The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers (3 page)

Qwilleran mused whimsically. What an investigative team we'd make!…Koko's whiskers transmitting inside information—and my moustache receiving the data.

Qwilleran ended his Tuesday column with a few “Famous Last Words” submitted by readers. These folk gems of humor arrived in the mailroom of the
Something
—on government postcards. Reader participation was a healthy sign for a small-town paper, and the “Famous Last Words” obviously came from all walks of life. Almost all were printable, and the best would be published in book form, it was promised, with proceeds going to some worthy cause. The latest were:

 

“My new kitten is adorable…and they assure me he's housebroken.”

“I haven't had a drink for five years…so it won't hurt to have a little nip.”

“My dog likes to play rough…and he never bites!”

“I'm sorry, Officer…I thought I had the green light.”

 

When Qwilleran delivered his Tuesday copy to the office of the
Something,
he walked down the long hall of the building and could hear the editor in chief shouting behind closed doors. It was the kind of angry shouting that is usually accompanied by waving arms. There was no clue as to which staff member was getting a roasting.

Qwilleran stopped in the food editor's office. “What did you give your husband for breakfast, Mildred?”

“Tell you later! I'm on deadline!” She waved him away.

“What happened?” Qwilleran asked one of the reporters.

“Clarissa Moore went home to Indiana to attend a funeral, and this morning she sent a wire: She's not coming back! Arch is wild, and I don't blame him,” the reporter said. “For a J student right out of college, she got a lot of breaks here.”

Qwilleran had done his part to encourage the novice, and although she was a
good
feature writer, she was hardly good enough to be forgiven for such cavalier behavior.

Qwilleran asked, “Does anyone know if she took her cat? If she took Jerome, she knew she was going for good; otherwise, she would have left him in her apartment with her neighbors.” He made a mental note to ask Judd Amhurst at the Winston Park apartments.

He disliked unanswered questions.

Deadline for the Tuesday Qwill Pen was twelve noon, and Qwilleran filed his copy with the managing editor according to custom—not late, but not too early either.

Junior Goodwinter glanced at the transcript and rang for the copy boy, and said, “Do you know a feature writer we could hire? Jill Handley won't be back from maternity leave for a few months.”

“How about running a series of guest features? Make it sound like an honor instead of an emergency, and they'll be vying for the privilege. For their cooperation you can make a contribution to their favorite charity. It would be invitational, of course. I can think of a dozen names without even trying. Bill Turmeric, Dr. Abernathy, Mavis Adams, Dr. Connie Cosgrove, Wetherby Goode, Thornton Haggis, Judd Amhurst, Polly Duncan—”

“Stop! I think it might work!”

“Whannell MacWhannell,” Qwilleran went on. “His wife, the astrologer. Silas Dingwall. Maggie Sprenkle can write about the animal welfare program….”

“How about setting it up for us?” Junior asked.

Qwilleran said, “I'm a columnist, I don't do setup.”

 

Qwilleran went home to give the cats their noontime treat and consider his own problem: how to write a column on the Old Manse for Friday's Qwill Pen.

His pet theory about the Manse and the Hawthorne book remained to be tested, and the sooner the better. The attorney had been frank about the mansion's personnel, but it wouldn't hurt to get a second opinion.

Maggie and her late husband had owned the estate adjoining the Ledfields'. They had dined together frequently, and Maggie could probably give him some tips.

Qwilleran phoned Maggie and was offered: a nice cup of tea! He said he would come up right away. (Someday the Qwill Pen would address the question of tea—and the difference between an ordinary cup of tea and a nice one.)

He biked to the rear of the Sprenkle Building and was admitted to the small elevator lobby, just large enough for his British Silverlight.

The upstairs apartment—over the insurance and real estate offices—was of Victorian splendor. The five front windows were occupied by Maggie's five “ladies” from the animal shelter. Tea was ready to be poured.

After the niceties, Qwilleran broached his idea for the Old Manse column. She thought it was splendid.

He stated his case, and the practical octogenarian said, “I never heard Nathan claim a connection between his grandfather and the author…but he never
disclaimed
one either!”

“Mr. Barter advised me to arrange an appointment with Miss James or Miss Babcock.”

She paused significantly. “I think…you would find Daisy Babcock…amenable to your idea. She's a lovely girl. Alma Lee is a little…
starchy,
although I must admit she's an encyclopedia of information on Georgian silver and eighteenth-century crystal. She's not there every day, so you have to make an appointment. She spends three days a week in Lockmaster, where her parents have a gallery of art and antiques.”

She said more, but Qwilleran had made up his mind to choose Daisy. He said, “The Ledfields have been very generous to the community.”

