As Qwilleran approached the double doors, two Siamese cats watched from the sidelights, standing on their hindlegs with their forepaws on the low windowsill. Entering the foyer he had to wade through weaving bodies and waving tails, circling him, doubling back, rubbing his ankles, and getting under his feet all the while yowling in the operatic voices of Siamese. The tumultuous welcome would have been flattering if Qwilleran had not consulted his watch. It was feeding time at the zoo!
“What have you guys been doing this afternoon?” he asked as he prepared their dinner. “Anything worthwhile? Solve any world problems? Who won the fifty yard dash?” The more you taIk to cats, the smarter they become, he believed.
The long, lean, lithe muscular one was Kao K’o Kung, familiarly known as Koko. His female companion was Yum Yum small, dainty, shy, although she could shriek like an ambulance siren when she wanted something and wanted it immediately. Both had pale fawn-colored fur and seal brown masks, ears and tails. Her eyes were blue tinged with violet, and their appealing kittenish gaze could break hearts. Koko’s deeper blue eyes had a depth that suggested secret intelligence and untold mysteries.
They were indoor cats, but the barn interior was as big as all outdoors to a small creature weighing ten pounds or less. The space, a hundred feet in diameter, was open to the roof. A ramp spiraled up the walls and connected the balconies on three levels. In the center stood a huge white fireplace cube with white stacks soaring to the cupola, and it divided the main floor into functional areas: dining, lounging, foyer, and library. The kitchen was under a balcony, half hidden by an L-shaped snack bar.
In the daytime a flood of light came through triangles and rhomboids of glass. Pale colors prevailed in the bleached timbers, upholstered furniture, and Moroccan rugs After dark, when a single switch activated indirect lights and artfully placed spotlights, the effect was nothing less than enchanting.
Qwilleran’s favorite haunt was the library area. One wall of the fireplace cube was covered with bookshelves, and the shelves were filled with secondhand classics purchased from a local bookseller. A library table held the telephone, answering machine, and writing materials. A capacious lounge chair with an ottoman. Qwilleran liked to read aloud to the Siamese or draft his column on a legal pad with a soft lead pencil.
On the last day of August, before going out to dinner, he read to the cats from a book selected by Koko. He was the official bibliocat. He prowled the bookshelves and liked to curl up between the biographies and the nineteenth-century English fiction. At reading time it was his privilege to select the title, although Qwilleran had the power of veto. They had been reading Greek drama. Koko could sense which book was which, and he repeatedly sniffed ‘The Frogs’ by Aristophanes.
“Okay, we’ll do it once more,” Qwilleran said, “but this is the last time!” Both cats liked the froggy chorus that he dramatized so colorfully: brekekekex koax koax. Yum Yum’s eyes grew wide, and a rumble came from Koko’s chest.
“Those cats are just like little kids,” Qwilleran said at dinner that night. “When I was three years old, I wanted to hear ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ over and over again. It was in desperation that my mother taught me to read so young.”
He was dining with the chief woman in his life, a charming companion of his own age, whose gentle voice, soft smile, and agreeable disposition camouflaged a will as strong as Yum Yum’s. She was Polly Duncan, director of the public library. She always wore something special for their dates, and this time it was a green silk dress with a necklace of long slivers of silver alternating with beads of green jade.
“You look lovely!” he said. He had learned not to say, “You look lovely tonight” That would imply that she usually looked unlovely. Polly was sensitive about the niceties of speech.
Pleased, she said, “Thank you, dear. And you’re looking very handsome! “
He always wore a coat and tie, well coordinated, when having dinner with Polly. It was a compliment they paid each other.
They had a reservation at Onoosh’s in downtown Pickax, a cafe with the exotic murals, lamps, brasses, and aromas of the Mediterranean rim. Ethnic foods were finally being accepted 400 miles north of everywhere, although it had been a slow process. Seated at the brass-topped tables were foodists with adventurous palates, vacationers from out of town, and students from Moose County Community College, who were eligible for a discount.
For starters Polly had a dry sherry and Qwilleran ordered Squunk water on the rocks with a twist, a local mineral water.
“What’s the latest gossip at the library?” he asked. It was a center of information in more ways than one. “Has the Pickax grapevine blown a gasket over Mr. Delacamp?”
“No, no!” she corrected him with excitement. “The latest news is about Amanda! Haven’t you heard?”
“I heard the rumor in July, while you were in Canada, but she denied it.”
“She changed her mind several times after that, but I think she was building up suspense. There’s nothing naive about Amanda!”
“So what’s the latest?” he asked impatiently. As a journalist he always felt uncomfortable if he didn’t know the latest.
“Well! Today was the deadline, and she picked up her petition at city hall at nine A.M. Eight hours later, she returned it with the required number of signatures five percent of registered voters! She stood in front of Boodle’s Market and Lanspeak’s and created quite a stir, as you can well imagine”
“That’s our Amanda!” Qwilleran gloated.
There was only one illustrious Amanda in Pickax. As owner of the design studio on Main Street she had decorated the homes of well-known families for forty years. She had served on the city council for twenty years always outspoken and sometimes cantankerous. The locals loved her for her fearless individualism, and that included her eccentric dress and grooming. Now she was daring to challenge the incumbent mayor in the November election a politician who had held office for five terms, simply because his mother was a Goodwinter.
That was the big name in Pickax. The four Goodwinter brothers had founded the city in 1850.
But the mayor’s name was Gregory Blythe. His Challenger was Amanda Goodwinter!
Qwilleran said, “I predict she’ll win by a landslide.”
A bright young woman in an embroidered vest served them baba ghanouj and spanokopetes, and he said, “I wish my mother could see me now eating spinach and eggplant. And liking it!” Then he asked, “What’s the latest on Old Campo?”
“How can you be so derisive?” Polly rebuked him. “The jealousy among our male population is ludicrous! A few members of my library board are on his guest list, and they say he’s a grand gentleman with polished manners and great charisma!”
“I hear he always has a girl Friday who travels with him and happens to be young, sexy, and related by blood ” He said this with an ounce of sarcasm.
Polly replied in all seriousness, “He’s training family members to take over the business when he retires…. Or so I’m told,” she added. “But the big news is that Carol has asked me to pour at his celebrated Tuesday Tea! Those opals you gave me were ordered by Carol from a Chicago jeweler. That was Delacamp’s firm, and so I’m suddenly in the inner circle.”