The Cat Who Talked Turkey

FOUR

On Friday morning Qwilleran finished writing his discourse on the month of June, making it a little shorter than the traditional thousand words. In the last few weeks he had appended his column with a few words of catly wisdom from Cool Koko’s Almanac.

“Cool Koko says: Half a dish of cream is better than none. . . . Opportunity only knocks once; grab that pork chop while no one’s looking. . . . Why sing for your supper? It’s easier just to stare at your empty plate.”

The “Cool Koko” stunt had started when Qwilleran was researching Benjamin Franklin for his column and decided to parody Poor Richard’s Almanack. It had been intended as a onetime spoof, but readers loved Cool Koko and clamored for more. He had obliged with: “Man works from sun to sun, but cats get by without lifting a paw. . . . A dog by any other name would smell like a dog. . . . Dumb animals know more about humans than dumb humans know about animals.”

Qwilleran, who admitted to having a short attention span, was tired of writing about Cool Koko. The mail room at the news office was swamped with postcards suggesting bits of catly wisdom. The editor, Arch Riker, accused Qwilleran of trying to start a new cult.

And so, on that Friday, the “Qwill Pen” ended with an announcement in boldface caps:

COOL KOKO IS ON VACATION INDEFINITELY

Then, with a light heart, Qwilleran went to the beach, taking the Siamese. It was only a brief inspection trip; O’Dell’s cleaning crew had been there to air it out, wash windows, check the facilities, dust, and sweep. It was to be hoped they had also tidied the driveway and grounds of fallen branches.

The Siamese went along, contentedly snuggled in their carrying coop. How did they know they were going to the beach and not to the vet? They could smell the lake a mile before they reached the shore and made small pleasurable noises.

When they reached the lakeshore, the highway dipped in and out, with occasional glimpses of the vast expanse of blue water. The noise in the back-seat increased. Then the car turned off into the K property on a dirt driveway that wound through a dense growth of wild cherries and scrub oaks, emerging on the crest of a sand dune.

There stood the venerable log cabin with its mammoth fieldstone chimney and magnificent view of the lake. The occupants of the carrier thumped around, rattled the door, and squealed with joy.

Qwilleran went indoors first to be sure everything was secure, then brought in the cats. It would take them an hour to sniff the two screened porches, the rugs and furniture of the interior, the hand-hewn mantel over the stone fireplace, the rafters overhead, the accoutrements of their feeding station, the gravel in their commode, and their empty water dish, which was quickly filled.

The refrigerator was empty, except for ice cubes, but Qwilleran had brought treats in a cooler.

On the lake porch there was a railroad tie upended and nailed to a base—intended as a pedestal for a copper sculpture of a sailboat. But Koko had claimed it as his own viewing post from which he could monitor the waving beach grasses, the beach at the foot of the dune, seagulls fighting over a dead fish, and beachcombers looking for agates. It was early season for traffic on the beach, but one couple wandered past: a young woman walking with a hiker’s stride and swinging arms, while a tall, lanky man shuffled along behind her, his hands in his hip pockets.

Qwilleran, who knew all the cottagers in the Top o’ the Dunes Club to the east, sized the strangers up as newcomers, guests of the regulars. When they returned a few minutes later and stopped to stare up at the cabin, he kept very quiet and motionless. The woman pointed to the cabin, as strangers often did, marveling at the age of the building or the size of the stone chimney. Strangers often pointed to the cats; some people, unfortunately, thought of Siamese as being an expensive breed, worth stealing, and Koko and Yum Yum were never allowed on the screened porch without a chaperone.

At any rate, the woman pointed and spoke to her companion at length, and he nodded without showing much interest.

It never occurred to Qwilleran that they were Lish and “Lush.”

Koko had reacted to them with a half-growl, but that was not unusual. Whenever a finger was pointed at him, he resented it. Compliments were graciously accepted, but there was something about a pointing finger that insulted his feline sensibilities. . . . Cats! Who could understand them!

Sunday noon Qwilleran and Polly drove to the Top o’ the Dunes Club to have brunch with the Rikers, their best friends. Arch was the somewhat paunchy editor-in-chief of the newspaper; Mildred was the plumply pretty editor of the food page. It was a late marriage for them, both having survived domestic disasters.

The club was simply a row of cottages overlooking a hundred miles of blue water and bearing names like “Sunny Daze” and “Many Pines” and “No Oaks.” The Riker cottage was bright yellow with black shutters and a broad deck cantilevered over the slope of the dune. On the wide top rail of the deck sat Toulouse, a fluffy black-and-white stray who had wandered into Mildred’s life. Qwilleran, upon arrival, always stroked Toulouse and told him he was a handsome brute.

Polly said, “He’s always the epitome of contentment!”

“He should be!” Qwilleran said. “He was a dirty, half-starved stray when he moved in with the food writer of the Moose County Something. As Cool Koko would say, if he were not on vacation, ‘There’s a destiny that leads hungry cats to the right doorstep.’”

Then the Comptons arrived via the beach and climbed the sand-ladder up the slope of the dune. Lyle had been school superintendent for twenty years, and his forays with teachers, parents, and the school board had given him a professional scowl, although it masked a good sense of humor.

His nickname in the school system was Scrooge. The name of their cottage was “Bah! Humbug!”

Lisa had retired from school administration with the sunny optimism of a Campbell whose ancestors had founded Brrr two hundred years before.

It was a balmy June day—the sunshine gentle, the breezes soft, the temperature just right, so aperitifs were served on the open deck overlooking the lake.