“Nathan was always a good and generous soul. There was a couple that worked for him—Mr. and Mrs. Simms, and they were killed in an auto accident, leaving a seven-year-old daughter. Nathan found a good home for her with a family at the church. But he also kept in touch with her, checking her report card at every marking and giving her gifts for birthdays and Christmas—nothing inappropriately expensive but useful and thoughtful. After high school he put her through business school and then hired her to handle his correspondence and personal expenses.”

“Where is she now?” Qwilleran asked.

“His will stipulated that Libby Simms should continue to handle his private matters. He made sure that his lawyers knew her position in the family.”

“A touching story,” Qwilleran murmured. “How old is she now?”

“Early twenties, I think. But this illustrates the Ledfields: fondness for children and their sorrow over not having any of their own.”

 

When Qwilleran phoned the Old Manse to request a tour of the building, he had his strategy planned.

He talked to a cheery individual whom he rightly guessed to be Daisy. Informed when Miss James would be in town, he scheduled an appointment for the day of her absence, saying he was on deadline.

Daisy said she could conduct him through the building the next day.

That evening at eleven
P
.
M
. it was Qwilleran's turn to phone Polly with news.

“I'm interviewing Daisy tomorrow. Have you met her?”

“Yes, she's friendlier than the other one. Married to one of the Linguini sons…Their parents retired from the restaurant business and now live in Florida, although they visit Italy every summer. The sons preferred a party store to a restaurant, and I don't blame them!”

Qwilleran said, “Their store is the only place I can buy Squunk water by the case, and they deliver!”

“Are you looking forward to visiting the Old Manse, Qwill? I wish, now, that I had accepted Doris Ledfield's invitations….”

He said, “Do you think it's crazy to think that Nathan's grandfather might have have been inspired by Hawthorne's book?”

“Not at all.
Mosses from an Old Manse
was much revered in the days when the house was being built….”

“Do you know what I heard today? Nathan's will stipulated that some of his small collectibles should be gradually sold off to provide ongoing funds for child welfare.”

And so it went until it was time for
“À bientôt.”

He combed
Mosses from an Old Manse
for details that might appear in the Ledfields' Old Manse. He had read the book twice before—once in college and once when he received a copy from the library of the fabulous Agatha Burns.

Agatha was a favorite name in Moose County; after all, the great teacher had lived to be a hundred and had inspired several generations.

Late that evening—after the Siamese were escorted to their quarters on the third balcony, and after Qwilleran had treated himself to a dish of ice cream—he wrote in his journal:

As he wrote, Qwilleran became aware of thundering paws coming down the ramp from the third balcony. Koko had opened his bedroom door by hanging on the lever-type door handle, a technique he used in emergencies. At the same time Qwilleran heard fire sirens, and from the kitchen window could be seen a pink glow in the dark sky visible above the treetops. Another siren sounded—then another. It sounded like a serious conflagration downtown!

Qwilleran grabbed the phone and called the night desk at the newspaper. “This is Qwill! Where's the fire?”

“Downtown! The Old Hulk! Can't talk now!” He hung up with a bang.

Qwilleran phoned the McBee farm on the back road, where both the farmer and his brother were volunteer firemen.

Mrs. McBee said, “It's awful! Someone torched the Old Hulk!”

 

After talking to Mrs. McBee, Qwilleran wrote in his journal:

Moose County was in shock. Police called it arson. Ruffians from Bixby County had torched the Old Hulk.

Qwilleran went to Lois's Luncheonette for coffee and the public reaction to the disaster. Although the Old Hulk was empty and only the shell of the senior center and could be rebuilt, it was the idea of the crime that rankled. When the newspaper hit the streets, there were statements from city officials, clergy, the donors of the property, retirees, students. Funds would be available to build the Senior Health Club from scratch, but it was the loss of the Old Hulk that hurt. Qwilleran was asked to write a special Qwill Pen column—consoling, philosophizing, encouraging. At Lois's Luncheonette, the customers were angry and vengeful.

While the public grieved or raged about the arson—as well they might—Qwilleran looked for a constructive approach.

One day while cashing a check at the bank downtown, he stood in line just ahead of Burgess Campbell, lecturer at the local college and revered leader of the Scottish community. Blind from birth, Burgess was always accompanied by his guide dog, Alexander.

Qwilleran said, “Burgess, do you have a minute to talk? I have a constructive suggestion.”

When their transactions were completed, they met in one of the bank's small conference rooms, and Qwilleran said: “The K Fund could publish a small book on the Old Hulk, if your students would do some research. They could interview family members, neighbors, public leaders. It would be good experience. They could borrow snapshots and check the photo file at the newspaper. Then a postscript could put a positive slant on the subject by introducing the Senior Health Club.”

