The Cat Who Brought Down the House

Chapter 10

Qwilleran had a strong desire to talk with the photographer who had been assigned to the Thackeray story—called the ‘parrot story’ in the photo lab. John Bushland freelanced for the newspaper but also had his own commercial studio in Pickax, and Qwilleran found him there, early Wednesday morning. Bushy had become a workaholic since his divorce.

“Just wanted to compliment you on the parrot shots, Bushy. What did you think of the old gal?”

“She’s a character! You could write a book about her, Qwill.”

“I'm invited to meet the parrots tomorrow, and I thought I might pick your brain. How about lunch at Rennie’s? I'll buy.”

“Well, I've got a lot of printing to do—on deadline. How about picking up some deli sandwiches at Toodle’s and bringing them here. I'll make coffee.”

Meanwhile, Qwilleran had errands to do. He returned the book of poems to the public library and was on the way out of the building when his curiosity detoured him into the small room devoted to magazines and newspapers. As he hoped, there was a Tuesday copy of the Bixby Bugle. He remembered the newsbite on WPKX about a murder. No details were supplied except the approximate hour: 3:15A.M. That happened to be the exact time of Koko’s bloodcurdling howl. The headline read: MURDER ON SOUTH SIDE. He scanned it for facts.

Sheriff’s deputies, responding to a call early Monday morning, found a van driver slumped over his steering wheel. He had been shot in the head. The victim was carrying falsified ID cards, and the tags on the vehicle were stolen.

The call came in at 3:15A.M., from the occupant of a mobile home on a country lane south of Bixton.

She said, “My cat woke me up, snarling and growling. The moon was full, and you know how cats are! But there was something else bothering him. Tony is just a plain old tomcat, but he sniffs out trouble like a watchdog.

“So, I looked out the window and saw two vans parked under some trees. They were tail-to-tail, and two men were moving stuff from one van to the other. They were big square boxes, big enough to hold TVs.

“The taillights of the loaded van turned on, and the next thing I knew, I heard a gunshot. I know a gunshot when I hear one. And the loaded van took off in a hurry. That’s when I called 911.”

Police are investigating. It is thought that the incident is linked with the recent burglary in a television store.

Qwilleran could not help chuckling. He was no admirer of the reporting in the Bixby Bugle, but here was a dry piece of police news that had been turned into a human-interest story, complete with a hero-cat who sniffed out foul play. Tony would make a good partner for Koko. If they could locate a third talented feline in Lockmaster, they would have a tri-county crime-detection network.

Such were his whimsical thoughts at the moment, but he had sandwiches to buy and other matters to discuss at the photo studio, and a tape to deliver.

The question occurred to him: How could Koko know—and why would he care—about the murder of a shady character ninety miles away? There were no answers; Qwilleran had stopped trying to find answers.

Next he drove to Ittibittiwassee Estates, the retirement complex masquerading as a Swiss resort hotel. Using the house phone, he called upstairs and said in a brisk voice, “Mrs Tibbitt, there is a gentleman here who says he has package for you and wants to hand it to you personally. He has a large moustache and looks suspect. Do you want us to call the police? It could be a bomb.”

With her hand muffling her hysterical laughter, she said, “I'll be right down. Tell him not to go away.”

Soon, a white-haired woman, looking gaily youthful, stepped off the elevator. After all, Rhoda was only eighty-eight; her husband would be ninety-nine on Saturday.

“Thank you so much, Qwill. What did you think of the poem?”

“Recording it was an enjoyable challenge, and the cats liked it, especially the stampede and the part about the coyote and the black snake. What is the program for Saturday?”

“At eleven A.M. Derek will sing a birthday song written expressly for Homer—that boy is so talented!—and there’ll be city and county dignitaries and media coverage. No birthday cake! Homer says he doesn’t want to squander his last breath on blowing out candles.”

“By the way, Rhoda, you used to teach in Lockmaster, didn’t you?”

