The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Did you know that’s how Maggie Sprenkle’s husband died? He was working in his rose garden when he was stung and had forgotten his emergency kit. By the time he maneuvered his wheelchair into the house, it was too late. That’s why Maggie sold the estate and moved downtown. By the way, what did you think of the Old Manse?”

  He said, “I’ve decided the Hawthorne connection is too esoteric for Qwill Pen readers. I’m going to leave the Old Manse to the feature writers when the preview takes place. Well…”

  “À bientôt.”

  “À bientôt, dear.”

  Late Thursday afternoon, Koko, who had been invisible for hours, suddenly made an appearance in the kitchen—not to order his dinner but to announce that someone was coming. He jumped on and off the kitchen counter overlooking the barnyard. He was right, of course. In fifteen seconds, according to Qwilleran’s stopwatch, the Linguini truck emerged from the wooded trail and drove up to the back door.

  Daisy jumped out and looked up at the barn in wonder. Her husband, Fredo, jumped out and started unloading two cases of Squunk water and boxes of cranberry juice, potato chips, pretzels, mixed nuts, and enough wine and spirits to stock the bar for Qwilleran’s guests. Koko supervised.

  “Is he your new bartender?” Fredo asked.

  “No, he’s from the State Revenue Department. We have a limited license.”

  Daisy was wandering around, gazing up at the ramps, balconies, soaring chimney stacks, and six-foot tapestries hanging from the highest railings.

  The Siamese followed her, and Yum Yum allowed her to pick her up while Koko demonstrated his flying-squirrel act, landing on a sofa cushion below.

  Then Qwilleran conducted them to the formal foyer with double doors, overlooking the octagonal gazebo screened on all eight sides. It had a view of the butterfly garden, flowering shrubs, and birdhouses on the trail leading to the Art Center on the Old Back Road.

  Daisy was reluctant to leave, but they had two more deliveries to make.

  Before they left, Qwilleran said, “It seems to me the Qwill Pen should do a column on vineyards. I’ve never grown so much as a radish, but grapes appeal to me as—what shall I say?—a satisfying crop.”

  “My brother Nick can give you a conducted tour. He’s the vintner. Say when!”

  On the phone Friday morning, the attorney and Qwilleran plotted Alma Lee’s visit to the barn. It would be brief: Bart had another appointment, and Qwilleran had to file his copy for the noon deadline.

  When Bart and Alma arrived, the Siamese flew to the loftiest rafters, from which they could observe the first-time visitor.

  Qwilleran met them in the parking lot and conducted them to the formal entrance on the other side of the barn.

  “Where does this lead?” Alma asked.

  “To my mailbox on the back road,” he said, omitting mention of such items as the butterfly pool and the Art Center.

  She looked at the screened gazebo. “Is that where one of your guests shot himself last year?”

  “He wasn’t a guest; he was an intruder, wanted by the police in three counties,” Qwilleran said, embroidering the truth.

  Indoors, she looked up at the balconies and ramps, the large white fireplace cube with stacks rising to the roof forty feet overhead, the six-foot tapestries hanging from balcony railings. “You could use some small art objects,” she said.

  Qwilleran replied, “The architectural complexities and vast spaces and walls of books don’t leave much space for miscellaneous art objects. Apart from that, there’s not much to see. It’s an atmosphere you feel; you don’t see it.”

  Dropping her critical frown, she said amiably, “Do you know what I’d like to see in this environment? Large vases filled with fresh flowers! Every area has an ideal spot for it, and you can get fabulous vases from the Ledfield collection in crystal, porcelain, and silver.”

  Qwilleran and the attorney exchanged glances.

  Qwilleran said, “With two airborne cats, a vase of flowers would last about ten minutes.”

  And Bart said, “Come, come, Alma. Mr. Qwilleran is on deadline at the newspaper.”

  Opening her handbag, she found a booklet bound in black and gold. “Here is the catalog of the Ledfield collection. The items with red stickers are already sold.”

  Qwilleran thanked her and gave his wristwatch what was supposed to be a surreptitious glance.

  Alma said, “The most important item has already gone to an old family in Purple Point.”

