The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare (5 page)

That guy, Qwilleran thought, would prefer ketchup. To Mrs. Cobb he said, “Mrs. Duncan was telling me about the volunteer fire department. Isn’t Hackpole a fireman?”

“Yes, and he’s had some thrilling experiences – carrying children from a burning building, reviving people with CPR, herding cows from a burning barn!”

Interesting if true, Qwilleran thought. “Bring him in for a nightcap next time you go out,” he suggested. “I’d like to know how a small-town fire department operates.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Q! He’ll be pleased. He thinks you don’t like him, because you took him to court once.”

“Nothing personal. I simply objected to being attacked by a dog that should be chained according to law. If you like him, Mrs. Cobb, I’m sure he’s a good man.”

As Qwilleran was locking up for the night, the telephone rang. It was Junior Goodwinter’s voice, crackling with excitement. “She’s coming! She’s flying up here tomorrow!”

“Who’s coming?”

“The photojournalist I met at the Press Club. She says the Fluxion is running the column tomorrow, and it’ll be all over the country this week. She wants to submit a picture story to a news magazine while it’s hot.”

“Did you tell her… about your father?”

“She says that will only make it topical. I have to pick her up at the airport tomorrow morning. We’re going to get some Old Timers who used to work at the Pic to pose in the shots. Do you realize what this could do? It’ll put Pickax on the map! And it could put the Picayune back in business if we start getting subscriptions from all over.”

Stranger things have happened, Qwilleran thought. “Call me tomorrow night after the shoot. Let me know how it goes. And good luck!”

As he replaced the telephone receiver he heard a soft sound, thlunk, as another book landed on the Bokhara rug. Koko was sitting on the Shakespeare shelf, looking proud of himself.

Qwilleran picked up the book and smoothed the crumpled pages. It was Hamlet again, and a line in the first scene caught his eye: “‘Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed.”

Addressing the cat he said, “You may think you’re smart, but this has got to stop! These books are printed on fine India paper. They can’t stand this kind of treatment.”

“Ik ik ik,” said Koko, following his remark with a yawn.

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER TWELFTH. “Snow flurries during the day, then falling temperatures and winds shifting to northeast.” So said WPKX, and Mr. O’Dell, the houseman, waxed his snow shovels and checked the spark plugs on his snowblower.

It was the day after the pork liver cupcakes had made their successful debut, and Qwilleran planned to lunch at the Old Stone Mill – to report results to the chef, and to solve a mystery that had been bothering him.

Who was this chef?

What was his name?

Where did he come from?

What were his credentials?

And why had no one seen him?

The restaurant was an old gristmill with a giant waterwheel, recently renovated with good taste. The stone walls and massive timbers were exposed; the maple floor was sanded to the color of honey; and every table had a view of the mill wheel, which creaked and turned incessantly although the millstream had dried up seventy years before. The food, everyone had always said, was abominable.

The restaurant was purchased by XYZ Enterprises, Inc., of Pickax, developers of the Indian Village apartments and condominiums on the Ittibittiwassee River. The firm also owned a string of party stores in the county and a new motel in Mooseville.

One day at a Chamber of Commerce meeting Qwilleran was approached by Don Exbridge, the X of XYZ Enterprises. He was a string bean of a man, six-feet-five, with a smile that had made him popular and successful.

“Qwill, you have restaurant connections Down Below,” said Exbridge. “Where can we get a good chef for the Old Stone Mill? Preferably someone who enjoys the outdoors and doesn’t mind living in the boonies.”

“I’ll give it some thought and get back to you,” Qwilleran had promised.

Then the wheels started turning in his mind: Hixie Rice, former neighbor Down Below… member of a select gourmet group… loved to eat, and her figure proved it… clever young woman… unlucky in love… worked in advertising and promotion… used to speak French to Koko. Why, Qwilleran wondered, were all the clever ones in advertising while all the hardworking serious thinkers were in journalism, earning less money?

The last time he had heard from Hixie, she was dating a chef and was taking courses in restaurant management. And that was how Hixie Rice and her chef happened to land in Pickax. Immediately they replaced the dreary menu with more sophisticated dishes and fresh ingredients. The chef retrained the existing kitchen staff, locked up the deep fryers, and rationed the salt.

