The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Meeting adjourned,” shouted Fitch.

  During the social hour the banker said to Qwilleran, “That’s a remarkable cat you have. How did he do it?”

  Qwilleran explained that Mr. O’Dell was downstairs, and he had probably put Koko in the car, pressed the button, and sent him up—for laughs.

  Actually Qwilleran thought nothing of the kind. Koko was capable of boarding the car, stretching to his full length, and reaching the controls with a paw. He had done it before. The cat was fascinated by push buttons, keys, levers, and knobs. But how could one explain that to a banker?

  When the mayor finally arrived, he cornered Qwilleran. “Say, Qwill, when is this town going to emerge from the Dark Ages?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you ever hear of a whole county trying to function without a newspaper? We all knew Senior was a nut, but we thought Junior would take over and make it go. He’s a bright kid; I had him in poli sci when I was teaching. But I suppose you’ve heard Gritty’s selling the Picayune to you-know-who. They’ll make a mint of money on it—as an ad sheet, that’s all—and we still won’t have any news coverage. Why don’t you start a paper, Qwill?”

  “Well, it’s like this. I used to think I’d like to own my own newspaper and my own four-star restaurant and my own big-league ball club, but I’ve had to face the fact that I’m not a financier or an administrator.”

  “Okay. How about your connections Down Below? I know you lured that young couple up here to turn the Old Stone Mill around.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Qwilleran promised.

  “Think fast.”

  Over the cups of weak tea and mildly alcoholic punch there was no lack of chatter:

  “Incredible collection of antiques!”

  “How do you like this weather?”

  “A memorable evening! We are indebted to you, Mr. Qwilleran.”

  “Snow’s never been so late.”

  “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

  “Would you like a twelve-foot Christmas tree for the museum, Qwill? I have a beauty on my farm.”

  “Charming place for a wedding. My son is being married soon.”

  There were no theories about Senior’s accident or the Picayune fire, however, despite Qwilleran’s leading questions. He was still an outsider. Although an eavesdropper by profession, he heard nothing that suggested illegal activity or conspiracy.

  While he felt an underlying disappointment, he noticed that Mrs. Cobb was unusually elated. She talked vivaciously, laughed much, and accepted compliments without blushing. Something wonderful had happened to her, he guessed. She had won the state lottery, or she was a grandmother for the first time, or the mayor had appointed her to the Commission on Preservation. Whatever the reason, Mrs. Cobb was inordinately happy.

  Then Qwilleran observed a pair of Old Timers sitting in a corner with their heads together. A frail woman dependent upon a walker was listening to an old man with a cane as he talked about the Picayune fire. Qwilleran inquired if they were enjoying the party.

  “Good cookies,” said the man, “but they shoulda put somethin’ in the punch. Glad it didn’t snow.”

  “We don’t get out much after snow flies,” said his companion. “I never saw such a grand house!”

  “Couldn’t hear a word at the meeting, though.”

  The woman sniffed. “Amos, you always sit in the back row, and you always complain you can’t hear.”

  Qwilleran asked their names.

  “I’m Amos Cook, eighty-eight,” the man said. “Eighty-eight and still cookin’. Heh heh heh.” He jerked his thumb. “She’s a young chick, eighty-five. Heh heh heh.”

  “I’m Hettie Spence, and I’ll be eighty-six next month,” she said. The Old Timers flaunted their ages like medals. “I was a Fugtree before I married Mr. Spence. He had the hardware store. We raised five children of our own—four of them boys—and three foster children. They all went to college. My eldest son is an ophthalmologist Down Below.” She spoke with a fluttering of eyelids, hands, and shoulders.

  “My grand-niece married one o’ them,” Amos put in.

  “I wrote the obituaries for the Picayune before my arthritis got too bad,” Hettie said. “I wrote the obituary for the last of the Klingenschoens.”

  “I read it,” said Qwilleran. “It was unforgettable.”

  “My father wouldn’t let me go away to college, but I took correspondence courses, and—”

  Amos interrupted. “Her and me was in the pictures they took before the fire.”

  “How did you enjoy it?” Qwilleran asked. “Was the photographer good? How many pictures did she take?”