  Barter said, “We won’t have time to sit down, because I have another appointment, and I know you’re on deadline, but thanks for showing Alma the interior.”

  They were standing—awkwardly, Qwilleran felt—around the area with two large angled sofas.

  Suddenly there was a scream as a cat dropped from the rafters onto the cushion of a sofa.

  “Sorry,” Qwilleran said to his unnerved guest. “That’s Koko. He wants to be introduced.”

  “We don’t have time for formalities,” said Barter. “We’re holding up the presses. Thank you, Qwill. Come on, Alma.”

  As Barter rushed Alma out of the barn, he looked back and rolled his eyes meaningfully.

  As soon as they had driven away, Qwilleran checked the catalog for red-stickered items. He found: a fifteen-inch punch bowl of Chinese export porcelain. It was dated circa 1780. The design was elaborate and historical.

  He called Lisa Compton at the ESP place. “Are you still there? Won’t they let you go?”

  “This sounds like Qwill. Tomorrow’s my last day at the bookstore. What can I do for you?”

  “About your rich cousins”…(Campbell was her maiden name, but she claimed to be from the poor side of the clan)…“Do you happen to know what they bought from the Ledfield estate? Koko’s still fascinated by the box the books came in.”

  “It was only a punch bowl, they said.”

  “Glass or china?”

  “China, but quite old. Do you want me to find out the nature of the design? There’s no telling what might light a fire under that smart Koko!”

  After a little more nonsense common to the fans of “Cool Koko,” the conversation ended.

  Qwilleran grabbed the black-and-gold catalog and found the punch-bowl listing: It had sold for sixty thousand dollars.

  SIX

  As Qwilleran had once written in his private journal:

  Anyone who thinks it’s easy to write a twice-weekly column is misinformed. It may be an enjoyable challenge, but it’s never easy. Friday has a relentless way of following Tuesday, and next Tuesday follows this Friday inexorably.

  Only the loyalty and enthusiasm of readers kept Qwilleran’s creative juices perking.

  The Hawthorne idea had proved to be a “no-story”—an unfortunate situation to a newsman with a deadline to meet. He had to resort to his “trash barrel,” as he called the deep drawer of his desk. Postcards from readers, clippings, notes could always be made into a chatty Qwill Pen column with, perhaps, a saying from Cool Koko: “Faint heart never won the softest cushion in the house.”

  Polly said that Qwilleran made the same mistakes over and over again.

  But doggedly…not stubbornly, he proceeded with another Qwill Pen idea, writing a story in his mind before researching it.

  Moose County had a vineyard and a vintner! Qwilleran, Chicago-born, saw his first vineyard in Italy while a young foreign correspondent, and he had retained a romantic impression of the vineyard, the vintner—and perhaps the vintner’s daughter.

  First he consulted the encyclopedia, determined to avoid another no-story disappointment. He liked the words: vineyard, viticulture, and vintner. He had never wanted to be a farmer, but he wouldn’t mind being a vintner. And there was more to viticulture than the making of wine; there were grapes for eating, juice for drinking, raisins for baking, and—his favorite spread for toast—grape jelly. It was an ancient culture, mentioned by Virgil, Homer, and the Bible. Thomas Jefferson tried it. Julia Ward Howe referred to grapes in “
The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  Qwilleran had new respect for the Linguini brothers. Nick was the vintner who helped with the store; Alfredo was the storekeeper who helped with the vineyard. He called and made an appointment.

  So, on Saturday morning, he drove to the western part of the county, near the lakeshore, and visited Linguinis’ Party Store. There were quite a few cars in the parking lot. The party store was in a rustic building with a porch running the full width. Indoors, the goods were arranged casually, and the customers were not in a hurry. Some were wandering in and out of a back hall, smiling. It seemed, on investigation, that another homeless pregnant cat had wandered in from the highway and had been given a box and blanket—and had given birth to four minuscule kittens. The smiling customers were putting dollar bills in a pickle jar on the counter for their food, shots, and future expenses.

  “Hi, Mr. Q,” said Fredo. “Want to cast your vote for the kittens’ names?…Nick is expecting you!…Marge, ring the vineyard and tell him Qwill is here.”

