The Cat Who Brought Down the House

Chapter 15

Qwilleran was serious about the bookstore. There would be long meetings with G. Allen Barter, attorney for the K Fund, and trips to Chicago for Polly’s decisions: whether to build a new store on Book Alley or adapt the premises of the old Pickax Picayune. Meanwhile there would be the Kit Kat Revue to produce... and Thelma’s Film Club to launch, and another Tuesday deadline for the “Qwill Pen.”

Qwilleran was polishing his thousand words on Cool Koko’s Almanac when Thornton Haggis phoned. “I have some interesting news for you, Qwill. Are you free”

“I'm on deadline. Why don’t you come up at two o’clock? Bring my mail and newspaper, and we’ll have some refreshments. Will your news keep?”

“It’s kept for a century. Another few hours won’t hurt. It’s something I heard at the genealogical society last night.”

That lessened the newsman’s anticipation somewhat but he said, “1 can hardly wait!”

After two o’clock his friend Thorn trudged up the lane from the Art Center, and Qwilleran met him with a pitcher of sangria. They discussed the weather, the future of Thelma’s Film Club, and the price of gasoline. Then Qwilleran asked about the G.S., as the ten-syllable organization was popularly called.

“Well... a couple of years ago they started an inventory of lost cemeteries.”

“How does a cemetery get lost?”

“Starting about 1850, people were buried in backyards and along roadsides and in tiny churchyards. There is no trace of them today, but a group of G.S. members who call themselves grave-finders have searched county records and found hundreds of names and scores of old cemetery locations. Most of the little churches have been destroyed, but they found one small log church about the size of a one-car garage but with a proud little steeple. A stone wall surrounds a small graveyard with headstones no bigger than a concrete block—but with names and dates. The oldest is 1918. But it’s completely overgrown. In fact, it’s now part of a Klingenschoen Conservancy. The G.S. is getting permission to clear it out as a historic site. But here’s the surprise! Three Thackerays are buried there, and they’re pretty sure that Milo and some other farmers built the church.”

Qwilleran mused. “It would make a good story for the Something if handled right. Does the G.S. have any plans?”

“Since the last of the Moose County Thackerays has returned, they thought some kind of dedication ceremony might be in order. You know her; do you think she’d go for that?”

“She likes publicity, if it’s favorable. She’s hired a P.R. consultant. I could sound her out.”

“We won’t release the news of the Thackeray graves until we hear from you, Qwill.”

Qwilleran had promised to take Thelma to lunch at the Nutcracker Inn; he could combine it with a sightseeing drive around the county, including the Old Log Church. After Thomton’s visit, he phoned her, and before he could extend his invitation, she cried, “Bless you, Ducky, for sending us to that talented Elizabeth Hart! She came down this morning to see our hats, and she said she’ll be thrilled to exhibit them!”

“I want to hear all about it! Suppose I pick you up at eleven tomorrow morning—for lunch and sightseeing.”

“What kind of shoes shall I wear?” was her prompt reply.

He hung up with the satisfaction of ‘mission accomplished.’

Before the day was over, he would have a harder task.

The Kit Kat system of foster care for kittens, which was new to Moose County, had been quietly succeeding, and now it was time to go public with a fund-raising Kit Kat Revue. The question was: When and where? A problem-solving session at the MacLeod residence on Pleasant Street was scheduled for Tuesday evening. Qwilleran walked over there at seven-thirty as several neighbors were converging on the site, and a carload drove in from Indian Village. Hannah MacLeod greeted everyone at the door, while Uncle Louie MacLeod sat at the baby grand and played numbers from the musical Cats.

The house had been occupied by three generations of musical MacLeods and was filled with family heirlooms and family portraits of opera singers, violinists, and pianists.

The newest member of the family—the recently adopted Danny—escorted guests to the adjoining family room with the official zeal of an eight-year-old. He brought extra chairs from the dining room, asked if anyone wanted a drink of bottled water, and answered questions about the kitten colonies.

“They have to stay with their mother for eight weeks... She feeds them and shows them how to take a bath . She picks them up by the back of the neck and drops them in their sandbox. She teaches them how to play”

When the last guest had arrived—Burgess Campbell with Alexander—Uncle Louie played a few chords of “God Bless America’ and Danny said, “Everybody stand up and sing!”

