The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “The offices and printing plant of the Pickax Picayune were destroyed by fire tonight. The building is a total loss, according to fire chief Bruce Scott. Twenty-five fire fighters, three tankers, and two pumpers from Pickax and surrounding communities responded to the alarm and are still on the scene. No injuries have been reported. Elsewhere in the county, the Mooseville Village Council voted to spend five hundred dollars on Christmas decorations—”

  He snapped off the radio in exasperation. The same fifteen-second news item would be repeated hourly without further details. Listeners would not be told how the fire had started, who reported it, what records and equipment had been destroyed, the age of the building, its construction, the problems encountered in fighting the fire, precautions taken, the estimated value of the loss, the insurance coverage.

  Without doubt the county needed a newspaper. As for the fate of the Picayune, it was regrettable, but one had to be realistic. The Pic had been a relic of the horse-and-buggy era. It was Senior’s sentimentality and self-indulgence that had bankrupted his newspaper. Typesetting was his obsession, his reason for living, to quote Junior.

  Reason for living? Qwilleran jerked to attention and combed his moustache with his fingertips. If the newspaper had truly been on the brink of failure, could Senior’s accident have been a suicide? The old plank bridge would be a logical place for a fatal “accident.” It was well-known to be hazardous. Senior was a cautious, sober man—not one of the Friday-night drunks or speeding youths who usually came to grief at the bridge.

  Qwilleran felt a tingling sensation on his upper lip, and he knew his suspicion was valid. There was something uncanny about his upper lip. A tingling, a tremor, or simply a vague uneasiness in the roots of his moustache told him when he was on the right scent. And now he was getting the signal.

  If Senior had intended to take his own life, a staged “accident” would avoid the suicide clause, provided the insurance policy had been in effect long enough. Didn’t Junior mention that Grandma Gage had been paying the premiums for years?

  An “accident” might pay double indemnity to the widow, or even triple indemnity, although that would be a gamble: There would be a thorough investigation. Insurance companies objected to being fooled.

  Perhaps Senior feared something worse than losing the newspaper. He had taken desperate measures to keep the Picayune afloat—selling the farmland, mortgaging the farmhouse, begging from his mother-in-law. Did his desperation lead him into something illegal? Did he fear exposure? How about the man in the black raincoat? What was he doing in Pickax? Senior’s death had occurred only a few hours before the stranger arrived on the plane. Did Senior know he was coming? And why was the visitor hanging around? Were others implicated?

  And now the Picayune offices had been destroyed. It was curious timing for such a disaster. Was there something in the basement of the building besides presses and back-copy files? Was it incriminating evidence that had to be eliminated? Who knew what was there? And who threw the match?

  Qwilleran roused himself from his reverie and flexed the leg that was going to sleep. He was getting some weird notions. What had Mrs. Cobb put in that cocoa?

  From the cats’ parlor down the hall came a muffled but recognizable sound: thlunk! It was followed by another thlunk—then again thlunk thlunk thlunk in rapid succession. It was the sound of books falling on a carpeted floor. Koko was bumping his private collection.

  Wednesday, November thirteenth. “Continued cold, with overcast skies and snow showers accumulating to three to four inches.”

  “Overcast!” Qwilleran bellowed at the radio on his desk. “Why don’t you look out the window? The sun’s shining like the Fourth of July!”

  He turned his attention back to Tuesday’s Daily Fluxion, which had given good space to the story about the Pickax Picayune. It was not entirely accurate, but small towns were glad of any attention at all in the metropolitan press. Then he tried to read about the disasters, terrorism, crime, and graft Down Below, but his mind kept drifting back to Moose County.

  Snow or no snow, he wanted to drive out in the country, look at the old plank bridge, visit the Goodwinter farmhouse, meet the widow. He would take flowers, offer condolences, and ask a few polite questions. It was an approach he had always handled well on the newsbeat. Sad eyes and drooping moustache gave him a mournful demeanor that passed for deep sympathy.

  In the county telephone book he found Senior Goodwinter listed on Black Creek Lane in North Middle Hummock. On the county map he could find neither. He found Middle Hummock and West Middle Hummock. He found Mooseville, Smith’s Folly, Squunk Corners, Chipmunk, and Brrr, which was not a misprint; the town was the coldest spot in the county. But North Middle Hummock was not to be found. He took his problem to Mr. O’Dell, who knew all the answers.