“Yes. That’s where I met Homer. He was principal of my school.”

“Did you know of a Dr Thackeray, veterinarian?”

“Oh, yes! He was a wonderful man—used to come to the school and talk to the younger grades about the proper care of pets. He was killed in a tragic accident. He loved the outdoors and was hiking when he slipped on wet rocks and fell into a ravine.”

Qwilleran stroked his moustache repeatedly when he thought of Dr Thackeray; he wanted to ask more questions. He stopped at the design studio, knowing that Fran’s assistant would be minding the shop.

Lucinda Holmes greeted him, brimming with her usual hospitality, but before she could suggest coffee, he said, “No coffee today, thanks. Just answer a question. Do you take your animals to the Thackeray Clinic?”

“It’s the Whinny Hills Clinic now. Some new people bought it after Dr Thurston’s tragic death. That’s where my boyfriend works.”

“You mean... Dr Watson?”

“You remembered!” she said with an appreciative laugh. In a lowered voice she added, “He’s not too happy. His new bosses promised to maintain Dr Thurston’s standards, and they even have his photo in the lobby, but it’s only to please his former clients—and his son.”

“Do you know Dick Thackeray?”

“I met him once at a party. All I remember is his wonderful smile. But they say he cracked up after his father’s death and had to go away for a while. It was thought to be suicide, you know, and that must have been especially painful.”

Was the doctor hiking alone?”

“Yes, and when he didn’t return, his son notified the police. It took the rescue squad seven hours to find him. Very sad. So I don’t know . . .”

“Too bad,” Qwilleran murmured.

John Bushland liked the nickname of “Bushy’; it made his baldness a joke instead of a calamity. He and Qwilleran had been friends ever since being shipwrecked on a deserted island—only a dozen miles offshore from Mooseville but cold and wet and unforgettable.

On this occasion they got together over corned-beef sandwiches and cream of asparagus soup. “I've just heard, Bushy, that your portrait of Thurston Thackeray hangs in the lobby of the Whinny Hills Clinic.”

“Yeah, he sat for a formal portrait when I had my photo studio in Lockmaster. He was a good subject—patient, composed, cooperative.”

“Do you visualize him as a suicide?”

“Nab! I never bought that rumor. Somebody was trying to make a scandal out of a sad mishap. People can be rotten.”

“Well, the reason 1 called,” Qwilleran said, “is because Thelma has invited me over to see her parrots tomorrow. What’s your take on that?”

“I dunno. She’s hard to figure. Secretive, and yet avid for publicity. Mad about her parrots but turned-off about any other animals... I liked her assistant, Janice—very helpful and down-to-earth.”

“Did you meet Thelma’s nephew?”

Nope. That would be Doc Thurston’s son.”

“What’s his line of work?”

“Financial management, whatever that means. Investments, I suppose. When I lived in Lockmaster, the joke was that Dick had inherited his father’s love of horses, and that’s why he spent so much time at the racetrack.”

“Have you put your boat in the water as yet?”

“Last weekend. Would you like to go for a cruise to Three Tree Island?” It was said slyly.

“Bad joke,” Qwilleran muttered. “I'd rather cut my wrists.”

“I'm taking Jill Handley and her husband for a cruise Sunday. She met Janice when we were doing the parrot story and suggested it would be friendly to invite her out on the boat. Janice is new in town and doesn’t know anybody.”

“I'm sure Janice would like it,” Qwilleran said, “but she doesn’t have any regular days off... However... I might be able to pull strings. I'll phone you tomorrow afternoon.”

On the way home from lunch Qwilleran suddenly realized that he had done nothing about Friday’s column, nor did he have the ghost of an idea. He had allowed his work-pattern to be disrupted by a kidnapping, an unexplained death, work on an abandoned building, and an elderly woman’s idiosyncrasies.

