Cat Who Brought Down the House, the Unabridged Audio

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  HOW PLEASANT STREET GOT ITS NAME

  In the nineteenth century my ancestors were shipbuilders in Scotland—in the famous river Clyde at Glasgow. When opportunity beckoned from the New World, my great-grandfather, Angus, came here with a team of ships’ carpenters considered the best anywhere. They started a shipyard at Purple Point, where they built four-masted wooden schooners, using Moose County’s hundred-and-twenty-foot pine trees as masts. These were the “tall ships” that brought goods and supplies to the settlers and shipped out cargoes of coal, lumber, and stone.

  Then came the New Technology! The wireless telegraph was in; the Pony Express was out. Railroads and steamboats were in; four-masted schooners were out. In his diary Angus said it was like a knife in the heart to see a tall ship stripped down to make a barge for towing coal. There was no work for his carpenters to do, and their fine skills were wasted.

  Then a “still small voice” told him to build houses! It was the voice of his wife, Anne, a canny Scotswoman. She said, “John, build houses as romantic as the tall ships—and as fine!”

  She was right! The New Technology had produced a class of young upwardly mobile achievers who wanted the good life. Not for them the stodgy stone mansions built by conspicuously rich mining tycoons and lumber barons! They wanted something romantic!

  So Angus bought acreage at the south edge of Pickax and built ten fine houses, each on one-acre plots. Although no two were alike, their massing followed the elongated vertical architecture called Gothic Revival, and the abundance of scroll trim was the last word in Carpenter Gothic.

  And here is something not generally known: The vertical board-and-batten siding was painted in the colors that delighted young Victorians: honey, cocoa, rust, jade, or periwinkle; against this background, the white scroll trim had a lacy look.

  Today we paint them all-white, giving rise to the “wedding cake” sobriquet.

  When the time came to put up sign boards, Angus was at a loss for a street name. He said, “I don’t want anything personal like Campbell or Glasgow . . . or anything sobersides or high-sounding . . . just something pleasant.”

  And Great-Grandma Anne said with sweet feminine logic: “Call it Pleasant Street.”

  “And folks have lived there happily ever after,” Qwilleran said as he turned off the recorder. “I don’t even know who my grandparents were, so I’m envious of a fourth-generation native.”

  “I wanted to make it five generations,” Burgess said, “but it didn’t work out. I grew up with the girl next door and we were good friends. I always thought we’d marry some day, but she went away to college and never came back. Now she has three kids that should have been mine. But her parents still treat me like a son-in-law. And I treat students who lodge with me on the second floor with fatherly concern.”

  Qwilleran said, “They’re very lucky! I hope they all turn out to be a credit to you . . . and how do you feel about the people who own the houses on your land?”

  “We work together to keep Pleasant Street pleasant, solve problems, and so forth.”

  “Has the California contingent arrived?” Qwilleran asked casually.

  “They’re due this afternoon,” Burgess said. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Richards, periodically goes over with coffee and cookies—in the guise of neighborliness but actually because she and I are burning with curiosity. The moving van arrived Monday. Since then, Fran’s helpers have worked around the clock, unpacking and getting everything settled. The house looks as if they had lived there for weeks!”

  “One question,” Qwilleran asked. “Do you know anything about the Thackeray family?”

  “I certainly do!” was the prompt answer. “Thelma’s father was a potato farmer who struck oil—as the saying goes—during Prohibition. Her brother was a veterinarian who believed in holistic medicine, and the Thackeray Clinic was one of the finest in this part of the country. I took Alexander to him for regular checkups. Dr. Thurston’s love of animals was such that they looked forward to visiting him. He was healthy and an outdoorsman and should have lived another ten years at least, but he fell to his death while hiking alone on the rim of the Black Creek Gorge. Tragic! The pity of it is: There are nasty rumors in circulation—which I prefer not to repeat.”

  A horn sounded in the barnyard, and Qwilleran walked with his visitors to the car. “One question, Burgess. Fran said the reception was for adults only—”

  “Ah, yes! There’ll be a party at the Adams house for the six kids in the neighborhood, ages seven to ten. Mavis’s two teen daughters will supervise. They’re accustomed to working with youngsters. They tell me there’ll be games with prizes, movies—such as Disney’s Lady and the Tramp and/or The Incredible Journey. Music will be Sixties-style. Refreshment—four kinds of pizza and make-it-yourself sundaes . . . The Adams girls are very well organized and very responsible. . . . And I forgot—favors to take home. Chocolate brownies.”

  Qwilleran said, “Sounds better than the champagne reception.”

  Alexander gently nudged Burgess toward the passenger door of the car, and they drove away.

  The next evening Qwilleran and Polly would be dining at the newly named, newly decorated Grist Mill. She always dressed carefully for such occasions and had phoned the restaurant to inquire about the color scheme. It was jade green. So she would wear her dusty rose suit.

  She reported this vital information to Qwilleran during their nightly phone-chat.

  By a strange coincidence he was writing a think piece on green for his next “Qwill Pen” column. He boasted that he could take any noun or adjective and write a thousand words about it. Now the word was green. First . . . he made notes:

  It’s the fourth color in the spectrum: red, orange, yellow, GREEN, blue, violet. Why is it more talked about than other colors?

  In big-city phone directories there are hundreds of Greens—and a few Greenes.

  Yet, there has never been a President Green in the White House.

  Why is blue more popular in clothing and the home? How do you feel about green jeans?

  Why does Santa wear red instead of green?

  Why do crazy kids dye their hair green?

  Green trees fight pollution. Green veggies are good for you.

  Green rhymes with mean. Monsters are green eyed. Nobody likes to be called a greenhorn. “It’s not easy being green,” according to the song.

  We have green alligators, green snakes, and green grasshoppers. Why no animals with green fur?

  “Yow!” came an indignant comment. It was a reminder that it was eleven o’clock and time for a bedtime snack.

  7

  In dressing for dinner at the Grist Mill, Qwilleran had chosen light olive-green slacks and a lighter olive-green shirt to wear with his tan blazer, and he had gone to Scottie’s Men’s Store for a deeper olive-green tie with a tan motif. His interest in coordination amazed Arch Riker, who had known him in his earlier, or “slob,” period. Now Qwilleran had Polly to please, a host of admirers to impress, and a little money to spend.

  Driving to the Grist Mill, they talked about the new animal-welfare project being launched in Moose County. The attorney, Mavis Adams, was spearheading it. It was being called the Kit Kat Agenda.

  Polly said, “Its thrust is to stop the euthanasia of unwanted kittens. They’re going to stage a show to raise funds.”

  “Mavis writes clever letters to the editor,” he said.

  “She lives on Pleasant Street.”

  “I wonder how Thelma will fit into the neighborhood?”

  Polly said, “Guess who came into my office today? Thelma Thackeray’s assistant! She took out library cards for both of them and then came to my office to introduce herself and make an offer. She was conservatively dressed, soft-spoken, very nice—fortyish, I guess—and obviously devoted to her boss.”

  “What was the offer?”

  “Well, Thelma has a collection of autographed photos of old movie stars that she’ll lend us for an exhibit. I assured her that we ha
ve a locked case for such exhibits. Clark Gable, Mae West, John Wayne, Joan Crawford, etc.—isn’t that exciting?”

  “If you say so,” he said.

  “There’s even a signed print of a photo that appeared on the cover of Time magazine: Hedda Hopper wearing a hat made of a typewriter, a microphone, and a script.”

  Before Qwilleran could react, they arrived at the Grist Mill. “You must tell me more later,” he said.

  It was the same ancient stone mill with cavernous interior and exposed timbers, but color had been added: jade green table linens and carpet in a darker shade of jade green. And the rough stone wall was hung with farm implements of the nineteenth century.

  They were greeted in the lobby by Elizabeth Hart, one of the three owners, wearing a silk coolie suit in jade green. Towering over the maître d’s station was the six-foot-eight Derek Cuttlebrink. He showed them to a choice table—under a murderous-looking scythe.

