Joe explained, “Too many house pets are getting mixed up with rabid wildlife!”
Polly said she had never understood the nature of rabies.
“An infectious disease common to some forms of wildlife,” Dr. Connie said. “It’s transmitted through the saliva when rabid animals get into fights with household pets and bite them. The best safeguard is the leash or the cage. Otherwise they’ll see something move on the bank of the creek and be off for some fun!”
Qwilleran said, “We never had rabid animals in downtown Chicago—only kids with slingshots and careless truck drivers.”
Then Qwilleran broached the subject of Koko’s sixty whiskers, and Dr. Connie said, “I can’t imagine that Koko was enthusiastic about your counting them.”
Qwilleran said, “I gave him a mild sedative that is used in the theater when cats are to be onstage.” He was the first to say he had to go home and feed the cats. The women said the same thing. As a farewell, Joe sat down at the piano and played “Kitten on the Keys” very fast!
Someone said, “We must do this again soon,” and everyone agreed.
Qwilleran escorted Polly to Unit One and went in to say good night to Brutus and Catta, as he always did.
After Joe’s fast pace at the piano and after the nonstop friendly chatter, Qwilleran welcomed a quiet evening with the Siamese. Driving home, Qwilleran remembered growing up in Chicago and hearing his mother play “Kitten on the Keys”—and marveling at how her fingers flew over the keyboard. Now Joe Bunker played it twice as fast! Where did he get his nervous energy? He grew up in the town of Horseradish, inhaling all those powerful fumes. Joe had a cousin with a Ph.D. in corvidology, and she was as wacky as he was.
Entering the barnyard, he saw Koko cavorting in the kitchen window. He knew what that meant.
Two cats—Where’s our dinner? We’re starving!
One cat—There’s a message on the phone.
The call was from Judd Amhurst, one of the three judges assigned to select a new name for the facility.
“Qwill! We’ve got the name! And it’s perfect! It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper, but if you can’t wait, give me a call.”
Judd lived at the Winston Park apartment complex—just across from the bookstore where the judging was scheduled to take place.
Never comfortable with unanswered questions, Qwilleran phoned him immediately. “Judd, don’t keep me in suspense!”
“Well, Maggie, Thornton, and I met in one of the community rooms at the bookstore big table! Bushels of entries! We started reading them aloud. Most were ordinary. Some were silly. A few had possibilities. Then Thornton read one from Bill Turmeric of Sawdust City—”
“I know him!” Qwilleran interrupted. “He writes clever letters to the editor.”
“You’ll like this one! It’s complete with a motto!” Then he read: “Senior Health Club—Good for the Body, Good for the Mind, Good for the Spirit.”
“Sign me up!” Qwilleran said. “Am I old enough?”
“I thought you’d like it, Qwill. We sorted through all of them, but this was the best.”
“What’s the prize?”
“The paper’s giving two hundred dollars, and there are gift certificates from merchants.”
“Well, thanks for tipping me off. I’ll devote Tuesday’s column to the Old Hulk—Its Past and Future.”
Qwilleran started making notes for his Tuesday column:
Feed-and-seed warehouse.
Served farmers for more than a century.
Called the Old Hulk.
Typical warehouse: flat roof, no windows, loading dock.
Interior: nothing but open space with lofts for sacks of feed and seed, connected by ramps. In-town location no longer serviceable to today’s farmers, who prefer more accessible outlets located at handy locations around the county.
Property vacant for several years.
Will need public entrances, windows, five floors connected by stairs and elevators, plumbing, electricity, and a lot of paint and carpet and ideas!
Why not a roof garden?
In his journal he would write:
The Old Hulk was a piece of abandoned property on the north edge of Pickax, recently purchased by the Scottish community and given to the city as a senior center, along with a grant covering complete remodeling, redecorating, and furnishing.
