The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

Chapter 12

Another week! Another" Late Great" profile for the "Qwill Pen" column. Osmond Hasselrich had been the founder and majordomo of the law firm known as HBB&A. When Qwilleran inherited the Klingenschoen fortune, it was old Mr. Hasselrich who helped him establish the K Fund.

Qwilleran still remembered how the attorney served tea before commencing any business meeting in his mahogany-paneled office. His secretary would bring teapot and cups on a silver tray, and the elderly gentleman insisted on pouring the tea with his trembling hands into his grandmother's Victorian porcelain teacups.

Did anyone know what had happened to those precious teacups that rattled in their saucers when the old man passed them to his clients?

Lisa Compton had done the research on Hasselrich. Qwilleran labored to give balance to the thousand-word profile: Osmond Hasselrich had been a pioneer's son . . . educated by the largesse of grandparents in Philadelphia . . . a struggling young lawyer in the straggling town of Pickax . . . his life included half a century of hard work and genuine concern for his clients . . . eventually he had three partners and a richly paneled office.

A researcher's note said, "Qwill, rumour has it that Fanny Klingenschoen had a torrid romance with Osmond before he went to law school and before she became a belly dancer in Atlantic City, but I don't think you want to mention that. - Lisa."

Qwilleran filed his Tuesday copy by motorcycle messenger, leaving him time for desk chores. Then at two o'clock he walked down the trail to the back road, where there was a rural mailbox and a newspaper sleeve. Clarissa's first feature story would be on page one. How much space would they give her? How big a byline? What position?

He well remembered his first assignment on a Chicago paper. It was buried in a back section; the copy was butchered; his name was misspelled. But that was Chicago, and this was Pickax.

The first of four installments on the Heirloom Auction appeared on the front page above the fold. And the illustration was a large photo of an Abraham Lincoln portrait - in copper - actually a printer's copperplate from which thousands of black-and-white prints had been pulled. There was also a teaser, saying, "Watch for another pedigreed antiquity in tomorrow's Something. "

Clarissa would be walking on air, and Qwilleran could enjoy her pleasure vicariously.

He was sitting on the porch of the art centre and was not surprised when volunteer Thornton Haggis burst out of the building saying, "How long have you been sitting here? We charge for parking!"

"How much do you want for the bench? I'll buy it," Qwilleran retorted.

Thorn sat down alongside him, and Qwilleran said, "Do you remember the young couple visiting me, who bought one of your wood turnings? You entertained them with local history. This is the girl. She's living here now."

The historian looked at the mug shot and remembered them very well. "They are related to the Ledfields."

"And thereby hangs a tale, Thorn. The Ledfields have become quite reclusive, I hear."

"Oh, they never made the big social scene, Qwill. They're one of the last fine-old-families worthy of the name, and I think it weighs heavily on Nathan that the Ledfields are dying out. His brother, who was killed in an accident recently, was a blight on the family name; I don't know about the man's son. Is he the one with all the hair who came down here and bought one of my bowls?"

"He's the one!"

"Wel-l-l!" His inflections expressed plenty.

"Doris Ledfield was on Polly's board of directors at the library for a short time, Thorn, but she resigned."

"Yes, Doris is sweet but shy. She worships the ground Nathan walks on. In fact there is a story that I wouldn't repeat to anyone but you, Qwill. When Doris found out she was barren, she offered Nathan a divorce so he could continue the bloodline elsewhere. It's to his credit that he was appalled at the suggestion. Oh, he's a gentleman! And he lives by a rigorous code of ethics."

"Have you heard him play the violin?"

"He could be on the concert stage, Qwill! . . . Excuse me." Thornton was called indoors to the phone, and Qwilleran walked back up the lane more slowly and thoughtfully than he had walked down.

