The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “How about the fresh salmon?”

  “It’s off the blackboard. You’re a little late.”

  “It was premeditated,” Qwilleran said. “I’d like to talk with you. Can you join me?”

  He ordered the lamb, and Hixie sat down with a glass of Campari and a cigarette. “How did Koko and Yum Yum like the cupcakes?” she asked.

  “After they ate the things they chased each other up and down stairs for two hours, and they’re both neutered! Have you discovered a feline aphrodisiac?”

  “That’s only the first of several frozen catfoods we want to market. The XYZ people are backing us financially. Fabulous Frozen Foods for Fussy Felines! How does that sound?”

  “When are you and your partner going to come over and speak French to Koko? You haven’t seen the magnificent dump I live in.”

  “It’s difficult to socialize,” she apologized. “We work such rotten hours. They never told me about that in restaurant school. I’m not complaining; in fact, I’m deliriously happy! I used to be a loser, you know, but all that has changed since I’ve found a wonderful man. He’s not a drunk; he doesn’t do drugs; and he’s not some other woman’s husband.”

  “I’m very happy for you,” Qwilleran said. “When am I going to meet the guy?”

  “He’s not here right now.”

  “What’s his name? What does he look like?”

  “Tony Peters, and he’s tall, blond, and very good-looking.”

  “Where did he learn to cook?”

  “Montreal . . . Paris . . . other good places.”

  “I’d like to meet the guy and shake his hand. After all, I’m responsible for bringing you both to this northern paradise.”

  “Actually,” Hixie said, “he’s out of town. His mother had a stroke, and he had to fly to Philadelphia.”

  “He’d better get back before snow flies, or he’ll have to make the trip on snowshoes. The airport closes down after the Big One. Where are you living?”

  “We have a super apartment in Indian Village. Mr. Exbridge pulled strings to get us in. There’s a waiting list, you know.”

  “And what do you do on your day off?”

  “Tony’s writing a cookbook. I check out the competition around the county.”

  “Have you made any interesting discoveries?”

  “Next to the Old Stone Mill, Stephanie’s has the best food,” Hixie said, “but their chef has some kind of mental block. I ordered a stuffed artichoke and got a stuffed avocado. When the waiter insisted it was an artichoke, I grabbed my plate and stormed out to the kitchen to confront the chef, and that arrogant clod had the nerve to tell me I didn’t know a stuffed artichoke from a stuffed crocodile! I was furious! I informed him that an artichoke is a member of the thistle family, and an avocado is a pear-shaped fruit that gets its name from the Nahuatl word for testicle, although I assume he wouldn’t know anything about that!”

  “How did he react?”

  “He picked up a cleaver and started flattening chicken breasts, so I retreated before I became a homicide statistic.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon Qwilleran sat at his desk in the library and wondered about Hixie and her mysterious companion. Koko jumped to the desktop, sat tall, and cocked his head expectantly.

  “Do you remember Hixie?” Qwilleran asked him. “She was taking French lessons and used to say, ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Koko.’ She always got involved with marginal types of men, and now she has this invisible chef. There’s something strange about him, and yet his kitchen is turning out great food. I brought you a chunk of lamb shank in a doggie bag. Hixie was glad you liked the cupcakes.”

  Koko wriggled his posterior, squeezed his eyes, and murmured a falsetto “Ik ik.”

  At that moment Mrs. Cobb peered inquiringly into the room.

  “I heard you talking and thought you had company, Mr. Q. I was going to suggest some tea and cookies. I’ve just baked butterscotch pecan meringues.”

  “I’m only having an intelligent dialogue with Koko, as Lori Bamba recommended,” he explained. “I feel like an idiot, but he seems to enjoy it. By the way, I’ll accept some of those butterscotch things, but make it coffee instead of tea.”

  She bustled off to the kitchen, and Qwilleran went on. “Well, Koko, today was the big shoot at the Picayune office. For Junior’s sake I hope something good comes of it. I wonder if the Old Timers held together long enough for the picture taking. They probably had to prop them up with two-by-fours and baling wire.”

