The Cat Who Blew The Whistle

-4-

The morning after the train ride and the afterglow at Polly's apartment, nothing disturbed Qwilleran's deep sleep until the telephone rang at nine o'clock. He had slept through the yowling demands coming from the top balcony; he had slept through the rumble of the cement-mixing truck down the lane. He thought it was predawn when he said his sleepy hello into the bedside phone.

"What's the matter? Aren't you up yet?" Arch Riker shouted at him. "All hell's breaking loose! Didn't you hear the news from Sawdust City?"

"Only on the radio last night," Qwillcran replied with a lack of energy or interest. "Any more news?"

"Only that Floyd Trevelyan can't be reached for clarification. It sounds like a bust! It must be a major case to warrant surprise action like this - on a Sunday, for Pete's sake!"

Always grouchy before his first cup of coffee, Qwilleran replied with irritable sarcasm, "I can imagine a SWAT team of bookkeepers in business suits and knit ties, armed with portable computers, parachuting down on the Lumbertown office and kicking in the doors."

"You're not taking this seriously," the publisher rebuked him. "Consider the timing! It happened while the evening excursion was in progress. The Capitol gang evidently knew the schedule of the Party Train."

"Thanks to Dwight Somers's hype, everyone in three states knew the schedule."

"Anyway, we"ll soon find out what it's all about. Junior is contacting the state banking commission, and Roger's on his way to Sawdust City, via Trevelyan's home in West Middle Hummock. We'll have a story for the front page, and if my hunches are right, it'll bump the Party Train to page three.... Talk to you later."

Now that Qwilleran was awake, more or less, he pressed the Start button on the coffee maker and shuffled up the ramp to release the Siamese from their loft. As soon as he opened their door, they shot out of the room like feline cannonballs and streaked down to the kitchen. Qwilleran followed obediently.

"Yow-ow-ow!" Koko howled upon arriving at the feeding station and finding the plate empty.

"N-n-now!" echoed Yum Yum.

As Qwilleran opened a can of red salmon, crushed the bones with a fork, removed the black skin, and arranged it on two plates, he thought, Cats don't fight for their rights; they take them for granted. They have a right to be fed, watered, stroked on demand, and supplied with a lap and a clean commode... and if they don't get their rights, they quietly commit certain acts of civil disobedience.... Tyrants!

The two gobbling heads were so intent on their salmon that even the loud bell of the kitchen phone failed to disturb them.

This time the call was from Polly. "Qwill, did you hear about the state audit in Sawdust City? What do you think of the timing?"

"It looks fishy," he said, having gulped his first cup of coffee and geared up his usual cynicism. "Any crank can call the hotline to the state auditor's office and blow the whistle on a state- regulated institution. One of the universities was investigated for misuse of funds, you remember, and it was a false alarm - the work of an anonymous tipster. In Trevelyan's case, the tip could be a spiteful hoax perpetrated by a customer who was refused a loan."

"That's terrible!" she said.

"In a way," he said, "it's better to embarrass the management than to barge into the office with a semiautomatic and wipe out innocent depositors."

"Oh, Qwill! Things like that don't happen up here."

"Times are changing," he said ominously. There was a pause on the line before she said softly, "I slept beautifully last night. It was a wonderfully relaxing day and evening - just what I needed. I've been worrying too much about my house."

"No need to worry, Polly. I'll keep an eye on the action at the end of the trail - when I go down to the mailbox - and I'll keep you informed."

"Thank you, dear. A bient“t!"

"A bient“t."

Qwilleran poured another mug of the blockbuster brew he called coffee and sat down at the telephone desk to call a number in Indian Village. "Dwight, this is Qwill," he said soberly.

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" the publicity man wailed. "What the hell's going on? I didn't hear the news until this morning, on the air. I called Floyd's number in West Middle Hummock, but he wasn't home."

"Who answered?"

"His wife. She sounded as if she didn't know anything had happened, and I didn't want to be the messenger bringing bad news."

"I didn't meet his wife when I was there."

"She usually stays in her room, confined to a wheelchair. I don't know exactly what her problem is, but it's one of those new diseases with a multisyllabic name and no known cure. What a shame! All that money, and she can't enjoy it."

"Hmmm," Qwilleran murmured with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. "So what happened? Could she tell you where he was or when he'd be back?"

"Well, she's quite frail and speaks in a weak voice that's hard to understand, but I gathered that he came home last night and went out again. Just between you and me, I think it's not unusual for him to stay out all night. Anyway, the nurse took the phone away from Mrs. T and told me not to upset her patient. So I asked to speak to the daughter, but she wasn't home either. The way it works: A nurse comes every morning, a companion every afternoon, and the daughter stays with her mother overnight."

