The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

Lilian Jackson Braun - The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

-1-

It was a strange winter in Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere. First, there was disagreement about the long-range weather forecast. The weatherman at the local radio station predicted a winter of zero temperature, daily snow, minus-sixty windchill, and paralyzing blizzards - in other words: normal. On the other hand, farmers and woodsmen who observed the behavior of the fuzzy caterpillars insisted the winter would be mild. Bad news!

No one wanted a mild winter. Merchants had invested in large inventories of snowblowers, antifreeze, snowshoes, and long johns. The farmers themselves needed a heavy snow cover to ensure a good summer crop. Dogsledders and icefishermen stood to lose a whole season of wholesome outdoor sport. As for the First Annual Ice Festival, it was doomed. All that - plus the unthinkable possibility of a green Christmas!

Throughout November, traditionally a month of natural disasters, the weather was disappointingly good, and the natives cursed the fuzzy caterpillars. Then... suddenly, in mid-December, temperatures plummeted and a few inches of no-melt snow started to fall every day. In downtown Pickax, the county seat, the Department of Public Works plows threw up the usual eight-foot walls of snow along curbs and around parking lots. Young people did their Christmas shopping on cross-country skis, and sleigh bells could be heard on Main Street. Best of all, the schools closed twice during the month because of blizzard conditions.

The weather was only the first strange happening of the winter, however. In late December, an outbreak of petty larceny dampened the holiday spirit in Pickax. Trivial items began to disappear from cars and public places, prompting the local newspaper to run an editorial:

PLAY SAFE! LOCK UP! BE ALERT! You leave a video on the seat of your car while paying for self-serve gas. You never see it again. You forget your gloves in the post office. Minutes later, they're gone. You hang your sun-glare glasses on a supermarket cart while you select oranges. The glasses disappear. Who is to blame? Mischievous kids? Gremlins? Your failing memory? The time has come to stop searching for excuses and start playing safe. In Moose County we're foolishly lax about security. We must learn to lock our cars... put valuables in the trunk... keep an eye on belongings... stay alert! Some say the incidents are minor, and the pilfering is a temporary nuisance like Mosquito Week in spring. If that's what you think, listen to our police chief, Andrew Brodie, who says, "A community that tolerates minor violations leaves the door open for major crimes."

Natives of Moose County were a stubborn, independent breed descended from early pioneers, and it would take more than an editorial in the Moose County Something to change their ways. Yet, there was one prominent citizen who applauded the police chief's maxim.

Jim Qwilleran was not a native but a transplant from Down Below, as the locals called the metropolitan cities to the south. Surprising circumstances had brought him to Pickax (population 3,000), and he was surprisingly content with small-town life.

Qwilleran was a tall, well-built, middle-aged man with a luxuriant pepper- and-salt moustache and hair graying at the temples. If asked, he would say that he perceived himself as:

A journalist, semi-retired. A former crime reporter and author of a book on urban crime. Writer of a twice-weekly column for the Something. Devoted friend of Polly Duncan, head of the Pickax Public Library. Protector and slave of two Siamese cats. Fairly agreeable person blessed with many friends. All of that would be true... He would not perceive himself, however, as the richest man in northeast central United States, but that, too, would be true.

An enormous inheritance, the Klingenschoen fortune, had brought Qwilleran to this remote region. Yet, he was uncomfortable with money - its trappings as well as its responsibilities - and he immediately consigned his billions to philanthropic purposes. For several years, the Klingenschoen Foundation had been managed by a Chicago think tank, with little or no attention from James Mackintosh Qwilleran.

It was not only this generous gesture that caused him to be esteemed in Moose County. Admirers cited his entertaining column, "Straight from the Qwill Pen"... his amiable disposition and sense of humor... his lack of pretension... his sympathetic way to listening... and, of course, his magnificent moustache. Its drooping contours, together with his brooding eyes, gave him a look of melancholy that made people wonder about his past. Actually, there was more to that moustache than met the eye.

On the morning of December 23, Qwilleran said good-bye to the Siamese and gave instructions for their deportment in his absence. The more intelligently one talks to cats, he believed, the smarter they become. Their deep blue eyes gazed at him soberly. Did they know what he was saying? Or were they waiting patiently for him to leave so they could start their morning nap?

He was setting out to do his Christmas shopping, but first he had to hand in his copy at the newspaper office: a thousand words on Santa Claus for the "Qwill Pen." It was hardly a newsworthy topic, but he had a columnist's knack of making it sound fresh.

