The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

At one point his guest said, “They’re still talking—at our Lit Club—about the talk you gave on Stephen Miller’s book,Conversation: A History of a Declining Art …. Kip thinks you belong in Lockmaster.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” he said.

“May I ask what brought you to Moose County?”

“An inheritance, and when I had the barn converted, I was hooked. I’ll show you the interior. It was the last work of a very talented designer. I feel privileged to preserve his work. The acoustics are incredible.”

They went indoors and the guest gasped over the vast spaces, ramps winding around the interior, the views from the balcony levels—all the while followed by the Siamese like hired security guards.

“They like you!” the host said. “Do you have cats?”

“We have one of Moira’s friendly marmalades at the library—the staff named him Reggie—and I have a bossy Siamese at home, called Caesar.”

“How do you two strong-minded individuals get along?”

“Oh, I let him have his way…and he lets me have mine.”

While waiting for lunch to be delivered by the caterer, they had aperitifs in the gazebo. On the way she saw the British Silverlight in the foyer. She asked, “Do you do cross-country biking?”

“No. Do you?”

“Not since my college days. Memorable times! Especially in the British Isles.”

She raved over the gazebo, screened on eight sides. Vivian had heard about Squunk water and wanted to try it. He recommended a drink he had created called “Moose County Madness” that consisted of Squunk water and cranberry juice.

Qwilleran said, “I’d like to put something to you, Vivian. There appears to be a big difference between Lockmaster County and Pickax. Would it be appropriate—or even desirable—for the two counties to close the gap with a show of art hats at each venue?”

Qwilleran went on: “Once upon a time…I’m going to sound like a storyteller…there was a Moose County potato farmer named Milo Thackeray, who reared motherless twins, Thurston and Thelma. She was a little taller, stronger, bolder than her brother and always looked after him. They were quite different.

“Thurston went to veterinary college in the east, married another doctor, came home, and started an animal hospital in Lockmaster. They had one son. The more flamboyant Thelma went to California and had a successful career with a private dinner club—never married, but kept a protective eye on her younger brother. His son was a problem.

“Eventually, she retired and came back to Moose County to help, if possible, with her difficult nephew. She brought her rare collection of twenty-five art hats, which were to be the subject of a book and a traveling exhibit…. All the plans were ruined by the nephew, who destroyed not only the family and himself but the collection of art hats. The family scandal left a stain on the good name of Thackeray. Even the hospital changed its name under a new owner.”

Qwilleran paused for her reaction.

“How very sad,” she murmured.

“But that isn’t the end of the tale…. The twenty-five hats were photographed before they were destroyed, and I can show you the prints!”

Then lunch was served, and they turned to the subject of Thelma Thackeray’s dinner club. How as hostess Thelma had always worn a hat as she moved through the dining room, chatting with members…and how Thelma had always stolen the show with her exotic headgear at Pickax restaurants like the Old Grist Mill, and the Mackintosh Inn.

Qwilleran said, “What I want to discuss with you is the size of the show. Someone once said that the more art you look at, the less you see. What I propose is two small exhibitions opening simultaneously at the Lockmaster Library and the Pickax gallery. At the end of a certain length of time, the two shows would be reversed, and showgoers would have yet another thrill.”

“You’re absolutely right!” she said. “Our exhibit case will accommodate a dozen photos without crowding, and I imagine that’s true of the one in Pickax.”

After lunch the tables were cleared and the photos of the Thackeray art hats were viewed and lavished with praise and amazement.

Vivian said, “The hats are much more dramatic than the ones we design here in the boondocks! Who was the photographer?”

“John Bushland. Had a studio in the Inglehart house before it was a restaurant. Now he’s on the staff of theMoose County Something. I helped him take the shots, acting as photographer’s flunky. For the exhibits he’ll print them on matte stock and mount them on matte board with easel backs.”

“What information will be available for the identification cards?”

“Name of hat, artist, and date.”

“I’m weak with excitement!” she said. “And to think that it happened on Marconi Trail!”

“One question,” he said. “Thelma not only wore lizard-skin shoes, she kept her hats in lizard-print hatboxes, destroyed along with the hats….”

“That’s part of the hat hobby. We make our own signature hatboxes. Mine are gray pinstripe. If we could find some lizard-print paper, we could make one of Thelma’s signature boxes for each exhibit, as an accent.”