The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Polly knew the answer. “It turned white overnight, following a horrendous experience on the job. He was captain of a crew of linemen working in the woods, looking for downed power lines during a major blackout. He narrowly escaped being killed by a falling tree. I think he took early retirement.”

  Arch said, “Those power outages always occur after a heavy rain. The ground is soaked, and shallow-rooted trees topple over like bowling pins. I wouldn’t want a linesman’s job.”

  Polly said, “He could write a book about his experiences—except that he’s no writer.”

  “Qwill could ghostwrite it,” Mildred said.

  The other three looked at Qwilleran and he huffed into his moustache.

  Mildred continued with her bubbling optimism, “I’m glad to say that Wetherby Goode has promised unusually good weather for our picnics and parades!”

  The two veteran newsmen exchanged cynical glances.

  After more conversation the amiable party broke up early.

  Arch asked Qwilleran, “What’s in your Tuesday column? Anything fit to print?”

  Qwilleran said, “I don’t give insider information. You’ll have to wait and buy a paper.”

  TWO

  Following the farewell dinner at the Rikers’ condo, Qwilleran and his reluctant housemates moved back to the converted apple barn on the southeast edge of Pickax—close to the action, yet sheltered from the hubbub by patches of woods.

  He was moving from the neighborliness of condo living to the solitude and privacy of a barn and acreage. The latter was one of the oddities of Pickax, a city full of oddities. This one could be explained.

  Qwilleran’s property dated back to pioneer days, when strip farms were the norm—half a mile long and no wider than today’s city block. It had been the Trevelyan apple orchard, and the back road still bore their name, but a series of disasters caused the family to sell.

  Once upon a time this had been a drive-through barn, where wagonloads of apples were unloaded and stored in a series of lofts.

  When Qwilleran first inherited the property, there was a fieldstone mansion as well, facing Main Street. It became the theatre arts building. Behind it was a dense patch of woods that Qwilleran called the Marconi Forest. It was the habitat of a huge owl that hooted in Morse code. Next came the lofty apple barn—all fieldstone and weathered shingles for siding. The barn was octagonal with a roof leading to a cupola at the apex.

  The blighted apple orchard had been reforested with evergreens and fruit trees that attracted butterflies and birds. And an art center stood at the site of the old Trevelyan farmhouse.

  As for the barn, the interior was redesigned so dramatically that the few persons privileged to see it called it the Eighth Wonder of the World. To the owner and his two cats, it was Home. They lived quietly for the most part.

  True, the interior space was estimated at four hundred thousand cubic feet. True, there were three balconies connected by ramps. But Qwilleran insisted that it functioned as an ordinary three-bedroom house.

  The expansive ground floor was centered by a fireplace cube in stark white with three white smokestacks reaching to the roof. Around it was a series of open-plan rooms: a kitchen where Qwilleran fed the cats and warmed soup for himself, accompanied by a serving bar and snack bar . . . a formal dining room seldom used except as a conference table for official business and champagne parties for charitable causes . . . a roomy foyer where Qwilleran parked his two bicycles—a recumbent and a British Silverlight . . . a library where Qwilleran read to the cats as much as he did to himself . . . and a living room with two sinfully comfortable sofas angled around a large square coffee table.

  All the dark wood surfaces had been bleached to a honey color. Light came from odd-shaped windows cut in the barn walls.

  The furnishings were exactly to Qwilleran’s taste: contemporary, massive, comfortable. The entire environment suited the Siamese, who flew up and down the ramps, teetered across the rafters like tightrope walkers, and virtually disappeared in the deep cushions of the sofas.

  When the three arrived home from the condo with their luggage the cats silently checked the entire premises, beginning with their water bowl and dinner plates (his and hers) under the kitchen table.

  Their private apartment was still on the third balcony.

  The wastebaskets were in their accustomed place, but empty. The crows were still viewable from the foyer. All was right with the world.

