The Cat Who Talked Turkey

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Why did you recommend her, Gary, for the show?”

  “Well, y’see, I wanted to show her what kind of things we do here now, and what kind of people are living here. We’re not a bunch of hicks.”

  Cheerfully, Qwilleran said, “It looks as if you’re up a creek without a paddle, friend, but there’s a solution to every problem. All it takes is a little thought. Any idea when Lish and Lush will return?”

  “Maybe her grandmother does. Wonder what the old gal thinks of Lush. You just know she wants Lish to marry a doctor, and settle down, and raise a family, and be president of the PTA, and sing in the church choir! It’s funny! So why ain’t I laughing?”

  EIGHT

  Qwilleran had ambivalent reactions to the canceled rehearsal. He had worked hard to meet the deadline. And yet—if it meant the answer to the long-unanswered question about Koko’s background—he would call it an even exchange. Only someone who has lived for years with a psychic cat could understand his attitude.

  On Sunday morning he phoned Polly, although he was sure she would be attending church services. He left a message: “Rehearsal postponed. Taking cats to the beach. Will call you tonight. À bientôt.”

  Next he grabbed Yum Yum before she knew what was happening and pushed her, protesting, into the travel coop. Koko entered it willingly. Then Qwilleran filled a picnic basket with cold drinks in an ice pack, a ham sandwich for himself, crunchies for the Siamese, and two molasses-ginger cookies from the Scottish bakery. He wondered how these plain, flat, brown cookies could be so humble and yet so delectable. Upon further consideration, he put all four in the basket.

  It was only a half-hour drive from the grandiose barn to the snug, friendly log cabin. On arrival the three of them trooped to the screened porch overlooking the lake.

  It was a beautiful day. The water splashed gently on the shore. Sandpipers ran up and down like wind-up toys. A soft breeze wafted the tall beach grass that covered the side of the dune. And there was always one tiny bird, weighing a tenth of an ounce, perched on the tip of a blade of grass and riding back and forth.

  Koko immediately assumed his Egyptian-cat pose on the tall pedestal that he considered his own. Yum Yum ran around, batting insects on the outside of the screen. Qwilleran lounged in a chair and propped his feet on a footstool.

  After a while Koko emitted a throaty rumbling and pointed his ears to the east. In a few moments a pair of beach walkers approached, looking for agates and dropping them in a small plastic sack.

  Qwilleran went out to the top of the sand-ladder and shouted, “Would you two trespassers like to come up for a cold drink?”

  Lisa and Lyle Compton, both wearing “BRRR 200” T-shirts, gladly accepted.

  They sat on the porch, and Qwilleran served Squunk water with a dash of cranberry juice. The Siamese were comfortable with the Comptons and paid them the compliment of ignoring them—Yum Yum batting her bugs, Koko preening himself all over.

  Lyle said, “I’m looking forward to seeing your show on the Great Storm. My elders lived through it but weren’t inclined to talk about it. They had the pioneer tendency to make light of hardships, even telling jokes about unfortunate happenings.”

  Lisa agreed. “My grandfather lived through the Great Storm. On the stormiest night, the high winds destroyed his chicken coop and sent a board sailing through the kitchen window. The family was asleep upstairs and didn’t know about it until morning, when they went downstairs and found all the chickens in the kitchen, roosting on the nice, warm stovepipe.”

  Lyle said, “And then there’s the story that everyone tells about a couple of fellows named Alf Kirby and Bill Durby, who worked for the railroad as fireman and brakeman. Two or three nights a week they had to sleep over, and the company let them use a two-room cottage between the tracks and the lakefront. Durby, having seniority, had the room overlooking the lake—the only trouble being that the lake breezes rattled the windows on a cold night and there was frost on the ceiling in the morning. On the night of the Great Storm, Durby offered Kirby five dollars to exchange rooms, and Kirby agreed, always interested in a good deal. But the winds were of gale force on that night, and they turned the little cottage around on its foundation, so that Durby was still on the cold side minus five bucks.”

  “Yow!” came a strong reaction from Koko on his pedestal.

  “What does that mean?” Lyle demanded.

