The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

Qwilleran ended his Tuesday column with a few “Famous Last Words” submitted by readers. These folk gems of humor arrived in the mailroom of theSomething —on government postcards. Reader participation was a healthy sign for a small-town paper, and the “Famous Last Words” obviously came from all walks of life. Almost all were printable, and the best would be published in book form, it was promised, with proceeds going to some worthy cause. The latest were:

“My new kitten is adorable…and they assure me he’s housebroken.”

“I haven’t had a drink for five years…so it won’t hurt to have a little nip.”

“My dog likes to play rough…and he never bites!”

“I’m sorry, Officer…I thought I had the green light.”

When Qwilleran delivered his Tuesday copy to the office of theSomething, he walked down the long hall of the building and could hear the editor in chief shouting behind closed doors. It was the kind of angry shouting that is usually accompanied by waving arms. There was no clue as to which staff member was getting a roasting.

Qwilleran stopped in the food editor’s office. “What did you give your husband for breakfast, Mildred?”

“Tell you later! I’m on deadline!” She waved him away.

“What happened?” Qwilleran asked one of the reporters.

“Clarissa Moore went home to Indiana to attend a funeral, and this morning she sent a wire: She’s not coming back! Arch is wild, and I don’t blame him,” the reporter said. “For a J student right out of college, she got a lot of breaks here.”

Qwilleran had done his part to encourage the novice, and although she was agood feature writer, she was hardly good enough to be forgiven for such cavalier behavior.

Qwilleran asked, “Does anyone know if she took her cat? If she took Jerome, she knew she was going for good; otherwise, she would have left him in her apartment with her neighbors.” He made a mental note to ask Judd Amhurst at the Winston Park apartments.

He disliked unanswered questions.

Deadline for the Tuesday Qwill Pen was twelve noon, and Qwilleran filed his copy with the managing editor according to custom—not late, but not too early either.

Junior Goodwinter glanced at the transcript and rang for the copy boy, and said, “Do you know a feature writer we could hire? Jill Handley won’t be back from maternity leave for a few months.”

“How about running a series of guest features? Make it sound like an honor instead of an emergency, and they’ll be vying for the privilege. For their cooperation you can make a contribution to their favorite charity. It would be invitational, of course. I can think of a dozen names without even trying. Bill Turmeric, Dr. Abernathy, Mavis Adams, Dr. Connie Cosgrove, Wetherby Goode, Thornton Haggis, Judd Amhurst, Polly Duncan—”

“Stop! I think it might work!”

“Whannell MacWhannell,” Qwilleran went on. “His wife, the astrologer. Silas Dingwall. Maggie Sprenkle can write about the animal welfare program….”

“How about setting it up for us?” Junior asked.

Qwilleran said, “I’m a columnist, I don’t do setup.”

Qwilleran went home to give the cats their noontime treat and consider his own problem: how to write a column on the Old Manse for Friday’s Qwill Pen.

His pet theory about the Manse and the Hawthorne book remained to be tested, and the sooner the better. The attorney had been frank about the mansion’s personnel, but it wouldn’t hurt to get a second opinion.

Maggie and her late husband had owned the estate adjoining the Ledfields’. They had dined together frequently, and Maggie could probably give him some tips.

Qwilleran phoned Maggie and was offered: a nice cup of tea! He said he would come up right away. (Someday the Qwill Pen would address the question of tea—and the difference between an ordinary cup of tea and a nice one.)

He biked to the rear of the Sprenkle Building and was admitted to the small elevator lobby, just large enough for his British Silverlight.

The upstairs apartment—over the insurance and real estate offices—was of Victorian splendor. The five front windows were occupied by Maggie’s five “ladies” from the animal shelter. Tea was ready to be poured.

After the niceties, Qwilleran broached his idea for the Old Manse column. She thought it was splendid.

He stated his case, and the practical octogenarian said, “I never heard Nathan claim a connection between his grandfather and the author…but he neverdisclaimed one either!”

“Mr. Barter advised me to arrange an appointment with Miss James or Miss Babcock.”

She paused significantly. “I think…you would find Daisy Babcock…amenable to your idea. She’s a lovely girl. Alma Lee is a little…starchy,although I must admit she’s an encyclopedia of information on Georgian silver and eighteenth-century crystal. She’s not there every day, so you have to make an appointment. She spends three days a week in Lockmaster, where her parents have a gallery of art and antiques.”

She said more, but Qwilleran had made up his mind to choose Daisy. He said, “The Ledfields have been very generous to the community.”