The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  That night Qwilleran wrote in his private journal:

  There are times when I wish I had taken those piano lessons! I would have left the high-speed stuff to Joe and concentrated on numbers with crashing chords that would frighten the cats and knock the pictures off the walls.

  For the next two weeks Qwilleran was busier than he’d ever been. When Mildred Riker asked, “Have you heard from Polly?” he replied, “Polly who?”

  There were postcards from Paris, of course, but life in Pickax was challenging in many directions. The Library Hat Show alone had enlisted his attention in several ways: lining up Daisy Babcock, working with Bushy on prints, finding some lizard-print paper to cover a couple of hatboxes…and, yes, lining up G. Allen Barter for the K Fund donation of a Steingraeber grand piano to the music center, not to mention finding Frankie a new page turner and driver, giving a talk to the Senior Health Club on private journals, writing a play titled The Cat Who Got Elected Dogcatcher. His Qwill Pen column had to come from the “trash barrel,” meaning bits and pieces of this and that that could appear fascinating to his readers. He hardly had time to feed the cats, let alone read to them from the Wilson Quarterly.

  Meanwhile, those stunning green postcards from Paris were arriving all over town, and recipients were talking about the beautiful river, all those bridges, the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, and especially the stray cats in the cemetery.

  People said, “How come we don’t have stray cats in the cemetery?”…It was seen as a cultural deficiency, so citizens proposed a committee to promote it. Qwilleran tactfully declined their invitation to champion their cause with Koko as mascot.

  THIRTEEN

  Late Thursday afternoon, when Vivian had returned to Lockmaster and her precocious Caesar, Qwilleran felt the satisfaction of a job well done: the launching of a two-county effort and the discovery of yet another librarian with intelligence, vocabulary…and cats.

  He phoned the Moose County Something and was connected with John Bushland in the darkroom.

  “I have news!” Qwilleran said. “We’re going ahead with Thelma’s hat pix on matte mounts with easel backs…. Also, we need to cover a couple of hatboxes in the lizard print that Thelma used. Have you seen any lizard-skin print lately?”

  “Frankly, I haven’t been looking.”

  “It’s worth doing, even if we have to have an artist simulate it,” Qwilleran said.

  “Janice may have some ideas. She may know an artist in California who produces lizard print,” Bushy added.

  Qwilleran said, “If I can give you any menial help to expedite any of these things, I’m available. And don’t forget: Charge everything to the K Fund.”

  Then it was back to the Qwill Pen until the caterwauling began again: It announced a truck coming through the Marconi Woods.

  It pulled up at the kitchen door, announced by the cat ballet in the wide window. It was the Linguini truck, and Alfredo jumped out, reaching for a case of Squunk water.

  Qwilleran went to meet him. “Hey, did I order that? I didn’t know I ordered any!”

  “You didn’t. This is a present—from Daisy and me! There’s more, too!” Out came a carton of cat snacks and juices.

  Fredo said, “Daisy and I appreciate everything you did to get her out of that hellhole.”

  “She and the new job are perfect for each other…. How about you and Nick? Did you get roles in the new musical?”

  “Yes, we’re doing Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer. Anytime you want to come and sing with us, you’re welcome at rehearsal. Have you done any singing? Your voice sounds like it.”

  “Only in college, but I enjoyed it! Is the pianist back on the job?”

  “Frankie? Yeah, that was a crime what happened to little Libby!” Fredo gave his listener a swift glance. “And I really mean crime!” He jumped into the cab. “Thanks again from Daisy and me.”

  “One question,” Qwilleran said. “What is the arrangement you have with Frankie? I understand he doesn’t drive.”

  “We take turns picking him up…. Wanna volunteer?” Fredo added in a jocular afterthought.

  “I might do just that!” said Qwilleran. “I have a lot of space to fill in the Qwill Pen, and I might find a story on piano tuning. Why does a grown man—with an assortment of talents—get called Frankie?”

  “His dad is Franklin, and they’re sort of an old-fashioned family.”

