“Well, the girl with the allergy is supposed to take a medical kit every time she goes in the garden, which is several times a day, and she forgets, so Daisy bought her a hospital jacket with big pockets in a bright color to hang just inside the garden door. She just grabs it when she goes out. The kit is in the pockets…. That’s the way my wife is—always thinking of solutions to problems…. How long before you move back to the condo?”
“It depends on the weather. The leaves haven’t even started to turn,” Qwilleran marveled…. He walked around to the gazebo and found the two cats on Daisy’s lap.
“No problem,” she said. “Are you trying out for the Cats musical?”
“No, but I’ll attend a couple of rehearsals, looking for cues for the Qwill Pen. I hear Libby’s boyfriend is a terrific piano player.”
“Did you know he was the Ledfields’ piano tuner? They’re a darling couple.”
Then Alfredo appeared, and the party was over.
In preparation for the evening, Qwilleran gave the Siamese an early dinner, and they walked around it three times as if questioning the propriety of the timing. For himself he ordered soup, sandwich, and pie from Robin O’Dell Catering.
To get in the mood for the Cats rehearsal Qwilleran played a recording of the musical and was half wishing he were singing a role, when…he heard a sound that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. It was Koko’s death howl!
Starting with an abdominal guttural, it ascended through the cat’s stiffened body and ended with a curdling shriek!
Qwilleran had heard it before, and it meant that…someone, somewhere was the victim of murder!
He mopped his brow as he considered the possibilities.
He phoned the city desk at the Something. “Qwill here. Any foul play reported?”
“No, but someone died as the result of a bee sting. Bad scene. Must’ve been allergic. My kids are getting stung all the time.”
Later in the evening Qwilleran attended the Cats rehearsal at the community hall. (The new music center was still being adapted from a public school.) The McLeods’ nine-year-old adopted son, Danny, considered himself in charge of the rehearsal: arranging chairs, handing out scores, asking if anyone wanted a drink of bottled water, asking Qwilleran if he wanted something to write on.
When Uncle Louie mounted the podium and rapped on the music stand with his baton, the nine-year-old ushered the singers into the proper sections. No one seemed to find the boy at all too young for the responsibility.
However…the grimness of the conductor’s expression and the presence of a substitute pianist quieted the assembly quickly. When he had everyone’s attention, he said, somberly, “A fatal accident has robbed our pianist of his assistant and robbed our group of a cheerful and valued member. Libby Simms. Let us express our sorrow and sympathy by standing for a few minutes of silence.”
The chorusters stood, and Hannah, at the piano, played “Amazing Grace.”
Qwilleran, glancing around the assembly of stunned singers, caught Daisy’s eye; the men in her family were trying out for roles. She motioned toward the exit, and when he met her in the hallway, her face looked taut.
She said, “Qwill, I’ve got to talk to you.”
They found a bench near the drinking fountain.
“A sad story,” he said. “I thought she had an emergency medical kit.”
“She was supposed to keep it in a pocket of the jacket—I got hot pink, her favorite color. She sometimes wore the jacket when she went on dates with Frankie. She was young and forgot to check the pockets. It’s hard to convince young people to be careful.”
“Has the kit turned up since the tragedy?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve been too upset to think straight. Fredo thought it would do me good to come to the rehearsal with him and Mick…but…” She burst into tears again….
Qwilleran gave her a small packet of tissues.
When Daisy’s sobs subsided, she said, “Fredo’s right! I’ve got to get away from that place.”
“You have talents and personality that would be useful in the exciting community that Nathan has left us. It would please him if you were a part of it. Let me look into it for you. Think of it as the beginning of something, not the end of something.”
One evening Qwilleran phoned his longtime friend John Bushland at home. “Bushy, do you still have the negatives of Thelma Thackeray’s hats that you and I slaved over?”
The photographer, who was losing his hair rapidly, liked to thumb his nose at his misfortune with an impudent nickname.
