Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Talked Turkey

“Do you expect me to believe this, Gary? It sounds like something you read in a tabloid.”

“Honest! It was all over the Lockmaster Ledger when it happened. More coffee? So now the scuttlebutt is that old Mrs. Carroll is moving into Ittibittiwassee Estates, and Lish is getting the big house. Do you want to hear more?”

“I never say no to coffee or scuttlebutt, Gary.”

“Well, the thing of it is, Lish travels with a guy, and that doesn’t set too well with Grandma Carroll. Lish says he’s her driver; she can’t have a license because of a special heart condition. He’s tall and lanky, and you see him traipsing behind her like a puppy dog.”

“Do they come in here? Is Lish good-looking?”

“Well, she has . . . an intelligent face. Her driver is good-looking and has long hair and drinks a lot. I call them Lish and Lush.”

Qwilleran went home and thought about the brainy young woman with an intelligent face. No doubt she could handle the sound effects skillfully, but he had hoped for someone with an engaging personality. There was, however, one detail in her favor. She lived, or had lived, in Milwaukee.

Qwilleran’s interest in the brainy young woman was understandable, but he needed a second opinion. He called his friend Wetherby Goode, a native of Lockmaster.

“Qwill! Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you since you moved back to the barn!”

The two men had adjoining condos in Indian Village, and Qwilleran spent winters there when the barn was too hard to heat.

“I need to talk to you, Joe. How about coming over for sandwiches and coffee—between your six P.M. and eleven P.M. broadcasts. Lois’s Luncheonette is featuring TLTs this week, and it’s turkey off the bone.”

The Siamese hopped about joyously when the weatherman’s car pulled into the barnyard. Did they recognize the sound of the motor from last winter in Indian Village? Did they sense that the driver lived with a cat named Jet Stream? Did they know what was in the sandwiches that had been delivered?

The reunion consisted of loud talk and back-slapping. Then they trooped out to the gazebo, with the host carrying a large tray and the guest carrying the cats and a cordless phone in a canvas tote bag.

“Did you attend the groundbreaking?” Qwilleran asked.

“No, I had a family powwow to attend in Horseradish, but I read all about it in today’s paper.”

Qwilleran surmised that the personable bachelor had found a new attraction in his hometown in addition to his ample supply of cousins, aunts, nieces, uncles, nephews, and in-laws.

Wetherby went on, “I’ll bet Polly is all excited about managing the store. What will they name it? How about The Pirate’s Chest? I hope they’re planning to have a cat. If they want music at the grand opening, I’d be glad to play.”

“Do you have a repertory of bookstore music, Joe?”

“Without giving it any deep thought, I’d say that . . . John Field’s Nocturnes would be good for starters.”

“Yow!” said Koko, who had been sitting nearby.

“See? He agrees with me,” Wetherby said.

“Don’t be fooled, Joe. Koko saw a sliver of turkey drop out of your sandwich.”

“Hey, Qwill! I never told you how much I enjoyed your column on Cool Koko !”

He referred to a recent “Qwill Pen” column in which Qwilleran introduced the wise sayings of Cool Koko: “A cat with no tail is better than a politician with no head. . . . A cat may look at a king, but he doesn’t have to lick his boots. . . . Every dog has his day, but cats have three hundred sixty-five.”

He said to Wetherby, “If Jet Stream has any wise sayings, send them to Cool Koko, in care of the Moose County Something. ” Then he mentioned casually, “Do you happen to remember, Joe, a big land-fraud scandal in Lockmaster?”

“Sure do! The Kranson case. Juiciest crime we ever had in our simon-pure county! Why do you ask?”

“To answer your question in a roundabout way: Do you remember the one-man show I did on the Big Burning?”

“I should! I saw it three times!”

“Well, I’m doing a similar dramatization on the Great Storm of 1913, and the Kranson daughter has been suggested to handle the sound effects.”

“Sorry. Don’t know anything about her.”

“Oh,” Qwilleran said, “I thought you might, since you spend so much of your time in Horseradish.”

The sly comment was overlooked—or purposely avoided—as the weatherman jumped up, tapped his watch, said he was due at the station, said a hasty thanks for the food, and left.

It was Tuesday before Polly felt “settled” enough to enjoy a dinner date. She left the library early, had her hair done, splurged on a facial, and went home to put on the summer suit she had bought in Chicago. The color was called “orange sherbet,” and she felt quite daring.

When Qwilleran arrived to pick her up, he exclaimed, “You look . . . wonderful!” It was the only adjective he knew that meant radiant, well coiffed, and well dressed.

“And you look handsome,” she murmured. He had trimmed his moustache and coordinated his blazer, shirt, and tie. Dressing carefully was a compliment they paid each other—and the restaurant—when they dined out.

They went to the Old Grist Mill, which combined country charm with contemporary chic. The owner, Elizabeth Hart, was from Chicago. Her maître d’, Derek Cuttlebrink, was from the town of Wildcat.

“You guys look spiffy tonight,” he said with the nervy nonchalance of a favorite son who is six-feet-eight. “What’ll it be? One dry sherry and one Q cocktail straight up?” He handed them the cards with a conspiratorial whisper. “Avoid the lamb curry unless you want to live dangerously.”

When the drinks were served, Qwilleran said, “Now tell me how things are going at the library.”

“We hired a very nice woman to be my successor, Myrtle Parsons. She was a school librarian in Bixby, and is so happy to be working here. We’re working together on everything that comes up. Last night she attended the monthly dinner meeting with the Dear Ladies, and they were very charming to her.”

“Dear Ladies” was Polly’s nickname for the white-haired, conventional, wealthy, and charming members of the board of directors.

Qwilleran said, “You may be able to leave the library sooner than you anticipated.”

“Oh, I hope so. The people at the K Fund have given me a six-hundred-page book to study. Everything from accounting procedures to zone and cluster plans.”

The appetizers were served. Qwilleran had french-fried oysters. Polly had tomato consommé. Too lemony, she said.

“The design of the building is exciting—a long, narrow building with an entrance that’s quite inviting. All windows will be clerestory or skylights; all wall space is devoted to bookshelves. Although there’ll be an elevator to the lower level, there’ll also be a rather grand staircase—the kind people like to walk down.”

“What will be downstairs?”

Her answer was interrupted by the arrival of the entrées. Qwilleran had bravely ordered the lamb curry. Polly had poached salmon with yogurt sauce, a twice-baked potato, and asparagus. She said the portions were too large.

Part of the lower level, Qwilleran knew, would be the Eddington Smith Room, offering pre-owned books donated by local families. It would be staffed by volunteers, and proceeds would go to the Literacy Fund. Then there would be an all-purpose room for book signings and a literary club like the one in Lockmaster. The Lit Club sponsored by the Lockmaster Ledger featured visiting speakers, book reviews, and some lively discussion. Qwilleran was often invited to speak.

Polly said, “There will also be a display case for exhibiting treasures behind glass: rare books and manuscripts, and collections of things related to reading and writing. These will be loaned by antique shops and private individuals.”