The Cat Who Blew The Whistle

-6-

Following Koko's macabre dance on the coffee table, Qwilleran brooded about its significance. He had seen that performance before, and it meant only one thing: death. And it pointed to Floyd Trevelyan. To Qwilleran's mind it pointed to suicide. The arrogant, self-centered, self-made man would self-destruct rather than suffer the humility of capture, trial, and imprisonment. He was too rich, too cocky, too vain, too autocratic to return to his hometown in handcuffs.

Qwilleran made no mention of his theory to Polly when they had dinner Saturday night. His fanciful suspicions were always politely dismissed by the head librarian, whose mind was as fact- intensive as the World Almanac. He had never told her about Koko's supra-normal intuition either, nor his unique ways of communicating. By comparison her beloved Bootsie was a Neanderthal cat!

They had dinner at Tipsy's restaurant in North Kennebeck without referring to the scandal that had electrified Moose County. Polly had other concerns: Would her house be ready in time for Thanksgiving? Would the fumes of paint and vinyl and treated wood - the "new house smell" - be injurious to Bootsie's sensitive system? Qwilleran's attempts to change the subject were only temporary distractions from the major issues: insulation and roofing.

"Have you met Eddie Trevelyan?" she asked.

"Not formally," he replied. "When I walk to my mailbox, he looks up and waves, and I say 'Lookin' good' or something original like that. He has a helper called Benno - short, stocky fellow with a ponytail-and a beautiful chow dog who comes to work with him everyday and sits in the bed of Eddie's pickup or in the shade of a tree. I tell him he's a good dog, and he pants for joy with his tongue hanging out. His name is Zak, I found out."

There were other details that he thought it wise to omit; Polly would only worry. There were the cigarette butts allover the property. There was the "essence of barroom" that Eddie exuded much of the time.

"At first the men - they're both young - seemed to be enjoying their work, bantering back and forth," Qwilleran reported. "But now there's an air of tension that's understandable. To see one's parent, a leading citizen, suddenly branded as a thief must be hard to take. Eddie keeps nagging Benno to 'get the lead out' and pound more nails. It occurs to me that he's rushing the job in order to collect his second payment. When is it due?"

"When the house is weathered-in. Oh, dear! I hope this doesn't mean he'll be cutting corners."

"If his operating capital is tied up in the credit union, he may be strapped for cash to meet his payroll and pay bills. Has he dropped any hints?"

"No, he hasn't, and I talk to him on the phone every morning, early, before he gets away."

The next day, after Sunday brunch at Polly's apartment, they drove to the building site. Polly was appalled by the cigarette butts; she would tell Mr. Trevelyan to get a coffee can and pick them up. The future rooms were a maze of two-by-fours; she thought the rooms looked too small. Rain was predicted, and she worried that the roof boards would not be installed in time.

Polly's constant worrying about the house caused Qwilleran to worry about her. "Why don't we take a pleasant break," he suggested, "and drive to the Flats to see the wildfowl. They might be nidulating, or whatever they do in July." This was a noble concession on his part; she was an avid bird watcher, and he was not. "We might see a puffin bird," he added facetiously.

"Not likely in Moose County," she said with a bemused smile, "but I really should go home and study the blueprints, in order to figure out furniture arrangement."

After dropping her off, Qwilleran went home to the barn, grateful for the company of cats who never worried. Both were pursuing their hobbies. Yum Yum was batting a bottle cap around the floor, losing it, finding it, losing it again- until she flopped down on her side in utter exhaustion. Koko was standing on his hind legs in the foyer, gazing down the orchard trail. Did he know that a chow came to work with the builder every day? Had Zak ventured up the trail to the barn? In any case, it seemed abnormal for a four-legged animal to spend so much time on two legs.

"Come on, old boy! Let's go exploring," he suggested. "Leash! Leash!"