  “Too many,” he complained. “I got awful tired. I just had a gall bladder operation. She went click-click-click. Not like the old days. In them days you had to watch the birdie till your face froze, and the man had his head under a black cloth.”

  “In those days we had to say ‘plum’ before he snapped the picture,” Hettie said. “We never had girl photographers then.”

  “Wouldn’t let me smoke my corncob. Said it would fog up the pictures. Never heard anythin’ so silly.”

  Qwilleran asked what time they left the newspaper office.

  “My grandson picked us up at six,” Amos said.

  “Five,” Hettie corrected him.

  “Six, Hettie. Junior took the girl to the airport at half past five.”

  “Well, my watch said five, and I took my medication.”

  “You forgot to wind it, and you took your pill too late. That’s why you got a dizzy spell.”

  Qwilleran interrupted. “And the fire broke out about four hours later. Do you have any idea what caused it?”

  The old couple looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “How long had you worked at the Picayune, Mr. Cook?”

  “I was a printer’s devil when I was ten, and I stayed till I couldn’t work no more.” He patted his chest. “Weak ticker. But I got to be head pressman when Titus was alive. We had two men and a boy on them handpresses, and it took all day to print a couple of thousand. The paper sold for a penny then. You could get a whole year for a dollar.”

  Qwilleran remembered the book Polly had given him. “Would you good people come downstairs and look at an old picture of Picayune employees? You might be able to identify them.”

  “My eyes aren’t very good,” Hettie said. “Cataracts. And I don’t move so fast since I broke my hip.”

  Nevertheless, Qwilleran conducted them to the library and produced his copy of Picturesque Pickax. He flicked on the tape recorder, and the interview was later transcribed by Lori Bamba.

  Question: This is a picture of Picayune employees, taken sometime before 1921. Do you recognize any of the faces?

  Amos: I’m not in the picture. Don’t even know when it was took. But that’s Titus Goodwinter in the middle—the one with the derby hat and handlebar moustache.

  Hettie: He always wore a derby hat. Who’s that next to Titus?

  Amos: The one with arm garters? Don’t know him.

  Hettie: Was he the bookkeeper?

  Amos: No, the bookkeeper has those black things on his sleeves. Bill Watkins, his name was.

  Hettie: Bill was the sheriff. His cousin Barnaby kept books. I went to school with him. He was killed by a runaway horse and wagon.

  Amos: It was the sheriff that tried to stop a runaway, Hettie. Barnaby was shot in the head with a rifle.

  Hettie: I beg to differ. Barnaby didn’t believe in firearms. I knew his whole family.

  Amos: (loudly) I didn’t say he had a gun! Some hunter shot him!

  Hettie: I thought the sheriff always carried a gun.

  Amos: (louder) We’re talking about the bookkeeper! Barnaby! The one with black sleeve things!

  Hettie: Don’t shout!

  Amos: Well, anyway, the one with the derby hat is Titus Goodwinter.

  Was Titus the founder of the newspaper?

  Amos: Nope. Ephr
aim started the paper way back. Don’t know when. Had a big funeral when he died. Hung himself.

  Hettie: Ephraim hanged himself, or so they said.

  Amos: On a big oak tree near the old plank bridge.

  Is that when Titus started to manage the newspaper?

  Amos: No, the oldest boy took over, but he got throwed by a horse.

  Hettie: Millions of blackbirds rose out of a cornfield, and his horse bolted.

  Amos: The blackbirds in them days was like the mosquitoes we got now.

  Hettie: Titus ran the paper after that. My, he was spoiled! Once when the creek was swollen, his horse wouldn’t cross it, and Titus jumped off in a rage and shot him.

  Amos: His own horse! Shot him dead! That’s Titus in a derby hat. Always wore a derby hat.

  Who’s the fierce-looking man at the end of the row?

  Amos: That’s the fellah that drove the wagon, eh, Hettie?

  Hettie: That’s Zack, all right. I never liked him. He drank.

  Amos: Killed Titus in a fight and went to prison. Good driver, though. Had a pretty daughter. Ellie, her name was. Worked at the paper for a spell.

