The Cat Who Brought Down the House

Chapter 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 have 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, 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 Lardy! 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, Quill?”

“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 piggyback 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 sidestepped 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, "You 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.

“Faith, an’ it’s my big kitchen she married me for, I'm thinking,” he often said in his rich brogue.

Pat had a janitorial service, and together they started Robin-O'Dell Catering.

Celia interpreted the invitation to ‘come on over anytime’ as ‘right away’ and she arrived in ‘two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

“Do you have time for a glass of fruit juice?” Qwilleran asked, inviting her to sit at the snack bar.

“Oh, you have some new bar stools!” she exclaimed. “Very comfy... Where are the kitties?”

“Looking at you from the top of the refrigerator.”

Celia groped in her large handbag and they jumped to the floor with two thumps, Yum Yum landing like a feather and Koko landing like a muscular male.

Qwilleran gave them a few crumbles of meat loaf and told them, “This is just the appetizer. The main course will be served at five-thirty.”

“Are you enjoying your new career?” he asked her now.

“I love it! But I miss those secret missions, Chief.”

“You could still do a little snooping, if you had time, and if Pat wouldn’t object.”

“He’d never know,” she said with a wink. “Do you have any suspicions, Chief?”

“No. Only a nagging curiosity. Who bought the old opera house, and what are they doing with it, and why the secrecy? If I start making inquiries, the gossips will have a field day!”

“I could ask questions. Where would I go?”

“To the courthouse and find out who bought the building. To the City Hall and find out if they’ve issued any permits for remodeling. It might be a clue to the mystery... No hurry, Celia.”

“I could do it on Tuesday. Monday we’re doing a birthday luncheon in Purple Point. Would anyone mind if Pat and I didn’t attend Richard Thackeray’s supper? We have to clear away here and go home and get started on the luncheon. How should I explain’?”

“There was no RSVP on the invitation,” Qwilleran said, “so you don’t need to explain. Just do what you have to do. If anyone asks, I'll invent something.”

“You’re good at that!” she said in admiration. “I think of you every time I buy fruit and vegetables at Toodle’s Market.” At the recollection she was so overcome with mirth that she choked on her cranberry juice.

“Take it easy!” he said.

In the past, when she uncovered evidence that required the utmost secrecy, there was a clandestine meeting at the market, in the produce department—two casual foodshoppers discussing the price of cucumbers or ripeness of melons, as strangers do. Then she would whisper some amazing revelation too hot to put in writing or entrust to a telephone that might be bugged. The serio-comic charade delighted Celia, who would be forever young. She and Pat still had snowball fights, according to their amused neighbors.

Qwilleran asked her, “How much champagne has been ordered for the reception?”

“Duke has ordered two cases and wants it perfectly chilled, so we’re bringing our portable plug-in cooler with temperature control. And the stemware we’re renting is glass and not the plastic kind which Duke calls an abomination. He’s lending us his grandmother’s banquet cloth and ordering a flower arrangement for the table. Since everyone’s going to the supper afterwards, the cocktail snacks will be bite-size, and Duke wants the very best cheese!!”

When Celia had left, Qwilleran walked down the lane to pick up his daily paper from the newspaper sleeve. He took it to the Art Center porch and sat on the bench there, being impatient to read the Thackeray profile.

There was a three-column photo of Thelma conversing with two parrots and the headline read: THELMA AND FRIENDS COME HOME TO ROOST. Only when she spoke of her five parrots did she wax sentimental. “There were six birds, but Chico passed away. I still have his cage and the cover with his name embroidered on it.”

There was plenty of opportunity for name-dropping, and drop them she did. Film celebrities and political figures had come to her dinner club.

She boasted that her twin brother had been a doctor of veterinary medicine. And a boast about her father caused Qwilleran to do a double take. He read it a second time:

“Pop was a hardworking potato farmer, struggling to make a living—until he had a brilliant idea for putting potatoes to a new use. It made him rich! He could send my brother to college and he set me up in business in Hollywood. He invented the low-calorie potato chip!”

At that moment the front door of the Art Center opened, and Thornton Haggis came out, saying, “No loitering permitted!”

“Thorn! Did you see today’s paper?” Qwilleran waved the front page at him.

“What happened? Have they found a cure for the common hangover?”

“Sit down and listen!” Qwilleran read the entire profile of the bootlegger’s daughter.

“What!” Thornton yelped. “Did she actually say that about potato chips? Does she believe that? Is that what Milo told her? Or did she invent it for Moose County readers?”