The Cat Who Went Into the Closet

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  A valet was paging them. “Car for Mr. Dingleberry! Mr. Tibbitt!”

  As the elderly pair headed for the carriage entrance, Qwilleran was approached by a cordial man in a black cashmere sweater. “Good show, Mr. Q!” he said in a smooth, professional voice.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m Pender Wilmot, your next-door neighbor and Mrs. Gage’s attorney.”

  “Too bad she couldn’t be here tonight,” Qwilleran said.

  “I daresay this old house hasn’t witnessed an event of this magnitude since Harding won the presidential election. How do you like living on the boulevard?”

  “I find it somewhat depressing. There are seven for-sale signs at my last count.”

  “And I’d gladly make it eight,” the attorney said, “but our property has been in the family for four generations, and Mrs. Wilmot is sentimental about it, although she might be swayed by a juicy offer.”

  “There’ll be no juicy offers until the boulevard is re-zoned.”

  “It is my considered opinion,” Wilmot said, “that the city will approve re-zoning in the year 2030 . . . Mr. Q, this is my son, Timmie.” The boy in the red sweater, having failed to catch the slippery Yum Yum, was now clutching his parent’s hand.

  “And how did you like the show, young man?” Qwilleran asked him.

  Timmie frowned. “All those houses burned down, and all those people burned up. Why didn’t the firemen get a ladder and save them?”

  “Come on, son,” his father said. “We’ll go home and discuss it.”

  They walked toward the front door just as Hixie dashed up, followed by the owner of the Black Bear Café. Gary Pratt’s muscular hulk and lumbering gait and shaggy black hairiness explained the name of his restaurant. Excitedly Hixie announced, “Gary wants us to do the show at the Black Bear.”

  “Yeah,” said the barkeeper, “the Outdoor Club meets once a month for burgers and beer and a program. They have a conservation guy or a video on the environment. They’ve never had a live show.”

  “How many members?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Usually about forty turn out, but it’ll be double that if they know you’re coming.”

  “Okay with me. Go ahead and book it, Hixie.”

  Qwilleran moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations.

  Susan Exbridge, the antique dealer, gave him her usual effusive hug. “Darling! You were glorious! You should be on the stage! . . . And this house! Isn’t it magnificent? Euphonia gave me a tour before she sold the furnishings. Look at the carving on that staircase! Look at the parquet floors! Have you ever seen chandeliers like these? If you’d like a live-in housekeeper, Qwill, I’ll work cheap!”

  Next the Comptons paid their compliments. “You were terrific, Qwill,” said Lisa, a cheerful, middle-aged woman in a Halloween sweater. “Everything was so professional!”

  “It’s my engineer’s split-second timing that gives the show its snap,” Qwilleran said.

  “You guys ought to do the show for grades four to twelve,” said Lyle Compton, superintendent of schools. “It would be a great way to hook the kids on history.”

  Qwilleran winced, having visions of a schoolful of carriers circulating respiratory diseases.

  “Believe it or not,” Lisa said, “I used to come to this house to take ‘natural dance’ lessons from Euphonia. She had us flitting around the ballroom like Isadora Duncan. It was supposed to give us grace and poise, but we all thought it was boring. I really wanted to take tap.”

  Her husband said, “You should have stuck with Euphonia. She’s in her late eighties and still has the spine of a drum major, which is more than I can say for any of us.”

  “I met her only once,” Qwilleran said. “I came here to interview her for an oral history project and found this tiny woman sitting on the floor in the lotus position, wearing purple tights. She had white hair tied back with a purple ribbon, I recall.”

  Lisa nodded. “She used to tell us that purple is a source of energy. Junior says she still wears a lot of it and stands on her head every day.”

  “When she lived in Pickax,” said Lyle, “she drove a Mercedes at twenty miles an hour and blew the horn at every intersection. The police were always ticketing her for obstructing traffic. All the Gages have been a little batty, although Junior seems to have his head on straight.”

  As Junior Goodwinter joined them, Lisa changed the subject. “Have you ever seen an autumn with so many leaves on the ground?”

