The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

“Let’s do it again!” Wetherby said, and the party ended without the playing of the Ledfield recordings.

The pocket-size gift that Barbara had brought Qwilleran from Cananda temporarily disappeared during the move to the Willows—but reappeared appropriately in a pocket of his coat. It was a tape recording of a jazz combo with swaggering syncopation that churned his blood and revived memories. The Siamese also reacted favorably. Their ears twitched, they sprang at each other, grappled, kicked, and otherwise had a good time.

When Qwilleran checked in at the bookstore that week, Judd Amhurst sermonized on the Literary Club problem: “The time has come for forgetting about lecturers from Down Below who have to be paid and then cancel at the last minute. We can stage our own programs!”

“Good! Never liked Proust anyway! What do you have in mind?”

“More member participation? Remember how Homer Tibbitt likedLasca? Lyle Compton likes ‘The Highwayman’ by Alfred Noyes, early twentieth century.”

“Favorite of mine, too. He was an athlete, and there’s an athletic vigor in his poetry.”

“Lyle says there’s a cops-and-robbers flavor to the story.”

“And the poet has a forceful way of repeating words.”

Qwilleran quoted: “‘He rode with a jeweled twinkle…His pistol butts a-twinkle…His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.’”

Dundee came running and wrapped himself around Qwilleran’s ankle.

In Pickax, Qwilleran’s annual move from barn to condo was as well known as the Fourth of July parade. The printers ran off a hundred announcements, and students addressed the envelopes. Mrs. McBee made a winter supply of chocolate chip cookies. Friends, neighbors, fellow newsmen, and business associates were properly notified. And on moving day, the Siamese went and hid.

Nevertheless, the move was always successfully accomplished, and Qwilleran’s household was relocated for another six months.

EIGHTEEN

That night Qwilleran wrote in his private journal:

It’s good to get back to the country quiet of the condo. I had Chief Brodie in for a nightcap before leaving, and he said he would keep an eye on the barn. I returned the Ledfield recording to Maggie Sprenkle and had my last nice cup of tea for a while. I’ve decided “nice” is a euphemism for “weak,” bless her soul.

And there was a message from Daisy Babcock on the machine: “Qwill, sorry to bother you but I’ve discovered a disturbing situation at the office, and Fredo said I should ask you to look at it. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

NINETEEN

Unanswered questions always made Qwilleran nervous, and he slept poorly after receiving Daisy’s message. The Siamese slept very well. After living in the round for six months, they gladly adjusted to the straight walls and square corners of the condo. The units were open plan, with bedrooms off the balcony and a two-story wall of glass overlooking the open deck and the creek. In front of the fireplace, two cushiony sofas faced each other across a large cocktail table on a deep shag rug. It would make a good landing pad for an airborne Siamese, dropping in from the balcony railing.

Qwilleran told them to be good, and their innocent expressions convinced him that a naughty impulse never entered their sleek heads.

The distance to downtown Pickax was longer than that from the barn, and so Qwilleran drove, parking behind the auditorium. Walking around to the front of the building, he bowed and saluted to greetings and the usual question: “How’s Koko, Mr. Q?”

When he arrived at Daisy’s office upstairs, the hallway was piled with empty cartons waiting for the trash collection. Her door was open. There were more boxes inside. Daisy was on the phone. She waved him in and pointed to a chair. She was speaking to her husband.

“Fredo, Qwill has arrived, so I’ll talk to you later.”

Qwilleran was reminded of the Box Bank at the Old Manse: cartons, clothing boxes, hatboxes, and shoe boxes.

Daisy’s greeting was “Excuse the mess. Throw something off a chair seat and sit down.” She jumped up and closed the door to the hallway.

“I see you finally moved out,” he said lamely. “It looks as if you raided the Box Bank.”

“I had accumulated so many things—clothing for all seasons, beautiful books that the Ledfields had given me, magazines we subscribed to and couldn’t bear to throw away, and desk drawers full of pens, pencils, cosmetics, all kinds of personal items. The women at the Manse brought me boxes, and I just dumped things in them. It was Alma’s day off, and I wanted to get out to avoid a scene.”

“I can understand,” he murmured.

She handed him a shoe box. “Open this and tell me what you see. Don’t touch.”

He did as told, and asked, “Is it toothpaste?” The fat tube was lying facedown, showing only fine print on the back.

“It’s the missing bee kit! No one else in the Manse had ever had one. Someone must have sneaked it from Libby’s jacket and tossed it into the Box Bank, perhaps expecting to retrieve it later and blame Libby for carelessness. Who knows? Fredo said you’d know what to do.”