  Hettie: Ellie folded papers and made tea and swept up.

  Amos: Throwed herself in the river one dark night.

  Hettie: Poor girl had no mother, and her father drank, and her brother was a bully.

  Amos: Titus took a shine to her.

  Hettie: He was always a ladies’ man—him and that derby hat and big moustache.

  End of interview.

  Nigel Fitch interrupted the dialogue, saying he was ready to drive the two Old Timers home. All the guests were drifting out, reluctantly. Plucking Polly from the departing crowd, Qwilleran invited her to stay for an afterglow.

  “One little glass of sherry, and then I must leave,” she said as they went into the library. “Did you object to my involving you in the oral history project?”

  “Not at all. It might prove interesting. Did you know that Senior’s father was murdered and his grandfather hanged himself?”

  “The family has had a violent history, but you must remember that this was pioneer country like the old Wild West, but at a later date. We’re more civilized now.”

  “Computers and video recorders do not a civilization make.”

  “That’s not Shakespeare, Qwill.”

  “I visited Mrs. Goodwinter yesterday,” he said. “She was hardly one of your traditional widows, ravaged by grief and sedated by the family physician.”

  “She’s a courageous woman. When they named her Gritty, they had reason.”

  “She’s made some rather sudden decisions—to sell the house, auction the furnishings, and let the antique presses go for scrap metal. It’s less than a week since Senior died, and the auction posters are all over town. That’s too fast.”

  “People who have never been widowed are always telling widows how to behave,” Polly said. “Gritty is a strong woman, like her mother. Euphonia Gage should be on your list for an oral history interview.”

  “What do you know about XYZ Enterprises?”

  “Only that they’re successful at everything they undertake.”

  “Do you know the principals?”

  “Slightly. Don Exbridge is a charming man. He’s the promoter, the idea person. Caspar Young is the contractor. Dr. Zoller is the financial backer.”

  “That figures. I suspect he’s made a fortune in dental floss,” Qwilleran said. “Do X, Y, and Z all belong to the country club?”

  He had made a study of the clique system in Pickax. Everything depended on which club one joined, which church one attended, and how long one’s family had lived in Moose County. The Goodwinters went back five generations; the Fitches, four.

  “I must leave now,” said Polly, “before my landlord calls the sheriff and they send out the search posse. Mr. MacGregor is a nice old man, and I don’t want to upset him.”

  After she left, Qwilleran wondered if the fine hand of XYZ Enterprises had guided Mrs. Goodwinter’s decisions. They all belonged to the club. They golfed. They played cards. That was the way it worked.

  He also wondered if Polly really had an elderly landlord named MacGregor monitoring her activities. Or was it a manufactured excuse for leaving early? And why was she so reluctant to stay late? She was afraid of something. Gossip, perhaps. Pickax imposed a Victorian code of propriety on its professional women, and they took pains to preserve appearances, even though they were privately living in the late twentieth century. Polly’s landlord, Qwilleran suspected, might be more than a landlord.

  Friday, November fifteenth. It was the opening day of gun season for deer hunters. At the Klingenschoen Museum it was the morning after the preview, and Mrs. Cobb was still elated and a trifle giddy.

  Qwilleran complimented her on the success of the evening. “Everyone praised the museum and the refreshments, not necessarily in that order,” he said. “We’ve been offered a twelve-foot Christmas tree for the foyer, and the Fitches would like to use the museum for their son’s wedding.”

  “It would be a beautiful setting for a wedding,” she said, adding playfully, “Koko could be ring bearer and carry the ring on his tail.”

  “You’re making jokes this morning,” Qwilleran said. “You must be feeling good.”

  She looked at him coyly. “What would you think about having two weddings here?”

  “You?”

  Her eyes were glowing behind the thick lenses. “Herb is buying a hundred-year-old farmhouse. He called me just before the preview and said he thought we should get married.”

  “Hmff,” Qwilleran said, then searched for something more agreeable to say. “It’s the Goodwinter place. I’ve seen it. It’s a gem!”

  “He got a good buy because she’s in a hurry to sell before snow flies.”

  “It’s overdecorated, but you’d know how to correct that.”

