The Cat Who Went Bananas

Chapter 23

Qwilleran thought about Violet on Thursday morning as he fed the cats and himself (in that order). He thought about her ingratiating personality and intelligence and love of poetry and drama. He thought about her shattered romance in early years and her strange marriage in later life. He hesitated to call it a romance. Yet who could tell? And what would happen now? Whatever. . . he felt driven to complete the book. He could imagine the pleasure it would have given her; the photographs of cosy corners, family treasures, and architectural wonders. The text, he was sure, would have delighted her. That was what he had to concentrate on now, relating historic incidents with affection and humour rather than journalistic objectivity. In other words, he planned to write what she would have liked to read. He would dedicate the book simply 'To Violet'. And there would he a handsome photograph of her, selected from the Hibbard archives with the aid of Maggie.

But first he had things to do. High on the list was Polly's grocery shopping. He had a key to her condo, enabling him to refrigerate perishables. And he had a standing invitation to a pickup dinner of leftovers as a reward for his kindness. There were always errands for him to do at the bank, post office, and drugstore as well as at Toodle's Market. And on this occasion he had an urge to visit Andy Brodie.

The police department was in the rear of the City Hall building, up one flight.

The sergeant on the desk waved Qwilleran through the gate and towards the glass-enclosed office where the chief could be seen growling at the computer.

'Come in, laddie! Rest your bones!' the chief barked in a Scots accent. 'How's the rugged life in the wilderness?'

'I miss our spur-of-the-moment nightcaps, Andy. The cats miss you, too. Koko wants me to ask you if the Lockmaster sniping case was ever closed.'

Nope.'

'There was something about a member of the family being involved - on the grapevine, that is. Was that ever under investigation?'

'Yep. It was dropped for lack of evidence. They had to go easy because he was a prominent citizen.'

'Apparently the situation in Lockmaster became too unfriendly; the prominent citizen moved to Moose County. Did you know that?'

'Yep.'

'He's made a big hit here. In fact, he married the older woman who's the sole heir to the four-generation Hibbard fortune. I'm sure you know that. It was in the paper last Friday.'

'Yep.'

The bride died early this morning,' Qwilleran said. 'There'll be a bulletin on the front page today. Cause of aneurysm.'

'Och, mon! What does your smart cat think about this hanky-panky?'

'Well, the man has been to the barn twice, and both times Koko was conspicuous by his absence. The second time Koko arranged for him to slip on a banana peel. You figure it out!'

Arriving home at the Willows, Qwilleran realized that the condo offered Koko a greater showcase for his talents than the barn had ever done. Instead of a single kitchen window in which to prance, he had three. There was a tall narrow sidelight alongside the front door. The dining ell, which served as writing studio as well, had a horizontal window with a wide ledge. The kitchen had another horizontal window above the sink counter.

When Qwilleran drove up, Koko was performing in all three windows - not easy to do, but he was a fast operator. His agitation indicated messages on the answering machine, which turned out to be from Lisa Compton, Burgess Campbell, the Lanspeaks, and others - friends wanting to talk to friends in a moment of mourning.

Qwilleran first returned the call from Maggie.

'Oh, Qwill! Thank you so much for what you said last night. Today I feel a blessed calm and a resolve to do something constructive.'

'Good! Is there anything I can do to help?'

'Your help with a memorial service would be much appreciated. I'm Violet's executor, and I want to plan a tribute she would approve of. I wondered if you would deliver the eulogy. You have such a wonderful voice and such a compelling presence.'

'Don't get carried away, Maggie. I think someone like Burgess Campbell would he more suitable. His family has known her family for generations, and he and she worked together on the board of ESP. His lectures at the college are outstanding for content and style, not to mention that chesty Scottish voice. And with Alexander by his side, it would make a moving farewell to a dear friend. Violet liked dogs, you know.'

'Perfect! Perfect! I'm so glad I talked with you, Qwill.'

'One more thought, Maggie. Poetry and drama were Violet's great loves. Readings from great writers would he highly appropriate. Polly could read one or two of Byron's shorter works, and I'd consider it a privilege to deliver a passage from Shakespeare.'

Later that afternoon a phone call came from Alden Wade.

Qwilleran offered the bereaved husband condolences with a promise to pursue the book project with renewed dedication -as a tribute to a wonderful woman.

'It's a genuine expression of my feelings. Is there anything I can do?' Qwilleran asked.

'I'd like to tell you about a conversation Violet and I had during our last afternoon together. Would you have a few minutes?'

'By all means. We're living at Indian Village now.'

He gave Alden instructions for reaching the Willows and gave Koko instructions in how to behave.

'The poor guy has just lost his wife, Koko! Try to show some warmth, some understanding.'

Koko crept away with head and tail lowered and was not seen for the next few hours.

When Alden arrived, Qwilleran gripped his hand with feeling and ushered him to one of the loungy sofas.

The guest declined refreshments and launched into his report: 'You probably know that Violet's grandfather liked to entertain. He's the one who built the lavish guest house down the hill in the rear. It's now referred to as the Old Rock Pile - affectionately, not disrespectfully. His guests would stay two weeks or more, enjoying the outdoors during the day, then dressing up and reporting to the main house for a formal dinner and an evening of table games. Are you a card player, Qwill?'