  The day passed without the snow flurries predicted on the radio, but the temperature was dropping rapidly. Qwilleran was listening to the late-evening weathercast when Junior finally telephoned. His voice had none of the excitement of the previous day. He spoke in a minor key. Qwilleran thought, Something went wrong; the redhead failed to show; she decided it was no-story; she forgot her camera; her plane crashed; the Old Timers had heart attacks.

  “Have you heard any rumors?” Junior was saying.

  “About what?”

  “About anything.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid. Are you sober?”

  “I wish I weren’t,” Junior said glumly. “Mind if I come over to see you? I know it’s late . . .”

  “Sure, come along.”

  “I’m at Jody’s place. Okay if I bring her, too?”

  “Of course. What do you two want to drink?”

  “Make it coffee,” Junior said after a moment’s hesitation. “If I drink when I’m down, I’m liable to cut my wrists.”

  Qwilleran filled a thermal server with instant coffee and had a tray waiting in the library when the red Jaguar pulled into the drive.

  Tiny Jody, with her straight blond hair and big blue eyes, looked like a china doll. Junior looked like an old man.

  “Good God! What’s happened to you?” Qwilleran said. “You look ghastly, Junior.” He waved the young couple into the library.

  Junior flopped on a leather sofa. “Bad news!”

  “Didn’t the shoot work out?”

  “Oh sure, but a lot of good it will do. I feel like a fool, getting her to fly up here for nothing.”

  “You’re talking in riddles, Junior. Let’s have it!”

  In her little-girl voice Jody said, “Tell Mr. Qwilleran about your mother, Juney.”

  The young newsman stared at Qwilleran for a silent moment before blurting out the news. “She’s selling.”

  “Selling what?”

  “Selling the Picayune.”

  Qwilleran frowned. “What is there to sell? There’s nothing there but a . . . well . . . a quaint idea.”

  “That’s the worst part,” Junior said. “The idea and all those years of tradition are going down the drain. She’s selling the name.”

  Qwilleran could neither believe nor comprehend. “Where does she expect to find a buyer?”

  Jody piped up, “She’s already got a buyer. XYZ Enterprises.”

  “They want to make it an advertising throwaway,” said Junior, looking as if he might cry. “One of those free tabloids with junky ads and ink that comes off on your hands. No news matter. I tell you, Qwill, it’s a kick in the gut.”

  “Has she a right to sell the paper? What about your father’s will?”

  “He left everything to her. All the assets are jointly held anyway—such as they are.”

  “Juney,” said the small voice, “tell Mr. Qwilleran about your dream.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been dreaming about my father every night. He’s just standing there in his leather apron and square paper hat, all covered with blood, and he’s telling me something, but I can’t hear it.”

  Qwilleran was trying to sort out his thoughts. “This has happened very fast, Junior. Your father was buried only yesterday. It’s too quick a decision for a bereaved spouse to make. Have you suggested that to your mother?”

  “What’s the use? When she makes up her mind to do something, she does it.”

  “How do your
brother and sister react?”

  “My brother went back to California; he doesn’t care. My sister thinks it’s a crime, but she doesn’t have any clout. Not with our mother! You’ve never met her.”

  “Was it her idea? Or did XYZ make an offer?”

  Junior hesitated before answering. “Uh . . . I don’t know.”

  “Why is she in such a hurry to sell?”

  “Well, the money, you know. She needs money. Dad had a lot of debts, you know.”

  “Did he carry decent life insurance?”

  “There’s a policy, but it’s not all that great. Grandma Gage has been keeping up the premiums for years, just to protect my mother and us. . . . The house is being sold, too.”

  “The farmhouse?”

  “Isn’t that sad?” Jody put in. “It’s been in the Goodwinter family a hundred years.”

  Qwilleran said, “A widow should never make such a quick decision to change her lifestyle.”

  “Well, it’s mortgaged, you know,” Junior said, “and she never wanted a big house anyway. She likes condominiums. She wants to unload the house before snow flies—doesn’t want to be stuck with a big place in the country during the winter.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “She’s going into an apartment in Indian Village.”

  “I thought there were no vacancies out there.”

