Cat Who Brought Down the House, the Unabridged Audio

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Faith, an’ it’s my big kitchen she married me for, I’m thinking,” he often said in his rich brogue.

  Pat had a janitorial service, and together they started Robin-O’Dell Catering.

  Celia interpreted the invitation to “come on over anytime” as “right away” and she arrived in “two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  “Do you have time for a glass of fruit juice?” Qwilleran asked, inviting her to sit at the snack bar.

  “Oh, you have some new bar stools!” she exclaimed. “Very comfy . . . Where are the kitties?”

  “Looking at you from the top of the refrigerator.”

  Celia groped in her large handbag and they jumped to the floor with two thumps, Yum Yum landing like a feather and Koko landing like a muscular male.

  Qwilleran gave them a few crumbles of meat loaf and told them, “This is just the appetizer. The main course will be served at five-thirty.”

  “Are you enjoying your new career?” he asked her now.

  “I love it! But I miss those secret missions, Chief.”

  “You could still do a little snooping, if you had time, and if Pat wouldn’t object.”

  “He’d never know,” she said with a wink. “Do you have any suspicions, Chief?”

  “No. Only a nagging curiosity. Who bought the old opera house, and what are they doing with it, and why the secrecy? If I start making inquiries, the gossips will have a field day!”

  “I could ask questions. Where would I go?”

  “To the courthouse and find out who bought the building. To the City Hall and find out if they’ve issued any permits for remodeling. It might be a clue to the mystery. . . . No hurry, Celia.”

  “I could do it on Tuesday. Monday we’re doing a birthday luncheon in Purple Point. Would anyone mind if Pat and I didn’t attend Richard Thackeray’s supper? We have to clear away here and go home and get started on the luncheon. How should I explain?”

  “There was no RSVP on the invitation,” Qwilleran said, “so you don’t need to explain. Just do what you have to do. If anyone asks, I’ll invent something.”

  “You’re good at that!” she said in admiration. “I think of you every time I buy fruit and vegetables at Toodle’s Market.” At the recollection she was so overcome with mirth that she choked on her cranberry juice.

  “Take it easy!” he said.

  In the past, when she uncovered evidence that required the utmost secrecy, there was a clandestine meeting at the market, in the produce department—two casual food-shoppers discussing the price of cucumbers or ripeness of melons, as strangers do. Then she would whisper some amazing revelation too hot to put in writing or entrust to a telephone that might be bugged. The serio-comic charade delighted Celia, who would be forever young. She and Pat still had snowball fights, according to their amused neighbors.

  Qwilleran asked her, “How much champagne has been ordered for the reception?”

  “Duke has ordered two cases and wants it perfectly chilled, so we’re bringing our portable plug-in cooler with temperature control. And the stemware we’re renting is glass and not the plastic kind which Duke calls an abomination. He’s lending us his grandmother’s banquet cloth and ordering a flower arrangement for the table. Since everyone’s going to the supper afterward, the cocktail snacks will be bite-size, and Duke wants the very best cheese!!”

  When Celia had left, Qwilleran walked down the lane to pick up his daily paper from the newspaper sleeve. He took it to the Art Center porch and sat on the bench there, being impatient to read the Thackeray profile.

  There was a three-column photo of Thelma conversing with two parrots and the headline read: THELMA AND FRIENDS COME HOME TO ROOST. Only when she spoke of her five parrots did she wax sentimental. “There were six birds, but Chico passed away. I still have his cage and the cover with his name embroidered on it.”

  There was plenty of opportunity for name-dropping, and drop them she did. Film celebrities and political figures had come to her dinner club.

  She boasted that her twin brother had been a doctor of veterinary medicine. And a boast about her father caused Qwilleran to do a double take. He read it a second time:

  “Pop was a hardworking potato farmer, struggling to make a living—until he had a brilliant idea for putting potatoes to a new use. It made him rich! He could send my brother to college and he set me up in business in Hollywood. He invented the low-calorie potato chip!”

  At that moment the front door of the Art Center opened, and Thornton Haggis came out, saying, “No loitering permitted!”

