The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers by Lilian Jackson Braun

getting late, and he saw Rhoda glance at her wristwatch. They returned to Ittibittiwassee Estates.

SEVEN
    Expecting Polly home for Sunday brunch, Qwilleran biked downtown early for the Sunday New York Times, unloading such sections as Fashion & Style, Business, Sports, and Classifieds. Otherwise, it would not fit in the basket of his British Silverlight. There were always fellow citizens who were glad to get his leavings.
    By the time he returned to the barn, Koko was doing his contortions in the kitchen window, meaning there was a message on the machine.
    It would be Polly, he knew, announcing her arrival and making plans for the day…. Instead, when Qwilleran pressed the button, the voice was that of Wetherby Goode: “This is Joe. Polly called and asked me to give her cats their breakfast. She said to tell you she won’t be home till late afternoon.”
    Qwilleran fortified himself with a cup of coffee and dialed the weatherman. He said, “Appreciate the message, Joe. Did she mention what was happening in that jungle down there?”
    â€œJust what I was going to ask you, pal.”
    â€œShe went to a dinner last night, leaving her cats on the automatic feeder and expecting to drive back this morning for the usual Sunday activities. No telling what changed her mind.”
    â€œAnything can happen south of the border.”
    â€œYou should know, Joe.” (He was a native of Horseradish down there.) “Polly went to a birthday party for a friend who was library director of Lockmaster but left to manage the family bookstore.”
    â€œSure, I know the store. Bestbooks. It’s been there forever. Why weren’t you invited?”
    â€œI was, but I declined. They play guessing games at their parties.”
    â€œI know what you mean….”
    â€œStop in for a snort on your way to your broadcast tomorrow and I’ll fill you in—on who won.”
    Â 
    During this conversation, the Siamese had sat side by side, quietly awaiting developments. He gave them a good brushing with the silver-backed hairbrush…then played a few rounds of the necktie game…then announced, “Read!” Koko leaped to the bookshelf and knocked down Portrait of a Lady. It had more gilt on the spine, he observed, than others that had come in the last purchase.
    The first chapter was interrupted by the phone—and the comfortable voice of Mildred Riker, inviting him to an afternoon repast with the Rikers. “But I can’t find Polly,” she said. “She wasn’t at church.”
    â€œShe’s out of town,” Qwilleran explained.
    â€œThen you come, and I’ll invite someone from the neighborhood.”
    When he arrived an hour later, he was glad to see Hixie Rice, promotion director for the Something.
    â€œWhere’s Polly?” she asked.
    â€œIn Lockmaster—probably up to no good. Where’s Dwight?”
    â€œIn the same place, probably for the same reason.”
    Drinks were served on the deck. They talked about the Old Hulk. The Scottish community was prepared to underwrite a new building. Volunteer carpenters, electricians, and painters were offering their services, proud to have their names on an honor roll in the lobby of the building.
    The meal was served indoors, as usual.
    Mildred said, “I envy Qwill’s screened gazebo. He can serve outdoors, and the cats can be out there without leashes.”
    After dessert (peach cobbler with crème fraîche and pecans) the two men entertained with their favorite topic: growing up in Chicago. Hixie had not heard the story before.
    Mildred said, “Tell about summer camp.”
    The oft-told tale went like this:
    QWILL : “My father died before I was born, and so Mr. Riker functioned as dad for both of us—taking us to the zoo and parades, giving advice, discussing our report cards, getting us out of scrapes.”
    ARCH : “One year he decided we should go to summer camp