The premises of the Moose County Something were always devoid of seasonal decorations, leaving such frivolities to stores and restaurants. Qwilleran was surprised, therefore, to see a small decorated tree on a file cabinet in the publisher's office. Arch Riker, his lifelong friend and fellow journalist, had followed him to Pickax to be publisher and editor-in-chief of the new backwoods paper. A paunchy, ruddy-faced man with thinning hair, he sat in a high- backed executive chair and looked happy. Not only had he realized his dream of running his own newspaper; he had married the plump and congenial woman who wrote the food page.

"Mildred and I are expecting you and Polly to have Christmas dinner with us," he reminded Qwilleran.

"Turkey, I hope," Qwilleran replied, thinking of leftovers for his housemates. "What's that tree on your file cabinet?"

"It was Wilfred's idea," Riker said almost apologetically. "He made the ornaments with newsprint and gold spray."

Wilfred Sugbury was secretary to the executives - a quiet, hardworking young man who had not only amazed the staff by winning a seventy-mile bike race but was now taking an origami course at the community college. Qwilleran, on his way out, complimented Wilfred on his handiwork.

"I'd be glad to make one for you," Mr. Q," he said.

"It wouldn't last five minutes, Wilfred. The cats would reduce it to confetti. They have no appreciation of art. Thanks just the same."

To fortify himself for the task of gift-shopping, Qwilleran drove to Lois's Luncheonette, a primitive side-street hole-in-the-wall that had been serving comfort food to downtown workers and shoppers for thirty years. Lois Inchpot was an imposing woman, who dispensed pancakes and opinions with the authority of a celebrity. Indeed, the city had recently celebrated Lois Inchpot Day, by mayoral proclamation.

When Qwilleran entered, she was banging the old-fashioned cash register and holding forth in a throaty voice: "If we have a mild winter, like the caterpillars said, we'll be swamped with bugs next summer!... Hi, Mr. Q! Come on in! Sit anywhere that ain't sticky. My customers got bad aim with the syrup bottle."

"How's Lenny?" Qwilleran asked. Her son had been hurt in an explosion.

"That boy of mine!" she said proudly. "Nothin' stops him! He has mornin' classes at the college, and then he's a found himself a swell part-time job, managin' the clubhouse at Indian Village. He gave you as a reference, Mr. Q. Hope you don't mind."

"He's going to be a workaholic like his mother."

"Better'n takin' after his father!... Done your Christmas shoppin', Mr. Q?"

"Don't rush me, Lois. It's only the twenty-third."

The first gift he purchased was a bottle of Scotch. He carried it in a brown paper bag under his folded jacket when he climbed the stairs to police headquarters at city hall. He was a frequent visitor, and the sergeant at the desk jerked his head toward the inner office, saying, "He's in." The chief was visible through a glass partition, hunched over the computer that he earnestly hated.

Brodie was a tough cop who resented civilian interference, and yet he had learned to appreciate the newsman's tips and opinions that sometimes helped crack a case. On the job he had old-fashioned ideas of law and order and a gruff manner to match. Off duty, he was a genial Scot who played the bagpipe and strutted in a kilt at civic functions.

Qwilleran, placing his jacket carefully on a chair seat and sliding into another, said, "I see you got your name in the paper again, Andy. Who's your press agent? Planning to run for mayor? I'll campaign for you."

With a fierce scowl usually reserved for the computer, Brodie shot back, "If I had an overgrown moustache like yours, I'd get my picture in the paper, too. What's on your mind?"

"I want to know if you believe what you said in the paper."

"It's a known fact! Let the hoods urinate in public and - next thing you now - they're spray-painting the courthouse, and after that they're pushing drugs, and then robbing banks, and then killing cops."

"Any suspects in the pilfering?"

The chief leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Could be punks from Chipmunk. Could be a roving gang from Lockmaster. Could be the kids that hang around George Breze's dump. We're investigating."

"Do you see any pattern developing? There should be a pattern by now."

"Well, for one thing, there's a pattern in what they don't do. They don't steal Social Security checks from mailboxes, or rip out car radios, or break into doctors' offices. It's all piddlin' stuff, so far. Another thing: There's n two incidents alike, and locations are scattered. It always happens after dark, too. They avoid shoplifting in stores with bright lights and wide-awake clerks."

Qwilleran said, "I've been thinking it could be a game, like a treasure hunt - perhaps initiation rites for a juvenile cult."

