The Cat Who Saw Red

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Qwilleran reported the call to Riker. "He sounded like one of the bad guys in an old gangster movie. But I now they don't threaten to bump you off; they threaten to withdraw their advertising. Did you know there's an underground movement afoot to ruin Sorrel's restaurant?"

  "Ho-hum, I'll check it out with the boss," Riker said with a bored sigh. "We have your cheese column for tomorrow, and then the farmers' market piece, but we can't run what you wrote about the Petrified Bagel 'Embalmed shrimp! Delicious toothpicks!' Are you out of your mind? What else have you lined up?"

  "The Friendly Fatties. I'm going there tonight."

  "Any word from Joy?"

  "No word. But I'm building up a case. If I can get one break . . . "

  Qwilleran met Hixie Rice at the Duxbury Memorial Center. She was looking oddly unglamorous, despite a frizzy wig and a snugly fitted orange-and-white polka-dot ensemble.

  "Do I look dumb?" she asked. "I just lost my eyelashes. I'm a loser, that's all. Everywhere except on the bathroom scales. C'est La vie!"

  The dinner meeting of the Friendly Fatties — all sixteen tons of them — was held in a public meeting room at the center, which was noted for the mediocrity of its cuisine.

  There was a brief sermon on Thinking Thin. The week's champion losers were announced, and a few backsliders — Hixie among them — confessed their sins. Then cabbage juice cocktails were served, followed by a light repast.

  "Ah! Another thin soup!" Hixie exclaimed in feigned rapture. "This week they actually dragged a bouillon cube through the hot water. And the melba toast! Best I've tasted since I was a girl in Pigeon, Michigan, and ate the shingles off the barn roof. . . Do you think this is really hamburger?" she asked Qwilleran when the main course arrived. "I think it's grape seeds stuck together with epoxy glue. Don't you love the Brussels sprouts? They taste like — mmmmm — wet papier-mache. But wait till you try the dessert! They make it out of air, water, coal tar, disodium phosphate, vegetable gum, and artificial flavoring. Et voila! Prune whip!"

  On the way home Hixie said, "Honestly, life is unfair. Why wasn't I born with a divine figure instead of a brilliant intellect and a ravishingly beautiful face? I can't get a man because I'm fat, and I stay fat because I can't get a man."

  "What you need is a hobby," Qwilleran advised. "Some new consuming interest."

  "I've got a hobby: consuming food," she said in her usual glib way, but as they walked up the stairs at Maus Haus, the happy-go-lucky fat girl burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.

  "Hixie! What's the matter?" Qwilleran asked.

  She shook her head and gave vent to a torrent of sobs.

  He grasped her arm firmly and steered her up the stairs. "Come up to Number Six, and I'll fix you a drink."

  His kind voice only made the tears gush more freely, and blindly she went along with him. Koko was alarmed at her entrance; he had never seen or heard anyone cry.

  Qwilleran situated her in the big armchair, gave her a box of tissues, lit a cigarette for her, and poured two ounces of scotch over ice. "Now what's the reason for the sudden cloudburst?"

  "Oh, Qwill," she said, "I'm so miserable."

  He waited patiently.

  "I'm not looking for a millionaire or a movie star. All I want is an ordinary, run-of-the-mill type of husband with a few brains or a little talent, not necessarily both. But do you think I ever meet that kind?" She enumerated a discouraging tally of her near-hits and total misses.

  He had heard this tale of woe before. Young women often confided in him. "How old are you, Hixie?"

  "Twenty-four."

  "You've got lots of time."

  She shook her head. "I don't think I'll ever appeal to the right kind of man. I don't want to be a swinger, but I attract men who want a swinger and nothing else. Me, I want a wedding ring, a new name, babies — all that corny stuff."

  Qwilleran looked at her dress — too short, too tight, too bright-and wondered how to phrase some advice. Perhaps Rosemary could take her in hand.

  "May I have another drink?" she asked. "Why is your cat staring at me?"

  "He's concerned. He knows when someone's unhappy."

  "I don't usually come apart like this, but I've just lived through a traumatic experience. I haven't slept for five nights. Do you mind if I tell you all the nasty details? You're so understanding."

  Qwilleran nodded.

