The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

Chapter 15

The Siamese sensed something was queer on Friday morning. Their breakfast had been served at seven AM, and his and her plates had been accidentally reversed under the kitchen table.

As for Qwilleran, he was having a Continental breakfast at the animal shelter with the two chairpersons of the kitty auction, both of them residents of Winston Park. Peggy Marsh was the young computer programmer who went to The Pirate's Chest twice a day to feed Dundee and "tidy up" his private domain. Judd Amhurst was the retiree who divided his time between the bookstore (managing special events) and the animal shelter (bathing the scruffy abandoned dogs brought to the shelter by rescue officers).

At the shelter the forty kittens occupied group cages but were transferred to their personal "limousines" for the rehearsal. One by one Qwilleran lifted them out of their baskets for fondling and sweet talk. They were hypnotized by the resonance of his voice and fascinated by his moustache.

Peggy said, "At the community hall tomorrow there'll be an audience of hundreds, according to the advance ticket sales, but the kittens will be mildly sedated."

"The main problem," said Qwilleran, remembering Koko's disastrous stage debut, "will be to keep the audience from shouting and screaming."

Judd said they could arrange to print some signs in a hurry: QUIET ! KITTENS ASLEEP ! "They could have an artist do some sketches of them; folks could take them home for a donation."

The rehearsal ended with coffee and sweet rolls from Lois's Luncheonette.

Judd said, "Did you know that her son is starting a lunchwagon, to be parked at special events? It'll be in the parking lot tomorrow."

Peggy said, "We're printing souvenir programs for the auction, listing kittens' formal names, nicknames, and markings."

Finally, Judd said, "If this auction is a success, we'll try one with puppies, and I'd buy one if they permitted dogs at Winston Park."

Qwilleran said, "Why not take the plunge tomorrow, Judd? I was a dog man myself until I came under the spell of you-know-who."

You-know-who were waiting on Qwilleran with what he considered a lack of enthusiasm. He took a shower and put his clothes in the washer. His housemates still greeted him as if his morning had been spent in illegal or immoral activity.

He gave them a treat. He brushed their coats. He read to them about bug and bird voices in Hawthorne's book, then toted them to the gazebo to experience bugs and birds firsthand. For himself he took the cell phone and some chocolate chip cookies.

All three of them seemed to feel a strangeness in the atmosphere. Everything was still, as if waiting for something. The sky, though sunny, was a sick yellow.

Then the phone calls started.

Clarissa called to say that her friend Vicki was arriving in late afternoon and was excited about adopting a kitten but would be unable to stay for Monday's parade because she was starting a new job on Tuesday at an important ad agency.

Qwilleran commented, "For anyone who has seen the Tournament of Roses in California, the Tournament of Peonies in Pickax will be no great loss."

Then Polly called praising Qwilleran for his noble offer to handle the auction and regretting that she could not attend; she had to work. She mentioned that Dundee had been acting freakish all day, as if he sensed a change in the weather.

In late afternoon Wetherby Goode phoned, saying in glum tones, "They're gonna shoot the weatherman for sure when they hear the six PM forecast."

Qwilleran said, "Better come here for a nip before you go to the station, Joe - since you predict this may be the last we'll ever hear."

He carried everyone and everything indoors to hear the bad news.

"The sad truth is this," said the meteorologist when he was seated at the bar with a drink and a bowl of mixed nuts. "That storm front that's been stalled over Canada all summer is starting to move over the lakes. It should hit here Sunday. High winds, torrential rain! What they call a Northern Hurricane. You might as well cancel The Big Burning. People won't want to drive. The rain comes in sheets. We can expect power outages. Does this barn have a generator? If not, better move back to the Village temporarily. We're equipped to take care of blackouts. And our streets are paved."

Qwilleran said, "I hope your weathercast tonight isn't going to scare the public away from my auction tomorrow."

"No, it's intended to give them time to stock up on flashlight batteries, canned soup, and cat and dog food."

On Saturday morning, the Forty Famous Felines were being transported in their group cages to the community hall, where they were given a light repast with a little something added to make them feel good about their adventure. The volunteers who attended them were accustomed to speaking in soothing voices, and they would transfer each kitten to his limousine in the proper order. A few salty tears would be shed over kittens like Prince Hal, Lorna Doone, and Rum Tum Tugger, who were going out into the wide world.