  “According to hizzoner the mayor,” said Junior, “Lockmaster County is shipping truckloads of leaves up here every night under cover of darkness and dumping them on Pickax.”

  “I’ll buy that,” Lyle said. “We should send them some of our toxic waste.”

  They discussed the forthcoming football game between Pickax High and their Lockmaster rivals, and then the Comptons said goodnight.

  Junior gazed ruefully at the empty rooms, faded wallcoverings, and discolored rectangles where large paintings had once hung. “Grandma had some great stuff! Susan Exbridge can tell you how valuable it was. Everything was sold out of state. Sorry there’s no TV, Qwill. Why don’t you bring one over from your barn before snow flies?”

  “I can skip TV. It amuses the cats, but they can live without it. Would your grandmother have liked our show tonight?”

  “I doubt it. She never likes anything that isn’t her own idea.”

  “She sounds a lot like Koko. Is it true she used to give dancing lessons?”

  “Way back, maybe forty years ago,” Junior said. “Before leaving for Florida she asked me to videotape one of her dances. Yikes! It was embarrassing, Qwill—this woman in her eighties, in filmy draperies, cavorting around the ballroom like a woodland nymph. She was limber enough, and still kind of graceful, but I felt like a voyeur.”

  “What happened to the video?”

  “She took it to Florida. Do you think she plays it on a VCR and dreams old dreams?”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Qwilleran said. “When I’m her age I’d like to watch myself sliding into first base.”

  “I saw you talking to Pender Wilmot. How did he like the show?”

  “He was quite enthusiastic. By the way, Junior, I’m surprised your grandmother doesn’t take her legal work to Hasselrich Bennett & Barter.”

  “They’re too stuffy for her taste. She likes younger people. She feels young herself. It’s my guess that she’ll outlive us all . . . Well, it looks like everyone’s leaving. Sure was a success! I can’t believe, Qwill, that you did all those voices yourself!”

  Only a few members of the hungry and thirsty press remained to drain the two punch bowls. They mixed the contents of both and declared it tasted like varnish, but good!

  Qwilleran said to Hixie, “Did you see the guy in a suit and tie? He was with a blonde—the only ones not in sweaters.”

  “That was a wig she was wearing,” Hixie informed him. “Who were they?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you.”

  “I say they were spies from the Lockmaster Ledger,” she said. “They steal all our good ideas. Do you suppose she had a tape recorder under that big wig? I’m glad we copyrighted the script; we can sue.”

  Arch Riker and Mildred Hanstable were almost the last to leave. The publisher was beaming. “Great job, you two kids! Best PR stunt we could spring on this kind of community!”

  “Thanks, boss,” said Qwilleran. “I’ll expect a raise.”

  “You’ll be fired if you don’t start writing your column again. The readers are screaming for your pellucid prose on page two. Consider your vacation over as of tomorrow.”

  “Vacation! I’ve been working like a dog on this show! And I haven’t seen anything that looks like a bonus!”

  This sparring between the two old friends was a perpetual game, since the Moose County Something was backed financially by the Klingenschoen Foundation, established by Qwilleran to dispose of his unwanted millions.

  Riker drove Mildr
ed home, and Qwilleran told Polly he would escort her to her carriage house in the rear. “I’ll be right back,” he told the Siamese, who were loitering nearby and beaming questioning looks in his direction.

  “I’ve missed you, dear,” Polly said as they walked briskly hand in hand through the chill October evening. “I thought I had lost my Most Favored Woman status. Bootsie missed you, too.”

  “Sure,” Qwilleran replied testily. He and Polly’s macho Siamese had been engaged in a cold war ever since Bootsie was a kitten.

  “Would you like to come upstairs for some real food and a cup of coffee?”

  Qwilleran said he wouldn’t mind going up for a few minutes. When he came down two hours later, he walked slowly despite the falling temperature, reflecting that he was happier than he had ever been in his entire life—not that the pursuit of happiness had concerned him in his earlier years. What mattered then was the excitement of covering breaking news, working all night to meet a deadline, moving from city to city for new challenges, hanging out at press clubs, and not caring about money. Now he was experiencing something totally different: the contentment of living in a small town, writing for a small newspaper, loving an intelligent woman of his own age, living with two companionable cats. And, to cap it all, he was on the stage again! Not since college days, when he played Tom in “The Glass Menagerie,” had he known the satisfaction of creating a character and bringing that character to life for an audience.

