The Cat Who Talked Turkey

FIVE

For Qwilleran, Tuesday turned out to be an “interesting” day—an adjective he was not prone to use if he could possibly think of a better one.

First, Polly phoned before leaving for the library, reporting briefly that Benson Hodges, the Chicago architect, had checked into the Mackintosh Inn the previous evening and would spend all day conferring with the builders of the bookstore but would have to fly home without having dinner at Boulder House.

“He wants to see your barn, however, and perhaps you can offer him a drink before he catches his shuttle flight.”

“I’m not shedding any tears over Benson, Polly. You and I will have dinner at Boulder House. I’ll pick you up at the Village at six.”

The next caller had the high-pitched voice of Gary Pratt.

“Hi, Qwill! They’re back! Lish and Lush!”

“I’ll drive up there with my tape recorder and the old scripts—just to test her skills. The new script—about the Great Storm—should be ready to rehearse in another week.”

“I warn you, Qwill! Meeting Lish for the first time is like a plunge into the lake off the end of the hotel dock!”

“I’ll wear a wet suit,” Qwilleran said.

When he arrived at the Hotel Booze at the appointed hour for the “plunge” he was pleased to see a prize-winning limerick from the “Qwill Pen” column enlarged and framed in the lobby:

There was a young lady from Brrr

Who always went swimming in fur.

One day on a dare

She swam in the bare,

And that was the end of her!

At the appointed hour, Gary introduced Alicia Carroll and the celebrated Mr. Q in a small private dining room on the main floor, concealing his merriment with difficulty. Qwilleran had handed him a slip of paper:

There was a young lady named Lish

Who was said to be cold as a fish.

But with sauce tartare

And some black caviar,

She turned out to be quite a dish!

“Call me Lish,” she said in a throaty, husky voice that suggested too much smoking. She had a no-nonsense haircut and no-color pantsuit and a serious but relaxed manner. Her face was basically handsome—with a high brow, high cheekbones, and a firm jaw—but in need of a little makeup.

He opened the tape recorder and handed her a cue sheet. “I sit at a table with a fake mike and the audience hears my newscast live. To introduce other voices and sound effects, you press a button on cue, and the audience hears them over the loudspeaker. It’s simple enough, but it requires exquisite timing on your part—to convince the audience that it’s real.”

She nodded. “Shall we give it a try?”

“You understand,” he said, “that this is the show we did last year. There’ll be a new script and cue sheet in a few days.”

Calmly and precisely Lish pressed the right buttons at exactly the right time, then asked, “Is that all there is to it?”

What could he say? He ignored her question and went on. “There’ll be eight shows: the first one on the night of July fourth, the others on alternate Saturday nights in July and August, requiring absolute regularity on your part. This is showbiz,” he added lightly.

“No problem,” Lish said. “What does it pay?”

Fortunately he had been warned that she was a mercenary type. He said, “The entire two-month spectacle is produced with hundreds of unpaid volunteers, but if you feel you must have remuneration, notify Gary Pratt.”

He spoke in a cool, businesslike voice. “If you’re interested in a research assignment, I could suggest one that pays the usual hourly rate.”

“What is the assignment?” she asked in a detached manner.

“Nothing of vital importance,” he replied. “Next time you’re in Milwaukee, you might find out whether there is anyone there by the name of Mountclemens or by the name of Bonifield. Also, you might check the catteries listed in the phone book, if anyone specializes in breeding Siamese.”

“I could do that. When would you need the information?”

Qwilleran recognized a glint in her eyes, and he chuckled to think, This is a gamble, but . . . no harm in trying. “It’s like this,” and he explained his curiosity about Kao K’o Kung’s antecedents—just enough to capture her interest.

After that, he went home and waited for Gary’s phone call.

“How d’you like that greedy little monster? Everyone knows her parents left her a big trust, and she’ll inherit from her grandmother!”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her we have two hundred volunteers working on this celebration for nothing, but we’d be glad to take up a collection from the audience at each performance—to benefit Mr. Qwilleran’s assistant. She backed down. But we’d better have an understudy on hand. She could get her revenge by being a no-show.”

“Got any ideas, Gary?”

“Tell you what, my wife could handle the job, although she has her hands full with running the marina and organizing the parade of boats. Have you met her, Qwill? Maxine’s as smart as they come!”

