The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

To Earl, my other half—for his husbandly love, encouragement, and help in a hundred ways.

 

To my research assistant, Shirley Bradley—for her expertise and enthusiasm.

 

To Becky Faircloth, my office assistant—who's always there when I need her.

 

To my editor, Natalee Rosenstein—for her faith in
The Cat Who
…from the very beginning.

 

To my literary agent, Blanche C. Gregory, Inc.—for a lifetime of agreeable partnership.

 

To the real-life Kokos and Yum Yums—for their fifty years of inspiration.

Overheard at an alfresco party in Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere:

 

WOMAN IN BLUE SHETLAND SWEATER:
“I have never heard of such a thing! And I've been a veterinarian for twenty years!”

 

MAN WITH LARGE MOUSTACHE:
“What can I say? I counted them myself.”

 

WOMAN:
“You might have miscounted.”

 

MAN:
“Would you like to count them yourself? If I'm right, you can report the evidence to a scientific journal. If I'm wrong, I'll take you to dinner at the Mackintosh Inn.”

 

WOMAN:
“Fair enough! We'll do it the next time you bring him in for a dental prophylaxis.”

The man with the large moustache (a well-groomed pepper and salt) was Jim Qwilleran, columnist for the
Moose County Something
and transplant from Down Below, as locals called the metropolitan areas to the south. They themselves, for the most part, were descended from the early settlers, and they had inherited the pioneer fortitude, sense of humor, and appreciation of individuality.

They enjoyed the Qwill Pen column that ran twice weekly…accepted the fact that he lived alone in a converted apple barn, with two cats…and admired his magnificent moustache.

James Mackintosh Qwilleran had entertained several ambitions in his youth Down Below: first to play second base with the Chicago Cubs, then to act on the Broadway stage, and later to write for the
New York Times.
He had certainly never wanted to be the richest individual in the northeast central United States! How it happened was a tale “stranger than fiction.”

“Aunt Fanny” Klingenschoen probably knew what she was doing when she made him her sole heir.

Qwilleran established a philanthropic organization: the Klingenschoen Foundation, which went to work improving the quality of life in Moose County. Medical, scholastic, cultural, and infrastructural improvements were made possible by the K Fund, as it was known to one and all.

To everyone's surprise, other old-moneyed families were inspired to put their fortunes to work for the public good. A music center, two museums, and a senior recreation facility were in the works.

Everything's going too smoothly, Qwilleran thought, with the pessimism of a seasoned newsman. “What's your fix on the situation, Arch?” he asked his old friend from Chicago.

Arch Riker was now editor in chief of the
Something.
He shook his head morosely. “When there's so much money floating around, somebody's gonna get greedy.”

(Visitors from far and wide—in formal attire—had paid five hundred dollars a ticket for a preview of the mansion, called the Old Manse.)

 

It was a late evening in August. Qwilleran and the cats had been enjoying a cozy evening in the barn. He had read to them from the
Wall Street Journal,
and they all had a little ice cream.

The barn was an octagonal structure of fieldstone and weathered shingles more than a century old. Indoors, all the old wood surfaces and overhead rafters had been bleached to a honey color, and odd-shaped windows had been cut in the walls.

Where once there had been lofts for storing apples, now there was a ramp winding around the interior, with balconies at three levels.

Later in the evening, the Siamese deserted the reading area and chased each other up and down the ramp, then dropped like flying squirrels onto the sofa on the main floor. The living areas were open-plan, surrounding a huge fireplace cube, its stacks rising to the roof forty feet overhead.

It was almost eleven
P
.
M
., and Koko and Yum Yum were being unduly attentive; it was time for their bedtime snack.

Proceeding in slow motion, to tantalize the anxious cats, he rattled the canisters of Kabibbles and dusted off their two plates with exaggerated care. They watched hungrily. Koko appeared to be breathing heavily.

Suddenly Koko switched his attention to the wall phone that hung between the kitchen window and the back door. He stared at it for a minute, twitching his ears nervously.

Qwilleran got the message. By some catly intuition, Koko knew the phone was going to ring. After a few seconds it rang. How did that smart cat know? Guessing that it would be Polly Duncan, the chief woman in his life, Qwilleran answered in a facetiously syrupy voice: “Good evening!”

“Well! You sound in a good mood,” she said in the gentle voice he knew so well. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing much. What are you doing?”

“Shortening my new dress a couple of inches.”

“Whoo-ee!”

Ignoring the comic wolf whistle, she went on, “It's much too long, and I thought I'd wear it with some Scottish accessories Sunday afternoon, since the party's celebrating Dr. Connie's return from Scotland. Would you consider wearing your Highland attire, Qwill?”

Although he had once rebelled at wearing what he called a “skirt,” he now felt proud in a Mackintosh kilt with a dagger in his knee sock. After all, his mother had been a Mackintosh.

“What was Connie doing in Scotland? Do you know?”

“She earned her degree from the veterinary school in Glasgow twenty years ago, and she goes back to visit friends. Did you know her cat has been boarding with Wetherby?”

“No! How does he get along with Jet Stream?”

“Connie introduced them when Bonnie Lassie was a kitten, and now Jet Stream acts like her big brother. And,” she went on, “Connie brought Joe a lovely Shetland sweater as a thank-you for boarding Bonnie Lassie.

“Do you realize, Qwill, that the Shetland archipelago, where the wool comes from, has a hundred islands!…A hundred islands!” she repeated when he failed to respond.

“It boggles the mind,” he said absently, watching the Siamese trying to get into the Kabibbles canister.

“Well, anyway, I thought you'd like to hear the latest.
À bientôt,
dear.”

“À bientôt.”

After the Siamese had finished their bedtime repast and their washing up, Qwilleran escorted them up the ramp to their quarters on the top balcony. They looked around as if they had never seen it before, then hopped into their respective baskets and turned around three times before settling down.

Cats. Who can understand them? Qwilleran thought, as he quietly closed their door.

Returning to his desk at ground level, he wrote about it in his private journal. He was a compulsive writer! When not turning out a thousand words for the Qwill Pen column, he was writing a biography or history of interest in Moose County. And he always filled a couple of pages in his private journal. On this occasion, he wrote: