The Cat Who Tailed a Thief

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Over the whitefish Qwilleran said, “If Lynette thinks she can keep her wedding sub rosa until after the fact, she’s living in a fool’s paradise. I saw Fran Brodie today, and already she’d heard the news from a customer.”

  Polly said, “It’s the newspaper publicity she wants to avoid. Her friends are being invited informally by phone, and they understand she doesn’t want them to talk about it.”

  “Of course they understand, but will they keep their traps shut? This county is inhabited entirely by blabbermouths.”

  “Qwill, dear, you’re so cynical.”

  “I’ve decided why Danielle was so moody at last night’s party. Willard had arranged to take her to Mardi Gras, and it’s his hotel reservation that’s now being used by Carter Lee for his honeymoon, so Danielle is left out. . . unless Lynette jilts him, in which case he can take Danielle.”

  “It’s not a matter for levity,” Polly said in gentle rebuke. “Lynette’s intensely committed to this marriage. She’s resigned from her job at the clinic, and she’s transferring her property to joint ownership.”

  “So you think it’s safe to go ahead and buy a wedding gift? If we’d known sooner, they could have had a black female schnauzer.”

  “It’s really a problem, deciding what to give them. She has a houseful of heirloom silver, porcelain, and art.”

  Qwilleran said, “We could commission a portrait artist to paint the two of them together in front of their gingerbread house—like Grant Wood’s American Gothic but without the pitchfork. There’s a guy in Lockmaster who does portraits, and he’s quite good.”

  Polly liked the idea enormously.

  During their time together they talked about this and that. She said, “You’re enjoying your snowshoes, aren’t you? I see you shoeing around the Village in your orange padded vest and orange hat.”

  “That’s so rabbit hunters won’t mistake me for a snowshoe hare. . . Have you done anything about getting your stereo repaired?”

  “I’ve called Lucky Electronics three times.”

  “When you call Lucky, you’re lucky if he shows up, and if he comes to look at your problem, he has to order a new part, and if it ever arrives and he installs it, you’re lucky if it works. We should buy you a new rig, state-of-the-art.”

  Then they talked about the library. “We have a problem with the new water-saving commode in the rest-room,” Polly said. “It flushes with a crash and a roar that resounds throughout the building. The clerks giggle; the subscribers are alarmed; and I’m embarrassed, but the plumber says there’s no way out—it’s the law!”

  On the way home from Lockmaster on Sunday evening, Qwilleran made a big mistake. He asked, “Have you had any luck in finding Bootsie a companion?”

  “At last! My friend in Lockmaster is having a litter, and she’s promised me first choice.”

  “Be careful what you call your new kitten. T. S. Eliot says the name you give your cat can affect his self-esteem, or words to that effect. It may be that Bootsie doesn’t like his name.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked tartly.

  “You have to admit that Bootsie is hardly an appropriate name for a noble, aristocratic animal like a Siamese. If it’s causing him to doubt his self-worth, that could account for his bad disposition.”

  Polly bristled. “He’s very sweet and loving when we’re alone.”

  “But you have to lock him up when you have company. Does that sound like a well-adjusted pet?”

  “You’re the only one who can’t get along with him!” Polly said belligerently. “I think you and your theories are absurd, and that goes for T. S. Eliot, too.”

  Qwilleran was unaware that one should never question a person’s choice of name for a pet, no matter how intimate the friendship. Unwittingly he had crossed the line. “Sorry I mentioned it, Polly. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Well, I’m very much upset, and I find this entire conversation unconscionable. Just drop me at the front door. I have a headache.”

  He did as she requested, and she was gone without another word. He had never witnessed such an outburst from this intelligent, reasonable woman.

  The Siamese realized he was disturbed, and they kept their distance, regarding him anxiously. Without speaking to them, he got into a lounge robe and bedroom slippers and scooped a dish of ice cream for himself. Snow was falling lightly. The daylight was fading. Sprawled in his big chair with feet propped on the ottoman, he wondered, Now what? Should I call and apologize? Will she come to her senses? What did I say? How did it start?

