The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers (9 page)

And then Polly dropped a bombshell!

Qwilleran phoned Dr. Connie to inquire about Brutus and Catta and learned they were living it up at the Pet Plaza and might never want to leave.

He read Polly's letter again to see if he had misunderstood. It was perfectly clear. He told himself he had been the recipient of a “Dear John” letter for the first time in his life…. Perhaps he had been too complacent…they had been “together,” so to speak, for a long time!

The Siamese hovered around. They knew something was wrong.

It soon appeared that Polly had notified everyone. Always businesslike and thorough, she had sent news releases to the
Something
and
Ledger,
resulting in front-page coverage. The headlines also started the gossip mills grinding.

At Toodle's Market: Did you know she spoke French?…She went to college Down East. Her family's not from around here…. Her father was a professor…. She married a student from Moose County; that's how she landed here.

At the drugstore: Did you know she was a widow from way back? Her husband was a volunteer fireman killed while fighting a barn fire…. Wonder why she never remarried…. She went to work in the Pickax library; that's what she was trained for. But she never remarried.

At Lois's Luncheonette: Looks like his girlfriend ran out on him…. He won't have any trouble getting a replacement.

At the post office: She went to our church. He never came with her, but he was a generous giver…. No wonder! With all that money he has to pay tax on!…I'd gladly pay the tax if I had all that dough!

And now everyone was phoning Qwilleran…neighbors at the condo…bookstore crew…Polly's hairdresser…. No one knew that she was fluent in French. People thought that the French magazine that was always on her coffee table was only stage dressing, so to speak.

Qwilleran hurried to the bookstore and had a conference with Judd Amhurst; no problem there, other than shock….

The Rikers invited him to dinner—alone—and he declined, saying he had a deadline in connection with his next book….

In the days that followed, Qwilleran, who had once trained for the stage, acted as if nothing had happened.

Still, at eleven
P
.
M
., he found himself thinking: Let's face it. Everyone needs a late-night phone pal.

“…What are you doing? Did you have a good day?…What did the vet say about Catta's stomach upset?…Where would you like to have dinner Saturday night?…I finished reading my book. I wouldn't recommend it. Well, let me know about the plumber's decision….
À bientôt.
”

 

Then Qwilleran pulled a few strings.

Polly's unit at the Willows was up for lease; Barbara Honiger had mentioned that it would be nice living closer to town. Both Joe Bunker and Dr. Connie thought an attorney would be an asset to the Willows.

Qwilleran looked up a phone number.

“Good evening, Barbara,” he said in his mellifluous voice. “I hear you're moving into the Willows! We couldn't hope for a better addition. Is there anything I can do to expedite your move?”

The Willows celebrated the arrival of Barbara Honiger's cat, Molasses, with…not another pizza party but…a catered meal by the Mackintosh Inn, delivered by a busboy in a chef's tall toque.

Toasts were drunk to the new neighbor. She showed snapshots of Molasses, her marmalade. They were a congenial group. Joe Bunker played “Kitten on the Keys” very fast. He said he had just had his piano tuned. Barbara was impressed by Joe's high-speed performance at the piano. Dr. Connie gave the newcomer a token gift from Scotland, a Shetland-wool scarf. Qwilleran invited them to a performance of the musical
Cats.

With a commanding stance and a grand gesture, Qwilleran declared, “I consider it significant that Shakespeare made no mention of newspaper columnists in his vast work…or of veterinarians or meteorologists. But he mentions attorneys!”

There were cries of “Who? Where? Which play?”

“In act two of
Henry VI, Part II
…‘First thing we do…we kill all the lawyers'!”

The festivities lasted longer than the usual pizza party; the hotel had sent over four courses. Dr. Connie showed the movie of her trip to Scotland. Joe's piano playing seemed particularly brilliant.

Barbara asked Qwilleran, “Is that portrait of Lady Mackintosh in the hotel lobby your mother?”

“Yes. Amazingly, it was done by a local artist who'd never met her or seen her photo. He was merely told she resembled Greer Garson. Yet the portrait doesn't look like a movie star; she looks like my mother.”

Joe said, “I should have him do a portrait of my father—a horseradish farmer with a moustache and glasses. He looked like Teddy Roosevelt.”

Qwilleran accompanied the women to their units and went in to say hello to the new cat on the block.

Barbara owned one of Moira MacDiarmid's cats. “Or he owns me. He's in the deepest tawny tone like a molasses cookie, so I named him Molasses, and he seems to like it.”