"We've talked to school principals and Dr. Prelligate at the college. They say there's no sign of suspicious activity."

"They'd be the last to know," Qwilleran muttered.

"There's another possibility. I predicted something like this after the financial bust in Sawdust City. The town's had a lot of hardship cases this winter, and it's rough to be hardup at Christmastime, especially if you've got kids."

"But the organized charities have raised record sums for the Christmas Fund, and the K Foundation is matching their efforts, dollar for dollar."

"I know, but some cases always fall through the cracks, or they panic and try to take things in their own hands." He indulged in a bitter chuckle. "Perhaps they hit on the secret: how to do Christmas shopping without money and without crowds."

Qwilleran said, "If the thefts are scattered, as you say, someone' buying a lot of gas to drive around and swipe trivial items. It must be a group effort."

Brodie threw up his hands. "The whole thing's crazy!"

"Okay, let me add an incident to your list. This is the reason I'm here." Qwilleran paused until he had the man's curiosity aroused. "We all know the Old Stone Church is collecting warm clothing for needy families. There's a drop-off box behind the building. Every Wednesday the volunteers show up for sorting and mending. I told them I'd drop off a bundle Tuesday night - which I did - a plastic bag full of things in good condition: jackets, sweaters, gloves, etc. But when they opened the box the next morning, it wasn't there. They phoned me to see if I'd forgotten."

The chief grunted. "No lock on the box?"

"Who thinks about locks in this neck of the woods? That was the thrust of our editorial! We nagged out readers into buckling up; now we'll nag them into locking up."

Brodie chuckled again. "If you spot a guy walking around town in your rags, follow him and take his picture."

"Sure. And ask for his name and address."

"My old grandmother in Scotland could tail a thief with scissors, a piece of string, and a witch's chant. Too bad she died before I got into law enforcement." Then he grinned. "Why don't you assign your smart cat to the case?" The chief was the only person in the north country who knew about the remarkable talents of Qwilleran's male Siamese. The cat did indeed have gifts that set him apart, and Qwilleran tried to conceal the fact, for various reasons. Yet it had leaked to Brodie from a source Down Below, and now the two men bantered about "that smart cat" whose highly developed senses gave him an edge over most humans.

"Koko doesn't accept assignments," Qwilleran said with a straight face. "He conducts his own investigations. Right now he has a gang of wild rabbits under surveillance." Then he added in a serious tone, "But last night, Andy, he jumped on my bookshelf and knocked down a Russian novel titled The Thief. Was that a coincidence, or what?"

"Does he read Russian?" Brodie asked, only half in jest.

"Mine is an English translation."

The chief grunted ambiguously and changed the subject. "I hear you and your smart cat aren't living in the barn this winter. How come?" There was disappointment in the question. He often visited the converted apple barn after hours, dropping in for a nightcap and some shoptalk. Qwilleran, though not a drinker himself, stocked the best brands for his guests.

"It's like this, Andy," he explained. "With four stories of wide-open space, it's impossible to heat evenly. The top balcony is like a sauna while the main floor is chilly. The cats used to go to the top level to get warm, and they'd end up half-cooked. They were so groggy from the heat, they couldn't walk straight. So I bought a condo in Indian Village for the cold months. I can rent it to vacationers in summer. It's nowhere near the size of the barn, of course, but it's adequate, and the county snowplows keep the access roads open, for the simple reason that so many politicos live out there... By the way, I had my condo furnished by your talented daughter."

The chief nodded a grudging acknowledgement of the family compliment. In spite of Fran Brodie's success as an interior designer, her father considered it a frivolous choice of career.

Standing up and presenting the brown paper bag, Qwilleran said, "Here's wee dram of Christmas cheer, Andy. See you after the holidays."

In earlier days Qwilleran had been frugal by nature and by necessity - while growing up with a single parent, earning his way through college, and working as an underpaid reporter Down Below. His new financial status had introduced him to the luxury of largesse, however. He still practiced certain economics, such as buying used cars for himself, but he enjoyed giving presents, buying drinks, sending flowers, treating companions to dinner, and tipping generously.

When he finally tackled his Christmas shopping on December 23, his list was a long one. Fortunately, he was a speedy shopper who made quick decisions and never had to ask prices. For his shopping spree he left his car in the municipal parking lot, then zipped up his padded jacket, yanked down his wool earflaps, pulled on his lined gloves, and trudged around downtown in snowboots.

