The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

Chapter 14

Hixie Rice was flying high! Sell-out audiences were having a good cry at The Big Burning and laughing in all the right places at Billy the Kid. Family reunions were a success - with one exception, the shooting. Who really killed the rabbit hunter?

Everyone was looking forward to the second parade. One day Qwilleran entered the following in his journal:

Today the cats and I were enjoying the gazebo when Culvert McBee came walking up the lane carrying a plastic sack. His mother makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the county! And I was prepared with a limerick:

Fresh cookies from Mrs. McBee

Are always received with much glee!

Does she bake every batch

Of cookies from scratch?

Or maybe they grow on a tree?

How that boy has grown! I remember him when he was a nine-year-old defeating adults in a spelling bee! Since then his parents have encouraged him in a series of worthwhile enterprises, including a backyard shelter for old, sick, abandoned dogs.

I invited him to sit down, but he said he had to go home and do chores. Yet he showed a certain heel-kicking reluctance to leave.

"Is something on your mind?" I asked him.

He said the new girl at the paper found out about his backyard shelter and wants to write about it. His father said no, explaining that people all over the county will be dumping the unwanted dogs on the McBee farm.

I told Culvert his father is absolutely right! I said I would explain it to the new girl.

Only yesterday she informed me the cat club had invited her to join it, and enter Jerome in the cat fashion show. He had won one in California.

I pointed out to her that she was brought here as a journalist to report on such events - not as a joiner of organizations seeking publicity.

Qwilleran was looking forward to another book signing on Wednesday. The Literary Club was introducing The Historic Hibbard House : text by James Mackintosh Qwilleran and photographs by John Bushland.

All the best people assembled on the lower floor of The Pirate's Chest.

They rose to their feet in a vociferous welcome when the author stepped to the podium and the photographer projected the first image in the darkened room. It was the century-old mansion of eccentric design and curious legend - that had been reduced to ashes overnight.

Bushland's photo of the strange architecture made a striking illustration for the dust jacket of The Historic Hibbard House. Stranger still was the color of the jacket - a flowery shade of violet. Qwilleran explained it to the audience:

"Four generations occupied this house. It was built by a wealthy sawmill owner who could neither read nor write. . . . His son, college-bred, lived his life as a country gentlemen who liked to entertain guests. . . . His grandson was a serious scholar, noted for his library. . . . His great-granddaughter and last of the Hibbards was a professor of drama and poetry. Her name was Violet."

The morning after the book signing, Qwilleran walked downtown to Lanspeak's Department Store to buy a violet-scented gift for Polly, who had originally suggested the color of the book jacket.

Carol Lanspeak was at the cosmetics counter, arranging a display. "Can you believe it? We're having a run on violet this morning! I'm going to do a window on the color - with items from all over the store, and with books courtesy of The Pirate's Chest."

For Polly, Carol suggested a light violet scent in a gold filigree bottle. "Do you have time to go back to the office and say hello to Larry?"

The owner of the store was frowning over record books. "Come in! Come in! Have a cup of coffee, I'm ready to take a break."

"I saw you and Carol at the meeting last night."

"Compliments on a good presentation. Carol and I knew the Hibbards."

"I suppose you know the Ledfields," Qwilleran said.

"Quite well, although they don't socialize like the other old-timers. Our daughter is their physician."

"Is that so?" Qwilleran sensed another link in the Ledfield Saga.

The Lanspeaks were fine old stock like the Ledfields but chose to live in a rambling farmhouse in the hills and join in the business life and community interests of the county. Their daughter was a physician practicing locally and living in Indian Village.

Suddenly Carol breezed into the office saying in a low voice, "Larry, strangers in jewelry. Would you see what they're all about?"

Larry dashed out, and Qwilleran asked, "Are you having any trouble this summer?"

"We're seeing a lot of new faces," she said, "but there are strangers - and strangers ! When Larry and I were in New York, trying to get into theatre, we both worked as store detectives - and learned plenty! This year our six-foot-two stockboy from Wildcat has been promoted to store detective, but this is his day off."

"Is he a Cuttlebrink?" Qwilleran asked, exhibiting his local savvy.

"Aren't they all?" She rolled her eyes.

She said, "You were asking about the Ledfields. They go to our church, and twenty years ago the Sunday school had a hands-on program for youngsters. Each child adopted a lonely widow or a couple who were childless. They sent handmade greeting cards throughout the year to their ?adopted' elders--"

"Great idea!" Qwilleran said. "Is the program still going?"

"I'm afraid not," Carol said. "It was the pet project of Agatha Burns, one of your ?Late Greats.'

