The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers (6 page)

The next day, a Tuesday, Qwilleran met his Qwill Pen deadline but felt an underlying disappointment, although he kept telling himself to snap out of it. Everywhere he went, the entire population of Pickax seemed to know that Polly was going to Paris without him.

One conference was with Lisa Compton, who wanted to update him on the proposed program at the Senior Health Club. When given a choice of venue, she gladly chose the barn.

“How's your crotchety and lovable husband?” he asked. Lyle was superintendent of schools.

“Crotchety and lovable, in that order,” she said cheerfully.

They decided it was too good a day to sit anywhere but the gazebo.

He asked, “Is there anything the Qwill Pen can do for you?”

“That's for you to decide, Qwill. I'll tell you where we stand. The building itself is progressing incredibly fast. With all-volunteer labor. We're selling memberships and collecting ideas for activities. I've never seen this town so excited. The wonderful thing is that they want to learn how to do things! Does the Qwill Pen have any suggestions?”

“As a matter of fact, yes! I've been thinking about it—and about the pleasure I get from writing a private journal. It's not like a diary, where you record daily events—but a place for thoughts and ideas, no matter how personal or crazy. No matter how amateurish, it's something to leave to future generations—something that will be appreciated. I'd be willing to introduce the idea, give a few tips—even read some of my own entries.”

“Qwill! This is more than I expected! You could introduce the idea now—in the community hall, and get them started. Is there anything I should be doing?”

“Just tell the stationer to lay in a good supply of ordinary school notebooks with lined pages.”

 

That night as Qwilleran sat down to write in his private journal, he had a flashback to his lean and hungry years as a young man in New York. He wrote:

Qwilleran's phone rang frequently the following day.

“Is it true about Polly?”

“Why aren't you going?”

“Why Paris?”

“Does she speak French?”

“Are you giving a big party?”

“How long will she be gone?”

Finally he remembered the advice of his childhood mentor: “When fed up, take the bull by the horns.”

He went downtown to Lanspeak's Department Store and asked Carol about a going-away gift for Polly. “Not another scarf! And certainly not a bottle of French perfume!”

She said, “We have a wonderful travel coat—gabardine—with snap flaps on the patch pockets—with secret pockets in the lining—and a brimmed rain hat. Polly looked at it but thought the price a little steep.”

“I'll take it!” he said. “In fact, I'll take two. Is there a choice of colors?”

Now, it seemed to Qwilleran, would be a good time to work on his senior program for Lisa Compton. It would be easy. He could tell an anecdote or two about Cool Koko…then show a stack of the school notebooks he filled with journal entries. Never a day went by without filling a page.

On some days there were brief entries:

That evening, Qwilleran phoned the Comptons and told Lisa he was ready to talk to the seniors about private journals. He had some free time. He would read a couple of his own entries. They could start their own journals without waiting for the Senior Health Club to be finished.

Lisa said they would announce the date at the community hall.

“There'll be a crowd!” she said. “We'll notify the Traffic Department.”

 

On Thursday, Qwilleran felt the need for lunch and camaraderie with Kip MacDiarmid. The editor in chief of the
Lockmaster Ledger
was one of his best friends, and Kip's wife, Moira, was the marmalade breeder who had presented the affable Dundee to the Pirate's Chest. Their favorite restaurant was in the old Inglehart mansion.

Kip's first words were, “Moira says you and Polly must come to dinner soon.”

“Polly's leaving for Paris for two weeks,” Qwilleran said, “with Shirley Bestover.”

When told the particulars, Kip asked, “Who's planning their trip?”

“It appears there's a semiretired travel agent in Lockmaster, who will go along to see that they get the best of everything.”

“Him, I know him! He's an old roué, but I suppose Polly and Shirley can handle him. You might tip them off.”

They talked about many things. “If you would syndicate your column in the
Ledger,
we'd run it on page one and it would double our circulation….

“Want to know something, Kip? Our office manager at the paper says that most of the mail that comes addressed to Koko has a Lockmaster postmark…. You've got a bunch of Koko-nuts around here.”

