The Cat Who Went Bananas

Chapter 11

Qwilleran had set his alarm early for Saturday morning expecting Opening Day at the bookstore to be more of a problem than a success. He first phoned Polly in Indian Village, but a message on her answering machine said that she could be reached at the bookstore any time after eight A.M.

Store hours started at nine-thirty, leading Qwilleran to deduce that she had left home very, very early . . . or had spent the night in downtown Pickax - at the hotel or at a friend's apartment or (not likely) in a sleeping bag on the floor of her office.

He phoned The Pirate's Chest and listened to a message: 'Store hours are nine-thirty to five.'

He started the coffeemaker and fed the cats, but they showed no interest in the preparation of their food. Nervously they hopped on and off the kitchen counter, staring through the window with ears pricked to an angle denoting Full Alarm!

Stepping outdoors, Qwilleran realized the source of their anxiety. To the west, towards Main Street, there was a constant hum of traffic punctuated by the screaming and blasting of police and emergency vehicles. He grabbed his orange hat, press card, and cell phone and headed for the action.

The road through the woods debouched into the theatre parking lot. It was jammed! Main Street was clogged with cars, and all kerbs were parked bumper to bumper, legally or illegally. Sidewalks were thronged with pedestrians who had left their cars in the parking lots of churches and library and county buildings and were streaming towards the centre of town.

Qwilleran pushed through the crowd, barking, 'Coming through! Step aside, please!'

People made way for him joyfully. They were in a holiday mood. They said, 'Hi, Mr Q! Takin' Koko to meet Dundee?' They were on their way to see a real pirate's chest, a sculpture of Winston, a live bibliocat, and a five-thousand-dollar book.

Qwilleran continued on his way through the crowd, stopping once to shelter in a doorway and call on his cell phone.

'You're in early,' he said when Polly answered.

'Everyone's here to plan our strategy,' she said with her usual calm. 'All the staff is here, plus three security guards. The public will be admitted a few at a time and routed through the store, down the stairs to the ESP, and up the basement stairs to the north parking lot.'

'Where will Dundee be?'

'In the show window to the south of the entrance, along with displays of books, his cushion, his rag doll, and his toothbrush. People lining up to be admitted will pass the window and swoon over the charming scene. Indoors, the guards will say, "Keep moving, folks! Ten thousand more are waiting to get in!"' She said it without excitement, as if it had been in the textbook on how to run a bookstore.

'Would you let me know if there's anything I can do for you?'

`Thank you, Qwill, but Alden Wade is here to manage activity on the selling floor, Lisa has a crew of volunteers downstairs, and a young man from the Winston Apartments offered to run errands. He's rather scruffy but nice. He's a friend of Dundee's Peggy. It was her idea to put Dundee in the show window, out of harm's way.'

`How does he feel about it?' Qwilleran asked, being accustomed to a male cat with pronounced ideas of his own.

`Dundee is very agreeable, very well adjusted.'

'I see . . . Well, I'll phone you later if it won't be an intrusion.'

`Not at all!' Polly sounded so businesslike.

Qwilleran turned around and went home. She had all the help she needed.

At the barn the Siamese digested their breakfast as they lay in a patch of sunlight - a triangle of sunlight that was created by one of the odd-shaped windows. In a few minutes it would move away, to their mystification, and they would crawl to a new sunny venue without really waking up.

Qwilleran made a fresh cup of coffee and tackled Violet's trunkful of documents representing a century of life in the ancestral mansion. Her scholarly father had reduced the collection from thousands to hundreds and placed them in chronological order. Even so, it would require a prodigious amount of research. Qwilleran phoned Kenneth and left a message.

The young man called back in a few minutes, somewhat out of breath. 'Hi, Mr Q! I've been doing errands for Mrs Duncan -coffee and stuff, you know. What's up? Something interesting, I hope.'

'I think you'll find it so. It's a research project. It would mean scouting a trunkful of old papers, looking for material to be used in a book.'

`I like it already! When do I start?'

`Yesterday. We have a short deadline. As soon as the traffic problem eases up, I'll deliver the trunk. I also recommend a dinner conference, if you're free. Onoosh's Café has booths and a little privacy. Do you like Mediterranean fare?'

`I've never had any. Lockmaster had a Mediterranean place called Ports of Call, but we always hung out at the Green Turnip.'

'I hesitate to inquire about their menu,' Qwilleran said. 'It's just a burger joint, but it was named after a horse. Green

Turnip never won any races, but everybody loved him.' The deal was made. The time was set.

