The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare tcw-7

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  "It isn't a good idea to encourage trespassers," Lori said. "They could leave a lot of litter, cut down your trees, set the woods on fire..."

  "Okay, okay, I'm convinced."

  "Nick said you should call the sheriff."

  "I'll do that. Appreciate your interest. How's everything in Mooseville? How's the baby?"

  "He finally said his first word. He said 'moose' very distinctly, so we think he'll grow up to be president of the Chamber of Commerce... Do I hear Koko talking in the background?"

  "He wants to have a few words with you." Qwilleran held the receiver to Koko's ear, which flicked and swiveled in excitement. There followed a series of "yows" and "iks" and purrs of varying intensity and inflection.

  When the conversation ended, Qwilleran said to the housekeeper, "The English language has six hundred thousand words. Koko has only two, but he gets more music and meaning out of 'yow' and 'ik' than some of our learned friends get out of the whole dictionary."

  "That Lori certainly has a way with cats," Mrs. Cobb said with a trace of envy.

  "If Lori had lived in Salem three hundred years ago, she would have been burned at the stake."

  The housekeeper looked saddened. "I don't think Koko likes me."

  "Why do you say that, Mrs. Cobb?"

  "He never talks to me or purrs or comes to be petted."

  "Siamese," Qwilleran began, clearing his throat and selecting his words carefully, "are less demonstrative than other breeds, and Koko in particular is not a lap cat, although I'm sure he likes you."

  "Yum Yum rubs against my ankles when I'm cooking and jumps on my lap sometimes. She's a very sweet kitty."

  "Koko is less emotional and more cerebral," Qwilleran explained. "He has his own attributes and personality, and we have to understand him and accept him for what he is. He may not make a fuss over you, but he respects you and appreciates the wonderful food you prepare."

  He extricated himself from this ticklish dialogue with a sense of relief. Koko had alienated more than one woman of his acquaintance, and a standoff between a temperamental cat and a superlative housekeeper was much to be avoided.

  From the library he telephoned the sheriff's office, and within a half hour there was a brown uniform at the back door.

  "Sheriff's department, sir," said the deputy. "Got a report on the radio about your property east of Mooseville. No RV in your woods, sir, although there were recent tire tracks and a couple of empty cigarette packs. He buried the butts, so he knows something about camping. They were Canadian cigarettes. We get a lot of Canadian tourists here. No sign of poaching. No break-in or vandalism at your cabin. Gun season starts tomorrow, sir. If you don't want trespassers with rifles, you ought to have your property posted."

  The day wore on. The weather held. Excitement mounted. Mrs. Cobb put sugar in the soup and salt in the applesauce. Koko's tail was stepped on twice.

  At seven o'clock every light in the mansion was turned on. Eighty tall narrow windows glowing with light on a wintry night created a spectacle that Pickax had never before seen, and traffic cruised around the Park Circle to gawk.

  When the guests arrived they were greeted by Qwilleran and the officers of the Historical Society. Then they moved from room to room, marveling at the richness and palatial dimensions of the interior. The drawing room, with its twin fireplaces and twin chandeliers, had a fortune in oil paintings on the crimson damask walls. The dining room, designed to seat sixteen, was paneled in carved walnut imported from England in the nineteenth century. The visitors were so entranced by the museum that Koko went unnoticed, al- though he strutted in their midst and struck statuesque poses on the carved newel post and the antique rosewood piano.

  At eight o'clock the meeting was called to order in the third-floor assembly room. Nigel Fitch, a trust officer at the bank, rapped the gavel and asked everyone to rise for a moment of silent tribute to Senior Goodwinter. Then the thanking began. First the president thanked the weatherman for postponing the snow. He thanked Qwilleran for making the mansion available as a museum.

  Qwilleran rose and thanked the society members for their encouragement and support. He thanked XYZ Enterprises for donating labor for the construction projects. He thanked the CPA firm for computerizing the museum catalogue. Particularly he thanked Mrs. Cobb for establishing the museum on a professional level. Then she thanked the four committees that had worked on the preview. The president kept glancing toward the elevator expectantly.

  During the transaction of old and new business Polly Duncan, representing the public library, proposed an oral history project to preserve the recollections of Old Timers on tape. "It should be handled by someone with interviewing skills," she specified, glancing at Qwilleran. He said he might give it a try.