Yum Yum, recognizing the word, scampered up the ramp to hide. Koko trotted to the broom closet, where the harnesses were stored, and purred while the leather straps were being buckled. Then, dragging his leash, he walked purposefully to the front door. When it was opened, however, he stood on the threshold in a freeze of indecision. He savored the seventy-eight-degree temperature and the three-mile-an-hour breeze; he looked to right and left; he noted a bird in the sky and a squirrel in a tree.

"Okay, let's go. We don't have two days for this excursion," Qwilleran said, picking up the leash and shaking it like reins. "Forward march!"

Koko, an indoor cat in temperament and lifestyle, stepped cautiously to the small entrance deck and sniffed the boards, which were laid diagonally. He sniffed the spaces between the boards. He discovered an interesting knot in the wood and a row of nailheads. In exasperation Qwilleran grabbed him and swung him to his shoulder. Koko was quite amenable. He liked riding on a shoulder. He liked the elevation.

Everyone had advised Qwilleran to "do something" about the orchard, a tangle of weeds and vines choking neglected apple trees. Many had lost their limbs for firewood; others had fallen victim to storms.

"Why don't you clean out that eyesore?" Riker had said. "Plant vegetables," Polly suggested. "Have a swimming pool," Fran Brodie urged.

At the building site, Qwilleran allowed the excited cat to jump down but held a firm hand on the leash. It was not the skeleton of the house that interested Koko, nor the tire tracks where the builders parked their pickups, nor the spot under a tree where Zak liked to nap in the shade. Koko wanted only to roll on the floor of the future garage. He rolled ecstatically. Both cats had discovered this unexplainable thrill at their Mooseville cabin, where the screened porch was on a concrete slab. They rolled on their backs and squirmed voluptuously. Now Koko was inventing new contortions and enjoying it immensely.

"Let's not be excessive," Qwilleran said to him, jerking the leash. "If that's all you want to do, let's go home."

On the way back to the barn he had an idea: He would add a screened porch on a concrete slab for the Siamese, where they could have a sense of outdoor living and roll to their hearts' content. Eddie could build it after he finished Polly's house. It would not be attached to the barn; that would only destroy the symmetry of the octagonal structure. It would be a separate summer house - a pergola - like the one he had visited on Breakfast Island, and like the one he had built in the Potato Mountains.

Yum Yum met them at the door and sniffed Koko with disapproval; he had been out having fun, and she had been left at home.

"That's what happens," Qwilleran advised her, "when you elect to be asocial." At any rate, he hoped the jaunt had satisfied Koko's curiosity and there would be no more absurd trail gazing. It was a futile dream. Soon the cat was back in the foyer, standing on two legs at the window, watching and waiting.

Ordinarily Qwilleran would have shrugged off Koko's aberration, but he was feeling edgy. There was the itch of suspicion without the opportunity to scratch. There was the uneasy feeling that Koko knew more than he did. And there was frustration caused by too much of Polly's house and not enough of Polly.

He was still feeling cranky the next day when he walked downtown to hand in his thousand words on the aurora borealis. The colorful phenomenon in the midnight sky was a tourist at- traction, although locals took it for granted, and some thought "Northern Lights" was simply the name of a hotel in Mooseville.

Looking more than usually morose, Qwilleran walked through the city room where staffers sat in front of video display terminals and stared blankly at the screens. In the managing editor's office, the slightly built Junior Goodwinter was further dwarfed by the electronic equipment surrounding him.

When Qwilleran threw his copy on Junior's desk, the young editor glanced at the triple-spaced typewritten sheets and said, "When are you getting yourself a word processor, Qwill?"

"I like my electric typewriter" was the belligerent reply, "and it likes me! Are you implying that a word processor would make me a better writer? And if so, how good do you want me to be?"

"Don't hit me!" said the younger man with an exaggerated cringe. "Forget I said it. Have a cup of coffee. Sit down. Take a load off your feet. Will you be at the softball game tonight?"

"I haven't decided" was the curt answer. Polly usually accompanied him to the annual event, but he doubted she could tear herself away from her blueprints.

Junior threw him a copy of Monday's paper. "Read the third bite," he said.

