The Cat Who Blew The Whistle

-12-

Qwilleran started the week by grinding out a thousand pseudo-serious words on the history of sunburn. It was inspired by an oil painting in Polly's apartment depicting a beach scene at the turn of the century; the women wore bathing suits with sleeves, knee-length skirts, matching hats, and long stockings. The ninety miles of beaches bordering Moose County were now frequented by summer vacationers without stockings, hats, sleeves, or skirts - and sometimes without tops. He titled his column "From Parasols and Gloves... to Sunscreen with SPF-30." For his readers who had never seen a parasol, he described it as a light, portable sunshade carried like an umbrella, its name derived from French, Italian, and Latin words meaning "to ward off the sun."

He had to work hard to stretch the subject into a thousand words, and he was not particularly proud of the result when he delivered the copy to Junior Goodwinter. "Consider it a summer space filler," he said as he threw it on the editor's desk.

After scanning the pages, Junior said, "It's topical, but I've seen better from the Qwill Pen. Want us to run it without a by-line and say you're on vacation?"

"It's not that bad," Qwilleran protested. "Any more news from Mudville?"

"There's a rumor they've located Floyd-boy's secretary in Texas, but nobody will confirm it."

"How about the murder in the tavern?" "The police are being cagey, which means (a) they're onto something big or (b) they're not onto anything at all and hate to admit it. What's really odd is that the power company can't explain the outage. Being countywide, it couldn't be part of a local murder plot - or could it? I'm beginning to agree with the UFO buffs. Do you have a theory, Qwill? You usually come up with a wild one." Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "If I told you my theory, you'd have me committed."

Leaving the managing editor's office, he stopped in the city room and put a note in Roger MacGillivray's mailbox: "While you're scratching for stories in Mudville, find out what happened at the Trackside Tavern ten years ago. Your reference to it was provocative. Perhaps you know what happened. Perhaps it's too horrendous to mention in a family newspaper. Whisper in your uncle Qwill's ear."

On the way out of the building, Qwilleran passed Hixie Rice's office. The vice president in charge of advertising and promotion hailed him. "Qwill, I loved your column about the sweet corn of August - and about this being the corniest county in the state! I sent Wilfred out to buy several dozen ears. We're sending them to advertisers as a promo."

He grunted a lukewarm acknowledgment of the compliment. "Not to change the subject," he said, "but was Floyd Trevelyan a customer of yours?"

"Yes and no. He was tight-fisted with advertising dollars."

"His son lives in Indian Village. Do you know him?"

"I see him in the parking lot. I thought Gary Pratt looked like a black bear, but Floyd's son is too much!"

"Is he in your building?"

"No, I think he's in Dwight's building. Why?

Is it important?"

"No, I'm just addressing my Christmas cards early," Qwilleran said with a nonchalant shrug.

Hixie looked at him with suspicion. "You've got something up your sleeve, Qwill! What is it?"

"Are you still chummy with the manager at Indian Village?"

"Not exactly chummy, but she's on my Christmas list in a big way, and she's extremely cooperative. What can I do for you?"

"Floyd Trevelyan's secretary had an apartment in G building. Tell the manager you have a friend Down Below who's being transferred to Pickax and wants to rent an upscale apartment. Ask if Nella Hooper's is vacant - or will it be vacant soon."

"Would you like to tell me what this is all about?"

"Only my journalistic curiosity," he said. "If the apartment is not available, someone must be paying the rent, and it would be interesting to know who - or why."

"I smell intrigue," Hixie said. "Anything else?"

"Find out when Eddie Trevelyan moved in. That's all. Get back to work! Sell ads! Make money for the paper!"

"How's Polly? I haven't seen her lately."

"She's fine - excited about her new house, of course. By the way, she's due for a physical and wants to switch doctors. She doesn't care for the man who bought Melinda's practice. Have you heard any good reports about the Lanspeaks' daughter?"

