The Cat Who Talked Turkey

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  When Qwilleran arrived home with the newspaper, some cookies, and a jar of homemade marmalade, Koko met him at the door and was all over the place—on and off the kitchen counter, on and off the bar. There seemed to be no reason.

  “Why do you think you can throw your weight around, young man?” Qwilleran asked. “You’re only a wee little kitty.” He had to chuckle.

  But Koko was never wrong. There was a message on the answering machine, and the cat seemed to know it was important.

  The throaty voice of Lish Carroll was even less attractive when recorded:

  “Clarence is driving me to Milwaukee. I will work on your project. Back in time for rehearsals.”

  Qwilleran was pleased. She had a positive attitude about the show . . . and she might solve the nagging mystery about Koko’s background and even his unusual talents. That being the case, what was the cat’s antagonism toward Lish? Was it the sound of her voice? Did he remember her pointing finger? Or (and this was ridiculous) did he resent intrusion into his heritage?

  “All aboard for the gazebo!” he announced.

  It required two trips to transport cats, coffee, cordless phone, typewriter, and Thornton’s thick file of research material. And it would take two hours to select and organize the information and interviews involved.

  Applying himself to the task, he faced the formidable challenge of transforming bleak facts into breathtaking radio announcements, starting with Sunday, November 9, 1913.

  It was an emotional experience, and he welcomed a respite; he phoned Polly at the library.

  “Qwill! I’m glad you called! I’ve just talked to Benson’s office in Chicago. His secretary said he got into Chicago very late last night and had an early meeting this morning, but she said he was none the worse for the forced landing. He told his secretary it was—guess what!—an interesting experience. And what about you, Qwill? What have you been doing?”

  “Working on my script. I finished segment one, after which the stage lights black out and the audience hears a minute of music. What do you think it should be?”

  “Francesca da Rimini,” she answered quickly. “It’s good storm music.”

  “We used it for fire music in ‘The Big Burning,’ ” he objected.

  “No one will remember, dear.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “À bientôt!”

  “À bientôt!”

  What Qwilleran needed now was a writing challenge of a different sort, and he applied himself to The Private Life of the Cat Who . . . To date, he had written a dozen sketches, ranging from humorous to scholarly—from Koko’s macho exploits to Yum Yum’s feminine foibles.

  He fortified himself with a cup of coffee and wrote the following:

  THE MATTER OF THE SILVER THIMBLE

  It’s like this: There are thousands of house cats, barn cats, and cat fanciers in Moose County, and readers of my “Qwill Pen” column enjoy hearing about the antics of the Siamese occasionally. They are awed by the handsome, intelligent Koko, but they love the sweet little Yum Yum, with her dainty demeanor and iron will. In fact, there is a Yum Yum fan club in the county.

  Members of this unofficial organization send her crocheted mice that squeak and plastic balls that rattle. Her most precious possession, though, is a silver thimble, a gift from a dear reader no longer able to sew. “Cats,” she said, “love thimbles.”

  Yum Yum has always liked anything small and shiny, but she is absolutely infatuated with her thimble.

  She bats it around with her delicate paw, carries it from one venue to another in her tiny teeth, hides it, forgets where it’s hidden, then cries until I look under rugs, behind seat cushions, and in wastebaskets to retrieve it.

  She has deposited it in the pockets of my jackets, in a bowl of mixed nuts, and down the drain of the kitchen sink.

  I should take it away from her, but I haven’t the heart. She would pine away and die.

  I have appealed to readers of the newspaper. All solutions to the problem will be thoughtfully considered. Address me in care of the psychiatric ward at the Pickax General Hospital.

  SEVEN

  The third week in June would be a busy one for Qwilleran, and he felt the need to make a list:

  Write “Qwill Pen” for Tuesday. (How about the Toothache Club?)

  Write column for Friday. (The Whoozis epidemic.)

  Write segment two of script in time for Sunday afternoon rehearsal.

