The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Qwilleran pulled on some clothes and opened a closet door that concealed a mini kitchen. A mini sink produced instant boiling water for his culinary specialty, instant coffee. A mini microwave thawed breakfast rolls taken from a mini freezer.

  In no time at all Noyton bounded up the stairs. “Is this where you live? I like this modern stuff better than the junk in the big house. Hey, this is a sexy sofa! Do you bring girls up here?”

  Qwilleran was always grumpy before his morning coffee. “This is where I work, Harry. I’m writing a book.”

  “No jive! What’s it about?”

  “You’ll have to wait and buy a copy when it’s published.”

  “I like you newspaper guys,” said Noyton with buoyant good humor. “You’re independent! That’s why I go for this idea of owning a paper. This neck of the woods is waiting for something to happen. There’s a lot of money up here! People own their own planes, three or four cars, forty-foot boats, sable coats! You should see the rocks on the women at the country club!”

  “You’re looking at inherited wealth,” Qwilleran said. “There’s also poverty and unemployment, and too many kids aren’t going to college. A newspaper with guts could stir up some civic consciousness and promote job training and job opportunities and scholarships. The Klingenschoen Fund can’t do it alone—and shouldn’t do it alone!”

  “Dammit! You’ve got it all figured out. That’s what I like about you newspaper guys.”

  Qwilleran placed mugs of coffee and a plate of Mrs. Cobb’s cinnamon rolls on the travertine card table. “Pull up a chair, Harry. How do you like the hotel? Are you comfortable?”

  “Hell, they gave me the bridal suite with a round bed and pink satin sheets!”

  “What luck with your conferences yesterday?”

  “No hitch! Everything’s sewed up! That Goodwinter gal doesn’t know what hit her! I wrote six-figure checks on three different banks for the rights to the Picayune name and the old printing equipment.”

  “How did you work it?”

  “The mayor took us all to lunch at the club—her and the economic development guys—private conference room. It was upbeat all the way. When it was over, she was calling me Harry and I was calling her Gritty. My lawyers called her lawyer, her banker called my bankers, and we both had a deal. The city’s behind it a hundred percent. It’ll create jobs. We get a building tax-free for ten years. The paper can be job-printed until the plant is set up.”

  “What will happen to the old burned-out building?”

  “The city’s condemning it and paying her off. They’ll resell it for a minimall. The county commissioners got in the act, too. The county will go fifty-fifty on a newspaper museum near Mooseville. Tourist attraction, you know. . . . Hey, these are damn good rolls!”

  “What was XYZ Enterprises doing all the time you were outbidding them and buttering up the widow?”

  “XYZ never had anything on paper. It was all hanky-panky with Gritty. So she wasn’t obligated to do business with those robbers. If a poor widow can get three-quarters of a million instead of some piddling five-digit figure, who’s going to take her to court?”

  Qwilleran thought, The news won’t go down well with Exbridge. She’ll have to move out of Indian Village in a hurry. The news will be all over town by now.

  Noyton was wound up and talking nonstop. “Some of the commissioners drove me around to see the lay of the land, and—hey, you faker!—they didn’t say a word about rutting bucks coming through the windshield! I like Mooseville. Everything’s built of logs. I’d like to build a hotel there. The town’s ripe for a highrise. We could build it of poured concrete logs. How does that grab you?”

  “Harry, you have no taste. Leave the design to the architects.”

  “Hell, it’s my money! I tell the architects what to design.”

  “Well, when the newspaper is launched, don’t try to tell the editors how to edit.”

  Noyton’s face took on a confidential smirk. “Gritty rode with us to Mooseville, and we sat in the back seat and developed a little—what do you call it?”

  “Rapport.”

  “Then she took me to dinner at the place with the wheel that rattles and creaks. I told them to give me an oilcan and a screwdriver, and I’d go out and fix the damn thing. But we had a good time, Qwill, and I mean a go-o-od time. We ended up in my suite at the hotel with a bottle of hooch. She didn’t want to go home to where she’s been living, so I made a little arrangement at the hotel. Couldn’t let those pink sheets go to waste. She’s my kind of woman, Qwill—with spunk and a little shape to her figure. Remember Natalie? My life was never the same after I lost Natalie. And do you know what? Gritty goes for me in a big way! I’m taking her to Hawaii for a little holiday. I’ve got some business down there. Nothing big. Just condos.”

