Cat Who Brought Down the House, the Unabridged Audio

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Janice phoned in the late afternoon and arrived soon after in an emerald green coupé.

  Qwilleran went out to the barnyard to greet her. “Did you bring this from California?”

  “We towed it behind our van full of parrots,” she explained.

  She was wearing blue denim pants and shirt and wore her dark hair tied back in a ponytail. Other times, it had been knotted close to her head.

  He said, “I told the cats you were coming, and they had a good washup. They’re waiting for you in the gazebo.”

  There they were, sitting tall on their haunches, with expectancy in every whisker.

  “Aren’t they beautiful!” she cried. “Those blue eyes!”

  “The one with an imperial air is Kao K’o Kung. Yum Yum likes to be picked up and hugged, but Koko is too macho for lap-sitting.”

  With his usual perversity, however, Koko was the first to jump on the visitor’s lap when she sat down.

  “I’ve never seen Siamese except in pictures,” she said. “When I lived on a farm, we had nothing but barn cats.”

  “That’s what these are. Barn cats.”

  For the first time he heard her laugh. “I wish I’d brought my camera.”

  “It wouldn’t do any good, Janice. They don’t co-operate. Koko considers it an invasion of privacy, and naughty Yum Yum poses only for tail shots.” This brought another laugh. “Are you interested in photography?”

  “Mostly for practical purposes. I’ve photographed everything in the house for an insurance inventory, and I take a snap of what Thelma wears whenever she appears in public. Just so she won’t duplicate, you know.”

  “Smart idea. May I offer you a glass of white wine? I’ve chilled a nice white Zinfandel.” At the party he had noted that neither she nor Thelma had been drinking champagne, and he had wondered if it might be a Thackeray house rule. Now he would find out.

  After a brief pause she said, “Yes, I believe I’d like a glass of wine.”

  For himself he mixed what was becoming known around the county as the “Q cocktail.” Cranberry juice and Squunk water.

  There was more conversation about the cats, and Janice hand-fed them a few Kabibbles, saying, “I love the feel of a cat’s rough, wet tongue and little, sharp teeth!”

  “Do you know about the Kit Kat Agenda?”

  “Oh, yes, and I’d love to have kittens . . . but we can’t. They have a kitten colony next door, and Duke says I can go over anytime to play with them. It’s good for their morale. The housekeeper said the back door is always open; I can just walk in. She’s very nice. Everybody’s nice around here. They told us it was neighborly to leave the back door unlocked. Thelma thought it was too folksy, but . . . when in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

  Janice suddenly stopped chattering and looked preoccupied.

  Qwilleran said, “Duke lectures on American history at the college, and you might like to audit one of his lectures. They’re never dry; he has a sense of humor.”

  “I’d like that, but it would depend on Thelma’s schedule.”

  “How long have you been with her?”

  “Ever since high school. I wanted to work in a restaurant, and she hired me as a dishwasher. That’s a general kitchen helper, you know, and I worked my way up to assistant chef at her private dinner club.” She was chattering again—nervously, Qwilleran thought. “It was a luxurious club, with a high-ceilinged dining room and crystal chandeliers. Then there was a lounge where you could have cocktails and see old movies on a large screen. In the dining room Thelma moved about the tables, wearing one of her fabulous hats and kidding with the customers, calling them ‘Ducky’ and swearing in Portuguese, which she learned from the parrots. Everyone loved Thelma and hated to see her retire. She sold the club and kept me on as a secretary, housekeeper, and driver. She’s strict—but nice.” With a fond smile, Janice added, “She’s always quoting things she learned from her pop: Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. . . . Time is money. . . . Try to kill two birds with one stone.”

  Qwilleran said, “No wonder she was a success in business. . . . May I refresh your drink, Janice?” And casually he added, “It’s hard to imagine such a vital personage retiring from the workplace.”

  “Well, her twin brother died and Dick, her nephew, asked her to come back east.”

