Free The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare by Lilian Jackson Braun Page A

opposite sex,” Lori explained, “and they know which is which. It’s hard to explain.”
     
    Yum Yum was dozing on his lap, a picture of catly contentment, when Qwilleran heard the first thlunk. There was no sense in scolding Koko. It went in one pointed ear and out the other. When reprimanded in the past, he had not only resented it; he had found his own ingenious way of retaliation. In any argument, Qwilleran had learned, a Siamese always has the last word.
    So he merely sighed, transferred his lapful of sleeping fur to the ottoman, and went to see what damage had been done. As he expected, it was Shakespeare again. Mrs. Fulgrove had been rubbing the pigskin bindings with a mixture of lanolin and neat’s-foot oil, to preserve the leather, and both ingredients were animal products. But whatever the explanation for Koko’s special interest in these books, two of them were now on the floor, and they happened to be Qwilleran’s favorite plays: Macbeth and Julius Caesar.
    He leafed through the latter until he found a passage he liked: the conspiracy scene, in which men plotting to assassinate Caesar meet under cover of darkness, shadowing their faces with their cloaks. “And let us bathe our hands in Caesar’s blood up to the elbows, and besmear our swords.”
    Conspiracy, Qwilleran reflected, was Shakespeare’s favorite device for establishing conflict, creating suspense, and grabbing the emotions of the audience. In Macbeth there was the conspiracy to murder the old kind. “Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”
    A tremor on Qwilleran’s upper lip alerted him. Was the Picayune’s double tragedy the result of a conspiracy? He had no clues – only the sensation in the roots of his moustache. He had no clues and no logical way to investigate.
    Years before, as a prize-winning crime reporter, he had developed a network of anonymous sources. In Moose County he had no sources. Although the natives were notorious gossips, they avoided gossiping with outsiders, and Qwilleran was an outsider even after eighteen months in their midst.
    He glanced at the calendar. It was Wednesday, November thirteenth. On the evening of November fourteenth he would have seventy-five certified gossips under his roof – all the best people, drinking tea and socializing.
    “Okay, old sleuth,” he said to Koko. “Tomorrow night we cultivate some sources.”

-5-
    THURSDAY, NOVEMBER FOURTEENTH. The weather was cooperating with the major social event of the season – not too cold, not too windy, not too damp. On Thursday evening seventy-five members of the Historical Society and Old Timers Club would view the Klingenschoen mansion for the first time, and the residence would become officially the Klingenschoen Museum.
    Ever since inheriting the pretentious edifice Qwilleran had considered it an absurd residence for a bachelor and two cats. He proposed, therefore – with the cooperation of the Historical Society – to open the mansion to the public as a museum two or three afternoons a week. When the mayor announced the news at a council meeting, the citizens of Pickax were jubilant, and the guests invited to the preview felt singularly honored.
    Qwilleran’s day began as usual in his garage apartment. He tuned in the weather report, drank a cup of instant coffee, dressed, and walked down the corridor to the cats’ parlor.
    “‘Commuter Special now leaving on track four,” he announced, opening the wicker hamper.
    The Siamese sat nose-to-nose on the windowsill, enjoying the thin glimmer of November sunshine and ignoring the invitation.
    “Breakfast now being served in the dining car.” There was no response, not even the flicker of a whisker. Impatiently Qwilleran picked up one animal in each hand and deposited them unceremoniously in the hamper.
    “If you act like cats, you get treated like cats,” he explained in a reasonable voice. “Act like courteous, cooperative, intelligent beings, and you get