Main Street was thronged with shoppers weaving merrily between head- high walls of snow. There was a wintry sun, just bright enough to make the flecks of mica sparkle in the stone facades of store and office buildings, and garlands of greens festooned from rooftops and looped across the street between lightpoles. The babbles of voices and rumble of slow-moving vehicles were hushed by the tons of snow piled everywhere and packed hard between the curbs. (Roadways were not salted in Moose County.) Yet, strangely, the acoustical phenomenon emphasized the bursts of Christmas music, the occasional jingle of sleigh bells, and the brassy clang of Santa's handbell on the street corner.

First Qwilleran went to Lanspeaks' Department Store to buy something for Polly Duncan, the main name on his gift list. Carol Lanspeak herself waited on him. She and her husband were an admirable pair: good business heads, civic leaders, and major talents in the Pickax Theatre Club. If they had not come home to Pickax to run the family business, Qwilleran believed, Larry and Carol could have been another Cronyn and Tandy, or Lunt and Fontanne.

Carol said to him with a touch of fond rebuke, "I knew you'd pop in at the last minute, so I set aside a suit in Polly's size, a lovely suede in terra- cotta. She's down to a size fourteen since her surgery. What did those cardiovascular people do to her?"

"They convinced her to go for two- mile walks and give up all my favorite foods."

"Well, she looks wonderful! And she's drifting away from those dreary grays and blues."

Qwilleran gave the suit a single glance and said, "I'll take it."

"There's also a silk blouse with a lot on zing that'll - "

"I'll take that, too." The blouse was patterned in an overscaled houndstooth check in terra-cotta and British white.

"Polly will swoon over it!" Carol promised.

"Polly doesn't swoon easily," he said. She was a charming woman of his own age, with a soft and musical voice, but there was an iron hand in the velvet glove that ran the public library.

"Where are you two spending Christmas day, Qwill?"

"With the Rikers. Do you and Larry have big plans?"

"We'll have our daughter and her current friend, of course, and we've invited the Carmichaels and their houseguest. Do you see much of Willard and Danielle?"

Not if I can help it, Qwilleran thought. Politely he said, "Our paths don't seem to cross very often." It was the Lanspeaks who had introduced him to the new banker and his flashy young wife. Her frank flirtiness, sidelong glances, raucous voice, and breathy stares at his moustache annoyed him.

"I'm afraid," Carol said regretfully, "that Danielle isn't adjusting well to small-town life. She's always comparing Pickax to Detroit and Baltimore, where they have malls! Willard says she's homesick. That's why they invited her cousin from Down Below to spend the holidays." She lowered her voice. "Step into my office, Qwill."

He followed her to the cluttered cubicle adjoining the women's department.

"Sit down," she said. "I fee l sorry for Danielle. People are saying unkind things, but she's asking for it. She looks so freaky! By Pickax standards, at any rate. Skirts too short, heels too high, everything too tight, pounds of makeup, hair like a rat's nest!.... It may be fashionable Down Below, but when in Rome - "

"She needs a mentor," Qwilleran interrupted. "Couldn't Fran Brodie drop a few hints? She's a glamorous and yet has class, and she's helping Danielle with her house."

"Fran's been dropping hints, Qwill, but... " Carol shrugged. "You'd think her husband would say something. He's an intelligent man, and he's fitting right into the community. Willard has joined the chamber of commerce and the Boosters Club and is helping to organize a gourmet club. Yet, when Larry submitted his name to the country club for membership, nothing happened. They never sent the Carmichaels an invitation! We all know why. Danielle's flamboyant manner of dress and grooming and deportment raises eyebrows and causes snickers. They call her voice cheap. It is rather strident."

"Rather," Qwilleran said. It was unusual for Carol to be so critical and so candid.

"Well, let me know if you think of something we can do... Shall I gift wrap Polly's suit and blouse?"

"Please. I'll pick them up later. Go easy on the bows and jingle bells."

He next went to Amanda's Design Studio, hoping to find a decorative object for the Rikers and hoping that Fran Brodie would be in-house. The police chief's daughter was out, unfortunately, and her cantankerous boss was in charge. Amanda Goodwinter was a successful businesswoman and a perennial member of the Pickax City Council, always re- elected because of her name. The Goodwinters had founded Pickax in the mid-1800s.

Amanda's greeting was characteristically blunt. "If you're looking for a free cup of coffee, you're out of luck, The coffeemaker's on the blink." Her unruly gray hair and drab, shapeless clothing were considered "interestingly individual" by her loyal customers. Her political enemies called her the bag lady of Pickax.