  Nigel Fitch, who usually chaired a brisk meeting, was proceeding at a leisurely pace. "We’re expecting the mayor," he explained, "but he's been delayed at the city hall."

  Whenever Fitch glanced toward the elevator, all heads in the audience turned hopefully in the same direction. At one point there were mechanical sounds in the elevator shaft, and a hush fell in the meeting hall. The doors opened, and out stepped an Old Timer, tall and thin and nattily dressed. He gave the president a cheerful salute and walked to an empty seat with a disjointed gait, like a robot.

  "That's Mr. Tibbitt," whispered a woman next to Qwilleran. "A retired school principal. He's ninety-three. A dear old man."

  "Mr. President," said Susan Exbridge, "I would like to make a proposal. The Singing Society will present Handel's Messiah at the Old Stone Church on November twenty-fourth, exactly as it was performed in the eighteenth century, with singers in period costume. We had planned a reception for the performers afterward, and this museum would be a marvelous place to have it, if Mr. Qwilleran would consent."

  "Okay with me," said Qwilleran, "provided I don't have to wear satin knee breeches."

  And still the mayor did not arrive. Looking frequently at his watch, Fitch invited discussions on raising the dues, recruiting new members, and starting a newsletter.

  Finally the telltale hum in the elevator shaft was heard, followed by a click as the car reached the third floor. All heads turned in anticipation. The elevator door opened, and out walked Koko — his tail perpendicular, his ears proudly erect, and a dead mouse gripped in his jaws.

  Qwilleran jumped to his feet. "And I want to thank the vice president in charge of extermination for his diligence in eliminating certain museum hazards."

  "Meeting adjourned," shouted Fitch.

  During the social hour the banker said to Qwilleran, "That's a remarkable cat you have. How did he do it?"

  Qwilleran explained that Mr. O'Dell was downstairs, and he had probably put Koko in the car, pressed the button, and sent him up — for laughs.

  Actually Qwilleran thought nothing of the kind. Koko was capable of boarding the car, stretching to his full length, and reaching the controls with a paw. He had done it before. The cat was fascinated by push buttons, keys, levers, and knobs. But how could one explain that to a banker?

  When the mayor finally arrived, he cornered Qwilleran. "Say, Qwill, when is this town going to emerge from the Dark Ages?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Did you ever hear of a whole county trying to function without a newspaper? We all knew Senior was a nut, but we thought Junior would take over and make it go. He's a bright kid; I had him in poli sci when I was teaching. But I suppose you've heard Gritty's selling the Picayune to you-know-who, They'll make a mint of money on it — as an ad sheet, that's all — and we still won't have any news coverage, Why don't you start a paper, Qwill?"

  "Well, it's like this. I used to think I'd like to own my own newspaper and my own four-star restaurant and my own big-league ball club, but I've had to face the fact that I'm not a financier or an administrator."

  "Okay. How about your connections Down Below? I know you lured that young couple up here to turn the Old Stone Mill around."

  "I'll
think about it," Qwilleran promised.

  "Think fast."

  Over the cups of weak tea and mildly alcoholic punch there was no lack of chatter:

  "Incredible collection of antiques!"

  "How do you like this weather?"

  "A memorable evening! We are indebted to you, Mr. Qwilleran."

  "Snow's never been so late."

  "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

  "Would you like a twelve-foot Christmas tree for the museum, Qwill? I have a beauty on my farm."

  "Charming place for a wedding. My son is being married soon."

  There were no theories about Senior's accident or the Picayune fire, however, despite Qwilleran's leading questions. He was still an outsider. Although an eavesdropper by profession, he heard nothing that suggested illegal activity or conspiracy.

  While he felt an underlying disappointment, he noticed that Mrs. Cobb was unusually elated. She talked vivaciously, laughed much, and accepted compliments without blushing. Something wonderful had happened to her, he guessed. She had won the state lottery, or she was a grandmother for the first time, or the mayor had appointed her to the Commission on Preservation. Whatever the reason, Mrs. Cobb was inordinately happy.

