The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

Qwilleran was enthusiastic; she was getting into the spirit. He said, “If you need any help along the way, Pickax has a new coordinator of community activities. She has ideas and enthusiasm—Daisy Babcock. You are on the same wavelength. I’ll have her phone you.”

Later, they returned to the barn interior.

“You don’t have a piano,” she remarked, as if noting the absence of indoor plumbing.

“No. My mother was an excellent pianist and wanted to give me lessons, but I preferred sandlot baseball. The barn has a fantastic music system and brilliant acoustics. Lately I’ve acquired some CDs of the Ledfields playing violin and piano, which I’d like you to hear.”

“I wonder how a grand piano would sound in this environment? Frankie, the piano tuner, gives concerts, you know.” Hearing no reaction, she went on, “My parents are retiring to Florida and liquidating their furnishings, including a Steingraeber & Söhn grand piano made in Bavaria. Perhaps you’d like to take it on trial. There are several spaces that would be suitable—”

“Hold on! Do you realize this barn is in deep freeze five months of the year? But I’m sure the K Fund would buy it for the forthcoming music center. They could have concerts called the Hartman Series featuring talent from both counties!”

That night Qwilleran wrote in his private journal:

There are times when I wish I had taken those piano lessons! I would have left the high-speed stuff to Joe and concentrated on numbers with crashing chords that would frighten the cats and knock the pictures off the walls.

For the next two weeks Qwilleran was busier than he’d ever been. When Mildred Riker asked, “Have you heard from Polly?” he replied, “Polly who?”

There were postcards from Paris, of course, but life in Pickax was challenging in many directions. The Library Hat Show alone had enlisted his attention in several ways: lining up Daisy Babcock, working with Bushy on prints, finding some lizard-print paper to cover a couple of hatboxes…and, yes, lining up G. Allen Barter for the K Fund donation of a Steingraeber grand piano to the music center, not to mention finding Frankie a new page turner and driver, giving a talk to the Senior Health Club on private journals, writing a play titledThe Cat Who Got Elected Dogcatcher. His Qwill Pen column had to come from the “trash barrel,” meaning bits and pieces of this and that that could appear fascinating to his readers. He hardly had time to feed the cats, let alone read to them from theWilson Quarterly.

Meanwhile, those stunning green postcards from Paris were arriving all over town, and recipients were talking about the beautiful river, all those bridges, the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, and especially the stray cats in the cemetery.

People said, “How come we don’t have stray cats in the cemetery?”…It was seen as a cultural deficiency, so citizens proposed a committee to promote it. Qwilleran tactfully declined their invitation to champion their cause with Koko as mascot.

THIRTEEN

Late Thursday afternoon, when Vivian had returned to Lockmaster and her precocious Caesar, Qwilleran felt the satisfaction of a job well done: the launching of a two-county effort and the discovery of yet another librarian with intelligence, vocabulary…and cats.

He phoned theMoose County Something and was connected with John Bushland in the darkroom.

“I have news!” Qwilleran said. “We’re going ahead with Thelma’s hat pix on matte mounts with easel backs…. Also, we need to cover a couple of hatboxes in the lizard print that Thelma used. Have you seen any lizard-skin print lately?”

“Frankly, I haven’t been looking.”

“It’s worth doing, even if we have to have an artist simulate it,” Qwilleran said.

“Janice may have some ideas. She may know an artist in California who produces lizard print,” Bushy added.

Qwilleran said, “If I can give you any menial help to expedite any of these things, I’m available. And don’t forget: Charge everything to the K Fund.”

Then it was back to the Qwill Pen until the caterwauling began again: It announced a truck coming through the Marconi Woods.

It pulled up at the kitchen door, announced by the cat ballet in the wide window. It was the Linguini truck, and Alfredo jumped out, reaching for a case of Squunk water.

Qwilleran went to meet him. “Hey, did I order that? I didn’t know I ordered any!”

“You didn’t. This is a present—from Daisy and me! There’s more, too!” Out came a carton of cat snacks and juices.

Fredo said, “Daisy and I appreciate everything you did to get her out of that hellhole.”

“She and the new job are perfect for each other…. How about you and Nick? Did you get roles in the new musical?”

“Yes, we’re doing Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer. Anytime you want to come and sing with us, you’re welcome at rehearsal. Have you done any singing? Your voice sounds like it.”

“Only in college, but I enjoyed it! Is the pianist back on the job?”