In the nineteenth century, Scottish shipbuilders had come to Moose County to build three-masted schooners using the two-hundred-foot pine trees for masts. When steam replaced sail, they turned to house building and did well, as attested by their mansions in Purple Point and their support of community projects. The senior center was to be their thank-you.
As for the property chosen, it had been a feed-and-seed depot and warehouse where farm wagons came to stock up. New modes of transportation had replaced it with several small depots around the county. The Old Hulk, as it was called, became a hangout for kids, feral cats, and who knows what else. Now, architects and builders were donating their expertise and the Something was offering the coordinating services of Hixie Rice to the project pro bono.
Later that day, Qwilleran had a phone call from Hixie Rice.
“Guess what? The dog table is back!”
Early in the year an heirloom auction had been staged to raise money for furnishing the new Senior Health Club. Old families donated prized possessions—everything from porcelain teacups to rare items of furniture.
One such was a six-foot library table of ponderous oak construction with bulbous legs at one end; the other end was supported by a life-size carving of a basset hound. It was donated by the office manager of the Something, inherited from her wealthy father.
Everyone said: “It weighs a ton! Bet she’s glad to get rid of it. Can she take it as a tax deduction? What’s it worth?”
At the auction an unidentified agent made a sealed bid and won the table for…ten thousand dollars! It left town on a truck for parts unknown.
Now the dog table was back!…donated to the Senior Health Club by an unidentified well-wisher.
Qwilleran asked, “How will it be used?”
“In the foyer, which is quite large. It’ll be a focal point, with magazines on top, and a table lamp…. May be we should have a cat lamp! An artist could do a sculpture of a cat sitting on his haunches and holding the socket in his paws! Do you think Koko would pose? Everybody would come to see our dog table and cat lamp!”
“Hang up!” Qwilleran said. “You’re hallucinating!”
THREE
Qwilleran was half an hour late in serving breakfast to the cats on Monday morning. They attacked their plates as if they had been deprived of food for a week. At one point, though, Koko raised his head abruptly and stared at a spot on the kitchen wall. In a few seconds the phone rang, and he returned to the business at hand.
The caller was Lisa Compton, retired academic and wife of the school superintendent. She was also the chief volunteer at Edd Smith’s Place, where preowned books were sold for charitable causes.
“Qwill, a chauffeur from Purple Point just brought in a box of books that made me think of you.”
“The statement raises questions,” he said.
“You’ll love them! They’re all pocket-size hardcovers—the kind they had before paperbacks. Convenient for reading to the cats—and really quite attractive. Some have decorative covers and gold-printed titles on the spines.”
“What kind of titles?”
“All classics. Kidnapped, Lorna Doone, Uncle Tom’s Cabin…and authors like Guy de Maupassant, Henry James, and Mark Twain.”
Qwilleran said, “Don’t let them get away from you! I’ll be right there!”
“May I make a suggestion? Since the box is rather large, you should park in the north lot and come to the back door. It leads right downstairs into Edd Smith’s Place.”
Qwilleran liked Lisa. She always thought everything through—not only selling him the books but figuring the easiest way of getting them to his car.
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“And by the way, Qwill, there’s some Lit Club business to discuss. If you have time.” She used a formal voice that indicated the other volunteers were listening. “Do you have a few minutes?”
Always interested in a little intrigue, he said, “See you in ten minutes.”
Later, in the private meeting room, Lisa said in a low voice, “This is not for publication, but I’m giving up volunteer work and taking a paid job as manager of the Senior Health Club.”
“Well!” he said in astonishment. “I’m shocked—and pleased! What does Lyle think about it?”
“He thinks the club is very lucky to get me.”
“I agree!”
“It’s a big job of coordination: scheduling activities, handling memberships, finding instructors, finding new ideas—”
“Lisa, you’re the only one who can do it. Let me know if there’s anything that I can do to help.”
Famous last words, he thought on the way back to the barn. What am I getting into?
Qwilleran collected Famous Last Words and had his readers contributing them too. Someday, he told them, the K Fund might publish a collection. There were examples like:
“You don’t need to take an umbrella…. It’s not going to rain.”