  While waiting for the vintner to come up with his Jeep, Qwilleran accepted compliments from readers, answered questions about Cool Koko’s health and happiness, and generally made friends for the Something.

  As for discovering another two thousand words for the Qwill Pen, however…it was another Good Idea That Didn’t Work. But he heard some provocative comments from Nick that his sister-in-law, Daisy, had brought home from the Manse; they raised questions.

  “Fredo and I think she should quit,” he said. “Too much monkey business! Know what I mean? There’s too much money floating around! Do you realize that a punch bowl sold for sixty thousand? What I’m wondering is, where is the sixty thousand?…That young girl who’s supposed to be handling Nathan’s personal accounts has been whispering suspicions to Daisy. See what I mean?”

  Qwilleran agreed it was a sticky situation. “As I understand it, the entire property has been given to the county. Somebody should blow the whistle! But who? Let me think about it, Nick.”

  “Think fast!”

  Qwilleran left the vineyard in the firm belief that Koko’s curiosity about the large cardboard carton in the shed had some connection with Alma Lee; the cat had dropped from the rafters as if trying to frighten her. Then, when Qwilleran arrived at the barn, he found that the black-and-gold catalog had been torn to shreds!

  No sane person would consider this evidence. It was coincidence, and yet…stranger things had happened in connection with Koko! What to do?

  While he was downtown with his car, Qwilleran stopped at Grandma’s Sweet Shop to pick up ice cream—a gallon of particularly good butter pecan for himself and a quart of vanilla for the Siamese. A real grandmother presided over the cash register in the front, and her grandchildren waited on customers in the rear. Before he could place his order, he saw a waving hand from the seating area (old-fashioned ice-cream tables and chairs of twisted wire). It was Hannah Hawley, wife of Uncle Louie McLeod—with their adopted son, now about nine.

  She beckoned to Qwilleran, and as he approached, the young man jumped up and politely added another chair to the table. (This was the waif who had never brushed his teeth or said his prayers when adopted!)

  “How’s Koko?” she asked. “I’ll never forget his performance at the KitKat Revue.”

  “He really blew his cool, didn’t he? I think he was expressing an opinion of rhinestone collars.”

  Qwilleran inquired, “How’s everything on Pleasant Street?” He signaled for a cup of coffee.

  “Pleasant,” she said. “We’re casting for Cats. Would you like to try out for Old Deuteronomy?”

  “That’s about my speed, but if you need a genuine feline, I can supply one.”

  “How well we know!” she said. “By the way, the rehearsal pianist we’ve had for years has left town, and we were really worried, but we were able to rent Frankie from Lockmaster.”

  After two gulps of coffee, Qwilleran asked, “Would it be naïve to ask who Frankie is—and why he has to be rented?”

  “He’s crazy,” said Danny.

  “Dear, we don’t use that word,” he was reprimanded. “He’s an eccentric genius. He can sight-read a musical score he has never seen before! Perfectly! But he’d do it for nothing, and people would take advantage of him, so he’s under the management of his family. He’s remarkable.”

  “What is the family name?” Qwilleran asked.

  “His last name is James, but there are lots of Jameses in Lockmaster—like Goodwinters here. All kinds!” She stopped suddenly and looked at the boy. “Danny, take this money and pay our check at the front counter. Tell Grandma we enjoyed our lunch. And don’t forget to count your change.”

  When Danny had left on his important mission, Hannah said in a low voice, “Louie says the Jameses include teachers and preachers, horse breeders, and train robbers. There’s an antique shop that we think is way overpriced. Frankie’s managers seem to be a decent sort. They’re looking out for his well-being, since he seems to lack a sense of money. He doesn’t drive—couldn’t get a license, they say….” Her voice trailed off as Danny returned to the table with the change. “We like Frankie, don’t we, Danny? He has a friendly, outgoing personality—”

  “He has a girlfriend,” Danny interrupted.

  Hannah stood up. “So nice to run into you, Qwill. I’ll tell Louie I saw you. Come on, Danny!”

  Late that evening Qwilleran and Polly had their eleven P.M. phone chat. He asked, “Did you have a good day?”

