Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Talked Turkey

She has deposited it in the pockets of my jackets, in a bowl of mixed nuts, and down the drain of the kitchen sink.

I should take it away from her, but I haven’t the heart. She would pine away and die.

I have appealed to readers of the newspaper. All solutions to the problem will be thoughtfully considered. Address me in care of the psychiatric ward at the Pickax General Hospital.

SEVEN

The third week in June would be a busy one for Qwilleran, and he felt the need to make a list:

Write “Qwill Pen” for Tuesday. (How about the Toothache Club?)

Write column for Friday. (The Whoozis epidemic.)

Write segment two of script in time for Sunday afternoon rehearsal.

Order daffodils.

Reserve table for Friday night.

Call Bushy about Brrr souvenir book and “nice young lady” working for him.

Not on the list but implicit in Qwilleran’s life was the “quality time” he spent with the Siamese twice a week.

No matter how busy Qwilleran might be, nothing was allowed to interfere with the “quality time.” He told himself, They’re all the family I’ve got! True, they provided him with companionship, entertainment, and occasional frustration. To Thornton Haggis he had once said, “Anyone who lives alone needs to take responsibility for a fellow creature or risk being blown away.”

And Thornton replied, “Your only danger, as I see it, is disappearing in a cloud of hyperbole!”

On this particular morning, the Siamese were treated to a serving of choice red salmon—two servings, his and hers. There followed an interval for catly ablutions, a ritual that only they could understand. Next, they were groomed with their favorite brush—a silver-backed antique that had belonged to the late Iris Cobb.

Then the two males watched patiently while Yum Yum batted her thimble around, hid the thing, forgot where it was, found it, and finally stored it in some secret grotto.

After that, both cats engaged in an athletic romp with a necktie. It always left them exhausted. They flopped over on their sides and lay motionless, except for the tapping of a tail on the floor. This was Qwilleran’s cue to nudge a soft underside gently with the toe of a shoe.

Instantly the prostrate cat came to life and attacked Qwilleran’s shoe with both forelegs, kicking furiously with hind feet. It was a game they played.

Finally, there was a reading session. Koko, the official bibliocat, sprang to a bookshelf, sniffed bindings, and made a selection. Currently he liked Robert Service poems, apparently for their rollicking rhythms: I wanted the gold, and I sought it; I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.

The Moose County Something claimed to have ten thousand subscribers, most of whom were members of the Toothache Club, as it was called in the “Qwill Pen” column. They were readers who asked the nagging question: Why do you always get a toothache on a weekend—and it’s gone when you get to the dentist’s chair on Monday morning? Members added their own unanswered questions and mailed them to the newspaper on postcards. When a sufficient number had accumulated, Qwilleran ran another column on the subject, eagerly awaited by members and nonmembers alike:

“Why does the motorist ahead of you always drive too slow and the one behind you always drive too fast?”

“Did you ever notice that a ten-minute wait standing up is twice as long as a ten-minute wait sitting down?”

“We’ve all learned that medications have side effects, but golly if the side effects don’t have side effects now!”

Arch Riker kidded the columnist about letting the readers do his work, but actually he liked reader participation. Subscribers talked about the pet peeves in the coffee shops and started mailing in some of their own.

Qwilleran had a pet peeve of his own: He had an intense dislike for unanswered questions. Who was the “nice young lady” helping John Bushland photograph Boulder House for the Brrr souvenir book? He and Roger MacGillivray and Qwilleran had shared a horrendous boating accident that had bonded them for life. The photographer’s professional successes and personal tragedies would always concern Qwilleran. Bushy had been unlucky in his choice of assistants, but now a “nice young lady” was assisting him with the lighting on photo jobs. Who was she? Qwilleran called the studio.

“John Bushland Studio. May I help you?” asked a woman’s voice that was faintly familiar.

“This is Jim Qwilleran. To whom am I speaking?” he asked with comic formality.

“Qwill! This is Janice Barth! Remember me from Thelma’s house? Remember the parrots . . . the waffles?”

“Of course I do! Especially the waffles. Are you helping Bushy at the studio?”

“Yes, and he’s teaching me developing and printing so I can help with the darkroom. Shall I have him call you?”

When the photographer returned the call, Qwilleran said, “My spies tell me you shot Boulder House for the souvenir book, and you had a ‘nice young lady’ holding the light.”

“Qwill! You nosy devil! You’ve been snooping again! Well, to make a long story short, Janice is not only on my payroll—we’re tying the knot!”

“What? You’re marrying her? When? Where?”

“Just a civil ceremony at the house on Pleasant Street, with Roger and his wife as witnesses. After, there’ll be a small wedding dinner at Boulder House Inn, to which you may or may not be invited.”

“That being the case, buster, I may or may not pick up the check for the dinner—as a wedding gift to a pal who once tried to drown me. Meanwhile, someone should warn Janice that you’re just looking for free darkroom service. How about the five parrots? Do you have to support them?”

And so it went. Before Qwilleran could return to work on “The Great Storm,” he had a brilliant idea! He called his friend Simmons in California. The retired police detective had been a security officer at Thelma Thackeray’s dinner club, gradually becoming a friend of the family with a standing invitation to Sunday-morning waffles. To Janice he was a kindly uncle. And when Thelma had sent him a plane ticket to Pickax, Simmons and Qwilleran had struck an immediate rapport—the retired cop and the former crime reporter. Now Qwilleran would send him a plane ticket, and Simmons would be the surprise guest at the wedding dinner. Janice would be overcome with delight.

Qwilleran tracked Simmons down at his daughter’s house, where he was babysitting his grandchildren. He said, “Sounds great! But I have a security job lined up for July fourth that’s too good to pass up. Tell you what I could do: take the redeye flight to Chicago and then the morning shuttle flight to Moose County. Thanks for thinking of me, Qwill. I’m very happy for Janice.”

Qwilleran said, “Also, you’ll be interested to know that a dead body was found on my property at the beach, and police are investigating. And investigating. And investigating. Perhaps you and I can solve the case.”

As the week wore on, Qwilleran worked on the second segment of the “Great Storm” script and wrote a “Qwill Pen” column for Friday, decrying the increase in bad manners among phone users. He blamed people in a perpetual hurry, people phoning from their cars, and telephone subscribers annoyed by calls from salespersons and solicitors. Too many persons were shouting “Who’s this?” into the mouthpiece . . . or “Whoozis?” The offending party could be the one answering the phone, or a caller who has reached a wrong number, or anyone too busy to care about civilities.

Qwilleran wrote, “Is this a fad? A phenomenon? A social disease, peculiar to areas 400 miles north of everywhere? If you are a member of the Whoozis Club, please drop us a postal card. The ‘Qwill Pen’ would like to be enlightened.”