  She paused long enough to make him suspect jealousy between the longtime, hardworking assistant and the charming Johnny-come-lately who was the only living relative. But then she said, “Well, Dick is the kind of person that everyone likes. He cheers her up. But she also treats him like a strict parent.” Janice giggled apologetically. “Thelma was born to be boss! Oh, I almost forgot, Thelma would like you to come for waffles Thursday morning at ten o’clock. You can meet the parrots.”

  Qwilleran jumped up. “I just had a good idea! I happen to have some chicken pot pies and blueberry muffins. We could warm them up and have a picnic supper out there in the gazebo!”

  They went indoors, and Janice was privileged to feed the cats while Qwilleran warmed the picnic fare. He also steered the conversation away from the Thackerays.

  During the meal he talked about the classes at the Art Center, the clubs that one might join, and the possibilities for volunteer work. “You might like to donate some time to the animal shelter, Janice, and Thelma might find a cause that she could support with her presence.”

  He felt he was on thin ice, but that’s what he wanted.

  Janice put down her fork and looked at him with desperate indecision. “There’s something I shouldn’t talk about. . . .”

  “Then don’t.”

  “But I want to, and Celia says you’re the only one in Moose County that you can trust not to blab. . . . Thelma isn’t really retired; she’s working on a business deal. That’s all I can say.”

  “More power to her!”

  “She wanted to go to Lockmaster today to see her brother’s grave and the scene of his fatal accident. I don’t know why. You’d think it would just upset her.”

  “It’s called closure.” He lifted the wine bottle. “Shall I?”

  “I’d better not. I’m driving.”

  “If the worse comes to the worst, I can tow your car home behind my SUV.”

  The comment brought laughter. She was laughing easily. “Wouldn’t Pleasant Street have a picnic with that scene! They don’t miss a thing.”

  Suddenly serious, he said, “That’s why your mysterious cancellation Sunday night worried me. You said something terrible had happened, and your neighbors heard screams.”

  For a moment she was frozen in an attitude of indecision, her eyes darting left and right.

  He waited patiently but with encouragement.

  “When we got home,” she said hesitantly, “the parrots were gone! . . . Kidnapped! And there was a ransom note.”

  “Did you notify the police?”

  “We were afraid to. There were threats—what would happen if we did. So horrible I can’t repeat them. Thelma was sick to her stomach.”

  “Ghastly experience,” he said, remembering his gut-wrenching horror when Yum Yum was snatched.

  “We had to do what they wanted. Fortunately Dick was there, and he brought them back by day-break, but he’s afraid to talk about it. We’ve ordered new locks on all the doors and a burglar alarm that rings in the police station. . . . For God’s sake, don’t let Thelma know I told you all this!”

  As he accompanied Janice to her car, he asked, “Are you sure you want to drive? I could drive your car and walk home.”

  “No, no! I’m perfectly all right. Thanks for everything, and we’ll see you Thursday morning.”

  After Janice had driven away, Qwilleran brought the Siamese indoors, and the three of them sprawled in the big chair for a little reading. The cats always enjoyed the sound of his voice and Yum Yum—that little rascal—had discovered the vibration in his rib cage when he was staging a good show.

  When Qwilleran closed the book his listene
rs went on to other activities, and he began to brain-storm:

  Who were the kidnappers who made off with five talkative Amazons without detection? No doubt they were readers of the Moose County Something. They knew how Thelma treasured her pets. They knew that all of Pleasant Street would be celebrating her arrival at a gala party somewhere else. What was their ransom demand? Large bundles of cash would not be readily available on a Sunday night. Did they want jewels? The parrot pin and matching bracelet had created a stir at the Grist Mill; had Thelma been flaunting her rubies, emeralds, and diamonds at other good restaurants in Moose County and Lockmaster? Whatever the ransom demand, the victims were warned not to notify the police.

  And what about Dick? He took a great risk. . . . As the saying goes, “Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.” I wouldn’t want to be in Dick Thackeray’s shoes at this moment!

  10

  Qwilleran had a strong desire to talk with the photographer who had been assigned to the Thackeray story—called the “parrot story” in the photo lab. John Bushland freelanced for the newspaper but also had his own commercial studio in Pickax, and Qwilleran found him there, early Wednesday morning. Bushy had become a workaholic since his divorce.