  Mrs. Fulgrove and Mr. O’Dell were the day help at the K mansion. The woman scrubbed and polished six days a week with almost religious fervor; the houseman handled the heavy jobs. Mr. O’Dell had been a school janitor for forty years and had shepherded thousands of students through adolescence—answering their questions, solving their problems, and lending them lunch money. “Janitor” was a revered title in Pickax, and if Mr. O’Dell ever decided to run for the office of mayor, he would be elected unanimously. Now, with his silver hair and ruddy complexion and benign expression, he superintended the Klingenschoen estate as naturally as he had supervised the education of Pickax youth.

  Qwilleran found the houseman lubricating the hinges on the broom closet door. “Do you know the location of Senior Goodwinter’s farmhouse, Mr. O’Dell? I don’t find North Middle Hummock on the map.”

  In a lilting voice the houseman said, “The divil himself couldn’t find the likes o’ that on the map, I’m thinkin’, for it’s a ghost town fifty year since, but yourself can find it, for I’m after tellin’ you how to get there. Go east, now, past the Buckshot Mine, where the wind will be whistlin’ in the mine shaft on a day without wind, and there’ll be moanin’ from the lower depths. When you come to the old plank bridge, let you be wary, for the boards rattle like the divil’s own teeth. Keep watch for a lonely tree on a high hill—the hangin’ tree, they’re callin’ it—for then you’re comin’ to the church where me and my Colleen got ourselves married by the good Father Ryan forty-five year since, God rest her soul. And when you come to a deal o’ rubble, that’s all that’s left o’ North Middle Hummock.”

  “I feel we’re getting warm,” Qwilleran said.

  “Warm, is it? There’s a ways to go yet—two miles till you set eyes on Captain Fugtree’s farm with the white fence. Beyond the sheep meadow pay no mind to the sign sayin’ Fugtree Sideroad, for it’s Black Creek Lane, and the Goodwinter house you’ll be seein’ at the end of it. Gray, it is, with a yellow door.”

  As Qwilleran set out for a North Middle Hummock that didn’t exist and a Black Creek Lane that was called something else, he marveled at the information programmed in the heads of Moose County natives for instant retrieval. If Mr. O’Dell could recite the directions in such detail, Senior Goodwinter, who had driven the tortuous route every day, would know every jog in the road, every pothole, every patch of loose gravel. It was not likely that Senior had wrecked his car accidentally.

  Qwilleran heard no whistling or moaning at the Buckshot Mine, but the old plank bridge did indeed rattle ominously. Although the parapets were built of stone, the roadbed was a loose strip of lateral planks. The “hanging tree” was well named—an ancient gnarled oak making a grotesque silhouette against the sky. Everything else checked out: the church, the rubble, the white fence, the sheep meadow.

  The farmhouse at the end of Black Creek Lane was a rambling structure of weathered gray shingles, set in a yard covered with the gold and red leaves of maples. Clumps of chrysanthemums were still blooming stubbornly around the doorstep.

  Qwilleran lifted a brass door knocker shaped like the Greek letter pi and let it drop on the yellow door. He had taken the risk of dropping in
without an appointment, country style, and when the door opened he was greeted without surprise by a pleasant young woman in a western shirt.

  “I’m Jim Qwilleran,” he said. “I couldn’t attend the funeral, but I’ve brought some flowers for Mrs. Goodwinter.”

  “I know you!” she exclaimed. “I used to see your picture in the Daily Fluxion before I moved to Montana. Come right in!” She turned and shouted up the staircase. “Mother! You’ve got company!”

  The woman who came down the stairs was no distraught widow with eyes red from weeping and sleeplessness; she was a hearty type in a red warm-up suit, with eyes sparkling and cheeks pink as if she had just come in from jogging.

  “Mr. Qwilleran!” she cried with outstretched hand. “How good of you to drop in! We’ve all read your column in the Fluxion, and we’re so glad you’re living up here.”

  He presented the flowers. “With my compliments and sympathy, Mrs. Goodwinter.”