  Order daffodils.

  Reserve table for Friday night.

  Call Bushy about Brrr souvenir book and “nice young lady” working for him.

  Not on the list but implicit in Qwilleran’s life was the “quality time” he spent with the Siamese twice a week.

  No matter how busy Qwilleran might be, nothing was allowed to interfere with the “quality time.” He told himself, They’re all the family I’ve got! True, they provided him with companionship, entertainment, and occasional frustration. To Thornton Haggis he had once said, “Anyone who lives alone needs to take responsibility for a fellow creature or risk being blown away.”

  And Thornton replied, “Your only danger, as I see it, is disappearing in a cloud of hyperbole!”

  On this particular morning, the Siamese were treated to a serving of choice red salmon—two servings, his and hers. There followed an interval for catly ablutions, a ritual that only they could understand. Next, they were groomed with their favorite brush—a silver-backed antique that had belonged to the late Iris Cobb.

  Then the two males watched patiently while Yum Yum batted her thimble around, hid the thing, forgot where it was, found it, and finally stored it in some secret grotto.

  After that, both cats engaged in an athletic romp with a necktie. It always left them exhausted. They flopped over on their sides and lay motionless, except for the tapping of a tail on the floor. This was Qwilleran’s cue to nudge a soft underside gently with the toe of a shoe.

  Instantly the prostrate cat came to life and attacked Qwilleran’s shoe with both forelegs, kicking furiously with hind feet. It was a game they played.

  Finally, there was a reading session. Koko, the official bibliocat, sprang to a bookshelf, sniffed bindings, and made a selection. Currently he liked Robert Service poems, apparently for their rollicking rhythms: I wanted the gold, and I sought it; I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.

  The Moose County Something claimed to have ten thousand subscribers, most of whom were members of the Toothache Club, as it was called in the “Qwill Pen” column. They were readers who asked the nagging question: Why do you always get a toothache on a weekend—and it’s gone when you get to the dentist’s chair on Monday morning? Members added their own unanswered questions and mailed them to the newspaper on postcards. When a sufficient number had accumulated, Qwilleran ran another column on the subject, eagerly awaited by members and nonmembers alike:

  “Why does the motorist ahead of you always drive too slow and the one behind you always drive too fast?”

  “Did you ever notice that a ten-minute wait standing up is twice as long as a ten-minute wait sitting down?”

  “We’ve all learned that medications have side effects, but golly if the side effects don’t have side effects now!”

  Arch Riker kidded the columnist about letting the readers do his work, but actually he liked reader participation. Subscribers talked about the pet peeves in the coffee shops and started mailing in some of their own.

  Qwilleran had a pet peeve of his own: He had an intense dislike for unanswered questions. Who was the “nice young lady” helping John Bushland photograph Boulder House for the Brrr souvenir book? He and Roger MacGillivray and Qwilleran had shared a horrendous boating accident that had bonded them for life. The photographer’s professional successes and personal tragedies would always concern Qwilleran. Bushy had been unlucky in his choice of assistants, but now a “nice young lady” was assisting him with the lighting on photo jobs. Who was she? Qwilleran called the studio.


  “John Bushland Studio. May I help you?” asked a woman’s voice that was faintly familiar.

  “This is Jim Qwilleran. To whom am I speaking?” he asked with comic formality.

  “Qwill! This is Janice Barth! Remember me from Thelma’s house? Remember the parrots . . . the waffles?”

  “Of course I do! Especially the waffles. Are you helping Bushy at the studio?”

  “Yes, and he’s teaching me developing and printing so I can help with the darkroom. Shall I have him call you?”

  When the photographer returned the call, Qwilleran said, “My spies tell me you shot Boulder House for the souvenir book, and you had a ‘nice young lady’ holding the light.”

  “Qwill! You nosy devil! You’ve been snooping again! Well, to make a long story short, Janice is not only on my payroll—we’re tying the knot!”

