The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  The audience applauded. Mrs. Cobb waved her catalogue in wild approval. Qwilleran mopped his brow.

  After making arrangements to have the desk delivered, he drove home in a confused state of shock and agitation. Five thousand for a piece of furniture still seemed like a staggering sum to the former feature writer for the Daily Fluxion. At a restaurant in Middle Hummock he tried to phone Junior, but there was no answer at Grandma Gage’s house.

  Upon arriving home, he discovered why. There was a message on the answering machine. “Hi! We’re flying Down Below to get married. Jody’s parents live near Cleveland. Hope we get back before snow flies. And hey! They found Dad’s lockbox!”

  Mrs. Cobb had gone out to dinner with Susan Exbridge, so Qwilleran rummaged in the refrigerator and found some lentil soup and cold chicken. He heated the soup for himself and cut up the chicken for the Siamese.

  “No readings tonight,” he told Koko. “I’ve had enough stimulation for one day. ‘The rest is silence.’ That’s from Hamlet, in case you didn’t know.”

  The tall case clock in the foyer bonged seven times, and he tuned in the weather report. Storm warnings had been in effect all day, and yet the weather had been fine. Dubiously he listened to the current prediction:

  “Storm warnings were lifted late this afternoon, but a storm alert remains in effect. Winds are twenty-five miles an hour, gusting to forty. Present temperature: nineteen in Pickax, seven in Brrr. And now for a look at the headlines. . . . Two persons were killed in a car-deer accident on Airport Road at four forty-five p.m. Names are withheld pending notification of relatives. The westbound car struck and killed a large buck, then entered a ditch . . .”

  “Junior!” Qwilleran cried. “No! No! The Picayune jinx! Fifth to die a violent death! And poor little Jody . . .”

  Thursday, November twenty-first. “Storm warnings are again in effect for Moose County,” said the WPKX announcer, “with high winds continuing from the northwest and temperatures constant in the twenties. . . . And in the news . . . here’s an update on yesterday’s fatal accident in the Airport Road. Killed at four forty-five p.m. were Gertrude Goodwinter, forty-eight, of North Middle Hummock, and Harold Noyton, fifty-two, of Chicago. According to the sheriff’s department, their car struck and killed a large buck, then entered a ditch and rolled over.”

  Qwilleran made an early visit to the police station that morning to see Andrew Brodie. Although the sheriff’s deputies were courteous and cooperative, only the Pickax police chief could be depended upon for friendly conversation and off-the-record information.

  Brodie was sitting at his desk, swamped with paperwork and complaining as usual. “And what’s on your mind?” he asked, after a tirade about computer systems.

  “Do you know anything about yesterday’s fatal accident on Airport Road?”

  “The sheriff and state police handled it,” he said, “but we helped track down the next of kin. Wasn’t easy, what with her husband just buried and her mother in Florida and Junior on a plane somewhere and the other two kids out west. The fellah that was with her—they had to get lawyers and bankers out of bed to find out about him.”

  “At first I thought Junior and Jody had been killed. I knew Jody is a friend of your daughter’s, so I tried calling your house last night but got no answer.”

  “The wife and I were out visiting,” Brodie said, “and Francesca was rehearsing for that concert at the church, where they’re going to wear all those old-fashioned costumes. It’ll be a spectacle, all right. They’re making their own costumes, and they’re going all out!”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Qwilleran said, after which he commented on the weather, the hunting season, and the Goodwinter auction before steering the conversation back to the accident. “Do you know who was driving?”

  “No telling. They were both thrown from the car, as I understand it.”

  “I assume they weren’t wearing seat belts.”

  “It would look like it, wouldn’t it?”

  “Does the sheriff think they were traveling fast?”

  “According to the skid marks, pretty fast. And according to the coroner, they’d had a few. The buck was a big one, over two hundred pounds, eight-point. Don’t suppose you know anything about the fellah she was with. The name’s Noyton.”

  “All I know,” Qwilleran said, “is that he’s a one-man conglomerate with some greedy ex-wives and squabbling children, and they’ll be challenging the will for ten years.”