"Sad situation," Qwilleran said. "Do you know anything about matters in Sawdust City?"

"No more than you do. You know, Qwill, I worked my tail off, getting that show on the road yesterday - "

"And you did a brilliant job, Dwight. Everything was perfectly coordinated."

"And then this bomb dropped! Talk about suspicious timing! It couldn't be purely coincidental."

"Is Floyd mixed up in politics?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Has he made any enemies in the state bureaucracy? Did he support the wrong candidate for the legislature?"

"Not that I know of. Maybe he distributed a little judicious graft here and there; he had no trouble getting a liquor license for the train, you know. But no. He's bored with politics. If it doesn't have steel wheels and run on steel tracks, he's not interested."

Qwilleran said, "I'm sorry about this for your sake, Dwight. Let's hope it's a false alarm."

"Yeah... well... it was a kick in the head for me, after I'd tried so hard to create a favorable image for Floyd and Lumbertown and Sawdust City."

"One question: Was Floyd a passenger on the six o'clock train?"

"No, he had to go home and take care of his wife - he said! I went on both runs, and I've had enough accordion music to last my lifetime!"

"Arch has the staff digging for facts, so it'll be in the first edition if anything develops. If you hear any rumors, feel free to bounce them off a sympathetic ear. And good luck, whatever the outcome, Dwight."

"Thanks for calling, Qwill. How about lunch later in the week when I've finished licking my wounds?"

When the Moose County Something appeared, the front page was not what Qwilleran had been led to expect. The Party Train had the banner headline:

JOY IN MUDVILLE OLD No.9 ROLLS AGAIN!

The Lumbertown crisis was played down with only a stickful of type in a lower corner of the page: Sawdust C.V. Closed for Audit. Either there was no alarming development, or the editor had chosen not to throw the depositors into panic. That was small-town newspaper policy. Riker, with his background on large metropolitan dailies, preferred the eye-grabbing, heartstopping, hair-raising headline; Junior Goodwinter, born and bred 400 miles north of everywhere, had other ideas, rooted in local custom. He always said, "Don't try to make bad news worse."

Qwilleran was pondering this viewpoint over a ham sandwich at Lois's Luncheonette when Roger MacGillivray blustered into the restaurant and flung himself into the booth where Qwilleran was reading the paper. "I suppose you're wondering why we didn't play it up," the young reporter said.

"You're right. I did... Why?"

"Because there was nothing to report! Junior was stonewalled when he called the commission, and no one in Mudville would talk to me. Two state vehicles were parked behind the Lumbertown building, and there was a notice plastered on the front door with some legal gobbledy-gook, but the doors were locked front and back, and the dirty dogs completely ignored my knocking. Also they refused to answer when I called from a phone booth. Before I left, I got a shot of the building exterior with some old geezers standing on the sidewalk in a huddle. I also got a close-up of the official notice on the door, and another one of the license plate on a state car.... How's that for brilliant photojournalism?" he finished with a bitter laugh.

"They didn't use any photos," Qwilleran said, tapping his newspaper."

"I know, but you have to hand in something, just so they know you've been there."

"Could you see through the window?"

"I could see auditors at work stations, that's all. But then I talked to the old geezers and got some man-on- the-street stuff, which I phoned in, and which they didn't print."

"Maybe later," Qwilleran said encouragingly. "What did the old geezers say?"

"Well! It was an eye-opener, I thought. First of all, they like Floyd. He's the local boy who was captain of the high school football team, started to work as a carpenter, and made millions! They like the interest he pays. They like the electric trains in the lobby. They think this underhanded action on the part of vipers in the state capitol is unfair and probably in violation of the Constitution. They don't trust government agencies."

"Did you try to reach Floyd's secretary?"

"Yeah, but no luck. When I asked the old geezers about her, they sniggered like schoolkids. Anyway, they told me she lives in Indian Village, so I phoned out there. No answer. I went to Floyd's house. He wasn't there, and no one would talk or even open the door more than an inch. It's been a frustrating day so far, Qwill. On days like this I'd like to be back in the school system, teaching history to kids who couldn't care less."