  “You’d better get out of here before snow flies,” Qwilleran said, “and before Exbridge comes after you with a shotgun. He just got a divorce because of Gritty.”

  “I’m not afraid of Exbridge,” Noyton said. “I’ve handled smarter suckers than him. . . . Oh, by the way, I talked to your editor friend—found him down in Texas—and he’s hot for it. Then Gritty took me to the hospital to meet Junior, and he went into orbit!”

  Qwilleran said, “Find out if Gritty knows anything about a small fireproof box that disappeared in the Picayune fire. No one knows what it contains, but Junior thinks it’s important. It could be buried in the rubble.”

  “No problem! We’ll get a crew over there and start sifting. And did I tell you I made an offer for the Pickax Hotel? We’ll get a good decorator up here from Down Below and change the name to Noyton House.”

  “Don’t do it that way. Use a local designer and keep the old name. Do you want these good people to think they’re being invaded? The trick is to fit in, not take over.”

  “Okay, General. Yes sir, General. Sure you don’t want to go on my payroll?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Now I’ve got to get out of here. Thanks for the coffee. I’ve tasted better, but it was sure strong! I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up before I leave for the airport. I’ve chartered a plane to Minneapolis.”

  “Need a ride to the airport?”

  Noyton shook his head and looked smug. “Gritty’s driving me, but do me a favor, will you? She’ll leave her car keys at the terminal desk with Charlie. Somebody should pick it up before snow flies. She won’t be needing it. She’s not coming back till spring.”

  Noyton had just gone thumping down the stairs in his new boots when Junior telephoned. “Want to hear some news?”

  “Good or bad?”

  “Both. The deal for the Picayune is finalized. The money’s in the bank. Arch Riker is on his way up here. I’m getting out of the hospital today. I’ve shaved off my beard, and Grandma Gage is going to Florida, so I’m house-sitting till she comes back.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “Jody’s mad at me. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. All of a sudden she says I don’t listen to her and I ignore her when other people are around.”

  “You’ll have to start thinking from her viewpoint as well as your own if you two are going to get married,” Qwilleran said. “I speak from sad experience. You don’t know how much she worries about you. She worried about you when your father died, when you were fighting the Picayune fire, when you missed out at the Fluxion, and when you went out in the woods.”

  There was a pause, then, “Maybe you’re right, Qwill.”

  At eight o’clock Qwilleran tuned in the morning weather report: “Storm warnings in effect for all of Moose County. . . . Repeat: Storm warnings in effect.”

  Mrs. Cobb buzzed him on the intercom. “Are you interested in breakfast, Mr. Q?”

  “Not this morning, thanks, but I want to talk with you before you leave for the auction.”

  He put the Siamese in the wicker hamper, and the three of them crossed the yard to the main house.

  “Did you hear the weathe
r report?” Mrs. Cobb said. “It sounds like the Big One. I hope it holds off until after the auction. Susan Exbridge is picking me up at ten o’clock. Herb told me not to buy anything, but you know how I am at auctions!”

  “How was the preview?”

  “They have some wonderful things, and I saw the farmhouse for the first time. I can hardly wait to get my hands on it. We solved our problem; Herb is going to have one wing of the house for smoking and guns and stuffed moose heads and all that. Are you going to the auction?”

  “I might drop in for a while to see the action. When’s the best time to go?”

  “Not too early. They put up box lots in the morning and hold the good things till later. They’ll have a lunch wagon around noon. Don’t forget to dress warm, and don’t wear your best clothes, Mr. Q.”

  After Mrs. Cobb had bustled off in great excitement Qwilleran loitered around the house until he could stand the suspense no longer. Who would be at the auction? What were they buying? How high were the prices? What were people talking about? What were they serving at the lunch wagon? Wearing his lumberjack coat, woodsman’s hat, and duck boots, he headed for Black Creek Lane in North Middle Hummock.

  The country roads were unusually heavy with traffic. Cars, vans, and pickups were heading north, and a few were returning, loaded. Half a mile from the farmhouse he began to see vehicles parked on both sides of the road. He pulled in where a pickup was pulling out and walked the rest of the way. Auction-goers were trudging to their cars lugging floor lamps and rocking chairs. One woman was carrying a fern stand made of bent twigs.