“Sure thing! Why do you ask?”
“I have an idea for a public-library exhibit in two counties that would be good public relations all around. K Fund will sponsor. But first, can I get a set of prints before Thursday? Eight-by-ten color prints. How they would be presented—will come later.”
“Sure thing!”
Bushy was always cooperative. And he and Qwilleran had shared experiences that had cemented their friendship—with one reservation: Qwill would never again go out on Bushy’s powerboat!
ELEVEN
While Qwilleran waited for Polly’s first postcard from Paris, imagine his surprise at receiving a letter!
Dear Qwill,
It’s our first day here, and something funny happened that’s too good to keep!
Shirley wanted to take a nap, and our travel agent went looking for a bar. I just wanted to walk around and pinch myself. Was I really in Paris?
I was standing on a curb, waiting to cross the street, when a short middle-aged man came up to me. He was wearing a T-shirt with a large American flag on the chest—and carrying a French-English phrase book. He pointed to one translation and read slowly.
“Pardonnez-moi. Où se trouve l’opéra?”
I couldn’t resist the cliché: “I don’t know. I’m a stranger here myself,” I said.
Instead of being amused, he was obviously embarrassed, because he virtually fled from the scene. Too bad. It would have been fun to find out where he was from—Chicago? Denver?
Actually, I was flattered that he mistook me for a native! The Parisiennes have a definite chic!
And I’ve never seen such beautiful postcards!
Love from Polly
P.S. What made it so funny—I was wearing my blue gabardine coat and hat from Lanspeak’s.
Wednesday morning, G. Allen Barter arrived for legal business at the barn, whistling “Memory” from the musical Cats.
Qwilleran said, “Don’t tell me. You’re singing Grizabella in Cats? I would have thought you were more the Rum Tum Tugger type.”
“Not guilty! My wife and I took our eldest to the tryouts. We saw you there, but you didn’t sing. Did you get cold feet?”
When the bantering was over and the two men had trooped to the conference area with two tail-happy cats and a tray of coffee, Qwilleran said, “Does the county still need a coordinator for community activities?” Where once there had been only a community hall and athletic field, bequests from old families had now made it feasible for a music center, a senior club, and two museums as well. And although the office of HBB&A had handled the transition, the time had come for citizen control.
Qwilleran said to Bart, “Daisy Babcock has the intelligence, skills, and creativity to handle it. I suggest you call her to come in for an interview. The K Fund will back me up.”
“What does Koko say about it?” Bart joshed.
“He was the one who suggested it.”
There was the usual amount of joking and coffee swigging, followed by serious decision making and document signing. Then Qwilleran broke the news.
“How would the K Fund like to undertake a little two-county collaboration? That is, share an exhibit that has warm ties to both of them! We’re usually competing, criticizing, or opposing in some way.”
After a pause to arouse Bart’s curiosity, Qwilleran continued: “I think you will remember that Moose County twins once returned to the north coun
try in later life. Thelma Thackeray had a career in Hollywood; Thurston Thackeray had made a name for himself, in providing medical services for the horses and dogs of Lockmaster. The passing of the two wonderful people was deeply mourned and—because of questionable circumstances—not properly honored.”
He stopped for breath, and his listener was interested.
“The activity would center about the bookstore of Pickax and the library of Lockmaster, and there would be newspaper features and talks. The twins’ father is buried in a hilltop grave, with a simple grave-marker inscription: Milo the potato farmer. Some believe he was a bootlegger.”
Bart said, “Go ahead! Anything that launches the two counties in one direction will be okayed in Chicago.”
Qwilleran said, “We’ll start with the photo exhibit at the two locations. Research, newspaper coverage, talks, et cetera, will come later. Everyone will want to jump on the bandwagon.”
That evening Qwilleran received a surprise phone call from Judd Amhurst. The temporary manager of the bookstore said, “Wouldn’t you know the showcases arrived today! Polly’s been expecting them for weeks…no, months! As soon as she left the country they arrived!” It was like this. The bookstore architects had designed a space for exhibits of a cultural nature.
