and dwellings. The temperature is extremely high; hot winds are gusting up to forty miles an hour.
“Traffic is streaming into Main Street from towns that are in the path of the flames. Here in the courthouse, which is said to be fireproof, preparations are being made to house the refugees. Many are farmers, who report that their houses, barns, and livestock are totally destroyed. They tell of balls of fire flying through the air, causing fields to burst into flame. One old man on the courthouse steps is proclaiming the end of the world and exhorting passersby to fall on their knees and pray.”
The newscaster mopped his brow and gulped water as he glanced at slips of paper on the desk. “Bulletins are coming in from all areas surrounding Pickax. The entire town of Dry River burst into flames an hour ago and was completely demolished in a matter of minutes . . . The village of New Perth is in ashes; thirty-two are reported dead . . . Pardon me.”
He stopped for a fit of coughing and then went on with difficulty. “Smoke is seeping into the studio.” He coughed again. “Pineytown . . . totally destroyed. Seventeen persons running to escape . . . killed as the flames overtook them . . . Volunteer firefighters who went out from Pickax are back. They say . . . the fire is out of control.”
His voice was muffled as he tried to breathe through a cupped hand. “Very dark here! Heat unbearable! Wind is roaring! . . . Hold on!” He jumped to his feet, knocking his chair backward, and crouched over the mike with a gasping cry: “Here it comes! A wall of fire! Right down Main Street! Pickax is in flames!”
The lights blacked out. Coughing and choking, the announcer groped for a doorknob and stumbled from the studio.
Music blared from the speakers—crashing chords and roaring crescendoes—and the studio audience sat motionless, stunned into silence until a few started to applaud. The initial clapping swelled into a tumultuous response.
Someone in the front row said, “Gad! That was so real, I could feel the heat!”
“I swear I could smell smoke,” another said. “That guy is some actor, isn’t he? He wrote the stuff, too.”
Most of the onlookers, gripped by emotion, were still speechless as they glanced once more at their programs:
The Moose County Something
presents
“THE BIG BURNING OF 1869”
An original docu-drama based on historic fact
Written and performed by James Qwilleran
Produced and directed by Hixie Rice
The audience is asked to imagine that radio existed in 1869, as we bring you a simulated newscast covering the greatest disaster in the history of Moose County. The scene on the stage represents a broadcasting studio in the tower of the county courthouse. The action takes place on October 17 and 18, 1869. There will be one intermission.
PLEASE JOIN US FOR REFRESHMENTS
AFTER THE PERFORMANCE
The audience, having struggled back to reality, erupted in a babble of comments and recollections:
“I had an old uncle who used to tell stories about a big forest fire, but I was too young to pay any attention.”
“Where did Qwill get his information? He must have done a heck of a lot of research.”
“My mother said her great-great-grandmother on her father’s side lost most of her family in a big forest fire. Makes you want to hit the history books, doesn’t it?”
More than a hundred prominent residents of Moose County were attending the performance in the ballroom of a mansion that Jim Qwilleran was renting for the winter months. Most of them knew all about the middle-aged journalist with the oversized moustache and doleful expression. He had been a prize-winning crime writer for major newspapers around the United States. He was the heir to an enormous fortune based in Moos
e County. He wrote a much-admired column for the local daily, The Moose County Something. He spelled his name with a Qw. He liked to eat but never took a drink. He was divorced and thought by women to be highly attractive. His easy-going manner and jocose banter made him enjoyable company. He was a close friend of Polly Duncan’s, the Pickax librarian. He lived alone—with two cats.
The townspeople often saw the big, well-built man walking or biking around Pickax, his casual way of dressing and lack of pretension belying his status as a multi-millionaire. And they had heard remarkable stories about his cats. Now, sitting in rows of folding chairs and waiting for Scene Two, the spectators saw a sleek Siamese march sedately down the center aisle. He jumped up on the stage and, with tail importantly erect, proceeded to the door where the radio announcer had made his frantic exit.
The audience tittered, and someone said, “That’s Koko. He always has to get into the act.”