  Jody said, “She’s moving in with a friend,” and Junior scowled at her.

  “Can she find a buyer for the house that fast—without selling at a sacrifice?” Qwilleran asked.

  “She’s got a buyer.”

  “Who? Do you know who it is?”

  “Herb Hackpole.”

  “Hackpole! What does a single man want with a big farmhouse like that?”

  “Well, he’s been wanting a place in the country, you know, so he can run his dogs. He has hunters. There’s no acreage, but he’ll be getting a good big yard and two barns.”

  “And what about the furnishings? You said your parents had a lot of family heirlooms.”

  “They’re going to be auctioned off.”

  Jody said, “Juney had been promised his great-grandfather’s desk, but that’s going to be sold, too.”

  In a tone of defeat Junior said, “If they can squeeze in the auction before snow flies, they’ll attract dealers from Ohio and Illinois and get the high dollar.”

  “And what about the antique printing presses in the barn?”

  Junior shrugged. “They’ll be sold for scrap metal. They figure the price by the ton.”

  The three of them fell into three kinds of silence: Junior, depressed; Jody, sympathetic; Qwilleran, stunned. Senior Goodwinter had been killed Friday night and buried Monday, and this was Tuesday.

  “When did you hear about these drastic decisions, Junior?”

  “My mother called me at the office this afternoon—right in the middle of the shoot. I didn’t say anything to the photographer. Do you think I should have told her? It might kill the story—or take the edge off it. She left an hour ago. I drove her to the airport.”

  Suddenly Junior’s beeper sounded. “Oh no!” he said. “That’s all I need! A stupid barn fire! Take Jody home, will you, Qwill?” he called over his shoulder as he raced out of the house. The city hall siren was screaming. Police sirens were wailing.

  It was then that Qwilleran realized he had forgotten to pour the coffee. “How about a cup, Jody? If it isn’t too cold.”

  The tiny young woman curled up on the sofa, cradling the big mug in her small hands. “I feel so sorry for Juney. I told him to go Down Below and get a job at the Daily Fluxion and forget about everything up here.”

  “No one should act on impulse at a time like this,” Qwilleran advised.

  “Maybe he could get an injunction to stop her from selling—or postpone it until she’s thinking straight.”

  “Won’t work. She’d have to be proved mentally incompetent. It’s her own property now, and she can do whatever she wishes.”

  At that moment Mrs. Cobb, in robe and bedroom slippers, made an abrupt appearance in the doorway. “Look out the window!” she said in alarm. “There’s a fire on Main Street! It looks like the lodge hall’s on fire!”

  Qwilleran and Jody jumped up, and all three of them hurried to the front windows.

  “That’s Herb’s lodge,” Mrs. Cobb said. “This is their meeting night. There could be thirty or forty people in the building.”

  “I’ll drive down and see,” Qwilleran said. “Come on, Jody, and I’ll take you home afterward. Out this way . . . back door . . . car’s in the garage.”

  Downtown Main Street was filled with flashing blue and red lights. Traffic was rerouted, and fire trucks were parked in an arc, training their headlights on the center of the block. The pumpers were working, and fire hoses were pouring water on the roof of the three-story lodge hall. Beyond that building there was an orange-red glow with flames leaping upward—then a hiss of steam—then a cloud of smoke.

  Qwilleran parked, and he and Jody walked closer.

  “It’s the Picayune!” he shouted. “The whole building’s on fire!”

  Jody started to cry. “Poor Juney!” she kept saying. “Poor Juney!”

  “They’re hosing down the lodge hall to keep it from catching,” Qwilleran said. “The post office, too. The newspaper plant is going to be totaled, I’m afraid.”

  “I think that’s what his father was trying to tell him in the dream,” she said. “Can you see Juney?”

  “Can’t recognize anyone in those helmets and rubber coats. Even their faces are black. Dirty job! The white helmet is the fire chief, that’s all I can tell.”

  “I hope Juney doesn’t do anything crazy, like running into the building to save something.”

  “They’re trained not to take foolish risks,” Qwilleran assured her.

