When the conversation ended, Qwilleran said to the housekeeper, "The English language has six hundred thousand words. Koko has only two, but he gets more music and meaning out of 'yow' and 'ik' than some of our learned friends get out of the whole dictionary."
"That Lori certainly has a way with cats," Mrs. Cobb said with a trace of envy.
"If Lori had lived in Salem three hundred years ago, she would have been burned at the stake."
The housekeeper looked saddened. "I don't think Koko likes me."
"Why do you say that, Mrs. Cobb?"
"He never talks to me or purrs or comes to be petted."
"Siamese," Qwilleran began, clearing his throat and selecting his words carefully, "are less demonstrative than other breeds, and Koko in particular is not a lap cat, although I'm sure he likes you."
"Yum Yum rubs against my ankles when I'm cooking and jumps on my lap sometimes. She's a very sweet kitty."
"Koko is less emotional and more cerebral," Qwilleran explained. "He has his own attributes and personality, and we have to understand him and accept him for what he is. He may not make a fuss over you, but he respects you and appreciates the wonderful food you prepare."
He extricated himself from this ticklish dialogue with a sense of relief. Koko had alienated more than one woman of his acquaintance, and a standoff between a temperamental cat and a superlative housekeeper was much to be avoided.
From the library he telephoned the sheriff's office, and within a half hour there was a brown uniform at the back door.
"Sheriff's department, sir," said the deputy. "Got a report on the radio about your property east of Mooseville. No RV in your woods, sir, although there were recent tire tracks and a couple of empty cigarette packs. He buried the butts, so he knows something about camping. They were Canadian cigarettes. We get a lot of Canadian tourists here. No sign of poaching. No break-in or vandalism at your cabin. Gun season starts tomorrow, sir. If you don't want trespassers with rifles, you ought to have your property posted."
The day wore on. The weather held. Excitement mounted. Mrs. Cobb put sugar in the soup and salt in the applesauce. Koko's tail was stepped on twice.
At seven o'clock every light in the mansion was turned on. Eighty tall narrow windows glowing with light on a wintry night created a spectacle that Pickax had never before seen, and traffic cruised around the Park Circle to gawk.
When the guests arrived they were greeted by Qwilleran and the officers of the Historical Society. Then they moved from room to room, marveling at the richness and palatial dimensions of the interior. The drawing room, with its twin fireplaces and twin chandeliers, had a fortune in oil paintings on the crimson damask walls. The dining room, designed to seat sixteen, was paneled in carved walnut imported from England in the nineteenth century. The visitors were so entranced by the museum that Koko went unnoticed, al- though he strutted in their midst and struck statuesque poses on the carved newel post and the antique rosewood piano.
At eight o'clock the meeting was called to order in the third-floor assembly room. Nigel Fitch, a trust officer at the bank, rapped the gavel and asked everyone to rise for a moment of silent tribute to Senior Goodwinter. Then the thanking began. First the president thanked the weatherman for postponing the snow. He thanked Qwilleran for making the mansion available as a museum.
Qwilleran rose and thanked the society members for their encouragement and support. He thanked XYZ Enterprises for donating labor for the construction projects. He thanked the CPA firm for computerizing the museum catalogue. Particularly he thanked Mrs. Cobb for establishing the museum on a professional level. Then she thanked the four committees that had worked on the preview. The president kept glancing toward the elevator expectantly.
During the transaction of old and new business Polly Duncan, representing the public library, proposed an oral history project to preserve the recollections of Old Timers on tape. "It should be handled by someone with interviewing skills," she specified, glancing at Qwilleran. He said he might give it a try.
Nigel Fitch, who usually chaired a brisk meeting, was proceeding at a leisurely pace. "We’re expecting the mayor," he explained, "but he's been delayed at the city hall."
Whenever Fitch glanced toward the elevator, all heads in the audience turned hopefully in the same direction. At one point there were mechanical sounds in the elevator shaft, and a hush fell in the meeting hall. The doors opened, and out stepped an Old Timer, tall and thin and nattily dressed. He gave the president a cheerful salute and walked to an empty seat with a disjointed gait, like a robot.
"That's Mr. Tibbitt," whispered a woman next to Qwilleran. "A retired school principal. He's ninety-three. A dear old man."
"Mr. President," said Susan Exbridge, "I would like to make a proposal. The Singing Society will present Handel's Messiah at the Old Stone Church on November twenty-fourth, exactly as it was performed in the eighteenth century, with singers in period costume. We had planned a reception for the performers afterward, and this museum would be a marvelous place to have it, if Mr. Qwilleran would consent."
"Okay with me," said Qwilleran, "provided I don't have to wear satin knee breeches."
And still the mayor did not arrive. Looking frequently at his watch, Fitch invited discussions on raising the dues, recruiting new members, and starting a newsletter.
Finally the telltale hum in the elevator shaft was heard, followed by a click as the car reached the third floor. All heads turned in anticipation. The elevator door opened, and out walked Koko — his tail perpendicular, his ears proudly erect, and a dead mouse gripped in his jaws.
Qwilleran jumped to his feet. "And I want to thank the vice president in charge of extermination for his diligence in eliminating certain museum hazards."
"Meeting adjourned," shouted Fitch.
During the social hour the banker said to Qwilleran, "That's a remarkable cat you have. How did he do it?"
Qwilleran explained that Mr. O'Dell was downstairs, and he had probably put Koko in the car, pressed the button, and sent him up — for laughs.
Actually Qwilleran thought nothing of the kind. Koko was capable of boarding the car, stretching to his full length, and reaching the controls with a paw. He had done it before. The cat was fascinated by push buttons, keys, levers, and knobs. But how could one explain that to a banker?
When the mayor finally arrived, he cornered Qwilleran. "Say, Qwill, when is this town going to emerge from the Dark Ages?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did you ever hear of a whole county trying to function without a newspaper? We all knew Senior was a nut, but we thought Junior would take over and make it go. He's a bright kid; I had him in poli sci when I was teaching. But I suppose you've heard Gritty's selling the Picayune to you-know-who, They'll make a mint of money on it — as an ad sheet, that's all — and we still won't have any news coverage, Why don't you start a paper, Qwill?"
"Well, it's like this. I used to think I'd like to own my own newspaper and my own four-star restaurant and my own big-league ball club, but I've had to face the fact that I'm not a financier or an administrator."
"Okay. How about your connections Down Below? I know you lured that young couple up here to turn the Old Stone Mill around."
"I'll think about it," Qwilleran promised.
"Think fast."
Over the cups of weak tea and mildly alcoholic punch there was no lack of chatter:
"Incredible collection of antiques!"
"How do you like this weather?"
"A memorable evening! We are indebted to you, Mr. Qwilleran."
"Snow's never been so late."
"What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"
"Would you like a twelve-foot Christmas tree for the museum, Qwill? I have a beauty on my farm."