Kenneth said, `If it's the kind of restaurant where I should have a haircut, the girl next door will give me one.'

Qwilleran said, 'It might be a good idea.'

At five o'clock, when the bookstore doors were supposed to be closed, Qwilleran phoned Polly and was not surprised to hear a weary voice.

'Qwill, I'm exhausted! The lineup of sightseers has been constant for almost eight hours - not that I do floor duty, but the mere presence of all those people wears one down. Do you understand? I was hoping we could have dinner tonight, but I'm afraid . . .’

`That's perfectly all right, Polly.'

Considering his dinner conference, it was not only all right but highly advisable! He had known her long enough to predict her reactions. She disapproved of the trivial books that he wrote, calling them a waste of his true talent. And she would consider a book on the questionable Hibbard House to be the ultimate in trivia. She could never understand that Qwilleran considered himself a reporter, not a critic. It was a reporter's job to report, he maintained. In his early days he had been a crime reporter; now he reported on life as it was lived 400 miles north of everywhere. The Hibbard House was no architectural gem, but it was part of Moose County history, to be treated objectively and with more understanding than ridicule.

In Violet's trunk there was an envelope of family photos, and Qwilleran selected four - to represent the four-generation dynasty of individualists.

Cyrus as an old man, with a cane in each hand and a shawl over his head.

Geoffrey, the country gentleman, in riding attire, with a whip looped in his hand.

Jesmore, the gentleman scholar, in tweeds, seated in an impressive library.

Violet, the professor, in cap and gown, holding a large volume - probably Byron's poems.

`Yow!' came a shattering announcement in Qwilleran's ear. Time for dinner.

At Onoosh's, Kenneth was impressed by the brass-topped tables, beaded chandeliers, and exotic aromas - and also the attention accorded his host. Onoosh came out of the kitchen in her chef's toque to greet them, and the waitstaff seemed overjoyed.

Qwilleran asked his guest, 'What will you have to drink while we're ordering dinner?'

`What are you having?'

'A Q cocktail, nonalcoholic. It's Squunk water with a dash of cranberry juice.'

`Doesn't sound good, but I'll try it.'

`Live dangerously,' Qwilleran said. 'Meanwhile, I suppose you wonder what this is all about. Do you have a notebook or tape recorder?' First he explained the project: a book to be published by the K Fund about the historic Hibbard House built in the 1850s - the oldest frame structure in the county, occupied by four generations of Hibbards.

`Your job,' he said to Kenneth, 'will exercise your news sense, looking for "the story" instead of statistics. The stories will be buried in that trunk I delivered to you: letters, documents, and news clips. What happened to the Hibbard family in a century mid a half? How were they affected by wars, great storms, epidemics, accidents, crimes? But also look for honours awarded and prizes won, weddings and funerals, parties and hobbies. Get the idea?'

'Got it!' Kenneth said. 'I can hardly wait to get started.' 'Now let's look at the menu.'

He suggested hummus as an appetizer . . . then lamb shish kebab and spanakopita, with baklava for dessert.

Then over cups of Greek coffee Qwilleran determined to satisfy his curiosity about 'Whiskers', as Kenneth was called -without prying. The young man seemed reluctant to talk about himself, but little by little the following facts evolved:

He liked the Winston Park apartments. Everyone was young. The rent was reasonable. He could walk to work. He didn't have a car. The Luncheonette was just around the corner. He liked the people at the bookstore. Everyone was friendly, even the cat. `Do you like cats?' Qwilleran asked.

`I don't know. We just had barn cats on the farm. We had mostly dogs and horses. Where did Dundee get his name?'

'In a nutshell: orange cats are called marmalades, and Dundee is a Scottish city, long famous for orange marmalade. Do you know why it's an old tradition for bookstores to have cats? Think about it.'

Kenneth said, 'I suppose . . . for the same reason we had barn cats - to get rid of rodents.'

`Right! Do you still visit your farm?'

After some hesitation Kenneth said, The farm was sold. Both my parents are dead.'

`Sorry to hear that,' Qwilleran murmured. He could think of other questions, but Kenneth showed signs of withdrawal. So Qwilleran asked, 'Anything more you need to know regarding your assignment?'

`About newsworthy items - what do I do with them when I find them?'

`Give each one a reference number. Put it in a separate box. List the item and its reference number on a chart.'

`I'll start tomorrow!'