  “What? You’re marrying her? When? Where?”

  “Just a civil ceremony at the house on Pleasant Street, with Roger and his wife as witnesses. After, there’ll be a small wedding dinner at Boulder House Inn, to which you may or may not be invited.”

  “That being the case, buster, I may or may not pick up the check for the dinner—as a wedding gift to a pal who once tried to drown me. Meanwhile, someone should warn Janice that you’re just looking for free darkroom service. How about the five parrots? Do you have to support them?”

  And so it went. Before Qwilleran could return to work on “The Great Storm,” he had a brilliant idea! He called his friend Simmons in California. The retired police detective had been a security officer at Thelma Thackeray’s dinner club, gradually becoming a friend of the family with a standing invitation to Sunday-morning waffles. To Janice he was a kindly uncle. And when Thelma had sent him a plane ticket to Pickax, Simmons and Qwilleran had struck an immediate rapport—the retired cop and the former crime reporter. Now Qwilleran would send him a plane ticket, and Simmons would be the surprise guest at the wedding dinner. Janice would be overcome with delight.

  Qwilleran tracked Simmons down at his daughter’s house, where he was babysitting his grandchildren. He said, “Sounds great! But I have a security job lined up for July fourth that’s too good to pass up. Tell you what I could do: take the redeye flight to Chicago and then the morning shuttle flight to Moose County. Thanks for thinking of me, Qwill. I’m very happy for Janice.”

  Qwilleran said, “Also, you’ll be interested to know that a dead body was found on my property at the beach, and police are investigating. And investigating. And investigating. Perhaps you and I can solve the case.”

  As the week wore on, Qwilleran worked on the second segment of the “Great Storm” script and wrote a “Qwill Pen” column for Friday, decrying the increase in bad manners among phone users. He blamed people in a perpetual hurry, people phoning from their cars, and telephone subscribers annoyed by calls from salespersons and solicitors. Too many persons were shouting “Who’s this?” into the mouthpiece . . . or “Whoozis?” The offending party could be the one answering the phone, or a caller who has reached a wrong number, or anyone too busy to care about civilities.

  Qwilleran wrote, “Is this a fad? A phenomenon? A social disease, peculiar to areas 400 miles north of everywhere? If you are a member of the Whoozis Club, please drop us a postal card. The ‘Qwill Pen’ would like to be enlightened.”

  Friday, June 20, had been circled on Qwilleran’s calendar. It was his mother’s birthday! She had died when he was in college, and after that his life had been a roller-coaster ride.

  Then, suddenly, Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran came rushing back into his memory again. He had read letters she had written to a friend before he was born. They were the key that unlocked the door to his early life. She was a single parent. His father had died before Qwilleran was born. Now he could appreciate her efforts to give him a normal upbringing.

  Jamie, she called him. He had a playmate called Archie, whose dad took the two boys to the zoo, parades, and ball games. As the boys grew older, Mr. Riker gave them the advice needed from a father.

  There were certain things Qwilleran remembered about Lady Anne, as he now called her: how she always recited the same poem on her birthday . . . how her fingers flew when she played “Flight of the Bumblebee” on the piano, and how she always wore a bracelet with dangling coins.

  Now Arch Riker was back in his life, as editor-in-chief of the newspaper, and it seemed only fitting that he and Mildred and Polly should honor Lady Anne on her birthday.

  At the end of the workday, the foursome gathered at the barn and drank a toast to Lady Anne. Then Polly read the Wordsworth poem—the one that began:

  I wandered lonely as a cloud

  That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

  When all at once I saw a crowd,

  A host, of golden daffodils.

  The “Qwill Pen” had promoted the idea that everyone should have a birthday poem. Qwilleran himself had adopted Kipling as his birthday poet: “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you . . .”

  Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist, had chosen Carl Sandburg: “The fog comes on little cat feet . . .”

