Dear Mr. Q…I think Koko did it…which he was hanging around, looking naughty. I told him he was a bad cat which he ran away. He never broke anything before….
Yours truly…Mrs. Fulgrove
Just as Qwilleran was beginning to suspect Koko of anti-Scottish tendencies, all of a sudden he witnessed a third misdemeanor. He saw Koko tear the cover of a book Polly had given him. It was only a paperback, but it was twentieth-century poems that they both enjoyed.
He thought, That cat is trying to tell me something. Does he think she should not have left Brutus and Catta with strangers? Who knows what enters his feline mind? The cats are probably eating better at Pet Plaza than they ever did at home.
FIFTEEN
And then Polly dropped a bombshell!
Dearest Qwill,
I have thrilling news, and I know you’ll be excited for me. Steven has come over to escort Shirley home, and I’m staying here for a while!
An American firm with offices in Paris advertised for a librarian to handle their commercial library, which is extensive.
I applied and was given a three-year contract! Can you believe it? It’s technical, but I’m a fast learner. I simply can’t believe my good fortune!
I’m notifying Dr. Connie to find a good home for Brutus and Catta, preferably together. And I’m asking Mildred to conduct a house sale and sell everything of mine to benefit the church. It’s not very good stuff, having belonged to my in-laws for ages before I got it. I can buy all new things when I return.
I’ll miss dining out with you and the musicals at the barn.
Love,
Polly
Qwilleran phoned Dr. Connie to inquire about Brutus and Catta and learned they were living it up at the Pet Plaza and might never want to leave.
He read Polly’s letter again to see if he had misunderstood. It was perfectly clear. He told himself he had been the recipient of a “Dear John” letter for the first time in his life…. Perhaps he had been too complacent…they had been “together,” so to speak, for a long time!
The Siamese hovered around. They knew something was wrong.
It soon appeared that Polly had notified everyone. Always businesslike and thorough, she had sent news releases to theSomething andLedger, resulting in front-page coverage. The headlines also started the gossip mills grinding.
At Toodle’s Market: Did you know she spoke French?…She went to college Down East. Her family’s not from around here…. Her father was a professor…. She married a student from Moose County; that’s how she landed here.
At the drugstore: Did you know she was a widow from way back? Her husband was a volunteer fireman killed while fighting a barn fire…. Wonder why she never remarried…. She went to work in the Pickax library; that’s what she was trained for. But she never remarried.
At Lois’s Luncheonette: Looks like his girlfriend ran out on him…. He won’t have any trouble getting a replacement.
At the post office: She went to our church. He never came with her, but he was a generous giver…. No wonder! With all that money he has to pay tax on!…I’d gladly pay the tax if I had all that dough!
And now everyone was phoning Qwilleran…neighbors at the condo…bookstore crew…Polly’s hairdresser…. No one knew that she was fluent in French. People thought that the French magazine that was always on her coffee table was only stage dressing, so to speak.
Qwilleran hurried to the bookstore and had a conference with Judd Amhurst; no problem there, other than shock….
The Rikers invited him to dinner—alone—and he declined, saying he had a deadline in connection with his next book….
In the days that followed, Qwilleran, who had once trained for the stage, acted as if nothing had happened.
Still, at elevenP .M., he found himself thinking: Let’s face it. Everyone needs a late-night phone pal.
“…What are you doing? Did you have a good day?…What did the vet say about Catta’s stomach upset?…Where would you like to have dinner Saturday night?…I finished reading my book. I wouldn’t recommend it. Well, let me know about the plumber’s decision….À bientôt. ”
Then Qwilleran pulled a few strings.
Polly’s unit at the Willows was up for lease; Barbara Honiger had mentioned that it would be nice living closer to town. Both Joe Bunker and Dr. Connie thought an attorney would be an asset to the Willows.
Qwilleran looked up a phone number.
“Good evening, Barbara,” he said in his mellifluous voice. “I hear you’re moving into the Willows! We couldn’t hope for a better addition. Is there anything I can do to expedite your move?”
The Willows celebrated the arrival of Barbara Honiger’s cat, Molasses, with…not another pizza party but…a catered meal by the Mackintosh Inn, delivered by a busboy in a chef’s tall toque.
Toasts were drunk to the new neighbor. She showed snapshots of Molasses, her marmalade. They were a congenial group. Joe Bunker played “Kitten on the Keys” very fast. He said he had just had his piano tuned. Barbara was impressed by Joe’s high-speed performance at the piano. Dr. Connie gave the newcomer a token gift from Scotland, a Shetland-wool scarf. Qwilleran invited them to a performance of the musicalCats.
With a commanding stance and a grand gesture, Qwilleran declared, “I consider it significant that Shakespeare made no mention of newspaper columnists in his vast work…or of veterinarians or meteorologists. But he mentions attorneys!”
There were cries of “Who? Where? Which play?”
“In act two ofHenry VI, Part II …‘First thing we do…we kill all the lawyers’!”
The festivities lasted longer than the usual pizza party; the hotel had sent over four courses. Dr. Connie showed the movie of her trip to Scotland. Joe’s piano playing seemed particularly brilliant.
Barbara asked Qwilleran, “Is that portrait of Lady Mackintosh in the hotel lobby your mother?”
“Yes. Amazingly, it was done by a local artist who’d never met her or seen her photo. He was merely told she resembled Greer Garson. Yet the portrait doesn’t look like a movie star; she looks like my mother.”
Joe said, “I should have him do a portrait of my father—a horseradish farmer with a moustache and glasses. He looked like Teddy Roosevelt.”
Qwilleran accompanied the women to their units and went in to say hello to the new cat on the block.
Barbara owned one of Moira MacDiarmid’s cats. “Or he owns me. He’s in the deepest tawny tone like a molasses cookie, so I named him Molasses, and he seems to like it.”
Qwilleran noted that his markings, tilted over one eye, gave him the jaunty look of a soldier.
He sang an old military tune: “There’s something about Molasses, there’s something about Molasses, there’s something about Molasses that is fine, fine, fine.”
Molasses fell over sideways—an expression of approval, Barbara said.
When he returned to the barn, the Siamese greeted him with that reproachful stare that meant their bedtime snack was late.
That evening, instead of waiting for the call that never came, Qwilleran made one of his own—to Wetherby Goode. “Joe. Great party! Great music!”
“Yeah, you can always tell when old Betsey has been tuned. I pound the ivories so hard, she has to be tuned four times a year. It has something to do with the felts and the hammers. Don’t ask me what!”
“Really? Who does it?”
“Young guy in Lockmaster.”
Qwilleran asked, “Would Dr. Feltzanhammer make a good story for the Qwill Pen?”
“I don’t know. He’s young and kind of shy. But he’s likable.”
“I’ll give it a try. Before interviewing anyone on an esoteric subject, I read all about it in the encyclopedia, so I know what questions to ask and what he’s talking about. What are felts and hammers? My mother was a brilliant pianist, and she never mentioned felts and hammers.”