Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Talked Turkey

There was a swift glance between the Comptons, then Lyle said, “Disease. Wiped out the entire flock. It’s the kind of thing that happens in the animal world. It’ll happen to us if we don’t recognize the danger of impure water and polluted atmosphere.”

There was a moment’s silence until Arch asked, “Who’s ready for another drink?”

The subject changed to the grand plans for Brrr’s birthday party. Lisa and Mildred were collaborating on a stunt to be called Marmalade Madness.

“You tell it,” said Lisa.

“No, it was your idea. You tell it.”

“Well . . . Brrr was founded by Scots, you know, and we have a sizable Scottish population. Some of the families have housekeeping manuals, handwritten, that go back as much as two centuries. They keep them in lockboxes at the bank and bring them out for anniversaries. All the books contain tips on making orange marmalade, and—believe me!—there are scores of different theories. Marmalade Madness would combine an exhibit of these artifacts—”

“Under armed guard, I hope,” Arch interrupted.

“Absolutely! And the guard will look particularly fierce in kilts and plaids—with antique weapons,” Lisa assured him.

“There will also be marmalade-tasting, with people voting for their favorite—all homemade, of course. And the public can buy small jars, proceeds going to charity.”

“Where will this be held?” Polly asked.

“Gary Pratt is giving us one of the rooms on the main floor. The ballroom will be used for a variety of happenings, I understand, including Qwill’s one-man show.”

After brunch, Lyle wanted to walk down to the beach to smoke a cigar, and Qwilleran went along to skip a few stones over the placid water.

“You’ve got a good pitching arm, Qwill. You missed your calling.”

They walked a few yards down the beach. Qwilleran skipped a few more stones and then asked, “When I inquired about wild turkeys, was I getting the whole story?”

“There are some things we don’t mention in front of Mildred, but . . . there was a rumor that the wild turkeys were poisoned. Crop farmers and sheep ranchers said they were pests; families objected to the constant gunfire, as hunters knocked off a couple of birds for dinner; and Mildred’s first husband, who raised domestic turkeys for the market, said the wild birds were cutting into his profits.”

“Was there any investigation about the poisoning?” Qwilleran skipped a few more stones.

“No, the public and officialdom preferred to think the turkeys died of natural causes. You know how they are around here.”

As Qwilleran and Polly drove back to Pickax, she said, “The architect is flying up from Chicago tomorrow on the late shuttle. He’s asked me to make his hotel reservation for two nights. That will give him one whole day to talk to the builders and work out problems.”

Qwilleran asked, “Is your rapport with him strictly business, or is it partly social? In the latter case, I should pick him up at the airport. Otherwise, he can take the airport limousine.”

“Let him take the limousine,” Polly said. “He does, however, want desperately to see your barn and Boulder House Inn, both of which he considers architecturally impossible. So, if it’s agreeable with you, the builders could drop him off at the barn at the end of the day.”

“Do they know where the barn is?”

“Dear, everyone knows where your barn is. You could give him a drink. He likes Scotch. I’ll leave the library a little early in order to go home and change clothes. Then you can pick me up at home, and we’ll all go to Boulder House Inn.”

“Anything you say,” he said agreeably, relieved to know that her interest in Benson Hedges—or was it Hodges?—was strictly business.

FIVE

For Qwilleran, Tuesday turned out to be an “interesting” day—an adjective he was not prone to use if he could possibly think of a better one.

First, Polly phoned before leaving for the library, reporting briefly that Benson Hodges, the Chicago architect, had checked into the Mackintosh Inn the previous evening and would spend all day conferring with the builders of the bookstore but would have to fly home without having dinner at Boulder House.

“He wants to see your barn, however, and perhaps you can offer him a drink before he catches his shuttle flight.”

“I’m not shedding any tears over Benson, Polly. You and I will have dinner at Boulder House. I’ll pick you up at the Village at six.”

The next caller had the high-pitched voice of Gary Pratt.

“Hi, Qwill! They’re back! Lish and Lush!”

“I’ll drive up there with my tape recorder and the old scripts—just to test her skills. The new script—about the Great Storm—should be ready to rehearse in another week.”

“I warn you, Qwill! Meeting Lish for the first time is like a plunge into the lake off the end of the hotel dock!”

“I’ll wear a wet suit,” Qwilleran said.

When he arrived at the Hotel Booze at the appointed hour for the “plunge” he was pleased to see a prize-winning limerick from the “Qwill Pen” column enlarged and framed in the lobby:

There was a young lady from Brrr

Who always went swimming in fur.

One day on a dare

She swam in the bare,

And that was the end of her!

At the appointed hour, Gary introduced Alicia Carroll and the celebrated Mr. Q in a small private dining room on the main floor, concealing his merriment with difficulty. Qwilleran had handed him a slip of paper:

There was a young lady named Lish

Who was said to be cold as a fish.

But with sauce tartare

And some black caviar,

She turned out to be quite a dish!

“Call me Lish,” she said in a throaty, husky voice that suggested too much smoking. She had a no-nonsense haircut and no-color pantsuit and a serious but relaxed manner. Her face was basically handsome—with a high brow, high cheekbones, and a firm jaw—but in need of a little makeup.

He opened the tape recorder and handed her a cue sheet. “I sit at a table with a fake mike and the audience hears my newscast live. To introduce other voices and sound effects, you press a button on cue, and the audience hears them over the loudspeaker. It’s simple enough, but it requires exquisite timing on your part—to convince the audience that it’s real.”

She nodded. “Shall we give it a try?”

“You understand,” he said, “that this is the show we did last year. There’ll be a new script and cue sheet in a few days.”

Calmly and precisely Lish pressed the right buttons at exactly the right time, then asked, “Is that all there is to it?”

What could he say? He ignored her question and went on. “There’ll be eight shows: the first one on the night of July fourth, the others on alternate Saturday nights in July and August, requiring absolute regularity on your part. This is showbiz,” he added lightly.

“No problem,” Lish said. “What does it pay?”

Fortunately he had been warned that she was a mercenary type. He said, “The entire two-month spectacle is produced with hundreds of unpaid volunteers, but if you feel you must have remuneration, notify Gary Pratt.”

He spoke in a cool, businesslike voice. “If you’re interested in a research assignment, I could suggest one that pays the usual hourly rate.”

“What is the assignment?” she asked in a detached manner.

“Nothing of vital importance,” he replied. “Next time you’re in Milwaukee, you might find out whether there is anyone there by the name of Mountclemens or by the name of Bonifield. Also, you might check the catteries listed in the phone book, if anyone specializes in breeding Siamese.”