The Cat Who Talked Turkey

TEN

It was panic time in the octagonal barn on Saturday night—although not for the two cats huddled atop the fireplace cube, gazing down on the frantic scene below. Four humans were scrambling about on hands and knees, rolling up rugs, climbing a stepladder, pulling seat cushions off the upholstered furniture, dumping wastebaskets on the floor.

“Here it is! I’ve found it!” cried Mildred Riker.

“Thank God! I thought she’d swallowed it!” Qwilleran shouted.

“You should keep it in a locked drawer,” Arch Riker suggested with authority.

Polly Duncan—assuming the voice of the WPKX gossip reporter—said, “A mad thimble scramble was held at the James Mackintosh Qwilleran residence Saturday night. Refreshments were served, and everyone had a good time.”

“Make mine a double martini,” said Arch.

Qwilleran poured dry sherry for Polly and mixed Q cocktails for Mildred and himself. Then they sat around the big square cocktail table with bowls of peanuts in red skins.

Arch said, “I don’t like the skins.”

“They’re nutritious, hon,” his wife said.

“I don’t like anything that’s good for me.”

“He’s just trying to sound macho,” she explained.

The four of them were old friends, and the rule of conversation was: Anything goes. The two men had been friends since kindergarten in Chicago.

Qwilleran asked, “Do you ever hear from your sister, Arch?”

“Oh, sure. She’s living with her second husband in Kansas and selling real estate and still writing in her diary.”

Mildred said, “Did I detect a snicker from both of you?”

Qwilleran said, “We might as well confess, Arch. We stole her diary once.”

“We only borrowed it from her dresser drawer while she was ice-skating. We were in fifth grade; she was in seventh and getting interested in boys.”

“It was hot stuff!” Qwilleran said. “She used code names to refer to different boys. How George Washington looked at her in a strange way and made her feel weak all over. And Benjamin Franklin said, ‘Hi!’ in history class, and she almost fainted.”

Arch said, “We returned the diary carefully, but she had set a trap for us, and the jig was up! It was all his idea!” Arch pointed a finger at his old friend. “But I was the one who got punished. I lost a week’s allowance.”

“As I recall,” Qwilleran said, “I very nobly gave you half of mine.”

“Yeah, but I also had to give up desserts for three nights, while she sat across the dinner table, grinning like a fiend!”

Mildred and Polly glanced at each other and rolled their eyes in resignation.

At that point, Yum Yum walked among them, carrying her thimble clamped in her jaws, and the question arose: Why do cats like thimbles? (They’re small and can be hidden; they’re round and can be rolled.)

Qwilleran said, “Let’s take a vote: Have another round of drinks or go to dinner?”

Arch lost, and they drove to the Nutcracker Inn on the bank of Black Creek. It occupied a Victorian mansion famous for its black walnut paneling and its roast loin of pork. They ordered the house specialty all around. The food was superb; conversation flowed easily; the squirrels in the yard entertained with their antics; the chef came out from the kitchen and kissed the ladies’ hands. Everything went well until . . .

In the middle of the night Qwilleran had a nightmare; Lish and Lush moved into his guest suite on the second balcony, despite Koko’s snarls. The dream was so real and so objectionable that Qwilleran had to get a flashlight and walk three times around the barn in his pajamas, disturbing the creatures of the night who scuttled through the underbrush and fluttered in the trees.

When he finally came indoors, Qwilleran wrote in his personal journal before going back to bed.

Saturday, June 28. Correction—Sunday morning, June 29:

Why did I order pork for dinner? Why did I ever consider that mercenary prima donna for my Great Storm show? And why did I commission her to do research—and give her fifty dollars on faith? It’s pure conceit on my part to want to know Koko’s background. As for that smart cat, he doesn’t care a whit whether he’s descended from a royal household in ancient Siam or from a computer, as long as he gets two squares a day, a couple of snacks, grooming with a silver-backed brush, and plenty of entertainment!

The call from California came around noon on Monday, reporting the arrival time of Simmons’s flight the following Saturday.

“Good! I’ll pick you up at the airport,” Qwilleran said. “We’ll drop your luggage at the barn, and you’ll have time to change into something for the wedding dinner.”

“Any suggestions for a wedding present?”

“Not a waffle iron!” Qwilleran winced at the roar of laughter in his ear. “They’ll be living in Thelma’s house, which is completely furnished and equipped, as you know.”

