The Cat Who Talked Turkey

NINE

As Qwilleran was leaving the barn Tuesday morning, he was accompanied to the exit by the Siamese, who sat on their haunches and awaited his farewell as if they knew what he was saying. He always told them where he was going, what he would be doing, and when he would return. After he left, they would race around the barn, whisking papers off the desk and overturning wastebaskets. As Cool Koko would say, When the man’s away, the cats will play.

Qwilleran drove to the town of Brrr, which he knew only for its superlative burgers at the Black Bear Café in the Hotel Booze. For the first time he noticed the small park across the street, with its modest fountain and uncomfortable benches on which no one cared to sit.

His curiosity aroused, Qwilleran drove around town and saw a thriving business district . . . a monument to the Scots who founded the town . . . a fringe of residential streets . . . and the broad avenue known as the Parkway. It was lined with stone residences of impressive size, built in the nineteenth century, and at the very end, gleaming like a beacon in the sunlight, was the white frame replica of Mount Vernon, built by the second Dr. Carroll. It had the red roof and broad lawns of the original, but the grass needed cutting.

Qwilleran’s real reason for visiting Brrr was to meet Maxine Pratt, who would now handle the sound effects for the show. He drove down a side street that circled the hotel and sloped down to the harbor. On the boardwalk a young woman in yachting cap and royal-blue jumpsuit was giving orders to a young blond giant grasping a hammer. He nodded as she pointed and explained, and then he trotted down the pier to fix loose boards.

The woman turned and saw the famous moustache. “Qwill!” she cried.

“Are you Gary’s wife,” he asked, “or are you wearing her jumpsuit?” The name “Maxine” was embroidered on the breast pocket.

“Gary has told me so much about you!”

“Why is a nice woman like you married to that hairy brute?”

“He may look like a black bear, but he’s a real pussycat,” she said. “We used to go out in his sailboat, and he’d talk about how a sky full of sail and a whispering breeze can touch the soul of a man. And I knew he couldn’t be all bad.”

“I’m glad you got together,” Qwilleran said. “Now when can you and I get together for a technical rehearsal? All we need is a quiet room with two tables and two chairs.”

“Tomorrow night, about eight o’clock?” she suggested.

“Perfect! I’ve brought you a cue card and also a copy of the script, so you can see what happens between cues.”

“You’re so well organized, Qwill!”

“It’s a lot easier than organizing a parade of two hundred boats. How will it work? Will they parade single file?”

“No, in fleets of about twenty-five. There are eight towns on the lakefront, and each will have a fleet—and a port master in charge.”

Qwilleran noticed some eager-looking tourists coming along the boardwalk, and he said, “Tell me the rest of it tomorrow night. Bring the speech you’ll be making to the audience.”

“I’ve memorized it already!” she said proudly.

Qwilleran stopped for lunch at Lois’s Luncheonette. The Tuesday special was always turkey, and Lois always sent a few pieces of meat home to the Siamese. Then he went to the barn for a private run-through of the script.

Now he had to decide how much emotion to put in his voice as a broadcaster. How objective should he be in reporting the first bulletins? And how much concern should he show as the bulletins went from bad to worse? His tone of voice, as well as the words he was reading, would increase the reactions of the audience. When satisfied with the dramatic effect created and the sense of reality maintained, Qwilleran had a cup of coffee and then did another run-through, pressing the PLAY button to bring in the eyewitness reports. So far, so good, but with an assistant handling the controls, the pace would quicken and the emotions of the audience would intensify.

Despite the assorted noises, the Siamese slept peacefully on their cushioned chair . . . until an inaudible sound jerked both of them awake and started their ears swiveling. It could only mean that someone was coming! Qwilleran left the gazebo and walked around the building to the barnyard in time to see a car emerging from the woods, purring like a well-tuned vehicle. The cats could not have heard someone coming; they had sensed it in their sleep. Qwilleran shook his head; it was too much to fathom.

At any rate, he was glad to see his friend G. Allen Barter from the law office. “Bart! What brings you sneaking through the woods like a poacher? How about a drink?”

“Not today, thanks. I’m on my way home, but I was at the courthouse and decided it would be easier to drop in than to call on this erratic cell phone.”

They went to the gazebo, and the attorney spoke to the Siamese, who responded by going back to sleep. He said, “Beautiful day! Did I interrupt something?”

“Not at all. Have a chair—I warn you, they all have cat hairs on them—and tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Well, our senior partner received a panicked call from an important client. She said that you, Qwill, had advised her to disinherit her granddaughter, evict her from the house on the Parkway, change the locks, and hire a security guard!”

Calmly, Qwilleran replied, “I advised her to hire a housekeeper, but I suppose a security guard can cut the grass, too.”

“Also, she said that you, Qwill, told her to donate the property to the community for a museum.”

“Is that all?”

“Isn’t that enough? How did you get involved with Dr. Carroll’s widow? I’m interested only in you as my client. My partner seemed to think everything made sense.”

Then Bart asked, “Does anyone know when the young people will be back from . . . wherever they’ve gone?”

“Milwaukee—on business. I hired Alicia to do some research for me while she was there, so I’m sure she’ll report to me—to collect her fee, if for no other reason.”

“Has she been here to the barn?”

“No. Gary is particular about not giving out my phone number and address. It’s his idea, not my request, but I appreciate it.”

Barter nodded. “He’s an all-right guy, with a lot of common sense. . . . So why does he have to wear that ridiculous beard?”