  Qwilleran never expected or wanted to be the richest man in the northeast central United States, but he made the best of it. The philanthropic K Fund invested the money for the good of Moose County. “Mr. Q,” as he was known, wrote his popular column, listened to what people said, gave thoughtful advice, pampered the Siamese.

  “Glad to see you back in town,” said the attorney G. Allen Barter, at the barn early Tuesday morning when he arrived to discuss K Fund business.

  “Unusually mild spring this year,” Qwilleran explained, “and a lot of excitement over the anniversary.”

  “Where are the cats?”

  “Watching you from the top of the refrigerator. . . . Shall we repair to the conference room?”

  There were two thumps as Koko and Yum Yum jumped down and followed the men to the dining area.

  “How do you like the official name of the sesquicentennial, Bart?”

  “Inspired! They say it came to Hixie Rice in a dream. Do you buy that, Qwill?”

  “Of course! There are day dreams and night dreams, and the subconscious works both shifts. If I can’t solve a problem by day, I assign my subconscious to it, and by morning I have the answer.”

  “Do you have this system patented?”

  “I’d like to consider it but, meanwhile, the system—as you call it—has come up with an idea for Pickax Now. Once a week, for the duration of the celebration, the ‘Qwill Pen’ column will feature one of the ‘late greats’ of Moose County—deceased persons who left a memorable mark. It will be a thousand-word profile: Osmond Hasselrich, Dr. Halifax Goodwinter, Fanny Klingenschoen, simple souls like Eddington Smith. Even a scoundrel or two.”

  Bart said with enthusiasm, “The K Fund could publish a collection of the profiles. Do it, Qwill!”

  There followed the dull business (for Qwilleran) of signing papers, making decisions, solving problems.

  Then the attorney said, “Clients of mine have asked me to intercede for them in a request. Do you remember Mr. and Mrs. Ledfield, who paid three hundred dollars a ticket to attend a charity event here in the barn? Koko turned it into a fiasco that no one has forgotten.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Qwilleran said. “Ever since that debacle I’ve avoided opening this humble abode to sight-seers.”

  “Don’t worry. What the Ledfields are asking won’t bother Koko and might appeal to you. They have a nephew in California who is about to enter college as an architecture student. He says that the fame of this barn is known in architectural circles on the West Coast.”

  “Is that so?” Qwilleran remarked with a glimmer of interest.

  “Their nephew would like permission to sketch the interior as part of his college entrance portfolio. As you know, many architects consider what you’ve done with the space to be an impossibility.”

  “I didn’t do it. It was the work of a talented designer named Dennis Hough, who lacked the credentials to call himself an architect.”

  “You never told me, Qwill! Where is he now?”

  “Where he’ll qualify for the ‘late greats’ in the ‘Qwill Pen’ column . . . Okay, your clients’ nephew can come and make sketches, as long as he gives full credit to the deceased designer. Incidentally, I’ve not seen any photographs that did justice to the interior. It will be interesting to know what draftsman’s sketches can do with it.”

  Bart said, “On behalf of my clients, I thank you, and I’ll see that you get a set of drawings.

  “By the way, in case you want to see what the young man looks like, Mrs. Ledfield gave me a
newspaper clipping with his picture, taken when he was a downhill ski racer. His major interest is skiing.”

  Qwilleran looked at the photo of an athletic-looking fellow dressed for snow, with a stocking cap pulled over shoulder-length hair. He said, “He’ll have to cut his hair when he becomes an architect.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no,” Bart said. “Have you been to California lately?”

  They discussed K Fund business while Koko sat on the table and watched closely. But when the attorney gathered up his papers to leave, the photo of Harvey Ledfield was missing. “His aunt wanted it returned,” Bart said.

  “It’s probably mixed in with your papers,” Qwilleran reassured him. He really thought otherwise! Koko had been hanging around with a mischievous glint in his eye!