Around six PM Qwilleran phoned Maggie Sprenkle at home, when she would be having a bowl of hot chicken soup and a green leafy salad after a hard day at the animal shelter. Her dining table seated six, and he could imagine her five ladies keeping her company, one on each chair, sitting quietly. In a Victorian palace, even the cats behaved like royalty. They never even spoke until spoken to - and then only with ladylike mews.

When assured that he was not interrupting dinner, Qwilleran asked, "Did you see the spread on the auction in today's paper?"

"I did indeed! Who wrote it? The name is new to me."

"The new feature writer from California, who has just arrived with her cat, a British Shorthair. She'll be assigned to cover the kitty auction, no doubt, and she'll do a good job. Clarissa would feel honored to meet your ladies, having admired them from across the street."

"How did she happen to find Pickax, Qwill?"

"Interesting story! The Ledfields' nephew brought her here as his fiancée, and since he had given her no ring, Doris gave her one of her diamonds. However, Harvey turned out to be a cat hater, and Clarissa dropped him."

"I can well imagine," Maggie said vehemently.

"But she liked it here, and the newspaper was glad to get her. However, a problem has arisen; she'd like to return the ring, and she can't reach Doris. Only secretaries and housekeepers come to the phone."

Maggie said, "There's one thing about Nathan Ledfield that Jeremy and I had to learn. He's a perfectionist - and very proper. Everything has to be just so! To appear in public with the sniffles and a box of tissues - as I sometimes do - would be unthinkable for Nathan, and Doris has to live by his rules. So . . . when they're suffering from allergies - the polite word for coughs and sneezes - it's understandable why Nathan wouldn't want Doris to talk on the phone."

Maggie said with finality, "Tell the young lady to come and see me about the kitty auction, and we'll have a nice long talk."

When Qwilleran conveyed the invitation, he told Clarissa, "Maggie is from the moneyed families of Purple Point. Her great-grandmother owned a successful coal mine; she wore a long black dress with a little lace collar and carried a shotgun. Maggie prefers to live in the city and do humanitarian work. She's made it fashionable to volunteer at the animal shelter, and families now visit the shelter in their Sunday-best clothes on weekends, to see the cats and dogs, since we have no zoo. I warn you, Clarissa! Maggie has a very persuasive personality, and she doesn't even carry a shotgun."

The hot topic of conversation in coffee shops, at bridge clubs, and on the grapevine during late June was the Heirloom Auction - particularly the anonymity of donors.

The Lincoln copperplate in Tuesday's paper, the grandfather clock on Wednesday, the Victorian teacups on Thursday . . . who had donated them? Why the secrecy? The guesses and arguments that resulted constituted the best publicity the auction could have enjoyed!

Qwilleran knew the provenance of the three teacups, and he prepared to outbid any and all. He would give them to three women he knew.

Such was the suspense engendered by the Heirloom Auction series that tickets were sold out by Thursday night.

For Qwilleran, finding a subject for Friday's "Qwill Pen" was a problem. Clarissa's four-part series had said it all! The auction's charitable purpose, its organization and implementation, the enthusiasm of the student volunteers, and the generosity of the unnamed donors. Anything the "Qwill Pen" might say would be redundant, and yet readers would be disappointed if he overlooked the auction completely.

His solution: a nostalgic piece on the first auction he ever attended - and how he succeeded in outbidding an antique dealer for a historic roll-top desk. Purposely he neglected to mention the name of its famous, or infamous, owner - Ephraim Goodwinter. He knew the omission would bring a flood of mail from curious readers, keeping the office manager overworked for a week. Arch Riker would go into a rage over the "sly trick," although, Qwilleran knew, the editor in chief liked enthusiastic reader response.

When Qwilleran went to the paper to file his Friday copy, he passed the feature department and Clarissa caught his eye. She jumped up and joined him in the hallway. "Could we talk for a minute, Qwill?" She waved toward the empty conference room.

"I'll meet you there as soon as I throw my copy on Junior's desk."

"Aren't you a little late?"