  Fredo gunned the motor—and scatted the cats away from the window.

  The conversation had reminded Qwilleran of all the half sentences and innuendos he had heard at Lois’s Luncheonette.

  The Siamese were waiting for him near their feeding station. He asked, “What really happened to Libby Simms?”

  They looked at each other and then jumped off the counter, and chased up and down the ramp.

  Finishing his thousand words, the newsman took his New York paper and went to Lois’s Luncheonette for some scuttlebutt.

  Before he could take the end seat at the counter and open his paper, Lois lumbered up. With all due respect to the heavyset proprietress, that was how she moved about her premises—slowly and with grandeur. The columnist was one of her favorite customers; she served him not only coffee but a slice of chocolate cake and some turkey scraps for the cats on the house.

  He opened his newspaper and tuned in to the babble behind him:

  “The city’s hired someone to keep a check on all the goings-on.”

  “No kiddin’! Who?”

  “Fredo Linguini’s wife.”

  “She’s a lively one.”

  “They’re giving her an office in the old community hall building.”

  “I hope they fix it up for her. It’s showing its age.”

  “Aren’t we all? All it needs is some paint. If they called for volunteers, I’d sign up! We’re lucky to have that building. We had our wedding reception there.”

  During Polly’s absence, Qwilleran had plenty of dinner invitations, and one evening he was dining with the Bushlands. They discussed the forthcoming exhibit of Bushy’s hat photos. Janice, who had been Thelma’s assistant for years, was now assisting Bushy in the photographer’s darkroom.

  Qwilleran asked, “Do you remember Thelma’s lizard-print hatboxes?”

  “Yes, she had them custom-made. There’s still some lizard-print paper in her closet.”

  “What!” Qwilleran almost dropped a forkful of sweet-potato pie.

  After that, everything happened fast. A motorcycle messenger was summoned, and two rolls of the unusual paper were dispatched to Lockmaster.

  By the time he returned to the barn, there was a message from Vivian on the phone: “A miracle! How did you do it?”

  He called Vivian back and said, “Abracadabra! An old sideshow trick!”

  “And Daisy Babcock is going to meet with me,” she said. “On the phone she sounds charming!”

  The venerable community hall was part of the City of Stone in downtown Pickax. Several generations had trooped in and out of its doors for meetings, lectures, parties, business luncheons, exhibits, cat and dog shows, and antique auctions. Several generations of janitors had shuffled chairs, tables, platforms, and runways accordingly. Although the rooms were plain—clean but plain—it occurred to Qwilleran that Daisy’s presence would inspire changes: a little paint, some art on the walls, even background music.

  It gave Qwilleran an idea!

  The forthcoming publication of the Homer Tibbitt biography would no doubt be introduced by a program at the community hall. Homer had been born in Moose County, had attended college in Lockmaster County, and had been principal of Central High School there until his retirement.

  Homer then returned to his home territory and served as honorary Moose County historian until his death at the age of a hundred. During that time he wrote hundreds of research papers now on file in the public library, and his feisty sense of humor made the citizens laugh.

  Qwilleran’s idea—to mark the publication of the grand old man’s b
iography—was to rename the community hall the Homer Tibbitt Auditorium.

  He proceeded circumspectly—pulled strings—and hinted at K Fund backing.

  That evening, as Qwilleran gave the cats their bedtime treat, he mused at the changes awaiting Polly’s return: the two-county show of art hats…the Homer Tibbitt Auditorium…Vivian’s offer of a grand piano…the young girl’s death from a bee sting—just like that of Maggie Sprenkle’s husband.

  Koko interrupted with a loud “Yow-w-w!” as if saying, “Let’s go! Let’s go!”

  The next morning, Qwilleran drove downtown to the department store. He and Larry looked at Polly’s postcard of the Champs Elysées. Qwilleran told the joke about the tourist who thought she was a Parisienne in her Lanspeaks’ raincoat. Qwilleran bought an alligator belt for himself. He had always wanted one, but Polly didn’t like them.

  So far, so good, he told himself. And then he had a phone call from Steve Bestover in Lockmaster…the attorney who was Shirley’s son.

  “Mr. Qwilleran. I hope I’m not calling too early.” It sounded urgent.

  “Not at all. It sounds important.”

  “The girls have been in an accident. It could be worse, but they’re hospitalized, and it changes their plans. They were due to fly home this weekend.”

  “What happened?”

  “They were in a taxi that was hit by a car exceeding the speed limit. Polly has a few bumps and cuts, but Mother has a neck injury that causes back pain. She says they’re getting the best of care and not to worry, but they can’t leave as planned. I will fly over when I get the signal and accompany them home.”

  “Do you have a number I can call?”

  “Polly says it will be better if she calls you. She’ll phone collect when she has some information. The odd thing is that it happened in the Pont d’Alma tunnel, where Princess Diana was killed.”

  “Yow!” came a blast in Qwilleran’s free ear.

  “Was that your Koko?”

  “He knows bad news when he hears it. Thanks for calling, Steve. Sorry we’ve never met. Keep in touch.”

  Then Qwilleran regarded the cat strangely. He had been jumping on and off the desk. It was only when he heard about the tunnel accident that he responded—did he know that was where Princess Diana was killed…or what?

  FOURTEEN

  In most communities, half the citizens like a change once in a while; the other half likes everything the way it is. It was no different 400 miles north of everywhere. The proposed beautification of community hall was considered either a calamity or a delight. The town’s leading designer was offering her expertise. Without charge. She was the daughter of Andrew Brodie, Pickax police chief, and Qwilleran found it an excuse to invite his chum to the barn for a nightcap.

  Qwilleran refrained from using the the old cliché “long time no see,” but the first words the chief said were “long time no see.”

  Andy took a seat at the bar, and his host reached for the Scotch bottle. “The usual?”

  “Still drinking that stuff?” the chief said in disdain as Qwilleran poured Squunk water for himself.

  “What do you hear about the new community hall, Andy?” Qwilleran asked, although he knew the answer.

  “I hear they’re changing the name. Keeping it secret. I hear they’re using wallpaper and fancy things like that.”

  “Whatever your daughter suggests will be in good taste,” Qwilleran ventured. “It’s generous of the stores to donate the paint—and some of our foremost loafers to donate their labor…. What are you buying your wife for Christmas, Andy?”

  Daisy Babcock, the new county coordinator, had been busy coordinating the details of the event: The building itself had a face-lift. Qwilleran would preview his new biography of Homer Tibbitt. Rhoda, his widow, would come in from Ittibittiwassee Estates with two busloads of her neighbors and would be presented with flowers. A baritone from their church choir would sing “He’s a Grand Old Man” to the tune of “It’s a Grand Old Flag.” Longtime friends would tell amusing tales from Homer’s later years, including the Brown Paper Bag Mystery. A delegation of notables would christen the old hall the Homer Tibbitt Auditorium. It would be filmed.

  Daisy Babcock, working with Fran Brodie, had planned a decorative scheme based on the Pickax High School colors: gray, black, and gold. The building was gray stone; the athletic team was the Gray Panthers. Rhoda Tibbitt’s flowers were yellow roses. The commemorative programs with Homer’s photo on the cover were also yellow.

  The weatherbeaten sign across the top of the entrance had been replaced with HOMER TIBBITT AUDITORIUM in crisp black letters touched with gold. And the shabby wooden doors in the wide entrance were now shiny black with brass hardware.

  Qwilleran had interviewed countless citizens in writing the biography and planning the celebration, but nowhere did he reveal the secret of the Brown Paper Bag!

  In his private journal that night, Qwilleran reported:

  Homer came from a family of teetotalers and throughout his life he was never known to take a drink, but he delighted in teasing folks. In his adult life and well into his nineties, he carried a brown paper bag in his pocket, and it contained a flask of amber liquid from which he was known to take a swig occasionally. Even his closest friends were never allowed to share the secret. When, at the age of ninety, he finally married, it was expected that Rhoda would track down the truth. She never did. He managed to keep his secret to the end. He had a great sense of humor and kept on laughing at folks.

  During Polly’s absence, Qwilleran received many invitations to dinner. One of them was from Lyle and Lisa Compton in their condo. For a fourth they invited a neighbor, Barbara Honiger. He knew the name. She contributed regularly to the Qwill Pen column and boasted to the Comptons that she had received enough yellow pencils from the Qwill Pen to build the foundation of a log cabin.

  Barbara was not tall but had a commanding personality and sharp wit—an attorney with her own practice, specializing in real estate.

  She had good-natured opinions on everything. A meal at the Comptons was always a lively talkfest, even though Lisa made no claims to cooking skills. No one asked any questions about the casserole she served, although it tasted pretty good, and conversation never lagged.

  LYLE: “I like your alligator belt, Qwill. Lisa won’t let me have one.”

  QWILL: “Polly dislikes them, too, so as soon she left the country, I splurged.”

  LISA: “When are you closing the barn?”

  BARBARA: “How do you go about closing a barn?”

  QWILL: “Pat O’Dell and his crew swarm all over the place.”

  LYLE: “Better do it before we have zero temperature and four feet of snow!”

  QWILL: “I was waiting until after the Lit Club meeting. I’m putting up the speaker overnight.”

  LISA: “That’s changed. There’s been a death in his family. Could you speak to the Lit Club, Qwill?”

  After a thoughtful pause for dramatic effect, he said, “What would you think of forming a secret society named Word Tasters Anonymous?…Anyone can join…no dues!” There was a stunned silence, and he went on. “It’s a theory currently being tested. Words have flavor as well as meaning. Words can be enjoyed on many levels. Dickens is a master of the art. Consider the last lines in A Tale of Two Cities.”

  He quoted: “‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.’”

  Following nods and murmurs from his listeners, he went on:

  “When I say those words, I can taste their exquisite sweetness…. In A Christmas Carol I feel the crispy crunchiness of consonants, vowels, and diphthongs, delighting my taste buds.” He quoted: “‘Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence.’”

  He explained, “Everyone knows there are music lovers, but few know that there are word lovers
too: aware of the taste and feeling and magic of words, not necessarily the meanings. One of our members is a successful businesswoman who loved four words from Shakespeare: ‘Nothing comes from nothing.’ The arrangement of friendly consonants reassured her.”

  Qwilleran said, “Word tasting is not limited to the work of great writers. Mildred Riker gets a shiver of pleasure from a practice sentence used in high school when learning to type.”

  Everyone wanted to know it, and he quoted: “‘The time of many murders is after midnight.’”

  Then, Barbara asked, “I suppose you’ve all seen Thelma’s hat photos at the bookstore?”

  LYLE: “I hear the locals like the new showcases better than the hats.”

  QWILL: “The hats were designed by California artists. Their taste is a little sophisticated for Moose County. I had to gulp myself at some of their productions, but I hear the library-goers in Lockmaster are so excited they can hardly wait to see the other half of the show; they’re coming up here to the bookstore to see it.”

  Qwilleran enjoyed meeting Barbara. He liked attorneys. He looked forward to meeting Steve Bestover. He enjoyed his K Fund sessions with G. Allen Barter, who was less of a legal eagle and more of a brother-in-law.

  On Mrs. Fulgrove’s last two visits to clean the barn…or “fluff it up,” as she said, she and her housecleaners covered the premises, frightening the cats…and then she always left a note. Qwilleran saved them for what he called the Fulgrove Witchery Collection. Her syntax was curious, to say the least.

  Dear Mr. Q…Koko broke a bottle on your bathroom floor which I saved the pieces of glass so you could see what it was.

  It proved to be Scottish aftershave lotion from Canada that Polly had brought from one of her trips. The following week, a porcelain figurine of a bagpiper in shoulder plaid, kilt, and knee hose was found on the living-room hearth in several fragments.