To tease her, Qwilleran said he wanted to buy a knickknack for a gift.

She bristled. "We don't sell knickknacks!"

"Semantics! Semantics! Then how about a bibelot for Arch and Mildred Riker?"

She huffed and scowled and suggested a colorful ceramic coffeepot, its surface a mass of sculptured grapes, apples, and pears.

"Isn't it a trifle gaudy?" Qwilleran complained.

"Gaudy! What are you saying?" Amanda shouted in her council chamber voice. "It's Majolica! It's handpainted! It's old! It's expensive! The Rikers will be crazy about it!"

"I'll take it," Qwilleran said, knowing that Mildred was a collector with an artist's eye and Arch was a collector with an eye for the bottom line. "And I'd like it gift wrapped, but don't fuss!"

"I never fuss!"

For the other names on his list he relied on the new Sip'n'Nibble shop. They would make up gift baskets of wine, cheese, and other treats and deliver them anywhere in the county by Christmas Eve.

On a whim he also went into the men's store to buy a waggish tie for Riker, who was known for his conservative neckwear. It was the bright blue with a pattern of lifesize baseballs, white stitched in red. He hoped it would get a laugh.

His final stop was the Pickax People's Bank to cash a check, and the sight of the famous moustache created a stir. Customers, tellers, and security personnel smiled, waved, and greeted him:

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Q!"

"All ready for Santa, Mr. Q?"

"Finished your Christmas shopping, Mr. Q?"

He responded with courteous bows and salutes and took his place in line.

The gray-haired woman ahead of him stepped aside. "Are you in a hurry, Mr. Q? You can go first."

No, no, no" He remonstrated. "Thank you, but stay where you are. I like to stand in line behind an attractive woman."

The commotion brought a man striding from an inner office with hand outstretched. "Qwill! You're the exact person I want to see! Come into my office!" The new banker had the suave manner, expensive suit, and styled hair of a newcomer from Down Below.

Qwilleran followed him into the presidential suite and noted a few changes: a younger secretary, more colorful furnishings, and art on the walls.

"Have a chair," Carmichael said. "I hear you're living in Indian Village now."

"Only for the winter. The barn's not practical in cold weather. How about you? Have you moved into your house?"

"No, we're still camping out in an apartment at the Village. Danielle has ordered a lot of stuff for the house, but it takes forever to get delivery. Expensive as hell, too, but that's all right. My sweetheart likes to spend money, and whatever keeps her happy keeps me happy... Say, are you free for dinner tonight? I've been wanting us to get together."

Qwilleran hesitated "Well... it's rather short notice, you know." Willard, he decided, was okay, but the googly-eyed Danielle made him uncomfortable.

Carmichael went on. "I'm baching it tonight. Danielle is taking our houseguest to Otto's Tasty Eats - a vile restaurant, if you ask me - so I told her I had to work. Her cousin is spending the holidays with us."

"Well... with a little judicious finagling... I could manage to be free. Where would you like to go?"

"Where could we get pasties? I've never had a pasty. I don't even know what it is."

"It's the official specialty of Moose County, dating back to mining days," Qwilleran said, "And it's pronounced to rhyme with nasty, by the way."

"I stand corrected," the banker said.

"It's an enormous meat-and-potato turnover - okay for a picnic but not for civilized dinner. Have you been to Onoosh's caf‚?"

"No, Danielle doesn't like Mediterranean. When I was in Detroit, though, I used to haunt Greektown for shish kebab, taramasalata, and saganaki... Oopah! Oopah!"

"That's the spirit!" Qwilleran said. "Suppose we meet at Onoosh's whenever you're free. I have to go home and... feed the cats." He was wearing knockabout clothes, but if he had said, "I want to go home and change," Willard would have said, "Don't bother. Come as you are. I'll take off my tie."

Going home to feed the cats was an excuse that was never challenged.

-2-

Qwilleran drove home to Indian Village in his four-wheel-drive vehicle, considered advisable for winter in the country. Having traded in his compact sedan for a medium-size van, he was pleased to find it convenient on many occasions, such as trips to the veterinarian with the cats' travel coop. It was almost new - only thirty thousand miles - and Scott Gippel had given him a good trade-in allowance.