  “Koko thinks it’s a good tale, but he doesn’t believe a word of it. I’d like to know about Scottish Night at the Brrr celebration.”

  Lisa, whose maiden name was Campbell, and Lyle, whose mother was a Ross, were eager to report the details: It would be a preview of the two-month celebration. All the clans would be there in Highland attire. The park across from the hotel would be strung with Japanese lanterns—festive in daylight, magical after dark. In the bandstand, bagpipers would pipe, dancers would do the Highland Fling, and a Scottish quartet would sing tearjerkers. And Miss Agatha Burns would throw the switch to light the ten-foot birthday cake with its two hundred electric candles.

  “Should I know her?” Qwilleran asked. He was quickly informed that she was a retired teacher, a hundred years old, now confined to a wheelchair and living at the Senior Care Facility.

  Lisa said, “Three generations of students have annually voted Miss Agatha their favorite teacher. She had charisma. She made us want to learn.”

  Qwilleran asked, “What did she teach?”

  Lyle said with unusual fervor, “What the State Board of Ed called dead languages! Can you believe that my father had four years of Latin and a year of classical Greek—here in the boondocks? The state made us eliminate those two subjects, consolidate with Pickax High School, and buy a fleet of school buses that would pollute the atmosphere! Kids used to walk two or three miles to school and thought nothing of it.”

  Qwilleran asked, “What did she teach after that?”

  “English,” said Lisa, “but she taught us the Latin roots of English words.”

  “Would a ‘Qwill Pen’ column on Miss Agatha be a good idea to coincide with the opening of Brrr Two Hundred?”

  “Perfect!” said Lyle. “But she’s had a stroke and doesn’t speak. It would be better to interview her former students. There are plenty of them in the Old-Timers Club and at Ittibittiwassee Estates.”

  “Would Alicia’s grandmother be one of them?”

  “She’s quite reserved,” Lisa said. “She wouldn’t be easy to interview.”

  That was no obstacle to a veteran columnist.

  He had a talent for winning confidences from the most reticent subjects. His rich, mellow voice made them feel good. He listened attentively, nodded sympathetically, and gazed at them with a brooding expression that won their trust.

  He asked, “Have you ever been in the Carrolls’ house?”

  “Once,” Lisa said. “She never did much entertaining, but this was a tea for a church benefit. It’s a beautiful house, filled with American and English antiques: Chippendale, Newport, Duncan Phyfe, Queen Anne—you name it!”

  Lyle said, “If she has a sentimental notion that her granddaughter will leave Milwaukee and live in it, she’s dotty. Alicia will sell the antiques to a New York dealer and the house to a developer, who’ll carve it into apartments and build condos on the grounds.”

  “Yow!” came an imperious interruption from the pedestal.

  The guests stood up. “He’s telling us to go home.”

  Qwilleran had an idea, and he was in a hurry to put it into action. Back at the barn, he inscribed a copy of Short & Tall Tales to Dr. Wendell Carroll, Dr. Hector Carroll, and Dr. Erasmus Carroll—the three generations of medics who had served Moose County since pioneer days. He enclosed a note—and his unlisted phone number. This he clipped to the legend titled “Housecalls on Horseback” and then had the book delivered by motorcycle messenger to Ittibittiwassee Estates.

  It was not long before the phone rang, and a sweet, cultivated voice said, “Mr. Qwilleran, this is Ed
ythe Carroll. We have never met, and I am deeply touched that you should send me this splendid book. The account of the pioneer doctors is so true! It might have been handed down from Dr. Erasmus!”

  For one who was considered reticent and aloof, Mrs. Carroll was remarkably talkative. Qwilleran murmured the right things.

  “And you mentioned in your note, Mr. Qwilleran, that you have an idea you wish to discuss. Would you do me the honor of taking tea with me tomorrow?”

  Qwilleran trimmed his moustache, dressed properly for tea with Dr. Wendell’s widow, and drove to the retirement village.

  She received him graciously in an apartment that was clearly furnished with her own heirlooms. She had white hair, attractively styled for her age, and she wore a lavender silk dress and a little color on her cheeks.

