The Cat Who Talked Turkey полностью

Why did I order pork for dinner? Why did I ever consider that mercenary prima donna for my Great Storm show? And why did I commission her to do research—and give her fifty dollars on faith? It’s pure conceit on my part to want to know Koko’s background. As for that smart cat, he doesn’t care a whit whether he’s descended from a royal household in ancient Siam or from a computer, as long as he gets two squares a day, a couple of snacks, grooming with a silver-backed brush, and plenty of entertainment!

The call from California came around noon on Monday, reporting the arrival time of Simmons’s flight the following Saturday.

“Good! I’ll pick you up at the airport,” Qwilleran said. “We’ll drop your luggage at the barn, and you’ll have time to change into something for the wedding dinner.”

“Any suggestions for a wedding present?”

“Not a waffle iron!” Qwilleran winced at the roar of laughter in his ear. “They’ll be living in Thelma’s house, which is completely furnished and equipped, as you know.”

“Something else, Qwill. When I worked in Thelma’s dinner club as a security guard disguised as a friendly host, some peculiar things happened, and I jotted them down in a notebook. I don’t pretend to be a writer, and it’s just a school notebook, but I thought of wrapping it up and giving it to Janice. It’ll bring back memories.”

“Excellent idea, Simmons, but you should keep a copy for yourself.”

“Okay. I’ll take it out and have it copied.”

“No! Bring it along. I have a copier.”

Qwilleran was curious to see the notebook himself; it might have possibilities.

“Will do, Qwill! See you soon.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Chiefly Qwilleran was looking forward to having frank discussions with Simmons, on subjects avoided in a small town. Even with his close friends, Polly and Arch, he practiced self-censorship.

Qwilleran drove to Boulder House Inn with a signed copy of Short & Tall Tales for Silas Dingwall, who had contributed a hackle-raising legend titled “The Mystery of Dank Hollow.” The innkeeper was elated to see his name in print in a book—and his words verbatim. Actually, he was a practiced storyteller, gathering his guests around the craggy fireplace on a cold night and telling ghost stories that had been in his family for generations and rum-running tales that he swore were true.

Qwilleran said to Dingwall, “While I’m here, let’s discuss the wedding dinner. All expenses go on my credit card. There’ll be three couples, plus one surprise guest from California. Where will you seat us?”

“Ah! We have a glassed-in porch upstairs, for privacy and a view of the lake. And it has an oval table that can be laid with a handsome banquet cloth!”

“Sounds ideal! Let me explain the surprise guest,” Qwilleran said.

Dingwall, who enjoyed a little intrigue, said, “We’ll hide him in the office until the proper moment. We’ll give him a drink—on the house—while he’s waiting.”

Jovially, Qwilleran said, “I should tell you, Silas, he is the son of a revenue agent.”

“I don’t care who he’s the son of—if he’s your friend, he’s welcome here!”

“I’d like to order flowers for the table. Any suggestions?”

“Only this. Two low bowls of something instead of one tall arrangement. We use a fine white tablecloth that makes a handsome background for any flowers you choose.”

“I’d like Mrs. Duncan to decide on the flowers. May I use your phone?” He called the library and posed the question.

“Lilies!” she said. “Definitely lilies! They’re the most extroverted of blossoms, and without the long stems, they have a very appealing personality. And they come in all colors. It would depend greatly on what colors the bride and her attendant are wearing. Do you happen to know?”

“No, I don’t happen to know,” Qwilleran said, rather testily. More softly he added, “Would you be good enough to call Janice and Sharon MacGillivray and find out?”

“Be glad to,” she said. “Then I’ll know what to wear.”

Qwilleran turned to Dingwall. “It’s more complicated than I thought. The florist will deliver the flowers to you Saturday morning.”

All the way home from the lakeshore, Qwilleran tried to devise an idea for his Tuesday “Qwill Pen” column. It would have to be original, worthwhile, thought-provoking, entertaining, and easy to write. Nothing came to mind. That meant resorting to another book review.

“Book!” he shouted as he walked into the barn, and Koko soared from the floor to the top shelf and dislodged a slender book that Qwilleran had purchased because it was written by the author of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Sadly, neither man nor cat had enjoyed it, and it had been relegated to the shelf. Why did the bibliocat draw attention to it again? Koko never did anything without a reason.

Qwilleran packed the tote bag with cats, refreshments, and the paperback copy of The Hunting of the Snark. He said, “We all need some fresh air.”