Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

"Next we have a six-foot rolltop desk in cherrywood," said the auctioneer. "Perfect condition. Dated 1881. Outstanding provenance. Belonged to Ephraim Goodwinter, mine owner, lumberman, founder of the Pickax Picayune. and donor of the Pickax Public Library. Shall we start at five thousand? ... Five thousand? ... Four thousand?"

"One thousand," said a woman near the platform. It was the dealer with the fuzzy brown hat.

"One thousand I've got. No money! Beautiful desk — seven drawers — lots of pigeonholes — maybe a secret compartment. Who'll bid two thousand?"

Qwilleran held up his card.

"HEP!" shouted the Spotter.

"Two thousand now. Make it three. Three do I hear? Solid cherry. Lotta history goes with this desk."

"HEP!"

"Three thousand we got. Who'll bid three and a half? Waddala waddala bidda waddala bidda bidda bidda waddala ..."

The auctioneer's singsong gibberish had a mesmerizing effect on Qwilleran. He raised his card.

"Thirty-five hundred for this five-thou sand-dollar desk, folks. No money. Make it four-triple-oh, four-triple-oh, four-triple-oh ..."

"HEP!"

Qwilleran 's turtleneck jersey was tightening around his neck. He slipped out of his coat.

"Four thousand. Make it fournahaff fournahaff fournahaff. It's a giveaway. Solid cherry. Cast brasses."

"HEP!"

"Four thousand five hundred. Do I hear five grand? It's going, folks. Are you gonna let 'em steal it?"

"Forty-six!" Qwilleran called out.

"Four-six! Who'll gimme four-seven? Waddala waddala bidda waddala bidda bidda waddala ..."

"HEP!"

The woman in the fuzzy brown hat wanted the desk and was inching up.

"Four-seven. Do I hear four-eight? Waddala waddala bidda ..."

Qwilleran raised his card.

"HEP!"

"Four thousand eight hundred. It's going, folks — "

"Forty-nine!" said the dealer.

"Fifty!" shouted Qwilleran.

"That's the spirit! Do I hear fifty-one?"

All heads turned to the dealer in the fuzzy hat. The hat wagged a negative.

"Fifty-one do I hear? Fifty-one? Going for five thousand. Going going going ... SOLD to number one twenty-four."

The audience applauded. Mrs. Cobb waved her catalogue in wild approval. Qwilleran mopped his brow.

After making arrangements to have the desk delivered, he drove home in a confused state of shock and agitation. Five thousand for a piece of furniture still seemed like a staggering sum to the former feature writer for the Daily Fluxion. At a restaurant in Middle Hummock he tried to phone Junior, but there was no answer at Grandma Gage's house.

Upon arriving home, he discovered why. There was a message on the answering machine. "Hi! We're flying Down Below to get married. Jody's parents live near Cleveland. Hope we get back before snow flies. And hey! They found Dad's lockbox!"

Mrs. Cobb had gone out to dinner with Susan Exbridge, so Qwilleran rummaged in the refrigerator and found some lentil soup and cold chicken. He heated the soup for himself and cut up the chicken for the Siamese.

"No readings tonight," he told Koko. "I've had enough stimulation for one day. 'The rest is silence.' That's from Hamlet, in case you didn't know."

The tall case clock in the foyer bonged seven times, and he tuned in the weather report. Storm warnings had been in effect all day, and yet the weather had been fine. Dubiously he listened to the current prediction:

"Storm warnings were lifted late this afternoon, but a storm alert remains in effect. Winds are twenty-five miles an hour, gusting to forty. Present temperature: nineteen in Pickax, seven in Brrr. And now for a look at the headlines... Two persons were killed in a car-deer accident on Airport Road at four forty-five p.m. Names are withheld pending notification of relatives. The westbound car struck and killed a large buck, then entered a ditch..."

"Junior!" Qwilleran cried. "No! No! The Picayune jinx! Fifth to die a violent death! And poor little Jody ..."

Thursday, November twenty-first. "Storm warnings are again in effect for Moose County," said the WPKX announcer, "with high winds continuing from the northwest and temperatures constant in the twenties... And in the news... here's an update on yesterday's fatal accident in the Airport Road. Killed at four forty-five p.m. were Gertrude Goodwinter, forty-eight, of North Middle Hummock, and Harold Noyton, fifty-two, of Chicago. According to the sheriffs department, their car struck and killed a large buck, then entered a ditch and rolled over."

Qwilleran made an early visit to the police station that morning to see Andrew Brodie. Although the sheriffs deputies were courteous and cooperative, only the Pickax police chief could be depended upon for friendly conversation and off-the-record information.

Brodie was sitting at his desk, swamped with paperwork and complaining as usual. "And what's on your mind?" he asked, after a tirade about computer systems.

"Do you know anything about yesterday's fatal accident on Airport Road?"

"The sheriff and state police handled it," he said, "but we helped track down the next of kin. Wasn't easy, what with her husband just buried and her mother in Florida and Junior on a plane somewhere and the other two kids out west. The fellah that was with her — they had to get lawyers and bankers out of bed to find out about him."

"At first I thought Junior and Jody had been killed. I knew Jody is a friend of your daughter's, so I tried calling your house last night but got no answer."

"The wife and I were out visiting," Brodie said, "and Francesca was rehearsing for that concert at the church, where they're going to wear all those old-fashioned costumes. It'll be a spectacle, all right. They're making their own costumes, and they're going all out!"

"I'm looking forward to it," Qwilleran said, after which he commented on the weather, the hunting season, and the Goodwinter auction before steering the conversation back to the accident. "Do you know who was driving?"

"No telling. They were both thrown from the car, as I understand it."

"I assume they weren't wearing seat belts."

"It would look like it, wouldn't it?"

"Does the sheriff think they were traveling fast?"

"According to the skid marks, pretty fast. And according to the coroner, they'd had a few. The buck was a big one, over two hundred pounds, eight-point. Don't suppose you know anything about the fellah she was with. The name's Noyton."

"All I know," Qwilleran said, "is that he's a one-man conglomerate with some greedy ex-wives and squabbling children, and they'll be challenging the will for ten years."

When he left Brodie's office, Qwilleran began wondering how Exbridge would react to Gritty's death, and how the ex-Mrs. Exbridge would react to her ex-husband's loss of his ex-mistress. His curiosity prompted him to have lunch again at the Old Stone Mill. Hixie was always good for some candid observations.

Today she seemed nervous and preoccupied, however. She seated guests but avoided conversation. Qwilleran took a long time to consume his pea soup and corned beef sandwich, stalling until most of the customers had left. Then he offered to buy Hixie a drink, and she sat down at his table in a fretful mood.

"Hideous accident on Airport Road," he remarked. "Wasn't the woman your boss's former roommate?"

"I can't worry about his problems today," she snapped. "I have problems of my own."

"What's the matter?"

"Tony left suddenly this morning — right before the lunch rush! No explanation. He just went out the window."

“The window?"

"And he took my car! My car instead of that stupid camper!"

"I thought the camper belonged to one of your cooks." Hixie dismissed the question with a wave of the hand.

"It was in my name. That is, I bought it for his birthday. So why didn't he take the camper? Why did he take my car?"