Лилиан Браун: The Cat Who Went Into The Closet

"Say no more. I'm available for the entire weekend."

They were interrupted by a cracked, high-pitched voice. "Excellent job, my boy!" Homer Tibbitt, official historian for the county, was in his nineties but still active in spite of loudly creaking joints. He was pushing a wheelchair occupied by Adam Dingleberry, the ancient and indestructible patriarch of the mortuary that had lent the folding chairs.

Homer said to Qwilleran, "Just want to congratulate you before going home to my lovely young bride. Adam's great-grandson is on the way over to pick us up."

"Yep, he's bringin' the hearse," said old Dingleberry with a wicked laugh.

Homer delivered a feeble poke to Qwilleran's ribs. "You son-of-a-grasshopper! I've been scrabbling for information on that blasted fire for thirty years! Where'd you find it?"

"In some files that belonged to Euphonia Gage's father-in-law," Qwilleran replied. He neglected to say that Koko pried his way into a certain closet and dragged forth a scrap of yellowed manuscript. It was a clue to a cache of hundred-year-old documents.

A valet was paging them. "Car for Mr. Dingleberry! Mr. Tibbitt!"

As the elderly pair headed for the carriage entrance, Qwilleran was approached by a cordial man in a black cashmere sweater. "Good show, Mr. Q!" he said in a smooth, professional voice.

"Thank you."

"I'm Pender Wilmot, your next-door neighbor and Mrs. Gage's attorney."

"Too bad she couldn't be here tonight," Qwilleran said.

"I daresay this old house hasn't witnessed an event of this magnitude since Harding won the presidential election. How do you like living on the boulevard?"

"I find it somewhat depressing. There are seven for-sale signs at my last count."

"And I'd gladly make it eight," the attorney said, "but our property has been in the family for four generations, and Mrs. Wilmot is sentimental about it, although she might be swayed by a juicy offer."

"There'll be no juicy offers until the boulevard is re-zoned."

"It is my considered opinion," Wilmot said, "that the city will approve re-zoning in the year 2030... Mr. Q, this is my son, Timmie." The boy in the red sweater, having failed to catch the slippery Yum Yum, was now clutching his parent's hand.

"And how did you like the show, young man?" Qwilleran asked him.

Timmie frowned. "All those houses burned down, and all those people burned up. Why didn't the firemen get a ladder and save them?"

"Come on, son," his father said. "We'll go home and discuss it."

They walked toward the front door just as Hixie dashed up, followed by the owner of the Black Bear Caf‚. Gary Pratt's muscular hulk and lumbering gait and shaggy black hairiness explained the name of his restaurant. Excitedly Hixie announced, "Gary wants us to do the show at the Black Bear."

"Yeah," said the barkeeper, "the Outdoor Club meets once a month for burgers and beer and a program. They have a conservation guy or a video on the environment. They've never had a live show."

"How many members?" Qwilleran asked.

"Usually about forty turn out, but it'll be double that if they know you're coming."

"Okay with me. Go ahead and book it, Hixie." Qwilleran moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations.

Susan Exbridge, the antique dealer, gave him her usual effusive hug. "Darling! You were glorious! You should be on the stage!... And this house! Isn't it magnificent? Euphonia gave me a tour before she sold the furnishings. Look at the carving on that staircase! Look at the parquet floors! Have you ever seen chandeliers like these? If you'd like a live-in housekeeper, Qwill, I'll work cheap!"

Next the Comptons paid their compliments. "You were terrific, Qwill," said Lisa, a cheerful, middle-aged woman in a Halloween sweater. "Everything was so professional!"

"It's my engineer's split-second timing that gives the show its snap," Qwilleran said.

"You guys ought to do the show for grades four to twelve," said Lyle Compton, superintendent of schools. "It would be a great way to hook the kids on history."

Qwilleran winced, having visions of a schoolful of carriers circulating respiratory diseases.

"Believe it or not," Lisa said, "I used to come to this house to take 'natural dance' lessons from Euphonia. She had us flitting around the ballroom like Isadora Duncan. It was supposed to give us grace and poise, but we all thought it was boring. I really wanted to take tap."

Her husband said, "You should have stuck with Euphonia. She's in her late eighties and still has the spine of a drum major, which is more than I can say for any of us."

"I met her only once," Qwilleran said. "I came here to interview her for an oral history project and found this tiny woman sitting on the floor in the lotus position, wearing purple tights. She had white hair tied back with a purple ribbon, I recall."

Lisa nodded. "She used to tell us that purple is a source of energy. Junior says she still wears a lot of it and stands on her head every day."

"When she lived in Pickax," said Lyle, "she drove a Mercedes at twenty miles an hour and blew the horn at every intersection. The police were always ticketing her for obstructing traffic. All the Gages have been a little batty, although Junior seems to have his head on straight."

As Junior Goodwinter joined them, Lisa changed the subject. "Have you ever seen an autumn with so many leaves on the ground?"

"According to hizzoner the mayor," said Junior, "Lockmaster County is shipping truckloads of leaves up here every night under cover of darkness and dumping them on Pickax."

"I'll buy that," Lyle said. "We should send them some of our toxic waste."

They discussed the forthcoming football game between Pickax High and their Lockmaster rivals, and then the Comptons said goodnight.

Junior gazed ruefully at the empty rooms, faded wallcoverings, and discolored rectangles where large paintings had once hung. "Grandma had some great stuff! Susan Exbridge can tell you how valuable it was. Everything was sold out of state. Sorry there's no TV, Qwill. Why don't you bring one over from your barn before snow flies?"

"I can skip TV. It amuses the cats, but they can live without it. Would your grandmother have liked our show tonight?"

"I doubt it. She never likes anything that isn't her own idea."

"She sounds a lot like Koko. Is it true she used to give dancing lessons?"

"Way back, maybe forty years ago," Junior said. "Before leaving for Florida she asked me to videotape one of her dances. Yikes! It was embarrassing, Qwill - this woman in her eighties, in filmy draperies, cavorting around the ballroom like a woodland nymph. She was limber enough, and still kind of graceful, but I felt like a voyeur."

"What happened to the video?"

"She took it to Florida. Do you think she plays it on a VCR and dreams old dreams?"

"It's not a bad idea," Qwilleran said. "When I'm her age I'd like to watch myself sliding into first base."

"I saw you talking to Pender Wilmot. How did he like the show?"

"He was quite enthusiastic. By the way, Junior, I'm surprised your grandmother doesn't take her legal work to Hasselrich Bennett & Barter."

"They're too stuffy for her taste. She likes younger people. She feels young herself. It's my guess that she'll outlive us all... Well, it looks like everyone's leaving. Sure was a success! I can't believe, Qwill, that you did all those voices yourself!"

Only a few members of the hungry and thirsty press remained to drain the two punch bowls. They mixed the contents of both and declared it tasted like varnish, but good!

Qwilleran said to Hixie, "Did you see the guy in a suit and tie? He was with a blonde - the only ones not in sweaters."

"That was a wig she was wearing," Hixie informed him. "Who were they?"

"That's what I was going to ask you."