Qwilleran noted that his markings, tilted over one eye, gave him the jaunty look of a soldier.

He sang an old military tune: “There's something about Molasses, there's something about Molasses, there's something about Molasses that is fine, fine, fine.”

Molasses fell over sideways—an expression of approval, Barbara said.

When he returned to the barn, the Siamese greeted him with that reproachful stare that meant their bedtime snack was late.

 

That evening, instead of waiting for the call that never came, Qwilleran made one of his own—to Wetherby Goode. “Joe. Great party! Great music!”

“Yeah, you can always tell when old Betsey has been tuned. I pound the ivories so hard, she has to be tuned four times a year. It has something to do with the felts and the hammers. Don't ask me what!”

“Really? Who does it?”

“Young guy in Lockmaster.”

Qwilleran asked, “Would Dr. Feltzanhammer make a good story for the Qwill Pen?”

“I don't know. He's young and kind of shy. But he's likable.”

“I'll give it a try. Before interviewing anyone on an esoteric subject, I read all about it in the encyclopedia, so I know what questions to ask and what he's talking about. What are felts and hammers? My mother was a brilliant pianist, and she never mentioned felts and hammers.”

“By the way, it was the piano tuner's girlfriend who was killed by a bee sting at the Old Manse.”

At that moment, Koko interrupted with a gut-wrenching howl.

“What was that all about?” Joe asked.

“Koko wants the lights turned out.”

Qwilleran knew better. It was the cat's death howl. It meant wrongful death.

In spite of the ups and downs of his current life, Qwilleran had the steadying influence of home and workplace: feeding the cats twice a day and writing the Qwill Pen twice a week. Filling the thousand-word hole on page two kept him alert for ideas.

The morning after Joe's party, Qwilleran was feeding the cats when he received an unexpected phone call from Rhoda Tibbitt.

“Qwill, I hope I'm not calling too early. I have exciting news. I've discovered the answer to the Brown Paper Bag Mystery! I was preparing Homer's suits to give to charity, the way he wanted, and I found some little brown paper bags in the pockets! And two of them contained tiny flasks.” She paused for breath—or effect. “I tasted the contents: One of them still had…black breakfast tea! And the other had the afternoon tea that Homer liked. Lapsang souchong!”

Qwilleran said, “Don't say a word to anyone! They're talking about a refreshment stand for the lobby of the auditorium, something with class…and I'm going to suggest the Homer Tibbitt Tearoom!…But don't explain, and neither will I. We'll keep Homer's secret.”

Qwilleran had an opportunity to use his privileged information from Rhoda Tibbitt when he called on Daisy Babcock in the refurbished auditorium. He complimented her on the metamorphosis of the building, and she praised his book review. There were daisies from Fredo on her desk—and a daisy wallpaper on the wall above a gray dado.

She said, “We've been thinking about a refreshment stand on the main floor—not a hangout for kids but something more civilized.”

“How about a Homer Tibbitt Tearoom?”

“Qwill. You come up with the best impromptu ideas!”

A chart on the wall gave the status of local projects. The Old Manse Museum of Art and Antiques was open two days a week with trained guides—twenty dollars a ticket—and people coming from all over the country—even Europe. She then added, “But they won't go into the garden. They've all heard about the danger of bee stings.”

“Have you had any more trouble?” he asked.

She shook her head and looked sad.

Also on the chart were the following:

 

Senior Health Club—Ready next year.

Wildlife museum—Buildings finished/mounted
animals and art being moved in.

 

There was a photo of the Ledfields on Daisy's desk, and Qwilleran said, “Handsome couple. I never met them, but their efforts for child welfare alone were commendable.”

Daisy said, “That's because they were childless and regretful. Bringing busloads of kids from Pickax Schools to view the mounted animals gave Nathan great pleasure. He would be thrilled to know that we're erecting two buildings downtown and the city is renaming the Old Back Road the Ledfield Highway.”

 

Cats
musical—Now being rehearsed.

 

Qwilleran asked, “How are the
Cats
rehearsals progressing? Is Frankie still the accompanist? Who's turning Frankie's pages?”

“Uncle Louie's wife. Hannah. She's a wonderful woman and does what needs to be done. She can accompany the chorus or even direct the show, and yet she'll sweep the stage if necessary, or make sandwiches for the cast. It's amazing what the McLeods have done with the orphan they adopted.”

“So is Frankie doing all right?”

“It appears so.”