They mentioned the local election that was coming up. “The incumbent is sure to win,” Kip said. “The challenger is confident, but…as the saying goes, he couldn't get elected dogcatcher!”

Then Kip made a suggestion that launched Qwilleran like a rocket. It was just what he needed under the present circumstances. “Were you ever involved in the Theater of the Absurd?”

“Yes, I was in New York and saw it at its best. I always wanted to write an absurdist play, but never did.”

“There's talk about a revival. Would you be interested?” Kip asked.

“How about an original absurdist creation? How about:
The Cat Who Was Elected Dogcatcher
?”

Then Kip changed the subject slyly: “Moira wants me to ask you if you're still practicing medicine without a license. You could bottle this stuff and sell it.”

He referred to a humorous verse Qwilleran had composed for his last birthday. He brought a card from his vest pocket printed with a typical Qwilleran limerick:

The editor said, “Whenever I'm feeling below normal, physically or otherwise, I read your prescription and it gives me a boost.”

Qwilleran said, “I've been thinking of writing a book on the subject of humorous verse—”

“Do it! I'll buy the first copies and give them to all my friends.”

As they talked, Qwilleran's gaze was prone to wander across the room to a table where three women were lunching in unusual hats.

He remarked, “Polly would go for those bizarre hats, and she could wear one well.”

The editor corrected him. “Moira says they're called art hats.”

“I beg everyone's pardon” was the facetious apology. “Do you know the women who're wearing them? They keep looking over here at us.”

“They're looking at your moustache. They all know who you are. They see your photo in the Qwill Pen on Tuesdays and Fridays…. I still think you should syndicate it to the
Ledger.
”

“Pleasant thought, but it wouldn't work.” He grabbed the check when it came to the table. “My treat. Tell Moira she can invite us to dinner when Polly gets back.”

The editor left, and Qwilleran signed the check and left a tip, noting that two art hats had left the room, and the other woman was still eyeing his moustache.

On the way out of the restaurant he said to the hostess, “I'm embarrassed. I know that woman at the fireplace table, but I can't place her.”

The hostess's face brightened. “There are usually three. The public library is closed on Thursday, and they call themselves the Librarians Who Lunch. That one is Vivian Hartman, the chief librarian.”

She looked very pleasant when he approached. Her hat, he noted, was brimmed and about a foot in diameter…two shades of velvet, and a large silk sash with a realistic peony.

“I beg your pardon, are you Miss Hartman? I'm Jim Qwilleran from the
Moose County Something
.”

“Yes, I know! Won't you sit down?” she answered, and he pulled up a chair.

“I must say I admire the hats you ladies wear.”

“We make them ourselves…in memory of your Thelma Thackeray. Her brother Thurston had a veterinary hospital here. We're still grieving over both of them. Not to mention her loss of twenty-five art hats.” She looked for his reaction.

He nodded somberly. “Did you know that they had been photographed just before the calamity?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “No one in Lockmaster knew!”

“Our photographer was commissioned, and I went along to hold his lights. I could show you a set of glossy prints—if you would come for lunch at my barn next Thursday,” he said. “Thelma had commissioned a California woman to write a book, but she lost interest when the hats were destroyed…. Perhaps…”

“Yes…perhaps,” the librarian said, “we might revive the idea.”

As F Day approached, Polly became more distracted. There was no time for dining at fine restaurants followed by a classical concert on the magnificent music system of Qwilleran's barn. She spent her days instructing Judd and Peggy to take over the Pirate's Chest in her absence. She spent her evenings making packing lists, reading about Paris, brushing up on her college French, having long telephone conversations with Shirley Bestover; Qwilleran felt left out. His offers of “any kind of assistance” were appreciated but apparently unneeded.

 

That evening and in those to come, Qwilleran took the initiative to phone at eleven
P
.
M
., knowing that Polly would be distracted with last-minute considerations of all kinds. She had not yet told him when she was leaving, and he stubbornly refused to ask. He said not a word about his Theater of the Absurd project (she had always despised that kind of play) or the Librarians Who Lunch.

Polly told him, “Wetherby Goode will take Brutus and Catta to the Pet Plaza and visit them twice a week. Isn't that thoughtful of him? Dr. Connie will water my plants and take in my mail. We have such wonderful neighbors at the Willows.” (Qwilleran had no comment.)