  “Just wanted to compliment you on the parrot shots, Bushy. What did you think of the old gal?”

  “She’s a character! You could write a book about her, Qwill.”

  “I’m invited to meet the parrots tomorrow, and I thought I might pick your brain. How about lunch at Rennie’s? I’ll buy.”

  “Well, I’ve got a lot of printing to do—on deadline. How about picking up some deli sandwiches at Toodle’s and bringing them here. I’ll make coffee.”

  Meanwhile, Qwilleran had errands to do. He returned the book of poems to the public library and was on the way out of the building when his curiosity detoured him into the small room devoted to magazines and newspapers. As he hoped, there was a Tuesday copy of the Bixby Bugle. He remembered the newsbite on WPKX about a murder. No details were supplied except the approximate hour: 3:15 A.M. That happened to be the exact time of Koko’s bloodcurdling howl. The headline read: MURDER ON SOUTH SIDE. He scanned it for facts.

  Sheriff’s deputies, responding to a call early Monday morning, found a van driver slumped over his steering wheel. He had been shot in the head. The victim was carrying falsified ID cards, and the tags on the vehicle were stolen.

  The call came in at 3:15 A.M., from the occupant of a mobile home on a country lane south of Bixton.

  She said, “My cat woke me up, snarling and growling. The moon was full, and you know how cats are! But there was something else bothering him. Tony is just a plain old tomcat, but he sniffs out trouble like a watchdog.

  “So, I looked out the window and saw two vans parked under some trees. They were tail-to-tail, and two men were moving stuff from one van to the other. They were big square boxes, big enough to hold TVs.

  “The taillights of the loaded van turned on, and the next thing I knew, I heard a gunshot. I know a gunshot when I hear one. And the loaded van took off in a hurry. That’s when I called 911.”

  Police are investigating. It is thought that the incident is linked with the recent burglary in a television store.

  Qwilleran could not help chuckling. He was no admirer of the reporting in the Bixby Bugle, but here was a dry piece of police news that had been turned into a human-interest story, complete with a hero-cat who sniffed out foul play. Tony would make a good partner for Koko. If they could locate a third talented feline in Lockmaster, they would have a tri-county crime-detection network.

  Such were his whimsical thoughts at the moment, but he had sandwiches to buy and other matters to discuss at the photo studio, and a tape to deliver.

  The question occurred to him: How could Koko know—and why would he care—about the murder of a shady character ninety miles away? There were no answers; Qwilleran had stopped trying to find answers.

  Next he drove to Ittibittiwassee Estates, the retirement complex masquerading as a Swiss resort hotel. Using the house phone, he called upstairs and said in a brisk voice, “Mrs. Tibbitt, there is a gentleman here who says he has a package for you and wants to hand it to you personally. He has a large moustache and looks suspect. Do you want us to call the police? It could be a bomb.”

  With her hand muffling her hysterical laughter, she said, “I’ll be right down. Tell him not to go away.”

  Soon, a white-haired woman, looking gaily youthful, stepped off the elevator. After all, Rhoda was only eighty-eight; her husband would be ninety-nine on Saturday.

  “Thank you so much, Qwill. What did you think of the poem?”

  “Recording it was an enjoyable challenge, and the cats liked it, especially the stampede and the part about the coyote and the black snake. What is the program for Saturday?”

  “At eleven A.M. Derek will sing a birthday song written expressly for Homer—that boy is so talented!—and there’ll be city and county dignitaries and media coverage. No birthday cake! Homer says he doesn’t want to squander his last breath on blowing out candles.”

  “By the way, Rhoda, you used to teach in Lockmaster, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. That’s where I met Homer. He was principal of my school.”

  “Did you know of a Dr. Thackeray, veterinarian?”

  “Oh, yes! He was a wonderful man—used to come to the school and talk to the younger grades about the proper care of pets. He was killed in a tragic accident. He loved the outdoors and was hiking when he slipped on wet rocks and fell into a ravine.”

  Qwilleran stroked his moustache repeatedly when he thought of Dr. Thackeray; he wanted to ask more questions. He stopped at the design studio, knowing that Fran’s assistant would be minding the shop.