Lisa said, “Oh, Qwill! Aren’t we going to have any more of Cool Koko’s wisdom? It was so much fun.”

He said, “I’m hoping that readers will be inspired to invent their own Kokoisms. I’ve got to go on to other things.”

“Such as what?” Lyle asked.

“Such as a script for a one-man show on the Great Storm of 1913—for the Brrr anniversary. Thornton Haggis has done the research. The format will be similar to ‘The Big Burning.’ And Gary Pratt has recommended Mrs. Carroll’s granddaughter, Alicia Carroll, to handle the sound effects.” He waited for a reaction.

“Is she back in town?” Mildred asked in surprise. “I talked to Mrs. Carroll after church this morning; she’s moving to Ittibittiwassee Estates.”

Lyle asked, “What will happen to Little Mount Vernon?”

Lisa said, “Let’s hope she’ll leave it to the town for a historical museum.”

“I’m sure Alicia wouldn’t want it,” Mildred said. “She has a career Down Below—in Milwaukee, I think—”

Lyle interrupted, “As Cool Koko would say, ‘How ya gonna keep her down on the farm after she’s seen Milwaukee?’”

Mildred went on hesitantly, “Don’t mention this, but Alicia travels with a young man—supposed to be her ‘driver’ because Alicia has some kind of heart problem. Anyway, the idea doesn’t set too well with her grandmother.”

Lisa said, “I was assistant principal when Alicia came to live with her grandmother, after a family tragedy. She was not only an all-A student, but she came up with good ideas. The school was always trying to raise money for band instruments or a trip to the nation’s capital—by selling cookies or Christmas cards. Alicia suggested lotteries, which were very successful, although everyone said she skimmed a little off the top.”

Polly said, “That reminds me, she used to bring homework assignments to the library and noticed that we were trying to raise money for new carpet by asking patrons to put money in a jar. Alicia came to me and suggested a lottery, and I told her I’d have to consult the board of directors. When the Dear Ladies learned that it meant gambling, they said, ‘Horrors!’ and got out their checkbooks to cover the cost of the carpet.”

Qwilleran said, “A little horror can be a useful thing!”

“Who said that?” Riker asked. “Ben Franklin or Cool Koko?”

At one point Qwilleran remarked, “I heard, the other day, that the entire wild turkey population of Moose County disappeared thirty years ago. What was that all about?”

There was a swift glance between the Comptons, then Lyle said, “Disease. Wiped out the entire flock. It’s the kind of thing that happens in the animal world. It’ll happen to us if we don’t recognize the danger of impure water and polluted atmosphere.”

There was a moment’s silence until Arch asked, “Who’s ready for another drink?”

The subject changed to the grand plans for Brrr’s birthday party. Lisa and Mildred were collaborating on a stunt to be called Marmalade Madness.

“You tell it,” said Lisa.

“No, it was your idea. You tell it.”

“Well . . . Brrr was founded by Scots, you know, and we have a sizable Scottish population. Some of the families have housekeeping manuals, handwritten, that go back as much as two centuries. They keep them in lockboxes at the bank and bring them out for anniversaries. All the books contain tips on making orange marmalade, and—believe me!—there are scores of different theories. Marmalade Madness would combine an exhibit of these artifacts—”

“Under armed guard, I hope,” Arch interrupted.

“Absolutely! And the guard will look particularly fierce in kilts and plaids—with antique weapons,” Lisa assured him.

“There will also be marmalade-tasting, with people voting for their favorite—all homemade, of course. And the public can buy small jars, proceeds going to charity.”

“Where will this be held?” Polly asked.

“Gary Pratt is giving us one of the rooms on the main floor. The ballroom will be used for a variety of happenings, I understand, including Qwill’s one-man show.”

After brunch, Lyle wanted to walk down to the beach to smoke a cigar, and Qwilleran went along to skip a few stones over the placid water.

“You’ve got a good pitching arm, Qwill. You missed your calling.”

They walked a few yards down the beach. Qwilleran skipped a few more stones and then asked, “When I inquired about wild turkeys, was I getting the whole story?”

“There are some things we don’t mention in front of Mildred, but . . . there was a rumor that the wild turkeys were poisoned. Crop farmers and sheep ranchers said they were pests; families objected to the constant gunfire, as hunters knocked off a couple of birds for dinner; and Mildred’s first husband, who raised domestic turkeys for the market, said the wild birds were cutting into his profits.”

“Was there any investigation about the poisoning?” Qwilleran skipped a few more stones.

“No, the public and officialdom preferred to think the turkeys died of natural causes. You know how they are around here.”

As Qwilleran and Polly drove back to Pickax, she said, “The architect is flying up from Chicago tomorrow on the late shuttle. He’s asked me to make his hotel reservation for two nights. That will give him one whole day to talk to the builders and work out problems.”

Qwilleran asked, “Is your rapport with him strictly business, or is it partly social? In the latter case, I should pick him up at the airport. Otherwise, he can take the airport limousine.”

“Let him take the limousine,” Polly said. “He does, however, want desperately to see your barn and Boulder House Inn, both of which he considers architecturally impossible. So, if it’s agreeable with you, the builders could drop him off at the barn at the end of the day.”

“Do they know where the barn is?”

“Dear, everyone knows where your barn is. You could give him a drink. He likes Scotch. I’ll leave the library a little early in order to go home and change clothes. Then you can pick me up at home, and we’ll all go to Boulder House Inn.”

“Anything you say,” he said agreeably, relieved to know that her interest in Benson Hedges—or was it Hodges?—was strictly business.