  Then Qwilleran observed a pair of Old Timers sitting in a corner with their heads together. A frail woman dependent upon a walker was listening to an old man with a cane as he talked about the Picayune fire. Qwilleran inquired if they were enjoying the party.

  "Good cookies," said the man, "but they shoulda put somethin' in the punch. Glad it didn't snow."

  "We don't get out much after snow flies," said his companion. "I never saw such a grand house!"

  "Couldn't hear a word at the meeting, though."

  The woman sniffed. "Amos, you always sit in the back row, and you always complain you can't hear."

  Qwilleran asked their names. "I'm Amos Cook, eighty-eight," the man said. "Eighty- eight and still cookin'. Heh heh heh." He jerked his thumb. "She's a young chick, eighty-five. Heh heh heh."

  "I'm Hettie Spence, and I'll be eighty-six next month," she said. The Old Timers flaunted their ages like medals. "I was a Fugtree before I married Mr. Spence. He had the hardware store. We raised five children of our own — four of them boys — and three foster children. They all went to college. My eldest son is an ophthalmologist Down Below." She spoke with a fluttering of eyelids, hands, and shoulders.

  "My grand-niece married one o' them," Amos put in.

  "I wrote the obituaries for the Picayune before my arthritis got too bad," Hettie said. "I wrote the obituary for the last of the Klingenschoens."

  "I read it," said Qwilleran. "It was unforgettable."

  "My father wouldn't let me go away to college, but I took correspondence courses, and — "

  Amos interrupted. "Her and me was in the pictures they took before the fire."

  "How did you enjoy it?" Qwilleran asked. "Was the photographer good? How many pictures did she take?"

  "Too many," he complained. "I got awful tired. I just had a gall bladder operation. She went click-click-click. Not like the old days. In them days you had to watch the birdie till your face froze, and the man had his head under a black cloth."

  "In those days we had to say 'plum' before he snapped the picture," Hettie said. "We never had girl photographers then."

  "Wouldn't let me smoke my corncob. Said it would fog up the pictures. Never heard anythin' so silly."

  Qwilleran asked what time they left the newspaper office.

  "My grandson picked us up at six," Amos said.

  "Five," Hettie corrected him.

  "Six, Hettie. Junior took the girl to the airport at half past five."

  "Well, my watch said five, and I took my medication." "You forgot to wind it, and you took your pill too late. That's why you got a dizzy spell."

  Qwilleran interrupted. "And the fire broke out about four hours later. Do you have any idea what caused it?"

  The old couple looked at each other and shook their heads.

  "How long had you worked at the Picayune, Mr. Cook?"

  "I was a printer's devil when I was ten, and I stayed till I couldn't work no more." He patted his chest. "Weak ticker. But I got to be head pressman when Titus was alive. We had two men and a boy on them handpresses, and it took all day to print a couple of thousand. The paper sold for a penny then. You could get a whole year for a dollar."

  Qwilleran remembered the book Polly had given him. "Would you good people come downstairs and look at an old picture of Picayune employees? You might be able to identify them."

  "My eyes aren't very good," Hettie said. "Cataracts. And I don't move so fast since I broke my hip."

  Nevertheless, Qwilleran conducted them to the library and produced his copy of Picturesque Pickax. He flicked on the tape recorder, and the interview was later transcribed by Lori Bamba.

  Question: This is a picture of Picayune employees, taken sometime before 1921. Do you recognize any of the faces?

  Amos: I'm not in the picture. Don't even know when it was took. But that's Titus Goodwinter in the middle — the one with the derby hat and handlebar moustache.

  Hettie: He always wore a derby hat. Who's that next to Titus?

  Amos: The one with arm garters? Don't know him.

  Hettie: Was he the bookkeeper?

  Amos: No, the bookkeeper has those black things on his sleeves. Bill Watkins, his name was.

  Hettie: Bill was the sheriff. His cousin Barnaby kept books. I went to school with him. He was killed by a runaway horse and wagon.

  Amos: It was the sheriff that tried to stop a runaway, Hettie. Barnaby was shot in the head with a rifle.

  Hettie: I beg to differ. Barnaby didn't believe in firearms. I knew his whole family.

  Amos: (loudly) I didn't say he had a gun! Some hunter shot him!

  Hettie: I thought the sheriff always carried a gun. Amos: (louder) We're talking about the bookkeeper!