  "I've just ended an affair with a married man." She paused to observe Qwilleran's reaction, but he was lighting his pipe. She went on: "We couldn't come to terms. He wanted me to go away with him, but I refused to go without making it legal. I want a marriage license. Am I a nut?"

  "You're surprisingly conventional."

  "But it's the same old story. He's reluctant to get a divorce. He keeps putting me off. . . Mmmm, this is good scotch. Why don't you drink, Qwill?"

  "Too young." Hixie wasn't really listening. She was intent on her own problem. "Our plans were all made. We were going to live in Paris. I was even studying French, and Dan announced — " She caught her tongue, threw Qwilleran a panicky glance.

  He kept an expressionless face. "Well, now you know," she said, throwing up her hands. "I didn't mean to let it slip. For God's sake, don't — "

  "Don't worry. I'm not a — "

  "I'd hate for Robert to find out. He'd have a fit. You know how he is. So proper!" She stopped and groaned with chagrin. "And Joy is a friend of yours! Ooh! I really put my foot in it this time. Promise me — Your drinks are so — Haven't slept for five — I'm so tired."

  "The scotch will make you sleep well," Qwilleran said. "Shall I walk you home?"

  She was a little unsteady on her feet, and he escorted her around the balcony to her own apartment just in time to say good evening to a tight-lipped Charlotte Roop, who was coming home from work.

  When he returned to his own place, he found Koko busy tilting pictures.

  "Stop that!" Qwilleran barked. He walked to the Art Nouveau print and took it off the hook, slid the metal plate aside, and peered through the aperture. He saw Dan toss a bundle of rags into one of the small kilns. He saw Dan look through the spyhole of a larger kiln and make a notation in a ledger. He saw Dan set an alarm clock and lie down on a cot.

  Qwilleran slowly turned away from the peephole. He had recognized the rags.

  16

  Qwilleran skipped breakfast Wednesday morning. He made a cup of instant coffee in his apartment and got an early start on the column about the Friendly Fatties. Koko was sitting on the desk, trying to help, rubbing his jaw on the button that changed margins, getting his tail caught in the cylinder when Qwilleran triple-spaced.

  "At the Friendly Fatties' weekly dinner," the man was typing, "the Fun is more fun than the Food."

  There was a knock at his door, and he found Robert Maus standing there, his round-shouldered posture looking less like a gracious bow and more like a haggard droop.

  "May I violate the privacy of your sanctum sanctorum?" asked the attorney. "I have a matter of some moment, as it were, to discuss with you."

  "Sure. Come in. I hear you've had an unscheduled trip out of the country. You look weary."

  "Weary I am, but not, I must admit, as a result of the unexpected detour in my itinerary. The fact of the matter is . . . that I returned to find a situation resembling mild. . . chaos."

  "Will you have a chair?"

  "Thank you. Thank you indeed."

  The cats were regarding the visitor solemnly from the dining table, where they sat at attention, shoulder to shoulder and motionless.

  "It is safe to assume," said the attorney, "that these are the two celebrated feline gastronomes."

  "Yes, the big one is Koko, and the other is Yum Yum. When did you get back?"

  "Late last evening, only to be confronted by a series of complications, which I will endeavor to enumerate, if I may. Whereas, three hundred persons' have been invited to the opening of the pottery exhibition, and we are without a houseboy. Whereas, Mrs. Marron is suff
ering from allergic rhinitis. Whereas, the tennis club, our immediate neighbor to the west, has made a formal complaint about the issue of smoke from our chimneys. Whereas, the senior partner of Teahandle, Hansblow, Burris, Maus and Castle informs me that a major client has severed connections with our firm as a result of your column in yesterday's press."

  "I'm sorry if — "

  "The blame does not lie with you. However. . . permit me one more whereas. The esteemed Miss Roop has tendered a bill of complaint alleging scandalous conduct on the premises. . . One moment, I beg of you," Maus said when Qwilleran tried to interrupt. "It is well known to us all that the lady in question is a — you might say — bluenose. But it behooves us to humor the plaintiff for reasons best known to — "

  "Never mind the preamble," Qwilleran said. "What's she objecting to?"

  Maus cleared his throat and began: "To wit, one female tenant observed entering Number Six at a late hour en neglige. To wit, a second female tenant observed leaving Number Six at a late hour in a flagrant state of inebriation."