Hixie waggled an accusing finger at him. "Qwill, you old rogue! Is that your underhanded way of finding out what happened to my late lamented romance? Well, I'll tell you. He was a wonderful, sincere, thoughtful, attentive bore! But I still see his mother once a week for French lessons."

"Pardonnez-moi," he said with a stiff bow.

Qwilleran next stopped at Amanda's Studio of Design to see Fran Brodie. She was in-house, three days a week, sketching floor plans, working on color schemes, and greeting customers.

"Cup of coffee? Cold drink?" she asked.

He chose coffee. "Have you started dress rehearsals?"

"Tonight's the first. We test our system for handling extras. A bus load of lords and ladies will come from the high school in time for the first act - complete with sweeping robes and elaborate headdresses. After the first scene they're not needed until the end of the play. What do we do with them in the meantime? There's no room backstage. Do we put them on the school bus to wait? Do we send them back to school for an hour? You know how giddy kids can get if they're having to wait."

Qwilleran thought for a moment. "Would the Old Stone Church let you use one of their social rooms? Bus the kids across the park, give them a horror video, and pick them up an hour later."

"Super!" Fran exclaimed. "Why didn't we think of that? The Lanspeaks are pillars of the church; they can swing it for us.... More coffee?"

While she poured, he asked, "What's the latest from your confidential source? The last thing you told me, the police were checking the secretary's story."

"It turned out to be true, Qwill. Nella Hooper was really fired two weeks before Audit Sunday. She collected severance pay and filed for unemployment benefits."

"How long ago did you do her apartment in Indian Village?"

"More than a year."

"I suppose Floyd paid for the furnishings."

"No, the credit union paid the bill; they could take it as a business expense. Did I tell you the FBI went in with a search warrant? Nella hadn't left anything but the furniture and a tube of toothpaste."

"What brand?" Fran smirked at his humor. "How do you like my flowers?" A magnificent bouquet of white roses stood on her desk.

"You must have acquired a well-heeled admirer," Qwilleran said. "How come I can't smell them? How come I'm not sneezing?"

"They're silk! Aren't they fabulous? Amanda found this new source in Chicago. My grandmother used to make crepe paper flowers during the Depression and sell them for a dollar a dozen. These are twenty-five dollars each! Why don't you buy a big bunch for Polly?"

"She'd rather have fresh daisies," he said truthfully.

"Qwill, why doesn't Polly let me help her with her house?" Fran said earnestly. "I don't mean to belittle your beloved, but she's a color-fusser. I showed her some fabrics, and she fussed over the colors, trying to get a perfect match. I could teach her something if she'd listen."

"I don't know the answer, Fran. I'm even more concerned than you are." He started to leave.

"Wait a minute! I have something for you to read." She handed him the working script of a play. "See if you think we should do this for our winter production. The action takes place at Christmastime. I'd love to play Eleanor of Aquitaine.... You could grow a beard and play Henry," she added slyly.

"No thanks, but I'll give it a read."

On the way home Qwilleran took a detour into the public library to see Polly, but she was out of the building, the clerks informed him. They always considered it appropriate to tell their boss's friend where she had gone and why: to Dr. Zoller's office to have her teeth cleaned, or to Gippel's Garage to have her brakes adjusted. Today she had an appointment with the vet; Bootsie had been vomiting, and there was blood in his urine.

"If she returns, ask her to call me," he said in a businesslike tone, but he was thinking, That's all she needs to push her over the edge! A sick cat!

At the barn he loaded a cooler of soft drinks into his car and drove down the trail for his mail. Eddie was bending over a whining table saw, lopping off boards as if slicing bread, while two new helpers climbed about the framed building, hammering nails with syncopated blows.

"Comin' right along!" he called out encouragingly.

"Yeah," said Eddie, walking in his direction and sharpening a pencil. "If it don't rain tonight, I'll do some gradin'. I'll do all that fill and start on that hill she wants next to the road."

