Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

Qwilleran grunted his disapproval. "Well, they'll get apples from me - and like it!" He was quiet when the steak was served; Tipsy's specialized in an old-fashioned cut of meat that required chewing. Eventually he said, "We put the show on the road tomorrow. Mooseland High is our first booking, unless we're fortunate enough to have an earthquake."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic, dear. Do they have a good auditorium?"

"They have a gym. They're building a platform for us. Hixie made the arrangements. I've practiced packing the gear, and I can set up in nine minutes flat and strike the set in seven."

The afternoon at Mooseland High School was better than he expected, in one way; in another, it was worse. In preparation for the show he packed the lights, telescoping tripods, cables, props, and sound equipment in three carrying cases and checked off everything on a list: script, mike, telephone, extension cords, double plugs, handkerchief for the announcer to mop his sweating brow, and so forth. In college theatre there had been a backstage crew to handle all such details; now he was functioning as stage manager, stagehand, and propman as well as featured actor. It was not easy, but he enjoyed a challenge. Everything on the checklist was accounted for, with one exception: Hixie's cuecard. He unpacked the three cases, thinking it might have slipped in accidentally, but it was not there. He remembered gluing the cuesheet on a card in the newspaper office; could he have left it there? He phoned Riker.

"You took it when we went to lunch," Riker said. "I saw it in your hand."

"Go and see if it's still in the car," Qwilleran said urgently. "And hurry! We have a show in half an hour! I'll hold." While holding he appraised the calamitous situation. How could Hixie operate the sound system and lighting without her cuecard? There were six cues for music, eight for voices, five for lights - all numbered to correlate with digits on the stereo counter. With more experience she might be able to wing it, but this was only their second performance.

Riker's search of the car was fruitless. Without even a thank you Qwilleran banged down the receiver and returned to the ballroom, where he paced the floor and looked wildly about the four walls.

The Siamese watched his frantic gyrations calmly, sitting on their briskets and wearing expressions of supreme innocence.

Their very pose was suspect. "Did you devils steal the card?" he shouted at them.

The thunder of his voice frightened them into flight.

Now he knew! It was the glue! He had used rubber cement, and Koko had a passion for adhesives.

In desperation Qwilleran figured it would take twenty minutes to drive to the school, nine minutes to set up; that left eleven minutes to find the cuecard in a fifteen-room house with fifty closets, all of which looked like dumpsters. Impossible!

Take it easy, he told himself; sit down and think; if I were a cat, where would I... ?

He dashed upstairs to the kitchen. It was their bailiwick, and the six-foot table was a private baldachin sheltering their dinner plate, water dish, and Koko's closet treasures. Among them was the cuecard with two perforations in one corner.

Muttering words the Siamese had never heard, Qwilleran raced back downstairs and repacked the equipment while keeping one eye on his watch. He was cutting it close. He had to drive to the school, find the right entrance, unload the suitcases, carry them to the gym, set up the stage, test the speakers, focus the lights, change clothes, and get into character as a twentieth-century radio announcer in a nineteenth-century situation. Hixie would be waiting for him, worried sick and unable to do anything until he arrived with the equipment.

He exceeded the speed limit on Sandpit Road and parked at the front entrance where a yellow curb prohibited parking. As he was opening the trunk of the car, a short, stocky man in a baggy business suit came running from the building, followed by a big, burly student in a varsity jacket.

"Mr. Qwilleran! Mr. Qwilleran!" the man called out. "We thought you'd forgotten us! I'm Mr. Broadnax, the principal. This is Mervyn, our star linebacker. He'll carry your suitcases. It's a long walk to the gym."

The three of them hustled into the building and walked rapidly down one long corridor after another, and all the while the principal was saying, "Will it take you long to set up? Mervyn will help. Just tell him what to do... The classes change in eight minutes. Everyone's looking forward to this. Lyle Compton raved about it... Don't give up! We're almost there. The custodian built a special platform. Is there anything you need? Is there anything I can do?"

Qwilleran thought, Yes, shut up and let me figure out how to set up in eight minutes.

"Is Miss Rice going to be here today?" the principal asked.