On such occasions he had a game he played with Koko. The cat liked to push books off the shelf, then peer over the edge to see how they landed. Qwilleran, having failed to discourage the practice, devised a way to put it to good use. He would give the signal, and Koko would dislodge a book. Then Qwilleran was required by the rules to base a ‘Qwill Pen’ column on that title. There was something about the imperative of the game that stimulated creative juices. It sounded silly, but it worked.

Now, Koko was on the shelf, peering over the edge with satisfaction at a slender book in a worn cover, one of the last to come from the used-book store in its final days. Qwilleran took the book, along with the cats and the cordless phone, to the gazebo. It was a book of proverbs, and he was fingering it and searching for inspiration when the phone rang.

Fran Brodie was calling to say, “I'd like to collect that margarita you promised me.”

“When!” Qwilleran asked sharply.

“Now!” she replied crisply.

“Where are you?”

“In your backyard.”

When he went to the barnyard to meet her, she added apologetically, “I hope I'm not interrupting your work.”

“That’s all right. I'm sure you won’t stay long.”

“Touché!”

“Come indoors.”

She perched on a bar stool while he prepared her favorite cocktail. “I'm here,” she said, “because I heard you’re going to visit the parrots tomorrow.”

“Do you think I should have a psittacosis shot? Who told you?”

“Dwight.” She referred to their mutual friend, who was handling public relations for Thelma. “If you’re planning to do a Thackeray story, Dwight thinks you should avoid mentioning the interior design. And so do I!”

It was an unusual request from the designer who had just received an enormous commission.

They took their drinks into the living room, where Fran saw the wall hanging over the fireplace. “I see it’s still there,” she said with a sniff.

He ignored the remark. “So, what’s the problem at Thelma’s house? I'm invited for a waffle breakfast and a social call on Pedro, Lolita, and company. If I write anything, it’ll be a legend for Short & Tall Tales. What are you trying to tell me about the decorating—excuse me. The interior design.”

“Have you been in any other houses on Pleasant Street?”

“Two or three.”

“Then you know they all have wallpaper, stained woodwork, draperies, and Oriental rugs on hardwood floors. Thelma shocked us by wanting stark white walls, white-painted woodwork, white mini-blinds, and—worst of all!—wall-to-wall white vinyl cemented to the beautiful oak floors. What could we do? It’s her house! Amanda believes in letting the customers have what they want. Her modem furniture looks perfect with that background... but not on Pleasant Street!”

“Sticky wicket!” Qwilleran said.

“I know you like contemporary, Qwill, in all its forms, so you’ll probably like it. But both Dwight and I feel that it would not be to anyone’s advantage to have the interior published. So concentrate on the parrots, her collection of designer hats, her waffles, and her infatuation with old movies.”

“Hmmm,” he mused as he picked up her empty glass. “Shall I try it again? Maybe I'll get it right.”

She jumped to her feet. “No, thanks. We’re having a family get-together tonight. I have to be there—and sober.”

As Qwilleran watched her drive away, he speculated that there was no family get-together. Fran wanted to avoid answering questions about Thelma’s secret business enterprise. He was certain now that it involved the old opera house. Earlier in the day he had driven past the site and stopped to watch moving vans unloading large cardboard cartons. Each had the manufacturer’s name and large letters spelling out ONE CHAIR or ONE TABLE.

Qwilleran went directly to the phone and called Dwight Somers.

He was still in his office. “Qwill! It’s been a long time! Are you staying out of trouble?”

“Yes and it’s boring. Are you free for dinner? We could go to Onoosh’s and plot something illegal.”

Dwight Somers had the kind of face that looks better with a beard—stronger, wiser. He had come to Moose County from Down Below—to handle public relations for XYZ Enterprises. Disagreeing with the management over the development of an offshore island, Dwight resigned and joined a P.R. agency in Lockmaster. Their company policy was: no beards. Too bad. Devoid of whiskers he looked clean-cut, honest, and younger, but not strong or wise. He eventually left to start his own P.R. firm in Pickax. He called it Somers & Beard, Incorporated.