  When he left Brodie’s office, Qwilleran began wondering how Exbridge would react to Gritty’s death, and how the ex–Mrs. Exbridge would react to her ex-husband’s loss of his ex-mistress. His curiosity prompted him to have lunch again at the Old Stone Mill. Hixie was always good for some candid observations.

  Today she seemed nervous and preoccupied, however. She seated guests but avoided conversation. Qwilleran took a long time to consume his pea soup and corned beef sandwich, stalling until most of the customers had left. Then he offered to buy Hixie a drink, and she sat down at his table in a fretful mood.

  “Hideous accident on Airport Road,” he remarked. “Wasn’t the woman your boss’s former roommate?”

  “I can’t worry about his problems today,” she snapped. “I have problems of my own.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Tony left suddenly this morning—right before the lunch rush! No explanation. He just went out the window.”

  “The window?”

  “And he took my car! My car instead of that stupid camper!”

  “I thought the camper belonged to one of your cooks.”

  Hixie dismissed the question with a wave of the hand. “It was in my name. That is, I bought it for his birthday. So why didn’t he take the camper? Why did he take my car?”

  “Perhaps he had some urgent errand to do.”

  “Then why did he go out the washroom window? And why did he take his knives? I see what it’s all about, Qwill—the same old shaft for big-hearted Hixie. If Tony planned to come back, he wouldn’t have taken his knives. You know how chefs are about their knives. They practically sleep with them.”

  “Did anything unusual happen to cause his quick exit?”

  Hixie frowned at her glass of Campari before answering. “Well, about eleven o’clock we were setting up for lunch, and a man hammered on the door. It was locked, and one of the waitresses went to see what he wanted. He asked for Antoine Delapierre. She told him we had no one by that name, but he barged right in. I was folding napkins at the serving station, and I could tell right away he wasn’t just another potato chip salesman. He looked cold and determined.”

  “Was he wearing a shearling car coat and rabbit-fur hat?”

  “Something like that. Anyway, I asked what he wanted, and he said he was a friend of Antoine Delapierre. Tony heard it, grabbed his knives, and bolted into the employees’ washroom. That’s the last we saw of him. He left the window open and blazed away in my car! Why did I ever give that jerk a duplicate set of keys?”

  Because he was tall, blond, and very good-looking, Qwilleran thought. He felt sorry for her. Hixie, the born loser, had lost out again. But this time she wasn’t weeping; she was furious.

  “Then Tony Peters wasn’t his real name?” he asked.

  “A lot of people change their names for business purposes,” she said casually, but her eyes were shifting nervously.

  “Do you know what the incident was all about?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea. When the man walked into the kitchen, I got huffy and ordered him out.”

  Qwilleran refrained from pursuing the conversation. Sooner or later Hixie would blurt out the truth. He contemplated the new development with some satisfaction. His suspicion had checked out; the stranger in Pickax was actually an investigator.

  Meanwhile, he had to go home and dress for dinner at Polly Duncan’s cottage on MacGregor Road. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding!

  Mrs. Cobb was busy in the kitchen, baking ha
zelnut jumbles. “Do you think you should drive out in the country, Mr. Q?” she said. “They mentioned storm warnings on the radio.”

  “They mentioned storm warnings on the radio yesterday, and nothing happened. I think their computer is malfunctioning. They’ve been reading last year’s weather predictions all month. So there’s nothing to worry about.”

  He took a handful of hazelnut jumbles and went looking for the Siamese. He made it a point to say goodbye to them whenever he left the house for a few hours—another of Lori Bamba’s recommendations.

  The cats were not in the library, but a copy of The Tempest lay on the floor beneath the bust of Shakespeare. It gave Qwilleran pause, but only for a moment. Koko had pulled out that threatening title once before, and there had been no stormy weather. Senior Goodwinter had crashed into the old plank bridge, but the weather remained fine.