"That'll make a long day for you," Qwilleran said.

"Yeah... well... a guy in Kennebeck'll rent me a skim-loader cheaper at night."

"How do you transport it all that distance?"

"Flatbed trailer."

Qwilleran asked, "Do you live in Kennebeck? That's where they have that good steakhouse."

"Nah, I live in... uh... out in the country."

"Where's Benno? Still hung over?"

"Di'n't you hear? He got his!"

"You mean, he was killed? In an accident?"

"Nah. A fight in a bar."

"That's too bad," Qwilleran said. "You'd known him a long time, hadn't you?"

"Yeah... well... gotta get back to work."

Driving back to the barn, Qwilleran wondered why Eddie considered it necessary to conceal his Indian Village address. The development on the Ittibittiwassee River was swanky by Moose County standards, catering to young professionals with briefcases and styled hair: Fran Brodie, Dwight Somers, Hixie Rice, and Elizabeth Hart had apartments there. Eddie hardly fitted the picture, with his rough appearance and rusty pickup.

Qwilleran arrived at the barn in time to hear the phone ringing and see Koko hopping up and down as if on springs. It was Polly, calling in a state of anxiety. Bootsie was in the hospital. He had feline urological syndrome. They were giving him tests. He might need surgery. Listening to her anguished report, his reaction was: I told you so! Many times he had warned Polly that she was overfeeding Bootsie; he was gorging on food to compensate for loneliness; what he needed was a cat friend.

Now Qwilleran tried to comfort her by mumbling words of encouragement: She had caught it in time; Bootsie was in good hands; the vet was highly skilled; Bootsie was still a young cat and would bounce back; would she like to talk about it over dinner at the Old Stone Mill?

No, she said. Unfortunately the library was open until nine o'clock, and it was her turn to work.

It was raining slightly when Celia arrived for her briefing - not really raining, just misting. "Good for the complexion," they liked to say in Moose County.

She was wearing a plastic hat tied under her chin. "Did anyone expect this rain?" she asked.

"In Moose County we always expect the unexpected. Come in and tell me about the day's excitement at The Roundhouse. Did Wrigley steal the show? Did Tish break down and tell all? Did Florrie plant a bomb in the elevator? This is better than a soap opera."

"I decided not to take him," she said. "That train wreck really scared him! So I told them his little tummy was upset from eating a rubber band. I'm getting good at inventing stories, Chief."

"I'm proud of you, Celia."

"Well, wait till you hear! When I arrived, they both hugged me - Tish and Florrie - and said they'd been lonely over the weekend, and they wanted to know if I'd come and live with them! I and Wrigley! I almost fell over! I had to think quick, and I said my grandson was coming up from Illinois to live with me so he could go to school in Pickax, starting in September. They said Clayton could move in, too! I told them I was really touched by the kind invitation and would have to think about it. Whew!"

"Nice going," Qwilleran commented.

"So we had lunch and talked about this and tha't. Tish reads your column, Chief, and she raved about the one on sweet corn. I was dying to tell her I know you, but I didn't. They asked about Clayton, and I asked if they had many relatives. Tish has one brother - no sisters - grandmother dead, aunts and uncles moved away, grandfather a retired railroad engineer in Sawdust City. And here's the sad part: He lives twenty miles away and has never been to visit them! Her grandmother never even sent a birthday card! Tish hasn't met either of them. This family is very strange, Chief."

"Was anything more said about the dog?"

"I asked if they were going to get another watchdog. I said my son had a German shepherd. Tish got all teary-eyed and talked about Zak and how sweet and cuddly he was. She said he might have been killed by her brother's best friend; they'd been having some violent arguments. Isn't that terrible!"

Qwilleran agreed but was not surprised. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit together. "Could you get her to talk about the credit union?"

