Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Brought Down the House

“No. But I can’t talk about it. Just don’t come tomorrow . . .” and she added in alarm, “Please, don’t say anything about this to anyone!”

A few hours after this enigmatic phone call, Qwilleran was asleep in his suite on the first balcony, and the Siamese were supposed to be asleep on the third balcony. He always left their door open (for a number of reasons) and always closed his own. Rudely he was awakened by a bloodcurdling howl outside his door! He knew it well; it was Koko’s death howl! The cat had an uncanny way of knowing the moment of a wrongful death. The clock on the night table said it was 3:15 A.M. Immediately it brought to mind the ‘something terrible’ that had happened on Pleasant Street following the party.

But what could he do? Call the police and say that his cat was howling?

Koko had done what he considered his duty and had returned to his balcony. After an hour of puzzling thought and aimless speculation, Qwilleran, too, went to sleep.

Chapter 9

On Monday morning Qwilleran was listening to the weather prediction on WPKX while preparing the cats’ breakfast. It was something choice, left over from the reception, that Celia saved for them. The Siamese watched intently.

Not bothering to turn the radio off, Qwilleran heard newsbites from the two counties to the south. From Lockmaster: A new president had been appointed for the Academy of Arts... The date had been set for the annual flower show... A local chess player had won a tournament in Milwaukee. From Bixby: A drug bust in Bixton had jailed four men and three women

A couple had been killed in a motorcycle accident on Highway 12... An unidentified male was found shot to death at the wheel of a rented van.

At that moment a bloodcurdling howl came from Koko’s throat. Once again, it was Koko’s death howl. But why was the cat concerned about an unidentified driver of a delivery van in Bixby County... unless... it had something to do with Janice’s cryptic phone call of the night before. There had been horror and fear in her voice. Qwilleran devised an oblique way of investigating.

First, he called Burgess Campbell and congratulated him on a successful party. “Has Pleasant Street recovered from the excitement? Did anyone consume too much champagne or oxtail ravioli?”

“I didn’t hear any ambulance sirens,” the Duke replied. “And let me say that everyone thanks you for opening your fabulous barn for the occasion.”

“My pleasure,” Qwilleran said.

“There were some scatterbrained suggestions from the Thackerays,” Burgess went on. “Thelma thought the barn would make a wonderful restaurant—with kitchen and bar on the main floor and dining on the open balconies and waiters whizzing up and down the ramp on roller skates... And Dick visualized it as a twelve-unit apartment complex, if you wanted to install elevators and a whole lot of plumbing... The odd thing is, Qwill, that you can’t guess whether they’re kidding or being serious.”

“Very true, Burgess. I always suspect women who wear crazy hats and men who wear two-tone shoes.”

Next, Qwilleran phoned Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design and was not surprised to hear that Fran Brodie was taking a week off. He called her in Indian Village.

“Qwill, I'm beat!” she groaned. “No one knows how hard I've worked for that woman—and her inflated ego!”

“You did a heroic job.”

“And now she has another design project she wants me to handle. I'm going to sic her on Amanda. That’ll be the battle of the century. Thelma Thackeray versus Amanda Goodwinter!”

“What is Thelma’s new design project?”

“She’s not telling.”

“Could it be connected with the old opera house?”

“More likely a restaurant, featuring California cuisine.”

“Well, anyway, Fran, you’ve done admirable work, and

I'll make you a margarita whenever you say.”

Qwilleran continued, “That was a lot of partying for a woman of Thelma’s age. Have you heard how she is this morning?”

“No, but she was still going strong when I dropped them off at the curb. She invited me in for a nightcap, but I declined and Janice reminded Thelma that she was leaving in the morning for a couple of days in Lockmaster. For someone over eighty, Thelma has a lot of energy. She doesn’t drink, she eats right, and she retires at ten P.M.... Maybe I should try it!”

The conversation was all very interesting, but it offered no clue to the ‘terrible’ thing that had happened at the Pat was known for his powers of observation, while Celia was always a secret agent at heart. But the O'Dells would be on their way to Purple Point with chicken pot pies and blueberry muffins for a birthday luncheon.

Qwilleran left a message on their answering machine under the alias of Ronald Frobnitz. Celia waited until Pat was out of the house before returning the call.

“What’s up, Chief?” she asked briskly.

“Did anything unusual happen on Pleasant Street last night?”

“Well, it was quiet and dark until everyone started coming home. Then the street was filled with headlights, and people laughing and shouting good-night, and kids leaving their pizza party. It had quieted down when Fran Brodie brought the Thackeray party home and dropped them at the curb. Just as they were turning the indoor lights on, I thought I heard a scream. Pat heard it, too, but said it was the parrots. How’m I doin’, Chief?”

“If you get tired of the catering business, you can always get a job with the CIA.”

“Oh, I remembered something else. Before everyone came home from the party, Pat saw a delivery van drive around the back of the Thackeray house—then leave a few minutes later. We decided it was some kind of fabulous welcome gift that made Thelma scream when she came home.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache and thought, How does that explain the panic in Janice’s voice... and the reference to something terrible... and the urgent plea not to tell anyone?

“Tomorrow morning, Chief, I'll get that information you want from downtown.”

“You can phone it. It’s not classified.”

“But I want to deliver some chicken pot pies and blueberry muffins, if you think you can use them.”

Gravely he said, “I imagine I can devise an appropriate way... to dispose of them.”

Celia’s hoot of delight pierced his eardrum as she hung up.

He had been working on his Tuesday column and now he needed a stretch, so he walked to the public library for the book containing Homer’s favorite poem. The parking lot was nearly filled, and the main room was crowded with men and women of all ages. They had seen the announcement in Friday’s paper: “Autographed photographs of old movie stars from the Thelma Thackeray collection—on temporary exhibition.”

Eight-by-tens in individual easel-back frames filled the shelves in two showcases: Claudette Colbert, Ronald Colman, Groucho Marx, Joan Crawford, Fred Astaire, Humphrey Bogart, Esther Williams, Edward G. Robinson, and more. An occasional comment interrupted the awed silence of the onlookers.

Man: “I'm gonna come back when there ain’t such a crowd.”

Another man: “Valuable collection! One assumes they’re insured.”

Woman: “My mother used to rave about Ronald Colman.”

Child: “Mommy! Where’re the kitties?”

Qwilleran, before leaving the building, stroked the two library cats and dropped coins into the jar that provided for their material needs. “Handsome Mac! Gentle Katie!” he said, wondering if anyone ever read a little Dickens or Hemingway to them.

The Siamese were waiting for him with stretched necks and pointed ears: They knew he had been fraternizing with the library cats.

“Read! Read!” he announced, letting them sniff the library book. It was well thumbed, and the binding had been repaired twice by the late Eddington Smith, according to notations inside the back cover. Before taping ‘Lasca’ for Homer’s birthday, he would do a practice reading for Koko and Yum Yum.