  Qwilleran headed north. It was cold, and there was a high wind, but he was wearing his suede car coat with beaver collar, a trooper’s hat in the same fur, a wool shirt in the Mackintosh tartan, hunting boots, fur-lined choppers, and, of course, the long red underwear that was standard equipment in Moose County.

  The sky was overcast, and the wind whistled, but his heart was light and his mind was fired with ambition. After this evening he would plunge into the writing of the book he had neglected; it would please Polly to know he was writing again.

  Her invitation to dinner was auspicious; it meant, he hoped, that she was relaxing the mystifying behavior that kept him at arm’s length. He thought he had discovered the reason for her reserve. At a recent meeting of the library board a grant from the Klingenschoen Fund was allocated to the purchase of books, video equipment, and a new furnace—not a dollar for personnel. Furthermore, he was appalled to learn how little the head librarian was paid. Polly’s tiny cottage, old car, and limited wardrobe all suggested straitened circumstances. Qwilleran knew her to be a proud woman; did the discrepancy in their financial status embarrass her? He knew—and she undoubtedly knew—that the town gossips would enjoy labeling the head librarian a gold digger.

  With these thoughts running through his mind as he drove, he hardly noticed the minuscule dots of white on his windshield. A little farther on, large snowflakes in crystalline designs reminded him of a childhood thrill—catching them on his tongue. Soon a light dusting of snow was visible on the pavement, and Qwilleran slowed his speed to allow for slippery patches.

  By the time he turned off the main highway onto MacGregor Road, there was a veil of white over fields and evergreens—a beautiful sight, although swirling snow was obscuring his vision. Dusk seemed to be falling early. He was now traveling east, and the snow was whipping against the windshield fast enough to render the wipers ineffective. It was just a snow squall, he told himself. It wouldn’t last long. He drove slowly and carefully.

  Polly’s house, he remembered from his previous, surreptitious visit, was three miles from the main highway—two miles of pavement, then a jog in the road, and a mile of gravel. There were no other cars in sight, and he was now driving through a tunnel of white—dense white. He hoped he could stay on the pavement; there were no tire tracks to follow. No one had passed that way since the snow had started to fall. Crossroads were indistinguishable from open fields.

  Suddenly something loomed up in front of his car, and he stopped just before plunging into underbrush. He had reached the jog in the road. Now he had to turn left for a short distance and then turn right onto the unimproved continuation of MacGregor Road. He made several attempts before finding the actual turn. After that he knew it would be clear sailing—just a mile to the two rural mailboxes, MacGregor and Duncan. He checked the odometer.

  The problem was to stay on the road; on each side of the roadbed would be the inevitable drainage ditch. The windshield wipers, though working furiously, were useless against the onslaught of snow. He was driving through a white blanket. The hood of the car was invisible. At least he didn’t have to worry about deer; they would be driven to cover. He had learned that much from Hackpole. But he had no time to think about Hackpole, or even Polly. The problem was to drive in a straight line while blinded by snow.

  Again a clump of vegetation loomed up ahead. He was off the road! Turning the wheel, he went into a skid. He babied it, but the car was sliding sideways. It was sliding down a slope, and it came to a stop at a dangerous angle. The drainage ditch! Another degree of tilt, and the car would roll over. He turned off the ignition and sat there, surrounded on all sides by walls of white.

  He knew the car would never make it out of the ditch under those slippery conditions—and from that angle—even with front-wheel drive. He considered the options. The longer he hesitated, the more the snow banked up against the windshield and side window—an opaque layer, inches thick, and gray-white in the dusk. Opening the door, he tested the terrain underfoot. Slush! It was the ditch. If he scrambled up the slope he would be on solid ground, and he could walk the rest of the way. It was now less than half a mile, he knew.

  Putting on his hat, pulling down the earflaps, turning up his coat collar, tugging on the mittens, he prepared to face the elements. If he clambered up the bank and turned right, he would be headed toward the farm. He would have to proceed on blind faith. In the enveloping blizzard there was no sense of direction; the wind was hurling snow from all points of the compass.

