Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Talked Turkey

THIRTEEN

Following the welcome departure of Lish and Lush, Qwilleran observed the cats’ bedtime ritual and then settled down with a mug of coffee to consider . . .

That he could have invented a better story himself, based on documented history;

That Lish kept moistening her lips all the time she was relating “discoveries”;

That she had been careful not to give her address;

That she and Lush had exchanged startled glances when a police investigator was mentioned;

Then, perhaps more important, how Koko reacted with bared fangs and subtle snarl whenever there was any reference to Alicia Carroll.

As for the thousand-dollar scam, it could be written off as a legitimate expense in the book Qwilleran hoped to write: The Private Life of the Cat Who . . .

The Fourth of July was like any other date on the calendar to the pampered Siamese who reported for breakfast. To Qwilleran it meant the opening night of the “Great Storm” show.

First he phoned Gary Pratt and authorized the cashing of the check.

“Wow! Is that what she charged you?” the hotelier asked in surprise. “Was it worth it? Did you learn anything?”

“I learned quite a few things” was the ambiguous answer. “Now I’m concentrating on opening night. How’s Maxine?”

“She’s always up-up-up. Is there anything we can do for you?”

“Well, I don’t like to eat a full meal before a performance, but I’d like a hearty breakfast, so . . . what better venue than the Black Bear Café? I want to mosey around Brrr and eavesdrop on the tourists . . . and see the beginning of the boat parade . . . and watch the kids making wishes and blowing out electric candles . . . and then home for a nap before curtain time.”

The modest town of Brrr was again ablaze with excitement. Gone were the Scottish tartans! In their place were posters and T-shirts flaunting the “Brrr 200” symbol in red, white, and blue. Pushcarts were offering the shirts in five sizes, and tourists were stripping off their shirts and substituting the bicentennial badge right there on the sidewalk.

In the park across from the hotel, the entertainment was continuous, and youngsters and adults alike lined up to make a birthday wish and blow out the electric candles.

Along the shore there was a manic anticipation of the boat parade, as two hundred cabin cruisers—in eight harbors—awaited their signal. At noon the first fleets would leave Fishport on the west and Deep Harbor on the east. Spectators with cameras and binoculars crowded every vantage point, including housetops along the shoreline.

At noon, when the town hall bell tolled twelve, silence fell in downtown Brrr until an announcement came over loudspeakers that the first fleet had just left Fishport. A shout was raised! After fifteen minutes it was announced that the Mooseville fleet had joined the parade, and the Brrr contingent should be ready to go in eight minutes.

All eyes strained toward the western horizon. When the first craft loomed into view, spectators screamed and jumped for joy! Within minutes, boats flying American flags sailed past the harbor of Brrr, cabin cruisers with three-foot flags.

It was an emotional moment for the watchers on shore. Some happy tears were shed. There was an awed stillness. The second fleet followed, from Mooseville; and then the Brrr contingent sailed off.

Qwilleran shook his head as he thought of “The Great Storm of 1913.” The parade of boats would be a hard act to follow.

Qwilleran arrived at the Hotel Booze an hour before curtain time.

Gary said, “Anything I can do you for? Anything you want to eat or drink?”

“All I need is a quiet place to get into my role.”

Together they checked the back hall from which the newscaster would make his “entrance.” All it offered were two rest rooms, a broom closet, and a storage room for hotel furniture. It was a jumble of chairs and tables, with a little floor space for pacing. Qwilleran moved in.

At one point Maxine dropped in and asked him to listen to her opening speech.

He listened and suggested a significant pause of two seconds in the middle of the last sentence. “You’ll capture their attention, arouse their curiosity, and enlist their cooperation. Try it.”

She tried! “We are going to ask you to imagine . . . that home radios really existed in 1913 . . . as we bring you a broadcast covering the Great Storm of that year.”

As curtain time approached, Qwilleran opened the door to the stage—just enough to hear the babbling audience, the sudden hush when the house lights dimmed, the murmur that greeted the appearance of the Gibson Girl shirtwaist and wig, the rustling of programs as she began to speak, and then the dead silence when she said, “We are going to ask you to imagine—”

As she sat down at the controls, a burst of music came from the two speakers, followed by a few commercials that produced tittering in the audience. Again, more music, during which Qwilleran made his entrance and shook the fake snow from his clothing. Then the newscaster spoke in his compelling stage voice:

The late evening news is a little late tonight, folks. Blame it on the weather: snow, snow, and more snow. First, a look at the headlines . . .

(Reading) Sunday, November ninth. A violent storm with heavy snow and high winds has been blasting Moose County and the lake, with no relief in sight. Elsewhere in the nation . . .

In Washington, President Woodrow Wilson is predicting war with Mexico.

In New York, visitors at an art show were so infuriated by the paintings on exhibition that they rioted in the street; two policemen were injured.

Meanwhile, here at home, blizzard conditions have paralyzed Moose County. Visibility is zero, as a heavy snowfall is whipped by fifty-mile-an-hour winds. Drifting snow is making roads impassable. In downtown Pickax, not a wagon or pedestrian can be seen. Even sleighs cannot get through; horses can make no headway against the wind.

The storm has taken this area by surprise. Following the recent turbulence on the lake, weather conditions settled down to normal yesterday, and shipping was resumed. A steady traffic in freighters and passenger boats could be seen moving north for the last run of the season. Even though the Weather Bureau predicted more disturbances in the atmosphere, the sun was shining and the temperature was unusually high for November. Today, in the early-morning hours, there was still no weather to discourage duck hunters from going out on the Bay. This being Sunday, the commercial fishermen were taking a day off, and a peaceful calm descended on the shoreline. It was the lull before the storm.

Shortly after daybreak, the wind began to rise, and the sky turned the color of copper—a most unusual sight, according to early risers. By ten

A

.

M

., winds of fifty miles an hour were recorded. Churchgoers returning home on foot or even in buggies found the going difficult. One small boy was torn away from his mother’s hand by a sudden gust, and he rolled down Main Street like a tumbleweed.

Snow started to fall in the afternoon. It has accumulated steadily. Eight inches was first predicted. Now twelve or even eighteen inches is not unlikely. Drifting snow on country roads and city streets is piling up—six feet deep in some locations. And this may be only the beginning, according to weather experts.

Here is a bulletin from Fishport: Two duck hunters from Down Below left shore early this morning—two miles south of town. They have not been seen since that time. Their boat has been found, bottom-up, on the shore.