The Cat Who Went Into the Closet

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “And a jousting match with snow blowers!” Junior added. “At least it’s cleaner than mud wrestling.”

  Riker swiveled his chair around. “Qwill, are you asleep back there in that dark corner?”

  Qwilleran smoothed his moustache before he answered. “Does anyone know about the big forest fire in 1869 that killed hundreds of Moose County pioneers? It destroyed farms, villages, forests, and wildlife. About the only thing left in Pickax was the brick courthouse.”

  Roger MacGillivray, general assignment reporter and history buff, said, “I’ve heard about it, but there’s nothing in the history books. And we didn’t have a newspaper of record in those days.”

  “Well, I’ve found a gold mine of information,” said Qwilleran, straightening up in his chair, “and let me tell you something: We may be four hundred miles north of everywhere, but we’ve got a history up here that will curl your toes! It deserves to be told—not just in print—but before audiences, young and old, all over the county.”

  “How did you discover this?” Roger demanded.

  “While snooping in closets, hunting for skeletons,” Qwilleran retorted archly.

  Riker said, “If we were to put together a program, what would we do for visuals?”

  “That’s the problem,” Qwilleran admitted. “There are no pictures.”

  The publisher turned off the tape recorder. “Okay, we’ve heard six or eight good ideas. Kick ’em around, and we’ll meet again in a couple of days . . . Back to work!”

  As the staff shuffled out of the office, Hixie grabbed Qwilleran’s arm and said in a low voice, “I’ve got a brilliant idea for dramatizing your disaster, Qwill. C’est vrai!”

  He winced inwardly, recalling other brilliant ideas of Hixie’s that had bombed: the Tipsy Look-Alike Contest that ended in a riot . . . the cooking demonstration that set fire to her hair . . . the line of Frozen Foods for Fussy Felines, for which she expected Koko to make TV commercials . . . not to mention her aborted elopement to France. Gallantly he said, however, “Want to have lunch at Lois’s and tell me about it?”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll buy. I can put it on my expense account.”

  TWO

  THE ATMOSPHERE AT Lois’s Luncheonette was bleak, and the menu was ordinary, but it was the only restaurant in downtown Pickax, and the old, friendly, decrepit ambiance made the locals feel at home. A dog-eared card in the window announced the day’s special. Tuesday was always hot turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy, but it was real turkey sliced from the bird; the bread was baked in Lois’s kitchen by a white-haired woman who started at five A.M. every day; and the mashed potatoes had the flavor of real potatoes grown in the mineral-rich soil of Moose County.

  Qwilleran and Hixie ordered the special, and she said, “I hear that you’re not living in your barn this winter.” He had recently converted a hundred-year-old apple barn into a spectacular residence.

  “There’s too much snow to plow,” he explained, “so I’m renting the Gage mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard, where the city does the plowing.” He neglected to mention that Polly Duncan, the chief woman in his life, lived in the carriage house at the rear of the Gage property, and he envisioned cozy winter evenings and frequent invitations to dinner and/or breakfast.

  “All right. Let’s get down to business,” Hixie said when the plates arrived, swimming in real turkey gravy. “How did you find out about the killer fire? Or is it a professional secret?”

  Qwilleran patted his moustache in self-congratulation. “To make a long story short, one of Junior’s ancestors was an amateur historian. He recorded spring floods, sawmill accidents, log jams, epidemics, and so on, based on the recollections of his elders. In his journals, written in fine script with a nib pen that blotted occasionally, there were firsthand descriptions of the 1869 forest fire in all its gruesome detail. The man was performing a valuable service for posterity, but no one knew his accounts existed . . . So what’s your brilliant idea, Hixie?” Qwilleran concluded.

  “What would you think of doing a one-man show?”

  “Isn’t a one-man show based on a three-county forest fire a trifle out of scale?”

  “Mais non! Suppose we pretend they had radio stations in the nineteenth century, and the audience sees an announcer broadcasting on-the-spot coverage of the disaster.”

