Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Played Post Office

"The Duke and Duchess have arrived," Amanda whispered to Riker. "Mind your manners or it's off with your head!" Qwilleran made the introductions, and Alexander said to Riker in his courtroom voice, "We trust you will find our peaceful little community as enjoyable as we find your — ah — stimulating newspaper." "I'm certainly enjoying your — ah — perfect weather," said the editor.

Qwilleran inquired about the weather in Washington. "Unbearably hot," said the attorney with a wry smile, "but one tries to suffer with grace. While I have the ear of — ah — influential persons, I do what I can for our farmers, the forgotten heroes of this great northern county of ours." The French doors of the solarium were open, admitting early-evening zephyrs that dissipated somewhat the impact of Penelope's perfume. Drifting in from the trio in the foyer were Cole Porter melodies that created the right touch of gaiety and sophistication.

When the butler approached with a silver tray of potables, the Goodwinters recognized the local retailing tycoon and exchanged incredulous glances, but they maintained their poise.

"Champagne, madame," Lanspeak intoned, "and Catawba grape juice." Penelope hesitated, looked briefly at her brother, and chose the nonalcoholic beverage.

Qwilleran said, "There are mixed drinks if you prefer." "I consider this an occasion for champagne," Alexander said, taking a glass with a flourish. "History is made tonight.

To our knowledge this is the first festive dinner ever to take place at the Klingenschoen mansion." "The Klingenschoens were never active in the social life of Pickax," his sister said with elevated eyebrows.

The guests circulated, remarked about the size of the rubber plants, admired the Siamese, and made smalltalk.

"Hello, Koko," Roger said bravely, but the cat ignored him. Both Koko and Yum Yum were intent upon circling Penelope, sniffing ardently and occasionally sneezing a delicate whispered chfff.

The guest of honor was teasing Sharon about the primitive airport.

"Don't laugh, Mr. Riker. My grandmother arrived here in a covered wagon, and that was only seventy-five years ago.

Our farms didn't have electricity until 1937." To Junior, Riker said, 'You must be the world's youngest managing editor." "I'm starting at the top and working my way down," Junior said. "My ambition is to be a copyboy for the Daily Fluxion." "Copy facilitator," the editor corrected him.

At a signal from the hostess the butler carried a silver tray of small envelopes to the gentlemen, containing the names of the ladies they were to take into the dining room. "Dinner is served," he announced. The musicians switched to Viennese waltzes, and the guests went into dinner two by two. No one noticed Koko and Yum Yum bringing up the rear, with tails proudly erect.

Penelope, escorted by Qwilleran, whispered, "Forgive me if I sounded curt yesterday. I had received bad news, although that is no excuse. My brother sees no reason why your memorial to Tiffany Trotter should be inappropriate." The great doors of the dining room had been rolled back, and the company gasped at the sight. Sixteen wax candles were burning in the silver candelabra, and twenty-four electric candles were aglow in the staghorn chandeliers, all of this against a rich background of linenfold paneling and drawn velvet draperies. There were comments on the magnificent centerpiece. Then the guests savored the terrine of pheasant, and Qwilleran noticed — from the comer of his eye — two dark brown tails disappearing under the white damask.

Seated at the head of the table, he had Penelope on his right and Amanda on his left. At one point he described the incident caused by Hackpole's dog, also his decision to make a formal complaint.

Amanda said, "It's about time somebody blew the whistle on that lamebrain. If our mayor wasn't such an ass, he wouldn't let Hackpole get away with it." Penelope promptly launched a more genteel topic. "Everyone is tremendously pleased to hear, Mr. Qwilleran, that you might present this house to the city as a museum." "The city won't appreciate it," Amanda retorted. "They'll find it costs a few bucks to heat the place and pay the light bill, and they'll rezone the Circle and sell it for a rooming house." It seemed to Qwilleran that the conversation at the other end of the table was progressing with more finesse. While he labored to get Roger and Junior talking, he could hear Riker telling newspaper stories, Alexander extolling the social life in Washington, Melinda describing her week in Paris, and Sharon and Mildred laughing about the naive tourists in Mooseville.

"Chfff!" The Siamese were still under the table. Yum rum was looking for a shoelace to untie, and Koko was listening to the guests' voices with rapt concentration.

By the time the salmon croquettes were served, the host was finding it difficult to keep a dialogue alive. Junior seemed speechless with awe; no doubt he had never seen an epergne nor eaten terrine of pheasant. Roger was eating, but he seemed somewhere else. Penelope appeared preoccupied; at best her remarks were guarded, and she was not sipping her wine. As for the outspoken Amanda, she was becoming drowsier by the minute.

The waltz rhythms emanating from the foyer were soporific, Qwilleran thought, and he wished the musicians would try Mozart or Boccherini. Yet, Melinda's immediate tablemates were pleasantly animated.

In desperation he tried one subject after another. "Birch Tree's motorbike has a stereo cassette player, cruise control, and an intercom. I prefer pedaling an old-fashioned one-speed bicycle on Ittibittiwassee Road-smooth pavement, sparse traffic, and that eerie Buckshot Mine… You know a lot about mining history, Roger. What were the other nine mines?" Roger blinked his eyes and said listlessly, "Well… there was the Goodwinter… and the Big B… and the Dimsdale." "And the Moosejaw," his wife called out from her place farther down the table.

"The Moosejaw… and the Black Creek. How many is that?" "That's only six, dear." "Well… there was the Honey Hill and… Did I mention Old Glory?" "Don't forget Smith's Folly, dear." "Smith's Folly. There, that's it!" Roger concluded with relief.

Qwilleran had been counting on his fingers. "Including the Buckshot, that's only nine." "He forgot the Three Pines," Sharonsaid. "That's where they had the big cave-in a few years ago. Even the Daily Fluxion wrote it up." "Chfff!" There was another sneeze under the table.

The lamb b–cheronne was served, and Penelope asked, "Are you doing any writing, Mr. Qwilleran?" "Only letters. I get a tremendous amount of mail." "I understand you answer each letter personally in a most gracious way. That's really very charming of you." Qwilleran could hear a familiar yukking sound under the table and hoped Koko was only expressing an opinion of the conversation and not throwing up on Penelope's shoe. He could also hear Mildred, far down the table, telling Alexander about her talented art student who had left town without explanation and virtually disappeared.

"A great pity," she said, "because she came from a poor family, and she could have gone to college on a scholarship and achieved some kind of success. " Alexander said with authority, "Great numbers of young women escape their humdrum existence in small towns every year, and they are assimilated into urban life, sometimes with — ah — great success. Many women professionals in New York and Washington were refugees, so to speak, from rural areas; We lose this talent because we fail to provide encouragement and opportunities and rewards." "Chfff!" "It's too bad," Mildred said, "that we don't do as much for artists as we do for farmers." Throughout the salad course Qwilleran persevered in promoting table talk, and he was relieved when the wild raspberry trifle was served. At that point he made an announcement: "Ladies and gentlemen, absent from this table is an important member of our household who wears many hats — those of resident manager, curator of the collection, regisitrar, and official appraiser. And no one has a better right to wear the hat of a master chef. We are indebted to Iris Cobb for preparing this dinner tonight. I would like to ask her to join us at.