The meeting was chaired by Mavis Adams, instigator of the local foster-care program and promoter of the fundraising revue. She introduced two special guests. Hixie Rice was promotion director at the Moose County Something, which would underwrite expenses of the revue as a public service. Dwight Somers was the public-relations consultant who would advise the Kit Kat Revue committee pro bono.

Mavis said, “We have our program material well in hand, but we can’t decide on staging or the price of tickets until we know the when-and-where of the revue.”

Burgess Campbell spoke up. “May I say that this county has plenty of affluent individuals who will support a good cause if the event has an element of novelty and exclusivity. Fifty persons paid three hundred dollars a ticket for a black-tie cheese-tasting... chiefly because it was held at Qwill’s barn. The renovated opera house would be a similar drawing card while it’s hot news.”

Uncle Louie asked, “Would the old gal let us borrow it for one night? She’s said to hate cats. What does Somers & Beard have to say about this?”

“She’s highly sensitive about her image,” the P.R. man said. “In a county of ten thousand cat-fanciers I'd advise against the ailurophobe label. But since I'm working for her, I can’t be a special pleader for the Kit Kat Revue. You’ll have to request the use of the opera house. Then, if she asks my opinion—which she will—I'll endorse it.”

Wetherby said, “Qwill’s in solid with Thelma. I move that we appoint him special pleader.”

“Seconded!”

“All in favor?”

Every hand was raised.

Uncle Louie asked, “Has anyone seen the hall?”

“It seats about a hundred cabaret-style, at small round tables,” Dwight said. “There’s a stage, with a full-size movie screen for a backdrop. There’s a bar for serving beverages. Plenty of space backstage.”

Someone asked, “Does anyone know how they’ve decorated the interior of the opera house?”

Only Dwight had seen it. “Everything’s a grayish purple like an ophthalmologist’s waiting room—not too dark, not too light. The tables are small and round and pedestal-type. The chairs swivel and roll on casters and are quite comfortably upholstered.”

There was excited babble in the room, and Mavis rapped for attention, and asked Uncle Louie for an update on the program.

He said, “Besides musical numbers and humorous readings, there will be performances by the creative dance club at the school and the tumbling team wearing cat costumes with tails. The kids visited several foster-care colonies to get ideas about kittens at play.”

Then Hixie Rice asked to have the floor. “I would like to suggest a rousing finale for the program: a procession across the stage of prominent citizens with their cats! The mayor, the superintendent of schools, the director of the public library, newspaper personalities, and our esteemed meteorologist, of course.” There were cheers, and Wetherby took a bow.

Hixie went on. “I know where I can order rhinestone-studded harnesses and leashes—overnight delivery—for marching across the stage.”

A commanding voice said, “May I say a few words?”

All heads turned to listen. Qwilleran was not only who he was, but the ‘Qwill Pen’ column had made him an authority on feline eccentricities. He said, “A cat may walk on a leash in a park, stopping to sniff an unidentified object or to chase a blowing leaf. But will he walk in a straight line—from stage-left to stage-right—in front of a hundred strangers?”

All heads turned to Hixie. “If they won’t walk, they can be carried or wheeled in some kind of conveyance. Also, there is a safe herbal sedation that’s used in the theatre when a cat plays a role in a play—Pywacket in Bell, Book and Candle, for example. It produces serenity.”

“In the actors or the cat?” Wetherby asked.

Mavis said, “We can cross that bridge when we come to it.”

And Uncle Louie said, “Everything depends on whether Qwill can twist Thelma’s arm”

“Hear! Hear!” everyone shouted, and the meeting was adjourned.

Back at the barn, Koko was doing his grasshopper act. “Were your ears burning?” Qwilleran asked. “How are you going to feel about a rhinestone-studded harness?” But no. The cat was announcing a message on the answering machine—from Bushy.

“Would you like to earn a little extra money Thursday morning? Call me back.”

Qwilleran phoned him. “Doing what?”

“Photographer’s assistant. No experience necessary. Easy work. Low pay. I'm shooting all twenty-four of Thelma’s hats, and it would speed matters if someone held the lights.”

“Don’t you have light stands?”

“Frankly,” Bushy said, “the two gals will be hanging around and wanting to talk, and you can shoo them away diplomatically.”

“Okay, but give my remuneration to charity. I don’t want to report it to the IRS.”

“I'll pick you up Thursday morning.”

Qwilleran liked the idea. He had promised Thelma lunch at the Nutcracker Inn; news about the Old Log Church suggested a nostalgic trip to her distant past; and helping Bushy shoot the hats would be another point in his favor before ‘popping the question.’