Indian Village on Ittibittiwassee Road was well outside the Pickax city limits. It was debatable whether the drive was more beautiful in summer's verdure or winter's chiaroscuro, when bare trees and dark evergreens were silhouetted against the endless blanket of white. Along the way was the abandoned Buckshot mine and its ghostly shafthouse, fenced with chain-link and posted as dangerous. Just beyond was the bridge over the Ittibittiwassee River, which then veered and paralleled the highway to Indian Village and beyond.

Geographically and politically the Village was in Suffix Township; psychologically it was in a world of its own, being an upscale address for a variety of interesting residents. At the entrance, a gate gave an air of exclusivity, but it was always open, giving an air of hospitality. The buildings were rustic board-and-batten, compatible with the wooded site, summer and winter, starting with the gatehouse and the clubhouse. Apartments were clustered in small buildings randomly situated on Woodland Trail. Condominiums in strips of four contiguous units extended along River Lane, close to the water that rushed over rocks or swirled in pools. Even in winter a trickle could be heard underneath the snow and ice.

As Qwilleran neared his own condo in Building Five, he began to think about his housemates. Would they greet him excitedly? - meaning hungrily. Would they be dead asleep on the sofa, curled together in a single heap of fur? Would they have pushed the phone off the hook, or upchucked a hairball, or broken a lamp during a made chase?

Before unlocking his own door, he delivered the groceries he had picked up for Polly. He had a key to her unit at the other end of the row. Even while unlocking her door he began talking to her watchcat, Bootsie, explaining that he was there on legitimate business and would simply refrigerate the perishables and leave.

His own Siamese were in the window overlooking the riverbank, laying contentedly on their briskets, listening to the trickle beneath the snow and ice. The wintry sun bounced off the white landscape, making a giant reflector that illuminated their silky fawn-colored coats and accentuated their seal-brown points. "Hello, you guys," Qwilleran said. "How's everything? Any excitement around here? What's the rabbit count today?"

Languorously, both cats stood up, humped their backs in a horseshoe curve, and then stretched two forelegs and one hind leg. The male was Kao K'o Kung (Koko, for short) - the "smart cat" in Brodie's book. He was sleek and muscular with a commanding set of whiskers and intense blue eyes that hinted at cosmic secrets. Yum Yum, the female, was delicate and outrageously affectionate. Her large, limpid blue eyes were violet- tinged. Being Siamese, they were both highly vocal, Koko yowling a chesty baritone and Yum Yum uttering a blood- chilling soprano shriek when it was least expected.

Qwilleran brought in the gift-wrapped packages from his van, read the mail picked up at the gatehouse, made some phone calls, fed the cats, and changed into a tweed sports coat over a turtleneck jersey. Polly had told him he looked particularly good in turtlenecks; their simplicity was a foil for his handsome moustache. He was half pleased and half annoyed by everyone's preoccupation with his unique facial adornment. Fran Brodie called it a Second Empire moustache, as if it were a piece of furniture.

What no one knew, of course, was its functional significance to its owner. Whenever Qwilleran suspected that something was false or out-of-order in any way, he felt a tingling sensation on his upper lip. Experience had taught him to pay attention to these signals. Sometimes he would tamp his moustache, pound it with his fist, comb it with his knuckles, or merely stroke it thoughtfully, depending on the nature of the hunch.

Polly, who was in the dark about this phenomenon, would say, "Are you nervous about something, dear?'

"Sorry. Only a silly habit," he would reply. He did, however, heed her suggestion about turtlenecks.

Tonight, Qwilleran took one last look in the full-length mirror, said good-bye to two bemused animals, and drove to Onoosh's Mediterranean Caf‚ in downtown Pickax.

Onoosh Dalmathakia and her partner had come from Down Below to open their restaurant, and it had received good coverage from the Moose County Something and the Lockmaster Ledger in the adjoining county. According to the publicity, the atmosphere was exotic: small oil-burning lamps on brass-topped tables. Mediterranean murals, and hanging lights with beaded fringe. In the kitchen Onoosh herself was training local women to roll stuffed grapeleaves and chop parsley - by hand - tabbouleh. The reporter who interviewed her for the Something said she spoke with a fascinating Middle-Eastern accent that seemed just right with her olive complexion, sultry brown eyes, and black hair. Her partner had a Middle American accent, being a sandy-haired native of Kansas.

Qwilleran had not tried the restaurant before suggesting it to the banker. When he arrived, he felt transported halfway around the globe by the aroma of strange spices and the twang of ethnic music. Two waitpersons were hurrying about, wearing European farmer smocks but looking like students from the community college.