  “We had a few interesting customers. Sales were about normal. Dundee ate something he shouldn’t have and threw up.”

  “I visited Linguini’s Party Store. They have a new litter of kittens, and I contributed a name for one of them. I suggested Squunky. Nick showed me around the vineyard. I’ve decided my interest in vineyards, vintners, and viticulture is purely literary. I like the sound of the words and the quotations from the Bible and poets and playwrights…. So I’m afraid it’s a no-story again….”

  “Oh dear! You’ve wasted a lot of time!”

  “A writer’s time is never wasted. We’ll talk about it at dinner Saturday night. How about the Old Grist Mill? We’ll pay the new management the compliment of dressing up.”

  Polly hesitated longer than normal. “Oh, dear! There’s a complication…. You know my friend Shirley in Lockmaster?”

  “We haven’t met, but I know she’s the Lockmaster librarian who quit when you did—and went into book merchandising, the way you did.”

  “Yes, but her bookstore is a hundred years old and has been in the family all that time. Saturday is her sixtieth birthday. They’re taking a private room at the Palomino Paddock. They want me to be there as a surprise! You’re invited, too, but I think you wouldn’t enjoy it. They play guessing games.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Qwill, I hate to miss our Saturday-night date. It’s the first time ever!”

  “That’s perfectly all right. I’ll take Rhoda Tibbitt to dinner and talk about her late husband. Have a good evening. Better not drive back till Sunday morning. I don’t want you to drive alone at night.” Then, since he had placed the call, it was his place to say “À bientôt.”

  “À bientôt,” she said. Did he detect a slight chill on the line? Surely she realized that Rhoda was the eighty-nine-year-old widow of the century-old historian of Moose County.

  Polly’s defection on Saturday night—in favor of dinner and guessing games in Lockmaster—was just what Qwilleran needed to launch the Tibbitt project. Rhoda was only too happy to cooperate. He picked her up at Ittibittiwassee Estates, where the other residents were thrilled to see one of their number go to dinner with Mr. Q.

  Qwilleran had made a reservation at Tipsy’s Tavern, a roadhouse in a log cabin—with its own poultry farm. It was aptly named for the owner’s cat, a portrait of which hung in the main dining room—white with a black patch slipping crazily over one eye. There was a private alcove overlooking the poultry yard
that could be closed off for conferences after dinner, and the management was always proud to reserve it for Mr. Q.

  As for the food, there was no doubt that Tipsy’s had the best ham and eggs and chicken à la king in the county—but nothing fancy—and the cook made no claim to being a chef.

  Qwilleran said to his guest, “We’ll have dinner first and chat; then we’ll clear the table and turn on the recorder.”

  He said, “I first met Homer at the Klingenschoen mansion when it was a museum. The cats and I were living there. Iris Cobb was housekeeper. There was a meeting room upstairs, with an elevator, and Homer was scheduled to speak, but he was late—”

  Rhoda nodded and smiled. “Homer said everyone should have a personal motto, and his was: Always be late.”

  “Well, there we were, waiting,” Qwilleran said. “Every time the elevator bell rang, everyone looked at the approaching car. The door would open, and it would be someone else. About the fourth time the bell rang, we all looked at the elevator door, positive that it was Homer. The doors opened, and out walked Koko, with his tail high.”

  “I remember,” she said, “and he seemed surprised that everyone was laughing and shouting.”

  “Was Homer a good principal?” Qwilleran asked.

  She said, “We all had a crush on our principal. He was so elegant the way he was dressed and groomed, and he treated his teachers in such courtly fashion. He was the first to retire and went into volunteer work at the Lockmaster Mansion Museum. So when I retired, I went there to apply. Imagine my surprise to find my principal in old clothes, crawling around on hands and knees, followed by a belligerent-looking cat!…It turned out that the mansion was plagued with mice, and Homer said that it was necessary to find out where they were getting in. He claimed to have found over a dozen mouse holes and plugged them up, and the cat was furious because his source of supply was being eroded!

  “It was another twelve or fifteen years before we were married, and Homer turned out to be a lot of fun…. Do you remember the time, Qwill, when adelegation of us in ten limousines rode around the county dedicating bronze plaques?”