Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Brought Down the House

They ordered French dip sandwiches with fries and a Caesar salad.

Qwilleran asked, “Is there any news that’s not fit to print?”

“We’re all waiting for Thelma Thackeray. Would you like to interview her?”

“No thanks. It sounds like a story for Jill Handley.”

The editor said, “We want to run a profile in depth. It will be good to have in the obit file. She’s getting on in years.”

“So are we all—except you, Junior. You still look like a summer intern.”

“You don’t have to rub it in, just because you’re buying lunch.”

“Have you heard what’s going into the old opera house?”

“Someone said it’s a new county jail.”

“I was hoping for the world’s largest emporium of used books. I miss Eddington’s old place.”

Junior said, “It’s got to be an operation that requires a lot of parking space. They’ve torn down the storefront on both sides, and the lots are being paved.”

“The plot thickens,” Qwilleran said. “Shall we have dessert? The chocolate pecan pie sounds good.”

They ordered the pie, and Junior said, “Are you still reading to your cats?”

“Absolutely! It sharpens their intellect. Since advocating it in my column, I've received scores of letters from readers, reporting striking results”

“Let’s not overdo it,” Junior warned. “The felines could take over the local government.”

“Not a bad idea! We can start by packing the town council.”

When the pie was served, they fell into a blissful silence for a while until Junior asked, “What are you reading to the cats now? Plato and Schopenhauer?”

“Noel Coward’s biography. I sing some of the Coward songs. Koko likes the one about mad dogs and Englishmen.”

The young editor never knew whether to take Qwilleran seriously or go along with the gag, so he concentrated on eating his pie.

Qwilleran had said ‘yes’ to Fran Brod e’s cavalier proposal and hoped he would not regret it. As four o’clock approached, he set up the work bar with tequila, lime, salt, the silver tray, and so forth. Yum Yum huddled apprehensively nearby. He told her, “Fran Brodie is coming for a drink. What do you want me to put in it?” She scampered away.

Fran was the picture of glamour—with her chic clothing, model’s figure, artful grooming, and perfect legs. They were always enhanced by high-heeled strappy sandals, weather permitting. But the sophisticated designer and the sweet little female cat had been feuding from the beginning. Yum Yum was possessive about Qwilleran, and Fran came on strong, attracted by his large moustache, or large fortune, or both.

When he first arrived in Pickax, he gave her a key to his apartment to use in his absence. She came in with her installer to rearrange the furniture and hang the window blinds. Or she came alone to accessorize the rooms with framed prints, pillows, candles, and the like. She thought them important, and her client let her have her way.

The only accessory he owned was the very old Mackintosh crest in wrought iron, said to come from a Scottish castle, It was leaning against the wall in the hallway, and she thought it would do nicely as camouflage for an ugly old radiator. While rolling it into the living room like a hoop, she accidentally rolled the fitly-pound artifact over her sandaled foot. She claimed that Yum Yum had darted out from nowhere and made her do it. A few weeks in a surgical boot cooled her ardor for the Klingenschoen heir. He had never liked sexually aggressive women anyway, preferring to do the pursuing himself. Whether or not Yum Yum had caused the accident was a moot point, but Fran was forever paranoid about female cats.

Her first words, when she arrived for her margarita, were ‘Where is she?’

“They’re both in the gazebo,” he said.

“You have a new silver tray! It’s not what I would have chosen for this environment, but it’s nice—not good, but nice.”

She was looking stunning in a periwinkle silk suit and new hair color, and high-heeled strappy shoes—all chosen, no doubt, for her dinner date with... “Dutch.”

Qwilleran said, “You’re looking spiffy, in spite of your arduous trip. Let’s sit in the living room.”

She sank into one of the deep-cushioned sofas and looked critically at the fireplace cube. Its face—above and on both sides of the fireplace—was covered with adjustable bookshelves. “Do you really need to have those shelves on this side of the cube?” she asked.

“I'm running out of wall space,” he said as he raised his glass. “Cheers!”

“Cheers!... What are you drinking?”

“The new Qwilleran cocktail... Recipe is being patented.”

His guest still stared at the wall of books. “Is it a good idea to have books above a fireplace? I should think the heat would be bad for the bindings. If you could possibly remove them, I could get you a large sculptural wall accent—”

“Too bad I gave the Mackintosh crest to the inn,” he said, slyly.

Fran changed the subject abruptly. “You met my new assistant yesterday. Did she tell you anything?”

“Yes, she seems to be interested in dogs and horses.”

“I mean, did she tell you anything about Thelma Thackeray?”

“She simply said she was interesting.”

“She’s that, all right,” Fran agreed. “And a good client! She knows what she likes, is open to suggestions, makes quick decisions, and doesn’t change her mind. She’s been in the business world for almost fifty years, and it shows! Also, she wants the very best and is willing to pay for it.” The margarita was working its spell. Fran was less edgy; she was willing to talk.

“What kind of career did she have in California?”

“She started with a sandwich shop, then a good restaurant, and then a private dinner club. It’s her strong personality, I think, that has made her a success. Friends and customers gave her a smashing farewell party.”

“Why did she decide to come back to Moose County –of all places?”

“Her only living relative is here, and you know how it is: People tend to get sentimental about family as they grow older.”

Fran held out her glass for a refill and kicked off her shoes. “You really know how to mix margaritas, Qwill!”

He served another drink. “When does Madame Thackeray arrive?”

“It’s all orchestrated. She left before the movers arrived, and she’ll arrive after they’ve delivered. Everything will be unpacked at this end.”

“How much staff does she have?”

“Secretary, housekeeper, and driver,” Fran said slyly, waiting for a reaction. Then she added, “They’re all the same person—more of a companion—a woman half her age, who’s really devoted to Thelma.”

Qwilleran said, “I could use one of those when I'm her age. How old is she?”

“Eighty-two, but she certainly doesn’t look it!”

“Face-lift?” he inquired.

“That’s another terrific thing about Thelma. She eats right, exercises, and gives herself a daily face-lift with the electromagnetic rays from her fingertips... Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling all this—to the media.”

“One question,” Qwilleran said. “Why did she choose to buy property on Pleasant Street?”

“She remembered it from her childhood, when her father—who was a potato farmer—used to drive the family into town in his Model T—to see movies. As an extra treat he also drove up and down Pleasant Street. To those kids it was like Grimms’ fairy tales. They were like huge gingerbread houses decorated with white frosting in fancy scrolls. So when she called a realtor here and learned that one of the storybook houses was listed for sale, she flipped!

“Do you know Mavis Adams, the attorney?” she asked abruptly.