  “Please call me Gritty. Everyone does,” she said. “And thank you for your kindness. Roses! I love roses! Let’s go into the keeping room. Every other place is torn up for inventory. . . . Pug, honey, put these lovely flowers in a vase, will you? That’s a dear.”

  The hundred-year-old farmhouse had many small rooms with wide floorboards and six-over-six windows with some of the original wavy glass. The mismatched furnishings were obviously family heirlooms, but the interior was self-consciously coordinated: blue-and-white tiles, blue-and-white calico curtains, and blue-and-white china on the plate rail. Antique cooking utensils hung in and around the large fireplace.

  Gritty said, “We’ve been hoping you would join the country club, Mr. Qwilleran.”

  “I haven’t done any joining,” he said, “because I’m concentrating on writing a book.”

  “Not about Pickax, I hope,” the widow said with a laugh. “It would be banned in Boston. . . . Pug, honey, bring us a drink, will you? . . . What will you have, Mr. Qwilleran?”

  “Ginger ale, club soda, anything like that. And everyone calls me Qwill.”

  “How about a Coke with a little rum?” She was tempting him with a sidelong glance. “Live it up, Qwill!”

  “Thanks, but I’ve been on the wagon for several years.”

  “Well, you’re doing something right! You look wonderfully healthy.” She appraised him from head to foot. “Are you happy in Moose County?”

  “I’m getting used to it—the fresh air, the relaxed lifestyle, the friendly people,” he said. “It must be a comfort to you, during this sad time, to have so many friends and relatives.”

  “The relatives you can have!” she said airily. “But, yes—I am fortunate to have good friends.”

  Her daughter brought a tray of beverages, and Qwilleran raised his glass. “With hope for the future!”

  “You’re so right!” said his hostess, flourishing a double old-fashioned. “Would you stay for lunch, Qwill? I’ve made a ham-and-spinach quiche with funeral leftovers. Pug, honey, see if it’s ready to come out of the oven. Stick a knife in it.”

  The visit was not what Qwilleran had anticipated. He was required to shift abruptly from condolence to social chitchat. “You have a beautiful house,” he remarked.

  “It may look good,” Gritty said, “but it’s a pain in the you-know-what. I’m tired of floors that slope and doors that creak and septic tanks that back up and stairs with narrow treads. God! They must have had small feet in the old days. And small bottoms! Look at those Windsor chairs! I’m selling the house and moving to an apartment in Indian Village—near the golf course, you know.”

  Pug said, “Mother is a champion golfer. She wins all the tournaments.”

  “What will you do with your antiques when you move?” Qwilleran asked innocently.

  “Sell them at auction. Do you like auctions? They’re the major pastime in Moose County—next to potluck suppers and messing around.”

  “Oh, Mother!” Pug remonstrated. She turned to Qwilleran. “That big rolltop desk belonged to my great-grandfather. He founded the Picayune.”

  “It looks like a rolltop coffin,” her mother said. “I’ve been doomed to live with antiques all my life. Never liked them. Crazy, isn’t it?”

  Lunch was served at a pine table in the kitchen, and the quiche arrived on blue-and-white plates.

  Gritty said, “I hope this is the last meal I ever eat on blue china. It makes food look yukky, but the whole set was handed down in my husband’s family—hundreds of pieces that refuse to break.”

  “I was appalled,” Qwilleran said, “when the Picayune offices burned down. I was hoping the paper would continue to publish under Junior’s direction.”

  “Pooh on the Picayune,” said Gritty. “They should have pulled the plug thirty years ago.”

  “But it’s unique in the annals of journalism. Junior could have carried on the tradition, even if they printed the paper by modern methods.”

  “No,” she said. “That boy will marry his midget, and they’ll both leave Pickax and go Down Below to get jobs. Probably in a sideshow,” she added with a laugh. “Junior is the runt of the litter.”

  “Oh, Mother, don’t say such things,” Pug protested. To Qwilleran she said, “Mother is the humorist in the family.”

  “It hides my broken heart,” the widow said with a debonair shrug.

  “What will happen to the Picayune building now? Were they able to salvage anything?”