Alexander whimpered, and the two men considered that approval. He was a very smart dog.

 

Qwilleran had a bad habit of writing a news story before the news broke, or describing a building before it was built. Polly said he should be writing fiction. The products of his imagination always surpassed the actual thing.

As for the Old Manse at Purple Point, Qwilleran wanted to design it to match Hawthorne's book.

And the approach to the mansion signified he might be right…. There was the iron gate between two rough stone gateposts…. Then a long, straight driveway between two rows of poplar trees, with beds of daffodils here and there…ending at a large building with a prisonlike look: gray brick, plain windows, and a severe entrance door.

The make-believe script ended when he clanged the heavy brass door knocker.

He expected to be admitted by a butler with silver buckles on his shoes, but Daisy Babcock opened the door in a pink pantsuit and a flurry of excitement.

Merrily she said, “You're Mr. Q! Welcome to the Old Manse. Did you bring Cool Koko?”

Only devoted Qwill Pen readers talked nonsense like that. He liked her instantly.

He remembered meeting her at Linguini's Party Store when ordering Squunk water, but her informality came as a shock in a two-story foyer with marble floor, tall mirrors, brocaded walls, a mammoth crystal chandelier, and a stairway as big as the Bridge over the River Kwai.

Soberly, Qwilleran replied, “Koko regrets that he had a previous appointment with his publisher. He hopes you'll call on him at the barn.”

“I'd love to,” she said. “Alfredo has told me about it. He makes deliveries of Squunk water, he says.”

“It's a far cry from this little palace. Do you give guided tours?”

“Where would you like to begin?”

“As the King of Hearts said to the White Rabbit, begin at the beginning and keep going till you come to the end. Then stop.”

The loaf-shaped building with modest architecture was one of four wings surrounding a great hall with skylight and a fortune in large oil paintings importantly framed.

There was a music salon with two grand pianos, a dining room that would seat sixteen, and an extensive library upstairs. Every suite had a four-poster bed and an eight-foot highboy.

There was Mrs. Ledfield's pride and joy—a large cutting garden that supplied freshly cut flowers for the silver and crystal vases throughout the house…and there was Nathan Ledfield's specialty: a formal garden of daylilies comprising five varieties compatible with a northern climate.

It was almost as if the Ledfields were still living there. In the music salon there was sheet music open on the racks, as if waiting for the pianist and violinist to make an entrance.

“And this is called the Box Bank,” Daisy said. “It's not usually shown to anyone outside the family.”

It was a roomful of empty boxes of every size and shape that Nathan had used in buying and selling collectibles: shoe boxes, hatboxes, jewelery boxes, clothing boxes, and large cardboard cartons.

At one point, a young woman in denim came to Daisy and whispered something.

“I'll call him back, Libby. Get his number…. Did you go to the doctor? I want to know what he said.”

The girl nodded and dashed away.

Daisy said, “That is our office manager. She went into the garden this morning and was stung by a bee…. She was Nathan's protégée, you know.”

Altogether, Qwilleran enjoyed coffee and cookies with Daisy more than the extravagances of the Old Manse.

Qwilleran said, “Your husband is making a delivery from the party store tomorrow. Why don't you come along and say hello to Koko and Yum Yum?”

 

Qwilleran described the visit to Polly during their nightly phone call.

“You're a rascal,” she said. “If Alma Lee James finds out Daisy has visited the barn first, she'll be furious!”

“How do you know?”

“One of the Green Smocks at the bookstore has a cousin who is a housekeeper at the Old Manse, and she says there is jealousy between Daisy and Alma.”

Qwilleran said, “One of the office personnel came back from the doctor's office while I was there—allergic to a bee sting, they said.”

“Did you know that's how Maggie Sprenkle's husband died? He was working in his rose garden when he was stung and had forgotten his emergency kit. By the time he maneuvered his wheelchair into the house, it was too late. That's why Maggie sold the estate and moved downtown. By the way, what did you think of the Old Manse?”

He said, “I've decided the Hawthorne connection is too esoteric for Qwill Pen readers. I'm going to leave the Old Manse to the feature writers when the preview takes place. Well…”

“À bientôt.”

“
À bientôt,
dear.”

 

Late Thursday afternoon, Koko, who had been invisible for hours, suddenly made an appearance in the kitchen—not to order his dinner but to announce that someone was coming. He jumped on and off the kitchen counter overlooking the barnyard. He was right, of course. In fifteen seconds, according to Qwilleran's stopwatch, the Linguini truck emerged from the wooded trail and drove up to the back door.

