The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

Chapter 10

The newspaper published no edition over the weekend, but a deskman was always on duty in the city room, answering the phone and listening to the squawking of the police-band radio.

Qwilleran recognized the voice that came on the wire. "Is this Barry? Qwill here. Any trouble reported in the North Middle Hummocks? I just received a queer tip."

"Yeah, the sheriff and his dog are searching for a missing person. Rabbit hunter. Probably some guy at a family reunion got lost in the woods."

"Or got shot by another rabbit hunter," Qwilleran said, thinking of Koko's anguished howl.

"Ain't it the truth, Qwill! Out where we live, there are so many rifle shots in the woods, come weekend, that it sounds like the Fourth of July. How they can avoid shooting each other is a mystery. . . . Hold it! . . ."

Qwilleran waited. But both he and Koko had the answers.

The cynical deskman came back on the line.

"What'd I tell ya? Another rabbit hunter bit the dust. Only ten thousand left. Gotta hang up."

Qwilleran preferred not to picture the scene at the goat farm, and he regretted that his friends would be deprived of good news coverage. As for himself, his time and recording tape would not be wasted. He could write an anonymous description of an ideal family reunion, where all the adults are happy and all the children are well behaved and all the conversation is upbeat and all the food is delicious.

On the other hand, he could cut his losses and scrap his notes. He and Polly discussed it on the phone that night. She had worked at the bookstore so that her assistant could entertain visiting relatives. She needed to rest up before a busy Sunday: church, then lunch with the Rikers, after which they would go to the Big Burning show downtown, and then there would be Wetherby's supper party.

Clarissa had dropped into the bookstore and was thrilled with her new job and looking forward to the pizza party but was worried about the health of Aunt Doris and Uncle Nathan. Clarissa wanted to return the valuable ring and explain the breakup with Harvey, but she could talk only with a housekeeper.

Qwilleran listened to it all with appropriate reactions but contributed no newsbites of his own. He merely said he would like to go into a trance on Sunday before switching identities with an imaginary nineteenth-century newscaster. He said he would see Polly at Joe's party.

"À bientôt," she said.

"À bientôt."

Once more Qwilleran played to a full house on Sunday afternoon. The audience reaction was always the same:

A woman sobbed audibly as she listened to accounts of family tragedies and remembered the stories told in her own family.

A man blew his nose loudly over the plight of the father trying to save his two children.

There was heavy silence as the audience pictured hundreds of victims taking refuge in the new brick courthouse, the same building where one now went to pay property taxes or apply for a marriage license.

"Devastating" . . . "unbelievable . . . "heartbreaking" were the words Qwilleran heard when he appeared in the lobby after the show.

He was glad to return to the barn and spend a quiet hour or two with the Siamese before leaving for Winston Park to pick up Clarissa.

When he arrived at her apartment, she was in a festive mood, but a cat of imposing size was sitting calmly in the centre of the middle seat cushion of the sofa.

"Hail to thee, Sir Jerome!" Qwilleran said with a grand gesture.

The cat observed him with large golden eyes and without a flicker of a whisker.

To Clarissa, Qwilleran said, "Magnificent creature! What language does he speak?" He was accustomed to the Siamese with their voluble responses and expressive gestures.

"He's awed by your moustache."

She explained, "I don't know why he always sits in the exact middle of a chair or cushion or rug - or anything."

"He's a Centrist," Qwilleran said with authority. "Many cats are Centrists. If they were humans, they'd be halfway between Republicans and Democrats."

Before they left Qwilleran complimented Jerome on his blue coat (which he still considered gray) . . . and slyly complimented Clarissa on her gray pantsuit (which was obviously blue).

Qwilleran noted that his passenger was carrying a large satchel-type handbag, reminding him of Thelma Thackery. Was this California style? He avoided dropping the usual masculine quips. (Bring your own dinner? Planning to stay overnight?) Later he would learn what it contained.

En route to the party he told her what new faces she would meet: Connie Constable was a vet at the pet hospital, especially good with cats . . . and Judd Amhurst was a retired engineer and now manager of special events at the bookstore.

Then he remarked, "I hear you have settled in at the paper."

"Yes, and everyone is so friendly! Roger MacGillivray introduced me around. . . . Is he married?"

"Not only married but father of three, whom he's helping to homeschool. You've met John Bushland - prize-winning photographer. Likes to be called Bushy. He and Roger and I were once marooned on a deserted island in a horrendous storm. The three of us are bonded for life."

During cocktails and while waiting for the pizza delivery, Wetherby outdid himself at the piano, playing Chopin's "Minute Waltz." Then Qwilleran was induced to compose an impromptu limerick about Jerome:

An out-of-town cat named Jerome

Says, "I never wanted to roam.

There's not enough sun

And the mice are no fun.

Show me the way to go home."

Then Judd asked Qwilleran if he could write limericks about dogs.

"I just happen to have one with me." He drew an index card from his pocket, having expected Judd to bring up the subject sooner or later. The card read:

There once was a hound with an itch

Who didn't know which end was which.

But he was no fool;

He went off to school,

And learned: Every dog has his niche.

