Cat of the Century (4 page)

“Some people just have it. Others die of lung cancer at thirty without ever smoking.” Harry had accepted in her teens that there was no rhyme or reason to these things.

But being a fearful species, humans want reasons, so they invent them. That’s what the cats had decided. They’d also concluded other things about the human animal, few of their conclusions complimentary. But Mrs. Murphy staunchly defended Harry and Fair by saying they possessed catlike qualities.

Tucker loved her humans. She didn’t care if they were turned around backward.

“Back to your premonition.”

“Did I say premonition?” Fair shook his head no, so Harry continued. “Well, I guess it is. Maybe it’s because of the financial pressure.
I’m making too much of it. But,” she searched for the right words, “I feel this may backfire.”

“I hope not.”

“I hope not, too, because the college—well, it’s a university now—is doing everything right about the big blowout. According to Inez and Tally, it’s one of the best-run higher-education institutions in the country.”

“You know Inez and I can still argue about our alma maters. She thinks Cornell is the best, and I think it’s Auburn.” He rose and cleared the table. “Let’s hope all goes well. If it doesn’t, you’re far away from me. I don’t much like that.”

“It’s not about me. It’s a feeling.”

“Harry, if anything does run amiss, you’ll soon be in the middle of it. You can’t help yourself.”

“True,”
Tucker piped up.

“That’s enough, Tucker,” Harry reprimanded the corgi.

“She understood,”
Tucker announced.

“No, she didn’t. She wanted you to stop barking,”
Mrs. Murphy replied.

“I only barked once.”

The cat brushed against the mighty little dog, for she did love her. Pewter, who had moved to her cozy fleece bed, opened one eye. She closed her eye again.

Harry did not say anything about her husband’s assessment of her landing in the middle of a mess, because it was true.

Fair filled the sink. They didn’t use a microwave or dishwasher. They turned on the electric lights only in the room where they were eating, reading, or watching TV. Fair was setting aside money to build a good old farmer’s windmill. That would help with energy costs. “Honey, give me a couple of days on the car thing. I really don’t want you driving all that way in anything but a safe vehicle.”

“Renting will be really expensive.”

“Let me worry about that.” He scrubbed a dish, then turned to smile at her. “Actually, I don’t want to deny you the pleasure of worrying about money.”

“Go on.” She rose, grabbed a dish towel to wipe off the plates and glasses. “Boy, it’s coming down now.”

“I’ll say. And that’s another reason I want you in a safe car. There are no barriers between Missouri and Canada. The weather sweeps down. Here, we have the Alleghenies first and then the Blue Ridge. It’s one of the reasons our weather is so glorious.” He paused. “Most of the time.”

She tossed the towel over her shoulder. “Still is. It’s pretty. We’re just ready for spring.”

A
dditional revenue.” Liz Filmore, the head of the William Woods Alumnae Association of Richmond, concluded her push.

Listening on the other end of the phone was Flo Langston, head of the St. Louis chapter.

Flo had a seat on the stock exchange and was the head of her own successful firm, while Liz, with her husband, Tim, owned a small investment firm.

Liz had been a rising star at an old Richmond brokerage house. She’d learned a great deal. She met Tim, who worked at a rival firm. They hit it off, married, and started their own company, more or less boutique investing. They focused on emerging technologies, small start-up companies. Liz considered Flo a mentor. Flo considered Liz a pest.

“It might.” Flo responded to the idea that special T-shirts might bring more money into William Woods. Perhaps with one of Tally’s famous—or infamous—quips. “However, I sense T-shirt fatigue out there. Perhaps we could come up with something a little more useful.”

“What about those pink cases with tools that have pink handles? I saw them on display at … maybe it was the Cincinnati airport. I can’t remember. I’m on the road so much.”

“Yes, I’ve seen those. For Aunt Tally we should have blood red.”
Flo laughed. “But they’re expensive, depending on how many tools one purchases. Let’s keep that idea in reserve. Perhaps we could negotiate with the firm to actually make a set in William Woods colors and sell them in the Logo store. The Logo store makes a valuable contribution to the budget.”