“The Road Commission says the old wooden bridge…is perfectly safe!”
“Let’s not stop to buy gas…. We’re only driving over the mountain.”
And for every gem that was printed, he gave the proud contributor a fat yellow lead pencil stamped Qwill Pen in gold—trophies that were treasured.
To Arch Riker it was just a lazy columnist’s way of letting his readers do all the work. The editor’s huff was all an act, of course, Qwilleran told himself with a complacent shrug as the sacks of his fan mail filled the mailroom.
When Qwilleran brought the boxful of books into the barn, Koko came running; Yum Yum came in a sedate second.
Qwilleran placed the treasure trove on the bar, and Koko proceeded to go wild with excitement, a performance leading one to wonder where the books had been. When they were unloaded, however, it became evident that it was the box—not the books—that aroused the cat’s interest. Interest was a mild word; Koko went berserk over the empty box, inside and out!
Qwilleran called the ESP. “Lisa! Is it polite to ask who donated these books?”
“Is it polite to ask why you want to know?” she asked teasingly.
“Koko wants to know. It’s not the books that interest him so much as the box they came in.”
“It’s large,” Lisa said. “Maybe he wants to set up housekeeping in it.”
“It’s not only large—but plain. Just a brown carton without any pictures of Ivory Snow or Campbell’s Soup.”
“That’s funnier than you think, Qwill. The books came from one of the Campbell families in Purple Point.”
“I wonder where they acquired them. Do you know that family well enough to ask? Tell them Cool Koko wants to know its provenance.”
“They’ll love it! They’re all fans of the Qwill Pen.”
With shelf space found for the books and a session of reading from The Portrait of a Lady, Koko calmed down. The box itself was in the shed along with rubbish and a few garden tools. A do-not-discard note was taped to it; its provenance remained a mystery.
As for Koko, he behaved like a normal house cat for the rest of the day until four o’clock.
Late Monday afternoon, Qwilleran was lounging in his big chair when Koko suddenly appeared from nowhere and jumped to the arm of the chair. His lithe body was taut and his ears pointed toward the kitchen window.
Someone’s coming! Qwilleran thought. The cat jumped down and ran to the kitchen, where he could look out the window from the countertop. Qwilleran followed him.
Outside the window was the barnyard—and then a patch of dense woods and a dirt road leading to Main Street and several important buildings. Surrounding a traffic circle were two churches, the public library, a theater arts building, and the grand old courthouse.
Qwilleran waited to see a vehicle coming through the woods. Nothing arrived, but Koko kept on watching. Qwilleran went back to his lounge chair.
At that moment the kitchen phone rang. It was the attorney.
“Qwill! This is Bart! I know this is short notice. Do you have a few minutes? I’m phoning from the courthouse.”
Qwilleran was stunned into silence. Koko had known a call was coming from a building half a mile away!
“Qwill, did you hear me? I said—”
“I heard you, Bart. Koko was diverting my attention, that’s all. Come on over.”
“Tell Koko I have a treat for him.”
“Your Uncle George is coming,” he told the cats.
Shortly, the attorney arrived and was joyously greeted by all.
The four of them proceeded single file to the conference table—Qwilleran carrying the coffee, Bart carrying his briefcase, and the cats carrying their tails straight up.
Opening his briefcase, Bart said, “My wife sent a treat for the cats—something she makes for our brats. They like the sound effects when they crunch it.” He drew a plastic zipper bag from among the documents.
“It’s like Italian biscotti but with seasoning of particular interest to cats—my wife says! She calls it biscatti.”
Koko and Yum Yum were allowed to sniff the plastic bag, but it was too early “for their treat.”
Qwilleran said, “While you’re here, Bart, perhaps you could give me some information about the Ledfield house that’s being opened as a museum. Not everyone knows it’s called the Old Manse—and has been for the last hundred years. I’m wondering if Nathan Ledfield’s grandfather had read Hawthorne’s Mosses from an Old Manse and incorporated any ideas from his reading. If so, it’s a suggestion for the Qwill Pen.”