  Qwilleran said, “I hope that thing is securely attached to the wall.”

  Polly said, “You have a fortune invested in antique farm equipment!”

  In a lowered voice Derek said, “Don’t let on that I told you, but Liz got them from Hollywood—props from a movie.” Then he added, “One dry sherry and one Qwilleran cocktail?”

  The tables were filling rapidly with guests excited about the restaurant’s opening. The menu was new and appetizing. Polly ordered three small courses: Mushroom bisque, deviled crab en coquille, and a Cobb salad. Qwilleran ordered minestrone, oysters Rockefeller, and the surf-and-turf special, and no salad. Polly said, “If Mildred were here, she’d make you eat some leafy greens.”

  Suddenly a hush fell on the room. Everyone looked toward the entrance. “What happened?” asked Qwilleran, who had his back to the door.

  The young woman serving them exclaimed, “It’s HER!” and she rushed to the kitchen.

  Polly, facing the scene of the action, said, “Party of three . . . Thelma has a commanding appearance. . . . One is the assistant who came to my office. . . . There’s a man with them. . . . Everyone’s gawking.”

  The hush gave way to an excited babble of voices.

  “Thelma,” she went on, “is wearing a pearl gray suit and small matching hat and jeweled lapel pin. . . . She’s doing the ordering. They’re having champagne. . . . The man is about forty. Looks like one of those ‘snappy dressers’ from Lockmaster. . . . Is he her only living relative?”

  Qwilleran said, “I believe the house she bought is the one you inherited—one of the best on Pleasant Street.”

  “Yes. I was terribly tempted to keep it and live there. I’m glad you talked me out of it, dear. It would have been too much property to care for, considering the demands of my job. . . . But the people who live on Pleasant Street are so congenial! I think there’s something psychological about the name of the street. The Campbells have always kept title to the land, and the neighborhood is like a dukedom. Did you know that Burgess is affectionately called ‘Duke’ by the residents?”

  Polly ordered a small sorbet for dessert and watched without envy as Qwilleran consumed a large serving of cinnamon bread pudding with butterscotch sauce.

  Thelma’s party was still there when they left. In the lobby Polly excused herself, and Qwilleran sauntered to the maître d’s desk. “Derek, are your responsibilities here going to interfere with your folksinging and theatre club productions?”

  “Liz says we can work something out. I’m gonna be in the Kit Kat Revue.”

  “Sounds like a nightclub in an old musical comedy.”

  “It’s a fund-raiser for an animal welfare project, and I wondered if you could write some lyrics about unwanted kittens. Sort of a tearjerker.”

  It was the kind of challenge he relished. He said, “You mean . . . something like . . . ‘Frankie and Johnny were kittens. . . . Lordy! How they could cry! . . . They sat in a cage for adoption. . . . But people just passed ’em by. . . . We done ’em wrong. . . . We done ’em wrong!’ ”

  “Super! Could you write a couple of more verses, Qwill?”

  “I guess so. But if you let anyone know I’m writing your lyrics, you’ll be singing without an Adam’s apple!”

  At that moment Polly joined them, and Derek said, “Enjoy your dinner, Mrs. Duncan? I was just telling Mr. Q that our chef trained in Singapore.”

  “Oh, really!” she said. “Elizabeth said he was from New Jersey.”

  “Well . . . His basic training was in Singapore,” Derek said with the aplomb of one who is a frequent fibber.

  On the way home Polly said, “I asked Elizabeth about the lapel pin Thelma was wearing. She said it’s a parrot paved with emeralds and rubies, with a diamond eye, and she was also wearing a matching bracelet. Even Elizabeth was impressed!”

  Qwilleran asked, “Do you know anything about the Kit Kat Revue?”

  “Only that it’s a fund-raiser for Mavis Adams’s new animal rescue project. She’ll be at the reception Sunday. I wonder what Thelma will wear? All those kilts and sashes will be strong competition.”

  Qwilleran said, “Fran Brodie will advise her. Fran is making herself indispensable.”

  “I suppose the man at Thelma’s table was her nephew. He was quite good-looking and he was being terribly charming,” Polly reported.