The door, upstage right, was only loosely latched, and the cat pawed it until it opened a few inches and he could slither through. In two seconds he bounded out again as if propelled by a tap on the rump, and the audience laughed once more. Unabashed, Koko licked his left shoulder blade and scratched his right ear, then jumped off the stage and walked haughtily up the center aisle.
The house lights dimmed, and the radio announcer entered in a fresh shirt, with another script in his hand.
“Tuesday, October 18. After a sleepless night, Pickax can see daylight. The smoke is lifting, but the acrid smell of burning is everywhere, and the landscape is a scene of desolation in every direction. Only this courthouse and a few isolated dwellings and barns are miraculously left standing. The heat is oppressive—110 degrees in the studio—and the window glass is still too hot to touch.
“Crews of men are now fanning out through the countryside, burying bodies that are charred beyond recognition. Because so many families lived in isolated clearings, we may never have an accurate count of the dead. More than four hundred refugees are packed into the courthouse, lying dazed and exhausted in the corridors, on the stairs, in the courtroom and judge’s chamber. Some have lost their feet; some have lost their eyes; some have lost their senses, and they babble incoherently. The groans of badly burned survivors mingle with the crying of babies. There is no medicine to ease their pain. Someone has brought a cow to the courthouse to provide milk for the youngest, but there is no food for the others . . .”
Before the dramatic presentation of “The Big Burning of 1869,” the historic calamity had been quite forgotten by current generations intent on land development, tourism, new sewers, and the quality of TV reception. Qwilleran himself, playwright and star of the production, had never heard of the disaster until he rented the old mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard and started rummaging in closets. The furnishings were sparse, but the closets were stuffed to the ceiling with odds and ends—a treasure trove for an inquisitive journalist. As for his male cat, he was cat enough to risk death to satisfy his catly curiosity; with tail horizontal he would slink into a closet and emerge with a matchbook or champagne cork clamped in his jaws.
The mansion was constructed of stone and intended to last down the ages, one of several formidable edifices on the boulevard. They had been built by lumber barons and mining tycoons during Moose County’s boom years in the late nineteenth century. A pioneer shipbuilder by the name of Gage had been responsible for the one Qwilleran was renting. One feature made the Gage mansion unique: the abundance of closets.
Shortly after moving in, Qwilleran mentioned the closets to his landlord. Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor of the Moose County Something, had recently acquired the obsolete building as a gift from his aging grandmother, and he was thankful to have the rental income from his friend and fellow-staffer. The two men were sitting in Junior’s office with their feet on the desk and coffee mugs in their hands. It was three weeks before the preview of “The Big Burning.”
Junior’s facial features and physical stature were still boyish, and he had grown a beard in an attempt to look older, but his youthful vitality gave him away. “What do you think of Grandma’s house, Qwill? Does the furnace work okay? Have you tried lighting any of the fireplaces? How’s the refrigerator? It’s pretty ancient.”
“It sounds like a motor boat when it’s running,” Qwilleran said, “and when it stops, it roars and snarls like a sick tiger. It frightens the cats out of their fur.”
“Why was I dumb enough to let Grandma Gage unload that white elephant on me?” Junior complained. “She just wanted to avoid paying taxes and insurance, and now I’m stuck with all the bills. If I could find a buyer, I’d let the place go for peanuts, but who wants to live in a castle? People like ranch houses with sliding glass doors and smoke detectors . . . More coffee, Qwill?”
“Too bad the city won’t re-zone it for commercial use. I’ve said it before. You could have law offices, medical clinics, high-class nursing homes, high-rent apartments . . . Parking would be the only problem. You’d have to pave the backyards.”
“The city will never re-zone,” Junior said. “Not so long as old families and city officials live on the street. Sorry about the lack of furniture, Qwill. The Gages had fabulous antiques and paintings, but the old gal sold them all when she relocated in Florida. Now she lives in a retirement village, and she’s a new person! She plays shuffleboard, goes to the dog races, wears elaborate makeup! On her last trip here, she looked like a wrinkled china doll. Jody says she must have met one of those cosmetics girls who drive around in lavender convertibles.”
“She may have found romance in her declining years,” Qwilleran suggested.