“Would you like a tour of the house?” Bart asked. “It can be arranged.”
Then he launched into an explanation of necessary changes in converting a private mansion to a county-owned museum.
“Nathan Ledfield had long employed two assistants: Daisy Babcock, who handled financial matters, and Alma Lee James, in charge of his collection of art and antiques…. You may know her parents’ art gallery in Lockmaster, Qwill. Alma Lee is very knowledgeable, and her connection with the gallery resulted in some very favorable purchases for the Ledfield collection…. Is there more coffee?”
As Qwilleran poured, he said, “Leaving the mansion to the county must have entailed some drastic changes.”
“Not too drastic,” the attorney assured him. “Alma Lee has been named director of the museum. That involves training museum guides as well as supervising maintenance of the building. Daisy Babcock will act as her assistant, since the finances will be handled by an investment counselor appointed by the county.”
“Then I should see Miss James for a tour of the Old Manse,” Qwilleran assumed.
“Yes, either she or Miss Babcock can show you around…. If you’ll pardon a little in-house gossip: Daisy Babcock resents being demoted to second-in-command. When Nathan Ledfield was boss, Daisy was his fair-haired girl! I wouldn’t be surprised if she quits. She’s married to one of the Linguini sons but uses her maiden name.”
“Wise choice,” Qwilleran murmured, reflecting that “Daisy Linguini” would be a fetching name for a trapeze performer but not so good for a financial secretary to a billionaire.
Qwilleran asked, “Are those the Linguinis who had the wonderful Italian restaurant?” It was a mom-and-pop operation. If a customer was having a birthday, Papa Linguini would come out of the kitchen in his chef’s hat, get down on one knee, fling his arms wide, and sing Happy B-ir-r-rthday in an operatic voice. “Apparently they retired.”
“Yes, and their sons preferred to open a party store and plant a vineyard. They also want to open a winery, but the neighbors along the shore are objecting.”
Before he left, Bart said, “About visiting the Old Manse: Either of the women could show you around and ans
wer your questions, but it might be politic to work with Alma James. Let me break the ice for you. I know she’s been dying to see your barn—”
“Half the Western world has been wanting to see my barn. That’s okay. How do we go about it?”
“I could drive her over someday, then ease her out if she wants to stay too long.”
“Does she like cats?” Qwilleran asked. “Koko has been known to react to ailurophobes in peculiar ways.”
“She’s from Lockmaster and is more accustomed to dogs and horses.”
“I could put Koko and Yum Yum out in the gazebo.”
“No! No!” said Bart, a confirmed ailurophile. “It’s their barn! Let her adjust. If she begins to itch or sneeze, she won’t want to stay so long.”
Qwilleran, detecting a lack of enthusiasm on the attorney’s part, asked, “How do you size up the two women in charge of the Manse?”
“Daisy is always relaxed and friendly. Alma—I never liked that name—is warm or cold, agreeable or reserved, depending on her mood…. You’ll have to excuse me; I grew up with an aunt called Alma, and she let her sons break my toys and squirt me with water pistols.”
That was what Qwilleran liked about Bart—he was human and honest.
On his way out, the attorney said, “I almost forgot. My daughter asks a favor. She’s making a survey and would like you to write two words on an index card.” He drew a card and a pen from his pocket. “You write cat on one side of the card and dog on the other…. Sign your initials.”
Qwilleran wrote dog on the first side in proper penmanship. On the reverse side he dashed off cat in a flamboyant script, crossing the t with a bar an inch long.
“I thank you. My daughter thanks you. She’s quite serious about this study—her own idea—although it will never be published.”
“How old is she?” Qwilleran asked.
“Nine going on fifteen. Next summer she wants to extend the survey to Lockmaster,” he said, raising parental eyebrows.
The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers Page 2