  “I don’t care, honey,” she said to her frowning spouse. “I simply wanted something that belonged to a Goodwinter, even if it was only an old toothbrush.”

  Parked in the front yard was a moving van labeled Foxy Fred’s Bid-a-Bit Auctions. Customers shuffled through rustling leaves, examining rows of household furnishings: blankets, bicycles, small appliances, glassware, laundry equipment, garden tools. Large pieces of furniture were still in the farmhouse; everything else was jammed into a large pole barn where the bidding was in full swing.

  Foxy Fred, wearing a western hat and red down jacket, was on the platform, haranguing a hundred or more bidders who were packed in shoulder-to-shoulder. “Here’s a genuwine old barn lantern complete with wick. Who’ll gimme five? . . . Five? . . . Gimme four . . . Dollar bill over there. Gimme two. Gimme two. . . . Two I got. Gimme three. Do I see three? Three! No money! Wanna four, wanna four, wanna four.”

  In order to bid, customers were picking up numbered flashcards from a red-jacketed woman who was entering sales in a ledger and collecting money. Qwilleran had no intention of bidding, but he picked up a card anyway. It was number 124.

  “Look up! Look up!” the auctioneer called out. Porters in red Bid-a-Bit windbreakers were hoisting an upholstered chair high over their heads for audience inspection.

  Bidding was slow, however. The customers were either bored or stifled by blasts of heat from portable electric heaters. Suddenly Foxy Fred jolted them to attention. After only two bids he allowed a ladder-back rocker to go for an outrageously low price. The audience protested.

  “If you don’t like it, wake up and bid!” he scolded them.

  Qwilleran ambled out of the barn and found Mrs. Cobb and Susan Exbridge at the lunch wagon. “How’s the food?” he asked.

  “It’s not exactly Old Stone Mill,” said Mrs. Exbridge, “but it’s good. Try the bratwurst. It’s homemade.”

  “The new chef at the Mill has made a big difference,” Qwilleran said. “Has anyone met him?”

  “I’ve seen him in the parking lot at Indian Village,” she said. “He’s tall, blond, and very good-looking, but he seems rather shy.”

  Mrs. Cobb said, “You’ll never guess what I bought! A handmade cherry cradle! I’m expecting my first grandchild soon.”

  “Are the out-of-state dealers bidding things up?” Qwilleran asked her.

  “They’re hanging back, waiting for the good items, but there’s a lot of them here. I can always spot a dealer. They’re sort of shrewd-looking but laid-back. See that short man with his hands in his pockets? See the woman with a fuzzy brown hat? They’re dealers. The man in the shearing coat—I think he’s security. He isn’t bidding. He isn’t even listening. He’s just watching people.”

  Before turning to look, Qwilleran had a hunch it would be the stranger who claimed to be a historian. The man was wandering aimlessly through the crowd.

  At that moment there was a general movement toward the barn, as if on signal. Inside the building the chatter was loud and excited as the porters started to bring out the heavy artillery.

  “Look up! Look up!” the auctioneer shouted in a voice that cut through the hubbub. “Victorian rococo chair, genuwine Belter, I think—part of a parlor suite—two chairs and a settee. Upholstered in black horsehair. Good condition. Who’ll gimme two thousand for the set? Two thousand to start. Two thousand, anyone?”

  A flash card was raised.

  “HEP!” shouted a porter, who doubled as spotter.

  “Two thousand I got. Gimme twenty-five gimme twenty-five gimme twenty-five. Waddala waddala waddala . . .”

  “HEP!”

  “Twenty-five! Gimme thirty.”

  “HEP!”

  “Thirty! Gimme forty. Waddala waddala bidda waddala bidda bidda waddala . . .”

  “HEP!”

  The excitement was mounting. It was like the last half of the ninth inning with the score tied, two out, and the bases loaded, Qwilleran thought. It was like third down on the two-yard line with a minute to play.

  When the furniture was finally knocked down for a figure that he considered astronomical, the audience deflated with groans and sighs.

  Someone tugged at his sleeve, and a woman’s voice said, “How come you didn’t bid on that one, Qwill?”