After his conversation with Roger, Qwilleran did a few errands before returning home. Whenever he walked about downtown, he was stopped by strangers who read the "Qwill Pen" or recognized him from the photo at the top of his column. They always complimented him on his

writing and his moustache, not necessarily in that order. In the beginning he had welcomed reader comments, hoping to learn something of value, but his expectations were crushed by the nature of their remarks:

"I loved your column yesterday, Mr. Q. I forget what it was about, but it was very good."

"How do you think all that stuff up?"

"My cousin in Delaware writes for a paper. Would you like me to send you some of her clippings?"

"Why do you spell your name like that?"

Now, whenever he was complimented, he would express his thanks without making eye contact; it was eye contact that led to monologues about out-of-state relatives. Instead, he would say a pleased thank-you and turn his head aside as if modestly savoring the compliment. He had become a master at the gracious turnoff. Fifty percent of the time it worked.

On this day the situation was quite different. While he was waiting in line to cash a check at the Pickax People's Bank, a security guard hailed him. "Hi, Mr. Q."

Immediately the young woman ahead of him in the line turned and said, "You're Mr. Qwilleran! Reading your column is like listening to music! Whatever the subject, your style of writing makes me feel good." There was not a word about his moustache.

Surprised and pleased, he made eye contact with a plain young woman of serious mien, probably in her early twenties. "Thank you," he said graciously without turning away. "I write my column for readers like you. Apparently you know something about the craft. Are you a teacher?"

"No, just a constant reader. I have one of your columns pasted on my mirror. You gave three rules for would-be writers: write, write, and write. I'm a would-be, and I'm following your advice." There was not a word about sending him a manuscript for evaluation and advice.

"Have you thought of enrolling at the new college?" he asked. "They're offering some writing courses... and there are scholarships available," he added, with a glance at her plain and well-worn shirt, her lack of makeup, her limp canvas shoulder bag.

"I'd like to do that, but I'm rather tied down right now."

"Then I wish you well, Ms.... what is your name?"

Her hesitant reply was mumbled. It sounded like Letitia Pen.

"P-e-n-n, as in Pennsylvania?" he asked and I added with humorous emphasis, "Is that a pen name?"

"It's my own name, unfortunately," she said with a grimace. "I hate 'Letitia.' "

"I know what you mean. My parents named me Merlin, and my best friend was Archibald. As Merlin and Archibald we suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous first-graders."

"It's not as terrible as Letitia and Lionella, though. That's the name of my best friend."

"At least you could do a nightclub act. Can you sing? Dance? Tell jokes?"

Letitia giggled. The two of them were the only ones in the bank line who were enjoying the wait. The man behind Qwilleran cleared his throat loudly. The bank teller rapped on the counter to get Letitia's attention and said, "Next!"

Ms. Penn turned and stepped quickly to the window, saying a soft "I'm sorry."

Qwilleran advanced a few steps also, shortening the long line behind them; the bank was always rushed on Mondays and Fridays. Ahead of him his constant reader seemed to be withdrawing a substantial sum. He could see over her shoulder. The teller counted the bills twice.

"Fifty, a hundred, hundred-fifty, two hundred, two-fifty..."

"I'd like an envelope for that," said Ms. Penn.

"There you are," said the teller. "Have a nice day, Ms. Trevelyan." "Constant reader" stuffed the money into her shoulder bag and left the bank hurriedly.

That, Qwilleran observed, was a curious development. Why would she choose not to give her right name? Before leaving the bank, he consulted the local telephone directory and found seventy- five Trevelyans but no Letitia. There were no Penns at all - not that it mattered; it was one of the pointless things he did to satisfy his idle curiosity. After that, he walked home with a lighter step, buoyed by the knowledge that his twice-weekly words were not totally forgotten and might even be doing some good. He walked via the back road to pick up his mail and check Polly's building site.

There were no trucks and no workmen, but concrete had been poured and smoothly troweled. She had decided on a crawl space instead of a basement, and on a poured foundation instead of concrete block - this after extensive reading on the subject. On one of their recent dinner dates she had explained, A poured foundation gives a stronger wall with less danger of cracks and leaks. Did you know they are supposed to leave a groove in the footings to tie in a poured concrete wall?" And after dinner they had visited the building site to check the grooves.

Now the walls had been poured, and Qwilleran phoned Polly at the library to report.

"Thank you for letting me know," she said. "Now I feel the project is finally under way."

"Yes, you have something concrete to show for all your planning," he said lightly.

"I wonder how long it takes to dry before they can start the framing. Mr. Trevelyan uses platform framing construction. I must phone him tomorrow morning to see if he spaces the joists on twelve-, sixteen-, or twenty-four-inch centers."

