The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

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 youfeel; 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.

SIX

As Qwilleran had once written in his private journal:

Anyone who thinks it’s easy to write a twice-weekly column is misinformed. It may be an enjoyable challenge, but it’s never easy. Friday has a relentless way of following Tuesday, and next Tuesday follows this Friday inexorably.

Only the loyalty and enthusiasm of readers kept Qwilleran’s creative juices perking.

The Hawthorne idea had proved to be a “no-story”—an unfortunate situation to a newsman with a deadline to meet. He had to resort to his “trash barrel,” as he called the deep drawer of his desk. Postcards from readers, clippings, notes could always be made into a chatty Qwill Pen column with, perhaps, a saying from Cool Koko: “Faint heart never won the softest cushion in the house.”

Polly said that Qwilleran made the same mistakes over and over again.

But doggedly…not stubbornly, he proceeded with another Qwill Pen idea, writing a story in his mind before researching it.

Moose County had a vineyard and a vintner! Qwilleran, Chicago-born, saw his first vineyard in Italy while a young foreign correspondent, and he had retained a romantic impression of the vineyard, the vintner—and perhaps the vintner’s daughter.

First he consulted the encyclopedia, determined to avoid another no-story disappointment. He liked the words:vineyard, viticulture, andvintner. He had never wanted to be a farmer, but he wouldn’t mind being a vintner. And there was more to viticulture than the making of wine; there were grapes for eating, juice for drinking, raisins for baking, and—his favorite spread for toast—grape jelly. It was an ancient culture, mentioned by Virgil, Homer, and the Bible. Thomas Jefferson tried it. Julia Ward Howe referred to grapes in “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

Qwilleran had new respect for the Linguini brothers. Nick was the vintner who helped with the store; Alfredo was the storekeeper who helped with the vineyard. He called and made an appointment.