Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Into The Closet

"Of course. They love anything that gets them out of class, including chest X-rays," he said with precoffee cynicism. "What kind of facility do they have?"

"We'll be doing the show in the gym, with the audience seated in the bleachers. The custodian is constructing a platform for us."

"What's the second booking?"

"Monday night at the Black Bear Caf‚. It's the annual family night for the Outdoor Club, and they were going to have a Laurel and Hardy film, but Gary urged them to book 'The Big Burning' instead."

"Maybe we can play it for laughs," Qwilleran muttered.

"At the high school we're scheduled for the sixth period, and we should get there at one o'clock. I'll be out in the territory, so I'll meet you there. It's on Sandpit Road, you know... And would you be a doll, Qwill, and glue my cuesheet on a card, s'il vous plait? It'll be sturdier and easier to handle... See you Thursday afternoon. Don't forget to bring the complex computerized sound and light system," she concluded with a flippant laugh.

A grunt was his only reply to that remark. As he hung up the receiver he felt certain misgivings. Performing for a hand-picked audience of civic leaders had been a pleasure, but a gymful of noisy, hyperkinetic "young adults" from the potato farms and sheep ranches was a different ballgame. He pressed the button on his coffeemaker and was comforted somewhat by the sound of grinding beans and gurgling brew.

Meanwhile, he fed the cats, and whether it was the soothing sight of feline feeding or the caffeine jolt of his first cup, something restored his positive attitude, and he tackled Riker's assignment with actual relish.

It was not as easy as either of them supposed. There were no photos of Euphonia Gage in the desk drawers. The closet in the library was locked. In the upstairs bedroom where Koko had found the purple ribbon, the closets were stuffed with outdated clothing, but no photographs. Returning to the library he surveyed the shelves of somber books collected by several generations of Gages: obsolete encyclopedias, anthologies of theological essays, forgotten classics, and biographies of persons now unknown. Sitting in the worn leather desk chair, he swiveled idly, pondering this mausoleum of the printed word.

It was then that he glimpsed a few inches of brown tail disappearing behind a row of books at eye level. Koko often retired to a bookshelf to escape Yum Yum's playful overtures. He failed to appreciate aggressive females, preferring to do the chasing himself. So now he was safely installed in the narrow space behind some volumes on nutrition, correct breathing, vegetarian diet, medicinal herbs, Hindu philosophy, and similar subjects of interest to the late Mrs. Gage.

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache, suspecting why Koko preferred these books to the Civil War histories on the same shelf. Could it corroborate the theory about cats and energy? Could Euphonia's innate verve have rubbed off on these particular bindings? In earlier years he would have scoffed at such a notion, but that was before he knew Koko. Now Qwilleran would believe anything!

Out of curiosity he opened the book on herbs and found remedies for acne, allergies, asthma, and athlete's foot. Hopefully he looked under F but found nothing on football knee, which was his own Achilles' heel. He did find, however, an envelope addressed to Junior and mailed from Florida, casually stuck between a new book on cholesterol and an old book on mind power. He opened it and read:

Dear Junior, Ship all my health books right away. I teach a class in breathing twice a week. These old people could solve half their problems if they knew how to breathe. Also send my photo albums. I think they're on the shelf with the Britannica. I'll pay the postage. Thank you for sending the clippings of Mr. Q's column. I like his style. No one down here has the slightest knowledge of how to write. Perhaps you should start a subscription to the paper for me. Send me the bill.

Grandma

The letter, dated two weeks previously, hardly sounded like a potential suicide, and Qwilleran wondered, Had something drastic happened to change her lifestyle or her outlook? It could be sudden illness, sudden grief, personal catastrophe...

Two photo albums were exactly where she had said they would be, and he turned the pages to find the highlights of her life, all captioned and dated as if she expected some future biographer to publish her life. He found a tiny Euphonia in a christening dress two yards long, propped up on cushions; a young girl dancing on the grass in front of peony bushes; a horsewoman in full habit, with the straightest of spines; and a bride in a high-necked wedding dress with an armful of white roses. In none of the photos was there a glimpse of her bridegroom, daughter, parents, or grandchildren - only

an unidentified horse.

Qwilleran narrowed the collection down to ten suitable pictures and telephoned Riker at the office. "Got 'em!" he announced. "How about lunch?"

At noon he walked downtown and tossed the photos on the publisher's desk. Riker shuffled through the pack, nodded without comment, and said, "Where shall we eat?"

"First I want to use your gluepot," Qwilleran said. "Do you have a five-by-seven index card?"

"No. What for?"

"Never mind. Just give me a file folder, and I'll cut it down. I want to paste Hixie's cuesheet on a card for durability."

"Apparently you're expecting a long run," the publisher said with satisfaction.

"Yes, and I'm charging the paper for mileage." They drove in Riker's car to the Old Stone Mill on the outskirts of town, the best restaurant in the vicinity.

"Have you heard from Junior?" Qwilleran asked.

"Give him a break! His plane left only an hour ago."

They were passing the impressive entrance to Goodwinter Boulevard. "How do you and the cats enjoy rattling around in that big house?"

"We're adaptable. Actually, I live in three rooms. I sleep in the housekeeper's old bedroom on the main floor. I make coffee and feed the cats in a huge antiquated kitchen. And I hang out in the library, which still has some furniture - not good, but not too bad."

"Is that where you found the dope on the forest fire?"

"No, it was in an upstairs closet. The house is honeycombed with closets, all filled with junk."

"That's the insidious thing about ample storage space," Riker said. "It sounds good, but it turns rational individuals into pack rats. I'm one of them."

"But Koko is having a field day. Old doors in old houses don't latch properly, so he can open a closet door and walk in."

Riker - who had once had a house and wife and children and cats of his own - nodded sagely. "Cats can't stand the sight of a closed door. If they're in, they have to get out; if they're out, they want in."

"The Rum Tum Tugger syndrome," Qwilleran said with equal sagacity.

In the restaurant parking lot they crossed paths with Scott Gippel, the car dealer. "I heard on the radio that old Mrs. Gage died down south. Died suddenly, they said. Is that true? Suicide?"

"That's what the police told Junior," Riker said.

"Too bad. She was a peppy old gal. I took her Mercedes in trade on a bright yellow sports car. She had me drop-ship it to Florida."

When they entered the restaurant, the hostess said, "Isn't that sad about Mrs. Gage? She had so much style! Always came in here wearing a hat and scarf. The barman kept a bottle of Dubonnet just for her... Your usual table, Mr. Q?"

The special for the day was a French dip sandwich with skins-on fries and a cup of cream of mushroom soup. Riker ordered a salad.

"What's the matter?" Qwilleran inquired. "Aren't you feeling well?"

"Just trying to lose a few pounds before the holidays. Do you have plans for Christmas Eve?"

"That's two months away! I'll be lucky if I survive Thursday afternoon at Mooseland High."