“Could be! She looks a lot younger than eighty-eight!”
“Answer one question, Junior. Why are there so many closets? I’ve counted fifty, all over the house. It was my understanding that our forefathers didn’t have closets. They had wardrobes, dressers, highboys, china cabinets, breakfronts, sideboards . . .”
“Well, you see,” the editor explained, “my great-great-grandfather Gage was a shipbuilder, accustomed to having everything built-in, and that’s what he wanted in his house. Ships’ carpenters did the work. Have you noticed the woodwork? Best on the boulevard!”
“By today’s construction standards it’s incredible! The foyer looks like a luxury liner of early vintage. But do you know the closets are filled with junk?”
“Oh, sure. The Gages never threw anything away.”
“Not even champagne corks,” Qwilleran agreed.
Junior looked at his watch. “Time for Arch’s meeting. Shall we amble across the hall?”
Arch Riker, publisher and CEO of the Moose County Something, had scheduled a brainstorming session for editors, writers, and the effervescent promotion director, Hixie Rice. None of the editorial staff liked meetings, and Qwilleran expressed his distaste by slumping in a chair in a far corner of the room. Hixie, on the other hand, breezed into the meeting with her shoulder-length hair bouncing and her eyes sparkling. She had worked in advertising Down Below—as Pickax natives called the major cities to the south—and she had never lost her occupational bounce and sparkle.
Similarly Qwilleran and Riker were transplants from Down Below, having grown up together in Chicago, but they had the detached demeanor of veteran newsmen. They had adapted easily to the slow pace of Pickax City (population 3,000) and the remoteness of Moose County, which claimed to be 400 miles north of everywhere.
Riker, a florid, paunchy deskman who seldom raised his voice, opened the meeting in his usual sleepy style: “Well, you guys, in case you don’t know it, winter is coming . . . and winters are pretty dull in this neck of the woods . . . unless you’re crazy about ten-foot snow drifts and wall-to-wall ice. So . . . I’d like to see this newspaper sponsor some kind of diversion that will give people a topic of conversation other than the daily rate of snowfall . . . Let’s hear some ideas from you geniuses.” He turned on a tape recorder.
The assembled staffers sat in stolid silence. So
me looked at each other hopelessly.
“Don’t stop to think,” the boss admonished. “Just blurt it out, off the top of your head.”
“Well,” said a woman editor bravely, “we could sponsor a hobby contest with a thrilling prize.”
“Yeah,” said Junior. “Like a two-week all-expenses-paid vacation in Iceland.”
“How about a food festival? Everyone likes to eat,” said Mildred Hanstable, whose ample girth supported her claim. She wrote the food column for the Something and taught home economics in the Pickax school system. “We could have cooking demonstrations, a baking contest, an ethnic food bazaar, a Moose County cookbook, nutrition classes—”
“Second it!” Hixie interrupted with her usual enthusiasm. “And we could promote neat little tie-ins with restaurants, like wine-and-cheese tastings, and snacking-and-grazing parties, and a Bon Appetit Club with dining-out discounts. C’est magnifique!” She had once studied French briefly, preparatory to eloping to Paris.
There was a dead silence among the staffers. As a matter of newsroom honor they deplored Hixie’s commercial taint. One of them muttered a five-letter word in French.
Junior came to the rescue with an idea for a Christmas parade. He said, “Qwill could play Santa with a white beard and a couple of pillows stuffed under his belt and some flour on his moustache.”
Qwilleran grunted a few inaudible words, but Hixie cried, “I like it! I like it! He could arrive in a dogsled pulled by fifteen huskies! Mushing is a terribly trendy winter sport, you know, and we could get national publicity! The networks are avid for weatherbites in winter.”
Riker said, “I believe we’re getting warm—or cold, if you prefer. Snow is what we do best up here. How can we capitalize on it?”
“A contest for snow sculpture!” suggested Mildred Hanstable, who also taught art in the public school system.
“How about a winter sports carnival?” the sports editor proposed. “Cross-country skiing, snowshoe races, ice-boating, ice-fishing, dog-sledding—”
The Cat Who Went Into the Closet Page 1