  “It’s all gone,” she said without apparent regret. “The building is gutted, but the stone walls are okay. They’re two feet thick. It would make a good minimall with six or eight shops, but we’ll have to wait and see what we collect on insurance.”

  Throughout the visit thoughts were racing through Qwilleran’s mind: Everything was being done too fast; it all seemed beautifully planned. As for the widow, either she was braving it out or she was utterly heartless. “Gritty” affected him less like a courageous woman and more like the sand in the spinach quiche.

  Returning home, he telephoned Dr. Zoller’s dental clinic and spoke with the young receptionist who had such dazzlingly capped teeth.

  “This is Jim Qwilleran, Pam. Could I get an appointment this afternoon to have my teeth cleaned?”

  “One moment. Let me find your card. . . . You were here in July, Mr. Q. You’re not due until January.”

  “This is an emergency. I’ve been drinking a lot of tea.”

  “Oh. . . . Well, in that case you’re in luck. Jody just had a cancellation. Can you come right over?”

  “In three minutes and twenty seconds.” In Pickax one was never more than five minutes away from anywhere.

  The clinic occupied a lavishly renovated stone stable that had once been a ten-cent barn behind the old Pickax Hotel in horse-and-buggy days. Jody greeted Qwilleran eagerly. In her long white coat she looked even more diminutive.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you!” she said. “Juney wants you to know that he’s flying Down Below to see the editor who promised him a job. He left at noon.”

  “Well, that’s the end of the old Picayune,” Qwilleran said.

  “Fasten your seat belt. You’re going for a ride.” She adjusted the dental chair to its lowest level. “Is your head comfy?”

  “How late did Junior stay at the fire scene?”

  “He got in at five-thirty this morning, and he was beat! They had to stay and watch for hot spots, you know. . . . Now open wide.”

  “Salvage anything?” he asked quickly before complying.

  “I don’t think so. The papers that weren’t burned were soaked. As soon as they knocked the fire down they let Juney go in with an air pack to see if he could find a fireproof box that belonged to his dad. But the smoke was too thick. He couldn’t even see—Oops! Did I puncture you?”

  “Arrh,” Qwilleran replied with his mouth full of instruments.

  Jody’s tiny fingers had a delicate touch, but her hands were shaking after a sleepless night.

  “Juney says they don’t know what c
aused the fire. He didn’t let anyone smoke when they were taking pictures. . . . Is that a sensitive spot?”

  “Arrh arrh.”

  “Poor Juney! He was crushed—absolutely crushed! He’s really not strong enough to be a nozzleman, you know, but the chief let him take the hose—with three backup men instead of two. It made Juney feel—not so helpless, you know. . . . Now you can rinse out.”

  “Building well insured?”

  “Just a tad wider, please. That’s it! . . . There’s some insurance, but most of the stuff is priceless, because it’s old and irreplaceable. . . . Now rinse.”

  “Too bad the old issues weren’t on microfilm and stored somewhere for safety.”

  “Juney said it would cost too much money.”

  “Who reported the fire?” Another quick question between rinses.

  “Some kids cruising on Main Street. They saw smoke, and when the trucks got there, the whole building was in flames. . . . Is this hurting you?”

  “Arrh arrh.”

  She sighed. “So I guess Juney will take a job at the Fluxion, and his mother will sell everything.” She whipped off the bib. “There you go! Have you been flossing after every meal like Dr. Zoller told you?”

  “Inform Dr. Zoller,” Qwilleran said, “that not only do I floss after meals but I floss between the courses. In restaurants I’m known as the Mad Flosser.”

  From the dental clinic he went to Scottie’s Men’s Shop. Qwilleran, whose mother had been a Mackintosh, was partial to Scots, and the storekeeper had a brogue that he turned on for good customers.

  Throughout his career Qwilleran had never cared much about clothes, being satisfied with a drab uniform of coat, pants, shirt, and tie. There was something about the north-country lifestyle, however, that sparked his interest in tartan shirts, Icelandic sweaters, shearling parkas, trooper hats, bulky boots, and buckskin choppers. And the more Scottie burred his r’s, the more Qwilleran bought.

  Entering the store, Qwilleran said, “What happened to the four inches of snow we were supposed to get today?”