Qwilleran asked, “Did you and Polly plan exhibits in them?”
“We had lots of ideas, but perhaps you’d like to make some suggestions. Showcases, too. They’re really elegant.”
“Good, I’ll drop in at the bookstore tomorrow.” Qwilleran was a welcome visitor at the Pirate’s Chest…and not simply because he always brought a box of treats from Grandma’s Sweet Shop.
That night Qwilleran wrote in his private journal:
These are busy days in Moose County: new ideas, new activities, new people. And the same old gossips in the coffeehouses. They are not always right, but they are always provocative. And the best place to listen to the best scuttlebutt is Lois’s Luncheonette downtown. The trick is…to listen without getting involved. While the pundits and the know-it-alls filled the tables and chairs, I preferred to sit at the counter with my back to the madding crowd, supposedly reading the daily paper but actually listening. This was a good idea that didn’t work. The store clerks, truck drivers, and farmers at the table would catch sight of me and ask, “What’s your opinion, Mr. Q? Should they fire the guy? Was he stealing the city blind? How did he get elected, anyhow?” It was impossible not to get involved, when all I wanted was a cup of coffee and a few minutes’ rest after ending my beat or standing in line at the bank and at the office. One day I carried a New York paper instead of the Moose County Something. I sat at the counter to read with my back to the noise…and no one bothered me! How to explain it? A small-town phenomenon! From then on, whenever I had my nose in the Times or the Journal, no one interrupted!
TWELVE
On Thursday, a handsome middle-aged woman with reddish brown hair, hatless, drove from Lockmaster to Pickax—turning off the highway on to a trail called Marconi between the public library and the theater arts building. It led through a patch of woods and emerged with a breathtaking view!
One came upon the barn suddenly—four stories high, octagonal, constructed of fieldstone and weathered shingles, with two Siamese cats dancing in a small ground-floor window.
Qwilleran went out to meet her.
“Welcome to the barn, Vivian.”
“One question! Why is this little lane named after the Italian inventor of the wireless telegraph?”
“It’s named after an owl in the woods that hoots in Morse code…. Now come in and meet Koko and Yum Yum.”
At one point his guest said, “They’re still talking—at our Lit Club—about the talk you gave on Stephen Miller’s book, Conversation: A History of a Declining Art…. Kip thinks you belong in Lockmaster.”
“I appreciate the compliment,” he said.
“May I ask what brought you to Moose County?”
“An inheritance, and when I had the barn converted, I was hooked. I’ll show you the interior. It was the last work of a very talented designer. I feel privileged to preserve his work. The acoustics are incredible.”
They went indoors and the guest gasped over the vast spaces, ramps winding around the interior, the views from the balcony levels—all the while followed by the Siamese like hired security guards.
“They like you!” the host said. “Do you have cats?”
“We have one of Moira’s friendly marmalades at the library—the staff named him Reggie—and I have a bossy Siamese at home, called Caesar.”
“How do you two strong-minded individuals get along?”
“Oh, I let him have his way…and he lets me have mine.”
While waiting for lunch to be delivered by the caterer, they had aperitifs in the gazebo. On the way she saw the British Silverlight in the foyer. She asked, “Do you do cross-country biking?”
“No. Do you?”
“Not since my college days. Memorable times! Especially in the British Isles.”
She raved over the gazebo, screened on eight sides. Vivian had heard about Squunk water and wanted to try it. He recommended a drink he had created called “Moose County Madness” that consisted of Squunk water and cranberry juice.
Qwilleran said, “I’d like to put something to you, Vivian. There appears to be a big difference between Lockmaster County and Pickax. Would it be appropriate—or even desirable—for the two counties to close the gap with a show of art hats at each venue?”