  Qwilleran blew into his mustache. "I hope you don't think I'm going to dignify that gossip with an explanation."

  "Explanations are neither requested nor expected — far from it," said Maus. "Let me, however, state my position. The firm with which I have the honor to be associated is of an extremely conservative bent. In the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and thirteen, a member of the firm was ousted from that august body — then known as Tea- handle, Teahandle and Whitbread — for the simple misdemeanor of drinking three cups of punch at a garden party. I find it imperative, therefore, to avoid any suggestion of impropriety in this house. Any hint of unconventional conduct, if it reached the ears of my colleagues, would embarrass the firm, to state it mildly, and would, in all probability, relieve me of my partnership. The mere fact that I am the proprietor of what is unfortunately called a boardinghouse. . . places me on the brink of . . . disgrace."

  "It's my guess," said Qwilleran, "that there's more unconventional conduct in Maus Haus than you realize."

  "Spare me the details at the moment. When the exigencies of this day have abated, I shall — "

  The telephone rang. "Excuse me," said Qwilleran. He went to the desk and picked up the receiver. "Yes. . . Yes, what can I do for you? . . . Overdrawn! What do you mean?" He opened a desk drawer and brought out his check- book, tucking the receiver between shoulder and ear while he found his current balance. "Seventeen-fifty! That's the wrong figure. I wrote a check for seven-fifty! Seven hundred and fifty dollars. . . I can't believe it.

  What's the endorsement? . . . I see. . . Are both signatures quite legible? . . . To be authentic, the last name in the first endorsement should look like G-w-w-w . . . Well, then, it's a forgery. And somebody has tampered with the amount of the check. . . Thanks for calling me. I can track it down at this end. . . No, I don't think there'll be any problem. I'll get back to you."

  Qwilleran turned to his visitor, but the attorney had slipped out, closing the door. The newsman sat down and studied his next move with circumspection.

  At four o'clock that afternoon the Great Hall was flooded with diffused light from the skylight three stories overhead. It fell on the jewellike objects exhibited on pedestals in the center of the floor. In this dramatic light the Living Glaze was brilliant, magnetic, even hypnotic. Elsewhere in the hall the graceful shapes of Joy's thrown pots, bowls, vases, jars, and pitchers in subtle speckled grays and gray-greens, rough and smooth at the same time, like half-melted ice. Also on display were the brutal, primitive shapes of Dan's earlier slab pots in blackish browns and slate blues, decorated with globs of clay like burnt biscuits.

  Under the balconies on both sides of the hall were long tables loaded with ice buckets, rented champagne glasses, and trays of hors d'oeuvres. The waiters were hurriedly enlisted students from the an school, awkward in white coats with sleeves too long or too short.

  Qwilleran wandered through the hall and recognized the usual vernissage crowd: museum curators looking scholarly and aloof; gallery directors reserving their opinions; collectors gossiping among themselves; an teachers explaining the pots to one another; miscellaneous artists and craftsmen enjoying the free champagne; Jack Smith, the Fluxion an critic, looking like an undertaker with chronic gastritis; and one little old lady reporter from the Morning Rampage writing down what everyone was wearing.

  And then there was Dan Graham, looking as seedy as ever, making a great show of modesty but bursting with vanity, his eyes eagerly fishing for compliments and his brow furrowing with concern whenever anyone asked him about Mrs. Graham.

  "Helluva shame," he would say. "She's been working like a dog, and the little old gal was ready to crack up, so I sent her to Florida for some R-and-R. I don't want her to get sick. I don't want to lose her."

  Qwilleran said to Graham, "The pottery racket must be booming, if you can afford a bash like this."

  Dan gave a twisted smile. "Just got a swell commission from a restaurant in L.A., with a sizable advance, so I went out on a limb for the bubble-water. Maus kicked in the snick-snacks." He jerked his head at the refreshment table, where Mrs. Marron, red-nosed and sniffling, was replenishing the supply of crab puffs, ham fritters, cheese croquettes, cucumber sandwiches, stuffed mushrooms, tiny sausage rolls, and miniature shrimp quiches.

  Then Qwilleran sought out Jack Smith. "What do you think of Dan's Living Glaze?"

