Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

"Excellent idea!" he said. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"As a matter of fact . . . yes!" Maggie said. "Could you make up a list of names that are well known? We'd start with kitties."

"With pleasure! They'd be names from literature and legend - no contemporary figures. Politicians or movie stars or others in the news would turn it into a joke. The names can still have a light connotation: Peter Pan, Cholly Knickerbocker, Rosie O'Grady, Goody Two-Shoes. That would be perfect for a female with two white paws."

"Oh, I'm so excited, Qwill! How soon can you give us a list? We have some sharp-witted volunteers who will love fitting the names to the right kitties."

"In fact, Maggie, I'll pay a visit to the shelter. Colors and marking might suggest ?Cinderella' for all white; ?Bonnie Lassie' for an orange marmalade mix; ?Tom Sawyer' for a male with jaunty markings on the head. . . . Enough of this! I could stay here all day! . . . Just let me ask you one question: Do you know the Ledfields?"

He was prompted solely by a free-ranging curiosity that was part of his profession. Maggie's response was more than he anticipated.

"Why, yes! Nathan and Doris were our neighbours in Purple Point! Jeremy and I dined with them often. Nathan is a wonderful man - played the violin. Doris accompanied him on the piano. She's a sweet, retiring person - sad, because she's childless, and the Ledfields have always felt strongly about continuing the bloodline. They have only a nephew in California."

"He visited here last weekend, Maggie, to make sketches of my barn for an architectural project. He's entering college in the fall."

"Really? That will please his aunt and uncle. I believe his name is Harvey. He was here last winter. Harvey's parents were killed in a car crash on the freeway."

Maggie's cagily secretive expression caused Qwilleran to remark, "A terrible tragedy!"

"Not exactly," she said. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but everyone knows that Nathan's brother was the black sheep of the family - a burden and an embarrassment. When they died, that left Harvey the only heir to the Ledfield fortune, so Nathan sent him a pair of plane tickets, and he visited here with a friend, a personable young man. Nathan found the friend an interesting conversationalist but he was disappointed in Harvey. All the young man could talk about was a glamorous ski lodge in the mountains, which he wanted his uncle to back."

"Any luck?" Qwilleran asked.

"You jest!" Maggie replied. "Nathan considered it a frivolity, and the two youths didn't stay long. Nathan would prefer to put his heir through college."

"Did you meet Harvey? No? It's just as well, Maggie. He's a cat hater. . . . And now I must tear myself away from your fascinating company."

Maggie said, "You're so kind and understanding, Qwill! And always so concerned about people. . . . Don't forget the list of cat names."

On the way out he noticed a small framed photo on a bookshelf. Two couples in a rose garden.

"The handsome one is my Jeremy," Maggie said. "Doris and I are sitting on a bench that Jeremy copied from the one in Monet's A Garden at Giverny. My husband did beautiful things with wood. The framed calligraphy is Jeremy's work, too - a quotation from the Desiderata : ?With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,/it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.' "

Maggie added, "Jeremy was unable to walk; he was thrown from a horse when he was a young man. . . . Do you have a copy of the Desiderata, Qwill? I have one on my wall, and it's the first thing I see every morning. I have a copy for you, if you have a good place to post it."

He promised to thumbtack it on the bulletin board in his writing studio.

With another look at the photograph in the rose garden, Qwilleran came to several conclusions: Jeremy was indeed handsome and grew beautiful roses. . . . Maggie looked then, as she does now, very much in charge. . . . Nathan was not tall but broad-shouldered, serious - a picture of the concert violinist and keeper of the family dignity. . . . Doris was small and frail and devoted to her husband; she looked at him instead of at the photographer.

Later in the evening, he wrote in his journal:

Friday - Polly and I are making two lists for Maggie: one for males, one for females. I refuse to call them little boys and little girls.

The names, we decided, should be important, well known, strong-sounding, even when reduced to a nickname for everyday use. Volunteers will have to match them up with forty little balls of fur, so we supplied more than enough.

Examples: Rudyard Kipling, Conan Doyle, Lewis and Clark (for twins), Michelangelo, Henry Longfellow, Winslow Homer, Bustopher Jones.

And then: Betsy Ross, Jane Austen, Lorna Doone, Agatha Christie, Cleopatra.

One question: Suppose a sweet little Cinderella grows up to have a personality like Attila the Hun? Does the purchaser get a refund?

Chapter 8

It was the second Tuesday in June, and Qwilleran was polishing his second "Late Great" for the the "Qwill Pen" when the phone rang.

When Qwilleran answered, he had to chuckle; only his old friend Arch Riker could say "good morning" and make it sound like an accusation.

The editor in chief barked, "Who's Clarissa Moore?"

Assuming a grouchy humour to match, Qwilleran snapped, "Who's calling? And why do you ask?"

"She sent us a job application from California! Gave you as a reference."

"Oh! Her! Yes, I seem to remember, Arch." He was playing a role to the hilt. "She and a friend were visiting the Ledfields in Purple Point. I suppose you know who the Ledfields are?"

"Everyone knows who the Ledfields are! How did you yet involved?"

"Someone suggested I take the young couple to dinner, since she was headed for a career in journalism. She is young - bright, personable. That's all I know." He refrained from mentioning Jerome, the Santa Claus costume, the broken engagement - if it was even a fact.

"She sent tear sheets of her newswriting and feature stories. Pretty good stuff. She's from Indiana, so she'd fit in here."

"Do you have an opening, Arch?"

"That's just it! Jill Handley's taking a year's maternity leave. . . . Is your copy in for today?"

Arch slammed the receiver without waiting for an answer.

Qwilleran had to smile. Everyone in the city room liked Arch and his Grumpy Boss act. He ran a good paper and had a heart of gold. As his wife said, "Arch doesn't want anyone to know how happy he is!"

Qwilleran finished his profile of Agatha Burns, a teacher who lived to the century mark. He quoted three generations of students:

"I don't know how she did it, but she really made me want to learn."

"Can you imagine? She even made me enjoy Latin."

"When the state Board of Education took Latin off the curriculum, some of us kids staged a protest march. It didn't do any good. After that she taught English and made us get excited about subjects and predicates, and things like gerunds! I haven't thought about a gerund in twenty years."

"My mom went to school in Milwaukee and remembers hating Silas Marner and The Scarlet Letter . . . but Miss Agatha somehow tricked us into enjoying all those old chestnuts. . . . What was her secret? There must be a secret!"

(Later, when Lisa Compton read the profile, she said, "I know her secret. She knew how to put herself in the students' shoes; she thought from their viewpoint. Not easy to do!")

After filing his copy at the Something, Qwilleran happened upon Gil MacMurchie at the bank. The one was curious about the next parade, and the other was eager to talk about it. They borrowed one of the small conference rooms.