  “As the only living relative of a rich octogenarian, it behooves him to be terribly charming.”

  “Oh, Quill! You’re being so cynical!”

  Cynical or not, he found his moustache bristling—even more so when a motorcycle messenger delivered an envelope Friday morning. A computer-printed invitation: “Please join us in honoring our California friends at a light repast directly after the reception—in the ballroom of the Mackintosh Inn. Southwest cuisine.” It was signed by Richard Thackeray with no RSVP requested. It was assumed, innocently or haughtily, that everyone would be eager to attend.

  The handwriting on the envelope was Fran’s. So was the wording of the invitation, although the idea must have been Richard’s. A supper riding piggy-back on a reception would not occur to Fran. Qwilleran knew her well enough for that. She was humoring Richard—for whatever reason. (He could think of several.)

  Nevertheless, he phoned Polly at the library to report the invitation. “It means you’ll be getting home two or three hours later than expected. You might like to clear it with Brutus and Catta.”

  “Oh! Didn’t I tell you? I have an automatic feeder with a timer, and it works very well. Wetherby Goode saw the item in a catalogue and bought one for each of us.” The WPKX meteorologist (real name Joe Bunker) was a neighbor of Polly’s and had a cat named Jet Stream. “Why don’t you order one, Qwill? I’ll get the phone number for you.”

  “Thanks, but I doubt whether Koko would approve. It might work for Yum Yum, but Koko likes to know the hand that feeds him.”

  Next, Qwilleran finished “All About Green” and walked downtown to file his copy before deadline. Junior Goodwinter gave it an editor’s quick scan and said, “You always boast, Qwill, that you can write a thousand words about nothing, and—by golly!—you’ve finally proved it!”

  With equal mockery Qwilleran retorted, “What have you got on the front page today—if anything?”

  “Thelma and her parrots,” the managing editor replied. “Great photo by Bushy, but the text sounds like a press release. It’ll be handy to have in the obit file; that’s the best I can say for it. You should have written it, Qwill.”

  “I always thought Jill was a good writer.”

  “Yeah, but she’s accustomed to interviewing locals. She allowed herself to be buffaloed by a celebrity. I had a professor in J school who hammered it into our skulls: Don’t be a respecter of persons!”

  “Not bad advice,” Qwilleran agreed.

  “On my first assignment I was supposed to interview a Very Important Person. The ignoramus side-stepped my questions and read a prepared speech—until I said, ‘Excuse me, sir, may I ask a simple question?’ He listened to it and said coldly, ‘Y
ou should know the answer to that one.’ I said respectfully, ‘Yes, sir, but I want to know if you do.’ Wow! Was I taking a chance, but it worked, and I got a good interview.”

  Qwilleran nodded with understanding. Junior had a handicap—an appearance of eternal youth. He looked like a high-school sophomore when he was in college, and now—as managing editor of a newspaper and father of two—he still looked fifteen.

  When Qwilleran arrived home, Koko let him know there was a message on the answering machine: “This is Celia, Chief. We’re catering your party on Sunday. Okay if I run over this afternoon to check the facilities and see what has to be done?”

  Koko recognized the voice, despite the electronic distortion. It was the woman who brought them meat loaf. He hopped on and off the desk in excitement.

  Qwilleran phoned her and left his own message: “Come on over anytime. The cats have missed you.”

  Celia Robinson had rented his carriage-house apartment at one time. She was a fun-loving grandmother who had lived in a Florida retirement complex but decided she preferred snowball fights to shuffleboard. She cooked, did volunteer work, and made everyone happy with her merry laughter.

  She happened to be an avid reader of spy and detective fiction, and Qwilleran happened to have an interest in criminal investigation. When suspicions made his moustache bristle, as they often did, he had a compulsion to search for clues, discreetly. What could be more discreet than a secret agent who looked like someone’s grandma and laughed a lot? Celia called him “Chief,” and he called her “Double-O-Thirteen-and a-Half.”

  Then she married the amiable, white-haired Pat O’Dell and moved into his large house on Pleasant Street.