'I'm afraid not. As a kid I played a yelling, screaming, table-thumping card game called Pit, but that's all.'

'Well, Geoffrey offered his guests a Games Gallery with a choice of a hundred table games - everything from chess to mahjongg. The young people had a choice of Old Maid, Flinch, Chinese chequers, and the like. Old-timers could play dominoes or whist. There was backgammon, Parcheesi, Monopoly -everything. This was between 1900 and 1950, you know.'

'It sounds as if you have a museum there, Alden.'

'That's what Violet said. Even the regular playing cards are in beautiful boxes: carved, hand-painted, or inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She thought a description of the gallery could be included in the text, but you'd have to see it.'

'Gladly! How about tomorrow?'

Arrangements were made. Alden went on his way. And Koko came sneaking out from underneath the sofa.

'What's wrong with you?' Qwilleran demanded.

Arriving at Polly's for dinner that evening, Qwilleran was met by Brutus, the security guard, and Catta, who had the manner of a shy hoyden.

They supervised while he set up the butterfly table along the window wall, laid it with two place settings, selected the dinner music, and fixed the cat food. Then Polly served a casserole of mixed leftovers (his not to question what) enhanced by a sprinkling of parsley and toasted almonds.

While the music system played Chopin nocturnes, they discussed the approaching weather (stormy) and the newly questioned status of Dundee.

`You see,' Polly said, 'people come in to see him and they end up buying a book. The Green Smocks swear that Dundee's professional charm accounts for fifty per cent of purchases, Tax-wise, that means we can take his food, litter, valet services, and vet fees as business expenses. Or we can make him a salaried employee and let him pay for his own upkeep and health insurance. In that case, should he have his own Social Security number and file a tax return?'

She seemed quite serious about it, so he replied seriously, `I'd hate to see the bookstore or Dundee get into trouble. Ask your accountant to take it up with the Internal Revenue Service.'

After dinner they turned off the music and discussed readings for Violet's memorial service.

Polly said she might read Byron's short poem 'She Walks in Beauty, Like the Night'.

Qwilleran said Violet reminded him of Portia in The Merchant of Venice. He could read her famous oration: The quality of mercy is not strain'd.

It was the kind of bookish evening they both enjoyed - the kind that had been missing from their lives during Polly’s indoctrination in the book business.

All at once there was a flash of electric blue that lighted the night sky surrounding the Willows. It illuminated the interior for half a second through the window wall.

'Sheet lightning,' Qwilleran said. 'Joe has been predicting violent weather for the last couple of days. I'd better go home before we get a drenching downpour.'

As he walked towards Unit Four, a van pulled up alongside the kerb, and Wetherby Goode called out, 'Want a lift?' He was on his way home from his eleven-o'clock stint at WPKX.

'Want a nightcap? After your hard work on the airwaves,' Qwilleran retorted.

'Thanks. I'll stable my horse and bounce right over there.' The sky flashed electric blue again. 'Sheet lightning,' he said.

In a few minutes he reported to Unit Four. 'Where are the cats?'

`Koko's upstairs predicting the weather. He plans to apply for your job. Yum Yum's under the sofa.- She doesn't care for lightning.'

'Who does? I gave a talk on lightning at the clubhouse last year and asked how many people enjoy electrical storms. Not one hand went up. A few said they found thunderstorms exciting provided it wasn't too loud and one had something to drink!'

'Is it true that you shouldn't stand under a tree during an electrical storm?'

'Absolutely! Lightning goes for tall targets. Trees are tall. The intense heat boils the sap and explodes the tree.'

'One more question, Joe. What exactly is sheet lightning ?'

'Sometimes the lightning flash is obscured by clouds, which are then brightly illuminated. During sheet lightning, the flash seems to come from everywhere, lighting up the whole sky. That's what we've been getting for the last hour . . . But enough of that. I learned something electrifying in Horseradish this week. I raced over there for a birthday party following my forecast, and I met the girl who was going to marry Ronnie Dickson this fall. You remember his fatal accident, Qwill?'

'I remember. The official report blamed the use of drugs plus alcohol.'

'Well, according to this girl, Alden Wade was the one who suggested uppers to Ronnie, saying they were in common use for stage fright. She and her friends think Alden wanted to get rid of Ronnie. There was a whispering campaign in Horseradish about the sniping of Mrs Wade. Alden's stepson and Ronnie were the instigators. No one knows what happened to the stepson, but Ronnie sure is out of the picture.'

'Interesting,' Qwilleran said. 'Do you buy that story, Joe?'

'Well . . . she's an intelligent girl - very serious, very sincere. Thanks for the drink, Qwill.' He jumped up. 'Gotta get home and talk to Jetboy. He's a big, strong tomcat, but when there's an electrical storm, I have to sit and hold his paw.'

'Does you credit, Joe,' Qwilleran said as he accompanied his neighbour to the front door.

When he returned, Koko and Yum Yum were sitting in the middle of the floor, regarding him intently. Their bedtime snack was past due.