The Cat Who Brought Down the House

Chapter 17

On Thursday morning three young men with high-tech cleaning equipment and Mrs Fulgrove with home-made metal polish arrived at the barn, and that meant removing the Siamese from the premises. They wouldn’t bother the cleaning crew, but the crew would bother them. Qwilleran put them in the SUV along with their blue cushion, commode, water dish, and snack bowl, and off they went to Pleasant Street to help photograph hats.

Janice met Qwilleran and said, “Bushy’s upstairs; Thelma had an appointment with her attorney. Is there anything I can do for you? Coffee? Cold drink?”

“You might like to go out to the car and say hello to the Siamese.”

“They could come indoors, since Thelma isn’t here.”

“No, thanks. They’re happy where they are. They have all the comforts of home.”

Bushy was in the upstairs room called the Gallery of Hats, setting up. The two side walls had hats displayed on shelves. Others on pedestals were spaced in the middle of the room. Each hat had its own acrylic hat stand.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” he said. “Move all the hats to one side of the room; then move them to the other side one-by-one as they’re photographed. That way we won’t shoot one hat twice.”

Qwilleran said, “That reminds me of the story about the man who wanted some new trousers shortened three inches, and the tailor shortened one leg twice.”

“Funny, but I don’t have time to laugh. Too much to do.” Bushy had set up one pedestal, as a stage for the hat to be photographed. Two floor-standing lights were placed to bounce light off walls and ceiling. The camera was placed on its tripod, ready to go. It would be Qwilleran’s job to place a hat on the pedestal and rotate it this way and that until Bushy had the best angle. Then he would tell his assistant how to direct the handheld light to best advantage. “Raise it... tilt it down... a little to the left... move it an inch.” The tricky ritual would be repeated three times for each hat.

The first two shots were interesting; after that Qwilleran entertained himself by inventing names for them: Heavenly Hash... Chef’s Salad... Crème de Chocolat. Despite his talent for description, he would find it impossible to do justice to creations like these. There were wisps of this and swirls of that, unexpected trims, touches of hand-painting or stitchery, defiant color contrasts, crowns and brims in mad shapes.

Halfway through, the photographer said, “See if you can scare up some coffee, Qwill, and let’s take a breather.”

“How do you want it?”

“Naked.”

“What do you think of the hats?”

“Well... they’re different! Wonder what she paid for them?”

“Did you notice the hatboxes?”

Stacked in the corners of the room were two dozen round hatboxes covered in shiny alligator-print paper.

Qwilleran asked about them when he went downstairs for coffee.

“Thelma had them custom-made,” Janice said. “She adores the alligator look. She has alligator shoes and handbags.”

“Did you go out to see the Siamese?”

“Yes, and I took them a little treat. I also put a couple of boxes of letters from Thelma’s brother in the car. I went through them and put them in chronological order to make it easier for you.”

“I appreciate that.”

Upstairs he told Bushy, “I'll look forward to seeing your prints. You always make everything look better than it is.”

“Did Thelma tell you I'm going to do a portrait of her? It’ll be a companion to the one hanging in the lobby of the clinic.”

“You spoke highly of Dr Thurston, but I don’t think you knew much about the son did you?”

“Only by reputation. My ex-wife was a native of Lock-master, and she said he was a drifter. But he always seemed to have money.”

After his dubious experience with twenty-four hats, Qwilleran would have relished a Reuben sandwich and fries at Rennie’s, but the Siamese had been confined long enough so he drove back to the barn. His passengers seemed to be peacefully aware of their destination until they entered the deep woods leading to the barnyard. Then a low rumble in Koko’s innards became a growl. It was a familiar expression of disapproval. The cleaning crew had gone. There was something indoors that aroused Koko’s resentment.

Leaving the cats in the car, Qwilleran let himself into the barn cautiously. There was the reassuring aroma of cleaning fluid and metal polish. And on the bar was a gift-wrapped package—also a scrawled note in the unique style of Mrs Fulgrove: “A man brung this gift which he left no name.”

It was wrapped in alligator gift wrap with gauzy black ribbon, and a note from Thelma: “With much thanks for everything; Dick is here and will drop this off at your barn.” The box contained a pair of glazed porcelain parrots in brilliant green with patches of red and yellow.

He put them on the mantel beak-to-beak, like Lolita and Carlotta gossiping in Thelma’s aviary.

When the Siamese were brought into the barn and released from the carrying coop, Yum Yum emerged timidly as if she had never been there before, but Koko rushed forth, growling and looking in all directions.

Qwilleran slapped his forehead as the situation became clear. Dick Thackeray had delivered the gift. There was something about Thelma’s nephew that Koko found repugnant, and he had sensed his presence before they even reached the barnyard. Likewise, after the champagne reception, Koko had entered the barn snarling—snarling at someone who had been there.

Qwilleran opened a can of smoked oysters, which he diced and spread on two plates.

He was led to wonder if Koko’s unfriendly performances corroborated Thelma’s outpourings on the park bench at Black Creek. And did they explain the cat’s choice of books to push off the shelf?

There was always the possibility, of course, that Koko simply enjoyed dislodging a book and seeing it land on the floor with a thlunk! The fact that one was Poor Richard’s Almanac and the other was Richard Carvel might be coincidental. Only one thing was sure. Koko had a passion for smoked oysters. He and Yum Yum retired to the blue cushion on the refrigerator and went to sleep.

Now Qwilleran went to the gazebo with a cheese sandwich and a thermos of coffee and the boxes of letters Janice had put in the van. The cordless phone was purposely left indoors.

Thelma’s brother was indeed a good writer, but content was more important. The question was: Were they worthy of publication? They spanned thirty-odd years. Bud had married another graduate veterinarian, Dr Sally, and Pop had set them up in a clinic in Lockmaster. But their greatest joy, it seemed, was their son, Dickie Bird—all the more so because Sally would never be able to have another child. They were enthusiastic about their work. They believed in holistic medicine. Sally was taking a course in acupuncture. Their hobbies were music and hiking. Bud played the flute. Every Sunday they left Dickie Bird with his nanny, and they hiked along the rim of the Black Creek Gorge. Bud’s descriptions of the gorge bordered on the poetic. They would sit on a large flat rock and eat energy bars and drink bottled water from their knapsacks.

Dickie Bird, as his parents called him privately, was a handsome boy with a genuine likable personality. He did very well in school, played a little tennis, and was popular with classmates, but he showed no interest in hiking. In high school he preferred the company of his own friends.

Bud wrote, “Dick has a talent for living beyond his allowance, but we indulge him. He’s our only son! And we know he’s not into drugs or anything like that. The kids he runs with are all achievers, with plans for professional careers. Dick hasn’t decided what he wants to do. He’s old enough to drive now, and we’re giving him a car for his birthday... Sis, do you remember when Pop gave us a movie palace for our birthday?”

Qwilleran’s reading was interrupted by a high-decibel howl from the barn. He raced indoors and found Koko prancing in front of the answering machine. The message was an indignant complaint: “Qwill! Where are you? It’s seven o’clock! You were to be here at six!”

“Uh-oh! I'm in the doghouse!” he said to Koko.

The situation was that Polly was in Chicago, and Mildred was in Duluth, and Arch was grilling two porterhouse steaks for a bachelor supper on the deck. Qwilleran thought fast and phoned Wetherby, who lived a city block from the Rikers. It was a long shot, but luckily Wetherby was at home.

“Joe! Do me a favor!” he said with desperation in his voice. “Run—don’t walk—to the Rikers’ condo and tell Arch you’re there to eat my steak. No explanation! No apology! Just tell him I called from the jail.”

Qwilleran chuckled. He and Arch, in their lifetime of friendship, had survived many a gaffe, bluff, and tiff—with all systems intact.

Now the phone rang and—thinking it was Arch again—he let the machine pick up the message. It was Hixie Rice, calling from the news office.

Returning her call, Qwilleran listened to her exuberant announcement. “Qwill! We’re getting the opera house for the revue! Next Tuesday! Tickets are going to be two hundred! Isn’t that thrilling! I told Mavis I'd notify you. Also, Doug Bethune is printing the programs, so he needs to know the titles of the readings you’re going to do”

Hixie stopped for breath, and Qwilleran asked the unwise question: “Is there anything I can do?”

“I could really use your input on the subject of the Grand March, Qwill, and the sooner the better. If you could hop up here to the office--”

“If you could hop down here to the barn,” he interrupted, “I could offer you a drink.”

Hixie Rice was an attractive, spirited woman of unguessable age who was unlucky in love. Qwilleran had first met her Down Below and had followed her exploits like the segments of a soap opera. In the business world, though, her infectious enthusiasm and bright ideas made her a success even when her ideas failed. Qwilleran was always glad to see her.

She arrived at the barn in what Moose Countians would call “two shakes of a Iamb’s tail.”

“Where are those adorable cats?” she asked, and they came out to greet her. Everyone liked Hixie.

“What will you have to drink?” Qwilleran asked.

“What are you having?”

“A Q cocktail”

“I’ll have a martini.”

When they settled into the ‘seductive’ sofas (Hixie’s word for them), Qwilleran asked, “How successful have you been in lining up prominent citizens for the finale?”

“Everyone’s cooperating!” she said with her usual exuberance. “How does this sound? Newspaper columnist, meteorologist, innkeeper, superintendent of schools, prize-winning woodcrafter, a medical doctor, director of the public library, food editor, two professors (retired), and... Her Honor, the mayor! The professors are the Cavendish sisters. Jennie is confined to a wheelchair, so she’ll ride with two cats in her lap and Ruth will push.”

“Have the rhinestone harnesses been ordered?”

“They’re on the way.”

“May I refresh your drink?”

She wriggled to get out of the deep-cushioned sofa. “No thanks, but you mix a superb martini! What’s your secret?”

“Fourteen to one’ Actually he had no dry vermouth, so it was fourteen to zero!

Later that evening, when he phoned Polly in Chicago, he told her about the rhinestone harnesses, the impressive lineup of prominent citizens, and the harmless herbal sedative that would keep the cats calm.

“Oh dear!” she said. “It sounds like another of Hixie’s bright ideas! I hope it all works.”

“Are your conferences progressing well?”

“We’ve brainstormed, that’s all. We toss out whatever enters our heads. It’s quite fun. The K Fund people are charming, and there’s been much wining and dining. I'll be glad to get home to an egg salad sandwich. Happily, I'll be leaving Saturday morning and arriving on the noon shuttle flight... And I'm bringing you something!”

“What?”

“Wait and see!... A bientôt”

“A bientôt’ he mumbled. He objected to being on the dark side of a secret.