The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

Chapter 6

On Memorial Day Qwilleran and Polly appeared in the women's lingerie department on the second floor of the Lanspeak store. Large windows overlooked the parade route, and there were folding chairs borrowed from Dingleberry's Funeral Home as well as some tall bar stools lent by Harry's Pub . . . not to mention a few plaster mannequins in chiffon nightgowns, lace-trimmed slips, and black satin teddies.

Others who had been invited were Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers, Gil MacMurchie, and certain community leaders.

The Ledfields had been invited because they had lent historic objects for the float, but said they were suffering from allergies; June was the month for sniffing and sneezing in Moose County.

The audio gags were effective. The sight gags were beguiling. Then came the floats depicting Pickax Then :

HOW IT ALL STARTED . . . The famous pickax.

THEY WERE HERE FIRST . . . Wildlife - fine examples of the taxidermist's art.

BE IT EVER SO HUMBLE . . . The interior of a pioneer cabin with fire glowing on the hearth, a cook pot on a tripod, mother rocking a cradle, small boy reading a large picture book, older sister sewing, father arriving home with shotgun and a brace of rabbits.

DEAR OLD GOLDEN SCHOOLDAYS . . . Children sitting on wooden benches, schoolmarm, looking stern and rapping a ruler on a table piled with old books.

LONG BEFORE SUPERMARKETS . . . A barnyard scene with live cow and farmer with milk pail, chickens in coops, children carrying egg baskets, a sack of corn.

SUNDAY GO-TO-MEETIN' . . . Family dressed in their Sunday best, sitting on backless benches, hymnbooks open, preacher pounding the pulpit, choir of three primly dressed singers.

THE OLD VILLAGE STORE . . . Clerk measuring calico for a customer, small boy ogling candy jars, loafers playing checkers on the old cracker barrel.

WITH THIS RING I THEE WED . . . Bride and groom sitting for photographer, box camera on a tripod and his head under a black cloth, attendants throwing confetti at spectators on the sidewalk.

The parade ended with a laugh: a marching band of clodhoppers wearing raggle-taggle garb, plodding along, hopelessly out of step, playing "Yankee Doodle Dandy" and hitting wrong notes with joyful abandon. They were the high school band - having fun, acting up, burlesquing the Good Old Days.

The crowd on the sidelines went wild with cheers and whistles, and the distinguished onlookers in the second-floor window laughed and applauded and congratulated Gil MacMurchie for a job well done.

Qwilleran said, "All the performers on the floats were members of the theatre club and had Carol and Larry for directors. It shows!"

"I appreciate watching a parade from a comfortable chair - behind glass - but I wonder if we missed some of the sound effects: the farmer playing his harmonica to his cow, for example." Polly said, "And the three choir singers in the Sunday-meeting scene told me they were going to sing hymns in three-part harmony."

Qwilleran scribbled a limerick on an index card - anonymously - and slipped it to Hixie:

Old folks all remember how

Every family had a cow.

Life was slow

And prices were low,

But I'd rather live in Pickax now.

After the parade, Qwilleran and Polly went to the barn for some classical music. Polly had wanted to pack a picnic lunch, but he knew what it would comprise, and he insisted on ordering from the caterer. When they arrived at the barn, Celia Robinson had delivered roast beef and cheddar sandwiches on rye, avocado and papaya salad, and lemon bars.

Polly was politely enthusiastic over the picnic fare; Qwilleran felt she really preferred that other stuff, but he pretended to be pleased that she was pleased. To take her mind off the calories he said, "I overheard spectators at the parade talking about ?Shooting and Poisoning.' Is that some lurid TV special that I'm missing?" (At the barn, the only TV was in the cats' quarters, and they watched only wildlife features.)

Polly explained that they were talking about the Kennebeck woman who has second sight and had predicted shooting and poisoning during Pickax Now. This was the first time that she had predicted a crime - man against man.

"The poisoning I can understand," he said. "All those family reunions, all those picnics, all that potato salad."

"Oh, Qwill . . ." she chided and changed the subject.

The day after the parade, it was back to work for Qwilleran.

The families scheduling reunions in Pickax during the summer may have suggested ideas for his twice-weekly column, but his real interest was pure curiosity: He had never been a member of a family.

In Chicago he grew up with only a mother, his father having died before he was born. No brothers or sisters, no grandparents, no aunts and uncles. Arch Riker was his best friend, and Mr. Riker did fatherly service for both boys: advice, sandlot baseball, trips to the zoo. Even now, the only members of Qwilleran's "family" were two Siamese cats.

In Pickax the host families of reunions were exhorted to register their plans and receive help with accommodations, entertainment reservations, and restaurant availabilities.

Qwilleran went downtown to ask some questions and picked up a copy of the newspaper in the dispenser outside the store. Across the bottom of the front page was a two-line heading:

THE LAUGH'S ON YOU,FELLAS !

YOU STOLE A FAKE PICKAX!

The police chief had been right: Maxine Pratt had been right. Qwilleran shrugged it off and went to the desk in the store lobby, where Thornton Haggis was on duty as registrar, asking, "Do you accept registrations for families of three?"

Without missing a beat Thorn asked, "Are they interested in sports, plays, music, art shows, antiques? How about a dog show? How about a cat fashion show?"