From the waiting room on the lower level, each limousine would be brought to the stage, carried by MCCC spotters, trained for the assignment. The bleak stage was made friendly by a few potted plants lent by florists, and the auctioneer's table in centre front was softened with a paisley shawl lent by Maggie Sprenkle herself. Qwilleran was wearing his silk shirt in a neutral color that would show the kittens' markings to advantage. Purposely, his moustache had not been trimmed.

As the excited audience began to gather, spotters pointed to signs saying: QUIET ! KITTENS ASLEEP !

Four-page catalogs were handed out, listing twenty males and twenty females by their glamorous names, their nicknames, along with markings and eye color.

When the seats were filled on the main floor and balcony, the main doors were closed, and the welcome was made by Maggie Sprenkle, an important figure in the local aristocracy as well as animal welfare.

She said, "We know you're going to adore these kitties and want to scream in delight, but - please keep your voices to a low murmur. And when our auctioneer makes his bow don't welcome him with thunderous applause, but . . . remember the kitties!"

When Qwilleran made his entrance, the enthusiasm threatened to explode. Here was Mr. Q in person! But he held up both hands for silence, and proceeded to thrill them with the depth and warmth of his mellifluous voice.

"Friends, let's review the rules of the game. All of you who have bought bidding tickets have also received numbered flash cards. There will be no shouting of bids. Flash cards will be used to make bids in silence. . . . Let me see your flash cards!" A flutter of numbers filled the main hall.

The eight spotters were women students in MCCC T-shirts, and their delight in this assignment was reflected in their happy faces. Those in the aisles would watch for the flashing of cards when the auctioneer said, "Who'll give me three hundred?" The spotters would point and say, "Hep!" When the top bid was reached, the spotter would return the lucky kitten to his limousine and escort the winning bidder and his purchase to the cashier in the lobby. The spotters also warned noisy members of the audience, and the auctioneer would halt the bidding until the disturbance ended.

When the first limousine was brought to the paisley-draped table, Qwilleran read the name tag and said, "We are starting with a member of royalty: Princess Isabella! [General murmur.] She is a white calico with soft gray markings and a distinctive personality. She knows she'll grow up to be a queen, and she's going to have fun while she can." [Wriggle of anticipation in the audience.] Qwilleran opened the lid of the basket slowly and peeked inside, then lifted the kitten gently. [Excited murmur.] Isabella raised her head and looked at the audience with golden eyes.

"Aw-w-w!" came a murmur from the hall.

Qwilleran said, "We're told she has a playful disposition in spite of her royal antecedents." He shifted his grip on her, and she looked at his hand then opened her pink mouth and rested her sharp little teeth on his finger.

"Aw-w-w!" was the sentimental murmur, louder this time, and the spotters in the aisles held up warning hands.

The auctioneer said, "Shall we start with . . . five hundred?" A flutter of flash cards led him to raise the bid to seven . . . then eight-fifty . . . finally a thousand.

"A thousand, I've got! A thousand once . . . a thousand twice . . . Sold to number ninety-three!"

A spotter led two young women from their seats, and another took Isabella in her limousine to meet them. As they went up the aisle to the cashier, Qwilleran realized that one of them was Clarissa Moore. Her tanned, well-groomed companion, who had just bought Isabella, must be her friend Vicki.

There were no more thousand-dollar bids that morning but it telegraphed the message that a thousand is not too much to pay for a kitten. Bids didn't go that high again until late afternoon but anything less than five hundred seemed an affront to a Puck, or an Iago or a Cleopatra.

No other kitten bit the auctioneer's finger, but several reached up and touched his moustache with a trembling paw, at which the audience murmured, "Aw-w-w!"

After twenty kittens had been adopted, there was an intermission, when bidders could eat a picnic lunch on the lower level or buy one from Lois's Lunchwagon in the parking lot. Backstage everyone was complimenting everyone else, and when the afternoon session opened, Qwilleran complimented the holders of flash cards for their cooperation.

He conducted swift transactions. If the bidding dragged, he removed the subject from the block, rather than insult a personage of such importance as: Nanki-Poo, Mary Poppins, or Jane Austen.

Toward the end of the afternoon there was one more high-dollar bid. The kitten was a reddish brown male with a cocky manner and a swaggering walk. "A man's cat," the volunteers had written on his name tag.

When his turn came at the auction table, Qwilleran looked at the name tag and said to the audience, " ?If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs . . .' This is Rudyard Kipling, who also answers to the name of Rudy!"