  Qwilleran gazed at her with new respect. “Not bad! Yes! Not bad! I’d go for that! I’d be glad to organize the material and write the script. If Larry Lanspeak would play the announcer—”

  “No! If we’re going to sponsor the show, we should keep it in our own organization,” she contended. “Actually, Qwill, I was thinking about you for the part. You have an excellent voice, with exactly the right quality for a radio announcer . . . Stop frowning! You wouldn’t have to learn lines. You’d be reading a script in front of a simulated mike.” She was talking fast. “Besides, you’re a local celebrity. Everyone loves your column! You’d be a big attraction, sans doute.”

  He huffed into his moustache. At least she had the good taste to avoid mentioning his local fame as a multi-millionaire, philanthropist, and eligible bachelor.

  She went on with contagious enthusiasm. “I could take care of production details. I could do the bookings. I’d even sweep the stage!”

  Qwilleran had done some acting in college and enjoyed working before an audience. The temptation was there; the cause was a good one; the story of the great fire cried for attention. He gave her a guarded glance as his objections began to crumble. “How long a program should it be?”

  “I would say forty-five minutes. That would fit into a school class period or fill a slot following a club luncheon.”

  After a few seconds’ contemplation he said grimly, “I may regret this, but I’ll do it.”

  “Merveilleux!” Hixie cried.

  Neither of them remembered eating their lunch. They discussed a stage setting, lighting, props, a sound system, and how to pack everything in a carrying case, to fit in the trunk of a car.

  Hixie said, “Consider it strictly a road show. My budget will cover expenses, but we’ll need a name for the project to go into the computer. How about Suitcase Productions?”

  “Sounds as if we manufacture luggage,” Qwilleran muttered, but he liked it.

  Returning home from that luncheon with a foil-wrapped chunk of turkey scrounged from Lois’s kitchen, Qwilleran was greeted by two Siamese who could smell turkey through an oak door two inches thick. They yowled and pranced elegantly on long brown legs, and their blue eyes stared hypnotically at the foil package until its contents landed on their plate under the kitchen table.

  With bemused admiration Qwilleran watched them devour their treat. Koko, whose legal title was Kao K’o Kung, had the dignity of his thirteenth-century namesake, plus a degree of intelligence and perception that was sometimes unnerving to a human with only five senses and a journalism degree. Yum Yum, the dainty one, had a different set of talents and qualities. She was a lovable bundle of female wiles, which she employed shamelessly to get her own way. When all else failed, she had only to reach up and touch Qwilleran’s moustache with her paw, and he capitulated.

  When the Siamese had finished their snack and had washed their whiskers and ears, he told them, “I have a lot of work to do in the next couple of weeks, my friends, and I’ll have to shut you out of the library. Don’t think it’s anything personal.” He always addressed them as if they understood human speech, and more and more it appeared to be a fact. In the days that followed, they sensed his preoccupation, leaving him alone, taking long naps, grooming each other interminably, and watching the autumn leaves flutter to the ground. The grand old oaks and maples of Goodwinter Boulevard were covering the ground with a tawny blanket. Only when Qwilleran was an hour late with their dinner did the cats interrupt, standing outside the library, rattling the door handle and scolding—Koko with an authoritative baritone “Yow!” and Yum Yum with her impatient “N-n-now!”

  Qwilleran c
ould write a thousand words for his newspaper column with one hand tied behind his back, but writing a script for a docu-drama was a new challenge. To relieve the radio announcer’s forty-five-minute monologue, he introduced other voices on tape: eye witnesses being interviewed by telephone. He altered his voice to approximate the bureaucratese of a government weather observer, the brogue of an Irish innkeeper, and the twang of an old farmer. With their replies sandwiched between the announcer’s questions, Qwilleran was actually interviewing himself.

  Once the script was completed, there were nightly rehearsals in the ballroom of the Gage mansion, with Hixie cueing the taped voices into the live announcing. It required split-second timing to sound authentic. Meanwhile, Polly Duncan returned home each evening to her apartment in the carriage house at the rear of the property and saw Hixie’s car parked in the side drive. It was a trying time for Polly. As library administrator she was a woman of admirable intelligence and self-control, but—where Qwilleran was concerned—she was inclined to be jealous of women younger and thinner than she.