"Not yet, but I'm getting there! After Florrie went to have her nap, I told Tish she was a wonderful person to give up college and stay home to take care of her mother. I said office work must be boring for someone with her talent. Then she showed me a clipping of a book review she wrote for your paper, and they paid her for it! She was so thrilled to see her name in print! She signed it Letitia Penn. That's Florrie's maiden name.... I asked what kind of work she did at the office, and she said a little bit or everything. She seems afraid to talk about it."

"You're doing very well, Celia. Now I think it's time for that strange family to have a reunion. The grandfather has reached an age when many persons look back on their lives with remorse and a desire to make amends for past mistakes. I mentioned it to Mr. Penn when I interviewed him, and you might sound out the women tomorrow."

"I know they'll love it!"

"Do you mind picking up the old gentleman in Sawdust City?"

"Be glad to."

"When the family is together, you can show a video of the Party Train, with Mr. Penn in the engineer's cab," he said, and then thought, Unfortunately, it includes shots of F. T. in the engineer's cab and F. T. with his secretary.

"Oh, we'll have a ball!" Celia squealed. "I'll make some cookies." She stood up. "I should drive home now. When the sky's overcast, it gets dark early, and the woods are kind of scary at night."

Qwilleran accompanied her to her car and asked if she had noticed a lot of cars in the theatre parking lot. "It's a dress rehearsal for Midsummer Night's Dream, and I have a pair of tickets for you for opening night, if you'd like to see the show."

"I'd love it! Thank you so much! I'll take Virginia; she's been so good to me... What's that rumbling noise?"

"Only a bulldozer working overtime at the end of the orchard." He opened the car door for her. "Fasten your seatbelt. Observe the speed limit. And don't pick up any hitchhikers."

The irrepressible Mrs. Robinson was laughing merrily as she started through the block-long patch of woods at a bumpy ten miles per hour.

To Qwilleran the rumbling of the tractor was a welcome sound. It meant that Polly could cross off one item on her worry list. The man-made hill between house and highway would give her a sense of privacy, though there was little traffic on Trevelyan Road. Paving it had been a political boondoggle; no one used it except locals living on scattered farms.

So Qwilleran listened to the comforting grunting and groaning of Eddie's skim-loader.. Lounging in his big chair, he asked himself: What have we learned to date? Benno may have killed Zak. Yet, even if he were a vengeful victim of the embezzlement, he would have known that the dog was not Floyd's. Tish had said the two young men had been arguing violently.

Over what? A soccer bet? A woman? Drugs? Eddie may have killed his friend in a fit of drunken passion. The tension between boss and helper had been evident on the job - ever since Audit Sunday. When Eddie visited the barn, Koko hissed at him.

"Yow!" said Koko, sitting on the telephone desk, perilously close to the English pencil box: His comment gave Qwilleran another lead: The police were being evasive about the murder weapon at the Trackside Tavern. "Not a hunting knife" was all Andy Brodie would say. Could it have been a well-sharpened pencil?

With a growl and an abrupt change of mood, Koko sprang from the desk and launched a mad rush around the main floor - across the coffee table, up over the fireplace cube, around the kitchen. Objects not nailed down were scattered: books, magazines, the wooden train whistle, one of the carved decoys, the brass paperweight. Qwilleran grabbed the wooden pencil box from the path of the crazed animal.

"Koko!" he yelled. "Stop! Stop!" Another decoy went flying. There was the sound of breaking glass in the kitchen. Then the cat flung himself at the front door. He bounced off, picked himself up, gave his left shoulder two brief licks, and stormed the door again like a battering ram.

"Stop! You'll kill yourself!" Qwilleran had never interfered in a catfit; it usually stopped as suddenly as it had started. But he honestly feared for Koko's safety. He rushed to the foyer and threw a scatter rug over the writhing body and pinned him down. After a few seconds the lump under the rug was surprisingly quiet. Cautiously he lifted one corner, then another. Koko was lying there, stretched out, exhausted.

