Amanda had long been the crotchety owner of a successful design studio and a cantankerous member of the town council. No matter how much she spent on clothes and grooming, she always looked like a scarecrow. When it came to getting a cat, her friends expected her to adopt a scruffy orange tom with half a tail and one chewed ear. Instead she acquired a glamourous longhair whom she named Quincy, after an early president of the United States.
“Speaking of cats,” Qwilleran said, “are you involved in the Kit Kat Revue?”
“Yeah . . . They asked me to emcee.”
Qwilleran said, “I’d better brush up my tap dancing and do a brother-and-sister act with Mayor Goodwinter.” Actually he hoped to do a reading of some of T. S. Eliot’s madcap verses in Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. He often read them to the Siamese. Yum Yum liked the one about Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer, who prowled about the house stealing things; she could identify. Koko seemed to feel a kinship with Rum Tum Tugger. For he will do as he do do and there’s no doing anything about it.
After lunch Qwilleran was walking past the library when he noticed Thelma’s green coupé in the parking lot. He went into the building and was surprised to see Janice and one of the volunteers dismantling the exhibit of movie star photographs.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“Oh! It’s you!” Janice said. “What a nice surprise! Thelma said everyone has seen the photos and it’s time to show some different ones. She’s had a new sign made.”
It read: EXHIBIT COURTESY OF THELMA’S FILM CLUB.
He said, “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee when you’ve finished the job. Don’t hurry.”
While waiting, he browsed, said a few words to Mac and Katie, put a dollar in their jar, and bantered with the young clerks at the circulation desk.
“Mrs. Duncan is attending a business luncheon,” one said. “She didn’t say what time she’d be back.”
They found their boss’s low-key romance with the famous Mr. Q to be of extreme interest and they would no doubt find it momentous when he left the building with the new woman from Hollywood, who was younger than Mrs. Duncan but not as nice-looking.
He and Janice walked the short distance to Lois’s Luncheonette as he explained the cultural significance of the shabby, noisy, friendly eatery; and when they arrived, a political argument was in progress among the customers, with Lois herself refereeing as she walked about swinging the coffee server.
The voices hushed as Mr. Q entered with a strange woman. “Come in!” Lois called out. “Sit anywhere! All the tables are clean. Two pieces of apple pie left in the kitchen.”
Janice whispered, “Thelma wouldn’t care for this place, but I love it!”
“What is Thelma doing this afternoon?” he asked casually.
“Meditating in her Pyramid. She has one made of copper, which concentrates the electronized energy more efficiently. It will do her good. She was upset after an argument with Dick this morning.”
“Has he been giving Lolita chocolate caramels again?”
Janice hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t talk about this, but I worry about her and it helps if I can get another opinion. She’s been so good to Dick, and he’s so ungrateful.”
“You’re quite right to be concerned, Janice. Do you know what they were arguing about?”
“Employees for the Film Club. They’ll need people to take tickets, run the projector, serve drinks, and clear away between shows. Dick wants to bring in people he knows—from Bixby. Thelma insists on hiring local help—for several good reasons.”
“She’s entirely right.”
“Well, Dick stormed out of the house and slammed the door, so I guess Thelma used her Big Stick. She always talks about carrying a Big Stick to get her own way.”
Qwilleran said, “One wonders why Dick was so determined to hire Bixby Bums, as they’re called in Moose County.” (He thought he knew.)
Changing the subject Qwilleran asked, “How was the boat ride yesterday?”
“Wonderful! The Viewfinder is a beautiful cruiser. The Handleys were nice. And the lunch was good. Bushy is a lot of fun. He told stories about his ancestors, who were commercial fishermen, and about UFOs, and about the terrible shipwrecks before the government built the lighthouse.”
“And what is the response to the ad for Thelma’s Film Club?”
“Very good! Dick is selling both Gold and Green Memberships.”
“Has the opening date been decided?” Qwilleran asked casually.
“Not definitely. Thelma wants it to coincide with a triple-high on her BioRhythm chart.”