  Suddenly the doorbell rang urgently and repeatedly. He swung his feet to the floor and hurried to open the door. Standing in the snow was a little birdlike woman with no coat, no boots, merely a shawl over her gray hair and around her thin shoulders.

  “Please help!” she cried. “Our cat’s trapped! She’ll kill herself!” She pointed down the row of condos.

  “Right away!” He pulled a jacket off the clothes tree and followed her through the snow in his bedroom slippers. She was one of the retired schoolteachers in Unit Two.

  Their golden Persian had fallen behind the laundry equipment and was entangled in the works, struggling frantically, squealing piteously, and in danger of strangling.

  “Stand back!” he said. “I’ll pull the washer out. She’ll be all right.” Speaking reassuringly to the terrified animal, he extricated her and handed her to the small woman who had come to his door.

  “Poor Pinky! Poor Pinky!” she sobbed, hugging and kissing her pet.

  The other sister, a taller woman but equally thin, said emotionally, “How can we thank you, Mr. Qwilleran?” Then she saw him standing in a puddle of melting snow on the vinyl floor. “My heavens! Look at you! No shoes! You poor man! You must be frozen!. . . Jenny! Bring towels!. . . What can we do, Mr. Qwilleran?”

  “Just give me a towel and throw my slippers in the dryer,” he said, “and a cup of hot coffee wouldn’t hurt.” The aroma of coffee was drifting from the kitchen.

  “Would you like some brandy in it? Come and sit down. . . Jenny, where’s the heating pad? And bring the blue quilt!”

  Pinky had disappeared, no doubt dismayed by the half-clad male intruder who now sat in her favorite chair, wrapped in the blue quilt, with bare feet bundled in a heating pad, while the two women fluttered about, worrying and trying to help.

  They introduced themselves as Ruth and Jenny Cavendish. “We have two cats, and we know you have a pair of Siamese,” Ruth said. “We read about them in your excellent column.”

  Jenny presented Pinky’s partner, another golden Persian, named Quinky. “Actually, the names are Propinquity and Equanimity.”

  “Ideal names for cats!” he declared. This adventure, he thought, is going to pay off; already ideas were crowding his head. He gave his keys to Ruth, who brought his boots from the foyer of Unit Four, and his slippers were returned to him, warm and dry.

  The sisters insisted they would be eternally grateful.

  * * *

  About the idea spawned by the adventure: He would write a trenchant treatise on the specialized art of naming cats (Polly, take note!) and would invite readers to mail in the names of their own cherished felines. As a columnist, Qwilleran was not averse to letting subscribers do his work for him. Reader participation, it was called. He knew Arch Riker would say, “Not another cat column! Please!” Let him scoff! Riker was not yoked with the responsibility of penning a thousand entertaining, informative, well-chosen words twice a week. For starters, Qwilleran made a list of well-named cats of his acquaintance:

  Toulouse, a black-and-white stray adopted by an artist.

  Wrigley, a native of Chicago, now living in Pickax.

  Winston, the bookstore longhair, who resembled an elder statesman.

  Agatha and Christie, two kittens abandoned in the parking lot of the library.

  Magnificat, who lived at the Old Stone Church.

  Beethoven, a white cat born deaf.

  Holy Ter
ror, the pet of a retired pastor and his wife.

  Then he developed some of his pet ideas: Oriental breeds react favorably to names with an Eastern connotation, like Beau Thai and Chairman Meow. Others like important titles that bolster their self-esteem, like Sir Albert Whitepaws, Lady Ik Ik, or Samantha Featherbottom, even though these honorifics are used only in formal introductions; nicknames are acceptable for everyday use. A cat who dislikes his name may develop behavior problems, which are corrected when his name is changed from Peanuts to Aristocat. In three days a cat named Booby will adjust to the proud, Roman senatorial name of Brutus.

  When deftly organized and couched in Qwilleranian prose, the ideas made a commendable “Qwill Pen” column, which concluded with the following:

  Who are your cats? Write their names on a postcard and mail it to “Cat Poll” at the Moose County Something. The names may be clever, ordinary, bawdy, sentimental, silly, or scatological. This is not a contest! There are no prizes!