  "I hardly know what to say. He's done the impossible," said the critic, with an expression like cold marble. "How does he get that effect? How does he get that superb red? I saw some of his pots in a group show last winter, and I said they had the character and vitality of sewer crocks. He didn't like that, but it was true. He's come a long way since then. The merit, of course, is all in the glaze. In form they're appallingly pedestrian. Those slab pots! Made with a rolling pin. . . If only they had put his glaze on her pots: I'm going to suggest that in my review."

  A young girl in owlish glasses was staring at Qwilleran, and he walked in her direction.

  "Was it all right for me to come here, Mr. Qwilleran?" she asked shyly. "You told me to wait forty-eight hours."

  "Any word from William?" She shook her head sadly.

  "Did you check the bank account?"

  "It hasn't been touched, except that the bank added twenty-six cents interest."

  "Then you'd better notify the police. And try not to worry. Here, let me get you something to eat or drink. "

  "No, thanks. I don't feel like it. I think I'll go home."

  Qwilleran escorted her to the door and told her where to catch the River Road bus.

  Returning, and wandering among the crowd, he was surprised to see the Penniman brothers. Tweedledurn and Tweedledee, as they were called by irreverent citizens, seldom attended anything below the status-level of a French Post-Impressionist show.

  While the other guests accorded them the deference that their wealth and name warranted, the brothers stood quietly listening, neither smoking nor drinking, and wearing the baffled expression that was their normal look at art functions. They represented the money, not the brains, behind the Morning Rampage, Qwilleran had been told.

  He edged into the circle surrounding them and deftly maneuvered them away from the fund-raisers, job-seekers, and apple-polishers by a method known only to veteran reporters. "How do you like the show?" he asked.

  Basil Penniman, the one with a cast in his left eye, looked at his brother Bayley.

  "Interesting," said Bayley, at length.

  "Have you ever seen a glaze like that?"

  It was Bayley's turn to toss the conversational ball to Basil, whom he regarded inquiringly.

  "Very interesting," said Basil.

  "This is not for publication, is it?" asked Bayley, suddenly on guard.

  "No, an isn't my beat anymore," said Qwilleran. "I just happen to live here. Wasn't it your father who built the place?"

  The brothers nodded cautiously.

  "This
old building must have some fascinating secrets to tell," Qwilleran ventured. There was no reply, but he observed a faint stirring of reaction. "Before Mrs. Graham left town, she lent me some documents dealing with the early days of the pottery. I haven't read them yet, but I imagine they might make good story material. Our readers enjoy anything of a historical nature, especially if there's human interest involved."

  Basil looked at Bayley in alarm.

  Bayley turned pink. "You can't print anything without permission."

  "Mrs. Graham promised the papers to us," said Basil.

  "They're family property," his brother echoed.

  "We can take legal action to get them."

  "Say, what's in those papers?" Qwilleran asked in a bantering tone. "It must be pretty hot stuff! Maybe it's a better story than I thought."

  "You print that," said Bayley, his flush deepening to crimson, "and we'll — we'll — "

  "Sue," Basil contributed hesitantly.

  "We'll sue the Fluxion. That's yellow journalism, that's what it is!" Bayley was now quite purple.

  Basil touched his brother's arm. "Be careful. You know what the doctor told you."

  "Sorry if I alarmed you," Qwilleran said. "It was all in jest."

  "Come," said Basil to Bayley, and they left the hall quickly.

  Qwilleran was preening his mustache with wicked satisfaction when he spotted a tall, gaunt, gray-haired woman moving across the hall with halting step. "Inga Berry!" he exclaimed. "I'm Jim Qwilleran."

  "Why, I was expecting a much younger man," she said. "Your voice on the phone had so much enthusiasm and — innocence, if you'll pardon the expression."

  "Thank you, I think," he replied. "May I get you some champagne?"

  "Why not? We'll take a quick look at the dirty old pots and then sit down somewhere and have a nice chat. . . Oh, my! Oh my!" She had caught sight of the Living Glaze. She walked as quickly as she could toward the radiant display, leaning on her furled umbrella. "This is — this is better than I expected!"

  "Do you approve?"

  "They make me feel like going home and smashing all my own work." She drank her champagne rather fast. "One criticism: It's a shame to waste this magnificent glaze on rolled clay."