“Yes, it does.” Liz had pored over the alumnae fund accounting returns to double-check them. The Fulton accounting firm did a good job. She’d never found anything to send up a red flag.

All members of alumnae and alumni associations in universities took their fiduciary responsibilities seriously, which began with understanding the income, cash flow, and running costs of the university. They all faced the age-old problem of when debt was useful and when it was not. In one sense, debt was a multiplier of wealth. In another it could break you in two. Debt, if acquired wisely, could allow a college or business to purchase equipment, which would save man-hours and build new, energy-efficient buildings. The truth was in figuring out debt-to-asset ratios and when the debt could successfully be repaid. The alumnae board’s recommendations to the administration were held in high regard. One reason was that Flo had proved prescient about the economy over the decades.

“I want to encourage you.” Flo’s melodic voice was soothing. “I just don’t think T-shirts are the answer. Many of the alums being brought in will be eighty or older, some of them on a fixed income. Fortunately, that’s a small number. Most are solvent. Still, I don’t think we should tempt them. The money can come from younger alumnae who will also be attending—the strong economic base. They, too, want more than a T-shirt.”

“Aunt Tally loves horses.”

“And horses are a big part of William Woods, but not every graduate avails herself or himself of the program. ’Course, the over-eighties are all women. Some actually majored in history.” Flo laughed.

“She likes to garden.”

“Hmm. Even a lady of advanced years can pot a plant. I think you’ve got it. Gloves in one of our colors, with perhaps Tally’s birthdate imprinted: March twenty-fifth, 1909. I’ll pay for the over-eighty crowd. Each of those women should have a gift.”

“That’s wonderful. I’ll get right on it.” Liz paused. “Would you like me to clear it with Mariah?”

“Certainly not. I’ll call her.”

Flo and Mariah D’Angelo had graduated in 1974 and both majored in economics. They cordially loathed each other; always had. Mariah headed the Kansas City chapter, St. Louis’s great Missouri urban rival. Both women displayed brilliance and a certain cunning allied with good looks. Both married well in money terms, but in emotional terms it was anybody’s guess. But as their husbands were fifty-eight and sixty, respectively, whatever straying they may have done in the past would have been curtailed by the usual lessening of ability in that crucial area of male anatomy.

In their junior years, both Flo and Mariah fell in love with a student, Dick Langston, at Westminster College, the then all-male school across town. Flo married him. Mariah eventually retaliated by marrying the head of a huge construction firm, a man much richer than Dick Langston. He was on the road a great deal, visiting sites. That suited Mariah just fine.

Flo, in one of her typical farsighted moves, bought a ton of stock in the company that would eventually manufacture Viagra. Despite the New Depression, sales kept growing. Plus, her husband benefited from it, so she did, too. She kept this to herself.

“She is our treasurer.” Liz dug the hole deeper, reminding Flo of why she considered Liz a pest, albeit a brilliant one.

“She’s very competent at that.” Flo gave credit where credit was due.

“I keep meaning to tell you, you were right all along about complex derivatives. I should have listened.”

“Liz, if I couldn’t fully understand complex derivatives, then no one could. I know that sounds arrogant, but there isn’t a financial instrument I don’t understand. It was all smoke and mirrors. You have got to realize—and I don’t know when you will—that the market is not driven by intelligence. In a sense it isn’t even driven by greed. It’s driven by the male ego. And they’re sheep. Being a woman is a tremendous advantage, because we know when the emperor has no clothes.”

A long, mournful pause followed. “I know it now.”

“Are you and Tim in danger?” She mentioned Liz’s husband.

“Things are bad all over, but we’re hanging in there.”

“All over,” Flo said flatly. “Indeed they are.”

“When do you think it will end? You know, when will the market come back up?”

Flo sucked air in through her teeth. “I don’t know, but it won’t be back up when the government predicts it will. I think two more years.”