"But one of the Happy Endings is that Diane has grown up and become a physician and has ?adopted' Doris and Nathan, who enjoy the luxury of receiving house calls."

"Beautiful story," Qwilleran said.

Following the visit with Carol and Larry, Qwilleran wrote a note to their daughter, drove to Indian Village, and dropped it in her mailbox:

Thursday

Dear Diane,

Were your ears burning this morning? Your parents were telling me about Agatha Burns's idea for Sunday school - and how your adopted "aunt" became a lifelong friend.

The reason I'm writing: A mutual friend has been trying to get in touch with Doris and is told repeatedly that she is unwell. She's concerned.

Qwill

In early evening, Diane phoned. "I know you're busy, and I appreciate your taking the time to notify me. I checked her condition this afternoon and found it wise to consult an allergy specialist in Lockmaster. We both think we should have an environmental investigation. Those old houses are terribly damp. Thank you for the tip."

When Qwilleran phoned Polly at eleven o'clock, she was effervescing with news. "Clarissa returned Doris's diamond ring, as you suggested, and today Doris sent it back to Clarissa with a touching note. It said, ?I think of you as the daughter I never had!' Clarissa is keeping the ring in a safety box at the bank, but first she had it appraised by a jeweler in Lockmaster."

"Did she say what it's worth?"

"No. And I didn't ask, dear!" Polly said archly.

"I admire your restraint," he replied, equally arch.

Having enjoyed that bit of badinage, they settled down to their usual exchange of news.

"Wetherby's giving a pizza party for Clarissa's guest," Polly said.

"That comes as no surprise," replied Qwilleran.

"Do you want to go to the cat auction, Qwill?"

"It's one event I can afford to skip, although I'm curious to know how Foxy Fred is going to handle those kittens without terrifying them."

"Peggy says it's going to be filmed."

"Good! Sign me up for two videos."

"Well, à bientôt, dear."

"À bientôt!"

Before he could call "treat" to the cats, the phone rang again. Obviously, Polly had an afterthought. He picked it up.

"On second thought, I'll take three videos," he said.

"What? What? . . . Qwill. Is this Qwill?" came a distraught voice. It was Maggie Sprenkle.

"Sorry. I thought it was someone else. Is this Maggie? What's wrong. This is Qwill."

"Oh, Qwill! Have you heard the bad news?" Panic was added to the aging voice.

"No! What's the trouble?"

"There's been a terrible accident! Foxy Fred fell out of a tree. His back is broken." She stopped to wail in anguish!

Qwilleran was silent with shock and what it would mean.

"Did you hear me, Qwill?"

"This is terrible! What was he doing in the tree?"

"Cutting off a branch that had tent worms, they say. Lost his footing on the ladder."

"What will this do to the auction plans?" After he had said it, he knew it was a stupid question.

"You'll have to come to the rescue, Qwill! You're the only one who can do it. People are coming from all over the state. TV crews, too."

"What can I say, Maggie? Will you let me think about it?"

"You can't! You can't! No one else can do it!" She was still sobbing, and he began to worry about her having a stroke.

"All right. All right. Calm down, Maggie. Have a cup of tea, and don't worry about a thing. I'll do it. We'll talk about it in the morning. No problem. . . . Do you hear?"

Stunned, he returned to the kitchen to give the cats a treat, then conducted them wordlessly to their sleeping quarters on the third level and watched them hop into their respective baskets. Their door was left open, so they could roam during the night, observing who-knows-what feline rituals. Qwilleran always closed his own door.

On this occasion he retired fearing he would not sleep, and he was right. He had entertained doubts about the kitty auction when it was Foxy Fred's responsibility; now he envisioned a new problem. The kittens had been rehearsing, but not in a strange building before a large - and probably overexcited - audience.

One o'clock. Two o'clock. At two-thirty he became aware of a scratching at his door and a rattling of his door handle.

He jumped out of bed, and there they were - a couple of cool cats. Koko looked around as if saying, "Here we are!"

"You rascals!" Qwilleran said, as he sprawled in his thinking chair. The cats joined him - Yum Yum cozily on his lap and Koko on the arm of the chair, from which he stared at the man's forehead. A calm invaded the room. Qwilleran thought, Anyone who can play the lead in King Lear at the age of fifteen and direct a high school production of Life with Father at the age of sixteen should be able to handle a cat auction. . . . Think of it as show-biz . . . with a cast of forty scene stealers! . . . An audience of cat lovers will be a pushover! . . . We'll not only get their money, we'll show them a good time!

He shooed the cats out of the room and went to bed.

"Wanna wanna wanna wanna . . . bidda bidda bidda bidda."

He mesmerized himself to sleep.