  Now he could feel something solid underfoot—the roadbed—but already there was an accumulation of five, ten, or fifteen inches, depending on the drifting. He moved forward, blinded by the snow, one thoughtful step at a time. He had a plan! If he found himself slipping down a slope to the right, he would be off the roadbed; he would veer to the left. If he slipped to the left, he would be headed for the opposite ditch.

  In this way he zigzagged ahead, not daring to hope that a car would come along. Would he see the fog lights? Would he hear the motor above the howling wind? It was shrieking now, shrieking through trees that he couldn’t see.

  Though his coat collar and storm hat were snug, and though his trousers were stuffed into his boots, the relentless wetness found its way into every crevice. He banged the snow off his mittens and brushed the buildup from his face. It was no use; in another few seconds he was coated with freezing wet.

  He had been walking for what seemed like an hour. Could he be traveling in a circle? If he had inadvertently done a right-about-face, thinking the right ditch was the left ditch, he would now be headed for the main highway, three miles back.

  The blind groping was discouraging, frightening. He was totally disoriented. He held his mittened hands in front of him like a sleepwalker, but there was nothing to feel. He could hardly keep his eyes open. His eyelids were raw. Were they freezing shut? His cheeks and forehead were numb from the vicious wind and wet. He shouted, “Hello!” He shouted, “Help!” He was shouting into a void and swallowing snow.

  What do I do now? he asked himself—not in panic but in defeat. He had an overbearing desire to sink to his knees, roll up in a ball, and call it quits. Keep going, he told himself. Keep going!

  He remembered the mailboxes. He had to bump into them, or he’d miss them entirely. He inched along, not seeing, not feeling, not knowing. The snow was getting deeper underfoot and piling inches thick on his clothing. He stood still and tried to breathe normally, but he was being smothered by the wind and drowned by the snow.

  Suddenly, without warning, something rose up in front of him and he fell over two mailboxes, close together, with a foot of snow on top of each. He threw his arms around them like a drowning sailor clutching at floating debris. He bent over them, trying to catch his breath.

  A few feet beyond would be the driveway. But how many feet beyond? It was trial and error. When he banged a knee on a concrete culvert, he knew he was there. He remembered a hedge that bordered the drive. He would follow the hedge, feeling his way. It worked until the hedge came to an abrupt end. The brick farmhouse would be on the left. The cottage should be straight ahead.<
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  Once again he was stumbling blindly on what he hoped would be a straight course. It was dark now, and he realized that snow is not white in the black of night. Yet, he thought he detected a glow in the space ahead. He followed it, reaching for it, until he fell over steps buried in a drift. He scrambled up on hands and knees. There was a door directly in front of him. He leaned against it, pounding with both fists. The door opened, and he fell into a kitchen.

  “Oh, my God! Qwill! What happened? Are you hurt?”

  He was on his hands and knees in an avalanche of snow jolted from his clothing when he fell. Polly was tugging at his arm. He crawled farther into the room and heard the door slam behind him, cutting off the noise of the storm. It was bright and quiet indoors.

  “Are you all right? Can you get up? I didn’t think you were coming. What happened to your car?”

  He wanted to stay on the floor, but he allowed her to help him to his feet.

  “Let me brush you off. Stand still.”

  He stood, silent and motionless, while she pulled off his hat and mittens and threw them on the kitchen table. With towels she removed the snow and ice from his moustache and eyebrows. She brushed a bushel of snow from his coat, pants, and boots. And still he stood, dumbly and numbly, in a flood of melting snow and ice.

  Now she was untoggling his car coat. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes, and I’ll get you a hot drink. Sit down. Let me pull your boots off.”

  She led him to a chair, and he sat obediently.

  “Your socks are dry. Do your feet feel all right? They’re not numb, are they? Your shirt is wet around the collar. I’ll put it in the dryer. Your pants, too. They’re soaking wet. Thank the Lord you wore long johns. I’ll bring you some blankets.”

  And still he could say nothing. She wrapped him in blankets and led him to a sofa, convinced him to lie down, tucked him in, stuck a thermometer in his mouth.

  “I’m going to make some hot tea and call the doctor to see if I’m doing the right thing.”