The Cat Who Went Bananas

Chapter 17

On Friday morning Qwilleran ate his cereal and sliced bananas without complaint, and he opened a festive can of cocktail shrimp for the cats. He and Polly were together again. They would be dining at the Grist Mill, listening to great music, having long discussions about words, phoning each other at eleven P.M.

At the barn, following the lit club meeting, there had not been a single word about the Book Log Computer System! And Qwilleran had given her the blue cashmere robe that celebrated her matriculation from public library to bookstore.

Now he wanted to close the barn for the winter and move to Indian Village. Unit Number Four at the Willows would be readied by Pat O'Dell's janitorial service and 'fluffed up' by the `be-whiching' Mrs Fulgrove.

Qwilleran walked with a light step to the newspaper office to file his Friday column before the noon deadline and then back downtown for lunch at the Mackintosh Inn. On the way he passed the Sprenkle Building, and a young man rushed out from the Wix & Wix Realty office, saying, `Mr Q! Mr Q! I have that book for you. Can you pop in for a minute?'

He was one of the duck hunters at the Hibbard Guest House who had invited him out for a weekend shoot.

'I'm a washout with a rifle,' he had told them, 'but I'd be interested in duck habitat as a topic for the "Qwill Pen".'

'We've got a book at the office you can borrow,' the younger Wix had said. 'We'll dig it out.'

So now he had drifted in, and they had dug out their copy of the duck book.

'Pleasant office,' Qwilleran said. 'Are you brothers? Is Wix a local family?'

`It's really W-I-C-K-E-S, but Bud and I decided the short spelling would be more eye-catching on a sign and easier for the public to remember. Alden has been telling us about your barn. If you ever want to unload it, Wix and Wix would like to list it.'

'Take a number,' Qwilleran said genially.

'Alden's a terrific guy! Not only is he a terrific shot with a duck rifle, he can play the piano. He can act. He can sing. The gals are wild about him. He's a good organizer. He has ideas . . . How's the Hibbard book coming?'

`It's been photographed, and I'm collecting material for the text. Do you have any stories to add?'

'Only what we talk about when we're out on the boat - just brainstorming, you know: Violet could develop her thirty acres if and when she gets tired of being a landlady. The house could be made into a spa - with upscale condos and apartments all around.'

'No shopping mall, I hope,' Qwilleran said with veiled sarcasm.

`No, but there'd be room for one or two good restaurants.' Qwilleran stood up. 'Thanks for the book. I'll return it. Sorry to dash off. I've got an appointment in Lockmaster.'

In the early afternoon Qwilleran drove to Lockmaster for some grist for the Qwill Pen' mill . . . and some speculation.

Moira MacDiarmid was ready for him with coffee and bite-size marmalade tartlets.

`How's our little sweetheart?' she asked.

`Presuming that you mean Dundee, he's happily basking in an effulgence of compliments. Do you have some good information on the breed? Prior to the reign of Dundee the First, my only acquaintance with a reddish cat was on Goodwinter Boulevard, where we were house-sitting one year. He was dirty-orange, fat as a pig, and with foul breath. He kept coming to our back door and annoying the Siamese.'

Moira said, 'Some ginger cats are enormous, and their owners boast about their weight. We breed our marmalades for a modem taste. Gingers can be tiger-striped, splotched, or all one shade in a choice of spicy colours; our marmalades are apricot and cream in a non-threatening stripe . . . But did you know Sir Winston Churchill always had a "ginger tom" in his home? And his will specified that there always be a ginger torn in residence at Chartwell, his estate.'

Qwilleran asked for names and phone numbers of marmalade fanciers who would be willing to be interviewed. And that was that! The conversation shifted to . . . speculation.

Qwilleran said, 'You had something interesting on your mind when you called me.'

`Yes. Kathie wanted me to talk to you. When you so kindly let us into the bookstore and bought us ice cream in that delightful little shop, there was a young man there whom Kathie thought she recognized. Though he had a beard, she thought he was her old boyfriend Wesley. But you said his name was Kenneth and he was a copyboy at the Something. There was no time to argue; she had to catch a plane.'

`Does she have a special interest in Wesley, aka Kenneth?'

`Nothing serious,' Moira said, 'but they've known each other all through high school and enrolled in J school at the state university at the same time. Then Wesley never showed up for classes, and it worried her. He simply disappeared.'

`How about his parents? Are they worried?'

`They're both deceased. Kip knew Wesley's father. Kip said he was a high roller in the stock market and lost everything. He shot himself, but I think there was more to the story than that.' She stopped abruptly and looked wise. 'I think his wife was cheating on him; he was a very proud type. And . . . after his suicide, his wife remarried too soon - much too soon!'