"I'd go with twelve-inch, considering the way Bootsie goes around stamping his feet," Qwilleran said in another attempt to amuse her.

With worry in her voice she said, "Will I regret my decision to eliminate the fireplace? It makes a charming focal point, but it adds to the initial cost and then creates extra work if one burns wood, and I would never consider the gas- fired type."

"Be of good cheer," he said. "I have three fireplaces, and you're welcome to come and enjoy one or more at any hour of the day or night. I'll chop the wood, keep the logs burning, and haul the ashes. Reservations should be made an hour in advance." He was doing his best to divert her, without success, and the conversation ended with frustration on Qwilleran's part.

He turned from the telephone to his stack mail. An envelope with an Illinois postm caught his eye:

Dear Chief,

I got your letter about the Kabibbles and almost died laughing. Glad you like them. I'll send some more. You can see by the envelope I've left Florida. I'm back on my son's farm. Sorry to say, I don't get along too good with my daughter-in- law-she's such a sourpuss - and you may think I'm crazy, but I'm thinking of moving to Pickax. It sounds very nice. I know you get lots of snow, but I love to throw snowballs at the side of a barn. I'd need to somehow find a furnished room because I sold everything when I moved to Florida, and maybe I could find a part- time job-cleaning houses or waiting on tables. I'd like to sort of give it a try for a year anyway. What do you think?

Yours truly Celia Robinson

She gave a phone number, and Qwilleran called immediately without waiting for the evening discount rates as he was prone to do. The phone rang and rang, and he let it ring while fragments of thought teased his brain: Celia could cook... Did he need a live-in housekeeper?... No, he liked his privacy... Some macaroni and cheese, though... Some meatloaf for the cats...

He was wondering about Celia's mashed potatoes when a woman's harassed voice shouted a breathless hello.

In a menacing monotone he said, "I'd like to speak to Mrs. Celia Robinson."

"She's out back, collecting eggs. Who's calling?"

"Tell her it's the Chief."

"Who?" "Chief of the Florida Bureau of Investigation," Qwilleran said with his talent for impromptu fabrication.

The receiver was put down abruptly, and a woman's voice could be heard shouting, "Clay, go and get Grandma quick. Tell her to hurry!"

There was a long wait, and then he could hear Celia's laughter before she reached the phone. "Hello, Chief," she said happily. "You must've got my letter."

"I did indeed, and it's a splendid idea! Your grandson can spend Christmas with you, and you can have snowball fights. How is Clayton?"

"He's fine. Just got back from science camp. He won a scholarship."

"Good! Now to answer your questions: Yes, you'll have no trouble finding part- time work. Yes, you can find a furnished apartment. There's one close to downtown, if you don't mind walking up a flight of stairs."

"I don't want to pay too much rent."

"No problem. The owner will be only too happy to have the premises occupied."

"Could I bring my cat? You remember Wrigley, from Chicago."

"By all means. I'll look forward to meeting him." He waited for her merry laughter to subside before asking, "Do you have transportation?"

"Oh, you should see the cute little used car I bought, Chief! It's bright red! I bought it with your check. I didn't expect you to send so much. It was fun helping you."

"You performed a valuable service, Celia. And now... Don't waste any of our glorious summer weather. Plan on coming soon. I'll send you the directions."

"Oh, I'm all excited!" she crowed, and he could hear her happy laughter as she hung up.

The apartment he had in mind was a four-room suite in the carriage house behind the former Klingenschoen mansion, now the K Theatre. It was imposing in its own right, being constructed of glistening fieldstone with carriage lanterns at all four corners and four stalls for vehicles. Qwilleran had lived there while his barn was being remodeled, and it was still equipped with his basic bachelor-style furnishings in conservative colors.

After talking to Celia, he tore into action, his first call being to Fran Brodie at the design studio. She had selected the original furnishings and also those in the barn.

"Fran, drop everything - will you? - and do a quick facelift on my old apartment... No, I'm not moving back into it. A woman who was a friend of Euphonia Gage in Florida has been advised by her doctor to move up here for the salubrious climate."

"Well! I never heard anything like that!" Fran exclaimed. "Perhaps we should open a health spa. What kind of person is she?"