  Lucinda Holmes greeted him, brimming with her usual hospitality, but before she could suggest coffee, he said, “No coffee today, thanks. Just answer a question. Do you take your animals to the Thackeray Clinic?”

  “It’s the Whinny Hills Clinic now. Some new people bought it after Dr. Thurston’s tragic death. That’s where my boyfriend works.”

  “You mean . . . Dr. Watson?”

  “You remembered!” she said with an appreciative laugh. In a lowered voice she added, “He’s not too happy. His new bosses promised to maintain Dr. Thurston’s standards, and they even have his photo in the lobby, but it’s only to please his former clients—and his son.”

  “Do you know Dick Thackeray?”

  “I met him once at a party. All I remember is his wonderful smile. But they say he cracked up after his father’s death and had to go away for a while. It was thought to be suicide, you know, and that must have been especially painful.”

  “Was the doctor hiking alone?”

  “Yes, and when he didn’t return, his son notified the police. It took the rescue squad seven hours to find him. Very sad. So I don’t know . . .”

  “Too bad,” Qwilleran murmured.

  John Bushland liked the nickname of “Bushy”; it made his baldness a joke instead of a calamity. He and Qwilleran had been friends ever since being shipwrecked on a deserted island—only a dozen miles offshore from Mooseville but cold and wet and unforgettable.

  On this occasion they got together over corned-beef sandwiches and cream of asparagus soup. “I’ve just heard, Bushy, that your portrait of Thurston Thackeray hangs in the lobby of the Whinny Hills Clinic.”

  “Yeah, he sat for a formal portrait when I had my photo studio in Lockmaster. He was a good subject—patient, composed, cooperative.”

  “Do you visualize him as a suicide?”

  “Nah! I never bought that rumor. Somebody was trying to make a scandal out of a sad mishap. People can be rotten.”

  “Well, the reason I called,” Qwilleran said, “is because Thelma has invited me over to see her parrots tomorrow. What’s your take on that?”

  “I dunno. She’s hard to figure. Secretive, and yet avid for publicity. Mad about her parrots but turned-off about
any other animals. . . . I liked her assistant, Janice—very helpful and down-to-earth.”

  “Did you meet Thelma’s nephew?”

  “Nope. That would be Doc Thurston’s son.”

  “What’s his line of work?”

  “Financial management, whatever that means. Investments, I suppose. When I lived in Lockmaster, the joke was that Dick had inherited his father’s love of horses, and that’s why he spent so much time at the racetrack.”

  “Have you put your boat in the water as yet?”

  “Last weekend. Would you like to go for a cruise to Three Tree Island?” It was said slyly.

  “Bad joke,” Qwilleran muttered. “I’d rather cut my wrists.”

  “I’m taking Jill Handley and her husband for a cruise Sunday. She met Janice when we were doing the parrot story and suggested it would be friendly to invite her out on the boat. Janice is new in town and doesn’t know anybody.”

  “I’m sure Janice would like it,” Qwilleran said, “but she doesn’t have any regular days off. . . . However . . . I might be able to pull strings. I’ll phone you tomorrow afternoon.”

  On the way home from lunch Qwilleran suddenly realized that he had done nothing about Friday’s column, nor did he have the ghost of an idea. He had allowed his work-pattern to be disrupted by a kidnapping, an unexplained death, work on an abandoned building, and an elderly woman’s idiosyncrasies.

  On such occasions he had a game he played with Koko. The cat liked to push books off the shelf, then peer over the edge to see how they landed. Qwilleran, having failed to discourage the practice, devised a way to put it to good use. He would give the signal, and Koko would dislodge a book. Then Qwilleran was required by the rules to base a “Qwill Pen” column on that title. There was something about the imperative of the game that stimulated creative juices. It sounded silly, but it worked.

  Now, Koko was on the shelf, peering over the edge with satisfaction at a slender book in a worn cover, one of the last to come from the used-book store in its final days. Qwilleran took the book, along with the cats and the cordless phone, to the gazebo. It was a book of proverbs, and he was fingering it and searching for inspiration when the phone rang.