She said, “There's a five-hour difference in time between Paris and Pickax, dear, so we'll have to forgo our late-night chats.”

“I'll give you a pocket recorder to take along, and you can dictate a running account of your adventures to bring home.”

He told her, “If any problems arise in Paris, don't hesitate to contact me collect—at any hour of the day or night, regardless of time differential.”

When his parting gifts were delivered (blue gabardine for her, khaki gabardine for Shirley), the two women were overwhelmed. It was not until they had left for the Lockmaster airport in Shirley's son's limousine that Qwilleran felt at ease again, and not even lonely! After all, he had Koko and Yum Yum for companions, two columns a week to write for the newspaper. He was committed to deadline on Homer Tibbitt's biography. He was working on his program for the Senior Health Club, to be given at the community hall since the redesigned building was far from complete. Also, the Literary Club's visiting lecturer on Proust was scheduled to be his overnight guest at the barn. (He was said to be an ailurophile, so Koko's aerial demonstrations would be amusing, not threatening.) Plus, to write a play in the absurdist style. All this…and Polly would be gone only two weeks!

Later that evening Qwilleran called Kip MacDiarmid at home. “Were you serious about my writing an absurdist play?”

“I think it would be a hoot,” Kip replied.

“Would you use the title I suggested?” Qwilleran asked.

“Why not? When can you do it?” Kip asked.

“I've just done it; it took half an hour. I'll send it to your office by motorcycle messenger in the morning.”

THE CAT WHO GOT
ELECTED DOGCATCHER

A Play in One Act by Jim Qwilleran

CAST

Man with dog on leash

Woman with cat in arms

Street sweeper with broom

SCENE

WOMAN
(to cat in arms): Stop complaining, Jerome! If I put you down in the wet grass, you'll only want to be picked up again.

 

Enter
MAN
(with dog tugging on leash)
:
No, Eugene, it's against the law. (Sees woman.) Oh, hi! Hi!

 

WOMAN:
Hi!

 

MAN:
Is that Jerome? I thought he skipped town after the…incident.

 

WOMAN:
He came back.

 

MAN:
Does he have any means of support?

 

WOMAN:
His constituents are raising a slush fund.

 

MAN:
Is that what he eats?

 

WOMAN:
He'll eat anything.

 

MAN:
He looks as if he eats better than I do.

 

WOMAN:
Do you have time to sit down?

 

MAN:
They just painted the benches.

 

WOMAN:
That was last week.

 

They both sit…and look surprised.

 

WOMAN:
Oh, well, I wasn't going anywhere. How about you?

 

MAN:
I had an appointment at the traffic court.

 

CAT:
Yeowwww!

 

WOMAN:
You're sitting on his tail.

 

MAN:
Has the candidate ever held office?

 

WOMAN:
Only as rat catcher.

 

MAN:
Why did he quit?

 

WOMAN:
No reason.

 

MAN:
What makes you think he could catch dogs?

 

CAT:
Yeowwww!

 

WOMAN:
See? He's quite confident.

 

MAN:
I'm still sitting on his tail!

 

WOMAN:
Jerome! The gentleman has offered to be your campaign manager!

 

CAT: (
Hisses at man.)

 

WOMAN:
Jerome! This gentleman is here to get you votes!

 

MAN:
Frankly, I don't think his name is suitable for public office.

 

WOMAN:
What would you suggest? Pussy?

 

MAN:
I had in mind something strong like Tiger…OUCH!

 

WOMAN:
Jerome! That's politically incorrect!

 

MAN:
I'm not sure he's qualified.

 

WOMAN:
Jerome! Behave!…He hasn't had his lunch. He knows you have a sandwich in your pocket.

 

MAN:
It's only peanut butter.

 

WOMAN:
He'll eat anything except spinach.

 

MAN:
(Attempts to leave in defense of his sandwich.)

 

All three are stuck.

 

The End

 

That night Qwilleran added to his private journal:

When the Linguini Party Store truck delivered another supply of Squunk water and other treats, Qwilleran was pleased to see Daisy Babcock step out of the passenger side. She was waving a camera.

