Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Brought Down the House

Suddenly a hush fell on the room. Everyone looked toward the entrance. “What happened?” asked Qwilleran, who had his back to the door.

The young woman serving them exclaimed, “It’s HER!” and she rushed to the kitchen.

Polly, facing the scene of the action, said, “Party of three... Thelma has a commanding appearance... One is the assistant who came to my office... There’s a man with them... Everyone’s gawking.”

The hush gave way to an excited babble of voices.

“Thelma,” she went on, “is wearing a pearl gray suit and small matching hat and jeweled lapel pin... She’s doing the ordering. They’re having champagne... The man is about forty. Looks like one of those "snappy dressers" from Lockmaster. Is he her only living relative?”

Qwilleran said, “I believe the house she bought is the one you inherited—one of the best on Pleasant Street.”

“Yes. I was terribly tempted to keep it and live there. I'm glad you talked me out of it, dear. It would have been too much property to care for, considering the demands of my job... But the people who live on Pleasant Street are so congenial! I think there’s something psychological about the name of the street. The Campbells have always kept title to the land, and the neighborhood is like a dukedom. Did you know that Burgess is affectionately called "Duke" by the residents?”

Polly ordered a small sorbet for dessert and watched without envy as Qwilleran consumed a large serving of cinnamon bread pudding with butterscotch sauce.

Thelma’s party was still there when they left. In the lobby Polly excused herself, and Qwilleran sauntered to the maître d’s desk. “Derek, are your responsibilities here going to interfere with your folksinging and theatre club productions?”

“Liz says we can work something out. I'm gonna be in the Kit Kat Revue.”

“Sounds like a nightclub in an old musical comedy.”

“It’s a fund-raiser for an animal welfare project, and I wondered if you could write some lyrics about unwanted kittens. Sort of a tearjerker.”

It was the kind of challenge he relished. He said, “You mean... something like . ‘Frankie and Johnny were kittens Lardy! How they could cry!... They sat in a cage for adoption... But people just passed ‘em by … We done ‘em wrong... We done ‘em wrong!’ ”

“Super! Could you write a couple of more verses, Quill?”

“I guess so. But if you let anyone know I'm writing your lyrics, you’ll be singing without an Adam’s apple!”

At that moment Polly joined them, and Derek said, “Enjoy your dinner, Mrs Duncan? I was just telling Mr Q that our chef trained in Singapore.”

“Oh, really!” she said. “Elizabeth said he was from New Jersey.”

“Well. His basic training was in Singapore,” Derek said with the aplomb of one who is a frequent fibber.

On the way home Polly said, “I asked Elizabeth about the lapel pin Thelma was wearing. She said it’s a parrot paved with emeralds and rubies, with a diamond eye, and she was also wearing a matching bracelet. Even Elizabeth was impressed!”

Qwilleran asked, “Do you know anything about the Kit Kat Revue?”

“Only that it’s a fund-raiser for Mavis Adams’s new animal rescue project. She’ll be at the reception Sunday. I wonder what Thelma will wear? All those kilts and sashes will be strong competition.”

Qwilleran said, “Fran Brodie will advise her. Fran is making herself indispensable.”

“I suppose the man at Thelma’s table was her nephew. He was quite good-looking and he was being terribly charming,” Polly reported.

“As the only living relative of a rich octogenarian, it behooves him to be terribly charming.”

“Oh, Quill! You’re being so cynical!”

Cynical or not, he found his moustache bristling—even more so when a motorcycle messenger delivered an envelope Friday morning. A computer-printed invitation: “Please join us in honoring our California friends at a light repast directly after the reception—in the ballroom of the Mackintosh Inn. Southwest cuisine.” It was signed by Richard Thackeray with no RSVP requested. It was assumed, innocently or haughtily, that everyone would be eager to attend.

The handwriting on the envelope was Fran’s. So was the wording of the invitation, although the idea must have been Richard’s. A supper riding piggyback on a reception would not occur to Fran. Qwilleran knew her well enough for that. She was humoring Richard– for whatever reason. (He could think of several.)

Nevertheless, he phoned Polly at the library to report the invitation. “It means you’ll be getting home two or three hours later than expected. You might like to clear it with Brutus and Catta.”

“Oh! Didn’t I tell you? I have an automatic feeder with a timer, and it works very well. Wetherby Goode saw the item in a catalogue and bought one for each of us’ The WPKX meteorologist (real name Joe Bunker) was a neighbor of Polly’s and had a cat named Jet Stream. “ Why don’t you order one, Qwill? I'll get the phone number for you.”

“Thanks, but I doubt whether Koko would approve. It might work for Yum Yum, but Koko likes to know the hand that feeds him.”

Next, Qwilleran finished ‘All About Green’ and walked downtown to file his copy before deadline. Junior Goodwinter gave it an editor’s quick scan and said, “You always boast, Qwill, that you can write a thousand words about nothing, and—by golly!—you’ve finally proved it!”

With equal mockery Qwilleran retorted, “What have you got on the front page today—if anything?”

“Thelma and her parrots,” the managing editor replied. “Great photo by Bushy, but the text sounds like a press release. It’ll be handy to have in the obit file; that’s the best I can say for it. You should have written it, Qwill.”

“I always thought Jill was a good writer.”

“Yeah, but she’s accustomed to interviewing locals. She allowed herself to be buffaloed by a celebrity. I had a professor in J school who hammered it into our skulls: Don’t be a respecter of persons!”

“Not bad advice,” Qwilleran agreed.

“On my first assignment I was supposed to interview a Very Important Person. The ignoramus sidestepped my questions and read a prepared speech—until I said, "Excuse me, sir, may I ask a simple question?" He listened to it and said coldly, "You should know the answer to that one I said respectfully, "Yes, sir, but I want to know if you do?” Wow! Was I taking a chance, but it worked, and I got a good interview.”

Qwilleran nodded with understanding. Junior had a handicap—an appearance of eternal youth. He looked like a high-school sophomore when he was in college, and now—as managing editor of a newspaper and father of two—he still looked fifteen.

When Qwilleran arrived home, Koko let him know there was a message on the answering machine: “This is Celia, Chief. We’re catering your party on Sunday. Okay if I run over this afternoon to check the facilities and see what has to be done?”

Koko recognized the voice, despite the electronic distortion. It was the woman who brought them meat loaf. He hopped on and off the desk in excitement.

Qwilleran phoned her and left his own message: “Come on over anytime. The cats have missed you.”

Celia Robinson had rented his carriage-house apartment at one time. She was a fun-loving grandmother who had lived in a Florida retirement complex but decided she preferred snowball fights to shuffleboard. She cooked, did volunteer work, and made everyone happy with her merry laughter.

She happened to be an avid reader of spy and detective fiction, and Qwilleran happened to have an interest in criminal investigation. When suspicions made his moustache bristle, as they often did, he had a compulsion to search for clues, discreetly. What could be more discreet than a secret agent who looked like someone’s grandma and laughed a lot? Celia called him ‘Chief,’ and he called her ‘Double-O-Thirteen-and-a-Half.’