Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

"It sounds like a motor boat when it's running," Qwilleran said, "and when it stops, it roars and snarls like a sick tiger. It frightens the cats out of their fur."

"Why was I dumb enough to let Grandma Gage unload that white elephant on me?" Junior complained. "She just wanted to avoid paying taxes and insurance, and now I'm stuck with all the bills. If I could find a buyer, I'd let the place go for peanuts, but who wants to live in a castle? People like ranch houses with sliding glass doors and smoke detectors... More coffee, Qwill?"

"Too bad the city won't re-zone it for commercial use. I've said it before. You could have law offices, medical clinics, high-class nursing homes, high-rent apartments... Parking would be the only problem. You'd have to pave the backyards."

"The city will never re-zone," Junior said. "Not so long as old families and city officials live on the street. Sorry about the lack of furniture, Qwill. The Gages had fabulous antiques and paintings, but the old gal sold them all when she relocated in Florida. Now she lives in a retirement village, and she's a new person! She plays shuffleboard, goes to the dog races, wears elaborate makeup! On her last trip here, she looked like a wrinkled china doll. Jody says she must have met one of those cosmetics girls who drive around in lavender convertibles."

"She may have found romance in her declining years," Qwilleran suggested.

"Could be! She looks a lot younger than eighty-eight!"

"Answer one question, Junior. Why are there so many closets? I've counted fifty, allover the house. It was my understanding that our forefathers didn't have closets. They had wardrobes, dressers, highboys, china cabinets, breakfronts, sideboards..."

"Well, you see," the editor explained, "my great-great-grandfather Gage was a shipbuilder, accustomed to having everything built-in, and that's what he wanted in his house. Ships' carpenters did the work. Have you noticed the woodwork? Best on the boulevard!"

"By today's construction standards it's incredible! The foyer looks like a luxury liner of early vintage. But do you know the closets are filled with junk?"

"Oh, sure. The Gages never threw anything away."

"Not even champagne corks," Qwilleran agreed.

Junior looked at his watch. "Time for Arch's meeting. Shall we amble across the hall?"

Arch Riker, publisher and CEO of the Moose County Something, had scheduled a brainstorming session for editors, writers, and the effervescent promotion director, Hixie Rice. None of the editorial staff liked meetings, and Qwilleran expressed his distaste by slumping in a chair in a far corner of the room. Hixie, on the other hand, breezed into the meeting with her shoulder-length hair bouncing and her eyes sparkling. She had worked in advertising Down Below - as Pickax natives called the major cities to the south - and she had never lost her occupational bounce and sparkle.

Similarly Qwilleran and Riker were transplants from Down Below, having grown up together in Chicago, but they had the detached demeanor of veteran newsmen. They had adapted easily to the slow pace of Pickax City (population 3,000) and the remoteness of Moose County, which claimed to be 400 miles north of everywhere.

Riker, a florid, paunchy deskman who seldom raised his voice, opened the meeting in his usual sleepy style: "Well, you guys, in case you don't know it, winter is coming... and winters are pretty dull in this neck of the woods... unless you're crazy about ten-foot snow drifts and wall-to-wall ice. So... I'd like to see this newspaper sponsor some kind of diversion that will give people a topic of conversation other than the daily rate of snowfall... Let's hear some ideas from you geniuses." He turned on a tape recorder.

The assembled staffers sat in stolid silence. Some looked at each other hopelessly.

"Don't stop to think," the boss admonished. "Just blurt it out, off the top of your head."

"Well," said a woman editor bravely, "we could sponsor a hobby contest with a thrilling prize."

"Yeah," said Junior. "Like a two-week all-expenses-paid vacation in Iceland."

"How about a food festival? Everyone likes to eat," I said Mildred Hanstable, whose ample girth supported her claim. She wrote the food column for the Something and taught home economics in the Pickax school system. "We could have cooking demonstrations, a baking contest, an ethnic food bazaar, a Moose County cookbook, nutrition classes - "

"Second it!" Hixie interrupted with her usual enthusiasm. "And we could promote neat little tie-ins with restaurants, like wine-and-cheese tastings, and snacking-and-grazing parties, and a Bon Appetit Club with dining-out discounts. C'est magnifique!" She had once studied French briefly, preparatory to eloping to Paris.

There was a dead silence among the staffers. As a matter of newsroom honor they deplored Hixie's commercial taint. One of them muttered a five-letter word in French.