Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Wasn't There

It was a wild shot but worth trying. He would interrogate Koko! He waited patiently until the fastidious toilette was finished, then sprawled in the roomy lounge chair where the three of them always gathered for enjoyment of quality time. Yum Yum hopped onto his lap, landing weightlessly like a squirt of whipped cream, while Koko settled on the wide arm of the upholstered chair with perfect composure.

Solemnly, Qwilleran began, "This is a serious discussion, Koko, and I want you to give it your personal best." "Yow," the cat replied, squeezing his eyes agreeably. The man turned on the tape recorder, which was never far from his trigger finger.

"Are you aware of the death of Irma Hasselrich?" "Yowl" came the prompt reply, an obvious affirmative.

"Was she murdered?" Koko hesitated before saying "Yowl" in a positive way.

"Hmmm," Qwilleran said, patting his moustache.

"Did the bus driver cause her to ingest a substance that stopped her heart?" Koko gazed into space.

"I'll rephrase that. Did the bus driver slip her a drug that killed her?" Koko was mute. He looked from side to side, and up and down, with convulsive movements of his head.

"Pay attention!" Qwilleran rebuked him, and he repeated the question.

"Did the bus driver--was "Yow," Koko interrupted but without conviction. It was not the definitive response that Qwilleran had hoped for, and he thought it wise to ask a test question: "Koko, is my name Ronald Frobnitz?" "Yowl" said the town psychic as he leaped to catch the fruit fly he'd been tracking.

Eight

After the unsatisfactory interrogation of the redoubtable Koko, Qwilleran decided that the cat was a charlatan. Or he was a practical joker who delighted in deluding the man who gave him food, shelter, respect, and admiration. Despite Koko's past record, there were moments when Qwilleran seriously doubted that he was anything but an ordinary animal, and his so-called insights were all a matter of coincidence. The telephone rang, and Koko raced him to the instrument, but Qwilleran grabbed the handset first.

"Qwill! You're home!" said the pleasant voice of Lori Bamba, his part-time secretary.

"How was Scotland?" "Magnificent! How's everything in Mooseville?" "Same as always. We're all very sorry about Irma Hasselrich. She was a wonderful woman." "Yes, that was a sad happening... Did you have any problems with my correspondence?" "Nothing that I couldn't handle. Did it rain a lot while you were there?" "Mornings were misty. That's what keeps the Scottish complexion so fresh and the Scottish landscape so verdant--just the way it looks in the whiskey ads." "Do you think the cats missed you while you were away?" Lori asked.

"Not much. Mildred Hanstable cat sat so they ate well." "There are several letters for you to sign, Qwill, and Nick can drop them off this afternoon. Will you be home around three-thirty?" "I'll make it a point to be here," Qwilleran said. He found the Bambas an attractive young couple--Lori with her long, golden braids, Nick with his dark, curly hair and alert, black eyes. The best of the next generation, Qwilleran called them. Lori had been Mooseville postmaster before retiring to raise a family and work out of her home. Her husband, trained as an engineer, worked for the state prison near Mooseville, and since Nick shared his interest in crime, Qwilleran looked forward to seeing him and relating the case of the missing bus driver. Meanwhile, he had a cup of coffee and listened to one of the tapes he had recorded during the tour. The Siamese listened, too, with Koko making an occasional comment from the top of the fireplace cube.

"Tonight we are comfortably lodged and extremely well fed in another historic inn. I suspect Bonnie Prince Charlie slept here 250 years ago. One can hardly buy anything without his picture on it. Irma likes to talk about the heroic women who aided the prince's cause.

Flora Macdonald dressed him in women's clothing and passed him off as her maid as they traveled through enemy lines. And then there was Lady Ann Mackintosh, who raised regiments to fight for the prince, while her husband was off fighting for the other side." Koko responded to the sound of a familiar voice with a happy gurgling sound, but as the tape unreeled he seemed to hear something else.

"Bushy is taking hundreds of pictures on this trip. At first, when Irma stopped the bus for a spectacular view, we all piled out with our cameras, but now Bushy and Big Mac are the only ones who take pictures.

The rest of us, jaded with spectacular views, remain in our seats.

Occasionally Bushy photographs members of our group in different settings, especially Melinda. He seems to think she's a good model." Koko jumped on and off the desk when he heard this segment, and Qwilleran recalled Lori Bamba's theory--that cats respond to the palatal shhhh sound. (her own cats, for that reason, were named Sheba, Shoo-Shoo, Natasha, Trish, Pushkin, and Sherman.) Evidently "Bushy" was the trigger sound here.

"Today I was talking to Lyle Compton about the famous medical school at Glasgow University, and he mentioned that the infamous Dr. Cream was a Glaswegian. He was the nineteenth-century psychopath who became a serial killer in England, Canada, and the United States-not as legendary as Jack the Ripper but noted for "pink pills for pale prostitutes," as his M.O. was described." Koko reacted excitedly to this reference, leading Qwilleran to assume that he heard the word "serial" and confused it with the crunchy "cereal" that was his favorite treat. In mid-afternoon Qwilleran walked downtown to the offices of the Moose County Something, to pick up a few more copies of Irma's obituary. He also left a small white box with a CRM monogram on the desk of Hixie Rice, the advertising manager, who had been his friend and neighbor Down Below. Then he dropped into Junior Goodwinter's office.

"You're back early," the managing editor said.

"We don't expect Arch till tomorrow or Wednesday. Tell me about Scotland. What did you like best?" "The islands," Qwilleran answered promptly.

"There's something wild and mystic and ageless about them. You feel it in the stones under your feet--the ancient presence of Picts, Romans, Saxons, Gaels, Angles, Vikings--all that crowd." "Wow! Write it up for the "Qwill Pen" column!" Junior suggested with his boyish enthusiasm.

"That's my intention eventually, after I've had a chance to sort out my impressions. But I came in to compliment you on the obit, Junior. A beautiful piece of copy! We're sending clips to Irma's friends in Scotland... How about the local scene? Any momentous news in Moose County?" "Well, we're carrying a series of ads on the liquidation of Dr. Hal's estate. Melinda's selling everything in a tag sale. I hope she rakes in some dough, because she needs it. After that, the house will go up for sale, and we'll have another empty mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard." "Did you attend Irma's funeral?" Qwilleran asked.

"Roger covered it, but I didn't go.

The cortege watchers counted forty-eight cars in the procession to the cemetery." "I hear there was some kind of argument about the disposition of the remains." "Oh, you heard about that? Melinda said they'd had a doctorstpatient discussion about living wills. She said Irma preferred cremation and no funeral. Mrs. Hasselrich wanted to go along with her daughter's wishes, but her husband-with his legal mind-set, you know--said it wasn't in writing. So Irma was buried in the family plot with full obsequies--eulogies, bagpipe, tenor soloist, and marching band. You know how Pickax loves a big funeral production!" Qwilleran said, "I ought to write a column on living wills." "Can you rip off a piece on Scotland for Wednesday?

Your devoted readers are waiting to hear about your trip." "We saw a lot of castles. I'll see if I can write a thousand words on castles without having to think too much," Qwilleran promised as he started out the door. Walking home from the newspaper office, he let his mind wander from castles to the baronial mansions on Goodwinter Boulevard. The only solution to the local problem, as he envisioned it, would be rezoning... or a bomb... or an earthquake, and the old-timers in Pickax would prefer either of the latter to rezoning.