  After a lengthy career in journalism Qwilleran had his emotions under control when it came to personal events. He could be pleased, mildly moved, even enthusiastic, but never, never excited. After the attorney’s visit he had to admit that he was excited about having the barn’s interior sketched. He reminded himself that this young fellow was only a would-be student, not yet enrolled. And a draftsman’s sketch was not the same as an artist’s drawing. Still, he was too excited to wait until eleven P.M. to break the news to Polly in their nightly phone chat. He walked downtown.

  With his oversize moustache and orange baseball cap he was recognized everywhere. “Hi, Mr. Q!” said pedestrians with faces wreathed in smiles. “How’s Koko, Mr. Q?” To the men he gave a friendly salute; to women, a gracious bow, which would be described to family and friends. Qwilleran was not only the ‘Qwill Pen’ in person but the power behind the K Fund.

  From the barnyard he walked through the evergreen woods, causing some flutterings of wings and scurrying in the underbrush, then across the parking lot of the theatre arts building and north on Main Street in the City of Stone, as the shopping center was nicknamed. Behind the post office was the new bookstore, The Pirate’s Chest, where Polly was enjoying her new career as manager.

  He used his key to the side door, letting himself directly into the office. She was not there, but behind a folding screen Dundee, the bibliocat, could be heard scratching in his commode.

  Soon Polly arrived. “Qwill! What a pleasant surprise! How does it feel to be able to walk downtown?”

  “Invigorating! I’m really here to ask a question. . . . Do you know the Ledfields of Purple Point?”

  “I know they’re one of the ‘fine old families’—very wealthy. Nathan is a collector. Doris was on my board of directors at the library—but not for long. She’s rather frail. No children. Nathan’s only brother and his wife were killed in a car accident out west not too long ago. Why do you ask?”

  “The orphaned son, as I understand it, is coming here to visit his aunt and uncle and—you won’t believe this—sketch the interior of my barn for a college-entrance portfolio.”

  “How very exciting,” Polly said.

  “Yes,” Qwilleran said coolly, concealing his real feelings.

  From Polly’s office he went out to the selling floor, exchanged pleasantries with saleswomen in Green Smocks, told Dundee he was a good bibliocat and could expect a raise. He walked down the broad staircase to the community area with its view of meeting rooms, and the Edd Smith Place, where pre-owned books were donated and sold, with proceeds going to good causes.

  In Moose County one simple fact encouraged the charitable impulses of the general public: The K Fund would match any donation dollar for dollar.

  In the ESP, as the lower-level shop was known, Lisa Compton was the volunteer at the cash register. A retired academic, married to the school superintendent, she was the one Qwilleran wanted to see.

  “Lisa, how would you like to collaborate on a ‘Qwill Pen’ project that will later be published in book form?”

  When she heard about the “Late Greats,” she was enthusiastic. She and her husband were third-generation natives. Together they could suggest candidates for the honor, and Lisa would do the research.

  She would start with the late Osmond Hasselrich, pioneer lawyer, and Agatha Burns, well-loved teacher.

  Back upstairs, he found Polly waiting for him with her eyes sparkling in a way that meant mischief or conspiracy.

  “Sit down!” she ordered. “We have to discuss your birthday dinner! I’ve made a reservation at the Mackintosh Inn—your favorite table in front of the Scottish castle crest, and I thought it would be fun if we wore our Highland kit.”

  That meant the Mackintosh kilt for Qwilleran, with dinner jacket, sporran, and a dagger in his sock. Polly would wear a long white dress with Duncan plaid pinned on the shoulder with a cairngorm.

  “They won’t know it’s your birthday. I’ll tell them we’re celebrating a moment in Scottish history, and they’ll serve us two Scotch eggs as aperitifs, and you can have half of mine.”

  When assured that he would not have to blow out candles on a cake, Qwilleran agreed. Afterward, they would go home and listen to good music. He had a new John Field recording he wanted to play.

  Later that evening Qwilleran wrote in his private journal, explaining somewhat his panic about birthday celebrations.

  Thursday—When Arch Riker and I were growing up in Chicago, he claims I was always a rotten kid on my birthday. He should know. He was there. And he was no sweet potato. Even at an early age, I recall, I despised the silly games played at birthday parties—and the blowing out of candles after making a wish—and the Happy Birthday song, sung out of tune and off key.

