Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

“Wise choice,” Qwilleran murmured, reflecting that “Daisy Linguini” would be a fetching name for a trapeze performer but not so good for a financial secretary to a billionaire.

Qwilleran asked, “Are those the Linguinis who had the wonderful Italian restaurant?” It was a mom-and-pop operation. If a customer was having a birthday, Papa Linguini would come out of the kitchen in his chef’s hat, get down on one knee, fling his arms wide, and sing Happy B-ir-r-rthday in an operatic voice. “Apparently they retired.”

“Yes, and their sons preferred to open a party store and plant a vineyard. They also want to open a winery, but the neighbors along the shore are objecting.”

Before he left, Bart said, “About visiting the Old Manse: Either of the women could show you around and answer your questions, but it might be politic to work with Alma James. Let me break the ice for you. I know she’s been dying to see your barn—”

“Half the Western world has been wanting to see my barn. That’s okay. How do we go about it?”

“I could drive her over someday, then ease her out if she wants to stay too long.”

“Does she like cats?” Qwilleran asked. “Koko has been known to react to ailurophobes in peculiar ways.”

“She’s from Lockmaster and is more accustomed to dogs and horses.”

“I could put Koko and Yum Yum out in the gazebo.”

“No! No!” said Bart, a confirmed ailurophile. “It’s their barn! Let her adjust. If she begins to itch or sneeze, she won’t want to stay so long.”

Qwilleran, detecting a lack of enthusiasm on the attorney’s part, asked, “How do you size up the two women in charge of the Manse?”

“Daisy is always relaxed and friendly. Alma—I never liked that name—is warm or cold, agreeable or reserved, depending on her mood…. You’ll have to excuse me; I grew up with an aunt called Alma, and she let her sons break my toys and squirt me with water pistols.”

That was what Qwilleran liked about Bart—he was human andhonest.

On his way out, the attorney said, “I almost forgot. My daughter asks a favor. She’s making a survey and would like you to write two words on an index card.” He drew a card and a pen from his pocket. “You writecat on one side of the card anddog on the other…. Sign your initials.”

Qwilleran wrotedog on the first side in proper penmanship. On the reverse side he dashed offcat in a flamboyant script, crossing thet with a bar an inch long.

“I thank you. My daughter thanks you. She’s quite serious about this study—her own idea—although it will never be published.”

“How old is she?” Qwilleran asked.

“Nine going on fifteen. Next summer she wants to extend the survey to Lockmaster,” he said, raising parental eyebrows.

Qwilleran found his copy ofMosses from an Old Manse and scanned it for references that might be linked with the mansion in Purple Point.

That night Qwilleran wrote in his journal:

Monday—I thought I had Koko all figured out. He knows when the phone is going to ring!

But today he knew Uncle George was coming from the county buildingbefore the guy had announced his intentions. What about the biscatti in the briefcase? Did Koko know about that, too?

I sound crazy, and and sometimes I feel I’m slipping over the edge.

What I mean is: It’s pretty well established that Koko (a) knows what’s going to happen. Does he also (b)make things happen ?

I won’t go that far, but I admit he puts ideas in my head. That’s nothing new; Christopher Smart knew that a few centuries ago.

But why does Yum Yum’s buddy have more on the ball than most felines? I still say it’s because he has sixty whiskers! Regardless of what Dr. Connie says and what the scientific literature says, I still maintain my opinion.

How far am I prepared to go?

Perhaps I’d better pipe down? They’ll start counting my own whiskers. That would be a joke! Koko transmits, and I receive!

Qwilleran mused whimsically. What an investigative team we’d make!…Koko’s whiskers transmitting inside information—and my moustache receiving the data.

FOUR

Qwilleran ended his Tuesday column with a few “Famous Last Words” submitted by readers. These folk gems of humor arrived in the mailroom of theSomething —on government postcards. Reader participation was a healthy sign for a small-town paper, and the “Famous Last Words” obviously came from all walks of life. Almost all were printable, and the best would be published in book form, it was promised, with proceeds going to some worthy cause. The latest were:

“My new kitten is adorable…and they assure me he’s housebroken.”

“I haven’t had a drink for five years…so it won’t hurt to have a little nip.”

“My dog likes to play rough…and he never bites!”

“I’m sorry, Officer…I thought I had the green light.”

When Qwilleran delivered his Tuesday copy to the office of theSomething, he walked down the long hall of the building and could hear the editor in chief shouting behind closed doors. It was the kind of angry shouting that is usually accompanied by waving arms. There was no clue as to which staff member was getting a roasting.

Qwilleran stopped in the food editor’s office. “What did you give your husband for breakfast, Mildred?”

“Tell you later! I’m on deadline!” She waved him away.

“What happened?” Qwilleran asked one of the reporters.

“Clarissa Moore went home to Indiana to attend a funeral, and this morning she sent a wire: She’s not coming back! Arch is wild, and I don’t blame him,” the reporter said. “For a J student right out of college, she got a lot of breaks here.”

Qwilleran had done his part to encourage the novice, and although she was agood feature writer, she was hardly good enough to be forgiven for such cavalier behavior.

Qwilleran asked, “Does anyone know if she took her cat? If she took Jerome, she knew she was going for good; otherwise, she would have left him in her apartment with her neighbors.” He made a mental note to ask Judd Amhurst at the Winston Park apartments.

He disliked unanswered questions.

Deadline for the Tuesday Qwill Pen was twelve noon, and Qwilleran filed his copy with the managing editor according to custom—not late, but not too early either.

Junior Goodwinter glanced at the transcript and rang for the copy boy, and said, “Do you know a feature writer we could hire? Jill Handley won’t be back from maternity leave for a few months.”

“How about running a series of guest features? Make it sound like an honor instead of an emergency, and they’ll be vying for the privilege. For their cooperation you can make a contribution to their favorite charity. It would be invitational, of course. I can think of a dozen names without even trying. Bill Turmeric, Dr. Abernathy, Mavis Adams, Dr. Connie Cosgrove, Wetherby Goode, Thornton Haggis, Judd Amhurst, Polly Duncan—”

“Stop! I think it might work!”

“Whannell MacWhannell,” Qwilleran went on. “His wife, the astrologer. Silas Dingwall. Maggie Sprenkle can write about the animal welfare program….”

“How about setting it up for us?” Junior asked.

Qwilleran said, “I’m a columnist, I don’t do setup.”

Qwilleran went home to give the cats their noontime treat and consider his own problem: how to write a column on the Old Manse for Friday’s Qwill Pen.

His pet theory about the Manse and the Hawthorne book remained to be tested, and the sooner the better. The attorney had been frank about the mansion’s personnel, but it wouldn’t hurt to get a second opinion.

Maggie and her late husband had owned the estate adjoining the Ledfields’. They had dined together frequently, and Maggie could probably give him some tips.