"With malice aforethought," he explained. "When we're close to deadline, he doesn't have time to change anything. Editors like to edit."

In the managing editor's office, Junior grabbed the copy and rang for the copyboy. "Looks as if your girl's turning out all right, Qwill."

"She's not my girl. She applied for a job, and Arch hired her."

He joined Clarissa in the conference room.

In the empty room they sat at one corner of the long table.

"First let me compliment you on the auction series," he said. "You tackled the subject in depth without being stuffy."

"Thank you. It's my training. Did you have R and R when you were in J school?"

"It depends what you mean by those initials."

"Research and report. Each semester we were assigned a topic and had to explore it in depth and then write a report."

"What sort of topic?"

"Oh . . . the Volstead Act . . . the anatomy of cats . . . the naming of the original forty-eight states . . . mold as an environmental concern. The rule was: Collect all the available information - and then ask one more question."

"Did you have a favorite?"

"The naming of states was fun. Did you know that individuals react psychologically more strongly to state names beginning with a vowel than those beginning with a consonant? Texas is not only bigger than Ohio but has three strong consonants in the spelling."

"Hmmm. Under the circumstances, I'd say little Ohio has done quite well, despite all the vowels. Eight American presidents have come from Ohio, not to mention Thomas Edison and the Wright brothers." He could have mentioned Clark Gable, Doris Day, Cy Young, and Irma Bombeck, but Clarissa was rattling on.

"Are you from Ohio?" she asked.

"No, but the ?Qwill Pen' ran a series on nearby states called ?Know Your Neighbour.' "

"I'd love to be a columnist," Clarissa said wistfully.

"Don't be too sure! A reporter gets an assignment and writes the necessary coverage, but a columnist always starts with nothing but a deep hole to fill."

Suddenly Arch Riker appeared in the doorway. "You two clear out! I'm having a meeting in this room."

"But I won't keep you, Qwill. I just wanted to give you some good news."

"You've had an offer from The New York Times. "

With great joy she announced, "My best friend in California is coming for the Fourth of July weekend to attend the cat auction and bid on a kitten!"

"Good! Be sure to tell Maggie Sprenkle. It'll sound good in the publicity. Would he . . . or she . . . like to see The Big Burning ? There are house seats available."

"She's my classmate from J school, but she went into advertising. She also writes short stories and has sold a couple to crime magazines. She's hoping to find some juicy plot material while she's here."

He huffed into his moustache. He said, "Does your friend have a name? I hear the situation is so crowded on the West Coast, they're resorting to numbers."

On Friday night Qwilleran was sprawling in his lounge chair and reading to the Siamese. Yum Yum liked to sit on his lap and snuggle up to his ribs. The baritone vibrations reminded her, he had been told, of her mother's heartbeat while in the womb. Koko sat tall on the arm of the chair. Suddenly the phone rang, and Koko fell off. Yum Yum disappeared.

It was Polly, too excited to wait for his eleven o'clock call. "Qwill I have the most thrilling news! Orders are pouring in for the books you'll be signing next Wednesday. Already I've reordered twice."

"How do you account for that, Polly?"

"People tell me they're going to send books all over the country - to friends who grew up here and knew rumours of the enchanted castle in the woods. And Bushy's photos of the interiors will add to the excitement. Aren't you thrilled?"

Arrangements were made, sentiments were exchanged, and Qwilleran returned to his reading, only to be interrupted by the phone again.

"Qwill! I forgot to tell you the world-shaking news. Our crotchety mayor came into the store today and actually bought a book! What's more, she was congenial, according to the Green Smocks!"

"What did she buy?" he asked.

"You know it would be unethical to reveal customers' purchases," she said teasingly.

"You're just being rascally. Go back to your book. What are you reading?"

"That's privileged information."

And so it went.

It was the kind of bantering that always made Qwilleran's cats run around in circles. Why? Someday he would write a book. . . .