  “It will be fun to restore it and furnish it with primitives.”

  “Does Hackpole like antiques?” Qwilleran asked dubiously.

  “Not really, but he says I can do anything I want. His chief interest is hunting and fishing. He has cabinets full of guns and hunting knives and fishing rods. He wants to give me a rifle—a .22 rimfire, whatever that is—for squirrels and rabbits.” Her pursed lips expressed disapproval.

  “It’s hard to imagine you tramping around the woods, taking shots at small animals, Mrs. Cobb.”

  She shuddered. “Herb was telling me how he field-dresses a deer, and it turned my stomach. By the way, he wants to know if you like venison. He always gets his buck, and he says the meat is delicious if the deer bleeds to death slowly. The heart should keep pumping blood out of the tissues.” She quoted without enthusiasm.

  “Hmff,” Qwilleran said again, his down-turned moustache drooping more than usual. He was not happy with the turn of events. A housekeeper who worked an eight-hour shift and then went home to cook for her husband would be quite different from the live-in housekeeper who had spoiled him and the cats with her cooking during the last eighteen months. Yet he knew that Iris Cobb, twice widowed, yearned for a husband. Too bad she hadn’t found one better than Hackpole.

  True, he made a good living—in used cars, auto repair, welding, and scrap metal. True, he was a volunteer fire fighter, and that was to his credit. He had fabricated Mrs. Cobb’s mobile herb garden in his welding shop; he had picked the berries for her wild haw jelly; he was an expert woodsman. Yet, all around town Hackpole was considered obnoxious. He seemed to have no friends, except Mrs. Cobb, and this inept Romeo now wanted to give her a .22 rifle! Poor woman! She had hoped for a certain expensive silk blouse for her birthday, and Hackpole had given her an expensive Swiss army knife. The man aroused Qwilleran’s curiosity.

  How had he arranged the purchase of the Goodwinter house so fast? He was hardly a member of the country club clique, but he might have connections with XYZ Enterprises. His welding shop probably had the contract for the balcony railings on the Mooseville Motel and
the Indian Village units.

  Then the telephone rang, and Qwilleran took the call in the library.

  A little-girl voice said, “Mr. Qwilleran, this is Jody. Juney came back from Down Below last night. He didn’t get hired.”

  “Did he see the managing editor?”

  “Yes, the man who promised him a job. He said they’d just hired three new women reporters and there was no opening at the present time, but they’d keep him in mind.”

  “Typical!” Qwilleran muttered. “Typical of that guy.”

  “Juney tried the Morning Rampage, too, but they’re cutting down their staff. He’s terribly depressed. He got in late last night and didn’t sleep at all.”

  “With his academic record he’ll have no trouble getting located, Jody. Newspapers send scouts to college campuses every spring to recruit top students. He’s tried only one city. He should start cranking out résumés to mail around the country.”

  “That’s what I told him, but he wouldn’t listen. He left early this morning and said he was going hunting. He said he’d go to the farmhouse and pick up his brother’s rifle—if his mother hasn’t sold it already. That’s why I’m worried. Juney isn’t much of a woodsman, and he isn’t crazy about hunting.”

  “Just getting out in the woods will be good therapy, Jody. It’ll sharpen his perspective. And the weather’s not bad. Don’t worry about him.”

  “Well, I don’t know . . .”

  “When Junior gets back, we’ll get together and have a talk.”

  Qwilleran had made an afternoon appointment with Junior’s Grandma Gage for an oral history interview, but he had an hour to kill, and he felt restless. Mrs. Cobb’s announcement had distressed him, and Junior’s disappointment made him vaguely uncomfortable, so he took his own advice: He drove out into the country.

  It was a gray day, not likely to cheer one up, and without snow the terrain looked dreary. Traveling north to Mooseville, through good hunting country, he glanced down side roads, looking for Junior’s car. Here and there a hunter’s car or pickup was parked well off the shoulder in a desolate wooded area, but there was no sign of a red Jaguar. He caught glimpses of a blaze-orange figure crouching in a cornfield or entering the woods, and he heard rifle shots. He was glad he had worn his own blaze-orange cap.