`Classical situation,' Qwilleran murmured. 'Straight out of Shakespeare.'

`Kathie says Wesley adored his father and hated his stepfather. He kept his father's surname . . . I'm babbling on and forgetting my manners. Will you have more coffee, Qwill?'

He nodded. She poured and went on: 'Kathie was afraid Wesley had followed his father's example . . . But Kip made a discreet inquiry at the bank and discovered that withdrawals were still being made from Wesley's trust fund . . . so you can see how badly Kathie wanted your Kenneth to be our Wesley-with-beard.'

Qwill said, 'Tell Kathie that Kenneth is doing some research for me, and I may be able to do a little undercover investigating.'

On the drive to Pickax, Qwilleran reflected on how much had happened since his previous drive with Dundee in a coop beside him. And he thought how relieved he would be to close the barn and move to Indian Village for the winter. There would be less distraction, he could work on the Hibbard House book, and he would be a few doors away from Polly, the batty Wetherby Goode, and - now - even the cats' veterinarian! How would the cats react to Dr Constable as a neighbour, dropping in for coffee? Yum Yum would run and hide under the bed; Koko would greet her with throaty purrs, thinking she had brought her thermometer.

Qwilleran's amusement at the possibility was interrupted by a phone call; he pulled off the road.

It was Janice on the line. `Qwill, Bushy said it was all right to call on your cell phone. Have you seen today's paper?'

`No. I've been interviewing in Lockmaster for the "Qwill Pen". What's the news I've missed?'

`The wedding announcement. Violet has married Alden Wade!'

`Is that so? I thought it would be that white-haired engineer. It would be handy to have an engineer in the family.'

`Yes, I thought they were a cute couple, too.'

`How did Bushy react?'

`He says Alden is . . . all wrong for Violet!'

That was all Janice cared to say on the phone, and Qwilleran drove the rest of the way home in a state of fascinated . . . speculation. What would Polly say? Maggie? Lisa? Wetherby? And, for that matter, Koko?

Towards dinnertime, Qwilleran drove out on Ittibittiwassee Road to Indian Village to pick up Polly in Unit One of the Willows. There were signs that the doctor was already in Unit Two. The occupant of Number Three would be at Station WPKX at this hour, bamboozling his listeners about the weather, as Qwilleran took pleasure in telling him.

He used his key to unlock Polly's door but also gave the doorbell their secret code-ring, the first four notes (approximately) of Beethoven's Fifth.

Brutus and Catta came running to meet him, followed by Polly in her plum-coloured suit with pink blouse and opal earrings, and she had been to the hairdresser. Qwilleran was wearing coordinated greys blending with his greying hair, grey eyes, and pepper-and-salt moustache.

`See? The little dears are happy to see you!'

`They're happy because they know I'm not staying long,' he said.

As they drove away, Polly remarked, 'Dr Constable's furniture arrived today. It's been in storage pending the final divorce settlement. She's been eager to get away from the guest house. She said the mood changed after Alden moved in.'

`From what - to what?'

`She said the relaxed family feeling changed to a formal, terribly proper atmosphere . . . I know you won't mention this.'

`Did you see the wedding announcements in today's paper, Polly?'

`No, but several people phoned me. What motivated her? Love? Loneliness? Some practical consideration? Women find him very attractive. But - I hesitate to say this - my assistant, who's from Lockmaster, says he has a reputation as a fortune hunter.'

A negative thought entered Qwilleran's mind, but he squelched it. He said, 'Violet seems in a hurry to have the Hibbard book published, as if she's afraid the house will bum down. Bushy has photographed it inside and out, so . . . Anyway, all I have to do now is tell the Hibbard story in beautiful prose.'

His arch remark was taken seriously by Polly, who admired his writing.

At the Grist Mill there were admiring glances from other diners and a questioning look from Derek Cuttlebrink. He seated them under the murderous scythe on the wall, saying, 'I just found out it's made of plastic. If it falls off the wall it might splash your soup, but it won't decapitate anybody.'

`Bon appetit,' Qwilleran said.

When the waiter took their order, it was Chicken Venezia for her and Sirloin Marsala for him.

Conversation at the table was about . . . words.

How Bill Turmeric had explained Mrs Fulgrove's use of `which'.

How Koko was fascinated by George Ade's Fables in Slang simply because it was a small book.

How Violet had used the word 'repair' correctly when most people would say 'retire'. .

For dessert they had plum buckle.