  Now that I’m an adult, I find the same inanities are being practiced, and I have to smile and thank everyone when I’d rather break the cake platter over their skulls.

  I know it’s an eccentricity, and I have no intention of giving it up. We’re all entitled to a few eccentricities, provided they don’t harm anyone, break the law, or constitute a public nuisance.

  THREE

  One Sunday afternoon in late May Hixie Rice and a member of the Sesquicentennial Committee arrived at the barn to discuss various matters. Dwight Somers was a public relations counselor whose PR firm was called Somers & Beard, although the only beard was on his face. Qwill and his guests seated themselves in the sumptuous sofas and Hixie said, “These sofas are just too comfortable, Qwill! We may never want to leave.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “Koko has a built-in alarm clock and will throw you out. Talk fast.”

  Both cats were on the coffee table, huddled shoulder to shoulder on a very large paperback book. “What are they sitting on?” she asked.

  “Their bedtime reading: Mark Twain for Kids.” The cover had a full-length photo of the great author.

  Hixie said, “He has a moustache like yours.”

  “Or, rather, I have a moustache like his.”

  Qwilleran was a great admirer of his predecessor’s wit. It was Twain who gave the world’s shortest advice: “When in doubt, tell the truth.”

  “Now, what’s the latest about the celebration?”

  “To make it brief,” said Dwight, “three parades will define the thirteen weeks of celebration. On Memorial Day the theme will be Pickax Past, with historical tableaux on floats. The main feature will be the antique pickax that has been in a glass case at City Hall.”

  Dwight went on. “On July Fourth the theme will be Pickax Now, and on Labor Day, Pickax Future.”

  Hixie said, “I’ve been telling Dwight about the one-man show you did, Qwill—on the Big Burning of 1869.”

  “How did it work?” Dwight asked.

  Qwilleran explained. “We asked the audience to imagine that radio existed in 1869, and we brought them a broadcast covering the fire, which destroyed practically the whole county except the courthouse in Pickax. I played the radio announcer; Hixie was technical assistant, handling sound effects.”

  Hixie groaned. “Once we did the show in a church basement when the furnace was out of order. The audience was sitting wrapped in blankets and wearing earmuffs and mittens. And the ra
dio announcer was saying that the temperature was a hundred degrees as he mopped his brow.”

  Qwilleran recalled another time when—at the most tragic moment in the show—a small girl walked across the stage looking for the restroom. “A few minutes later, she came back. It’s to the audience’s credit that they didn’t laugh, but I had a hard time keeping a sober face.”

  Dwight asked, “Could you dig your script out of mothballs and do the show for Pickax Now audiences?”

  Qwilleran said he believed so. Actually, he was fond of working before an audience, reading words that he had written, hearing the enthusiastic applause. “How many shows?”

  Dwight thought one a week for thirteen weeks would be appropriate—and well attended. “What would you think about a Sunday matinee? In the opera house?”

  “Better than church basements and school gyms, I say. Let’s do it!”

  The City of Pickax was ready for its great moment in history! Houses were painted; trees were pruned; street paving was repaired. Downtown, the sidewalk planters were a riot of pink, white, and red petunias, and cracked concrete sidewalks were repaved in the fashionable brick.

  The stately old brick courthouse with its proud stretch of lawn was now flaunting its famous peony bushes.

  By contrast, the Pickax City Hall had always been a civic embarrassment: a two-story gray brick building with a flat roof, small naked windows, and an unimpressive entrance door.

  The police department upstairs was entered from the rear, and there was a jail in the basement. But this year Hixie Rice had made it a personal mission to beautify City Hall. The windows were given shutters; the two front steps were given an ornamental handrail; an important entrance door was coaxed out of an antique shop; and the windows, both upstairs and down, were equipped with window boxes.

  Hixie accomplished all this with her strong sell, winning personality, long eyelashes, and refusal to take “no” for an answer.