  “Thorn! Did you see today’s paper?” Qwilleran waved the front page at him.

  “What happened? Have they found a cure for the common hangover?”

  “Sit down and listen!” Qwilleran read the entire profile of the bootlegger’s daughter.

  “What!” Thornton yelped. “Did she actually say that about potato chips? Does she believe that? Is that what Milo told her? Or did she invent it for Moose County readers?”

  “You ask her!” Qwilleran said.

  8

  By Saturday morning Qwilleran had decided that Thelma’s potato chip bombshell was a private joke of hers. She had inherited the Moose County penchant for leg-pulling. Only old-timers would appreciate the potato chip quip. That is, old-timers and history buffs.

  He phoned Thornton at home to compare theories, and Mrs. Haggis answered. “He’s out getting his hair cut, Qwill.”

  “Hair cut!”

  “Yes, isn’t it a crime? Where has anyone ever seen such a beautiful mop of white hair? But he threatened to dye it green, so I said okay, reluctantly.”

  “Well, tell him I called. Nothing important.”

  It was important enough, however, for Qwilleran to call Homer Tibbitt at Ittibittiwassee Estates. He was the only old-timer old enough to remember much about Prohibition.

  Rhoda answered in the hushed voice that meant her husband was having one of his many naps.

  “Don’t disturb him. Did you read about Thelma in yesterday’s paper?”

  “We did indeed! I read it aloud, and Homer said she was just pulling a fast one. . . . Homer says she was a great one for spoofing.”

  “That’s what I wanted to know. When’s his birthday?”

  “A week from today, and he says he doesn’t want any birthday candles or media coverage.”

  “He’s a dreamer, Rhoda. The TV crews will be up here from Down Below to film the event.” Qwilleran was careful not to mention that he was writing a birthday song, and arrangements had been made for a serenade by Derek Cuttlebrink with his guitar.

  On Sunday morning, a light rain freshened the foliage around Qwilteran’s apple barn. In the afternoon a soft sunlight made everything sparkle. By five o’clock the gentlest of gentle breezes was wafting about the bird garden, where the guests were to assemble and Brodie was to pipe a few Scottish tunes.

  Qwilleran said, “Whoever is in charge of the local weather decided to show those California dudes a thing or two.” He wore his kilt in the red-and-green Mackintosh tartan, together with a green blazer, green kneesocks with red flashers, a calfskin sporran, and, of course, a dagger in the sock.

  Polly wore a white silk shirtwaist dress with a shoulder sash in the Robertson tartan, that being the Duncan clan connection.

  The Siamese had been given an early dinner and dispatched to the gazebo in the canvas tote bag.

  The Robin-O’Dell team had set up in the hospitality center with Burgess Campbell’s grandmother’s Madeira banquet cloth, an arrangement of red carnations and white daisies, an array of sparkling champagne glasses, and trays of tiny canapes, puffs, tartlets, and tasty morsels on toothpicks.

  First, Police Chief Brodie arrived, driving up the lane from the back street—the better to get away after piping his stint. He was resplendent in the Brodie clan kilt and shoulder plaid and his bagpiper’s feather “bonnet,” a good eighteen inches tall.

  As the carloads of guests started to arrive, Pat O’D
ell was in the barnyard, showing them where to park and steering them to the bird garden. Burgess Campbell and Alexander were in the first carload to arrive—with the Bethunes, his surrogate in-laws. They were all in Highland attire, except the guide dog. There were the MacWhannells and the Camerons, the Ogilvies and MacLeods, all in clan tartans. Mavis Adams and the Morghans, who were not Scots, said they felt like illegal aliens.

  The guests strolled around the garden, commented on the plantings, visited the butterfly puddle, and found the gazebo. They looked at the Siamese as if they were creatures in a zoo and the Siamese looked at them in the same way.

  Then Pat O’Dell came around the side of the barn and signaled to Qwilleran by jerking his thumb twice over his shoulder, meaning “They’re here!” Qwilleran caught Brodie’s eye and tapped his wristwatch, and the bagpiper plunged into the attention-getting solemnity of “Scotland the Brave.”

