The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell полностью

"I've just made some fresh coffee, Thorn. Why don't you trot up here."

The visitor admired the cats, praised the coffee, had some good words to say about Hawthorne.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense," Qwilleran said.

"Do you know the Kennebeck Knitter?"

"She's doing a sweater for me."

"Do you know about her predictions?"

Qwilleran said, "Don't tell me the next parade is going to be rained out! Gil MacMurchie will have a stroke."

"Worse than that! Her predictions have always been about natural disasters. Before the last parade, she foresaw man-made crimes for the first time and she still sees it. Shooting and poisoning! She's not talkin' about BB guns and tainted potato salad, but real crime! Man-made, not weather-made!"

"Hmmm," Qwilleran mused. What could he say?

Thorn said, "Well, they're doing a new show at the gallery. They need me to climb the ladder. Thanks for the coffee."

Chapter 9

While Qwilleran waited for a calamity to prove his theory, that everything was going too well forPickax Now (he was right, of course, but proof would come later), Clarissa arrived, as reported in his private journal.

Tuesday - Clarissa has arrived.

No fuss, no muss. She's a real newswoman - independent; knows her way around; no need for welcoming assistance. Her curls and dimples are misleading.

So we learn that she and Jerome and luggage arrived by plane, then drove an airport rental car to the Winston Park apartments, where she had reserved a unit by phone. Her first consideration was to stock up on cat food and litter for Jerome's commode, which apparently came with them from California, althoughhow is not quite clear.

Although not due to report until next week, she went to the paper and introduced herself, shaking hands, lining up a desk in the feature department and even accepting an assignment for Monday morning. I'd say she's off to a good start. Joe Bunker just called to say he's giving a pizza party for our blond bombshell on Sunday night.

Qwilleran was not surprised to receive a phone call from Wetherby. "She's here! She's here!"

He replied with sly punctilio. "To whom are you referring?"

"You know who I mean! And I'm giving a pizza party for her Sunday night. Could you pick her up? She has an apartment at Winston Park."

"Am I invited to the party, or am I employed to do chauffeur service?"

"You're not only invited, you donkey, but I expect you to contribute to the entertainment. How about reciting some of your cat limericks?"

"If you'll play ?Kitten on the Keys' without exceeding the speed limit."

Following this good-old-boy repartee, Qwilleran phoned Clarissa to make arrangements. "I hope you like pizza," he said.

"Doesn't everyone? What time?"

"Six-thirty. Come as you are."

"Will you come in for a minute to say hello to Jerome? He's dying to meet you."

"Sure . . . but tell him not to dress up. His old blue fur will do."

Qwilleran had other things on his mind besides Wetherby's pizza party. He had two columns to write for the "Qwill Pen" . . . perform another Sunday matinee of The Big Burning (three down and only ten to go) . . . make an appearance at a family reunion . . . and keep his own family well fed and happy. If the Siamese felt neglected, they had succinct ways of expressing their displeasure.

So he cubed some meat loaf from Robin O'Dell Catering and arranged it attractively on two plates. While they dined, he entertained them with an impromptu parody of Gelett Burgess's wacky verse:

I've never seen a purple cat.

I never hope to see one.

But you can bet your breakfast that

I'd rather see than be one.

His listeners regarded him in perplexity, as if questioning his sanity. Their catly psyche was not being pricked.