Lilian Jackson Braun - TCW 06: The Cat Who Played Post Office

"When are we going to have your memorable macaroni?" Qwilleran asked Mrs. Cobb as they waited for Penelope Goodwinter to pick them up.

"As soon as I find some good nippy cheese. It has to be aged cheddar, you know," the housekeeper said. "By the way, I forgot to tell you a woman phoned you and wants to come to see you. I told her to call back tomorrow. It's about Daisy, she said." "Did you get her name?" "It sounded like 'Tiffany Trotter, but I'm not sure. She sounded young." Mrs. Cobb was wearing her no-iron pink pantsuit, and Qwilleran had thrown his wash-and-wear summer blazer over a club shirt. When the attorney drove up in her tan BMW, she was wearing a crisp linen suit in pin stripe mauve with a mauve silk shirt and mauve pearls. In a cordial but authoritative tone, Penelope instructed Mrs. Cobb to sit in the back seat.

"My brother has returned," she told Qwilleran, "and we are discussing a plan of organization for the Klingenschoen Foundation. Everyone endorses the idea heartily. I have never seen such unanimity in this city. Usually there are several warring factions, even if the issue is only flowerboxes on Main Street." The City Hall was a turreted stone edifice of medieval inspiration, lacking only a drawbridge and moat. With its parking lot, fire hall, police station, and ambulance garage, it occupied an entire city block, just off Main Street.

In the council chamber Mayor Blythe and the council members were assembling at a long table on a dais, and they included to Qwilleran's surprise-two persons he knew: Amanda Goodwinter with her built-in scowl and Mr. Cooper with his perpetuaily worried expression. Ten rows of chairs for the general public were already filled, except for three reserved seats in the front row. Penelope took care to seat herself between Qwilleran and his housekeeper.

The mayor's gavel rapped the table, and he intoned, "All rise for the Pledge of Allegiance." Chairs were scraping the floor and the audience was struggling to its collective feet when a loud voice in the back of the room called out, "I object!" Mrs. Cobb gasped audibly. The audience groaned and sat down again. Council members fell back into their chairs with assorted grimaces of impatience, exasperation, and resignation. Looking around for the source of the disturbance, Qwilleran spotted a belligerent-looking middle-aged man with an outdated crew cut, standing and waiting to be recognized by the chair.

With stoic calm the mayor said, "Will you please state your objection, Mr. Hackpole?" "That's not the official flag of these United States," the man announced in a booming voice. "It's got forty-eight stars, and the federal government retired that piece of cloth in 1959." The audience uttered another groan, and individuals shouted, "Who's counting? Sit down!" "Order!" Mayor Blythe banged the gavel. "Mr. Hackpole, this flag has been saluted in this chamber for more than a quarter of a century without offending the taxpayers of Pickax or the federal government or the residents of Hawaii and Alaska." "It's a violation of the flag code," insisted the objector; "What's right is right. What's wrong is wrong." An elderly councilwoman said in a sweetly reasonable voice, "Many of us remember fondly that this flag was presented to the city of Pickax by the late Miss Klingenschoen, and it would be a mark of disrespect to remove it so soon after her untimely death." "Hear! Hear!" was the response from the audience. The somber accountant said, "This is an expensive flag. We couldn't afford to replace it with anything of like quality in today's market." Scowling over her glasses, Amanda Goodwinter added, "It would have to be custom-made. This flag is one-hundred percent virgin wool, lined with silk very unusual. The stripes are individually stitched, and the stars are embroidered on the blue field. It was ordered through my studio." "Don't forget the gold fringe," piped up a tremulous voice from the end of the table. "You don't see many flags with gold fringe." The speaker was an old man so small that he virtually disappeared behind the council table.

A councilman of enormous girth, who occupied two armless chairs placed side by side, said, "Looks to me like the flag's got some moth holes in it." "The holes could be darned," said the elderly woman sweetly. "I would do it myself if my eyesight were better." "Darning is ridiculous," said Amanda with her usual bluntness. "Professional reweaving that's what you need. But we'd have to send it Down Below, and we wouldn't get it back for two months." "It should be sprayed with something," the little old man suggested helpfully.