  “But he’s so impulsive—and sentimental. That’s why he’s taking it so hard—his mother selling the Pic, I mean.” A sudden look of horror crossed her face. “Oh, no! William Allen’s in there! They always lock him up for the night. I’m going to be sick. . . .”

  “Easy, Jody! He may have escaped. Cats are clever. . . . Come on. We can’t stay here. It’s icing up, and you’re shivering. The men will be on the job for hours, mopping up and looking for hot spots. I’ll drive you home. Will you be all right?”

  “Yes, I’ll wait up till Juney comes home. He’s been staying at my place since his father died, you know.”

  * * *

  At the K mansion Qwilleran found Mrs. Cobb at the kitchen table, still in her pink robe, drinking cocoa and looking worried. “There’s no news on the radio,” she said anxiously.

  “It wasn’t the lodge hall,” Qwilleran told her. “It was the Picayune building. It’s gutted. More than a century of publishing destroyed in half an hour.”

  “Did you see Herb?” She poured a cup of cocoa for Qwilleran. It was not his favorite beverage.

  “No, but I’m sure he was there, swinging an ax.”

  “He shouldn’t be doing such strenuous work. He’s over fifty, you know, and most of the men are much younger.”

  “You seem unusually concerned about him, Mrs. Cobb.” He gave her a searching look.

  The housekeeper lowered her eyes and smiled sheepishly. “Well, I admit I’m fond of him. We always have a good time together, and he’s beginning to drop hints.”

  “About marriage?” Qwilleran’s dismay showed in his brusque question. As a housekeeper she was a jewel—too valuable to lose. She had spoiled him and the Siamese with her cooking.

  “I wouldn’t stop working, though,” Mrs. Cobb hastened to say. “I’ve always worked, and this is the most wonderful job I ever had. It’s a dream come true. I mean it!”

  “And you’re perfect for the position. Don’t rush into anything, Mrs. Cobb.”

  “I won’t,” she promised. “He hasn’t come right out and asked me yet, so don’t you say anything.”

  She refilled her co
coa cup and carried it upstairs, saying a weary good-night.

  Qwilleran made his nightly house check before setting the burglar alarm and locking up. Then he retired to his own quarters over the garage, carrying a wicker picnic hamper. Indistinct sounds came from inside the hamper, and it swung to and fro vigorously as he carried it.

  The four-car garage was a former carriage house built of fieldstone—the same masonry that made the main house spectacular. There were four arched doors to the stalls, a cupola with a weather vane on the roof, and a brace of ornate carriage lanterns at each corner of the building.

  Upstairs the interior had been refurbished to suit Qwilleran’s taste—comfortable contemporary in soothing tones of beige, rust, and brown. It was quiet and simple, an escape from the pomp and preciosity of the K mansion.

  In the sitting room there were easy chairs, good reading lamps, a music system, and a small bar where Qwilleran mixed drinks for guests. He himself had not touched alcohol since the time he fell off a subway platform in New York, an experience that had been permanently sobering. Nor had he ever ridden the subway again.

  The other rooms were his writing studio, his bedroom, and the cats’ parlor, which was carpeted and furnished with cushions, baskets, scratching posts, climbing trees, and a turkey roaster that served as their commode. There was also a shelf of secondhand books bought at the hospital bazaar for a dime apiece. There were books on first-year algebra and English grammar simplified. There was a collection of famous sermons. Other titles were The Burning of Rome and Elsie Dinsmore and Vergil’s Aeneid. Koko could push them off the shelf to his heart’s content.

  Qwilleran opened the wicker hamper in the cats’ parlor and invited two reluctant Siamese to jump out. Why, he asked himself, did they never want to get into the hamper? And when they were in it, why did they never want to get out? Koko and Yum Yum finally emerged cautiously, a performance they had repeated every night for the last year, stalking the premises and sniffing the furnishings as if they suspected the room to be bugged or booby-trapped.

  “Cats!” Qwilleran said aloud. “Who can understand them?”

  He left the Siamese to their own peculiar occupations—licking each other, wrestling, chasing, biting ears, and sniffing indiscreetly—while he tuned in the midnight news in his sitting room.