“Then what’s she doing married to you, Gary?” Qwilleran quipped, and the conversation ended in an outburst of friendly jibes.

Qwilleran began work on the script for “The Great Storm.” There would have to be a few introductory words of welcome to the audience. Previously, Qwilleran’s assistant had done the honors, but both Hixie Rice and Nancy Fincher had been personable young women with pleasing voices. Alicia’s classic features were not made for smiling, and her throaty voice, when projected to fill the banquet room, might sound like a croak. In an emergency, Gary himself might extend the welcome, although his high-pitched voice and bearish hulk would surely produce titters in the audience. And Qwilleran still preferred a woman—a young woman.

Then he thought of Gary’s wife. He had said she was sharp, but was she personable? What kind of woman, Qwilleran had often wondered, would marry the eccentric, hairy hotelier—no matter how amiable his personality? The matter would bear investigation.

Meanwhile, he went to work on the script, starting with the welcome to the audience:

Welcome to “The Great Storm of 1913,” an original drama written and performed by Jim Qwilleran, based on historical research by Thornton Haggis. You will have to imagine that home radios actually existed in 1913, as you listen to a broadcast covering the worst storm of the century—sinking ships and destroying communities along the shore. The scene is the newsroom of station WPKX in the tower of the county courthouse.

(Room lights black out)

(Stage lights up showing a plain wood table—downstage center—with table mike [fake], upright telephone [disconnected], and a plain wooden chair. At stage right, the studio engineer is seated at the controls. Enter: newscaster wearing heavy mackinaw and heavy boots. He throws script on table, hangs coat over back of chair, tests mike. Music comes from speakers: Gounod’s “Waltz” from

Faust.

Music fades out as voice of station announcer comes over speakers.)

This is station WPKX, Pickax, with up-to-the-minute news about a storm caused by three low-pressure systems clashing over the lake. . . . But first a word from our sponsors. . . . Lanspeak Department Store is offering men’s all-wool three-piece suits for three dollars, including a free necktie if purchased the first day. Toodle’s Grocery has three specials while they last: fresh pineapples, fifteen cents; oranges, ten cents a dozen; and asparagus, two bunches for a quarter. . . . Pickax Garage says, “If you are trading your buggy in on an automobile, order now and take advantage of 1913 prices: a Maxwell touring car for six hundred dollars or a Maxwell runabout for five-fifty. Headlights and windshields included.” And now for the news!

That was all Qwilleran had time to write before dressing for dinner. He had to chuckle at the 1913 prices and thought they would amuse the audience. The fifteen-cent pineapple and six-hundred-dollar motorcar were based on actual ads from the Lockmaster Logger. Next he would have to wade through Thornton’s file of storm news, garnered from historical papers in the public library collection.

All was ready for the visiting architect. Qwilleran had showered and shaved and trimmed his moustache; the cats had been given an early dinner and instructions as to the proper behavior. Suddenly—half an hour before schedule—a construction truck pulled into the barnyard, and a man in a business suit swung out of the passenger’s seat and reached into the cab for a briefcase and a piece of luggage.

Playing the genial host, Qwilleran stepped forward with hand extended. “Mr. Hedges, I presume.”

“Hodges,” the guest corrected him. “Can’t stay for dinner. Flying out on the five-thirty. Early meeting in Chicago tomorrow. Can I call a cab from here?”

Qwilleran said, “Come in and have a drink and see the barn. I’ll call a cab.”

The architect gazed up at the lofty barn as if in a trance. “Interesting!” was his final comment.

“Quite!” said Qwilleran.

“How old?”

“More than a century.” Although Qwilleran usually spoke in whole sentences, he could be concise, too.

They were being observed by two cats in the kitchen window.

“Siamese,” Hodges said, as if disclosing an esoteric fact.

“Right! Follow me. You can leave your luggage on the antique chest at the back door.”

“Safe?” was the typical city dweller’s question.

“Absolutely!”

They went around to the rear, which was really the front—with its handsome double doors, eight-sided gazebo, and flowering shrubbery filled with twittering birds.

“Bird garden,” Qwilleran pointed out. “Gazebo for the cats.”

“Octagonal,” said Hodges.

In the foyer, which was as big as a two-car garage, stood a recumbent bicycle as well as a few works of art. “You ride that?” was the question.