Carmichael waved from a corner booth, where he was sipping a Rob Roy. "Hard day!" he said. I needed a head start. You're my guest tonight. What would you like to drink?"

Qwilleran ordered his usual Squunk water on the rocks with a twist, explaining that it was a local mineral water, said to be the fountain of youth.

"It must be true," Carmichael said, "because you certainly look fit. How dies it taste?"

"To tell the truth, Willard it could be improved by a shot of something, but I've sworn off shots of everything."

"Call me Will," the banker said. "I should give up the hard stuff myself. I gave up smoking two years ago, but do you want to hear something stupid? I never travel in a plane without two packs of cigarettes in my luggage - for luck."

"If it works, don't apologize."

"Well, I haven't been in a plane crash, and they never lost my luggage!"

"How's your lovely wife?" Qwilleran asked. It was the polite thing to say and in no way reflected his personal opinion.

"Oh, she's all involved in decorating the new house, and Fran Brodie is really taking her for a ride. That's okay with me. Anything to keep peace in the family!"

"A wise attitude!" Qwilleran gave the sober nod of one who has been there.

"Were you ever married, Qwill?"

"Once, Period... You bought the Fitches' contemporary house, as I recall."

"I'm afraid I did - the one that looks like the shafthouse of an abandoned mine. No wonder it was on the market for three years! It's ugly as sing, but Danielle likes anything that's modern and different, so I acquiesced."

Qwilleran thought, She's spoiled; she has a mouth made for pouting, and a voice made for complaining. He asked, "How long have you two been married?"

"Not quite a year. My first wife died three years ago, and I was living alone in a big house. Then I went to Baltimore on business and met Danielle in a club where she was singing. It was love at first sight, let me tell you. She doesn't have a great voice, but she's one gorgeous woman! So I brought her back to Michigan."

"What made you move up here?"

"That's a story! I'd been wanting to get away from the fast track and the pollution and the street crime. I'd been mugged twice and had my car hijacked once, which was par for the course. But then I was robbed by a fast-food restaurant, and that was the clincher. I was ready for River City, Iowa."

"Robbed by the restaurant on in the restaurant?" Qwilleran was a stickler for the right word.

"By the restaurant, I'm telling you. It was Sunday, and Danielle had gone to Baltimore for a visit. In the evening I went out to get a burger and fries but forgot by bill clip, so I stopped at an ATM across from the restaurant. When I ordered my burger, I paid with a twenty but got change for a five. I pointed out the error. The counter girl called the manager. He took the cash drawer away to count it and brought it back faster than you could count your fingers. He said the cash box showed I'd paid with a five. All I had on my person that night was a twenty from the ATM, but how could I prove it?"

Willard stopped to finish his drink.

Qwilleran said, "Don't stop now. What did you do?"

"Nothing I'm particularly proud of. I called him a crook and threw the whole tray at him. I hope the coffee was scalding hot!... That's the story! The next day I contacted an executive placement agency, and here I am!"

"You're safe here. We don't have fast fooderies."

"That puzzles me," the banker said. "There's money to be made in this county if you wanted to build a mall and bring in fast foods... But look here! I'm gassing too much. Let's order some appetizers and another drink." He ordered hummus and asked to have the pita served warm.

Qwilleran ordered baba ghanouj and said to the server, "Would you ask Onoosh is she can make meatballs in little green kimonos?"

In less than a minute she came rushing from the kitchen in her white apron and chef's toque. "Mr. Qwill!" she squealed. "It's you! I knowed it was you!"

He had risen, and she flung her arms around him. A radiant smile transformed her plain face, and her tall hat fell off. It was an emotional scene and - in Pickax style - the other diners applauded.

"just an old friend," Qwilleran explained after she had returned to the kitchen.

The banker asked, "Do you think a Mediterranean restaurant will go over in a town like this?"

"I hope so. It's backed by the Klingenschoen Foundation as part of the downtown improvement program. Also, Polly Duncan tells me that Middle Eastern cuisine is on-target healthwise."

"I've met your Polly Duncan, and she's a charming woman," Willard said with a not e of envy. "You're a lucky man. She's attractive, intelligent, and has a beautiful speaking voice."

