The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

Following the farewell dinner at the Rikers' condo, Qwilleran and his reluctant housemates moved back to the converted apple barn on the southeast edge of Pickax - close to the action, yet sheltered from the hubbub by patches of woods.

He was moving from the neighbourliness of condo living to the solitude and privacy of a barn and acreage. The latter was one of the oddities of Pickax, a city full of oddities. This one could be explained.

Qwilleran's property dated back to pioneer days, when strip farms were the norm - half a mile long and no wider than today's city block. It had been the Trevelyan apple orchard, and the back road still bore their name, but a series of disasters caused the family to sell.

Once upon a time this had been a drive-through barn, where wagonloads of apples were unloaded and stored in a series of lofts.

When Qwilleran first inherited the property, there was a fieldstone mansion as well, facing Main Street. It became the theatre arts building. Behind it was a dense patch of woods that Qwilleran called the Marconi Forest. It was the habitat of a huge owl that hooted in Morse code. Next came the lofty apple barn - all fieldstone and weathered shingles for siding. The barn was octagonal with a roof leading to a cupola at the apex.

The blighted apple orchard had been reforested with evergreens and fruit trees that attracted butterflies and birds. And an art centre stood at the site of the old Trevelyan farmhouse.

As for the barn, the interior was redesigned so dramatically that the few persons privileged to see it called it the Eighth Wonder of the World. To the owner and his two cats, it was Home. They lived quietly for the most part.

True, the interior space was estimated at four hundred thousand cubic feet. True, there were three balconies connected by ramps. But Qwilleran insisted that it functioned as an ordinary three-bedroom house.

The expansive ground floor was centred by a fireplace cube in stark white with three white smokestacks reaching to the roof. Around it was a series of open-plan rooms: a kitchen where Qwilleran fed the cats and warmed soup for himself, accompanied by a serving bar and snack bar . . . a formal dining room seldom used except as a conference table for official business and champagne parties for charitable causes . . . a roomy foyer where Qwilleran parked his two bicycles - a recumbent and a British Silverlight . . . a library where Qwilleran read to the cats as much as he did to himself . . . and a living room with two sinfully comfortable sofas angled around a large square coffee table.

All the dark wood surfaces had been bleached to a honey color. Light came from odd-shaped windows cut in the barn walls.

The furnishings were exactly to Qwilleran's taste: contemporary, massive, comfortable. The entire environment suited the Siamese, who flew up and down the ramps, teetered across the rafters like tightrope walkers, and virtually disappeared in the deep cushions of the sofas.

When the three arrived home from the condo with their luggage the cats silently checked the entire premises, beginning with their water bowl and dinner plates (his and hers) under the kitchen table.

Their private apartment was still on the third balcony.

The wastebaskets were in their accustomed place, but empty. The crows were still viewable from the foyer. All was right with the world.

Qwilleran never expected or wanted to be the richest man in the northeast central United States, but he made the best of it. The philanthropic K Fund invested the money for the good of Moose County. "Mr. Q," as he was known, wrote his popular column, listened to what people said, gave thoughtful advice, pampered the Siamese.

"Glad to see you back in town," said the attorney G. Allen Barter, at the barn early Tuesday morning when he arrived to discuss K Fund business.

"Unusually mild spring this year," Qwilleran explained, "and a lot of excitement over the anniversary."

"Where are the cats?"

"Watching you from the top of the refrigerator. . . . Shall we repair to the conference room?"

There were two thumps as Koko and Yum Yum jumped down and followed the men to the dining area.

"How do you like the official name of the sesquicentennial, Bart?"

"Inspired! They say it came to Hixie Rice in a dream. Do you buy that, Qwill?"

"Of course! There are day dreams and night dreams, and the subconscious works both shifts. If I can't solve a problem by day, I assign my subconscious to it, and by morning I have the answer."

"Do you have this system patented?"

"I'd like to consider it but, meanwhile, the system - as you call it - has come up with an idea for Pickax Now. Once a week, for the duration of the celebration, the ?Qwill Pen' column will feature one of the ?late greats' of Moose County - deceased persons who left a memorable mark. It will be a thousand-word profile: Osmond Hasselrich, Dr. Halifax Goodwinter, Fanny Klingenschoen, simple souls like Eddington Smith. Even a scoundrel or two."