"What! Are we having one of those abominations here?" Qwilleran's shock was genuine.

"They say they're very popular all over - with cat clubs, pet owners, and the general public. You're dragging your feet, Qwill!"

"Let's change the subject, Thorn, before I burst a blood vessel."

"Well . . . I'm organizing a tour of old cemeteries that might interest you: forgotten graveyards, old tombstones, a few raunchy inscriptions. I have them all catalogued, and the old account books of Haggis Monument Works can tell visitors how much their ancestors paid for their grave markers. At one time in history, five dollars was a lot to pay for a tombstone."

"One question, Thorn. What is it that draws so many relatives together - from such great distances? It must be an emotion I've never felt."

"I daresay. It all boils down to family feeling, a consuming interest in your own flesh and blood - their successes, exploits, travels, even setbacks - a chance to see how the kids have grown, who has dyed her hair, who is gaining weight. It seems to be a middle-class phenomenon."

"How many families have signed up, Thorn? Could I spend a morning or afternoon with one group - just to see what they do, what they talk about, what they eat, how far they've traveled to be part of Pickax Now ?"

"Take your pick!" said the registrar. "Any one of them would think it an honor. Here's the list."

There were names he had never heard before, and names that were too well known, but "Ogilvie-Fugtree" sounded inviting. He had known Mitch Ogilvie when the young bachelor was managing the Farmhouse Museum and later when he married a descendant of Captain Fugtree. She was a goat farmer, and Mitch was learning to make cheese. They lived in the captain's historic farmhouse - a tall, stately, Victorian mansion.

Actually, Qwilleran knew more about the couple than he could use in a column, but he felt comfortable with them.

"Sign me up for a Saturday afternoon visit, Thorn," he said. "And by the way, I sent a young couple down to the art centre Saturday, and they bought one of your bowls for a gift. I hear you mesmerized them with some of your tall tales."

"I don't know about that, but they said they were visiting the Ledfields in Purple Point, so I completed their education."

One morning Qwilleran said to the attentive Siamese, "Your uncle George is coming again. Do your ablutions before he gets here, and don't forget to wash behind your ears."

"Uncle George" was G. Allen Barter, the attorney. To Qwilleran he was "Bart" - more of a pun than most persons realized.

When Bart arrived, the four trooped into the dining room, single file, ready for business.

The attorney said, "I searched my briefcase backwards and forward for that news photo of Harvey Ledfield. So did my wife, who has an eagle eye. Today is her birthday, by the way, and I'm taking her to dinner at the Boulder House Inn - just the two of us."

From a pencil holder Qwilleran plucked a fat yellow lead pencil stamped "Qwill Pen" in gold. "Give her this - with my birthday wishes, Bart."

"She'll be ecstatic! She's won three pens in your reader competitions, and she displays them like silver trophies."

Qwilleran said, "You married a Gemini, you lucky dog! That means she's not only eagle-eyed but strong, kind, talented, smart, physically attractive--"

"How do you know all this esoteric guff?"

With a feigned show of modesty Qwilleran said, "I happen to be a Gemini myself."

"I should have suspected one of your sly tricks! . . . What are those photos?" He pointed toward two eight-by-ten glossies.

"Oh, those!" Qwilleran said casually. "When I took my guests to dinner at the Nutcracker Inn on Saturday night, there happened to be a news photographer in the lobby, and he made shots of my party and the guest of honor, solo. You might like to give them to Harvey's aunt to replace the missing news clipping."

"Very kind of you, Qwill. And how did the sketching go?"

"He seemed to be impressed. His fiancée is charming. They walked down the lane to the art centre and bought a turned-wood bowl for Harvey's aunt. It's a work of art - but a far cry from the silver-and-porcelain bowls she probably has in her collection."

With an abrupt change of mood the attorney said, "I had a call from one of their secretaries this morning, canceling their appointment. Both Mr. and Mrs. Ledfield are ?indisposed.' Allergy symptoms."

"How many secretaries do they have?" Qwilleran interrupted.

"One to handle their financial undertakings, which are extensive, and one to handle their collectibles."

Qwilleran said, "I hope their condition is nothing serious."

"My wife calls this area Pollen Paradise. Every second person you meet has a red nose, red eyes, and a box of tissues. One would think the Ledfields, having lived here for three generations, would know how to deal with pollen."

Qwilleran thought, There were questions that could be asked, but attorneys don't talk about their clients, especially to a newspaperman.

Uncle George changed the subject. "How did the cats react to having an architectural draftsman in their private domain?"

"Yum Yum stayed out of sight, but Koko surprised us all with his interest in the operation. . . . And, by the way, Bart, someone was telling me that the Ledfields are bequeathing their historical collections to Moose County for the establishment of a museum - provided the county erects a suitable building. Is that a fact?"

"It's in the will, but I don't see it happening in the foreseeable future. The Ledfields appear to be long-lived. Nathan's father lived to be eighty and his grandfather ninety."

"But that was before freeway fatalities, plane crashes, and deranged snipers," Qwilleran said. "Not to mention [he added whimsically] a new strain of hay fever imported from Outer Space."

"Yow!" Koko interrupted petulantly. His noontime snack was behind schedule.

"Meeting adjourned," the attorney said as he stuffed papers into his briefcase.