  Mildred, who had survived more than her share of personal tragedies, quoted Lizette Woodworth Reese: “When I consider life and its few years . . . I wonder at the idleness of tears . . .”

  Polly quoted Wordsworth, although she said she had to change a word here and there: “My heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky . . .”

  Arch quoted Anonymous: “I know two things about a horse, and one of them is rather coarse.”

  Then the host rushed his guests off to the Old Grist Mill, where two champagne buckets crowded with daffodils stood on a console table in the foyer. A card read: In memory of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran.

  Mildred asked, “How did you round up so many flowers—without baby’s breath or ribbon bows or other additives?”

  “The daffodils were ordered from Chicago,” Qwilleran said, “and I told the florist to send them directly to the restaurant, because they were being used in a salad.”

  Riker said, “Qwill was always a master of creative fibbing.”

  That said, they drank a solemn toast to the memory of “Lady Anne.”

  Then they discussed the Brrr birthday party: Five hundred pages had been purchased in the souvenir book. Twenty thousand T-shirts had been ordered—with the same logo being used on the official poster: “Brrr” and “200” in red on a white background, surrounded by a blue lifesaver. John Bushland was getting married again, and they’d live in Thelma’s house. Polly quoted book-selling statistics that related sales potential to square footage, and Qwilleran said that the script of “The Great Storm” would be ready for rehearsal Sunday afternoon—even if he had to stay up all night Saturday.

  The week was not over. On Saturday, Qwilleran finished part two of the “Great Storm” script, and when Thornton phoned from the Art Center, he was invited to walk up the lane and listen to a run-through.

  Qwilleran, besides reading and emoting, had to press the buttons that brought in the voices of eyewitnesses, so the timing was not as crisp as it would be onstage. Even so, Thornton found the show gripping and absolutely real. Qwilleran protested modestly, but actually . . . he thought so, too.

  He and Polly agreed to forgo their usual Saturday-night date—she to study the psychology of a bookstore’s floor plan, and Qwilleran to psych himself up for the rehearsal the next afternoon.

  Then, on Sunday morning, Gary Pratt phoned, his high-pitched voice reaching new heights of emotion:

  “Qwill! You’ll never guess what! Lish just called. She’s still in Milwaukee! Can’t be here for rehearsal! Isn’t that a beast! She said she was doing some research for you down there, and it was taking longer than she expected. Is that true?”

  “Basically, but it was a minor assignment and not worth missing a rehearsal.”

  “She said to tell you she has some hot news for you.”

  Qwil
leran grunted noncommittally.

  “Are you going to be up this way, Qwill? I need to talk and get something off my chest. Maxine said I should talk to you.”

  “Any trouble?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Well . . . yes and no.”

  Unanswered questions were anathema to Qwilleran, and he found himself hungering for a bear burger, Hotel Booze style. On arrival, “You look like a sick bear,” he told Gary.

  “I didn’t sleep a wink last night,” Gary said. “I got to worrying about something Lish said when she and Lush were hanging around the bar: Someday Mount Vernon would be hers, and she was gonna make it into a bed-and-breakfast and build condos on the back of the property. I didn’t think anything of it at the time; people like to talk big at bars. But last night I thought, Hey! Maybe she means it! There’s a story, you know, about a barfly who boasted he was gonna blow up city hall, and no one believed him.”

  “But he blew it up!” Qwilleran said. “It’s a classic situation.”

  “Yeah, and now that her grandmother has taken an apartment at the retirement center so she can have assisted care, when and if! Maybe she doesn’t have long to live! Maybe Lish can carry out her boast! My stomach turns over at the thought of that historic house going commercial! That beautiful house! It’s been called the jewel in the crown of the Brrr Parkway. Great spot for a B and B, right?” he added bitterly. “The thing of it is, I never liked Lish in school. She was stuck-up! She had her own car and a special permit for underage driving. She got all A’s. The only thing she didn’t get was . . . dates! The guys couldn’t stand her!”