  At the side door of the mansion he was greeted by the scolding yowls and switching tails of two indignant Siamese, whose evening repast was late.

  “My apologies,” he said as he gave them a crunchy snack. “The pressure is off now, and we’ll get back to normal. You’ve been very understanding and cooperative. How would you like a read after I’ve turned out the lights? The electric bill is going to be astronomical.”

  Despite his affluence, Qwilleran was frugal about utilities. Now he went from room to room through the great house, flipping off switches. The Siamese accompanied him, pursuing their own special interests. In one of the large front bedrooms upstairs he noticed a closet door ajar and a horizontal brown tail disappearing within. Minutes later, Koko caught up with him and dropped something at his feet.

  “Thank you,” Qwilleran said courteously as he picked up a purple ribbon bow and dropped it in his sweater pocket. To himself he said, If Euphonia’s theory is true, Koko sensed a source of energy. Cats, he had been told, are attracted to sources of energy.

  The three of them gathered in the library for their read, a ritual the Siamese always enjoyed. Whether it was the sound of a human voice, or the warmth of a human lap and a table lamp, or the simple idea of propinquity, a read was one of their catly pleasures that ranked with grooming their fur and chasing each other. As for Qwilleran, he enjoyed the company of living creatures and—to be perfectly honest—the sound of his own voice.

  “Would anyone care to choose a title?” he asked.

  In the library there were a few hundred books that Mrs. Gage had been unable to sell, plus a dozen classics that Qwilleran had brought from the barn along with his typewriter and computerized coffeemaker. Koko sniffed the bindings until his twitching nose settled on Robinson Crusoe from Qwilleran’s own collection.

  “Good choice,” Qwilleran commented as he sank into a leather lounge chair worn to the contours of a hammock. Yum Yum leaped lightly into his lap, settling down slowly with a sigh, like a motor vehicle with hydraulic suspension, while Koko arranged himself on a nearby table under the glow of a 75-watt lamp bulb.

  They were halfway through the opening paragraph when the telephone on the desk rang. “Excuse me,” Qwilleran said, lifting Yum Yum gently and placing her on the seat he had vacated. He anticipated another compliment on “The Big Burning” and responded with a gracious “Good evening.”

  Arch Riker’s voice barked with urgency. “Hate to bother you, Qwill, but I’ve just had a call from Junior. He’s flying to Florida first thing in the morning. His grandmother was found dead in bed.”

  “Hmmm . . . curious!” Qwilleran murmured.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A few minutes ago Koko brought me one of her hair ribbons.”

  “Yeah, well . . . that cat is tuned in to everything. But why I’m calling—”

  “And everyone at the party tonight,” Qwilleran went on, “was mentioning how healthy she was.”

  “That’s the sad part,” Riker said. “The police told Junior it was suicide.”

  THREE

  THE NEWS OF Euphonia Gage’s suicide was surprising, if not incredible. “What was her motive?” Qwilleran asked Arch Riker.

  “We don’t know yet. We’ll run a died-suddenly on the front page of tomorrow’s paper and give it the full treatment Wednesday. Junior is drafting an obit on the plane and will fax it when he arrives down there and gets a few more details. Meanwhile, will you see if you can dig out some photos? Her early life, studio portraits—anything will be useful. She was the last of the Gages. Junior says she left some photo albums in the house, but he doesn’t know exactly where.”

  As Qwilleran listened to the publisher’s directive, he felt a fumbling in his pocket and reached down to grab a paw. “No!” he scolded.

  “What’d you say?”

  “Nothing. Yum Yum was picking my pocket.”

  “Well, see what you can find for Wednesday. Usual deadline. Sorry to bother you tonight.”

  “No bother. I’ll give you a ring in the morning.”

  Before resuming the reading of Robinson Crusoe, Qwilleran added the purple ribbon bow to what he called the Kao K’o Kung Collection in a desk drawer. It consisted of oddments retrieved by one or more cats from the gaping closets of the Gage mansion: champagne cork, matchbook, pocket comb, small sponge, pencil stub, rubber eraser, and the like. Yum Yum left her contributions scattered about the house; Koko organized his under the kitchen table, alongside their water dish and feeding station.