  Barnaby! The one with black sleeve things! Hettie: Don't shout!

  Amos: Well, anyway, the one with the derby hat is Titus Goodwinter.

  Was Titus the founder of the newspaper?

  Amos: Nope. Ephraim started the paper way back. Don't know when. Had a big funeral when he died. Hung himself.

  Hettie: Ephraim "hanged himself, or so they said. Amos: On a big oak tree near the old plank bridge.

  Is that when Titus started to manage the newspaper?

  Amos: No, the oldest boy took over, but he got throwed by a horse.

  Hettie: Millions of blackbirds rose out of a cornfield, and his horse bolted.

  Amos: The blackbirds in them days was like the mosquitoes we got now.

  Hettie: Titus ran the paper after that. My, he was spoiled! Once when the creek was swollen, his horse wouldn't cross it, and Titus jumped off in a rage and shot him.

  Amos: His own horse! Shot him dead! That's Titus in a derby hat. Always wore a derby hat.

  Who's the fierce-looking man at the end of the row?

  Amos: That's the fellah that drove the wagon, eh, Hettie?

  Hettie: That's Zack, all right. I never liked him. He drank.

  Amos: Killed Titus in a fight and went to prison. Good driver, though. Had a pretty daughter. Ellie, her name was. Worked at the paper for a spell.

  Hettie: Ellie folded papers and made tea and swept up.

  Amos: Throwed herself in the river one dark night.

  Hettie: Poor girl had no mother, and her father drank, and her brother was a bully.

  Amos: Titus took a shine to her.

  Hettie: He was always a ladies' man — him and that derby hat and big moustache.

  End of interview.

  Nigel Fitch interrupted the dialogue, saying he was ready to drive the two Old Timers home. All the guests were drifting out, reluctantly. Plucking Polly from the departing crowd, Qwilleran invited her to stay for an afterglow.

  "One little glass of sherry, and then I must leave," she said as they went into the library. "Did
you object to my involving you in the oral history project?"

  "Not at all. It might prove interesting. Did you know that Senior's father was murdered and his grandfather hanged himself?”

  "The family has had a violent history, but you must remember that this was pioneer country like the old Wild West, but at a later date. We're more civilized now."

  "Computers and video recorders do not a civilization make."

  "That's not Shakespeare, Qwill."

  "I visited Mrs. Goodwinter yesterday," he said. "She was hardly one of your traditional widows, ravaged by grief and sedated by the family physician."

  "She's a courageous woman. When they named her Gritty, they had reason."

  “She's made some rather sudden decisions — to sell the house, auction the furnishings, and let the antique presses go for scrap metal. It's less than a week since Senior died, and the auction posters are allover town. That's too fast.”

  "People who have never been widowed are always telling widows how to behave," Polly said. "Gritty is a strong woman, like her mother. Euphonia Gage should be on your list for an oral history interview."

  "What do you know about XYZ Enterprises?"

  "Only that they're successful at everything they undertake."

  "Do you know the principals?"

  "Slightly. Don Exbridge is a charming man. He's the promoter, the idea person. Caspar Young is the contractor. Dr. Zoller is the financial backer."

  "That figures. I suspect he's made a fortune in dental floss," Qwilleran said. "Do X, Y, and Z all belong to the country club?"

  He had made a study of the clique system in Pickax, Everything depended on which club one joined, which church one attended, and how long one's family had lived in Moose County. The Goodwinters went back five generations; the Fitches, four.

  "I must leave now," said Polly, "before my landlord calls the sheriff and they send out the search posse. Mr. MacGregor is a nice old man, and I don't want to upset him."

  After she left, Qwilleran wondered if the fine hand of XYZ Enterprises had guided Mrs. Goodwinter's decisions. They all belonged to the club. They golfed. They played cards. That was the way it worked.

  He also wondered if Polly really had an elderly landlord named MacGregor monitoring her activities. Or was it a manufactured excuse for leaving early? And why was she so reluctant to stay late? She was afraid of something. Gossip, perhaps. Pickax imposed a Victorian code of propriety on its professional women, and they took pains to preserve appearances, even though they were privately living in the late twentieth century. Polly's landlord, Qwilleran suspected, might be more than a landlord.