  “Do you like antiques?” she asked as she ushered Qwilleran into the small sitting room.

  “I admire the design and fine woods of individual pieces,” he replied frankly, “but most people crowd too many into a given space. You handle them with great taste.”

  “Thank you,” she said with obvious delight. “My late husband disliked clutter, too.”

  He had caught a glimpse, as he passed a china cabinet, of a number of small decorated china objects, like saltcellars. On second glance, they proved to be miniature shoes.

  He stopped and said, “This is a remarkable collection! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

  “Miniature porcelain shoes are quite collectible,” she said, “and my husband and I had a romantic interest in collecting, but I won’t bore you with that! Come and sit at the tea table, and I’ll bring the tea.”

  When she appeared at the kitchen door with a loaded tray, Qwilleran jumped up and carried it to the table. Older women always liked Qwilleran’s courtly manners, which he had learned “at his mother’s knee,” he liked to say. He knew very well they would make a positive impression on Lish’s grandmother.

  They sat at a Queen Anne tea table, and Mrs. Carroll poured tea into thin porcelain cups. “This is Darjeeling,” she said, “best with a little warm milk.” She raised the silver cream pitcher tentatively.

  He said, “Please.”

  At that point Qwilleran inquired, “Do you feel inclined to tell me the romantic story about your collection of shoes? I assure you I would never be bored.”

  “You promise?” she cried, eager to tell all. “When I was a young woman, I attended the Lockmaster Academy and studied ballet. One of our recitals was attended by a group of young men, including Dr. Wendell Carroll, who was specializing in foot surgery. He said later that he fell in love with my tiny feet. We were eventually married and started a collection of miniature shoes. Whenever Dell returned from a medical conference in Chicago or another big city, he’d burst into the house shouting: Edie! I found another shoe!”

  She cast a wistful glance at the china cabinet. They sat in thoughtful silence for a moment or two. Then Qwilleran asked, “Did you ever know a teacher named Agatha Burns? She’s a hundred years old, and I’m writing a column about her.”

  “Yes, indeed! She was an inspiration! She even encouraged me to write poems in Latin, and one of them won a prize! Fifteen dollars! I bought a typewriter with it—secondhand manual. I still have it! I suppose you use a computer.”

  “No, I use a vintage electric typewriter that reads my mind and knows what key I’m going to press next. But there’s nothing like an old manual with its clattering keys, loud bells, and the authoritative thump when the carriage returns.”

  She appreciated the humor and swayed with mirth.

  “May I call you Edythe? It’s a name with a pleasant sound.”

  “Please do,” she said.

  “Edythe, have you ever thought of presenting Mount Vernon to the community as a memorial to the three Carroll doctors—together with your exquisite antiques—to be admired and revered as a museum?”

  Tears welled into her eyes, and she dabbed them with a handkerchief—a real one, with lace trimming. “Oh, I don’t know what to say!” she cried. “I’m overcome with emotion at your kind suggestion. You don’t know what it would mean to me, Mr. Qwilleran.”

  “Please call me Qwill,” he said in the mellifluous voice that had worked miracles in the past. “I’m not aware of your plans for the house, but whatever they are, I wish you would consider honoring three generations of medical men in this way.

  “Your antiques would be admired by visitors from all over the United States. One room could be set aside for the pioneer doctors and their primitive medical equipment: the saws they used for amputations without anesthesia . . . the medicines they mixed themselves . . . the folding operating table carried in the doctor’s buggy for surgery in the patient’s kitchen. The county historical society has plenty of such relics that they could lend, including what must be the world’s largest collection of bedpans!”

  Overlooking the whimsical exaggeration, Mrs. Carroll said abruptly, “My granddaughter is expecting to inherit the house.”

  “Would she be willing to share it with the community?” He knew it was an absurd question.

  “I’m afraid not. She’ll sell it to the highest bidder to make money—for whatever purpose. She sees it as a mall or amusement park, although I’m sure she says it simply to horrify me.”

  “Has your will been written?”