  As the day ended, Qwilleran felt a welcome surge of relief and satisfaction; “The Big Burning” had been successfully launched and enthusiastically received. He slept soundly that night and would not have heard the early-morning summons from the library telephone if eight bony legs had not landed simultaneously on tender parts of his supine body.

  Hixie Rice was on the line, as bright and breezy as ever. “Pardonnez-moi! Did I get you out of bed?” she asked when Qwilleran answered gruffly. “You sound as if you haven’t had your coffee yet. Well, this will wake you up! We have two bookings for our show, if the dates are okay with you. The first is Thursday afternoon at Mooseland High School. That’s a consolidated school serving the agricultural townships.”

  “I’m not keen about doing the show for kids,” he objected.

  “They’re not kids. They’re young adults, and they’ll love it!”

  “Of course. They love anything that gets them out of class, including chest X-rays,” he said with precoffee cynicism. “What kind of facility do they have?”

  “We’ll be doing the show in the gym, with the audience seated in the bleachers. The custodian is constructing a platform for us.”

  “What’s the second booking?”

  “Monday night at the Black Bear Café. It’s the annual family night for the Outdoor Club, and they were going to have a Laurel and Hardy film, but Gary urged them to book ‘The Big Burning’ instead.”

  “Maybe we can play it for laughs,” Qwilleran muttered.

  “At the high school we’re scheduled for the sixth period, and we should get there at one o’clock. I’ll be out in the territory, so I’ll meet you there. It’s on Sandpit Road, you know . . . And would you be a doll, Qwill, and glue my cuesheet on a card, s’il vous plaît? It’ll be sturdier and easier to handle . . . See you Thursday afternoon. Don’t forget to bring the complex computerized sound and light system,” she concluded with a flippant laugh.

  A grunt was his only reply to that remark. As he hung up the receiver he felt certain m
isgivings. Performing for a hand-picked audience of civic leaders had been a pleasure, but a gymful of noisy, hyperkinetic “young adults” from the potato farms and sheep ranches was a different ballgame. He pressed the button on his coffeemaker and was comforted somewhat by the sound of grinding beans and gurgling brew.

  Meanwhile, he fed the cats, and whether it was the soothing sight of feline feeding or the caffeine jolt of his first cup, something restored his positive attitude, and he tackled Riker’s assignment with actual relish.

  It was not as easy as either of them supposed. There were no photos of Euphonia Gage in the desk drawers. The closet in the library was locked. In the upstairs bedroom where Koko had found the purple ribbon, the closets were stuffed with outdated clothing, but no photographs. Returning to the library he surveyed the shelves of somber books collected by several generations of Gages: obsolete encyclopedias, anthologies of theological essays, forgotten classics, and biographies of persons now unknown. Sitting in the worn leather desk chair, he swiveled idly, pondering this mausoleum of the printed word.

  It was then that he glimpsed a few inches of brown tail disappearing behind a row of books at eye level. Koko often retired to a bookshelf to escape Yum Yum’s playful overtures. He failed to appreciate aggressive females, preferring to do the chasing himself. So now he was safely installed in the narrow space behind some volumes on nutrition, correct breathing, vegetarian diet, medicinal herbs, Hindu philosophy, and similar subjects of interest to the late Mrs. Gage.

  Qwilleran smoothed his moustache, suspecting why Koko preferred these books to the Civil War histories on the same shelf. Could it corroborate the theory about cats and energy? Could Euphonia’s innate verve have rubbed off on these particular bindings? In earlier years he would have scoffed at such a notion, but that was before he knew Koko. Now Qwilleran would believe anything!

  Out of curiosity he opened the book on herbs and found remedies for acne, allergies, asthma, and athlete’s foot. Hopefully he looked under F but found nothing on football knee, which was his own Achilles’ heel. He did find, however, an envelope addressed to Junior and mailed from Florida, casually stuck between a new book on cholesterol and an old book on mind power. He opened it and read: