The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

by Lilian Jackson Braun

Polly was not as young and slender as the career women he had dated Down Below, but she was an interesting woman with a voice that sometimes made his head spin, and she looked like a comfortable armful, although he had not tested his theory. The librarian maintained a certain reserve, despite her show of friendliness, and she always insisted on going home early.

  He greeted her at the front door, a masterpiece of carving and polished brass. “Where’s the snow they promised?” he asked.

  “Every day in November WPKX predicts snow as a matter of policy,” she said, “and sooner or later they’re right. . . . This house never fails to overwhelm me!”

  She was gazing in wonder at the foyer’s amber leather walls and grand staircase, extravagantly wide and elaborately balustered. The dazzling chandelier was Baccarat crystal. The rugs were Anatolian antiques. “This house doesn’t belong in Pickax; it belongs in Paris. It amazes me that the Klingenschoens owned such treasures and no one knew about it.”

  “It was the Klingenschoens’ revenge—for not being accepted socially.” Qwilleran escorted her to the rear of the house. “We’re having dinner in the library, but Mrs. Cobb wants me to show you her mobile herb garden in the solarium.”

  The stone-floored room had large glass areas, a forest of ancient rubber plants, and some wicker chairs for summer lounging; the winter addition was a wrought-iron cart with eight clay pots labeled mint, dill, thyme, basil, and the like.

  “It can be wheeled around during the day to get the best sunlight,” he explained. “That is—if WPKX allows us to have any.”

  Polly nodded approval. “Herbs like sun but not too much heat. Where did Mrs. Cobb find this clever contraption?”

  “She designed it, and a friend of hers made it in his welding shop. Perhaps you know Hackpole, the used-car dealer.”

  “Yes, his garage has just winterized my car. How do you like your new front-wheel drive, Qwill?”

  “I’ll know better when snow flies.”

  In the library the lamps were lighted, logs were blazing in the fireplace, and the table was laid with a dazzling display of porcelain, crystal, and silver. The four walls of books were accented by marble busts of Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare.

  “Did the Klingenschoens read these books?” Polly asked.

  “I think they were primarily for show, except for a few racy novels from the 1920s. In the attic I found boxes of paperback mysteries and romances.”

  “At least someone was reading. There is still hope for the printed word.” She handed him a book with worn and faded cover. “Here’s something that might interest you—Picturesque Pickax, published by the Boosters Club before World War One. On the page with the bookmark there’s a picture of the Picayune building with employees standing on the sidewalk.”

  Qwilleran found the photo of anxious-faced men with walrus moustaches, high collars, leather aprons, eyeshades, arm garters, and plastered hair parted in the middle. “They look as if they’re facing a firing squad,” he said. “Thanks. This will be useful.”

  He poured an aperitif for his guest. Dry sherry was her choice; one glass was her limit. For himself he poured white grape juice.

  “Votre santé!” he toasted, meeting her eyes.

  “Santé!” she replied with a guarded gaze.

  She was wearing the somber gray suit, white blouse, and maroon loafers that seemed to be her library uniform, but she had tried to perk it up with a paisley scarf. Fashion was not one of her pursuits, and her severe haircut was not in the latest style, but her voice . . . ! It was ever soft, gentle, and low, and she knew Shakespeare forward and backward.

  After a moment of silence during which Qwilleran wondered what Polly was thinking, he said, “Do you remember that so-called historian in your reading room? He had a pile of books on old mining operations. I doubt that he’s telling the truth.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “His relaxed posture. The way he held his book. He didn’t show a researcher’s avid thirst for information, and he wasn’t taking notes. He was reading idly to kill time.”

  “Then who is he? Why should he disguise his identity?”

  “I think he’s an investigator. Narcotics—FBI—something like that.”

  Polly looked skeptical. “In Pickax?”

  “I’m sure there are several skeletons in local closets, Polly, and most of the locals know all about them. You have some world-class gossips here.”

  “I wouldn’t call them gossips,” she said defensively. “In small towns people share information. It’s a way of caring.”

  Qwilleran raised a cynical eyebrow. “Well, the mysterious stranger had better complete his mission before snow flies, or he’ll be cluttering up your reading room until spring thaw. . . . Another question. What will happen to the Picayune now that Senior’s gone? Any guesses?”

  “It will probably die a quiet death—an idea that has outlived its time.”

  “How well have you known Junior’s parents?”

  “Only casually. Senior was a workaholic—an agreeable man, but not at all social. Gritty likes the country club life—golf, cards, dinner dances. I wanted her to serve on my board of trustees, but it was too dull for her taste.”

  “Gritty? Is that Mrs. Goodwinter’s name?”

  “Gertrude, actually, but there’s a certain clique here that clings to their adolescent nicknames: Muffy, Buffy, Bunky, Dodo. I must admit that Mrs. Goodwinter has an abundance of grit, for good or ill. She’s like her mother. Euphonia Gage is a spunky woman.”

  A distant buzzer sounded, and Qwilleran lighted the candles, dropped a Fauré cassette in the player, and served dinner.

  “You obviously know everyone in Pickax,” he remarked.

  “For a newcomer I don’t do badly. I’ve been here only . . . twenty-five years.”

  “I had a hunch you were from the East. New England?”

  She nodded. “While I was in college I married a native of Pickax, and we came here to manage his family’s bookstore. Unfortunately it closed soon after—when my husband was killed—but I didn’t want to go back east.”

  “He must have been very young.”

  “Very young. He was a volunteer fire fighter. I remember one dry windy day in August. Our bookstore was a block from the fire hall, and when the siren sounded, my husband dashed from the store. Traffic stopped dead, and men came running from all directions—running hard, pounding the pavement, pumping their arms. The mechanic from the gas station, one of the young pastors, a bartender, the hardware man—all running as if their lives depended on it. Then cars and trucks with revolving lights pulled up and parked anywhere, and the drivers jumped out and ran to the fire hall. By that time the big doors were open, and the tanker and pumper were moving out, with men clinging to the trucks and putting on their gear.”

  “You describe it vividly, Polly.”

  Tears came to her eyes. “It was a barn fire, and he was killed by a falling timber.”

  There was a long silence.

  “That’s a sad story,” Qwilleran said.

  “The fire fighters were so conscientious. When the siren sounded, they dropped everything and ran. In the middle of the night they’d wake from a sound sleep, pull on some clothes, and run. Yet they were criticized: arrived too late . . . not enough men . . . didn’t pump enough water . . . equipment broke down.” She sighed. “They tried so hard. They still do. They’re all volunteers, you know.”

  “Junior Goodwinter is a volunteer,” Qwilleran said, “and his beeper is always sounding off in the middle of something. . . . What did you do after that windy day in August?”

  “I went to work at the library and found contentment here.”

  “Pickax has a human scale that is—what shall I say?—comforting. Tranquilizing. But why are we all obsessed with the weather reports?”

  “We’re close to the elements,” Polly said. “The weather affects everything: farming, lumbering, commercial fishing, outdoor sports. And we all drive long distances over country
roads. There are no taxis we can call on a bad day.”

  Mrs. Cobb had left the coffee maker plugged in and pots of chocolate mousse in the refrigerator, and the meal ended pleasantly.

  “Where are the cats?” Polly asked.

  “Shut up in the kitchen. Koko has been pulling books off the shelf. He thinks he’s a librarian. Yum Yum, on the other hand, is just a cat who chases her tail and steals paper clips and hides things under the rug. Every time my foot comes down on a bump in the rug, I wince. Is it my wristwatch? Or a mouse? Or my reading glasses? Or a crumpled envelope from the wastebasket?”

  “What titles has Koko recommended?”

  “He’s on a Shakespeare kick,” Qwilleran said. “It may have something to do with the pigskin bindings. Just before you arrived, he pushed A Midsummer Night’s Dream off the shelf.”

  “That’s a coincidence,” Polly said. “I’m named after one of the characters.” She paused and waited for him to guess.

  “Hippolyta?”