He nodded sagely. “A wise approach!”
“And guess who’s coming for opening night?”
He thought, It can’t be Mr. Simmons! Or can it?
“Mr. Simmons!” she announced.
“As a friend of the family or a security guard?”
“Just a friend, although Thelma says he has a suspicious eye that roves around and frisks everyone visually.” Janice said this with much amusement.
“Is there anything I can do to help during his stay? Pick him up at the airport?”
“Thelma says he’d be very interested in seeing your barn. She told him about it.”
“That could be arranged,” Qwilleran said genially.
“And Bushy has offered to take us out on the Viewfinder.”
Janice was far different from the shy guest she had been at the reception. Had Thelma decided it was now “all right” to talk openly with Mr. Q? His sympathetic listening always attracted confidences.
Janice was saying, “Bushy is going to do a portrait of Thelma like the one he did of her brother. And she’s commissioned him to do still lifes of each of her twenty-four hats—to be made into a book. A woman in California is going to write the text. You haven’t seen the hats, have you? I have some snapshots that I took . . .” She rummaged in her handbag.
Qwilleran looked at them and thought, More art than hat! “Interesting,” he said.
“Fran Brodie said we should offer them to the Art Center for an exhibit.”
Qwilleran said, “There’s a gallery opening in Mooseville that would get better traffic and a more sophisticated audience. Tourists come up from Down Below and summer people come over from Grand Island on their yachts. I suggest you show these snapshots to Elizabeth Hart. She’s co-owner of the Grist Mill restaurant and founder of Elizabeth’s Magic, a boutique in Mooseville. Tell her I said it will get statewide publicity.”
Qwilleran was not prepared for the weary “hello” he heard when he phoned Polly for their evening chat.
“Polly! Are you all right?” he asked in alarm.
“I don’t know. I’m at sixes and sevens. I had my quarterly luncheon with my friend Shirley—the Lockmaster librarian, you know. It was her turn to drive up here. We went to Onoosh’s, which isn’t busy on Mondays, and had a booth for privacy. We met to discuss library problems and solutions.
“We compared notes and personal feelings and came to the conclusion that libraries aren’t as much fun as they used to be, twenty years ago. Libraries, we said, used to be all about books! And people who read! Now it’s all about audios and videos and computers and people in a hurry. What used to be serenely open floor space is now cluttered with everything except books. Even the volunteers find it less attractive work, and stop reporting on schedule.
“The public flocks in to see movie stars’ photos, but no one shows up for a book program. Shirley’s quitting! Her son owns the bookstore in Lockmaster, and she’s going to work there. I planned to continue, but can I stand another five years of frustration? And if I leave, what will I DO? I could teach adults to read . . . or do you have any suggestions, Qwill?”
Qwilleran said calmly, “If the K Fund opened a bookstore in Pickax, Polly, would you manage it?”
“What! You don’t mean it!” she cried.
“It’s a crime for a community of this size to have no bookstore! You could have book reviews, discussion gro
ups, and readings from the classics . . . a busload could come in from Ittibittiwassee Estates.”
Polly said, “I think I’m going to faint!”
Qwilleran said, “Before you pass out, let me thank you for the opera recording!”
15
Qwilleran was serious about the bookstore. There would be long meetings with G. Allen Barter, attorney for the K Fund, and trips to Chicago for Polly’s decisions: whether to build a new store on Book Alley or adapt the premises of the old Pickax Picayune. Meanwhile there would be the Kit Kat Revue to produce . . . and Thelma’s Film Club to launch, and another Tuesday deadline for the “Qwill Pen.”
Qwilleran was polishing his thousand words on Cool Koko’s Almanac when Thornton Haggis phoned. “I have some interesting news for you, Qwill. Are you free?”
“I’m on deadline. Why don’t you come up at two o’clock? Bring my mail and newspaper, and we’ll have some refreshments. Will your news keep?”
“It’s kept for a century. Another few hours won’t hurt. It’s something I heard at the genealogical society last night.”