  When Qwilleran handed in his copy at the newspaper, Junior Goodwinter said, “We’ve been swamped with phone calls from readers, wanting to know the four ways to pronounce February.” He scanned the new copy in bemused silence until he reached the final paragraph. “Oh boy! Wait till the Lockmaster Ledger sees this! They’ll think we’ve gone bananas. You say no prizes! You’ll never get results without offering a reward. How many postcards do you expect to get?”

  “A few,” Qwilleran said with a shrug. “The point of the column is to get people thinking and talking.”

  The paper was on the street at mid-afternoon. That evening he received a phone call from a voice that was soft, gentle, and low. “Qwill, are you on speaking terms with me?”

  “No, but I’m on listening terms,” he said gently. “I’ve missed your soothing voice.”

  “Forgive me for being so peevish. I’ve always been touchy about Bootsie’s name, I’m afraid. I don’t know why. You’re not the only one who’s objected to it.”

  Qwilleran knew why. In naming her cat, she had made a bad choice, and she knew it, but she resented having it pointed out.

  Polly said, “But your column gave me an idea. Do you really think Bootsie would adjust to a new name in three days? I’m thinking of calling him Brutus. This was the noblest Roman of them all!”

  * * *

  There were other calls that evening, one in the grating voice that made his blood curdle. “Hi, Qwill. This is Danielle. I’ve seen you out hiking on your snowshoes.”

  “It’s cheap transportation,” he said.

  “How would you like to hike over here some afternoon and run lines with me, and maybe you could give me some advice.”

  “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m a working stiff, and my days are fully scheduled,” he said, adding quickly, “How are the rehearsals going?”

  “Oh, they’re fun—”

  “That’s good. I wish I had time to chat, Danielle, but I have a houseful of guests here. Will you excuse me?”

  “Dammit!” he said to Koko after hanging up. The cat was sitting on the table, slapping it with his tail—right, left, right, left.

  The next call was more welcome, being the brisk voice that Celia Robinson used for undercover communication:

  “Mr. Qwilleran, this is Mrs. Robinson. I’m going to Toodle’s Market tomorrow morning. They have a good buy on apples, and I know you eat a lot of apples. I’ll pick up a bagful for you, if you want me to. I’m going at ten o’clock before they’re all picked over.”

  “I’ll appreciate that. Very thoughtful of you,” he said.

  At ten o’clock the next morning he found her in the fresh produce department at Toodle’s Market, inspecting apples for bruises and wormholes.

  Carrying the store’s green plastic shopping basket, he sidled up to her and said loudly, “Do you think these are good eating apples?”

  “They’re Jonathans, a nice all-purpose apple.” Then she added under her breath, “Had a long talk with Red Cap.”

  “Winesaps are what I really like.”

  “I think they’re out of season. . . I’ve got the tape in my handbag.”

  Another customer joined them. “Aren’t you Mr. Q? I think your column is just wonderful!”

  “Thank you,” he said as he loaded his basket with apples.

  “I always clip it and send it to my daughter in Idaho.”

  “That’s pleasant to hear.” He moved away in slow motion, following Celia to the oranges. “How can you tell if these are good juicers?”

  “I always look for thin skins. . . Meet me at the deli counter.”

  They separated, then met again where Qwilleran was buying sliced turkey breast for the cats and some Greek olives for himself. Celia was eating cheese spread on a cracker. She slipped him something in a paper napkin and then disappeared in the crowd. It was the tape.

  * * *

  What he heard when he played Celia’s recording impressed him as a boy-meets-girl script for over-sixties. Her friendly voice alternated with a hoarse male twang:

  “Are you Mr. Breze? Hi! I’m Celia Robinson from the manager’s office.”

  “Howdy! Sit down. Have a drink.”

  “How do you like this weather? Pretty cold, isn’t it?”

  “No good for the rheumatiz!”

  “That’s a nice-looking shirt you’re wearing. I like to see a man in a plaid shirt.”

  “Wife give it to me eight years ago. ’Bout ready to be washed. Heh heh heh.”

  (Female laughter.) “Oh, Mr. Breze! You’re so funny!”

  “Call me George. You’re a nice-lookin’ woman. You married?”

  “I’m a widow and a grandmother.”