“Now you look like Dwight Somers!” Qwilleran told him when they met at the Mediterranean café. They sat in a booth for privacy. There were beaded curtains in the windows, hammered brass tops on the tables, and spanakopita on the menu.

Politely, Qwilleran asked about Indian Village (where Dwight had an apartment) and about Hixie Rice (with whom he was seen everywhere).

Dwight asked politely about the Siamese.

“I hear you’re handling public relations for Thelma Thackeray. How is she to work with?”

“I talk to her like a big brother. I tell her that people have a tendency to be critical, jealous, and antagonistic when a local son or daughter returns with money, fame, and glamour. My job is to let these people know what a friendly, generous person she is. We’ve lined up donations to all local charities and fifteen churches—the latter in memory of her dear “Pop:” She’s no public speaker, but she’ll appear at social events and answer questions about parrots, old movies, and hats as an art form.”

“I understand,” Qwilleran said, “that you want me to avoid mention of the interior design.” As a journalist he should resent being told by a P.R. man what to write... but this was a small town, and there was more than Thelma’s public image to be considered.

“Fran and I have discussed it. Stark white decor is high style in some parts of the U.S. and abroad, but the concept is far-out for Moose County. Nothing would be gained by shocking the gossips and turning off the general public. Meanwhile we can accentuate the positive by concentrating on the parrots.”

Qwilleran said, “And waffles, and art hats, and old movies. I'm no expert on interior design, anyway, although I know what I like, and I like most contemporary stuff. You could help me, Dwight, by telling me about her new business venture, which seems to be a deep dark secret. Has she bought the old opera house?”

“It’s been in her family for seventy-five years. It’s been rented for everything from government purposes in wartime to appliance storage in peacetime.”

“Is she opening a restaurant? I've seen tables and chairs being delivered.”

Dwight lowered his voice. “It’s to be a film club, cabaret style... with the latest and best in projection equipment and sound system and screen... for viewing old movies exclusively.”

After dinner, Qwilleran shut himself up in his office on the balcony and went to work on the Friday column. The question was: How to make it interesting to the readers? The answer was: Make them think. Keep them guessing... Give them something to talk about. He wrote:

WHO SAID THIS?

Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead. You have three guesses. Here are some clues:

He was a philosopher, publisher, scientist, diplomat, mathematician, postmaster general, signer of the Declaration of Independence, vegetarian, and genius. He invented the idea of daylight saving time long before it was adopted. And he invented the incredible glass harmonica. In case you have not yet guessed... you’ll find his portrait on the hundred-dollar bill.

This Renaissance Man of eighteenth-century America also found time to write collections of wit and wisdom and publish them over a period of twenty-five years under the pen name of Richard Sanders. (They became known as Poor Richard’s Almanac.) Included are sayings that everyone knows, like Make haste slowly and Time is money. Some have a trace of cynicism: Where there is marriage without love, there will be love without marriage.

Qwilleran ended his column with a quiz, challenging his readers to test their worldly wisdom. He informed them that the answers would be in his ‘Qwill Pen’ column on Tuesday.

Pleased with his work, he had a large dish of ice cream, then walked three times around the barn with a flashlight, thinking . . .

The next day would start with waffles at Number Five Pleasant Street and a get-acquainted session with the parrots. Would they be nervous after being snatched by strangers in the middle of the night? How much would Thelma want to say about her Lockmaster trip? Did Dick take her to dinner at the five-star Palomino Paddock? Who picked up the check?

He could think of many questions to ask, but they were all out-of-bounds: Do you think the kidnappers followed you from California? If not, did they learn about the much-loved parrots from Friday’s newspaper? Did the interview reveal that all the neighbors would be away, feting the newcomer? What was the ransom demand? How could anyone scrape up a large amount of cash on a Sunday night? Do kidnappers now accept checks or credit cards? (Bad joke.) So was it Thelma’s jewels they wanted? How did they know she had ten-thousand-dollar lapel pins and fifteen-thousand-dollar bracelets?