“Libby Simms at the Old Manse wants me to take a picture of Koko. She memorizes everything you write about him. I told her you wouldn't mind.”

“True! But Koko will mind. Whenever a camera is pointed in his direction, he crosses his eyes, bares his fangs, and scratches his ear…. But go ahead. They're both in the gazebo.”

He helped Alfredo unload.

“I see your wife is still working at the Old Manse.”

“Can't pry her away from that place.”

“No more bee stings?”

“Well, the girl with the allergy is supposed to take a medical kit every time she goes in the garden, which is several times a day, and she forgets, so Daisy bought her a hospital jacket with big pockets in a bright color to hang just inside the garden door. She just grabs it when she goes out. The kit is in the pockets…. That's the way my wife is—always thinking of solutions to problems…. How long before you move back to the condo?”

“It depends on the weather. The leaves haven't even started to turn,” Qwilleran marveled…. He walked around to the gazebo and found the two cats on Daisy's lap.

“No problem,” she said. “Are you trying out for the
Cats
musical?”

“No, but I'll attend a couple of rehearsals, looking for cues for the Qwill Pen. I hear Libby's boyfriend is a terrific piano player.”

“Did you know he was the Ledfields' piano tuner? They're a darling couple.”

Then Alfredo appeared, and the party was over.

 

In preparation for the evening, Qwilleran gave the Siamese an early dinner, and they walked around it three times as if questioning the propriety of the timing. For himself he ordered soup, sandwich, and pie from Robin O'Dell Catering.

To get in the mood for the
Cats
rehearsal Qwilleran played a recording of the musical and was half wishing he were singing a role, when…he heard a sound that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. It was Koko's death howl!

Starting with an abdominal guttural, it ascended through the cat's stiffened body and ended with a curdling shriek!

Qwilleran had heard it before, and it meant that…someone, somewhere was the victim of murder!

He mopped his brow as he considered the possibilities.

He phoned the city desk at the
Something.
“Qwill here. Any foul play reported?”

“No, but someone died as the result of a bee sting. Bad scene. Must've been allergic. My kids are getting stung all the time.”

 

Later in the evening Qwilleran attended the
Cats
rehearsal at the community hall. (The new music center was still being adapted from a public school.) The McLeods' nine-year-old adopted son, Danny, considered himself in charge of the rehearsal: arranging chairs, handing out scores, asking if anyone wanted a drink of bottled water, asking Qwilleran if he wanted something to write on.

When Uncle Louie mounted the podium and rapped on the music stand with his baton, the nine-year-old ushered the singers into the proper sections. No one seemed to find the boy at all too young for the responsibility.

However…the grimness of the conductor's expression and the presence of a substitute pianist quieted the assembly quickly. When he had everyone's attention, he said, somberly, “A fatal accident has robbed our pianist of his assistant and robbed our group of a cheerful and valued member. Libby Simms. Let us express our sorrow and sympathy by standing for a few minutes of silence.”

The chorusters stood, and Hannah, at the piano, played “Amazing Grace.”

Qwilleran, glancing around the assembly of stunned singers, caught Daisy's eye; the men in her family were trying out for roles. She motioned toward the exit, and when he met her in the hallway, her face looked taut.

She said, “Qwill, I've got to talk to you.”

They found a bench near the drinking fountain.

“A sad story,” he said. “I thought she had an emergency medical kit.”

“She was supposed to keep it in a pocket of the jacket—I got hot pink, her favorite color. She sometimes wore the jacket when she went on dates with Frankie. She was young and forgot to check the pockets. It's hard to convince young people to be careful.”

“Has the kit turned up since the tragedy?” he asked.

“I don't know. I've been too upset to think straight. Fredo thought it would do me good to come to the rehearsal with him and Mick…but…” She burst into tears again….

Qwilleran gave her a small packet of tissues.

When Daisy's sobs subsided, she said, “Fredo's right! I've got to get away from that place.”

“You have talents and personality that would be useful in the exciting community that Nathan has left us. It would please him if you were a part of it. Let me look into it for you. Think of it as the beginning of something, not the end of something.”