  One evening Arch Riker attended a rehearsal and was so impressed that he proposed a private preview for prominent citizens. Invitations were immediately mailed to local officials, educators, business leaders, and officers of important organizations with replies requested. To Riker’s dismay, few responded; he called an executive meeting to analyze the situation.

  “I think,” Hixie ventured, “they’re all waiting to find out what’s on TV Monday night.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” said Junior Goodwinter, who was a native and entitled to know. “It’s like this: The stuffed shirts in this backwater county never reply to an invitation till they know who else is going to be there. You’ve got to drop a few names.”

  “Or let them know you’re spiking the punch,” Qwilleran suggested.

  “We should have specified a champagne afterglow,” Hixie said.

  Junior shook his head. “Champagne is not the drink of choice up here. ‘Free booze’ would have more impact.”

  “Well, you should know,” said Riker. “The rest of us are innocents from Down Below.”

  “Let me write a piece and splash it on the front page,” the young editor said. “I’ll twist a few political arms. They’re all up for re-election next month.”

  Accordingly, Friday’s edition of the paper carried this news item:

  MOOSE COUNTY DESTROYED BY FIRE . . . IN 1869

  History will come to life Monday evening when civic leaders will preview a live docu-drama titled “The Big Burning of 1869.” Following the private premiere at the Gage mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard, the Moose County Something will offer the show to schools, churches, and clubs as a public service.

  There followed the magic name of Jim Qwilleran, who was not only popular as a columnist but rich as Croesus. In addition, the mayor, council president, and county commissioners were quoted as saying they would attend the history-making event. As soon as the paper hit the street the telephones in Junior’s office started jangling with acceptances from persons who now perceived themselves as civic leaders. Furthermore, “live” was a buzz word in a community jaded with slide shows and video presentations. Hixie went into action, borrowing folding chairs from the Dingleberry Funeral Home, renting coatracks for guests’ wraps, and hiring a caterer.

  On the gala evening the Gage mansion—with all windows alight—glowed like a lantern among the gloomy stone castles on the boulevard. Flashbulbs popped as the civic leaders approached the front steps. The publisher of the newspaper greeted them; the managing editor checked their wraps; the political columnist handed out programs; the sports editor directed them to the marble staircase leading to the ballroom on the lower level. The reporters who were providing valet parking carried one elderly man in a wheelchair up the front steps and wheeled him to the elevator, which was one of the mansion’s special amenities.

  Meanwhile, Qwilleran was sweating out his opening-night jitters backstage in the ballroom—a large, turn-of-the-century hall with Art Deco murals and light fixtures. More than a hundred chairs faced the band platform, where musicians had once played for the waltz and the turkey trot. The stage set was minimal: a plain wood table and chair for the announcer with an old-fashioned upright telephone and a replica of an early microphone. Off to one side was a table for the “studio engineer.” Cables snaked across the platform, connecting the speakers and lighting tripods to the control board.

  “Do they look messy?” Qwilleran asked Hixie.

  “No, they look high tech,” she decided.

  “Good! Then let’s throw a few more around.” He uncoiled a long yellow extension cord that was not being used and added it to the tangle.

  “Perfect!” Hixie said. “It gives the set a certain je ne sais quoi.”

  A sweatered audience filed into the ballroom and filled the chairs. Pickax was a sweater city in winter—for all occasions except weddings and funerals. The house lights dimmed, and the lilting notes of “Anitra’s Dance” filled the hall until the announcer rushed onstage from a door at the rear and spoke the first ominous words: “We interrupt this program to bring you a bulletin . . .”

  Forty-five minutes later he delivered the final message: “No one will ever forget what happened here on October 17, 1869.” It was an ironic punch line, considering that few persons in the county had ever heard of the Big Burning.

  Climactic music burst from the speakers; the audience applauded wildly; and the mayor of Pickax jumped to his feet, saying, “We owe a debt of gratitude to these talented folks from Down Below who have made us see and hear and feel this forgotten chapter in our history.”