A new feature on the front page was a column of brief news items of twenty-five words or less, each preceded by a single word in caps: ARRESTED, or HONORED, or LEAVING, or PROMOTED. Other newspapers labeled such a column "Briefs" or "Shorts." Hixie Rice, who had been responsible for naming the paper the Something, wanted to call the new front- page column "Undies." The editorial committee decided, however, on "Bites."

Qwilleran read the third bite:

SHOT: Police are investigating the shooting of a watchdog in West Middle Hummock Sunday night. The animal was penned in a dog-run on Floyd Trevelyan's estate.

"What do you deduce from this?" he asked Junior.

That victims of the embezzlement are finally transferring their hostility from the government to the embezzler. Roger's been hanging out in Mudville coffee shops, and he says the emotions range from gloomy self-pity to vengeful rage. Someone was trying to get back at Floyd by killing his dog."

"Stupid!" Qwilleran murmured.

"And now read the first letter on the ed page,

To the Editor:

I am writing in behalf of the Sawdust City High School Summer Camp Fund, which enables seniors to spend a week in the woods, living with nature, studying ecology, and learning to share. For twenty-four years this has been a tradition at oar school.

This year forty-seven students have spent their junior year selling cookies, washing cars, chopping wood, and cleaning garages to earn money for the camping experience. They deposited their earnings regularly in the Lumbertown Credit Union and watched them earn interest - a worthwhile lesson in thrift and financial management. Next week they were to shoulder their backpacks, hike into the woods, and pitch their tents.

How can we explain to them that there will be no campout for the new senior class? How can we explain that $2,234.43 of their own money is being withheld by order of the government?

Elda Mayfus-Jones Faculty Sponsor SCHSSCF

Qwilleran finished reading and said irritably, "Why doesn't Ms. Mayfus-Jones just tell them their uncle Floyd is a crook, and he spent their $2,234.43 on toy trains to run around his office lobby?"

"You're in a grouchy mood today," Junior said. "I thought the K Foundation could afford to stake these kids to the money until their deposits are released."

"The Foundation could afford to send all forty-seven brats on a round-the- world cruise!" Qwilleran snapped. "All they have to do is apply. It's in the telephone book under K.

That's between J and L." He started to leave without finishing his coffee.

"Hey!" Junior called after him with a grin. "If the kids get their money, you can go camping with them for a week and write a 'Qwill Pen' series!"

Qwilleran stomped from the room. As he passed the publisher's office, Riker beckoned to him. "I've just been talking to Brodie. How come they haven't caught that guy? They nabbed the Florida crooks right away, and they were pros! Floyd is only a small-town conniver. Why haven't they found him?"

"They'll never find him."

"What makes you think so? Do you know something we don't know?"

Qwilleran shrugged. "Just a hunch." If he were to mention Koko's input, it would only lead to an argument. Riker thought he took the cat's abstract messages too seriously. "You seem to be giving the scandal a lot of space, Arch."

"We're trying to keep the public outrage alive, spur the manhunt, and goad the banking commission into action. Our stories are being picked up by major newspapers around the state. We've assigned Roger to the Mudville beat exclusively until something breaks, one way or the other... So!... Where are you going from here, Qwill?"

"Home."

"How's Polly's house progressing?"

"Slowly, and that's what concerns me, Arch. She worries about it too much. She worries unnecessarily. I'm afraid she's headed for a nervous collapse."

His friend nodded sympathetically.

"Polly's so desk-bound that she's not getting any exercise - not even fresh air. She didn't even want to go bird watching yesterday."

"Are you bringing her to the game tonight?" Riker asked.

"Are you kidding? That's the last thing in the world she'd want to do!"

Chatting with his old friend bolstered Qwilleran's flagging spirits somewhat, and walking a few miles helped dispel his gloom. He took the long way home and, in doing so, passed the photo studio of John Bushland. His van was in the parking lot, meaning that the photographer was shooting a subject in the studio or developing film in the darkroom.