“Something else, Qwill. When I worked in Thelma’s dinner club as a security guard disguised as a friendly host, some peculiar things happened, and I jotted them down in a notebook. I don’t pretend to be a writer, and it’s just a school notebook, but I thought of wrapping it up and giving it to Janice. It’ll bring back memories.”

“Excellent idea, Simmons, but you should keep a copy for yourself.”

“Okay. I’ll take it out and have it copied.”

“No! Bring it along. I have a copier.”

Qwilleran was curious to see the notebook himself; it might have possibilities.

“Will do, Qwill! See you soon.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Chiefly Qwilleran was looking forward to having frank discussions with Simmons, on subjects avoided in a small town. Even with his close friends, Polly and Arch, he practiced self-censorship.

Qwilleran drove to Boulder House Inn with a signed copy of Short & Tall Tales for Silas Dingwall, who had contributed a hackle-raising legend titled “The Mystery of Dank Hollow.” The innkeeper was elated to see his name in print in a book—and his words verbatim. Actually, he was a practiced storyteller, gathering his guests around the craggy fireplace on a cold night and telling ghost stories that had been in his family for generations and rum-running tales that he swore were true.

Qwilleran said to Dingwall, “While I’m here, let’s discuss the wedding dinner. All expenses go on my credit card. There’ll be three couples, plus one surprise guest from California. Where will you seat us?”

“Ah! We have a glassed-in porch upstairs, for privacy and a view of the lake. And it has an oval table that can be laid with a handsome banquet cloth!”

“Sounds ideal! Let me explain the surprise guest,” Qwilleran said.

Dingwall, who enjoyed a little intrigue, said, “We’ll hide him in the office until the proper moment. We’ll give him a drink—on the house—while he’s waiting.”

Jovially, Qwilleran said, “I should tell you, Silas, he is the son of a revenue agent.”

“I don’t care who he’s the son of—if he’s your friend, he’s welcome here!”

“I’d like to order flowers for the table. Any suggestions?”

“Only this. Two low bowls of something instead of one tall arrangement. We use a fine white tablecloth that makes a handsome background for any flowers you choose.”

“I’d like Mrs. Duncan to decide on the flowers. May I use your phone?” He called the library and posed the question.

“Lilies!” she said. “Definitely lilies! They’re the most extroverted of blossoms, and without the long stems, they have a very appealing personality. And they come in all colors. It would depend greatly on what colors the bride and her attendant are wearing. Do you happen to know?”

“No, I don’t happen to know,” Qwilleran said, rather testily. More softly he added, “Would you be good enough to call Janice and Sharon MacGillivray and find out?”

“Be glad to,” she said. “Then I’ll know what to wear.”

Qwilleran turned to Dingwall. “It’s more complicated than I thought. The florist will deliver the flowers to you Saturday morning.”

All the way home from the lakeshore, Qwilleran tried to devise an idea for his Tuesday “Qwill Pen” column. It would have to be original, worthwhile, thought-provoking, entertaining, and easy to write. Nothing came to mind. That meant resorting to another book review.

“Book!” he shouted as he walked into the barn, and Koko soared from the floor to the top shelf and dislodged a slender book that Qwilleran had purchased because it was written by the author of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Sadly, neither man nor cat had enjoyed it, and it had been relegated to the shelf. Why did the bibliocat draw attention to it again? Koko never did anything without a reason.

Qwilleran packed the tote bag with cats, refreshments, and the paperback copy of The Hunting of the Snark. He said, “We all need some fresh air.”

They trooped purposefully to the gazebo, and—relaxing in his favorite lounge chair—Qwilleran promptly dozed off. After all, the events of the night had deprived him of sleep.

It was not long before he was aroused by a cacophony of weird sounds from Koko, who was staring through the screen toward the bird garden. There was movement in the shrubbery. Then the branches parted, and out stepped one of those elongated birds with snakelike neck, red wattle, scrawny body, and long, scaly legs.

Then, to compound the mystery, the bird was followed by fifteen or more small replicas, a few inches high. Their composure was definitely greater than that of the watchers in the gazebo. As the cats stared in disbelief, the large bird returned to the shrubbery, followed by the swarm of obedient clones.

On a wild hunch Qwilleran phoned the Hotel Booze and asked Gary, “What’s that Turkey Trot announced on the bulletin board in your lobby?”

“That’s the monthly meeting of the Outdoor Club. They’re having a popular speaker from somewhere in Minnesota. He’ll talk about wild turkeys. Everybody welcome. Tomorrow night at seven o’clock. Are you interested in wild turkeys?”

“Just curious.”