  “Correct! My father named all of us after characters in the plays. My brothers are Marc Antony and Brutus, and my poor sister Ophelia has had to endure bawdy remarks ever since the fifth grade. . . . Why don’t you let the cats out? I’d like to see Koko in action.”

  When they were released, Yum Yum walked daintily into the library, placing one paw in front of the other and looking for a vacant lap, but Koko flaunted his independence by delaying his entrance. It was not until Qwilleran and his guest heard a thunk that they realized Koko was in the room. On the floor lay the thin volume of King Henry VIII.

  Qwilleran said, “You have to admit he knows what he’s doing. There’s a gripping scene for a woman in the play—where the queen confronts the two cardinals.”

  “It’s tremendous!” Polly said. “Katherine claims to be a poor weak woman but she blasts the two learned men. ‘Ye have angels’ faces, but heaven knows your hearts!’ Do you ever wonder about the true identity of Shakespeare, Qwill?”

  “I’ve read that the plays may have been written by Jonson or Oxford.”

  “I think Shakespeare was a woman. There are so many strong female roles and wonderful speeches for women.”

  “And there are strong male roles and wonderful speeches for men,” he replied.

  “Yes, but I contend that a woman can write strong male roles more successfully than a man can write good women’s roles.”

  “Hmmm,” said Qwilleran politely.

  Koko was now sitting tall on the desk, obviously waiting for something, and Qwilleran obliged by reading the prologue of the play. Then Polly gave a stirring reading of the queen’s confrontation scene.

  “Yow!” said Koko.

  “Now I must go,” she said, “before my landlord starts to worry.”

  “Your landlord?”

  “Mr. MacGregor is a nice old widower,” she explained. “I rent a cottage on his farm, and he thinks women shouldn’t go out alone at night. He sits up waiting for me to drive in.”

  “Have you ever tried your Shakespeare theory on your landlord?” Qwilleran asked.

  After Polly had said a gracious thank-you and a brisk good-night, Qwilleran questioned her excuse for leaving early. At least Koko had not ordered her out of the house, as he had done other female visitors in the past. That was a good sign.

  Qwilleran was removing the dinner dishes and tidying the kitchen when Mrs. Cobb returned from her date, flushed and happy.

  “Oh, you don’t need to do that, Mr. Q,” she said.

  “No trouble at all. Thank you for a superb meal. How was your evening?”

  “We went to the Old Stone Mill. The food is much better now. I had a gorgeous stuffed trout with wine sauce. Herb ordered steak Diane, but he didn’t like the sauce.”

  That guy, Qwilleran thought, would prefer ketchup. To Mrs. Cobb he said, “Mrs. Duncan was telling me about the volunteer fire department. Isn’t Hackpole a fireman?”

  “Yes, and he’s had some thrilling experiences—carrying children from a burning building, reviving people with CPR, herding cows from a burning barn!”

  Interesting if true, Qwilleran thought. “Bring him in for a nightcap next time you go out,” he suggested. “I’d like to know how a small-town fire department operates.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Q! He’ll be pleased. He thinks you don’t like him, because you took him to court once.”

  “Nothing personal. I simply objected to being attacked by a dog that should be chained according to law. If you like him, Mrs. Cobb, I’m sure he’s a good man.”

  As Qwilleran was locking up for the night, the telephone rang. It was Junior Goodwinter’s voice, crackling with excitement. “She’s coming! She’s flying up here tomorrow!”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “The photojournalist I met at the Press Club. She says the Fluxion is running the column tomorrow, and it’ll be all over the country this week. She wants to submit a picture story to a news magazine while it’s hot.”

  “Did you tell her . . . about your father?”

  “She says that will only make it topical. I have to pick her up at the airport tomorrow morning. We’re going to get some Old Timers who used to work at the Pic to pose in the shots. Do you realize what this could do? It’ll put Pickax on the map! And it could put the Picayune back in business if we start getting subscriptions from all over.”

  Stranger things have happened, Qwilleran thought. “Call me tomorrow night after the shoot. Let me know how it goes. And good luck!”

  As he replaced the telephone receiver he heard a soft sound, thlunk, as another book landed on the Bokhara rug. Koko was sitting on the Shakespeare shelf, looking proud of himself.