"A fun-loving grandmother, who has a cat and drives a red car.... Yes, I agree the place needs some color - and some feminine fripperies, if you'll pardon the political faux pas. The cats' old hang-out should be made over into a guestroom for her teenage grandson, and my Pullman kitchen should be replaced by a full-scale cooking facility, with an oven big enough to roast a turkey. How fast can you.do this? She'll be here in ten days." "Ten days!" Fran yelped into the phone. "You're a dreamer! Free-standing appliances are no problem, and we can get stock cabinets from Lockmaster, but there's the labor for installing countertops, flooring, lighting - "

"Offer the workmen a bonus," Qwilleran said impatiently. "Get them to work around the clock! Send me the bill." He knew Fran liked a challenge; she prided herself on doing the impossible.

Breaking the news to Polly required more finesse, however. He called her at home that evening. "How did everything go today?" he asked pleasantly. "I see they painted the yellow lines on the library parking lot."

"Yes, but that wasn't the main event of the day," she said. "Mr. Tibbitt's seat cushion developed a slow leak and whistled every time he moved. It could be heard on the main floor, and the clerks were in hysterics. It was rather amusing in a bawdy way." Polly trilled a little discreet laughter.

Finding her in a good mood, Qwilleran broached the real subject on his mind. "I know your assistant likes to moonlight on her day off. Would she be willing to act as mentor for a new resident of Pickax?"

"What would it entail?"

"Driving someone around town and pointing out the stores, churches, restaurants, civic buildings, medical center, and so forth. Information on local customs would be appreciated - also city ordinances, like 'No whistling in public.' And she might throw in some current gossip," he added slyly, knowing that Virginia Alstock was the main fuse in the Pickax gossip circuit.

"Who is this person?" Polly asked crisply. Expecting the third degree, Qwilleran roguishly teased her with piecemeal replies. "A friend of Junior's grandmother in Florida."

"Why would anyone in his or her right mind leave the subtropics to live in the Snow Belt? Is this person male or female?"

"Female."

There was a brief pause. "Where is she going to live?"

"In my old apartment."

"Oh, really? I didn't know it was available for rent. How did she find out about it?"

"The subject of housing arose in a telephone conversation, and I offered it to her."

There was another pause. "You must know her quite well."

"As a matter of fact," he said, thinking the game had gone on long enough, "she was instrumental in solving tire mystery surrounding Euphonia's death."

"I see.... How old is she?"

"Polly, I never ask a lady her age. You know that."

There was an audible sniff.

"Approximately."

"Well... old enough to have a teenage grandson... and young enough to like snowball fights."

"What is this woman's name?"

"Celia Robinson, and I'll appreciate it, Polly, if you'll alert Mrs. Alstock. Mrs. Robinson will be here in about ten days."

Qwilleran chuckled to himself after hanging up the receiver. He could imagine the gabby Mrs. Robinson and the gossipy Mrs. Alstock having lunch at Lois's Luncheonette.

For the next few days he made discreet inquiries, wherever he went, about parttime work for a newcomer. One day he met Lisa Compton in the post office. She worked at the Senior Care Facility, and her husband was superintendent of schools; between them they could provide answers for most questions.

Qwilleran mentioned his quest, and Lisa asked, "Does this woman have a warm, outgoing personality?"

"She's got it in spades," he said.

"Do you know about our new outreach program? It's called Pals for Patients. We supply Pals to homebound Patients; the Patients pay us, and we pay the Pals, minus a small commission for booking and collecting. Patients who can't afford to pay are subsidized by the Klingenschoen Foundation. You probably know all about that."

"That's what you think," Qwilleran said. "No one tells me these things.... Was the program your brainchild?"

"No, it was Irma Hasselrich's last great idea. I merely implemented it," said Lisa. "What's your friend's name?"

Qwilleran hesitated, knowing that a bulletin would flash across the Pickax grapevine: Mr. Q has a new friend. He explained his hesitation by saying glibly, "Her last name is Robinson. Her first name is Sadie or Celia - something like that. We've never met. She was a dear friend of Euphonia Gage in Florida, who said Celia - or Sadie - had an exceptionally warm and outgoing personality."

"Okay. Send her to me when she arrives. We'll put her name on the list."

"She'll appreciate it, I'm sure. How's your grouchy old husband, Lisa?"

"Believe it or not, he's happy as a lark. You know Lyle's perverse temperament. Well, he's tickled to see Floyd Trevelyan in trouble. They've been enemies ever since Floyd sued the school board for expelling his son."

As it turned out, Floyd was in more trouble than anyone imagined, and the Moose County Something could gloat over its first front-page coverage of a financial scandal.

The Lumbertown Credit Union was closed indefinitely and its assets frozen, pending a hearing before the state banking commission on charges of fraud.

Millions of dollars belonging to depositors were allegedy missing.

Also missing were the president of the institution and his secretary.