Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Robbed a Bank

Qwilleran considered the situation briefly and then asked, “If he’s so discriminating, how did he react to the old hotel with its broken-down elevators and wretched food?”

“He had the good taste not to criticize or make fun of it…. I don’t mind telling you, Qwill: I’m having stage fright about pouring tea for him.”

“Nonsense, Polly. You’re always in control, and now that you’ve had your surgery, you’re healthier and livelier and more admirable than ever”

The young waitress serving the entrees grinned to see “an older couple” holding hands across the table.

“Don’t snicker,” Qwilleran told her. “It’s an old Mediterranean custom.”

For a few moments they contemplated the presentation of food on the plate – stuffed grape leaves for her, curried lamb for him – and the subtlety of the flavors. Then he asked, “What are you wearing to the reception Saturday night?”

“My white dinner dress and the opals. Are you wearing your kilt with your dinner jacket?”

“I think it would be appropriate.”

The grand opening of the refurbished hotel would be a black-tie event at three hundred dollars a ticket, proceeds going to Moose County’s Literacy Council. There would be champagne, music, and a preview of the renovated facility.

Qwilleran said, “I’m getting a preview of the preview. Fran Brodie is sneaking me in.”

“It was a stroke of genius to rename the hotel, considering its grim reputation in the past.”

“The new sign is going up Thursday.”

Conversation lapsed into trivia:

The theatre club was opening its season with Night Must Fall.

The art center had been unable to replace Beverly Forfar.

Celia Robinson had married Pat O’Dell and had moved into his big house on Pleasant Street, leaving the carriage-house apartment vacant.

When finally they left the restaurant, Qwilleran asked, “Would you like to stop at the barn and see my new calendar?”

“For just a minute. I have to go home and feed the cats.”

It was twilight when they drove into the barnyard. A faint, dusky blue light seemed to bathe the world. It was the breathless moment after sunset and before the stars appeared, when all is silent… waiting.

“Magical,” Polly said.

“The French have a word for it: l’heure bleue.”

“There’s a French perfume by that name. I imagine it’s lovely.”

Eventually they went indoors to look at the calendar, and eventually Polly went home to feed Brutus and Catta. Qwilleran took the Siamese out to the screened gazebo, and the three of them sat in the dark. The cats liked the nighttime. They heard inaudible sounds and saw invisible movement in the shadows.

Suddenly Koko was alert. He ran to the rear of the gazebo and stared at the barn. In two or three minutes the phone rang indoors. Qwilleran hurried back to the main building and grabbed the receiver after the sixth or seventh ring.

The caller was Celia Robinson O’Dell, who had been his neighbor in the carriage-house apartment. “Hi, Chief!” she said cheerfully, her voice sounding young for a woman of her advancing age. “How’s everything at the barn? How are the kitties?”

“Celia! I’ve been trying to call you and extend felicitations on your marriage, but you’re hard to reach –”

“We took a little honeymoon trip. We went to see Pat’s married daughter in Green Bay. He has three grandchildren”

“How do you like living on Pleasant Street?”

“Oh, it’s a wonderful big house with a big kitchen, which I need now that I’m going into the catering business seriously. But I enjoyed living in the carriage house and running over with goodies for you and the kitties. I can still cook a few things for your freezer, you know, and Pat can deliver them when he does your yardwork.”

“That’ll be much appreciated by all three of us.”

“And if there are any little… secret… missions that I can handle for you…”

“Well, we’ll see how that works out. Give Pat my congratuIations. He’s a lucky guy.”

As Qwilleran hung up the phone, he stroked his moustache dubiously, fearing that his espionage stratagem was collapsing. He liked to snoop in matters that were none of his business – propelled by curiosity or suspicion – and he had relied on Celia to preserve his anonymity. She was an ideal undercover agent, being a respectable, trustworthy, grandmotherly type. And, as an avid reader of spy fiction, she enjoyed being assigned to covert missions. There had been briefings, cryptic phone calls, hidden tape recorders, and secret meetings in the produce department at Toodle’s Market. Now, as a married woman, how long could she retain her cover?

As for Qwilleran, there was nothing official about his investigations. He simply had an interest in crime, stemming from his years as a crime reporter for newspapers Down Below – as locals called the metropolitan areas to the south. In recent years he had uncovered plenty of intrigue in this small community, and in doing so he had won the trust and friendship of the Pickax police chief. It was an association that would continue, with or without his secret agent.

Two

Tuesday, September 1 – ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’

QWILLERAN HAD WRITTEN A thousand words in praise of September for the “Qwill Pen” column, and he invited readers to compose poems about the ninth month. He wrote, “The best will be printed in the ‘Qwill Pen’ and will win a Qwill pencil, stamped in gold.” Everyone knew that his favorite writing tool was a fat yellow pencil with thick soft lead.

“Always figuring out ways to get the subscribers to do your work for you,” the managing editor bantered.

“Reader participation is the name of the game. They love it!”

“Who’s paying for all the pencils you’re giving away?”

“You can take it out of my meager salary.”

Wednesday, September 2 – ‘Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.’

The weekly luncheon of the Pickax Boosters Club was held at the community hall, with committees reporting on the progress of the Mark Twain Festival, scheduled for October. There would be a parade, a square dance, contests, lectures, and more. The so-called presidential suite in the hotel (third floor front) would be renamed the Mark Twain suite. Efforts to name a street after him had received a chilly reaction from residents, who complained that a change in street names resulted only in confusion and expense to property owners. Qwilleran attended and ate his soup and sandwich but refrained from volunteering for anything.

Thursday, September 3 – ‘Every dog has his day.’

For the Siamese the big event was the arrival of a truck delivering new stools for the snack bar. The old ones were as comfortable as a milking stool, yet casual visitors chose to sit there instead of sinking into the deep-cushioned lounge chairs. The new stools were more hospitable. They had backs; they swiveled; their seats were thickly upholstered. The four old stools without backs would go to the thrift shop to be sold for charity.

As soon as the deliveryman had left, Koko and Yum Yum came out from nowhere to inspect the new furniture. Two noses covered every inch of the wooden legs and backs; then they curled up on two upholstered seats and went to sleep.

Fran Brodie had ordered them. She was second-in-command at Amanda’s interior design studio. She was also the daughter of the police chief and one of the most glamorous young women in town. And this Friday she would be giving Qwilleran a personally conducted tour of the refurbished hotel.

Friday, September 4 – ‘A short horse is soon curried.’

Qwilleran fed the cats, changed the water in their drinking bowl, policed their commode, brushed their coats, and gave them instructions for the day: “Don’t forget to wash behind your ears. Drink plenty of water; it’s good for you. Be nice to each other.”