When Qwilleran went to lunch at the Old Stone Mill on Tuesday, he hardly recognized the former member of the Friendly Fatties. “Hixie, you’re looking almost anorexic!” he said. “Have you stopped putting butter on your bacon and sugar on your hot fudge sundae?”

“You won’t believe it, Qwill, but the restaurant business has cured my obsession for eating,” she said. “All that food turns me off. Fifteen pounds of butter… a two-foot wheel of cheese… two hundred chickens… thirty dozen eggs! Have you ever seen two hundred naked chickens, Qwill?”

In losing weight, Hixie had also lost her wheezy high-pitched voice, and her hair now looked healthy and natural instead of contrived and varnished. “You’re looking great!” he told her.

“And you look super, Qwill. Your voice sounds different.”

“I’ve stopped smoking. Rosemary convinced me to give up my pipe.”

“Do you still see Rosemary?”

“No, she’s living in Toronto.”

“All our old gourmet gang is scattered, but I thought you two were headed for holy bondage.”

“There was a personality clash between Rosemary and Koko,” he explained.

Hixie seated him near the turning mill wheel. “This is considered a choice table,” she said, “although the motion of the wheel makes some of our customers seasick. It’s the creaking that drives me up the wall, and the tape recording of a rushing millstream has a psychological effect on diners. They’re wearing out the carpet to the rest room.” She handed him a menu. “The lamb shank with ratatouille is good today.”

“How about the fresh salmon?”

“It’s off the blackboard. You’re a little late.”

“It was premeditated,” Qwilleran said. “I’d like to talk with you. Can you join me?”

He ordered the lamb, and Hixie sat down with a glass of Campari and a cigarette. “How did Koko and Yum Yum like the cupcakes?” she asked.

“After they ate the things they chased each other up and I down stairs for two hours, and they’re both neutered! Have you discovered a feline aphrodisiac?”

“That’s only the first of several frozen catfoods we want to market. The XYZ people are backing us financially. Fabulous Frozen Foods for Fussy Felines How does that sound?”

“When are you and your partner going to come over and speak French to Koko? You haven’t seen the magnificent dump I live in.”

“It’s difficult to socialize,” she apologized. “We work such rotten hours. They never told me about that in restaurant school. I’m not complaining; in fact, I’m deliriously happy! I used to be a loser, you know, but all that has changed since I’ve found a wonderful man. He’s not a drunk; he doesn’t do drugs; and he’s not some other woman’s husband.”

“I’m very happy for you,” Qwilleran said. “When am I going to meet the guy?”

“He’s not here right now.”

“What’s his name? What does he look like?”

“Tony Peters, and he’s tall, blond, and very good-looking.”

“Where did he learn to cook?”

“Montreal… Paris… other good places.”

“I’d like to meet the guy and shake his hand. After all, I’m responsible for bringing you both to this northern paradise.”

“Actually,” Hixie said, “he’s out of town. His mother had a stroke, and he had to fly to Philadelphia.”

“He’d better get back before snow flies, or he’ll have to make the trip on snowshoes. The airport closes down after the Big One. Where are you living?”

“We have a super apartment in Indian Village. Mr. Exbridge pulled strings to get us in. There’s a waiting list, you know.”

“And what do you do on your day off?”

“Tony’s writing a cookbook. I check out the competition around the county.”

“Have you made any interesting discoveries?”

“Next to the Old Stone Mill, Stephanie’s has the best food,” Hixie said, “but their chef has some kind of mental block. I ordered a stuffed artichoke and got a stuffed avocado. When the waiter insisted it was an artichoke, I grabbed my plate and stormed out to the kitchen to confront the chef, and that arrogant clod had the nerve to tell me I didn’t know a stuffed artichoke from a stuffed crocodile! I was furious! I informed him that an artichoke is a member of the thistle family, and an avocado is a pear-shaped fruit that gets its name from the Nahuatl word for testicle, although I assume he wouldn’t know anything about that!”

“How did he react?”

“He picked up a cleaver and started flattening chicken breasts, so I retreated before I became a homicide statistic.”

Later that afternoon Qwilleran sat at his desk in the library and wondered about Hixie and her mysterious companion. Koko jumped to the desktop, sat tall, and cocked his head expectantly.