It was then that the growl of the bulldozer floated up the trail on the damp night air. So that was it! The constant stop-and-go noise was driving Koko crazy. Or was that the only reason for the demonstration? Qwilleran felt an urgent tingling on his upper lip. He pounded his moustache, put on his yellow cap, and started out with a flashlight.

Following Koko's significant catfit, Qwilleran jogged to the building site, where the skim-loader was making its nervous racket-starting and stopping, advancing and retreating, climbing and plunging. He could see bouncing flashes of light as the vehicle's headlights turned this way and that. While he was still a hundred yards away from the earth-moving operation, the noise stopped and the headlight was turned off. Time for a cigarette, Qwilleran thought; he'd better not leave any butts around.

At that moment there was a gut- wrenching scream - a man's scream - and then an earth-shaking thud - and then silence.

"Hey! Hey, down there!" Qwilleran shouted, running forward and ducking as something large and black flew over his head.

His flashlight showed the tractor lying on its side, half in the ditch. The operator was not in sight. Thrown clear, Qwilleran thought as he combed the area with a beam of light. Then he heard a tortured groan from the ditch. The operator was pinned underneath.

Futilely he threw his shoulder against the machine. Desperately he looked up and down the lonely highway. A single pair of headlights was approaching from the north, and he waved his flashlight in frantic arcs until it stopped.

"Gotta CB? Gotta phone?" he yelled at the driver. "Call 911! Tractor rollover! Man trapped underneath! Trevelyan Road, quarter mile north of Base Line!" Before he could finish, the motorist was talking on his car phone. He was Scott Gippel, the car dealer, who lived nearby.

Almost immediately, police sirens pierced the silence of the night. Seconds later, red and blue revolving lights converged from north and south, accompanied by the wailing and honking of emergency vehicles.

While Gippel turned his car to beam its headlights on the scene, Qwilleran climbed down into the ditch, searching with his flashlight. First he saw an arm, grotesquely twisted...next a mop of black hair... and then a bearded face raked with bleeding clawmarks.

A police car was first to arrive, followed by the ambulance from the hospital and the volunteer rescue squad from the firehall. Seven men and a woman responded. They had rescue equipment and knew what to do. They jacked the tractor and extricated the unconscious body from the mud.

Qwilleran identified him for the police officer: Edward Trevelyan of Indian Village; next of kin, Letitia Trevelyan in West Middle Hummock. The door closed on the stretcher, and the ambulance sped away.

The others stood around, somewhat stunned, despite their composure during the rescue.

"I heard the tractor," Qwilleran said, "and was on my way here to watch the action, when I heard a scream and the machine toppling over and a huge bird flying away. I think it was a great horned owl. There's one living in the woods."

"When they're after prey at night, they can mistake anything for an animal," the officer said. "You're smart to wear that yellow cap."

Gippel said, "That guy'll never make it. His bones are crushed. Do you realize how much that tractor weighs?"

"The soil is wet, though," Qwilleran pointed out. "He was partially cushioned by the mud."

"Don't bet on it!" Gippel was notorious for his pessimism, being the only businessman in town who refused to join the Pickax Boosters Club. As Qwilleran walked back to the barn, he dreaded the task of notifying Polly. The thought of a serious accident on her property would blight her attitude toward the house and add to her worries.

By the time he arrived, his phone was ringing. It was Celia. "Bad news!" she said breathlessly. "Tish just called. Her brother's been in a terrible accident. He's in Pickax Hospital, and she asked me to go there, because she can't leave Florrie."

"Call me if there's anything I can do, no matter how late," he said. "Call and tell me his condition."

He turned on all the lights in the barn in an effort to dispel the gloom that hung over him. The Siamese felt it, too. They forgot to ask for their bedtime treat and were in no mood for sleep. They followed him when he circled the main floor. After several laps, he considered the twistletwig rocker, wondering if its efficacy included the therapeutic. When he gave it a try, both cats piled into his lap, Koko digging industriously in the crook of his elbow. Qwilleran endured the discomfort, remembering that it was Koko's catfit that had sent him down to the building site - before the accident happened!