  “Hixie! I didn’t know you liked auctions!”

  “I don’t, but my customers have been talking about this one, so I sneaked away when the lunch crowd thinned out.”

  “Quiet back there!” shouted Foxy Fred, and Qwilleran took Hixie’s arm and steered her outside and across the yard to the farmhouse.

  “The good stuff is in here,” he said, picking up a catalogue. Among the large items still in the house were two General Grant beds, a parlor organ, a breakfront twelve feet wide, a large pine hutch, a black walnut sideboard with matching table, and a ponderous rolltop desk. “This desk is the only thing I’d be tempted to bid on,” Qwilleran told Hixie.

  She was not really interested in the antiques. “Have you heard the latest rumor?” she asked.

  “Which one? The town is full of rumors this week.”

  “It’s no false alarm. My boss’s live-in friend is eloping with another man. They came in for dinner last night—a couple of middle-aged lovebirds acting like kids. I seated them at a good table over the waterwheel, and it drove the guy crazy. He asked for an oilcan.”

  “Does Exbridge know about the switch?”

  “Apparently, because he’s livid! When he came in for lunch today he was in a mood for murder. The Bloody Mary was warm; the soup was cold; the veal was tough. He threatened to fire Antoine.”

  “Who?”

  “Well, he likes to be called Tony, but his name is Antoine.”

  Qwilleran was fingering the flash card in his pocket. “I’ve got to go back to the barn to see what’s happening,” he said. “See you later.”

  The mood in the barn was contagious. He was catching auction fever, the symptoms being nervous excitement and a reckless sense of adventure.

  “It’s getting hot now, folks,” shouted Foxy Fred, and an oak icebox, an eighteenth-century candle-stand, and a Queen Anne table went under the hammer in rapid succession. Then the parlor organ and pine hutch were auctioned by number from the catalogue.

  “Next we have a six-foot rolltop desk in cherrywood,” said the auctioneer. “Perfect condition. Dated 1881. Outstanding provenance. Belonged to Ep
hraim Goodwinter, mine owner, lumberman, founder of the Pickax Picayune, and donor of the Pickax Public Library. Shall we start at five thousand? . . . Five thousand? . . . Four thousand?”

  “One thousand,” said a woman near the platform. It was the dealer with the fuzzy brown hat.

  “One thousand I’ve got. No money! Beautiful desk—seven drawers—lots of pigeonholes—maybe a secret compartment. Who’ll bid two thousand?”

  Qwilleran held up his card.

  “HEP!” shouted the spotter.

  “Two thousand now. Make it three. Three do I hear? Solid cherry. Lotta history goes with this desk.”

  “HEP!”

  “Three thousand we got. Who’ll bid three and a half? Waddala waddala bidda waddala bidda bidda bidda waddala . . .”

  The auctioneer’s singsong gibberish had a mesmerizing effect on Qwilleran. He raised his card.

  “Thirty-five hundred for this five-thousand-dollar desk, folks. No money. Make it four-triple-oh, four-triple-oh, four-triple-oh . . .”

  “HEP!”

  Qwilleran’s turtleneck jersey was tightening around his neck. He slipped out of his coat.

  “Four thousand. Make it fournahaff fournahaff fournahaff. It’s a giveaway. Solid cherry. Cast brasses.”

  “HEP!”

  “Four thousand five hundred. Do I hear five grand? It’s going, folks. Are you gonna let ’em steal it?”

  “Forty-six!” Quilleran called out.

  “Four-six! Who’ll gimme four-seven? Waddala waddala bidda waddala bidda bidda waddala . . .”

  “HEP!”

  The woman in the fuzzy brown hat wanted the desk and was inching up.

  “Four-seven. Do I hear four-eight? Waddala waddala bidda . . .”

  Qwilleran raised his card.

  “HEP!”

  “Four thousand eight hundred. It’s going, folks—”

  “Forty-nine!” said the dealer.

  “Fifty!” shouted Qwilleran.

  “That’s the spirit! Do I hear fifty-one?”

  All heads turned to the dealer in the fuzzy hat. The hat wagged a negative.

  “Fifty-one do I hear? Fifty-one? Going for five thousand. Going going going . . . SOLD to number one twenty-four.”