Лилиан Браун: The Cat Who Said Cheese

Lilian Jackson Braun - The Cat Who Said Cheese

1

Autumn, in that year of surprises, was particularly delicious in Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere. Not only had most of the summer vacationers gone home, but civic-awareness groups and enthusiastic foodies were cooking up a savory kettle of stew called the Great Food Explo. Then, to add spice to the season, a mystery woman registered at the hotel in Pickax City, the county seat. She was not beautiful. She was not exactly young. She avoided people. And she always wore black.

The townfolk of Pickax (population 3,000) were fascinated by her enigmatic presence. "Have you seen her?" they asked each other. "She's been here over a week. Who do you think she is?"

The hotel desk clerk refused to divulge her name even to his best friends, saying it was prohibited by law. That convinced everyone that the mystery woman had bribed him for nefarious reasons of her own, since Lenny Inchpot was not the town's most law-abiding citizen.

So they went on commenting about her olive complexion, sultry brown eyes, and lush mop of dark hair that half covered the left side of her face. Yet, the burning question remained: "Why is she staying at that firetrap of a flophouse?" That attitude was unfair; The New Pickax Hotel, though gloomy, was respectable and painfully clean, and there was a fire escape in the rear. There was even a presidential suite, although no president had ever stayed there - not even a candidate for the state legislature on an unpopular ticket. Nevertheless, no one had been known to lodge there for more than a single night, or two at the most, and travel agents around the country were influenced by an entry in their directory of lodgings:

NEW PICKAX HOTEL, 18 miles from Moose County Airport; 20 rooms, some with private bath; presidential suite with telephone and TV; bridal suite with round bed. Three-story building with one elevator, frequently out of order. Prison-like exterior and bleak interior, circa 1935. Public areas unusually quiet, with Depression Era furnishings. Cramped lobby and dining room; no bar; small, unattractive ballroom in basement. Sleeping rooms plain but clean; mattresses fairly new; lighting dim. Metal fire escape in rear; rooms with windows have coils of rope for emergency use. Dining room offers breakfast buffet, luncheon specials, undistinguished dinner menu, beer and wine. No liquor. No room service. No desk clerk on duty after 11 p.m. Rates: low to moderate. Hospital nearby.

Business travelers checked into the New Pickax Hotel for a single overnight because no other lodgings were available in town. Out-of-towners arriving to attend a funeral might be forced by awkward plane schedules to spend two nights. In the hushed dining room the business travelers sat alone, reading technical manuals while waiting for the chopped sirloin and boiled carrots. Forks could be heard clicking against plates as the out-of-town mourners silently counted the peas in the chicken pot pie. And now, in addition, there was a woman in black who sat in a far corner, toying with a glass of wine and an overcooked vegetable plate.

One resident of Pickax who wondered about her was a journalist-a tall, good-looking man with romantically graying hair, brooding eyes, and a luxuriant pepper-and-salt moustache. His name was Jim Qwilleran; friends called him Qwill, and townfolk called him Mr. Q with affection and respect. He wrote a twice-weekly column for the Moose County Something, but he had been a prize-winning crime reporter Down Below-local parlance for metropolitan areas to the south. An unexpected inheritance had brought him north and introduced him to small-town life -a unique experience for a native of Chicago.

Qwilleran was admired by young and old, male and female - not only because he had turned his billion-dollar inheritance over to charity. His admirers appreciated his down-to-earth style: He drove a small car, pumped his own gas, cleaned his own windshield; he walked around town; he pedaled a bike in the country. As a journalist, he showed a sincere interest in the subjects he interviewed. He responded courteously to strangers when they recognized his moustache and hailed him on the street or in the supermarket. Understandably he had made many friends in the county, and the fact that he lived alone - in a barn, with two cats - was a foible they had learned to accept.

Qwilleran's housemates were no ordinary cats, and his residence was no ordinary barn. Octagonal in shape, it was a hundred-year-old apple storage facility four stories high, perched on an impressive fieldstone foundation and topped with a cupola. To make the barn habitable, certain architectural changes had been made. Triangular windows had been cut in the walls. The interior, open to the roof, had three balconies connected by a spiraling ramp. And on the ground floor the main living areas surrounded a giant white fireplace cube with great white stacks rising to the roof. The barn would have been a showplace if the owner had not preferred privacy.

As for the cats, they were a pair of elegant Siamese whose seal-brown points were in striking contrast to their pate fawn bodies. The male, Kao K'o Kung, answered to the name of Koko; he was long, lithe, and muscular, and his fathomless blue eyes brimmed with intelligence. His female companion, Yum Yum, was small and delicate, with violet-blue eyes that could be large and heart-melting when she wanted to sit on a lap, yet that dainty creature could utter a piercing shriek when dinner was behind schedule.

One Thursday morning in September, Qwilleran was closeted in his private suite on the first balcony, the only area in the barn that was totally off-limits to cats. He was trying to write a thousand words for his Friday column, "Straight from the Qwill Pen."

Emily Dickinson, we need you!

"I'm nobody. Who are you?" said this prolific American poet.

I say, "God give us nobodies! What this country needs is fewer celebrities and more nobodies who live ordinary lives, cope bravely, do a little good in the world, enjoy a few pleasures, and never, never get their names in the newspaper or their faces on TV."

"Yow!" came a baritone complaint outside the door.

It was followed by a soprano shriek. "N-n-now!"

Qwilleran consulted his watch. It was twelve noon and time for their midday treat. In fact, it was three minutes past twelve, and they resented the delay.

He yanked open his studio door to face two determined petitioners. "I wouldn't say you guys were spoiled," he rebuked them. "You're only tyrannical monomaniacs about food." As they hightailed it down the ramp to the kitchen, he took the shortcut via a spiral metal staircase. Nevertheless, they reached the food station first. He dropped some crunchy morsels on two plates; separate plates had been Yum Yum's latest feline-rights demand, and he always indulged her. He stood with fists on hips to watch their enjoyment.

Today she had changed her mind, however. She helped Koko gobble his plateful; then the two of them worked on her share.

"Cats!" Qwilleran muttered in exasperation. "Is it okay with you two autocrats if I go back to work now?"

Satisfied with their repast, they ignored him completely and busied themselves with washing masks and ears. He went up to his studio and wrote another paragraph:

We crave heroes to admire and emulate, and what do we get? A parade of errant politicians, mad exhibitionists, wicked heiresses, temperamental artists, silly risk-takers, overpaid athletes, untalented entertainers, non-authors of non-books...

The telephone interrupted, and he grabbed it on the first ring. The caller was Junior Goodwinter, young managing editor of the Moose County Something. "Hey, Qwill, are you handing in your Friday copy this afternoon?"

"Only if the interruptions permit me to write a simple declarative sentence in its entirety," he snapped. "Why?"