“He’s descended from pioneers, and they were—and still are—individualists. Although I must say that he shaved it off for his wedding, and everyone said he looked like a nonentity.”

“And, by the way, there’s a curious sidelight to this domestic drama,” Bart said. “I’m a greenhorn from Down Below, and it amazes me how the locals descend on their relatives without warning and stay overnight. The element of surprise appears to be part of the fun. They may bring their sleeping bags and bed down on the living room carpet; the sleeping bags are another part of the fun. . . . Well, Mrs. Carroll tells us that her granddaughter always drops in without warning. Suppose the girl turns up on the holiday weekend and finds herself locked out of Mount Vernon, and Ittibittiwassee Estates takes a dim view of unwedded couples camping on the living-room carpet; and every tourist accommodation is booked solid. The two letters sent to Alicia each contained a list of accommodations with a sold-out notice. But what if the young couple come right here from wherever they are without touching base in Milwaukee! Then what?”

“Don’t look at me,” Qwilleran said. “My guest room is not available. And I think the cats don’t care for Alicia; they’ve never met her, but Koko snarls every time she talks on the phone.” He refrained from mentioning the nature of the assignment he had given her. Qwilleran himself was beginning to consider the research a lost cause.

A moment later, an ear-shattering, bloodcurdling howl came from the corner of the gazebo.

The attorney jumped to his feet. “What the devil was that?”

Qwilleran said, “Just something that Siamese males do to attract attention.”

“Sounds to me as if he has a bellyache. Better give him a pill! . . . Well, since I’m on my feet, I might as well go home.”

Bart left, and Qwilleran gave Koko a searching look. That unsettling howl had nothing to do with indigestion. It meant that someone, somewhere, had been murdered, and there was significance to the crime. As for Qwilleran, he was still experiencing the goose bumps caused by Koko’s howl, and he rubbed both arms to restore the circulation.

Qwilleran treated himself to a solitary dinner at the Black Bear Café before the technical rehearsal with Maxine. By sitting at the bar, he could exchange a few words with Gary, as he shuffled back and forth, filling drink orders.

On this occasion the barkeeper was acting in a most unusual way: saying nothing, glancing about as if he expected to be raided, and altogether exuding an air of mystery.

Finally, Qwilleran said, “Is there something you want to tell me, Gary? Don’t tell me the Pratts are pregnant!”

Ignoring the quip, Gary wiped the top of the bar at length before confiding in a low voice, “Just heard the most spectacular rumor.”

“Are you keeping it to yourself, or do you want to tell me?”

“Promise you won’t tell a soul!”

“Promise!” As a journalist, Qwilleran could never tolerate not knowing.

Gary gave two swift looks up and down the bar. “Brrr is getting Mount Vernon, complete with antiques, as a museum!”

“No kidding! Where did you hear it?”

“I’ve sworn not to tell. But it’ll be front-page news in the Something soon.”

“It would be interesting to know who engineered the deal, wouldn’t it, Gary?”

“Yeah . . . well . . . we’ll never know. What I’d like to know is how it’ll affect Lish and Lush; they’ve been campin’ out at the house, y’know.” Then he was called away to pour a tray full of drinks for a waitress, and that was the end of grand intrigue for that evening.

Qwilleran was still enjoying a private chuckle when he met Maxine in a small room off the foyer. She was much too businesslike to have heard the rumor. “Okay! How do we do this?” she asked, clapping her hands together. “I’m all excited!”

“You at your recorder, Maxine, and I at my mike will both be facing the audience. First, I’d like to hear your introduction to them. You’ll walk to the front of the platform and face the crowd to make your speech, then immediately return to your machine and press the first button. You sit down and stay seated until we take our bow at the end.”

“Is there an intermission?”

“Not for the audience and not for you, but I leave the stage to denote the passage of time—during which your recorder is playing storm music.”

“What kind of expression should I wear?”

“Alert. Concerned. No reaction to the news, though.”

“And what should I wear?”

“Something ageless and timeless, like a blouse and skirt, so long as the blouse has a high neck and the skirt isn’t too much above the ankles. You should wear it a week from tonight, for our dress rehearsal.”

Maxine was so efficient, so agreeable, that Qwilleran contemplated doing more than the scheduled seven performances.

The Siamese were nervous that evening, frequently jumping to the kitchen counter and peering out the window into the darkness of the woods.

“Expecting someone?” Qwilleran asked archly.

Eventually a vehicle came swooping through the trees and stopped at the kitchen door with the assurance of a frequent visitor. The cats started frisking around—their body language for Here he is!

“What brings you here in such a cloud of dust?” Qwilleran asked.

“Thirsty, mon!” said Chief Brodie, “and some fresh-breaking police news.”

He seated himself at the snack bar, and Qwilleran served Scotch and cheese, and the cats observed from a respectful distance.

“Don’t keep me in suspense, Andy. Have they caught the vandal who’s been soaping windows?” Qwilleran asked facetiously.

Dismissing the weak quip with a grunt, Brodie said, “There’s been a copycat murder in northern Michigan—like the one on your property—same MO . . . same type of weapon . . . same sort of victim . . . same sort of wooded terrain.”

“Do similarities like that aid in the investigation?” Qwilleran asked absently. His mind was elsewhere. He was thinking of Koko’s death howl. It was not the first time that the remarkable cat had sensed wrongdoing in some distant spot.

No matter how remote, there was always a connection to the here and now. That was the reason Qwilleran had wanted to investigate Koko’s heritage.