The Cat Who Brought Down the House

Chapter 3

The depressing old Pickax Hotel was now the upscale Mackintosh Inn—with a life-size portrait of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran in the lobby, a new interior masterminded by Fran Brodie, and Mackintosh tartan seats in the main dining room. It was now called the Mackintosh Room, and a new chef had made it the finest restaurant in town.

The new maitre d’, being only five-foot-ten, lacked the panache of the six-foot-eight Derek Cuttlebrink, but he knew to seat Qwilleran’s party at the best table.

They were a jovial foursome—middle-aged and comfortable with their lives and with each other. Yet, each had a history that could be told: Jim Qwilleran, after a failed marriage, had succumbed to alcoholism until a miracle got him back on track. Polly Duncan, widowed tragically at twenty-five, had never remarried. Mildred Hanstable Riker, stunned by a disastrous family situation, had survived with her warm heart and generous spirit intact. Arch Riker, after raising a family, had heard his first wife announce, I’d rather be a single antique dealer than a married antique collector.”

When they were seated and the menus were presented, Arch said, “I'd like a big steak.”

His wife said sweetly, “Hon, you can have a big steak when you go to Tipsy’s Tavern. Chef Wingo offers you a chance to expand your gustatory horizons. I think you’d like the garlic-and-black-pepper-marinated strip loin with caramelized onions and merlot-vinegar reduction.”

Arch looked at the others helplessly. “What’s Qwill having?”

His friend said, “Grilled venison tenderloin with smoked bacon, braised cabbage strudel, and Bing cherry demi-glaze.”

Both women were having the seafood Napoleon with carrot gaufrettes and lemon buerre blanc sauce.

The first course was a butternut squash puree served in soup plates with a garnish of fresh blueberries.

Polly remarked, “Do I recognize Mildred’s influence?”

“I told Wingo that blueberries are legendary in Moose County.”

Qwilleran was alerted. He was collecting local legends for his book to be titled Short & Tall Tales. “Is it one for the book, Mildred? I'd like to tape it.”

“Wonderful!” she said. “Bring your recorder to the opening of the stitchery exhibition on Sunday.”

“What kind of stitchery?” Polly asked.

“Quilting. But not the kind of traditional bed quilts that I used to make. These are wall hangings, large and small, pictorial and geometric. We’re calling it Touchy-Feely Art, and I'll tell you why. A number of years ago I was visiting an art museum in Chicago and trying to examine the brushwork on a certain painting. The security guard tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Stand back eighteen inches. Breathing on the paintings is prohibited." Well! The artwork we’re showing on Sunday can be touched as well as breathed on. Even if you don’t touch the wall hangings, you get a snuggly feeling just by looking at them.”

“Interesting!” Qwilleran said, as he considered the ramifications of Touchy-Feely Art. “You’d better post signs WASH YOUR HANDS.”

Then the entrees were served, and they talked about food for a while. The server had placed a small plate of lemon wedges in the middle of the table.

“What are those for?” Arch asked.

Mildred explained, “Chef Wingo believes a few drops of lemon add piquancy to any dish, hon.”

“Qwill and I used to use it for invisible ink in secret correspondence... Remember that, Qwill?”

“Was it fourth grade?”

“I think it was fifth. Miss Getz was the teacher.”

Polly said to Mildred, “Here we go again!” The two couples could never get together without another anecdote about rascally boyhood pranks. “Tell us about Miss Getz and the secret correspondence,” she said coyly.

“Arch and I passed slips of blank paper back and forth in class, and she knew we were up to no good, but she never discovered the secret writing.”

“The way it works,” Arch explained, “you dip a cotton swab-stick in lemon juice and write on plain white paper. The writing isn’t visible until you hold it up to a hot lamp bulb. But not too close.”

Polly inquired, “Dare I ask what kind of messages you exchanged in the fourth grade?”

“Fifth,” Arch corrected her. “There’s a big difference.”