Eventually Celia called back. "He's unconscious, and only a relative is allowed to see him. I said I was his grandmother. He looks more dead than alive. The nurse wouldn't tell me anything, except that he's critical... What's that?" she cried, hearing a crash.

"Koko knocked something down," he said calmly.

"The hospital will call me if there's a turn for the worse. Tomorrow morning, after Florrie's nurse reports, Tish will drive to town, and we'll go to the hospital together."

"That's good. She'll need moral support. Keep me informed, but right now you'd better get some rest. Tomorrow could be a hectic day for you." Qwilleran spoke softly and considerately; he returned the receiver to its cradle gently. Then he turned around and yelled, "Bad cat! Look what you've done!"

Koko gave him a defiant stare, while Yum Yum scampered away guiltily. The epithet could refer to either male or female, but it was Koko who had been nosing the pencil box for several days. Now it lay on the clay tile floor in two pieces. The tiny hinges had pulled out of the old wood, and the box had burst open. The drawer with the secret latch held firm, and the paper clips were secure, but pens, pencils, a letter-opener, and whatnot were scattered allover the floor. As Qwilleran gathered them up, he saw Koko walking away, impudently carrying a black-barreled felt-tip in his mouth.

"Bad cat!" he bellowed again. "Bad cat!" It may have vented his anger, but it did nothing to dent the cat's equanimity.

Qwilleran set his alarm clock for six forty-five, an unprecedented hour for a late-riser of his distinction. He wanted to break the news to Polly before she heard it on the radio.

At seven a.m. the WPKX announcer said, "A bulldozer rolled over late last night on the outskirts of Pickax, injuring Edward P. Trevelyan, twenty-four, of Indian Village. He was grading a building site in a secluded area when he was attacked by a large bird, thought to be an owl. He lost control of the tractor, which rolled into a ditch, pinning him underneath. The accident victim was taken to Pickax Hospital by the emergency medical service, after being freed by the volunteer rescue squad. His condition is critical."

Qwilleran called Polly shortly after her wake-up hour of seven-thirty and heard her say sleepily, "So early, Qwill! Is something wrong?"

"I have an early appointment and want to inquire about Bootsie before leaving."

"I phoned the hospital last night," Polly said, "and Bootsie was resting comfortably after the initial treatment. It was nice of you to call."

"One other thing... I'm sorry to report that Eddie Trevelyan is in the hospital."

"How do you know?" she asked anxiously.

"It was on the air this morning. He was in an accident last night."

"Oh, dear! I hope it wasn't drunk driving."

"They called it a tractor rollover. It looks as if he won't be able to supervise his crew for a while."

In the pause that followed, Qwilleran could imagine the questions racing through Polly's mind: How bad is it? How long will he be incapacitated? Can his helpers proceed without him? Will it delay my construction?

"Oh, no!" she cried. "Was he working on my property?"

"I'm afraid so. He was doing a little midnight grading while he had the use of a rented skim-loader."

"I feel terribly guilty about this, Qwill. I've been nagging him about the grading," Polly said in anguish. "It's so discouraging. Everything seems to be happening at once. First Bootsie, and now this!"

"One thing I can assure you, Polly. You have no reason to worry about the house. If any problem arises, it'll be solved. Just leave everything to me."

Qwilleran hung up with a sense of defeat, knowing his advice would be ignored; she would worry more than ever. It was nearly eight o'clock, and he walked briskly down the trail in the hope of finding workmen on the job. The site was deserted. The tractor lay on its side in the ditch; across the highway its flatbed trailer was parked on the shoulder; the pavement was a maze of muddy tracks. Soon a pickup pulled onto the property, and one of Eddie's workmen jumped out.

Qwilleran went to meet him. "Do you know your boss is in the hospital?"

"Yeah. He's hurt bad."

"Can you continue to work on the house?"

