Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

The party broke up at a sensible hour, and Qwilleran drove home to get up-to-date on Polly’s escapade. He would ask her:

How was the party?

Were there sixty candles on the cake?

Who was there?

Were they dressed bookish or horsey?

Did they really play guessing games?

Who won?

What were the prizes?

What church do they attend?

How was the preacher?

He was a thorough interviewer, and she liked to be interviewed.

When he arrived at the barn, the cat-in-the-window message assured Qwilleran that someone had checked in. It was the weatherman.

“Polly’s home, but she’s beat! Call me, not her. She looked frazzled, Qwill, high on excitement, short on sleep. I told her to turn in and I’d notify you.”

Qwilleran said, “She never drinks more than half a glass of sherry. She’s known Shirley for years!”

“Yeah, but…something got her overexcited and maybe it interfered with her sleep. Too bad she had to drive home alone. We’ll keep in touch. Don’t worry.”

That evening, around eleven o’clock, Qwilleran was reading in his lounge chair, and the cats were sprawled on his lap. Suddenly Koko was alerted! He looked at the desk phone. And it rang. It was Polly, reporting for their bedtime chat.

“Qwill!” she cried. “I suppose you wonder what happened to me. I’ve never been so exhausted in my life! A cup of cocoa, a few hours’ sleep with my cuddly cats, and I revivified…. I hope you didn’t worry about me.”

“We’ll go to dinner tomorrow night, and you can fill me in.”

“I’ll have something exciting to tell you,” Polly said.

“Give me a hint.”

“No hints. If you guess what it is, it won’t be a surprise….À bientôt! ”

“À bientôt.”

EIGHT

On his way to the radio station, Wetherby Goode often stopped at Qwilleran’s barn for a pick-me-up, and the newsman enjoyed his impromptu visits—not only to get the inside track on the weather but to share neighborly news, and the neighbors at the Willows were always making news. Joe had been genuinely concerned about Polly.

When he arrived at the kitchen door and dropped on a stool at the bar, he was greeted by Koko and Yum Yum, who would not be surprised to receive a friendly cat snack from Jet Stream.

Qwilleran poured and said, “Well, she survived!”

“She’s a tough one! Never underestimate the power of a cup of cocoa!”

The male cat jumped to the bar top, hearing his name.

Qwilleran said, “I expect to hear the whole story when we have dinner tonight. The problem is: Monday is not a good night for dining out. The Mackintosh Inn is too formal, the Grist Mill too festive, the Boulder House too far.”

“Why not get a picnic supper catered by Robin O’Dell, Qwill, and serve it in the gazebo? You don’t know how lucky you are to have premises that are screened.”

Qwilleran said, “Once in a while you come up with a good idea…. Have another splash in your glass.”

“And if there’s anything Polly doesn’t know about those horse people in Lockmaster, call on me. I can give you some ancient history about Bestbooks, Qwill. It’s been in the same family for a hundred years, you know. At one time they kept a bottle in the back room and had a men’s club back there. Lots of loud laughter and bawdy jokes. Parents put the whole store off-limits to kids. Women wouldn’t go in to buy a cookbook. They lost a lot of business to mail order and secondhand and the public library.”

Qwilleran said, “The librarians of both Lockmaster and Pickax became great friends at that time. That’s why Polly was invited to Shirley’s birthday party yesterday.”

Joe drained his glass and headed for the back door.

“Before you go, Joe, one question. Does Jet Stream accept food from the automatic feeder?”

“He’ll take anything he can get…. Why?”

“When Koko hears the little bell ring and sees the little door open, he looks at the food in disbelief and then looks up at me and shakes his right paw—then sniffs the dish again and shakes his other paw before walking away.”

There was time, before Polly came from the bookstore, to call Celia and order a picnic supper.

Celia said, “Does she like cold soup? I have some lovely gazpacho. And I have individual quiches in the oven with bacon and tomato. For dessert, chilled Bartlett pears would be nice, with a bit of Stilton…. Pat can deliver it after five o’clock, and I’ll send a little goodie for the cats.”

When Polly drove to the barn around six o’clock, Qwilleran said, “We’ll have an aperitif in the gazebo. Will you take the cats?”

She knew right where to go for their “limousine,” a canvas tote bag in the broom closet, advertising the Pickax Public Library. Qwilleran carried a tray with sherry for her and Squunk water for himself. “I want to hear all about the Birthday Party of the Century.”

“Well!” she said, promising a momentous report. “You wouldn’t have liked it, Qwill. The main dining room looked like a stable—tack hanging on the walls, waitresses in riding boots—everything but the horses! I thought the food was terrible! I ordered salmon; I don’t know what they did to it.”

Parodying an old joke, Qwilleran said, “Apart from that, Mrs. Duncan, how did you like the party?”

“There were forty guests at long institutional tables…forty frosted cupcakes, each with a tiny candle, and a matchbook…forty gift-wrapped birthday presents, including one that must have been a refrigerator and one that was obviously a bicycle!”

“How did the guest of honor react?”

“Shirley is always charming. She told her son she would like everything trucked to her home—where she could open the small ones with her shoes off and her cat on her lap. She said she would send everyone a thank-you note suitable for framing. That means an original cartoon.”

“Shirley sounds like a clever woman. I’m sorry I never met her…. What about the guessing games? You haven’t mentioned them.”

“They were boring: Why does the firefly flash his light? Who owns the Volvo company in Sweden? Who explored Idaho in the early nineteenth century?”

They were both accustomed to Literary Club questions. Who wrote these lines: “She walks in beauty like the night…” “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day…” “Order is a lovely thing, on disarray it lays its wing.”

“The best part of the evening was the music. A young man played fabulous piano! Pop and classical. A young woman turned pages for him. They say she’s also his chauffeur—or is it chauffeuse? He has some kind of disability and can’t drive. He’s also a piano tuner. He tuned Doris’s piano at the Old Manse four times a year, including regulating and voicing. Mostly he plays piano for hire.”

When Polly stopped for breath he asked, “Is his name Frankie? I believe he’s rehearsal pianist for the production ofCats. All very interesting.”

Later Qwilleran asked about Shirley’s ideas for a bookstore.

“Bestbooks and Pirate’s Chest had entirely different problems.They had a hundred-year-old building with a boozy aroma in the rear and a questionable reputation—not to mention bad plumbing. With Shirley’s know-how and ideas and an unlimited budget, Bestbooks was born again. Her first move was to hire a bibliocat, a brother of Dundee, and customers’ frowns changed to smiles. Then, just as we have an actual pirate’s chest hanging on the wall, Shirley introduced a favorite work of art…. Are you familiar with the Rodin sculptureThe Thinker ?”

Qwilleran had never seen it but knew its pose: male model, seated, with fist on chin and elbow on knee.

“Shirley has never seen the original, either, but she has a photo enlarged and framed as a focal point of the store. Obviously it represents ‘Thinking, not drinking.’ And then a competition among customers named the official cat Thinker—a wonderful name for a feline.”