“Do you remember Hixie?” Qwilleran asked him. “She was taking French lessons and used to say, ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Koko.’ She always got involved with marginal types of men, and now she has this invisible chef. There’s something strange about him, and yet his kitchen is turning out great food. I brought you a chunk of lamb shank in a doggie bag. Hixie was glad you liked the cupcakes.”

Koko wriggled his posterior, squeezed his eyes, and murmured a falsetto “Ik ik.”

At that moment Mrs. Cobb peered inquiringly into the room.

“I heard you talking and thought you had company, Mr. Q. I was going to suggest some tea and cookies. I’ve just baked butterscotch pecan meringues.”

“I’m only having an intelligent dialogue with Koko, as Lori Bamba recommended,” he explained. “I feel like an idiot, but he seems to enjoy it. By the way, I’ll accept some of those butterscotch things, but make it coffee instead of tea.”

She bustled off to the kitchen, and Qwilleran went on. “Well, Koko, today was the big shoot at the Picayune office. For Junior’s sake I hope something good comes of it. I wonder if the Old Timers held together long enough for the picture taking. They probably had to prop them up with two-by-fours and baling wire.”

The day passed without the snow flurries predicted on the radio, but the temperature was dropping rapidly. Qwilleran was listening to the late-evening weathercast when Junior finally telephoned. His voice had none of the excitement of the previous day. He spoke in a minor key. Qwilleran thought, Something went wrong; the redhead failed to show; she decided it was no-story; she forgot her camera; her plane crashed; the Old Timers had heart attacks.

“Have you heard any rumors?” Junior was saying.

“About what?”

“About anything.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid. Are you sober?”

“I wish I weren’t,” Junior said glumly. “Mind if I come over to see you? I know it’s late…”

“Sure, come along.”

“I’m at Jody’s place. Okay if I bring her, too?”

“Of course. What do you two want to drink?”

“Make it coffee,” Junior said after a moment’s hesitation. “If I drink when I’m down, I’m liable to cut my wrists.”

Qwilleran filled a thermal server with instant coffee and had a tray waiting in the library when the red Jaguar pulled into the drive.

Tiny Jody, with her straight blond hair and big blue eyes, looked like a china doll. Junior looked like an old man.

“Good God! What’s happened to you?” Qwilleran said. “You look ghastly, Junior.” He waved the young couple into the library.

Junior flopped on a leather sofa. “Bad news!”

“Didn’t the shoot work out?”

“Oh sure, but a lot of good it will do. I feel like a fool, getting her to fly up here for nothing.”

“You’re talking in riddles, Junior. Let’s have it!”

In her little-girl voice Jody said, “Tell Mr. Qwilleran about your mother, Juney.”

The young newsman stared at Qwilleran for a silent moment before blurting out the news. “She’s selling.”

“Selling what?”

“Selling the Picayune.”

Qwilleran frowned. “What is there to sell? There’s nothing there but a… well… a quaint idea.”

“That’s the worst part,” Junior said. “The idea and all those years of tradition are going down the drain. She’s selling the name. “

Qwilleran could neither believe nor comprehend. “Where does she expect to find a buyer?”

Jody piped up, “She’s already got a buyer. XYZ Enterprises.”

“They want to make it an advertising throwaway,” said Junior, looking as if he might cry. “One of those free tabloids with junky ads and ink that comes off on your hands. No news matter. I tell you, Qwill, it’s a kick in the gut.”

“Has she a right to sell the paper? What about your father’s will?”

“He left everything to her. All the assets are jointly held anyway – such as they are.”

“Juney,” said the small voice, “tell Mr. Qwilleran about your dream.”

“Yeah, I’ve been dreaming about my father every night. He’s just standing there in his leather apron and square paper hat, all covered with blood, and he’s telling me something, but I can’t hear it.”

Qwilleran was trying to sort out his thoughts. “This has happened very fast, Junior. Your father was buried only yesterday. It’s too quick a decision for a bereaved spouse to make. Have you suggested that to your mother?”

“What’s the use? When she makes up her mind to do something, she does it.”

“How do your brother and sister react?”

“My brother went back to California; he doesn’t care. My sister thinks it’s a crime, but she doesn’t have any clout. Not with our mother! You’ve never met her.”

“Was it her idea? Or did XYZ make an offer?”

Junior hesitated before answering. “Uh… I don’t know…”