The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

“No, but someone died as the result of a bee sting. Bad scene. Must’ve been allergic. My kids are getting stung all the time.”

Later in the evening Qwilleran attended theCats rehearsal at the community hall. (The new music center was still being adapted from a public school.) The McLeods’ nine-year-old adopted son, Danny, considered himself in charge of the rehearsal: arranging chairs, handing out scores, asking if anyone wanted a drink of bottled water, asking Qwilleran if he wanted something to write on.

When Uncle Louie mounted the podium and rapped on the music stand with his baton, the nine-year-old ushered the singers into the proper sections. No one seemed to find the boy at all too young for the responsibility.

However…the grimness of the conductor’s expression and the presence of a substitute pianist quieted the assembly quickly. When he had everyone’s attention, he said, somberly, “A fatal accident has robbed our pianist of his assistant and robbed our group of a cheerful and valued member. Libby Simms. Let us express our sorrow and sympathy by standing for a few minutes of silence.”

The chorusters stood, and Hannah, at the piano, played “Amazing Grace.”

Qwilleran, glancing around the assembly of stunned singers, caught Daisy’s eye; the men in her family were trying out for roles. She motioned toward the exit, and when he met her in the hallway, her face looked taut.

She said, “Qwill, I’ve got to talk to you.”

They found a bench near the drinking fountain.

“A sad story,” he said. “I thought she had an emergency medical kit.”

“She was supposed to keep it in a pocket of the jacket—I got hot pink, her favorite color. She sometimes wore the jacket when she went on dates with Frankie. She was young and forgot to check the pockets. It’s hard to convince young people to be careful.”

“Has the kit turned up since the tragedy?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve been too upset to think straight. Fredo thought it would do me good to come to the rehearsal with him and Mick…but…” She burst into tears again….

Qwilleran gave her a small packet of tissues.

When Daisy’s sobs subsided, she said, “Fredo’s right! I’ve got to get away from that place.”

“You have talents and personality that would be useful in the exciting community that Nathan has left us. It would please him if you were a part of it. Let me look into it for you. Think of it as the beginning of something, not the end of something.”

One evening Qwilleran phoned his longtime friend John Bushland at home. “Bushy, do you still have the negatives of Thelma Thackeray’s hats that you and I slaved over?”

The photographer, who was losing his hair rapidly, liked to thumb his nose at his misfortune with an impudent nickname.

“Sure thing! Why do you ask?”

“I have an idea for a public-library exhibit in two counties that would be good public relations all around. K Fund will sponsor. But first, can I get a set of prints before Thursday? Eight-by-ten color prints. How they would be presented—will come later.”

“Sure thing!”

Bushy was always cooperative. And he and Qwilleran had shared experiences that had cemented their friendship—with one reservation: Qwill would never again go out on Bushy’s powerboat!

ELEVEN

While Qwilleran waited for Polly’s first postcard from Paris, imagine his surprise at receiving a letter!

Dear Qwill,

It’s our first day here, and something funny happened that’s too good to keep!

Shirley wanted to take a nap, and our travel agent went looking for a bar. I just wanted to walk around and pinch myself. Was I really in Paris?

I was standing on a curb, waiting to cross the street, when a short middle-aged man came up to me. He was wearing a T-shirt with a large American flag on the chest—and carrying a French-English phrase book. He pointed to one translation and read slowly.

“Pardonnez-moi. Où se trouve l’opéra?”

I couldn’t resist the cliché: “I don’t know. I’m a stranger here myself,” I said.

Instead of being amused, he was obviously embarrassed, because he virtually fled from the scene. Too bad. It would have been fun to find out where he was from—Chicago? Denver?

Actually, I was flattered that he mistook me for a native! The Parisiennes have a definite chic!

And I’ve never seen such beautiful postcards!

Love from Polly

P.S. What made it so funny—I was wearing my blue gabardine coat and hat from Lanspeak’s.

Wednesday morning, G. Allen Barter arrived for legal business at the barn, whistling “Memory” from the musicalCats.

Qwilleran said, “Don’t tell me. You’re singing Grizabella inCats ? I would have thought you were more the Rum Tum Tugger type.”

“Not guilty! My wife and I took our eldest to the tryouts. We saw you there, but you didn’t sing. Did you get cold feet?”