The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare Read Online Free PDF

Stephanie’s and the Old Stone Mill. Do you have any other ideas?”
    “I think I do,” said Qwilleran. He clapped his hat on his head at a wild angle and clomped around the balcony in his yellow duck boots, stopping at the table where the stranger was seated.
    In a parody of a friendly north-country native he said, “Howdy! Lady over yonder says yer lookin’ fer a place to chow down. Fer a real good feed y’oughta try Otto’s Tasty Eats. All y’can eat fer fi’ bucks. How long y’gonna be aroun’?”
    “Until I finish my work,” the historian said crisply, bending over his book.
    “If y’wanna shot-na-beer y’oughta try the Hotel Booze. Good burgers, too.”
    “Thank you,” the man said in a tone of dismissal.
    “I see y’be readin’ ‘bout them ol’ mines. M’grampaw got killed in a cave-in back in 1913. I weren’t born yit. Seen any ol’ mines?”
    “No,” the man said, snapping his book shut and pushing his chair back.
    “Nearest hereabouts be the Dimsdale. They got a diner there. Good place t’git a plate o’ beans ‘n’ franks.”
    Clutching his black raincoat, the stranger walked rapidly to the stairway.
    Pleased with the man’s exasperation and his own performance, Qwilleran straightened his hat, bundled up in his mackinaw, and went on his way. He knew by the man’s obvious lack of interest that he was not what he claimed to be.
    At 5:30 Herb Hackpole arrived to pick up his dinner partner, parking in the side drive and tooting the horn. Mrs. Cobb scurried out the back door as excited as a young girl on her first date.
    At 5:45 Qwilleran fed the cats. Pork liver cupcakes, when thawed, became a revolting gray mush, but the Siamese crouched over the plate and devoured the chefs innovation with tails flat on the floor, denoting total satisfaction. At 6:00 Polly Duncan arrived – on foot – having left her small six-year-old maroon car behind the library. If it were seen in the circular driveway of the K mansion, the gossips of Pickax would have a field day. Everyone knew what everyone else drove – make, model, year, and color.
    Polly was not as young and slender as the career women he had dated Down Below, but she was an interesting woman with a voice that sometimes made his head spin, and she looked like a comfortable armful, although he had not tested his theory. The librarian maintained a certain reserve, despite her show of friendliness, and she always insisted on going home early.
    He greeted her at the front door, a masterpiece of carving and polished brass. “Where’s the snow they promised?” he asked.
    “Every day in November WPKX predicts snow as a matter of policy,” she said, “and sooner or later they’re right… This house never fails to overwhelm me!”
    She was gazing in wonder at the foyer’s amber leather walls and grand staircase, extravagantly wide and elaborately balustered. The dazzling chandelier was Baccarat crystal. The rugs were Anatolian antiques. “This house doesn’t belong in Pickax; it belongs in Paris. It amazes me that the Klingenschoens owned such treasures and no one knew about it.”
    “It was the Klingenschoens’ revenge – for not being accepted socially.” Qwilleran escorted her to the rear of the house. “We’re having dinner in the library, but Mrs. Cobb wants me to show you her mobile herb garden in the solarium.”
    The stone-floored room had large glass areas, a forest of ancient rubber plants, and some wicker chairs for summer lounging; the winter addition was a wrought-iron cart with eight clay pots labeled mint, dill, thyme, basil, and the like.
    “It can be wheeled around during the day to get the best sunlight,” he explained. “That is – if WPKX allows us to have any.”
    Polly nodded approval. “Herbs like sun but not too much heat. Where did Mrs. Cobb find this clever contraption?”
    “She designed it, and a friend of hers made it in his welding shop. Perhaps you know Hackpole, the used-car dealer.”
    “Yes, his