The man shrugged. "No boss, no pay. I come to pick up my tools."

"Do you know where Eddie rented this machine?"

"Truck-n-Track in Kennebeck."

At that moment a late-model car stopped on the shoulder, driven by Scott Gippel on his way to work.

"Did you hear the newscast, Scott?" Qwilleran asked.

"Sure did! That guy's gonna cash it in, take it from me. It's the Trevelyan curse, allover again. Same place. Same family. Look! You can see the foundation where their farmhouse burned down."

"Well, don't be too worried about Eddie. He's young, and he's strong - "

"And he drinks like a sponge," the car dealer said. "He's probably got alcohol instead of blood in his veins."

Qwilleran let that comment pass. There had been a time when he fitted the same description, more or less. He said, "Could your tow truck get this thing out of the ditch and deliver it to Kennebeck?"

"Who pays?"

"I do, but I want it done fast... immediately...now.

Without answering, Gippel picked up his car phone and gave orders.

Qwilleran waited until the carpenter had picked up his tools - and nothing belonging to Eddie. He waited until the tractor had been towed away. Only then did he go home and feed the cats. They were unusually quiet; they knew when he was involved in serious business.

He himself breakfasted on coffee and a two-day-old doughnut while pondering Koko's bizarre behavior in recent weeks: the interminable vigils at the front window... his perching on the fireplace cube with the decoys... his vociferous and absurd reaction to the name Hermia... his digging in the crook of Qwilleran's elbow, ad nauseam.

As the man ruminated, the cat was investigating the bookshelf devoted to nineteenth-century fiction.

"You'd better shape up, young man," Qwilleran scolded him, "or we'll send you to live with Amanda Goodwinter."

"Ik ik ik!" said Koko irritably as he shoved a book off the shelf. It was a fine book with a leather binding, gold tooling, India paper, and gilt edges. With resignation and the realization that one can never win an argument with a Siamese, Qwilleran picked up the book and read the title. It was Dostoyevsky's The Idiot.

"Thanks a lot," he said crossly.

Qwilleran's telephone was in constant use that morning. He called Kennebeck and instructed Truck-n- Track to send him Eddie's rental bill, not forgetting to credit the deposit. He instructed Mr. O'Dell to pick up Eddie's table saw and other tools and store them in a stall of the carriage house.

At one point he telephoned the Lanspeaks, who called their daughter at the medical clinic, who spoke to the chief of staff at the hospital, who revealed that the patient was in and out of consciousness, having sustained massive internal injuries and multiple fractures. The next twenty-four hours would be decisive.

Soon after, Celia called again. She had been to the hospital with Tish. Eddie was conscious but didn't recognize his sister. "I think they had him all doped up," she said. "We were wondering how to break the news to Florrie and how she'd take it, and we decided that the reunion with Grandpa Penn might soften the blow. What do you think, Chief?"

Qwilleran thought, It'll either soften the blow or deliver the coup de grace. He said, however, "Good idea!"

"So I'll phone him and ask if I can pick him up this afternoon. I hope it isn't too short notice."

"It won't be. The social schedule at the Retirement Center seems to be flexible."

"Also, I have something to report right now, Chief, if you can see me for a few minutes before I leave for The Roundhouse."

When she arrived, she was flushed with excitement.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"I haven't time." Sinking into the cushions of the sofa, she rummaged in her handbag for her notebook and then dropped the roomy carryall on the floor, where its gaping interior immediately attracted the Siamese. It was used to transport such items as cookies, paperback novels, house slippers, drugstore remedies, and more. "What do you think they're looking for?" she asked, as the two blackish- brown noses sniffed the handbag's mysteries.

"Wrigley," Qwilleran said. "They think you've got Wrigley in there, and they want to let the cat out of the bag."

Celia howled with more glee than the quip warranted, Qwilleran felt, but he realized she was overexcited by the day's happenings. He waited patiently until she calmed down, then asked, "Where's Tish now?"

