Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Brought Down the House

Yum Yum was a flirtatious little female who purred, rubbed ankles, and gazed at Qwilleran beseechingly with violet-tinged eyes. She knew how to get what she wanted; she was all cat... Koko was a cat-and-a-half. Besides being long, lithe, and muscular, he had the bluest of blue eyes, brimming with intelligence and something beyond that—an uncanny intuition. There were times when the cat knew the answers before Qwilleran had even thought of the questions. Kao K'o Kung was his real name.

When Qwilleran walked into the barn, Yum Yum was excited about the turkey, but Koko was excited about the answering machine; there was a message waiting.

A woman’s voice said, “Qwill, I'm leaving the library early and going to the dinner meeting of the bird club. It’s all about chickadees tonight. I'll call you when I get home and we can talk about Thelma Thackeray. A bientô t:

She left no name, and none was needed. Polly Duncan was the chief woman in his life. She was his own age and shared his interest in literature, being director of the Pickax public library. It was her musical voice that had first attracted him. Even now, when she talked, he felt a frisson of pleasure that almost overshadowed what she was saying.

Qwilleran thanked Koko for drawing his attention to the message and asked Yum Yum if she had found any treasures in the wastebasket. Talking to cats, he believed, raised their consciousness.

The dark meat of turkey was minced and arranged on two plates under the kitchen table, where they gobbled it up with rapture. Afterwards it took them a long time to wash up. The tastier the treat, the longer the ablutions, Qwilleran had observed.

Then he announced loudly, “Gazebo Express now leaving for all points east!” Yum Yum and Koko jumped into a canvas tote bag that had been purchased from the Pickax public library. It was the right size for ten books or two cats who are good friends.

The octagonal gazebo stood in the bird garden, screened on all eight sides. In the evening there were birds and small four-legged creatures to amuse the Siamese, and when darkness fell there were night noises and night smells. Qwilleran stayed with them for a while, then went indoors to do some more work on the ‘Qwill Pen’ column.

From time to time he received phone calls from friends who wanted to talk about the Hollywood celebrity: from Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist; from Celia Robinson O'Dell, his favorite caterer; from Susan Exbridge, antique dealer; the Lanspeaks, owners of the department store.

At one point he was interrupted by a phone call from Lisa Compton, wife of the school superintendent.

“Lyle and I were wondering if you know what’s going into the old opera house?”

“No, I know only what’s coming out. Maybe they’re going to bring Mark Twain back. He hasn’t been here since 1895.”

“I know,” Lisa said. “And my grandmother was still raving about him sixty years later. She loved his moustache—just like yours, Qwill. His wit and humor brought down the house! Her favorite was the one about cross-breeding man with the cat: It would improve the man but be deleterious to the cat.

“She told me that carriages used to draw up to the entrance of the hall, and women in Mrs and jewels would step out, assisted by men in opera cloaks and tall hats. Can you imagine that—in Pickax, Qwill?”

“That was over a hundred years ago,” Qwilleran said. “Things change.”

“So true! Before World War One the economy had collapsed. Pickax was almost a ghost town, and the opera hall was boarded up. In the Twenties it was a movie theatre for a few years. During World War Two the government took it over—all very hush-hush and heavily guarded. They removed the rows of seats and leveled the raked floor, my family told me”

Qwilleran said, “The old building has had a checkered career.”

“Yes, since then it’s been a roller rink, a dance hall, a health club, and finally a storage warehouse. Who knows what’s next?”

“If you get any clues, let me know,” he said.

I'll do that... How are the kitties, Qwill?”

“Fine. How’s Lyle?”

“Grouchy. He’s crossing swords with the school board again.”

Qwilleran was treating himself to a dish of ice cream when Polly phoned. “How was your meeting?” he asked. “What did you have for dinner?”

“Robin-O'Dell catered some meat pies. Food always suffers in the transportation, you know, but they were acceptable.”

“Did you learn anything about chickadees that you didn’t already know?”

She wailed in exasperation. “There was more discussion about that Thackeray woman than about birds!... There was one thing that I found rather amusing, though. The realty agent who sold her the house was there; he and his wife are avid birders. At first he was reluctant to talk—professional confidentiality, you know—but after a few glasses of wine he relaxed. He said she bought it sight unseen, after they sent photos and specifications... They lined up Mavis Adams to check legal details and Fran Brodie to handle the redecorating. In fact, Fran flew to California for a conference.”

Qwilleran asked, “Did he say why she needs such a large house?”

“He claimed not to know. But it would be interesting to talk to Fran, wouldn’t it?”

Feigning a lack of interest, he mumbled something and reminded Polly that they were dining with the Rikers the next night. “I've made a reservation at the Mackintosh Inn. We’ll meet here at the barn at six o’clock.”

“I'm looking forward to it,” she said. “ A bientô t”

“ A bientô t”

Before bringing in the Siamese from the gazebo, Qwilleran flicked the single switch that lighted the entire interior of the barn with uplights and down-lights. A ramp spiraled dramatically around the inside walls, connecting the three balconies. In the center of the main floor stood a giant white fireplace cube with white stacks rising to the cupola.

The Siamese were waiting, torn between the enchantment of the night and the prospect of a bedtime snack. As soon as they were indoors, they jumped out of the tote bag and raced up the ramp Koko chasing Yum Yum all the way to the top. Then she turned and chased him down again. Qwilleran clocked them: thirty-seven seconds for the entire course.

Then the three of them piled into the big reading chair and listened to a recording of Carmen. It was the cats’ favorite. Qwilleran liked anything by Bizet. Wouldn’t it be sensational, he thought, if the old opera house started bringing in opera companies! But not impossible. Anything could happen in Pickax, 400 miles north of everywhere.

Chapter 2

Just before waking on Wednesday, Qwilleran dreamed about the old opera house. The elite of Pickax were arriving in horse-drawn carriages. Every seat in the house was taken with opera-lovers excited about hearing Tristan and Isolde. Then he opened his eyes! The Siamese were performing a Wagnerian duet outside his door.

Qwilleran leaped out of bed. “You demons!” he scolded. They ran down the ramp, and he took the short cut to the kitchen via a circular staircase.

He prepared the cats’ breakfast absently, having two questions on his mind—both of more interest than chopped chicken livers. Who was Thelma Thackeray? he asked himself And what was about to happen to the opera house? After a career as a warehouse for household appliances, the old building had nowhere to go but up. Suppose the K Fund were to restore it to its former glamour! Would anyone attend concerts and lectures in this age of TV and videos?

He prepared super-strength coffee in his automated brewer and thawed a breakfast roll. Then he made phone calls.

First he called Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design, hoping Fran Brodie would be in-house, but she was still in California, working with the client, and Amanda was at City Hall, doing the duties of a mayor. Qwilleran left his name, and the new assistant said, “Oh! You’re Mr Q! I live in Lockmaster, but I read your column in the Something and it’s neat—really neat!”