  Qwilleran picked up the book and smoothed the crumpled pages. It was Hamlet again, and a line in the first scene caught his eye: “’Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed.”

  Addressing the cat he said, “You may think you’re smart, but this has got to stop! These books are printed on fine India paper. They can’t stand this kind of treatment.”

  “Ik ik ik,” said Koko, following his remark with a yawn.

  Tuesday, November twelfth. “Snow flurries during the day, then falling temperatures and winds shifting to northeast.” So said WPKX, and Mr. O’Dell, the houseman, waxed his snow shovels and checked the spark plugs on his snowblower.

  It was the day after the pork liver cupcakes had made their successful debut, and Qwilleran planned to lunch at the Old Stone Mill—to report results to the chef, and to solve a mystery that had been bothering him.

  Who was this chef?

  What was his name?

  Where did he come from?

  What were his credentials?

  And why had no one seen him?

  The restaurant was an old gristmill with a giant waterwheel, recently renovated with good taste. The stone walls and massive timbers were exposed; the maple floor was sanded to the color of honey; and every table had a view of the mill wheel, which creaked and turned incessantly although the millstream had dried up seventy years before. The food, everyone had always said, was abominable.

  Then the restaurant was purchased by XYZ Enterprises, Inc., of Pickax, developers of the Indian Village apartments and condominiums on the Ittibittiwassee River. The firm also owned a string of party stores in the county and a new motel in Mooseville.

  One day at a Chamber of Commerce meeting Qwilleran was approached by Don Exbridge, the X of XYZ Enterprises. He was a string bean of a man, six-feet-five, with a smile that had made him popular and successful.

  “Qwill, you have restaurant connections Down Below,” said Exbridge. “Where can we get a good chef for the Old Stone Mill? Preferably someone who enjoys the outdoors and doesn’t mind living in the boonies.”

  “I’ll give it some thought and get back to you,” Qwilleran had promised.

  Then the wheels started turning in his mind: Hixie Rice, former neighbor Down Below . . . member of a select gourmet group . . . loved to eat, and her figure proved it . . . cle
ver young woman . . . unlucky in love . . . worked in advertising and promotion . . . used to speak French to Koko. Why, Qwilleran wondered, were all the clever ones in advertising while all the hardworking serious thinkers were in journalism, earning less money?

  The last time he had heard from Hixie, she was dating a chef and was taking courses in restaurant management. And that was how Hixie Rice and her chef happened to land in Pickax. Immediately they replaced the dreary menu with more sophisticated dishes and fresh ingredients. The chef retrained the existing kitchen staff, locked up the deep fryers, and rationed the salt.

  When Qwilleran went to lunch at the Old Stone Mill on Tuesday, he hardly recognized the former member of the Friendly Fatties. “Hixie, you’re looking almost anorexic!” he said. “Have you stopped putting butter on your bacon and sugar on your hot fudge sundae?”

  “You won’t believe it, Qwill, but the restaurant business has cured my obsession for eating,” she said. “All that food turns me off. Fifteen pounds of butter . . . a two-foot wheel of cheese . . . two hundred chickens . . . thirty dozen eggs! Have you ever seen two hundred naked chickens, Qwill?”

  In losing weight, Hixie had also lost her wheezy high-pitched voice, and her hair now looked healthy and natural instead of contrived and varnished. “You’re looking great!” he told her.

  “And you look super, Qwill. Your voice sounds different.”

  “I’ve stopped smoking. Rosemary convinced me to give up my pipe.”

  “Do you still see Rosemary?”

  “No, she’s living in Toronto.”

  “All our old gourmet gang is scattered, but I thought you two were headed for holy bondage.”

  “There was a personality clash between Rosemary and Koko,” he explained.

  Hixie seated him near the turning mill wheel. “This is considered a choice table,” she said, “although the motion of the wheel makes some of our customers seasick. It’s the creaking that drives me up the wall, and the tape recording of a rushing millstream has a psychological effect on diners. They’re wearing out the carpet to the rest room.” She handed him a menu. “The lamb shank with ratatouille is good today.”