THE CAT WHO DROPPED A BOMBSHELL
LILIAN JACKSON BRAUN, 2006
Chapter 1
April was lovely that year! No blizzards. No hailstorms. No torrential rains with mud slides and power outages. Gentle night-time showers irrigated the potato fields of Moose County and freshened the peony gardens of Pickax City, the county seat.
It boded well for the sesquicentennial celebration of Pickax City, 400 miles north of everywhere. Plans were being made for parades, special events, and family reunions. Jim Qwilleran, columnist for the local newspaper who had spent the winter in a condo, was planning to move his household (two Siamese cats) back to his summer quarters in order to be closer to the action.
One evening he was lounging with his feet up, reading and eating apples, and the phone rang with that sound of urgency that sometimes happens.
The anguished voice on the line was that of Hixie Rice, the promotion director of the newspaper and chair-person of the Sesquicentennial Committee.
"Qwill! This is Hixie! Is it too late to come over for a minute?"
"Too late for what?"
"I've got a big problem!"
"Come along. Refreshments?"
"Not this time, thanks."
Hixie Rice lived in a nearby condo, and Qwilleran had barely time to gather up bachelor clutter: newspapers, apple cores, and items of clothing.
The woman who rang the bell was looking harried.
He waved her to a sofa, and she flopped down, tossing her shoulder-length hair and kicking off her shoes.
"Do you mind? I'm exhausted."
"Are you sure you won't have a glass of Squunk water, Hixie?"
"You twisted my arm."
At that moment two Siamese cats walked into the conversational circle.
"Hello, you beautiful creatures!" Hixie cried. They struck poses to show off their sleek fawn-colored fur, their seal-brown points, and blue eyes. She said, "Koko has such a masterful, intelligent expression, and Yum Yum so sweet and appealing . . . Forgive me, Yum Yum, if I sound sexist." For answer, the lively female jumped into Hixie's lap as light as a feather, while the male sat tall like an Egyptian sculpture.
There was something therapeutic about Qwilleran's manner. He was a tall, well-built middle-aged man with hair graying at the temples and an oversized pepper-and-salt moustache, but the sympathetic look in his brooding eyes and his willingness to listen to problems attracted individuals looking for help.
"How's everything going downtown?" he asked.
In exasperation she said, "I've just had a frustrating four-hour meeting with the PR committee assigned to find a name for the celebration, and we got nowhere! Qwill, try saying ?Pickax Sesquicentennial' three times, fast. Try saying it once! It's a horrible mouthful, and hardly anyone knows that it means a century and a half. We polled the man on the street. One joker thought it was ?sexy-centennial.' We've been working on the problem for weeks, without any luck.
"The scruffy little town of Brrr celebrated their bicentennial with a ?Brrr 200' logo that was perfect for posters and T-shirts, and someone suggested ?Pickax 150' but we'd cancel the whole show rather than copy them! All they have in that town is a harbour, a soccer team, and the Hotel Booze! In Pickax, thanks to the K Fund, we have cultural, medical, and education facilities that--"
She stopped for breath, and at that moment Koko delivered an ear-splitting "Yow-w-w!" His bedtime snack was twenty minutes late!
"That's it!" Hixie cried. "That's the answer! The name of our celebration! Pickax Now! . . . Thank you, Koko! I'll see that you get full credit!"
"No! No!" Qwilleran protested. "Just say that the answer came to you in a dream."
The next day the name of the forthcoming celebration was flashed across the front page of the Moose County Something, with Hixie Rice crediting a member of her committee who wished to remain anonymous. Only to her friends did she admit that the name came to her in a dream.
Qwilleran first heard the "convenient myth" from his next-door neighbour. He and Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist, occupied adjoining condos in Indian Village, an upscale residential complex on the north edge of Pickax.
"Hey, Qwill! How'd you like the news! They've found a name for the celebration, and it's a terrific one. It's going to fire up local enthusiasm. Folks have been dragging their feet over the sesquicentennial thing. And do you know what? ?Pickax Now' came to Hixie in a dream, although she's hushing it up!"
"Is that so?" Qwilleran remarked.
"Yeah, she's one terrific gal! Well, I've got to go to the station and see if the piano's in tune. So long!"
Wetherby (real name: Joe Bunker) entertained his weather listeners by singing "Stormy Weather," or" Sunshine of Your Smile," or" Blue Skies."
There had been a reason why Pickax could not, or would not, emulate the clever slogan of Brrr's anniversary. It was a matter of pride, trivial though it might seem to outsiders. Pickax was bigger, but Brrr was older. The antagonism was felt even at soccer games, after which fans always rioted - that is, until the sheriff started attending with his dog.
It all started circa 1850 when the first settlers arrived in sailing ships and made camp on the shore of a natural harbour.
They called it Burr, a good Scottish name. When a sign painter made a mistake on an official sign, spelling it Brrr - since it was the coldest spot in the area - the residents, with good pioneer humour, decided to keep it.
Fifty years later, when the territory became a county, the town of Brrr expected to be the seat of government, but the founding fathers were obliged to look ahead and choose a central location for the county seat.
Now comes the romantic part. The government surveyors assigned to choose a site happened upon a rusty pickax wedged in a tree stump at a point where two trails crossed. And that is how the county seat became known as Pickax City. The historic artifact that inspired the name was now exhibited in the city council chamber.
But that was way back when. There were great accomplishments to celebrate in Pickax Now !
Qwilleran also heard the "handy myth" from Polly Duncan, the chief woman in his life. She lived in a condo three doors away, but they ended each day with an eleven PM tête-à-tête by phone.
She had recently exchanged a career as director of the public library for a new challenge as manager of a bookstore. Both jobs made one privy to the latest rumours, and Polly always passed them on to Qwilleran. He himself was not prone to gossip, but he had no compunctions about listening, especially if the scuttlebutt came from an impeccable source, such as Polly.
On this phone chat she said, "Everyone's delighted with the name of the celebration! It was said to be the result of a committee brainstorming, but there is a rumour that it came to Hixie Rice in a dream, and I tend to believe it. How about you, Qwill?"
Astutely he replied, "The important thing is what not how. The name puts an auspicious slant on the celebration."
"You're so right, dear. . . . What do you think I should wear to Mildred's dinner on Sunday? If the weather continues nice, she might serve on the deck."
"If she does or if she doesn't, I'd like to see you in your new blue pantsuit."
Blue enhanced the freshness of her complexion, the sparkle in her eyes, and the silvery glints in her well-coiffed hair, which may or may not be attributed to her belief in broccoli, leafy green salads, and a banana a day.
"Eat your broccoli," she would remind Qwilleran when they dined out.
"Are you taking anything to the party, Qwill?"