Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

From the waiting room on the lower level, each limousine would be brought to the stage, carried by MCCC spotters, trained for the assignment. The bleak stage was made friendly by a few potted plants lent by florists, and the auctioneer's table in centre front was softened with a paisley shawl lent by Maggie Sprenkle herself. Qwilleran was wearing his silk shirt in a neutral color that would show the kittens' markings to advantage. Purposely, his moustache had not been trimmed.

As the excited audience began to gather, spotters pointed to signs saying: QUIET ! KITTENS ASLEEP !

Four-page catalogs were handed out, listing twenty males and twenty females by their glamorous names, their nicknames, along with markings and eye color.

When the seats were filled on the main floor and balcony, the main doors were closed, and the welcome was made by Maggie Sprenkle, an important figure in the local aristocracy as well as animal welfare.

She said, "We know you're going to adore these kitties and want to scream in delight, but - please keep your voices to a low murmur. And when our auctioneer makes his bow don't welcome him with thunderous applause, but . . . remember the kitties!"

When Qwilleran made his entrance, the enthusiasm threatened to explode. Here was Mr. Q in person! But he held up both hands for silence, and proceeded to thrill them with the depth and warmth of his mellifluous voice.

"Friends, let's review the rules of the game. All of you who have bought bidding tickets have also received numbered flash cards. There will be no shouting of bids. Flash cards will be used to make bids in silence. . . . Let me see your flash cards!" A flutter of numbers filled the main hall.

The eight spotters were women students in MCCC T-shirts, and their delight in this assignment was reflected in their happy faces. Those in the aisles would watch for the flashing of cards when the auctioneer said, "Who'll give me three hundred?" The spotters would point and say, "Hep!" When the top bid was reached, the spotter would return the lucky kitten to his limousine and escort the winning bidder and his purchase to the cashier in the lobby. The spotters also warned noisy members of the audience, and the auctioneer would halt the bidding until the disturbance ended.

When the first limousine was brought to the paisley-draped table, Qwilleran read the name tag and said, "We are starting with a member of royalty: Princess Isabella! [General murmur.] She is a white calico with soft gray markings and a distinctive personality. She knows she'll grow up to be a queen, and she's going to have fun while she can." [Wriggle of anticipation in the audience.] Qwilleran opened the lid of the basket slowly and peeked inside, then lifted the kitten gently. [Excited murmur.] Isabella raised her head and looked at the audience with golden eyes.

"Aw-w-w!" came a murmur from the hall.

Qwilleran said, "We're told she has a playful disposition in spite of her royal antecedents." He shifted his grip on her, and she looked at his hand then opened her pink mouth and rested her sharp little teeth on his finger.

"Aw-w-w!" was the sentimental murmur, louder this time, and the spotters in the aisles held up warning hands.

The auctioneer said, "Shall we start with . . . five hundred?" A flutter of flash cards led him to raise the bid to seven . . . then eight-fifty . . . finally a thousand.

"A thousand, I've got! A thousand once . . . a thousand twice . . . Sold to number ninety-three!"

A spotter led two young women from their seats, and another took Isabella in her limousine to meet them. As they went up the aisle to the cashier, Qwilleran realized that one of them was Clarissa Moore. Her tanned, well-groomed companion, who had just bought Isabella, must be her friend Vicki.

There were no more thousand-dollar bids that morning but it telegraphed the message that a thousand is not too much to pay for a kitten. Bids didn't go that high again until late afternoon but anything less than five hundred seemed an affront to a Puck, or an Iago or a Cleopatra.

No other kitten bit the auctioneer's finger, but several reached up and touched his moustache with a trembling paw, at which the audience murmured, "Aw-w-w!"

After twenty kittens had been adopted, there was an intermission, when bidders could eat a picnic lunch on the lower level or buy one from Lois's Lunchwagon in the parking lot. Backstage everyone was complimenting everyone else, and when the afternoon session opened, Qwilleran complimented the holders of flash cards for their cooperation.

He conducted swift transactions. If the bidding dragged, he removed the subject from the block, rather than insult a personage of such importance as: Nanki-Poo, Mary Poppins, or Jane Austen.

Toward the end of the afternoon there was one more high-dollar bid. The kitten was a reddish brown male with a cocky manner and a swaggering walk. "A man's cat," the volunteers had written on his name tag.

When his turn came at the auction table, Qwilleran looked at the name tag and said to the audience, " ?If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs . . .' This is Rudyard Kipling, who also answers to the name of Rudy!"

He lifted the muscular kitten from the limousine, and there was an appreciative murmur through the audience.

"To start, who'll give me five hundred? [Several cards flashed.] Who'll give me seven hundred? . . . Make it eight . . . Make it eight! . . . Eight I've got. Make it nine! Make it a thousand."

Only one card flashed. "Hep!" said the spotter.

Qwilleran saw the white hair. It was Judd Amhurst bidding the high dollar! He must be buying it for one of his married sons out west.

Backstage the volunteers were ecstatic about the outcome of the auction, and Maggie Sprenkle clasped Qwilleran's hand in both of hers.

"We realized over twenty thousand dollars for the shelter! How can we thank you, Qwill, for your tremendous contribution?"

"The experience is all the reward I need," he assured her.

On the way home Qwilleran stopped at the bookstore.

Polly said, "Clarissa brought her friend into the store today to show me Isabella, the kitten she bought. Is it a fact that the top bid was a thousand? Amazing."

"Isn't it? Remember that the K Fund will match it. Wait till Bart hears about it! It won't surprise him. Attorneys are surprise proof. I think it's an oath they take when they're admitted to the Bar. Judd bought Rudyard Kipling for the same amount - for one of his sons, no doubt."

"No, Qwill! Rudyard Kipling is for himself! He says he couldn't resist the sales pitch, and he liked the idea of getting a literary cat."

Polly said, "Now about Vicki. She's not staying as long as she planned. She starts a new job Tuesday morning, and she wants to get home to help her kitten adjust and prepare herself for a new work challenge. So she'll have to miss The Big Burning and Monday's parade."

Polly said, "Vicki was sorry she couldn't stay to meet you, Qwill, but she left a note for you."

It was an unusual shade of gray, with her monogram in white on the envelope flap. It was apparently something she had written before leaving home. He slipped it into his coat pocket.

Late Saturday evening, as Qwilleran was considering a bedtime read for the cats, Koko was more interested in the kitchen window than the bookshelf. He kept jumping on the kitchen counter and staring at the blackness outdoors.

"Expecting someone?" he asked. Then he realized how long it had been since Andrew Brodie had dropped in for a nightcap. He phoned the police chief at home, and in five minutes the big burly Scot was barging into the kitchen demanding, "Where's my smart cat? Where's my little sweetheart?" He dropped on a stool at the snack bar where Qwilleran had prepared a tray of Scotch, ice cubes, and cheese.