“Gawd,” Liz moaned. “Two years.”

“Give or take.” Flo didn’t feel like hearing Liz weep and wail, if she was headed that way. “You’ve come up with some good products. You’ll be fine.”

Liz replied, “I’m learning a lot. Guess we all are. I’ve learned a lot from you. Tim, too. We see things for the first time. You’ve seen it all before. Helps me put things in perspective.”

What Liz never mentioned to Flo or anyone was that one reason their company grew so rapidly was Tim’s selling skills. He’d learned by selling lemonade as a little kid, then graduated to a newspaper route. In college he sold marijuana and cocaine, investing the proceeds. Like Liz, he worked for a large brokerage firm and soaked up everything. The investments from his college business funded the start of their own brokerage company. Tim’s selling skills were complemented by Liz’s keen judgment on rising and falling companies. Her management abilities completed the picture.

Flo, after thanking Liz for the compliment, then changed the subject. “You know, I think of this often. Our alma mater is better managed than most government agencies. And we should thank our lucky stars that Kenneth Lay was not a graduate.”

At this they both laughed, for Kenneth Lay, the now deceased head of Enron, had graduated from the University of Missouri, a wonderful state university. Unfortunately for Mizzou, he promised them millions. They based their budget on it and then he bellied up. Mizzou would pull through. But the crisis caused pain that would continue for some years.

“When are you arriving?” Liz asked.

“In time for our first meeting. It’s not that far a drive—two hours
from where we live—but I think I’ll come the night before. I hate worrying about time. Gayle Lampe lives on campus, and I’ll bunk with her.”

Gayle Lampe had been head of Equestrian Studies and had written a book that was the successor to Helen Crabtree’s text about Saddle Seat. As Miss Crabtree was the leading light of this type of riding, this was no mean feat.

“You’ll have a good time. I’m coming in a day early, too. Tim wants to be there. We’ll stay at the bed-and-breakfast.”

“Be good to see him.”

“Tim wants to celebrate Tally’s big day, and we aren’t far from her orbit.”

“Honey, none of us is.”

With that, Flo signed off, then dialed Mariah. Flo operated on the theory that if you kiss a toad first thing in the morning, nothing after that kiss will be as offensive. Although it was midday, she considered any contact with Mariah contact with a toad. She laughed to herself that comparing Mariah to a toad was an insult to the toad.

“Mariah, Flo here.”

The sandpaper voice, deepened with years of assistance from Lucky Strikes and good bourbon, responded, “Yes, Flo, what can I do for you?”

“Liz Filmore has come up with the idea of getting garden gloves imprinted with Tally Urquhart’s birthday.”

A little snort followed. “For God’s sake, why?”

“Listen, Mariah, it’s better than a T-shirt, and Liz is determined to do it. She’ll use her own funds.” Flo had not discussed this, but she would call Liz immediately and tell her this was the deal.

“In that case, we have nothing to lose.”

“Indeed.”

“I’m looking forward to the celebration. I’ll see you there.”

“Yes, you will.” Icy bitch, Flo thought to herself, then hung up and dialed Liz.

Flo figured if she had one dollar for every call she’d made for her alma mater over the years, she’d have enough to own five thousand shares of Coca-Cola.

“Liz, Flo.”

“Yes. Did Mariah pitch a fit and fall in it? It wasn’t her idea.”

Flo let out a whoop. “No. But she does insist you pay for the gloves yourself. Of course, you’ll retrieve your money from the sales, so we’ll have to keystone the price. And as I said, I’ll pay for the over-eighties and special mementos.”

Keystoning meant doubling the wholesale cost of an item. So if the gloves cost eleven dollars, they would be sold for twenty-two. It was standard retail practice. Therefore, even if items were discounted thirty percent, there would still be a profit.

“I intended to pay for the gloves. Should have said so up front. Thanks again for your generosity. About keystoning, let me find out about the cost. I might have to drop it back a bit, but there will be profit.”