That lessened the newsman’s anticipation somewhat but he said, “I can hardly wait!”
After two o’clock his friend Thorn trudged up the lane from the Art Center, and Qwilleran met him with a pitcher of sangria. They discussed the weather, the future of Thelma’s Film Club, and the price of gasoline. Then Qwilleran asked about the G.S., as the ten-syllable organization was popularly called.
“Well . . . a couple of years ago they started an inventory of lost cemeteries.”
“How does a cemetery get lost?”
“Starting about 1850, people were buried in backyards and along roadsides and in tiny churchyards. There is no trace of them today, but a group of G.S. members who call themselves grave-finders have searched county records and found hundreds of names and scores of old cemetery locations. Most of the little churches have been destroyed, but they found one small log church about the size of a one-ear garage but with a proud little steeple. A stone wall surrounds a small graveyard with headstones no bigger than a concrete block—but with names and dates. The oldest is 1918. But it’s completely over-grown. In fact, it’s now part of a Klingenschoen Conservancy. The G.S. is getting permission to clear it out as a historic site. But here’s the surprise! Three Thackerays are buried there, and they’re pretty sure that Milo and some other farmers built the church.”
“Hmmm,” Qwilleran mused. “It would make a good story for the Something if handled right. Does the G.S. have any plans?”
“Since the last of the Moose County Thackerays has returned, they thought some kind of dedication ceremony might be in order. You know her; do you think she’d go for that?”
“She likes publicity, if it’s favorable. She’s hired a P.R. consultant. I could sound her out.”
“We won’t release the news of the Thackeray graves until we hear from you, Qwill.”
Qwilleran had promised to take Thelma to lunch at the Nutcracker Inn; he could combine it with a sightseeing drive around the county, including the Old Log Church. After Thornton’s visit, he phoned her, and before he could extend his invitation, she cried, “Bless you, Ducky, for sending us to that talented Elizabeth Hart! She came down this morning to see our hats, and she said she’ll be thrilled to exhibit them!”
“I want to hear all about it! Suppose I pick you up at eleven tomorrow morning—for lunch and sightseeing.”
“What kind of shoes shall I wear?” was her prompt reply.
He hung up with the satisfaction of “mission accomplished.”
Before the day was over, he would have a harder task.
The Kit Kat system of foster care for kittens, which was new to Moose County, had been quietly succeeding, and now it was time to go public with a fund-raising Kit Kat Revue. The question was: When and where? A problem-solving session at the MacLeod residence on Pleasant Street was scheduled for Tuesday evening. Qwilleran walked over there at seven-thirty as several neighbors were converging on the site, and a carload drove in from Indian Village. Hannah MacLeod greeted everyone at the door, while Uncle Louie MacLeod sat at the baby grand and played numbers from the musical Cats.
The house had been occupied by three generations of musical MacLeods and was filled with family heirlooms and family portraits of opera singers, violinists, and pianists.
The newest member of the family—the recently adopted Danny—escorted guests to the adjoining family room with the official zeal of an eight-year-old. He brought extra chairs from the dining room, asked if anyone wanted a drink of bottled water, and answered questions about the kitten colonies.
“They have to stay with their mother for eight weeks. . . . She feeds them and shows them how to take a bath. . . . She picks them up by the back of the neck and drops them in their sandbox. She teaches them how to play.”
When the last guest had arrived—Burgess Campbell with Alexander—Uncle Louie played a few chords of “God Bless America” and Danny said, “Everybody stand up and sing!”
The meeting was chaired by Mavis Adams, instigator of the local foster-care program and promoter of the fund-raising revue. She introduced two special guests. Hixie Rice was promotion director at the Moose County Something, which would underwrite expenses of the revue as a public service. Dwight Somers was the public-relations consultant who would advise the Kit Kat Revue committee pro bono.
Mavis said, “We have our program material well in hand, but we can’t decide on staging or the price of tickets until we know the when-and-where of the revue.”