“All the time. Drink?”

“Scotch, with a little water.”

“Feel free to look around. Good view from the top of the ramp.”

Hodges carried his drink around in silence.

“What do you think?” Qwilleran asked when he descended from the third balcony.

“I would have done it a little differently. Who was your architect?”

“Dennis Hough—not registered. Hanged himself from a rafter when the job was finished. . . . Pour again?” Qwilleran tilted the Scotch bottle.

“A little less water this time.” Hodges leaned on the bar. “You like living here?”

“It’s not bad.”

“Hard to heat?”

“I spend winters in a condo.”

“Mrs. Duncan’s a nice woman. Ever been married?”

“Once.”

“Will a bookstore go over in this town?”

“It should.”

A taxi tooted its horn in the barnyard.

Hodges swallowed the last of his Scotch. “How long to reach the airport?”

“No telling! Deer crossings can hold you up. That’s why I told the cabdriver to come early.”

“Come and see us in Chicago” were his parting words.

“Will do,” Qwilleran said.

Once again he was glad for the tape recorder in his pocket. No one would believe the laconic conversation.

A half hour later, Qwilleran picked up Polly for the ride to Boulder House Inn. He remarked, “I thought you said Hedges was interesting.”

“Hodges,” she corrected him. “Benson knows a lot about everything, but he doesn’t say much about anything. You know, dear, I think you have a psychological block about his name, or you’re doing it to be mischievous.”

He uttered a noncommittal grunt, and Polly enjoyed an amused silence as they drove to the lakeshore.

Boulder House was more than a century old—built of boulders as big as bathtubs, piled one on another without an apparent plan. The dining-room floor was one huge slab of flat stone that had been there forever. There was a resident cat named Rocky, who climbed up the exterior of the building like a mountain goat. And there was a jolly innkeeper, Silas Dingwall, who seemed straight out of a medieval woodcut. He gave Qwilleran and Polly a table in a window overlooking the lake and served them complementary appetizers: two plates of french-fried oysters.

Since Polly was allergic to mollusks, Qwilleran had to consume both servings.

While he chewed, Polly entertained him with salient facts about bookstore design:

“Do you realize that there is a certain psychology in the width of bookstore aisles? If too wide, they destroy the feeling of coziness that is part of the bookstore allure. If too narrow, they make the customer feel jostled and uncomfortable.”

Qwilleran murmured something, and she went on:

“I’ve just learned that impulse purchases account for half of all sales in a small bookstore. That calls for intriguing displays and a chance to pick up books and read the jackets.”

After the entrées and the salads, and while they were waiting for dessert, Mr. Dingwall said, “The photographer was here today, taking pictures of the inn for the Brrr souvenir book. We bought four pages.”

Polly said, “I hope Rocky was photographed.”

“Oh, yes! There’s a picture of him peeking into one of the upstairs bedrooms like a naughty Peeping Tom.”

“Who was the photographer?” Qwilleran asked.

“Mr. Bushland. A very fine gentleman. And he had a nice young lady helping with the lights.”

“He’s the best!” Qwilleran said. “He’s won national prizes. Rocky may wind up on the cover of a photo magazine.”

Later, he said to Polly, “That’s the first time I’ve heard a photographer called a gentleman—and a fine one at that!”

“I wonder who the nice young lady was,” she said.

At one point, a waitress hurried from the kitchen and whispered to Mr. Dingwall, who rushed into his office. After that his cheerful manner changed to one of sober concern.

“Is there anything wrong, Mr. Dingwall?” Qwilleran asked.

With a glance at nearby tables, the innkeeper said in a lowered voice, “Plane accident! One of our shuttle flights crashed somewhere in Wisconsin. It was the five-thirty to Chicago. No details.”

Polly shuddered and put her face in her hands. “How terrible!” she kept saying.

Qwilleran signaled for the check. “Don’t get upset,” he told her, “until I phone the paper.”

When they were in the car, he called the night editor.

“No one hurt,” said the deskman. “It was a forced landing. The pilot brought the plane down in an open field.”

To Polly, Qwilleran said, “This will cramp the style of the airport wits and their jokes about Scotch tape and bailing wire.”

“What do you suppose Benson will say about it?” she wondered.

“I know that he’ll say ‘Interesting.’ ”