Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Went Bananas

`You see,' Polly said, 'people come in to see him and they end up buying a book. The Green Smocks swear that Dundee's professional charm accounts for fifty per cent of purchases, Tax-wise, that means we can take his food, litter, valet services, and vet fees as business expenses. Or we can make him a salaried employee and let him pay for his own upkeep and health insurance. In that case, should he have his own Social Security number and file a tax return?'

She seemed quite serious about it, so he replied seriously, `I'd hate to see the bookstore or Dundee get into trouble. Ask your accountant to take it up with the Internal Revenue Service.'

After dinner they turned off the music and discussed readings for Violet's memorial service.

Polly said she might read Byron's short poem 'She Walks in Beauty, Like the Night'.

Qwilleran said Violet reminded him of Portia in The Merchant of Venice. He could read her famous oration: The quality of mercy is not strain'd.

It was the kind of bookish evening they both enjoyed - the kind that had been missing from their lives during Polly’s indoctrination in the book business.

All at once there was a flash of electric blue that lighted the night sky surrounding the Willows. It illuminated the interior for half a second through the window wall.

'Sheet lightning,' Qwilleran said. 'Joe has been predicting violent weather for the last couple of days. I'd better go home before we get a drenching downpour.'

As he walked towards Unit Four, a van pulled up alongside the kerb, and Wetherby Goode called out, 'Want a lift?' He was on his way home from his eleven-o'clock stint at WPKX.

'Want a nightcap? After your hard work on the airwaves,' Qwilleran retorted.

'Thanks. I'll stable my horse and bounce right over there.' The sky flashed electric blue again. 'Sheet lightning,' he said.

In a few minutes he reported to Unit Four. 'Where are the cats?'

`Koko's upstairs predicting the weather. He plans to apply for your job. Yum Yum's under the sofa.- She doesn't care for lightning.'

'Who does? I gave a talk on lightning at the clubhouse last year and asked how many people enjoy electrical storms. Not one hand went up. A few said they found thunderstorms exciting provided it wasn't too loud and one had something to drink!'

'Is it true that you shouldn't stand under a tree during an electrical storm?'

'Absolutely! Lightning goes for tall targets. Trees are tall. The intense heat boils the sap and explodes the tree.'

'One more question, Joe. What exactly is sheet lightning ?'

'Sometimes the lightning flash is obscured by clouds, which are then brightly illuminated. During sheet lightning, the flash seems to come from everywhere, lighting up the whole sky. That's what we've been getting for the last hour . . . But enough of that. I learned something electrifying in Horseradish this week. I raced over there for a birthday party following my forecast, and I met the girl who was going to marry Ronnie Dickson this fall. You remember his fatal accident, Qwill?'

'I remember. The official report blamed the use of drugs plus alcohol.'

'Well, according to this girl, Alden Wade was the one who suggested uppers to Ronnie, saying they were in common use for stage fright. She and her friends think Alden wanted to get rid of Ronnie. There was a whispering campaign in Horseradish about the sniping of Mrs Wade. Alden's stepson and Ronnie were the instigators. No one knows what happened to the stepson, but Ronnie sure is out of the picture.'

'Interesting,' Qwilleran said. 'Do you buy that story, Joe?'

'Well . . . she's an intelligent girl - very serious, very sincere. Thanks for the drink, Qwill.' He jumped up. 'Gotta get home and talk to Jetboy. He's a big, strong tomcat, but when there's an electrical storm, I have to sit and hold his paw.'

'Does you credit, Joe,' Qwilleran said as he accompanied his neighbour to the front door.

When he returned, Koko and Yum Yum were sitting in the middle of the floor, regarding him intently. Their bedtime snack was past due.

Chapter 24

Qwilleran marched the Siamese up to their sleeping room on the balcony, said goodnight, and closed the door. The latter was merely an end-of-the-day gesture; Koko could open the door whenever he felt like going downstairs to watch the nightlife on the riverbank.

In the adjoining quarters, Qwilleran completed his bedtime ablutions and was settling down for a few pages of the Wilson Quarterly before lights-out, when he heard a crash downstairs and the sounds of a minor riot! He rushed up to the balcony railing and heard snarling and growling.

Qwilleran's first thought was that Koko had teased a coyote into crashing through the window wall and creating panic . . . but no! It was only Koko having a catfit, as he always did before a major storm. He swooped around and around, knocking down lamps, decorative objects, side chairs, kitchen utensils, and everything on Qwilleran's writing table.

'Koko! No!' he thundered in a voice intended to slow the cat down. Koko went on looking for havoc to create.

'Treat!' came the magic word. Koko went on rolling in the lush pile of the shag rug that was now littered with salted almonds from the nut bowl.

There were distant rolls of thunder and one loud roar ending in a frightening crack! like a battery of rifle shots.

Koko calmly stood up, using a luxurious shudder to divest his fur of salt. Then he walked calmly upstairs, leaving Qwilleran to clean up the mess.

The man was in no mood to tidy the place thoroughly at that hour. He straightened furniture and a few kitchen utensils and shook his head over the rugful of salted nuts. But it was late. He was tired. The Siamese were both in their room, and he retired to his own room.

Claps of thunder were punctuating the growing rumble and roar in the western sky. Bolts of lightning forked down from the clouds. Through his upstairs window there was a panorama of electrical turbulence such as Qwilleran had never seen. Once, a huge ball of fire seemed to bounce across the distant treetops as if looking for a lofty target. Awed by the scene, he hardly heard the police sirens. But he saw a sudden burst of light in the midnight sky, and he heard the honk-honk of fire trucks approaching from two, then three directions! His blood chilled. Lightning sought the highest target! Out there to the northwest was the Big House on the Hill!

He turned on his shortwave radio and heard a squeaking voice : . . fire at the Hibbard estate on West Kennebeck Road. Firefighters from four communities responding . . .'

Qwilleran's sole reaction was: thank God Violet didn't live to see this happen!

He slept hardly at all that night. The Siamese into his room to give the solace they seemed to know was needed.

The glow in the sky continued after the thunder and lightning faded away. There was no one he could call in the middle of the night, and no one called him until six-thirty A.M.

An urgent voice said, 'Qwill, this is Junior. Did you hear—'

'Yes, I heard.'

'We're getting out an Extra. Early deadline. Could you come downtown to help?'

Qwilleran dressed in a hurry, skipped his coffee, threw some dry food in the cats' plates, and drove to the news office. Whatever they wanted him to do would help staunch the emotions that flooded his mind.

He wrote a description of the house, wrote captions for Bushland's photos, and suggested someone who might supply information.

When the edition hit the street, the news covered the front page and the picture page. The banner headline was . . .

HISTORIC MANSION BURNS TO GROUND

. . . and a sidebar was headed:

HERO KILLED TRYING TO RESCUE DOG

As soon as the newspaper was put to bed, Qwilleran went directly home, avoiding the town gossips - whose information had come from WPKX or the grapevine.