Burgess Campbell spoke up. “May I say that this county has plenty of affluent individuals who will support a good cause if the event has an element of novelty and exclusivity. Fifty persons paid three hundred dollars a ticket for a black-tie cheese-tasting . . . chiefly because it was held at Qwill’s barn. The renovated opera house would be a similar drawing card while it’s hot news.”
Uncle Louie asked, “Would the old gal let us borrow it for one night? She’s said to hate cats. What does Somers & Beard have to say about this?”
“She’s highly sensitive about her image,” the P.R. man said. “In a county of ten thousand cat-fanciers I’d advise against the ailurophobe label. But since I’m working for her, I can’t be a special pleader for the Kit Kat Revue. You’ll have to request the use of the opera house. Then, if she asks my opinion—which she will—I’ll endorse it.”
Wetherby said, “Qwill’s in solid with Thelma. I move that we appoint him special pleader.”
“Seconded!”
“All in favor?”
Every hand was raised.
Uncle Louie asked, “Has anyone seen the hall?”
“It seats about a hundred cabaret-style, at small round tables,” Dwight said. “There’s a stage, with a full-size movie screen for a backdrop. There’s a bar for serving beverages. Plenty of space backstage.”
Someone asked, “Does anyone know how they’ve decorated the interior of the opera house?”
Only Dwight had seen it. “Everything’s a grayish purple like an ophthalmologist’s waiting room—not too dark, not too light. The tables are small and round and pedestal-type. The chairs swivel and roll on casters and are quite comfortably upholstered.”
There was excited babble in the room, and Mavis rapped for attention, and asked Uncle Louie for an update on the program.
He said, “Besides musical numbers and humorous readings, there will be performances by the creative dance club at the school and the tumbling team wearing cat costumes with tails. The kids visited several foster-care colonies to get ideas about kittens at play.”
Then Hixie Rice asked to have the floor. “I would like to suggest a rousing finale for the program: a procession across the stage of prominent citizens with their cats! The mayor, the superintendent of schools, the director of the public library, newspaper personalities, and our esteemed meteorologist, of course.” There were cheers, and Wetherby took a bow.
Hixie w
ent on. “I know where I can order rhinestone-studded harnesses and leashes—overnight delivery—for marching across the stage.”
A commanding voice said, “May I say a few words?”
All heads turned to listen. Qwilleran was not only who he was, but the “Qwill Pen” column had made him an authority on feline eccentricities. He said, “A cat may walk on a leash in a park, stopping to sniff an unidentified object or to chase a blowing leaf. But will he walk in a straight line—from stage-left to stage-right—in front of a hundred strangers?”
All heads turned to Hixie. “If they won’t walk, they can be carried or wheeled in some kind of conveyance. Also, there is a safe herbal sedation that’s used in the theatre when a cat plays a role in a play—Pywacket in Bell, Book and Candle, for example. It produces serenity.”
“In the actors or the cat?” Wetherby asked.
Mavis said, “We can cross that bridge when we come to it.”
And Uncle Louie said, “Everything depends on whether Qwill can twist Thelma’s arm.”
“Hear! Hear!” everyone shouted, and the meeting was adjourned.
Back at the barn, Koko was doing his grasshopper act.
“Were your ears burning?” Qwilleran asked. “How are you going to feel about a rhinestone-studded harness?”
But no. The cat was announcing a message on the answering machine—from Bushy.
“Would you like to earn a little extra money Thursday morning? Call me back.”
Qwilleran phoned him. “Doing what?”
“Photographer’s assistant. No experience necessary. Easy work. Low pay. I’m shooting all twenty-four of Thelma’s hats, and it would speed matters if someone held the lights.”
“Don’t you have light stands?”
“Frankly,” Bushy said, “the two gals will be hanging around and wanting to talk, and you can shoo them away diplomatically.”
“Okay, but give my remuneration to charity. I don’t want to report it to the IRS.”
Cat Who Brought Down the House, the Unabridged Audio Page 12
