The Cat Who Went Bananas

Chapter 15

On Wednesday morning Qwilleran first fed the cats, a performance he repeated about seven hundred times a year. To make the ritual entertaining for himself, he spoke intelligently to them - a device said to raise their consciousness. Koko always listened thoughtfully with a slight inclination of his fine brown head; Yum Yum licked a certain spot on her chest.

On this occasion, Qwilleran tried a little Latin: Sic transit gloria mundi . . . E pluribus unum . . . Tempus fugit. It was not well received. Both cats toppled over on the floor and had a playful wrestling match. So much for higher education, Qwilleran decided.

He received a phone call while he was eating his own breakfast. Kenneth was calling from the newspaper.

'Hey, Mr Q! Breaking news!' he said in a muffled voice. 'Five-thousand-dollar book stolen! Same one Dundee was sniffing in the photo! It's gonna be on the front page!'

'That'll sell a few papers,' Qwilleran said. 'Lucky it was the book they stole and not the cat.'

'Yeah, well . . . I thought you'd want to know . . . And I've finished your research, Mr Q.'

`Good! I'll pick up the trunk this evening.'

`Peggy could drive me over with it. She's crazy to meet your cats!'

`What time?'

`Right after work.'

`See you then.' He had to chuckle over the hot breaking news. To Koko, who was hanging around waiting for a banana peel, he said, 'Your cousin Kenneth is coming over and bringing Dundee's handmaiden, who wants to meet you.' He wondered how Koko would react to the heavy bangs hanging almost to Peggy's eyebrows. To a cat they might look menacing, like a certain breed of dog.

He gave the Siamese a good brushing and then read to them from Fables in Slang, which came tumbling off the shelf again. The humour seemed no more captivating than before, and he looked up George Ade in the encyclopedia: 'Popular humorist and playwright (1866-1944).'

Next he phoned the county historian. Thornton Haggis had his finger on the pulse of all the old-timers,

`What do you know about George Ade?' he asked Thorn.

'My sons drink it on the soccer field. It renews their energy. Why do you ask?'

`Bad joke, Thorn . . . Are you and your wife attending the lit club meeting?'

`Wouldn't miss it. As I said before, she acts. like a middle-aged groupie at your lectures. I think it's your moustache she goes for.'

`I have another question. Did Haggis Monument Works do any gravestones for the Hibbard family?'

`We did 'em all! My grandfather, my father, and myself. They liked their headstones large, elaborate, and expensive. Why do you ask?'

`I'm writing a book about the Hibbard House, Thorn, and thought you might have some input.'

`You can write a whole chapter on the subject. There's a private cemetery on their property, and I can show you a record book with names, dates, and sketches of the proposed monuments. We carved angels, baskets of flowers, baby lambs, portraits of the deceased, and some lengthy inscriptions, based on No much per letter. There was only one plain marker: a flat slab for a daughter who died in disgrace.'

Qwilleran said, 'This is great information, Thorn. I'll follow through. When the time comes, I'd like to see those account books . . . Meanwhile, I saw something in the historic collection that only you would appreciate. The front page of an 1899 New York Times! It had been donated by Violet Hibbard's father. The headlines reported a bank robbery, a murder, a poisoning mystery, a fire in a manhole, and a billion-dollar corporate failure.'

`Which proves,' Thornton said, 'that things don't get worse, they're only different.'

Qwilleran said, 'And just to show you how different, Thorn, the Sunday Times, twenty-two pages, sold for a nickel!'

Later in the day Qwilleran was in Toodle's Market, picking up fruit and vegetables for Polly and bananas for himself, when a voice said, `Mr Q in person, I believe.' He turned and saw a clean-cut man of about forty, who introduced himself as Bill Turmeric. He was the Sawdust City teacher of English who wrote entertaining letters to the `Qwill Pen' and the editorial page.

Qwilleran shook the proffered hand. 'Glad to meet you! Have it banana. Dr Diane says they're good for you.'

'My wife is always promoting them, too. Her aunt, by the way, won a dinner date with you in a charity auction a few years ago and has never stopped talking about it.'

'Sarah Plensdorf,' Qwilleran said. 'Charming lady!'

`How are Koko and Yum Yum? I'm sure my kids would like to know.'

`Koko is cool, and Yum Yum is sassy; sometimes the other way around.' A small crowd of shoppers had gathered, listening and smiling, and he added, 'Let's move out of the way so these good people can buy some bananas.'

Once the two men and their shopping carts were in an open space, Qwilleran asked, `Do"you have time for coffee? I'm treating.'

'Best offer I've had all week.'

At the coffee bar they sat on uncomfortable stools designed to discourage loitering, and Qwilleran said, 'May I seize the moment and ask a question? Is there such a thing as a "dangling which"? My housekeeper says, "My daughter is coming to visit, which I can't clean next Wednesday." Is that Moose County patois?'

'No, it's a syntactical curiosity found elsewhere. The relative pronoun "which" is used to introduce a clause that has no antecedent in the previous clause. It's used as a short cut for "and in connection with that, you might say . . ." Does that answer your question?'

'In connection with that, you might say . . . more or less,' was Qwilleran's honest reply.

Wetherby Goode was among the callers that afternoon at the barn. He said, 'When are you going to move back to the Village so I can give you the hot news over the back fence?'

'What's the hot news I don't already know?'

'Unit Two has been purchased — for sure, this time.'

`By whom?'

'I'll drop in at the barn on my way to the station and tell you.'

For the rest of the afternoon Qwilleran racked his brain without answers. Unanswered questions drove him into a quiet frenzy. And when the weatherman drove into the barnyard, he was met by his favourite drink on a silver tray. 'Okay! Who is it?'