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache, as he did when trying to recollect. “Well... there was a girl in our class called Pauline Pringle who had a bad case of acne. One day Arch slipped me a bit of paper. When I got it home and over a hot lightbulb, I laughed so hard—my mother thought I was having convulsions. It said: Pauline Pimple likes you a lot.”

Arch chuckled at the memory. The two women remained cool.

“The next day,” Qwilleran went on, “I sent him a message about the teacher. Her face would get very red once in a while, and she’d mop her brow with a handkerchief. The message was: Miss Getz sweats.”

The women groaned. Polly was not attuned to schoolboy humor; and Mildred, having taught school for thirty years, empathized with the long-suffering Miss Getz. She said, “All you two miscreants deserve for dessert is lemon sorbet.”

All four ordered Chef Wingo’s famous blueberry cobbler, however. Arch wanted a dollop of ice cream on his; Polly asked for a smidgen of yogurt; Mildred thought she would like ‘just a tad’ of whipped cream. The host took his neat.

But he asked, “Should I know what a tad is?”

“Halfway between a smidgen and a wee bit,” Mildred informed him.

As they lingered over coffee, they discussed the Pickax Sesquicentennial celebration scheduled for the following year. Arch had attended the first meeting of the planning committee.

“I hate to tell you this,” he said, “but they elected Hixie Rice as general chairman.”

“Oh, no!” Mildred said.

“Oh, dear!” Polly muttered.

The promotion director of the Moose County Something was a clever idea-person with boundless energy and enthusiasm—and a record of disasters, through no fault of her own. There had been the Ice Festival that thawed out, the Mark Twain Festival canceled because of a murder, the cat contest that ended in a riot (of cat owners, not contestants), and more. The city was still wondering what to do with fifteen thousand polar-bear lapel buttons ordered for the Ice Festival.

Yet, Hixie always bounced back, entranced people with her optimism and creativity, and found herself elected to chair another fiasco.

The next day was a workday, so the party broke up early. For Qwilleran the evening was not over, however. At home he put a sheet of blank white paper in an envelope and addressed it to Arch, chuckling as he visualized his old friend’s reaction. Though suspicious, his old friend would be unable to resist heating it over a lightbulb, and when he found it blank, Arch would lie awake all night plotting revenge.

The next day Qwilleran walked downtown to buy a New York Times and stopped at the design studio, a good place to get a cup of coffee and the latest news. Fran was back in town, he learned, but was taking a day off.

Her assistant was trying hard to be her boss’s clone –in dress, manner, and hairstyle. But she was more talkative. Her name was Lucinda Holmes. She had a boyfriend named Dr Watson, she said with a giggle. He was a vet at the Whinny Hills Animal Clinic. They took care of her thoroughbred gelding and two English foxhounds. She loved riding to hounds. The clinic used to be the Thackeray clinic. It had changed a lot. It was very sad. Dr Thackeray was killed in an accident. There were rumors that it was suicide, or even murder.

Qwilleran asked, “Was he related to Fran’s client?”

“He was her twin brother. She’s a very interesting person. Fran took me out there on her first trip. We had to here, and floor plans have to be established before the moving men get here.”

“So you’re from Lockmaster! What brought you to Pickax?”

“I studied design at the Harrington School in Chicago and worked in Lockmaster for a while, but I wasn’t learning anything. With Fran I learn how to present ideas to clients, how to listen to their own ideas, how to change their minds without offending them—”

A bell tinkled on the front door. Qwilleran drained his coffee cup and left Lucinda to practice her new skills on a client.

Back at the barn a red light was flashing on the answering machine, although Koko paid no attention to it. He had a way of screening calls and making a catty fuss when he deemed one important.

This one was from Fran Brodie, speaking in a throatily teasing way: “If you’ll invite me over for a drink, I'll tell you all about Thelma Thackeray, but don’t invite me to dinner; I'm dining with Dutch at the Palomino Paddock. I hope you know how to mix a margarita. Just phone and leave a message: yes or no.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Of course he could mix a margarita — or anything else in the book. He had earned his way through college by tending bar.

He said to Yum Yum: “Guess who’s coming over for a drink!” The fur on her neck was standing on end; she had recognized the voice on the machine.