He lifted the muscular kitten from the limousine, and there was an appreciative murmur through the audience.

"To start, who'll give me five hundred? [Several cards flashed.] Who'll give me seven hundred? . . . Make it eight . . . Make it eight! . . . Eight I've got. Make it nine! Make it a thousand."

Only one card flashed. "Hep!" said the spotter.

Qwilleran saw the white hair. It was Judd Amhurst bidding the high dollar! He must be buying it for one of his married sons out west.

Backstage the volunteers were ecstatic about the outcome of the auction, and Maggie Sprenkle clasped Qwilleran's hand in both of hers.

"We realized over twenty thousand dollars for the shelter! How can we thank you, Qwill, for your tremendous contribution?"

"The experience is all the reward I need," he assured her.

On the way home Qwilleran stopped at the bookstore.

Polly said, "Clarissa brought her friend into the store today to show me Isabella, the kitten she bought. Is it a fact that the top bid was a thousand? Amazing."

"Isn't it? Remember that the K Fund will match it. Wait till Bart hears about it! It won't surprise him. Attorneys are surprise proof. I think it's an oath they take when they're admitted to the Bar. Judd bought Rudyard Kipling for the same amount - for one of his sons, no doubt."

"No, Qwill! Rudyard Kipling is for himself! He says he couldn't resist the sales pitch, and he liked the idea of getting a literary cat."

Polly said, "Now about Vicki. She's not staying as long as she planned. She starts a new job Tuesday morning, and she wants to get home to help her kitten adjust and prepare herself for a new work challenge. So she'll have to miss The Big Burning and Monday's parade."

Polly said, "Vicki was sorry she couldn't stay to meet you, Qwill, but she left a note for you."

It was an unusual shade of gray, with her monogram in white on the envelope flap. It was apparently something she had written before leaving home. He slipped it into his coat pocket.

Late Saturday evening, as Qwilleran was considering a bedtime read for the cats, Koko was more interested in the kitchen window than the bookshelf. He kept jumping on the kitchen counter and staring at the blackness outdoors.

"Expecting someone?" he asked. Then he realized how long it had been since Andrew Brodie had dropped in for a nightcap. He phoned the police chief at home, and in five minutes the big burly Scot was barging into the kitchen demanding, "Where's my smart cat? Where's my little sweetheart?" He dropped on a stool at the snack bar where Qwilleran had prepared a tray of Scotch, ice cubes, and cheese.

The Siamese frisked about, happy to see him: Andy usually maneuvered a few crumbs of cheese to them.

To Qwilleran he said, "Been listening to Joe on the air. That storm that's been stalled over Canada has started moving across the lakes. It might reach us by tomorrow and eliminate our parade on Monday."

"We can hardly complain," Qwilleran said. "We've had a spectacularly good summer."

"It's a pity, though. Our granddaughter is supposed to be on the Queen's float, and my wife is cutting a truckload of peonies in our backyard for the parade."

"Joe has been wrong before, Andy."

"Yeah, but . . . What kind of cheese is this? It's good!"

"It's domestic. Not all the good stuff comes from Switzerland and France. How's everything at City Hall, Andy? Who's watering the pansies?"

"Ach, mon! We haven't had trouble with the vandals all summer."

"Do you know that woman in Kennebeck who sees into the future, Andy?"

"She goes to our church. A fine woman. She saw the shooting as a crime, not an accident, but that doesn't hold up in court."

Qwilleran could have told him about Koko's death howl, signifying foul play, but as evidence it lacked credibility, to say the least.

Suddenly Koko emerged from somewhere and hopped up to the kitchen window, where he stared out with ears alert and tail pointed.

Both men turned to look at the dark glass.

In a minute or two, they heard a muffled blast and saw a bright flash in the dark sky.

Brodie jumped to his feet, talked on his cell phone, hurried to the door. "Crazies! Firebombed the window boxes at city hall!"

He rushed to his vehicle leaving Qwilleran to reflect: the anti-pansy faction! . . . Too bad. Another idea of Hixie's ruined but she won't give up!

Only then did it dawn on Qwilleran that Koko had been staring out the window into the blackness for half an hour - before the blast.

That cat! Qwilleran thought. He looks like a cat, walks like a cat, talks like a cat, but he knows what's going to happen - like that woman in Kennebeck. Is it because he has sixty whiskers instead of the normal forty-eight?

Baffled, he scooped himself a dish of ice cream.