'Our veterinarian!'

'Dr Constable? She lives at the Hibbard Guest House! Did you get this information from the same impeccable source that misled you last time?'

'I'm gullible. I even believe my own weather forecasts.'

'What is her presumed reason for leaving the guest house?'

'She can't have pets there. Taking care of other people's animals and having none of her own is frustrating, she told the management at the Village. She'll have five resident patients in the Willows alone. I call that a neat situation, all the way around. We should give a big party for her when she arrives.'

'Don't overreact, Joe. Not until we find out if she makes house calls in the middle of the night.'

They went indoors and sat at the snack bar. Wetherby asked suddenly, 'Are you someone's first husband?'

'Someone's first and last. Why do you ask?'

'My sister in Horseradish has recently divorced her first husband, and she's joined a First Husband's Club. The gals get together and bash their first husbands. She says they have a ball!'

'I can imagine,' Qwilleran said. 'I'd like to hear a recording of the proceedings.'

`It's nothing nasty, only humorous.'

`I see . . . Is this organization exclusive with Horseradish? Or does it have chapters countrywide?'

`So far, I believe it's purely local. You know they're mostly berserk in that town . . . Well, I've got to get to the station. There's some violent weather in the offing.'

As Qwilleran walked with Wetherby to his car, another vehicle pulled into the barnyard bringing Peggy, Kenneth, and the trunkful of research. The three persons were introduced.

`Oh, Mr Goode!' she cried. 'Your weathercasts are . . . so good!'

`Thanks. Call me Joe.' He looked unusually pleased.

Peggy was wearing a slim-legged red jumpsuit and looked what Qwilleran considered 'fetching'. He said, 'Peggy is chief assistant to Dundee, the bibliocat. I'm her understudy. Kenneth is the new copy facilitator at the newspaper.'

`Wish I could stay,' Wetherby said with genuine regret, 'but I'm due at the station.'

As he went to his car, he threw a backward glance at Peggy, and as Qwilleran escorted the young couple to the barn, she threw a backward glance at Wetherby.

`Shall I bring the trunk, Mr Q?' Kenneth asked.

`Come in and see the barn first, and have some refreshments,' was the answer.

`Oh, wow! Oh, wow!' said the copy facilitator, flinging his arms wide.

`If you want a thrill, go to the top of the ramp and see the view from there. But watch your step; Koko has started stealing banana peels.'

Peggy was on her knees hugging the cats, who had come running. Qwilleran thought, Those rascals! They know a pushover when they meet one; they're playing it to the hilt.

She declined a drink, saying she had to feed Dundee and then work at her computer.

Kenneth obviously wanted to stay. He said he could walk home.

`Agreeable young woman,' Qwilleran said when she had driven away.

`She's nuts about cats,' the young man said.

`Everyone's nuts about something. It's clear she's not local. What brought her here - do you know?'

`She's from Vegas. A fortune-teller told her to come here. She'd been through a nasty divorce. You know how she has all that hair covering her forehead? It covers a bad scar that she blames her ex-husband for.'

`Well, I hope she's happy here. She seems to be an asset to the community . . . Would you like to bring in the trunk?'

The contents were in good order. Kenneth had done fine work, and Qwilleran remunerated him, saying he'd enlist his services again. 'How do you like your job at the Something? What brought you here in the first place? Not a fortune-teller, I imagine.'

The young man showed signs of wanting to talk but feared he should not. His eyes darted.

Qwilleran knew to keep silent and look sympathetic; something about his brooding gaze and drooping moustache inspired confidence.

`I've got a suspect under surveillance,' Kenneth said abruptly. His listener raised a hand. 'Say no more. I understand.' He understood only that this was a copyboy playing at being an investigator - or an investigator disguised as a copyboy. Either way, it would be unfair to spoil his game. Remembering Kenneth's interest in City of Brotherly Crime, he assumed he was a copyboy pretending to be undercover - just as Celia Robinson operated as a secret agent when she first came to Moose County.

It was almost eleven P.M. when the phone rang. Qwilleran was reading a bedtime story to the Siamese and he switched voices hopefully to the mellifluous 'good evening' that had given Polly a frisson of pleasure in the past, B.P.C. (Before Pirate's Chest).

`Qwill, you old geezer!' came the strident tones that he knew well.

`Lyle, you old dunderhead! You got back live from Saint Paul!'

`I've been back for a week - in time for all the hoopla downtown. Lisa was riding high until the news broke about the theft. What's your take on that little matter?'

`I agree with the police that it's an opportunist from Down Below. Tell Lisa: the good news is that the extra publicity will probably sell all the books in the jelly cupboard.'

`You always were a confounded optimist, Qwill! . . . Are you in good voice for tomorrow night?'

`Have no fear about the speaker, Lyle. Worry whether we'll have an audience, considering that we're not serving refreshments.'

To take his mind off the Edd Smith saga that had filled his head for the last forty-eight hours, Qwilleran selected a book from his journalism library that Violet Hibbard had wanted Io give him. It brought to mind that their first spirited dinner date would not be repeated. He had begun to see her as a successor to the longtime dining companion that he seemed to be losing. It was the quality and subject matter of the conversation that had made both women interesting.

Both Qwilleran and the retired professor liked Shakespeare, and he would be willing to give Lord Byron an educated try. But now the lady had acquired a husband. Was it Judd, the retired engineer at the guest house? He was the right age, and only a short meeting had proved him to be congenial and talkative -though probably not about sonnets and Russian plays.

Polly had spoiled him in that respect; she could happily spend a half hour discussing the meaning of a single word.