Bushy, as the nearly bald young man liked to be called, was a recent transplant from Lockmaster, and it was evident that he was doing well. The van was new. The lobby, it was obvious, had been professionally designed. On the walls were framed photographs from Bushy's prize-winning Scottish series. There was even a receptionist in the lobby, and she was not bad-looking. True, she seemed to be doing invoices and correspondence as well as phones, but she was a pleasant addition to the lobby.

Qwilleran said to Bushy, "Your business seems to be thriving."

"Yeah, they keep me busy all right: studio portraits Wednesdays and Saturdays by appointment only; commercial work at my own pace; free-lance assignments for the newspaper."

"Your photo of Trevelyan on the front page - wasn't it the same one that hangs in the Lumbertown lobby? You made him look good!"

" Are you kidding? That's the last thing in the world she'd want to do!" Chatting with his old friend bolstered Qwilleran's flagging spirits somewhat, and walking a few miles helped dispel his gloom. He took the long way home and, in doing so, passed the photo studio of john Bushland. His van was in the parking lot, meaning that the photographer was shooting a subject in the stu- dio or developing film in the darkroom. Bushy, as the nearly bald young man liked to be called, was a recent transplant from Lock- master, and it was evident that he was doing well. The van was new. The lobby, it was obvi- ous, had been professionally designed. On the walls were framed -photographs from Bushy's prize-winning Scottish series. There was even a receptionist in the lobby, and she was not bad- looking. True, she seemed to be doing invoices. and correspondence as well as phones, but she was a pleasant addition to the lobby. Qwilleran said to Bushy, "Your business seems to be thriving." "Yeah, they keep me busy all right: studio portraits Wednesdays and Saturdays by appoint- ment only; commercial work at my own pace; free-lance assignments for the newspaper." "Your photo of Trevelyan on the front page-wasn't it the same one that hangs in the Lumbertown lobby? You made him look good!"

"I'll say I did! If the police use it for their Wanted poster, they'll never catch the guy! You see, I was shooting his train layout for a hobby magazine, and the editor wanted a head-shot of Floyd. I tried a candid, but it made him look like the wild man in a carnival. So I got him to put on a shirt and tie and do a formal sitting in the studio. His secretary came along. She's a knockout, but she drove me crazy, telling Floyd to turn his head, or raise his chin, or not look at the camera. Finally I asked her to wait in the lobby while I took the picture. That didn't make points with her boss, but I got a good portrait."

"Interesting sidelight," Qwilleran said..... "Are you going to the game tonight?"

"Should I?" asked the newcomer to Pickax.

"It's the sporting highlight of the year!" Qwilleran said seriously, as if it were true. "Take your receptionist."

Once a year there was a softball game between the Typos and the Tubes - two scrub teams composed of newspaper staffers and hospital personnel. Compared to the regular league games, their efforts were ludicrous, and the only spectators were family members and fellow employees, but everyone had a good time. On this occasion, Qwilleran was in no mood to attend the game alone, but he knew Roger MacGillivray would be on the sidelines, hurling scurrilous insults at the Tubes. Roger was the on-the-spot reporter in Mudville.

The softball field had been merely a bare spot in the landscape west of Pickax until the K Foundation added two more diamonds, a soccer field, bleacher seats, and a pavilion. Now it was named Goodwinter Field, after the founders of the city. A Goodwinter was playing shortstop this year - Junior, the managing editor. Others were recruited from the city room, sports department, and photo lab. Their bright red T-shirts and baseball caps made a lively scene when they were in the field. The hospital team, composed mostly of technicians, wore T-shirts in operating-room green and happened to win every year.

Most of the spectators sat in the second and third rows of the bleachers. Junior's wife was there with a baby in a car tote and a small boy who couldn't sit still. Bushy had brought his receptionist, who was more attractive than Qwilleran had previously thought. Arch and Mildred Riker were there, of course, wearing red baseball caps with the MCS logo.

"Where's Polly?" Mildred asked. Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers were a chummy duo seated apart from the others, a development that was duly noted by the matchmakers at the game. She waved to Qwilleran and called out, "Where's Polly?"