  The presenters bowed: Hixie with her buoyant smile and Qwilleran with his usual morose expression. Then, as the ballroom emptied, they packed the props and mechanical equipment into carrying cases.

  “We did it!” Hixie exulted. “We’ve got a smash hit!”

  “Yes, it went pretty well,” Qwilleran agreed modestly. “Your timing was perfect, Hixie. Congratulations!”

  A small boy in large eyeglasses and a red sweater, who had been in the audience with his father, stayed behind to watch the striking of the set. “What’s that yellow wire for?” he asked.

  Qwilleran replied with overblown pomposity, “That, young man, happens to be the major power conduit used by our engineer for operating our computerized sound and light system.”

  “Oh,” the boy said. Then, after a moment’s puzzled contemplation, he asked, “Why wasn’t it connected?”

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and have some cookies?” Qwilleran countered. To Hixie he muttered, “Kids! Always asking questions! Not only that, but they’re notorious carriers of the common cold. If we’re taking this show on the road, I can’t afford to be laid up.”

  “I predict we’ll be swamped with bookings,” she said.

  “Undoubtedly. Moose County can’t resist anything that’s free.”

  “Should we extend our territory to Lockmaster County?”

  “Only if they pay for it . . . Now let’s go upstairs and get some of that free grub.” After the excitement of a first night and after forty-five minutes of intense concentration on his role, Qwilleran felt empty and parched.

  On the main floor the guests were milling about the large, empty rooms, admiring the coffered paneling of the high ceiling and the lavishly carved fireplaces. They carried plates of hors d’oeuvres and glass cups of amber punch. The Siamese were milling about, too, dodging feet and hunting for dropped crumbs. Koko sniffed certain trousered legs and nylon-clad ankles; Yum Yum eluded the clutches of a young boy in a red sweater.

  Qwilleran pushed through the crowd to the dining room, where a caterer’s long table was draped in a white cloth and laden with warming trays of stuffed mushrooms, bacon-wrapped olives, cheese puffs, and other morsels too dainty for a hungry actor. There were two punch bowls, and he headed for the end of the table where Mildred Hanstable was ladling amber punch into glass cups.

  �
�Cider?” he asked.

  “No, this is Fish House punch made with two kinds of rum and two kinds of brandy,” she warned him. “I think you’ll want the other punch, Qwill. It’s cranberry juice and Chinese tea with lemon grass.”

  “Sounds delicious,” he grumbled. “How come no one is drinking it?”

  Polly Duncan, looking radiant in a pink mohair sweater, was presiding over the unpopular bowl of pink punch. “Qwill, dear, you were splendid!” she said in her mellow voice that always gave him a frisson of pleasure. “Now I know why you were so totally preoccupied for the last two weeks. It was time well invested.”

  “Sorry to be so asocial,” he apologized, “but we’ll make up for it. We’ll do something special this weekend, like bird watching.” This was a gesture of abject penitence on his part. He loathed birding.

  “It’s too late,” she said. “They’ve gone south, and snow is predicted. But I’m going to do roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and I have a new Brahms cassette.”

  “Say no more. I’m available for the entire weekend.”

  They were interrupted by a cracked, high-pitched voice. “Excellent job, my boy!” Homer Tibbitt, official historian for the county, was in his nineties but still active in spite of loudly creaking joints. He was pushing a wheelchair occupied by Adam Dingleberry, the ancient and indestructible patriarch of the mortuary that had lent the folding chairs.

  Homer said to Qwilleran, “Just want to congratulate you before going home to my lovely young bride. Adam’s great-grandson is on the way over to pick us up.”

  “Yep, he’s bringin’ the hearse,” said old Dingleberry with a wicked laugh.

  Homer delivered a feeble poke to Qwilleran’s ribs. “You son-of-a-grasshopper! I’ve been scrabbling for information on that blasted fire for thirty years! Where’d you find it?”

  “In some files that belonged to Euphonia Gage’s father-in-law,” Qwilleran replied. He neglected to say that Koko pried his way into a certain closet and dragged forth a scrap of yellowed manuscript. It was a clue to a cache of hundred-year-old documents.