Read The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare for Free Online Page B

and a line in the first scene caught his eye: “‘Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed.”
    Addressing the cat he said, “You may think you’re smart, but this has got to stop! These books are printed on fine India paper. They can’t stand this kind of treatment.”
    “Ik ik ik,” said Koko, following his remark with a yawn.

-3-
    TUESDAY, NOVEMBER TWELFTH. “Snow flurries during the day, then falling temperatures and winds shifting to northeast.” So said WPKX, and Mr. O’Dell, the houseman, waxed his snow shovels and checked the spark plugs on his snowblower.
    It was the day after the pork liver cupcakes had made their successful debut, and Qwilleran planned to lunch at the Old Stone Mill – to report results to the chef, and to solve a mystery that had been bothering him.
    Who was this chef?
    What was his name?
    Where did he come from?
    What were his credentials?
    And why had no one seen him?
    The restaurant was an old gristmill with a giant waterwheel, recently renovated with good taste. The stone walls and massive timbers were exposed; the maple floor was sanded to the color of honey; and every table had a view of the mill wheel, which creaked and turned incessantly although the millstream had dried up seventy years before. The food, everyone had always said, was abominable.
    The restaurant was purchased by XYZ Enterprises, Inc., of Pickax, developers of the Indian Village apartments and condominiums on the Ittibittiwassee River. The firm also owned a string of party stores in the county and a new motel in Mooseville.
    One day at a Chamber of Commerce meeting Qwilleran was approached by Don Exbridge, the X of XYZ Enterprises. He was a string bean of a man, six-feet-five, with a smile that had made him popular and successful.
    “Qwill, you have restaurant connections Down Below,” said Exbridge. “Where can we get a good chef for the Old Stone Mill? Preferably someone who enjoys the outdoors and doesn’t mind living in the boonies.”
    “I’ll give it some thought and get back to you,” Qwilleran had promised.
    Then the wheels started turning in his mind: Hixie Rice, former neighbor Down Below… member of a select gourmet group… loved to eat, and her figure proved it… clever young woman… unlucky in love… worked in advertising and promotion… used to speak French to Koko. Why, Qwilleran wondered, were all the clever ones in advertising while all the hardworking serious thinkers were in journalism, earning less money?
    The last time he had heard from Hixie, she was dating a chef and was taking courses in restaurant management. And that was how Hixie Rice and her chef happened to land in Pickax. Immediately they replaced the dreary menu with more sophisticated dishes and fresh ingredients. The chef retrained the existing kitchen staff, locked up the deep fryers, and rationed the salt.
    When Qwilleran went to lunch at the Old Stone Mill on Tuesday, he hardly recognized the former member of the Friendly Fatties. “Hixie, you’re looking almost anorexic!” he said. “Have you stopped putting butter on your bacon and sugar on your hot fudge sundae?”
    “You won’t believe it, Qwill, but the restaurant business has cured my obsession for eating,” she said. “All that food turns me off. Fifteen pounds of butter… a two-foot wheel of cheese… two hundred chickens… thirty dozen eggs! Have you ever seen two hundred naked chickens, Qwill?”
    In losing weight, Hixie had also lost her wheezy high-pitched voice, and her hair now looked healthy and natural instead of contrived and varnished. “You’re looking great!” he told her.
    “And you look super, Qwill. Your voice sounds different.”
    “I’ve stopped smoking. Rosemary convinced me to give up my pipe.”
    “Do you still see Rosemary?”
    “No, she’s living in Toronto.”
    “All our old gourmet gang is scattered, but I thought you two were headed for holy bondage.”
    “There was a personality clash between Rosemary and Koko,”