When he saw Roger arriving and heading for the pavilion, he followed him. "Nice piece in the paper today, Roger."

"Thanks. I finally learned how to make no-news sound like news."

"The shooting of the dog was a bizarre twist."

"Right! The natives are restless. Someone threw a brick through the Lumbertown office window this afternoon, and when they talk about F. T., the initials stand for something else."

The cry of "Batter up" sent the two men scurrying to the bleachers with their soft drinks. At Qwilleran's suggestion they climbed to the top row. "Better view," he explained. More privacy, he thought.

The sun was still high in the sky, where it belonged on a summer evening in the north country. The play on the field was leisurely. The sports fans were appropriately rude.

During a lull in the game, Qwilleran asked, "How did you find out about the dog?"

"The family reported it to the police, and I went out to their house. They're not supposed to talk to the media, and the nurse wouldn't let me in, but then the daughter saw me and said it was all right. She was in my history class when I was teaching - an A-plus student. When I'd assign a chapter, she'd augment it with research in the library.... Sock it to 'im, Dave! Break his bat!... She should've gone on to college."

"Why didn't she?"

"They wanted her at home to take care of her invalid mother. I think she's a lonely and frustrated girl. I could tell she wanted to talk to me, lawyer or no lawyer. We went out on the patio and reminisced about high school - had a few laughs."

"Could you tell how she was reacting to the publicity and the pressure?"

"She was all broken up about the dog. He was a chow. His name was Zak, spelled Z-a-k. Dead on second! Good mitt, Juny!... Finally she told me, off the record, that the dog really belonged to her brother, but the lawyer wanted the public to think he was Floyd's."

"So all the dog lovers would feel sorry for his client," Qwilleran suggested.

"Right! Her brother lives in an apartment where they don't allow pets, so he kenneled Zak at his parents' house, nights. Served a double purpose. Everybody in the country has a watchdog.... Make it three, Dave. You're hot!"

Dave made it three, the green shirts trotted onto the field, and the red shirts took their turn at bat.

"Was Floyd's son in any of your classes?" Qwilleran asked.

"All I can say is: He occupied a seat. A student he was not! He and his buddy from Chipmunk were always in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Fighting... carrying knives... underage drinking..."

" Any drugs?"

"Alcohol was the chief problem then. That was a few years ago, you know. Eddie and the other kid were expelled.... Okay, Typos! Murder those bedpan pushers!"

From the third row Riker bellowed, "Send those bloodsuckers to the morgue!"

Nevertheless, at the end of the sixth, the score stood 12 to 5 in the Tubes' favor. Qwilleran watched with mild enthusiasm; he preferred hardball to softball. He liked the overhand or sidearm pitch, the crack of a real baseball, the long run to first, and nine innings. At the next lull he asked Roger, "Does Floyd's daughter think the shooting was connected with the charge against her father?"

"She didn't say, and I didn't ask. Sensitive subject."

"What time did the shooting take place?"

"About two in the morning. Her mother was awake and heard the shot. She rang for her daughter."

"Did anyone hear the dog bark at the prowler?"

"I guess not."

The game ended at 13 to 8, and Roger stood up, yelling. "Good try, guys! Next year we'll anesthetize those tube jockeys!"

When Qwilleran returned to the barn after the game, Yum Yum was curled up like a shrimp in his favorite lounge chair, asleep. Koko was in the foyer, looking out the window.

"If it's Zak you're waiting for, give up!" Qwilleran told him. "He won't be coming around anymore.... Let's have a read. Book!

Book!"

After one last intense look down the trail, Koko tore himself away from the window and did some educated sniffing on the bookshelves. Finally he nosed The Panama Canal: An Engineering Treatise.

"Thank you for reminding me," said Qwilleran, who had forgotten to open the book since bringing it home.

It contained many statistics and black-and-white photos of World War I

vintage, and although Qwilleran found it quite absorbing, Yum Yum quickly fell asleep, and Koko kept yawning conspicuously.

"To be continued," Qwilleran said as he replaced the book on the history shelf.