Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

More than a hundred prominent residents of Moose County were attending the performance in the ballroom of a mansion that Jim Qwilleran was renting for the winter months. Most of them knew all about the middle-aged journalist with the oversized moustache and doleful expression. He had been a prize-winning crime writer for major newspapers around the United States. He was the heir to an enormous fortune based in Moose County. He wrote a much-admired column for the local daily, The Moose County Something. He spelled his name with a Qw. He liked to eat but never took a drink. He was divorced and thought by women to be highly attractive. His easy-going manner and jocose banter made him enjoyable company. He was a close friend of Polly Duncan's, the Pickax librarian. He lived alone-with two cats.

The townspeople often saw the big, well-built man walking or biking around Pickax, his casual way of dressing and lack of pretension belying his status as a multi-millionaire. And they had heard remarkable stories about his cats. Now, sitting in rows of folding chairs and waiting for Scene Two, the spectators saw a sleek Siamese march sedately down the center aisle. He jumped up on the stage and, with tail importantly erect, proceeded to the door where the radio announcer had made his frantic exit.

The audience tittered, and someone said, "That's Koko. He always has to get into the act."

The door, upstage right, was only loosely latched, and the cat pawed it until it opened a few inches and he could slither through. In two seconds he bounded out again as if propelled by a tap on the rump, and the audience laughed once more. Unabashed, Koko licked his left shoulder blade and scratched his right ear, then jumped off the stage and walked haughtily up the center aisle.

The house lights dimmed, and the radio announcer entered in a fresh shirt, with another script in his hand.

"Tuesday, October 18. After a sleepless night, Pickax can see daylight. The smoke is lifting, but the acrid smell of burning is everywhere, and the landscape is a scene of desolation in every direction. Only this courthouse and a few isolated dwellings and barns are miraculously left standing. The heat is oppressive - 110 degrees in the studio - and the window glass is still too hot to touch.

"Crews of men are now fanning out through the countryside, burying bodies that are charred beyond recognition. Because so many families lived in isolated clearings, we may never have an accurate count of the dead. More than four hundred refugees are packed into the courthouse, lying dazed and exhausted in the corridors, on the stairs, in the courtroom and judge's chamber. Some have lost their feet; some have lost their eyes; some have lost their senses, and they babble incoherently. The groans of badly burned survivors mingle with the crying of babies. There is no medicine to ease their pain. Someone has brought a cow to the courthouse to provide milk for the youngest, but there is no food for the others..."

Before the dramatic presentation of "The Big Burning of 1869," the historic calamity had been quite forgotten by current generations intent on land development, tourism, new sewers, and the quality of TV reception. Qwilleran himself, playwright and star of the production, had never heard of the disaster until he rented the old mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard and started rummaging in closets. The furnishings were sparse, but the closets were stuffed to the ceiling with odds and ends - a treasure trove for an inquisitive journalist. As for his male cat, he was cat enough to risk death to satisfy his catly curiosity; with tail horizontal he would slink into a closet and emerge with a matchbook or champagne cork clamped in his jaws.

The mansion was constructed of stone and intended to last down the ages, one of several formidable edifices on the boulevard. They had been built by lumber barons and mining tycoons during Moose County's boom years in the late nineteenth century. A pioneer shipbuilder by the name of Gage had been responsible for the one Qwilleran was renting. One feature made the Gage mansion unique: the abundance of closets.

Shortly after moving in, Qwilleran mentioned the closets to his landlord. Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor of the Moose County Something, had recently acquired the obsolete building as a gift from his aging grandmother, and he was thankful to have the rental income from his friend and fellow-staffer. The two men were sitting in Junior's office with their feet on the desk and coffee mugs in their hands. It was three weeks before the preview of "The Big Burning."

Junior's facial features and physical stature were still boyish, and he had grown a beard in an attempt to look older, but his youthful vitality gave him away. "What do you think of Grandma's house, Qwill? Does the furnace work okay? Have you tried lighting any of the fireplaces? How's the refrigerator? It's pretty ancient."