Eventually the subject of the Heirloom Auction took the spotlight. Everyone agreed it was for a good cause and wanted to participate.

"Clever kids, those students of Burgess's," said Wetherby. "They get you coming or going - or both. I donate my grandpappy's moustache cup - then go to the auction and bid on some other grandpappy's shaving mug."

Polly said, "I'm not in the market for any more objects but I'm donating a lot of my in-laws' collection."

Clarissa said she would attend for the thrill of bidding on something. "The only item I have to donate is nothing that anyone could possibly want. I hang onto it only because my grandmother acquired it when she was young."

"What is it?" everyone asked at once.

"I've brought it to show you. Tell me what you think."

There was silence as she reached for her large handbag and withdrew a roll of something like a diploma. Tied with ribbon, it was about three inches in diameter and a foot long. When unrolled, it proved to be a three-foot advertisement for a breakfast cereal.

Sheepishly she said, "A poster from a Detroit trolley car." She waited, and when there was no comment, said, "It's really sort of pretty and in good condition. It's been rolled up for sixty years. When my grandmother was young, she used to ride to work on the trolley car, which was so crowded that passengers had to stand in the aisles and hang onto leather straps, and stare at the ads that filled the space above the windows. . . . I don't know how Grandma happened to acquire this one. I suppose it was a souvenir of many hours of straphanging."

Qwilleran said, "You should donate it, Clarissa, and Joe and I will bid against each other for it - have a little fun. I'll bid the highest and take it home to hang in the cats' apartment. It'll go with their twistle-twig rocker."

Wetherby said, "The poster would make a better presentation if framed. I know a guy in Horseradish who'll frame it for nothing - just to go along with a gag!"

The others were laughing and cheering them on and Judd said he'd make a few bids for it himself. "Is this what they call shill bidding? Is it ethical?"

"In this case, it's just a stunt," Qwilleran said, "and the proceeds go to a good cause. We'll get Foxy Fred to make it the first item on the block. It'll wake up the audience. Get them in the spirit of the occasion. . . . The trick will be, Joe, to decide how high to go. To make it a sensation, it should be an outrageous figure, which the K Fund will cover, of course."

During the evening there was plenty of conversation about cats. Jet Stream swaggered among the guests and accepted compliments and crumbs of cheese. Clarissa showed her snapshot of Jerome, the only British Shorthair in the county, she thought. Dr. Connie, newly divorced, had acquired a marmalade, related to Dundee, the bibliocat at the bookstore.

Polly said that Brutus and Catta had made friends with a wild rabbit, who came out of the woods daily to commune with them through the window wall.

Qwilleran told them that Koko and Yum Yum were studying crows aiming for a degree in corvidology. He refrained from reporting Koko's death howl in the case of the missing rabbit hunter.

Before the evening was over, Wetherby played Mendelssohn's Presto Agitato, which required incredible nimbleness of fingering. Judd, the engineer, insisted that the music required a pianist to play a thousand notes a minute. Clarissa, the journalist, checked to see if Wetherby had six fingers on each hand.

Polly said, "Joe, why aren't you on the concert stage?"

"I'm not good enough," he said. "And I believe if you can't be good, be fast."

The party broke up early. Before leaving with Judd, Clarissa whispered to Qwilleran that she wanted to talk with him about the Ledfields. "Anytime!" he said. Wetherby took her streetcar poster and promised to have it framed overnight.

Back at the barn, Qwilleran phoned the police chief at home. "Andy, are you interested in talking about rabbit hunters over a thimbleful of Scotch?"

"I'll talk about anything over a wee dram!"

Andrew Brodie lived in the neighbourhood and drove into the barnyard within minutes. The Siamese rushed to the kitchen window, either recognizing the sound of the chief's motor or reading Qwilleran's mind. They knew the burly Scotsman with the loud voice. Over the years he had progressed from suspicious stranger to admiring friend, calling them "that smart Koko" and "my little sweetheart." Yum Yum was not only allowed to untie his shoelaces but was expected to do so.

Brodie made himself at home, sitting at the snack bar, pouring a large "thimbleful" of Scotch and cutting a slice of cheese.

He said, "M' wife and some ladies from the church saw your show this afternoon. She said they all had a good cry. It's not the first time they've seen it. How does it feel to give it in the opera house?"

"Better than church basements, school gyms, and county parks."

Brodie commented on the tastiness of the cheese, a Manchego from Spain. He said he'd never heard of it but it was good!

Finally Qwilleran said, "I hear there was a disturbance in North Middle Hummock yesterday."

"What do you know about it?"

"I was there to cover the Ogilvie-Fugtree family reunion, but by the time I got home, there was a message on my phone, canceling the story. I phoned the paper and learned someone from the party had been killed while hunting rabbits."

The chief took a swig of his drink before saying, "Off the record, it looks like homicide. A member of the party was arrested on suspicions. That's all I'm tellin'."

Qwilleran said, "That smart Koko, who's gobbling crumbs of cheese that you ?accidentally' drop, probably knows more than the sheriff does." He referred to the cat's death howl at five-fifteen, the day the hunter was reported missing.

"What else does that smart cat know?"

"That's all I'm tellin', Andy."