Qwilleran went on: “Once upon a time…I’m going to sound like a storyteller…there was a Moose County potato farmer named Milo Thackeray, who reared motherless twins, Thurston and Thelma. She was a little taller, stronger, bolder than her brother and always looked after him. They were quite different.
“Thurston went to veterinary college in the east, married another doctor, came home, and started an animal hospital in Lockmaster. They had one son. The more flamboyant Thelma went to California and had a successful career with a private dinner club—never married, but kept a protective eye on her younger brother. His son was a problem.
“Eventually, she retired and came back to Moose County to help, if possible, with her difficult nephew. She brought her rare collection of twenty-five art hats, which were to be the subject of a book and a traveling exhibit…. All the plans were ruined by the nephew, who destroyed not only the family and himself but the collection of art hats. The family scandal left a stain on the good name of Thackeray. Even the hospital changed its name under a new owner.”
Qwilleran paused for her reaction.
“How very sad,” she murmured.
“But that isn’t the end of the tale…. The twenty-five hats were photographed before they were destroyed, and I can show you the prints!”
Then lunch was served, and they turned to the subject of Thelma Thackeray’s dinner club. How as hostess Thelma had always worn a hat as she moved through the dining room, chatting with members…and how Thelma had always stolen the show with her exotic headgear at Pickax restaurants like the Old Grist Mill, and the Mackintosh Inn.
Qwilleran said, “What I want to discuss with you is the size of the show. Someone once said that the more art you look at, the less you see. What I propose is two small exhibitions opening simultaneously at the Lockmaster Library and the Pickax gallery. At the end of a certain length of time, the two shows would be reversed, and showgoers would have yet another thrill.”
“You’re absolutely right!” she said. “Our exhibit case will accommodate a dozen photos without crowding, and I imagine that’s true of the one in Pickax.”
After lunch the tables were cleared and the photos of the Thackeray art hats were viewed and lavished with praise and amazement.
Vivian said, “The hats are much more dramatic than the ones we design here in the boondocks! Who was the photographer?”
“John Bushland. Had a studio in the Inglehart house before it was a restaurant. Now he’s on the staff of t
he Moose County Something. I helped him take the shots, acting as photographer’s flunky. For the exhibits he’ll print them on matte stock and mount them on matte board with easel backs.”
“What information will be available for the identification cards?”
“Name of hat, artist, and date.”
“I’m weak with excitement!” she said. “And to think that it happened on Marconi Trail!”
“One question,” he said. “Thelma not only wore lizard-skin shoes, she kept her hats in lizard-print hatboxes, destroyed along with the hats….”
“That’s part of the hat hobby. We make our own signature hatboxes. Mine are gray pinstripe. If we could find some lizard-print paper, we could make one of Thelma’s signature boxes for each exhibit, as an accent.”
Qwilleran was enthusiastic; she was getting into the spirit. He said, “If you need any help along the way, Pickax has a new coordinator of community activities. She has ideas and enthusiasm—Daisy Babcock. You are on the same wavelength. I’ll have her phone you.”
Later, they returned to the barn interior.
“You don’t have a piano,” she remarked, as if noting the absence of indoor plumbing.
“No. My mother was an excellent pianist and wanted to give me lessons, but I preferred sandlot baseball. The barn has a fantastic music system and brilliant acoustics. Lately I’ve acquired some CDs of the Ledfields playing violin and piano, which I’d like you to hear.”
“I wonder how a grand piano would sound in this environment? Frankie, the piano tuner, gives concerts, you know.” Hearing no reaction, she went on, “My parents are retiring to Florida and liquidating their furnishings, including a Steingraeber & Söhn grand piano made in Bavaria. Perhaps you’d like to take it on trial. There are several spaces that would be suitable—”
“Hold on! Do you realize this barn is in deep freeze five months of the year? But I’m sure the K Fund would buy it for the forthcoming music center. They could have concerts called the Hartman Series featuring talent from both counties!”
The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers Page 7