Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Talked Turkey

“Predictable. The chest was empty.”

“It should go on permanent display in a glass case in the bookstore.”

“Would you like to stop for brunch at Tipsy’s?”

“I think not, dear,” Polly said. “There has been much wining and dining, in addition to intensive work sessions. I just want to go home, hug my cats, have some cottage cheese and fruit, and get myself together for work tomorrow. . . . It’s so peaceful here!”

They were driving to Indian Village, past sheep ranches, potato farms, and abandoned mine shafts. After a brief silence she added, “Benson is coming here this week.”

“Who?”

“The architect of the bookstore. He wants to confer with the builders. And he’s dying to see your barn. I described it, and he said it sounded architecturally impossible. He’s a very interesting man.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Every time Polly left Pickax, she met an “interesting” man. First it was the horse trainer in Lockmaster, then the professor in Montreal, and the antiques dealer in Virginia, and now an architect in Chicago.

Polly went on. “The K Fund thinks we should name the bookstore The Phoenix, after the mythical Egyptian bird that rose from the ashes and was reborn.”

“Are they serious? The locals would want to know why we named it after the capital of Arizona. I think we should have a countywide contest for a name.”

“I think you’re right, but I wanted to hear you say it. . . . Did you look in on Brutus and Catta?”

“They’re happy, but I believe your cat-sitter is overfeeding them. As you asked, I filled your refrigerator with everything on your list.”

They were suddenly silent as they drove through the gates of Indian Village—past the gatehouse on the right, past the clubhouse on the left, and onto River Road with its clusters of condos.

Qwilleran parked in front of Unit One of The Willows. “You run in and hug your cats,” he said. “I’ll take the luggage.”

“Would you like to stay for some cottage cheese and fruit?” she asked in the soft, vibrant voice that had first attracted him. Cottage cheese was far from his favorite food. He hesitated a fraction of a second. “Yes, I believe I would.”

Later in the afternoon Qwilleran took a legal pad and some yellow pencils—along with the Siamese and the cordless phone—to the gazebo. It was an octagonal summerhouse, screened on all eight sides—located in the bird garden a few yards from the barn. He drafted his Tuesday column; Yum Yum pursued her hobby of batting insects on the outside of the screen; Koko huddled on the floor and watched a family of seven crows strutting back and forth for his benefit. Were they the same ones that had visited the previous summer? Qwilleran wondered; all crows look alike, he thought. He called them the Bunkers, after Dr. Teresa Bunker, corvidologist. He considered her slightly nutty, like her cousin Joe, the WPKX meteorologist. Joe called himself Wetherby Goode and spiced his weather predictions with jokes and jingles.

Qwilleran’s ruminations were interrupted by a phone call.

It was his friend Thornton Haggis—retired stonecutter, history buff, and indefatigable volunteer.

“Hi, Qwill! Are you busy? I have something for you—and something to discuss.”

“Where are you?”

“I’ve been helping out at the Art Center. I can be there in five minutes.”

“We’re in the gazebo. Care for a glass of wine?”

“Not tonight. We’re having company. My wife invited the new pastor and a couple of people from the church.”

The art center was at the far end of the former apple orchard, connected by an old wagon trail, and soon Thornton’s shock of white hair, like a dust mop, could be seen approaching. The Siamese watched and waited with eagerness; they had never figured out the purpose of that white thing on his head.

Thornton was clutching what looked like a dumbbell, and he set it down on a table. “This is for you! A belated birthday present.”

“It’s spectacular!” Qwilleran said. “I can’t believe you turned this on your lathe!”

Wood turning was Thornton’s latest hobby.

“It’s spalted olive wood. It’s sort of a candy dish, but you can use it to feed the cats if you want to.”

The Siamese were on the table, appraising the object with quivering noses. A saucer-like dish, over a sculpted stem and a round base, was turned from a single piece of wood, with the pronounced grain spiraling upward and ending in squizzles and splotches that nature had given to an olive tree.

Qwilleran said, “I’m overplussed and non-whelmed, or vice versa. I’ll keep it on my desk for stray paper clips, rubber bands, and gold coins. . . . Now, sit down and let’s hear what’s on your mind.”

“Well, I know Pickax is a hundred and fifty years old next year, but the town of Brrr is two hundred years old this year. How to celebrate? The planning committee thinks that the average person is mixed up about ‘centennial’ and ‘bicentennial’ and ‘sesquicentennial.’ So Brrr is going to have a simple birthday party in July and August. There’ll be a birthday cake with two hundred candles, a parade of two hundred cabin cruisers, and all kinds of shows and contests. The Reenactment Club will stage the Lumberjack Brawl in a saloon, and we’re wondering if you’d take your one-man show out of mothballs and do it a couple of times during the summer. People are still talking about it!”

Thornton referred to the Big Burning of 1869, a forest fire that destroyed half of Moose County.

“Hmm,” Qwilleran mused, stroking his moustache. “There was also a great storm of 1913 that sank scores of ships and destroyed lakefront towns.”

“Perfect! Have you written it?”

“No, and that’s the problem. For the show on the forest fire I had access to the Gage collection of historical documents. I’ve done no research on the 1913 storm.”

“I’ll do it for you,” Thornton said with his usual enthusiasm. “Shall I tell Gary Pratt you’re on the hook? Then you can take it from there.”

Thornton got up to leave.

“What are you having for dinner tonight?”

“Something with leftover turkey. We’re fond of turkey.”

“Yow!” said Koko.

Thornton walked back to the Art Center.

As Qwilleran watched his friend walk down the lane, an idea struck him. He had recently collected twenty-seven Moose County legends to be published as a souvenir of the Sesquicentennial. Called Short & Tall Tales, the book was being printed privately by the Klingenschoen Foundation. Could it be ready in time for the Brrr birthday party?

He phoned the attorney G. Allen Barter at home. Bart, as he was called, represented Qwilleran in all matters pertaining to the K Fund.

“I can’t foresee any problem,” Bart said. “The text is in print; the slip-jacket has been designed.”

“What color?” Qwilleran asked.

“They said it was something eye-catching.”

Late that evening there was a phone call from Chief Brodie of the Pickax police force.

“Gotta talk to you!” he said in his gruff way. “Confidential!”

“Okay, Andy, come on over. Don’t exceed the speed limit.”

By the time the Scotch, ice cubes, and cheese tray were set up on the snack bar, the chief was there, stomping up to the bar with the same swaggering presence he had when in uniform. He sat at the bar and helped himself to the refreshments.

“You put on a good act at the groundbreaking, when you found the chest empty, Andy.”

He grunted, like one unaccustomed to compliments.

Qwilleran asked, “Where is the empty chest now?”

“Locked up at the station, till they decide what to do with it. It should go on display at the new bookstore—in a bulletproof showcase. That’s what they should call the bookstore: The Pirate’s Chest.”