  What happened in the next few minutes is best described in Qwilleran’s own words. He later wrote in his personal journal:

  Sunday, April 13—Standing in the foyer in a formal receiving line was the Royal Family: Queen Thelma, Prince Richard, and the lady-in-waiting. The queen was wearing lavish jewels—and one of her “artistic” hats. Richard lived up to his reputation as a snappy dresser by wearing a Nehru jacket and two-tone shoes.

  One by one the guests moved through the line, with introductions made by Fran, who was unusually vivacious. I was the last to be presented to Thelma.

  I grasped her hand in both of mine and said warmly, “I’ve got to talk to you about that hat!”

  Sounding like Mae West she said, “And I’ve got to talk to you, Ducky . . . about that . . . moustache!” Her facial expression was pleasant, composed, and a trifle arch. “And this is my nephew, Richard Thackeray. Richard, this is the celebrated Mr. Q.”

  He had a good handshake and exuberant personality. “Call me Dick. I know all about you, Mr. Q.”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I said.

  His voice had a distinct quality—velvety, with an underlying resonance. Later Thelma would tell me that it gave her goose bumps; it was her brother’s voice, which four-footed creatures found magnetic, soothing, and even healing.

  Janice was the last in the receiving line, her shyness at odds with a kind of eagerness. I couldn’t help wondering about her role in the household that had just moved into Pleasant Street.

  With the introductions made and everyone holding a glass of champagne, it was time for a toast to the new neighbors. And Burgess did the honors with éclat. Everyone responded noisily and at length. Then Thelma made an acceptance speech, which brought cheers and whistles. I looked at the guide dog to see what he thought of the brouhaha. Alexander, as usual, was completely unflappable.

  The group scattered, some clustering around Thelma, others sampling the cocktail snacks or walking up the ramp to be thrilled by the view from the top. Fran escorted Thelma on a tour of the main floor, pointing out decorative features. At one point Fran hissed into my ear, “What’s that thing above the fireplace? I told you I could lend you an artwork for the occasion—something more suitable!”

  Thelma’s chief concern was the lack of television receivers. “Where’s your TV?” she demanded, sounding like Bette Davis. “Above the fireplace you could have a fifty-inch screen—the rectangular style for showing movies. . . . And with these big, comfortable sofas you’d have a perfect setup for movie parties. I have a large collection of old films that I could lend you.”

  Dick viewed the recumbent bicycle leaning against a stone wall in the foyer and asked me, “Do you really ride this? How does it feel to pedal with your feet up?”

  “When you get used to it, there are many advantages,” I told him. “If you’d like to try it, you’re welcome to borrow it.”

  Thelma’s assistant was standing alone at the bookshelves that filled much of the wall space on three sides of the fireplace cube. When I approached, she asked, “Have you read all of these?” It was the question I had heard many times from a nonreader.

  “Some of them twice, or oftener. If you see a title you’d like to borrow, feel free . . . but if you don’t return it, the sheriff will be at your door with a search dog.”

  The mild jest fell flat. “I don’t have time to read books,” Janice said. “I read aloud to Thelma—newspapers, that is, and magazine articles. . . . Where are the kitties?”

  I felt she was changing the subject to avoid personal matters. I may have been wrong. I said, “They’re in the gazebo. They don’t like large parties. Do you like cats? You might drive Thelma over some afternoon.”

  “Oh, Thelma doesn’t like cats—not at all!” Janice looked about anxiously and said, “Excuse me. I think she wants me.”

  I felt I was right; Janice was employed to drive the car, cook, and read aloud . . . not to reveal personal details that might reflect on the Thackeray image.

  The champagne flowed, guests circulated, and neighbors conversed like long-lost friends.

  At one point Polly said to Qwilleran, “I’ve been listening to talk about the Kit Kat Agenda, and it sounds like a splendid idea! It’s the local name for a national movement. Volunteers provide foster homes for unwanted kittens and their mothers, while other volunteers act as adoption agents, matching up the kittens with permanent homes. Burgess, Mavis, and the Bethunes are providing foster care, and Hannah MacLeod is an adoption agent.”

