Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

"How's it going?" Qwilleran asked, referring to the Fourth of July parade honoring Pickax Now.

"Let me tell you! We had a setback, but not for long. You see, our slogan was ? Everything's Coming Up Roses.' We were gonna order tons of roses from Down Below, throw them from the floats, drop them from the helicopter! Then somebody reminded us that roses have thorns, and if an eyeball got pricked, the city could get sued."

"They had a point," Qwilleran said.

"So, back to the drawing board. This time we decided on ?Everything's Coming Up Peonies!' We have peonies in every backyard. The Peony Club has a couple of hundred members! And it won't cost a cent!"

"Smart thinking, Gil! Is there anything I can do?"

"Well, yes. Would the ?Qwill Pen' care to write about the history of peonies? They go back to ancient times and used to have magical powers. There are books in the library, and you could interview the officers of the Peony Club."

(Qwilleran, who was not even sure what a peony looked like, was about to become an authority on yet another subject.) He asked, "Do you know anything about the mansions of Purple Point, Gil?"

"I ought to! Three generations of my family spent their lives crawling between floors of those old hulks. In the nineteenth century, they didn't have bathrooms - only water closets, in spite of all their magnificence."

"Is that so?" Qwilleran mused, remembering that King George III died in his water closet.

Gil went on. "Now all the bedrooms have private baths with walk-in showers and gold faucets! It kept our family busy for three generations. We're not complaining!"

"Do you know the Ledfields' place, Gil?"

"Sure! The Old Manse! They had six bedrooms made into six suites, and the master suite was like a small mansion-within-a-mansion, complete with grand piano. Nice people. They always paid their bills on time . . . and sent their plumber something at Christmas."

That night, Qwilleran and Polly dined at Tipsy's Tavern, a log-built roadhouse north of town, noted for wonderful chicken dinners and memorable brunches. (The owner had his own poultry farm, viewable from the side windows.) The tavern was named after the cat of the original owner. A portrait of Tipsy hung in the main dining room. The staff were all lively women of sixty or more who called Qwilleran "Sonny." He and Polly went there often.

Tonight they were seated in a quiet alcove for two, overlooking the poultry yards.

Polly said, "Last night Arch had a dinner meeting somewhere, and Mildred and I had a nice supper at their place, chattering like magpies all the time. Then we had tea and cookies on the deck, and it was so peaceful and pleasant, we didn't say a word. Then suddenly Mildred said something I didn't understand."

"Can you tell me what it was?" he asked. "Or is it a female secret?"

The words were, as Polly recalled them, "The time of many murders is after midnight."

Polly explained that there are times when one is alone and contented - or with friends who are quiet and happy, and no one is talking - then suddenly you want to say something but have nothing to say.

She paused to await Qwilleran's reaction.

"Hmmm," he murmured thoughtfully - a reaction well known to his friends.

"Mildred said it was a practice sentence when she was learning to type in high school, and it drifts back into her head when it's completely empty."

"I can understand," he said. "I have a Dickens quotation that serves the same purpose."

It was from A Tale of Two Cities: "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done."

Then Polly confessed hers. "Nothing will come of nothing." She had inherited it from her father, who was a Shakespeare scholar. Qwilleran knew the play: King Lear. How could he forget?

At that moment one of the grandmotherly waitresses bustled into the room. "Do you kiddies want dessert?"

The house specialty was bread pudding with a sauce made with maple syrup from their own trees.

On the way home Polly said, "Everyone's talking about your ?Late Great' column on Agatha Burns."

"I had a warm letter from her niece, who lives in Ittibittiwassee Estates. She sent me one of Agatha's books. It came by motorcycle messenger. He also almost fell off his bike when he saw Koko hopping around in the kitchen window. The famous Koko! He could hardly wait to tell his wife that he had seen Cool Koko in person."

"What was the book?" she asked.

"Hawthorne's Mosses from an Old Manse. "

"How appropriate! The Ledfields call their place the Old Manse!"

"When I put the book on the coffee table, Koko immediately sat on it. I told him he had good taste in literature, and he blinked his eyes."

The next afternoon, as Qwilleran was reading Nathaniel Hawthorne to two unsuspecting Siamese, he had a phone call from Thornton Haggis at the art centre.

"Got a couple of minutes? I've got some interesting news."

"I've just made some fresh coffee, Thorn. Why don't you trot up here."

The visitor admired the cats, praised the coffee, had some good words to say about Hawthorne.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense," Qwilleran said.

"Do you know the Kennebeck Knitter?"

"She's doing a sweater for me."

"Do you know about her predictions?"

Qwilleran said, "Don't tell me the next parade is going to be rained out! Gil MacMurchie will have a stroke."

"Worse than that! Her predictions have always been about natural disasters. Before the last parade, she foresaw man-made crimes for the first time and she still sees it. Shooting and poisoning! She's not talkin' about BB guns and tainted potato salad, but real crime! Man-made, not weather-made!"

"Hmmm," Qwilleran mused. What could he say?

Thorn said, "Well, they're doing a new show at the gallery. They need me to climb the ladder. Thanks for the coffee."

Chapter 9

While Qwilleran waited for a calamity to prove his theory, that everything was going too well for Pickax Now (he was right, of course, but proof would come later), Clarissa arrived, as reported in his private journal.

Tuesday - Clarissa has arrived.

No fuss, no muss. She's a real newswoman - independent; knows her way around; no need for welcoming assistance. Her curls and dimples are misleading.

So we learn that she and Jerome and luggage arrived by plane, then drove an airport rental car to the Winston Park apartments, where she had reserved a unit by phone. Her first consideration was to stock up on cat food and litter for Jerome's commode, which apparently came with them from California, althoughhow is not quite clear.

Although not due to report until next week, she went to the paper and introduced herself, shaking hands, lining up a desk in the feature department and even accepting an assignment for Monday morning. I'd say she's off to a good start. Joe Bunker just called to say he's giving a pizza party for our blond bombshell on Sunday night.

Qwilleran was not surprised to receive a phone call from Wetherby. "She's here! She's here!"

He replied with sly punctilio. "To whom are you referring?"

"You know who I mean! And I'm giving a pizza party for her Sunday night. Could you pick her up? She has an apartment at Winston Park."

"Am I invited to the party, or am I employed to do chauffeur service?"

"You're not only invited, you donkey, but I expect you to contribute to the entertainment. How about reciting some of your cat limericks?"

"If you'll play ?Kitten on the Keys' without exceeding the speed limit."

Following this good-old-boy repartee, Qwilleran phoned Clarissa to make arrangements. "I hope you like pizza," he said.

"Doesn't everyone? What time?"