  “Have a slug o’ whiskey. I’m divorced. Wife run off with a hoedown fiddler.”

  “Is that why you’re living in the Village?”

  “Yep. Gotta house on Sandpit Road—too big for just me. Know anybody with ninety thou to throw away?”

  “Ninety thousand! It must be quite a fine house.”

  “Well, the roof don’t leak. If I find me another woman, I’ll keep the house and fix it up. There’s a feller what says I can get money from the guv’ment to fix it up. Showed me some pitchers, what it’d look like. Mighty purty pitchers.”

  “That sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? Who is this man?”

  “Young feller. Lives here in the Village. Don’t know his name. . . Have a snort. I’m havin’ another. What’s your drink?”

  “Thanks, but I never drink on the job.”

  “Don’t go away. Be right back. (Pause.) Well, here’s mud in yer eye! What’s yer name?”

  “Celia Robinson. I’m substituting for Lenny Inchpot while he’s away. Do you know him?”

  “Sure. He got thrown in jail for stealin’.”

  “But people tell me he’s a very honest young man. He’s going to college part-time.”

  “That don’t make him honest. They found the goods on ’im, di’n’t they?”

  “I wonder who tipped off the police to look in Lenny’s locker.”

  “Warn’t me!”

  “Do you know what kinds of things were stolen?”

  “Nope. Di’n’t say on the radio. Maybe it said in the paper. Don’t read the paper.”

  “Why not, Mr. Breze? It’s a very good one.”

  “Call me George. It’s a waste o’ time readin’ the paper. I’m a successful businessman. I don’t need to read. I can hire people to read and write.”

  “Are you telling me you can’t read, Mr. Breze?. . . George?”

  “Could if I felt like learnin’. Never took the time. Too busy makin’ money. Plenty o’ people can read and write, but they’re broke.”

  “What kind of business are you in. . . George?”

  “Any goldurned thing that’ll make money. Wanna job? Can you cook?”

  (Click)

  When the tape clicked off, Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. It was the old duffer he had tried to interview during the mayoralty campaign�
�the candidate who made news by polling only two votes. His house was an ugly, square, two-story barracks with a hip roof and a tall brick chimney rising from its center. Local wags said it looked like a plumber’s plunger. A sad piece of real estate, it had no trees or shrubs, no grass, no window shutters, not even any paint. Breze himself was either pathetically naive or arrogantly ignorant.

  Koko had been listening and making gurgling noises that sounded sympathetic, and Qwilleran suddenly felt sorry for Old Gallbladder. He had suspected the despised fellow on the basis of prejudice, not evidence. In fact, the moustache that was the source of Qwilleran’s hunches had been entirely dormant during Operation Winter Breeze. . . So, if Breze didn’t steal the goods and rig Lenny’s locker and tip off the police, who did?

  THIRTEEN

  It was the weekend before the wedding, and Qwilleran and Polly were together again. As a peace offering he gave her the jewel box of polished horn and brass that he had been saving for February 14. For her valentine he had ordered a state-of-the-art stereo from a catalog.

  Polly said one evening, “I always thought Lynette and Wetherby Goode might get together. She admires his whimsical weathercasting style, and they both play bridge, and he presents a good appearance, although slightly heavyset.”

  Qwilleran thought Wetherby’s emcee personality might be too exuberant as a steady diet. “Carter Lee is laid-back, sophisticated, a perfect gentleman. Wetherby is the ‘Stars and Stripes Forever’ Carter Lee is Pachelbel’s Canon.”

  “Did you know, Qwill, that Wetherby’s real name is Joe Bunker?”

  “That being the case, he was wise to change it,” Qwilleran said sagely.

  * * *

  The Tuesday-night wedding took place in the social hall of the clubhouse. A white runner on the red carpet led to the fireplace, which blazed festively. Before it, a white-draped table held red and white carnations in a brass bowl and red candles in tall brass holders. A Valentine wedding, the guests said; so romantic! They stood on either side of the runner: chiefly Lynette’s friends from the bridge club, the church, and the medical clinic, plus the Rikers and the Lanspeaks and John Bushland with his camera. Many of the men were in kilts; the women wore clan sashes draped from shoulder to hip.