He asked, “Do you think he would make a good interview on piano tuning? I could kill a couple of birds with one stone and do chauffeur service for a rehearsal.”

“I know. This is what we've worked out. We could drop off Frankie at the barn, and you could drive him back to the theater at seven-thirty. You could give him a bite to eat; he isn't fussy, and he'd love to see the barn and meet the cats. I know the barn doesn't have a piano, but Frankie has one of those roll-up keyboards!”

Qwilleran agreed. “You're an expert coordinator, Daisy.”

He had decided against doing a Qwill Pen column on piano tuning. It was another no-story.

When one of the Linguini brothers (Mungojerrie, not Rumpleteazer) arrived at the barn, Frankie jumped out the passenger side, gazing in rapture at the lofty barn and saying, “Oh, wow! Oh, wow!”

Qwilleran realized high praise when he heard it.

Koko and Yum Yum were cavorting in the kitchen window as they always did when a vehicle arrived, and—as first-time visitors always did—Frankie asked, “Are these your cats?”

Qwilleran always felt like saying, “No, these are a pair of pet crocodiles.” But he said amiably, “Yes, this is Koko and Yum Yum.”

Both Qwilleran and the Siamese found Frankie a likable guest. The Siamese followed him around and put on their flying-squirrel act from the top balcony to entertain him.

The Siamese were fascinated by the “thing” strapped to his back, somewhat like a blanket roll but actually a four-octave electronic piano. (Later, when they heard it, though, they went and hid.)

“Do you come from a musical family?” Qwilleran asked.

“My dad raises horses, but my mother is a piano teacher, and I have an uncle who's a piano tuner.”

“Did he teach you about felts and hammers?” He was enjoying a private joke.

“He taught me everything,” Frankie said seriously.

That explained everything except his inability to drive, and his friendship with Libby Simms had taken care of that.

Locals in both counties had said, “They're a darling couple. Do you think they'll marry? It's a touching romance.” And then there was the incident of the bee sting.

Now Qwilleran was about to show Frankie the premises.

“First we must order our dinner,” Qwilleran said, handing his guest a menu card. “Order anything you like and it'll be delivered in fifteen minutes. I'm having ham and sweet potatoes with asparagus spears…a cheese muffin…apple-and-walnut salad…and chocolate cake. I have my own coffee machine.”

“I'll have the same,” Frankie said.

“While we're waiting, Koko will show you their apartment on the third level. They have a twistletwig rocking chair that you might try sitting in; it's an experience.”

Apparently the three of them were “communicating,” because Frankie had to be called down for dinner. It was served in the screened gazebo, and that was another experience, since small animals came up to the screen and communed silently with the Siamese.

Frankie said, “Libby would have loved this. Did you ever meet her?”

“Yes. Charming young woman.”

Two tears rolled down the young man's face. “Now my life's ruined. Libby and I…we were gonna get married and travel around on concert tours. But she went out to the garden without the kit the doctor gave her.”

“I hear she kept it in the pocket of her garden coat.”

“Yeah, but she wore that jacket when we went on dates, too. She must've taken the bee kit out and forgot to put it back. She ruined my life as well as her own.”

The Siamese, not used to seeing anyone cry, came forward to watch, and stroking them gave Frankie some comfort.

From then on, he was a sullen guest…. “I hafta get back to the theater.” He jumped up and bolted out to Qwilleran's vehicle without a word to the cats.

Qwilleran drove him back to the concert hall. He dropped him without receiving thanks, but Daisy was in the lobby.

“Thanks, Qwill! How did it go?”

“Okay, but I think he was nervous about getting back on time.”

After dropping off Frankie unceremoniously at the concert hall, Qwilleran returned to the barn to feed the cats and was greeted by two agitated Siamese. It meant the phone had been ringing but no message had been left.

He prepared their plate of food and watched them devour it, but they did so nervously, with frequent glances toward the back door. While they were bent over their plates the phone rang—and they jumped a foot.

Daisy was calling from the theater. “Frankie got back on time but he was a wreck. Hannah had to sub for him. What happened?”

Qwilleran said, “Bears discussing, but not over the phone. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Writing in his journal that night, he remembered overhearing conversations in the coffee shop after the girl died from a bee sting at the Old Manse. One always heard gossips sounding off. They had been saying: Sounds fishy to me!…They're not telling the whole ball of wax…. My cousin works at the Old Manse, and she says they're not allowed to talk about the accident.

As the press had been led to believe, it would affect public response to the Old Manse and its gardens. And it had.