Daisy jumped out and looked up at the barn in wonder. Her husband, Fredo, jumped out and started unloading two cases of Squunk water and boxes of cranberry juice, potato chips, pretzels, mixed nuts, and enough wine and spirits to stock the bar for Qwilleran's guests. Koko supervised.

“Is he your new bartender?” Fredo asked.

“No, he's from the State Revenue Department. We have a limited license.”

Daisy was wandering around, gazing up at the ramps, balconies, soaring chimney stacks, and six-foot tapestries hanging from the highest railings.

The Siamese followed her, and Yum Yum allowed her to pick her up while Koko demonstrated his flying-squirrel act, landing on a sofa cushion below.

Then Qwilleran conducted them to the formal foyer with double doors, overlooking the octagonal gazebo screened on all eight sides. It had a view of the butterfly garden, flowering shrubs, and birdhouses on the trail leading to the Art Center on the Old Back Road.

Daisy was reluctant to leave, but they had two more deliveries to make.

Before they left, Qwilleran said, “It seems to me the Qwill Pen should do a column on vineyards. I've never grown so much as a radish, but grapes appeal to me as—what shall I say?—a satisfying crop.”

“My brother Nick can give you a conducted tour. He's the vintner. Say when!”

 

On the phone Friday morning, the attorney and Qwilleran plotted Alma Lee's visit to the barn. It would be brief: Bart had another appointment, and Qwilleran had to file his copy for the noon deadline.

When Bart and Alma arrived, the Siamese flew to the loftiest rafters, from which they could observe the first-time visitor.

Qwilleran met them in the parking lot and conducted them to the formal entrance on the other side of the barn.

“Where does this lead?” Alma asked.

“To my mailbox on the back road,” he said, omitting mention of such items as the butterfly pool and the Art Center.

She looked at the screened gazebo. “Is that where one of your guests shot himself last year?”

“He wasn't a guest; he was an intruder, wanted by the police in three counties,” Qwilleran said, embroidering the truth.

Indoors, she looked up at the balconies and ramps, the large white fireplace cube with stacks rising to the roof forty feet overhead, the six-foot tapestries hanging from balcony railings. “You could use some small art objects,” she said.

Qwilleran replied, “The architectural complexities and vast spaces and walls of books don't leave much space for miscellaneous art objects. Apart from that, there's not much to see. It's an atmosphere you
feel;
you don't see it.”

Dropping her critical frown, she said amiably, “Do you know what I'd like to see in this environment? Large vases filled with fresh flowers! Every area has an ideal spot for it, and you can get fabulous vases from the Ledfield collection in crystal, porcelain, and silver.”

Qwilleran and the attorney exchanged glances.

Qwilleran said, “With two airborne cats, a vase of flowers would last about ten minutes.”

And Bart said, “Come, come, Alma. Mr. Qwilleran is on deadline at the newspaper.”

Opening her handbag, she found a booklet bound in black and gold. “Here is the catalog of the Ledfield collection. The items with red stickers are already sold.”

Qwilleran thanked her and gave his wristwatch what was supposed to be a surreptitious glance.

Alma said, “The most important item has already gone to an old family in Purple Point.”

Barter said, “We won't have time to sit down, because I have another appointment, and I know you're on deadline, but thanks for showing Alma the interior.”

They were standing—awkwardly, Qwilleran felt—around the area with two large angled sofas.

Suddenly there was a scream as a cat dropped from the rafters onto the cushion of a sofa.

“Sorry,” Qwilleran said to his unnerved guest. “That's Koko. He wants to be introduced.”

“We don't have time for formalities,” said Barter. “We're holding up the presses. Thank you, Qwill. Come on, Alma.”

As Barter rushed Alma out of the barn, he looked back and rolled his eyes meaningfully.

As soon as they had driven away, Qwilleran checked the catalog for red-stickered items. He found: a fifteen-inch punch bowl of Chinese export porcelain. It was dated circa 1780. The design was elaborate and historical.

He called Lisa Compton at the ESP place. “Are you still there? Won't they let you go?”

“This sounds like Qwill. Tomorrow's my last day at the bookstore. What can I do for you?”

“About your rich cousins”…(Campbell was her maiden name, but she claimed to be from the poor side of the clan)…“Do you happen to know what they bought from the Ledfield estate? Koko's still fascinated by the box the books came in.”

“It was only a punch bowl, they said.”

“Glass or china?”

“China, but quite old. Do you want me to find out the nature of the design? There's no telling what might light a fire under that smart Koko!”

After a little more nonsense common to the fans of “Cool Koko,” the conversation ended.

Qwilleran grabbed the black-and-gold catalog and found the punch-bowl listing: It had sold for sixty thousand dollars.