  Qwilleran said, “But who can tell me about the logistics of foster care?”

  “Ask Mavis.”

  Qwilleran caught up with her at the snack table. “Try one of these delicious cheese puffs,” she said.

  “I’ve already had three,” he said. “Tell me something about foster care. Where do the temporary cat-families spend their time? Where do they eat and sleep?”

  “One needs a spare room for that purpose,” Mavis explained. “People go in to talk to them and play with them and introduce them to sociable activity. A kitten that is socialized has more personality and makes a better pet than a poor little thing cooped up in a cage.”

  “I see the point,” he said.

  “You should talk to Hannah MacLeod, one of our adoption agents. She’s lived here all her life and knows everyone, so she’s very successful in finding permanent homes.”

  Hannah Hawley, a fine contralto, had recently married “Uncle Louie” MacLeod, director of the Mooseland Choral Group, and they were in the process of adopting an eight-year-old boy.

  “How’s Danny?” Qwilleran asked the couple.

  “He’s such a bright, personable child,” Hannah said. “He loves to go with me when I take prospects to the foster homes to pick out a kitten—or two. Usually two. It’s hard to resist a handful of squirming fur looking at you with big eyes and mistaking your finger for something else.”

  Qwilleran said, “I suppose there’s an adoption fee?”

  “A modest one, considering that it includes all shots and neutering. To help cover expenses and publicize Kit Kat, we’re going to stage a Kit Kat Revue.”

  Uncle Louie looked at Qwilleran hopefully. “Do you sing or dance?”

  “I might be able to write a skit,” he replied.

  It was nearing seven o’clock, and Qwilleran had talked to everyone but the Bethunes. He found them in the foyer, admiring a long narrow console table. Proudly he told them it was handcrafted, custom ordered by Fran Brodie, and remarkable for the hand-carved dovetailing in the drawers.

  “I know,” said Doug Bethune. “I’m the one who made the table.”

  “Shame on you. Why didn’t you sign it?” Qwilleran scolded. “A century from now a signed Bethune masterpiece will fetch a couple of million at auction, the way prices are going.”

  Bonnie said to her husband, “Buy the table back, Doug. Our descendants may need the money to pay the rent!”

  “How’s Winston?” Qwilleran asked. The Bethunes had adopted the late Eddington Smith’s big cat after the bookstore was destroyed.

  “He’s
fine. He hangs out in the library but likes to visit our kitten colony, considering himself a kind of godfather. We have five kittens, but they’re all spoken for.”

  When the guests left for the next festivities—at the Mackintosh Inn—Polly and Qwilleran were the last to leave, and he said to Pat and Celia, who were clearing away the refreshments, “Good show! Let’s do it again sometime. . . . I’ve brought the cats in from the gazebo, and Koko is upset about something. Give him some cheese; he’ll calm down.”

  Celia said, “He’s mad because he wasn’t invited.”

  Qwilleran thought, He’s mad because someone was invited who doesn’t have his approval.

  Koko was prowling about the barn, sniffing diligently, even snarling and spitting in certain areas for reasons of his own. He was a smart cat, but his actions were not always comprehensible.

  Then Qwilleran and Polly drove to the inn.

  She said, “The reception was a huge success, and several people commented on the Sibelius numbers, including Thelma. She sounds like Tallulah Bankhead one minute and Katharine Hepburn the next. What do you think about the Kit Kat idea, Qwill?”

  “I’m all in favor.”

  “As Mavis said, it’s heartwarming to know that previously unwanted kittens will have a chance to give years of companionship to families and live-alones.”

  “What did you think about Dick?”

  “He’s charming! I asked if he thought Thelma would speak to our bird club, and he said she doesn’t do formal speeches but he could arrange for a question-and-answer session at the club. He would transport two or three parrots in their cages. He’s most cooperative! Thelma’s lucky to have him.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “Is he living with them?”