  “It’s at the law office, being revised.” She bit her lip before saying, “Alicia and her driver are out of town, and I went to the house to check its condition. I was appalled! There were food containers on my lovely mahogany dining table . . . soiled clothing on the Orientals . . . and garbage in the kitchen sink. Alicia was never very tidy in her ways, but this! It must be her . . . driver! I don’t know what to do!”

  “May I make a suggestion, Edythe?”

  The sound of her first name brought her to attention.

  “Of course!”

  “Call your attorney without delay! He might advise hiring a caretaker . . . changing the locks on the doors . . . and swift action on a revised will. Tell him you want it to be the Carroll Memorial Museum. There’s nothing of the sort in the whole county!” He stopped suddenly, remembering the dashed plans for a Klingenschoen Museum. Then he said with less vehemence, “Was Mount Vernon your idea?”

  “My father-in-law’s. He was a great admirer of George Washington.”

  “All the more reason why you should preserve it. Don’t wait till it’s too late.”

  As Qwilleran drove away from Mrs. Carroll’s apartment in Ittibittiwassee Estates, he had a great feeling of satisfaction. One thing had to be made clear: He wanted to stay out of the picture.

  That evening when he and Polly had their nightly phone chat, she said, “It was a quiet day at the library. What did you do, dear?”

  “Worked on my Tuesday column. Have you been doing your homework?”

  “Yes. Do you realize the importance of aisle width in a bookstore? Physically and psychologically! There must be plenty of room for customers and staff to move around. It’s good for a bookstore to be crowded at times, but not too crowded so that individual customers feel jostled.”

  “I see,” Qwilleran said. “Quite an absorbing subject.”

  “But I’m taking an evening off for the bird club,” she said. “The speaker is an expert on the tufted titmouse.”

  “Is that a bird?” he asked slyly.

  “An adorable little bird—with a yellow breast.”

  “Strange name for a bird. Why is it called a titmouse?”

  “Would you like to attend the meeting—and bring up the subject?”

  “Maybe I will. What are they having for dinner? Chicken potpie again?”

  It was the easy rambling of two close friends who talk to each other on the phone every evening.

  “À bientôt,” she said.

  “À bientôt.”

  NINE

  As Qwilleran was leaving the barn Tuesday morning, he was accompanied to the exit by the Siamese, who sat on thei
r haunches and awaited his farewell as if they knew what he was saying. He always told them where he was going, what he would be doing, and when he would return. After he left, they would race around the barn, whisking papers off the desk and overturning wastebaskets. As Cool Koko would say, When the man’s away, the cats will play.

  Qwilleran drove to the town of Brrr, which he knew only for its superlative burgers at the Black Bear Café in the Hotel Booze. For the first time he noticed the small park across the street, with its modest fountain and uncomfortable benches on which no one cared to sit.

  His curiosity aroused, Qwilleran drove around town and saw a thriving business district . . . a monument to the Scots who founded the town . . . a fringe of residential streets . . . and the broad avenue known as the Parkway. It was lined with stone residences of impressive size, built in the nineteenth century, and at the very end, gleaming like a beacon in the sunlight, was the white frame replica of Mount Vernon, built by the second Dr. Carroll. It had the red roof and broad lawns of the original, but the grass needed cutting.

  Qwilleran’s real reason for visiting Brrr was to meet Maxine Pratt, who would now handle the sound effects for the show. He drove down a side street that circled the hotel and sloped down to the harbor. On the boardwalk a young woman in yachting cap and royal-blue jumpsuit was giving orders to a young blond giant grasping a hammer. He nodded as she pointed and explained, and then he trotted down the pier to fix loose boards.

  The woman turned and saw the famous moustache. “Qwill!” she cried.

  “Are you Gary’s wife,” he asked, “or are you wearing her jumpsuit?” The name “Maxine” was embroidered on the breast pocket.

  “Gary has told me so much about you!”

  “Why is a nice woman like you married to that hairy brute?”

  “He may look like a black bear, but he’s a real pussycat,” she said. “We used to go out in his sailboat, and he’d talk about how a sky full of sail and a whispering breeze can touch the soul of a man. And I knew he couldn’t be all bad.”