The Cat Who Talked Turkey

SEVENTEEN

The gossips had little grist for their mill. As always, local police and news media respected Qwilleran’s desire for anonymity. The perpetrators of the homicide were dead, and Koko, the only witness to the suicide, was not talking. Edythe Carroll was back in her Ittibittiwassee apartment under the close supervision of Dr. MacKenzie, along with her collection of miniature porcelain shoes. They had survived the collision, thanks to the sturdiness of the luggage, the way it was lodged in the back of the car, and the thickness of the bath towels.

These developments left Qwilleran gratefully free to concentrate on the “Qwill Pen” column and the “Great Storm” show, which was playing twice weekly to full houses. Polly Duncan and the Rikers attended the second matinee, after which they met for a picnic in the gazebo: drinks courtesy of Arch, casserole by Mildred, celery sticks and low-calorie dessert by Polly.

“How come this place looks so clean?” asked Arch Riker, a master of the brutal compliment.

“The cats spend a lot of time out here, and they shed. It’s about time I had it cleaned.”

The truth was that the fussy pair had boycotted the gazebo ever since the gunshot and would not return until the cleaning crew had scoured everything and left a comforting aroma of detergent.

The party of four plunged into the refreshments and the conversation—lauding Qwilleran for his performance, Maxine for her composure, Mrs. Carroll for her munificence, and the town of Brrr for its spunky birthday party.

Mildred asked, “Who on earth would think of that crazy birthday cake stunt?”

“Gary Pratt. He’s a nut,” Arch said. “Why does he go around looking like a bear?”

“Because he’s president of the chamber of commerce,” Qwilleran said, “and this is Moose County, and he can look any way he wants!”

“Your set!” Arch conceded, having watched the tennis matches on television. “Let’s talk about the bookstore. How’s it coming?”

Polly had been waiting politely to be asked. “We’ve hired a bibliocat—a handsome marmalade with magic green eyes—and we’re looking at carpet samples to match them. Also, we’ve lined up a former teacher from the Lockmaster Academy of the Arts who’ll work part-time.”

“What’s his name?” asked Mildred, who prided herself on knowing everyone.

“Alden Wade. The cat’s name is Dundee. I have a snapshot of him in my handbag. Would you like to see it?”

“The teacher or the cat?” Arch asked.

“My husband is being arch,” Mildred said.

Dundee’s cream-and-apricot markings and alert appearance and fascinating eyes were admired.

Then Arch said, “Qwill, I can’t resist asking any longer. What’s that thing on the side table?” He pointed to a small block of wood and a paddle.

“A turkey call,” Qwilleran explained. “The Outdoor Club was selling them to raise money for a good cause, so I bought a few to give to friends who hunt game birds. I use this one to tease Koko. He talks back to it. He thinks he can talk turkey.”

“Now I’ve heard it all! Let’s go home.”

The guests carried the dishes into the barn, and the women tidied the kitchen while Qwilleran fed the cats. Arch had learned that he could be most helpful by keeping out of the way, so he wandered around and made comments:

“I see you’ve got a new phone. . . . Who made this turned wood gadget with paper clips in it? . . . I see Koko knocked an Uncle Wiggily book off the shelf. . . . Are you still reading to the cats?”

The guests drove away, and Qwilleran transported the cats to the gazebo in their tote bag, along with a book about a rabbit who wore a top hat and had gentlemanly manners. Yum Yum had smuggled her silver thimble to the gazebo in the tote bag and proceeded to bat it around the concrete floor. Koko was sitting on his brisket near the screen, as if waiting for something to happen.

“Are you waiting for the mailman?” Qwilleran asked. “Waiting for Santa Claus? Waiting for Godot?”

The cat turned and regarded him pityingly—or so it seemed.

Suddenly Qwilleran felt weary, not only from the effort of doing a one-man show and the excitement of partying afterward, but also from the whole Lish-and-Lush experience, climaxed by the suicide in his own backyard. He felt the urge to relax, do nothing, enjoy the early summer evening, give his vocal cords a hiatus. Perhaps he dozed off. Possibly he dreamed. He may have heard Koko clucking and gobbling.

He was sure he heard a rustling in the shrubbery, as two wild turkeys appeared, followed by a veritable horde of poults—all the same size. More large birds with red wattles came from the back road, saw the barn, and put their heads together as if critiquing the architecture.

Had Koko invited them? Was this why he had been waiting and watching?

Even as Qwilleran stared at the scene, the congregation began to drift away into the bushes. The last to leave were the poults, with lingering glances back at Koko, perhaps wishing they could have stayed longer.

A high-decibel yowl directly in his ear catapulted Qwilleran out of his lounge chair. Koko was on the chairside table.

“You devil!” he shouted.

Koko nudged the volume of Uncle Wiggily stories.

Qwilleran obliged—reading the honorable doings of Uncle Wiggily. The cat had lost interest in “The Shooting of Dan McGrew” and The Hunting of the Snark, but—it might be noted—not until Lish and Lush had been identified with the two “woodland murders.”

Simmons, who thought “snark” sounded like something spelled backward, would be amused to know that it spelled KRANS. . . . “Kranson” was the real surname of Alicia and her felonious parent.

Qwilleran had to admit that the connection was preposterous; it was purely coincidental. . . . But what about Koko’s reactions to Lish from the very beginning? He had growled at her when she walked down the beach; he had hissed at her message on the phone! All cats have a sense of right and wrong, but Koko’s clairvoyance was beyond belief! There was one incontrovertible fact, and that was the authenticity of his blood-curdling death howl signifying wrongful death. It could be a mile away or a continent away, but it was always connected with an individual or a situation close to home.

“Yow!” said Koko, on the table at Qwilleran’s elbow and staring with a fathomless gaze, after which he rolled over onto his spine and attended to a sudden catly itch.

“Not on the table!” came the scolding, but Kao K’o Kung went on doing what had to be done.

“N-n-now!” came a delicate cry from Yum Yum. With the silver thimble clamped in her little jaws, she jumped to Qwilleran’s lap and gave him her favorite toy.