Again the overweight councilman spoke up. "All that reweaving and all that spraying, and you've still got a flag with forty-eight stars. You're not facing up to the issue as stated by Mr. Hackpole." Three of his peers glared at him, and Mr. Cooper said, "I, for one, am opposed to the purchase of a costly flag to satisfy a single taxpayer. It's not in the budget." A lively discussion ensued.

"We wouldn't have to buy an expensive one." "Who needs embroidered stars?" "Yes, but would a cheap flag project the image we want for the city of Pickax?" "To heck with image!" "Why not embroider two more stars on the flag we have? I would be glad to undertake it myself if my eyesight " Where do you think you'd put them? On a red stripe?

That would look god-awful!" This was Amanda's comment.

"It would not be legal." "We'd be defacing the flag of the United States." "Why not get an ordinary printed flag? It doesn't have to be as fancy as this one." "That solution doesn't eliminate the affront to the donor, rest her soul." This was the elderly councilwoman.

"Then buy a fancy one with gold fringe and send the bill to Hawaii and Alaska. They're the ones with all the money." There were cheers from the audience.

Mayor Blythe wielded the gavel. "We have a four-horned dilemma here. We can keep the present flag and offend Mr.

Hackpole. We can replace it and offend the memory of the original donor. We can buy a cheap substitute and sully the: city's image. Or we can buy an expensive flag with funds that might better be applied to the new municipal parking lot. I would entertain a motion to table this issue and proceed with further business, assuring Mr. Hackpole that his objection will be given due consideration." The flag issue was tabled; the forty-eight stars and thirteen stripes were saluted by all except Mr. Hackpole, and the council applied its brainpower to more important matters: barking dogs, the watering of the downtown flowerboxes, and a request from the waterbed store for permission to install a Cuddle Room in which prospective customers might test the product.

At the conclusion of the business meeting the mayor said, "Before we adjourn I would like to introduce a distinguished guest and new resident of Pickax Mr. James Qwilleran." The benevolent heir to the Klingenschoen fortune impressively tall and hefty and moustached-rose and bowed graciously. He was greeted by applause and cheers, but no whistles, this being Pickax.

"Mr. Mayor, members of the council, ladies and gentlemen," he began, "it is a pleasure to join a community imbued with such sensitive concern, cogent awareness, and vigilant sense of responsibility. I have listened with rapt attention to the flag discussion, and I should like to propose a solution. First I suggest that you preserve the present flag as a memorial to the donor and as a historic artifact, mounting it on the wall under glass. Second, I urge you to accept my gift of a new custom-made, all-wool, silk-lined, floor-standing flag with hand-stitched stripes, embroidered stars, and gold fringe, to be ordered through Amanda's Studio of Interior Design." The cheers were vociferous, and the demonstration ended with a standing ovation. Qwilleran raised his hand for silence. "You are all aware of the historic Klingenschoen mansion on the Circle. It is my intention that it will eventually be donated to the city of Pickax as a museum." More cheers. "Meanwhile, its priceless treasures are being preserved professionally by our new house manager, who will function as conservator, registrar, and curator of the collection. She is an authority with impeccable credentials, who comes to us from Down Below. May I present Iris Cobb? Mrs. Cobb, will you please stand?" Mrs. Cobb's eyes glistened more brightly than the rhinestones on her glasses as she took her bow. And when the meeting adjourned, Penelope said in slightly crisp tones, "Indeed, Mr. Qwilleran, you were a wellspring of surprises this evening." She drove them home but declined to join them in a celebratory nightcap. "My brother is waiting for me at the office," she explained. "We are pleading a case in court tomorrow, and there are momentous decisions to make before we call it a day." Mrs. Cobb also excused herself. "You'll think I'm silly, Mr. Qwilleran, but I want to have a good cry. If only my husband was alive and could hear the applause tonight and see me taking a bow! And your wonderful introduction! It was all so so thrilling!" She ran upstairs.