"Still at the hospital. They have a comfy waiting room for relatives in the intensive care wing, and that's where we had a heart-to-heart talk this morning - Tish and I. I asked if Eddie had friends we should notify, but she doesn't know any of his friends... I told you they're a strange family, Chief... Then she said Nella Hooper liked Eddie a lot and would be sorry to hear what happened, but she didn't leave a forwarding address. Nella, I found out, is the secretary at the credit union who was fired a couple of weeks before it closed. She and Eddie lived in the same apartment building. She wasn't a secretary, Tish said, but more like an assistant to the president. She had a degree in accounting and knew computers and made a big impression on Tish. They used to go to lunch together."

"First question," Qwilleran said. "What was this highly qualified woman doing in a tank town like Sawdust City? Besides everything you mention, she has smashing good looks! I've seen her."

"She loved trains! That's all. It was a dream job, traveling around the country with the president, looking at trains and - "

She was interrupted by the phone. Hixie was calling to say that Nella Hooper's apartment would not be available until October first - and maybe not then if she decided to come back. The credit union always paid her rent - quarterly - in advance. Eddie Trevelyan had moved, to Indian Village four months before Audit Sunday. Hixie concluded, "Is he the one who was in that bad accident last night?"

"He's the one. Floyd's son. Thanks, Hixie. Talk to you later."

As Qwilleran returned to the lounge area, he was thinking, If they were going to fire Nella in July, why would they pay her rent until October? To Celia he said, "Did Tish mention why Nella was fired?"

"She wasn't fired, really. Nella's father in Texas has Alzheimer's disease, and her mother needed her at home, so Nella had to quit her job. But the office made it look like she was fired, so she could collect benefits. She left without saying good-bye, which really hurt Tish's feelings, although she realizes Nella had family troubles on her mind."

"Hmmm, makes one wonder" was Qwilleran's comment. "As 1 recall, Tish said she hated her father for cheating on Florrie. How does she react to Nella's relationship with her father?"

"Strictly business, she said. Her father's real girlfriend owns a bar in Sawdust City. Tish told Nella how she felt about F.T. and how he wouldn't spend the money to send Florrie to Switzerland. Nella was very sympathetic and said it would be easy to switch $100,000 into a slush fund for Florrie, and F.T. would be none the wiser. Also, it would be legal because it was all in the family.... Do you understand how this works, Chief?"

"I don't even understand why seven- times-nine always equals sixty-three."

"Me too! Glad.I'm not the only dumbbell.... Well, anyway, the next thing was that Tish introduced Eddie to Nella, because he wanted money to build condos. If he could buy the land, he could borrow against it to start building, but F.T. wouldn't back him. Nella told him not to worry; she could work the same kind of switch because it was all in the family. But before anything happened, Nella had to quit, and the credit union went bust. Tish was lucky to have her savings in a Pickax bank. She didn't trust F.T." Celia had been talking fast. She looked at her watch. "I've gotta dash. If I'm late, the nurse gets snippy."

As Qwilleran walked with Celia to the parking area, she said, "Someone backed a truck up to the carriage house today and started unloading stuff. I went downstairs to see what it was all about, and I met the nicest man! He said he works for you."

"That's Mr. O'Dell. You'll see him around frequently. He's the one who cleaned your win dows before you moved in."

"They may need cleaning again soon," she replied with a wink, and she drove away laughing.

Indoors Qwilleran found something on the floor that belonged on the telephone desk: the paperback playscript that Fran wanted him to read. Koko was under the desk, sitting on his brisket and looking pleased with himself. Qwilleran smoothed his moustache with a dawning awareness: There was a leonine theme in Koko's recent antics, starting with the lion in A Midsummer Night's Dream... then Androcles and the Lion... and now the Lion in Winter. Did he identify with the king of beasts? For a ten-pound house cat he had a lion-sized ego.

Or, Qwilleran thought, he's trying to tell me something, and I'm not getting it!