"It was her voice that first appealed to me," Qwilleran said, " `Soft, gentle, and low,' to quote Shakespeare. And it's the first time in my life that I've had a friend who shared my literary interests - a great feeling! Also, I'm constantly learning. Jazz used to be the extent of my music appreciation, but Polly's introduced me to chamber music and opera." He stopped to chuckle. "She hasn't converted me to bird-watching, though, and I haven't sold her on baseball - or Louis Armstrong."

"I understand you've bought separate condos in the Village. Have you ever thought of - "

"No," Qwilleran interrupted. "We like our singlehood. Besides, our cats are incompatible."

"While I'm asking nosey questions, mind if I ask another?... The Klingenschoen Foundation seems to have poured millions into Moose County - schools, heath care, environment, and so on. What's the source of their wealth?"

Qwilleran explained simply : "The K family made their fortune here during the boom years of Moose County - in the hospitality business, you might say. A later generation invested wisely. The family has died out now, and all the money has gone into the K Foundation."

"I see," said the banker, eyeing Qwilleran dubiously. "My next nosey question: Is it true that you are the K Foundation?"

"No, I'm just an innocent bystander." How could a journalist explain to a banker that money is less interesting than the challenge of deadlines, exclusives, and accurate reporting?

Their dinner orders were taken, and both men chose the lentil soup with tabbouleh as the salad course, followed by shish kebab for Wil and stuffed grapeleaves for Qwill.

The conversation switched to the gourmet society that was being organized. "Cooking is my chief pleasure," the banker said. "It's relaxing to come home from the play-it-cool bank environment and start banging pots and pans around. Danielle hates the kitchen, bless her heart... She's bugging me to grow a moustache like yours, Qwill. She says it's sexy, but that isn't exactly the bank image... Have you ever been to Mardi Gras? She talked me into making reservations, although I'd rather take a cruise."

Qwilleran, as a journalist, was a professional listener, and he found himself practicing his profession. Willard seemed to need an understanding and sympathetic ear. Willard said, "When we move into our house, we want to get a couple of Siamese like yours - that is, if I can talk Danielle into it. The Village doesn't allow cats in apartments."

"I know. That's why I bought a condo."

"I'll bet your cats miss the barn."

"They're adaptable."

"Are they a couple?"

"No, just friends."

Willard said, "I have two grown sons in California, but I'd like to start a second family. At my age I think I could father some smart offspring, but Danielle isn't keen about the idea." He shrugged in resignation.

The conversation slowed to a desultory pace after the entr‚es were served. Once in a while Willard would ask a question. "Were you ever an actor? You've got a trained voice."

"In college I did a few plays."

"Fran Brodie wants Danielle to join the theatre club. Fran's a good-looking woman. Why isn't she married?"

"Who know?"

Amanda Goodwinter's an oddball."

"More bark than bite. The voters love her."

"And how about George Breze? What do you know about him?"

"He always wears a red feed cap, and no one know what's underneath it, if anything," Qwilleran said. "A few years ago he had the gall to run for mayor. The locals call him Old Gallbladder. He polled only two votes."

"He seems to make money," the banker said, "but he strikes me as a shady character. And he's just taken an apartment in the Village!"

"There goes the neighborhood!"

"The apartments aren't very well built. How are the condos?"

"Ditto. I tell the cats not to go around stamping their feet."

After a while, Willard said, "I'd like to get your opinion, Qwill, on an idea that Danielle's cousin and I have been kicking around. We think those old houses on Pleasant Street could and should be restored for economic purposes and the beautification of the city."

"Does she have an interest in preservation?" Qwilleran asked in some surprise.

"My dear wife couldn't care less!"

"I mean her cousin."

"Danielle's cousin is a guy. He's a restoration consultant Down Below, and he's amazed at the possibilities here. Do you know the Duncan property on Pleasant Street?"

"Very well! Lynette Duncan is Polly's sister-in-law. She recently inherited the house, an unspoiled relic of the nineteenth century."

"Right! We met Lynette at a card party in the Village and she invited us to Sunday brunch. She has a fabulous

Victorian house! In fact, the entire street is a throwback to the late 1880s. `Carpenter Gothic' is what Danielle's cousin calls it."

" `Gingerbread Alley' is what the local wags have named Pleasant Street," Qwilleran said.

Will Carmichael put down his knife and fork and warmed to his subject. "What's good is that the property owners haven't modernized with vinyl siding and sliding glass doors. The way we see it, Pleasant Street could become a mecca for preservation buffs, with houses operating as living museums or bed-and-breakfasts. There's money to be made in that field today. My bank would offer good deals on restoration loans...How does it strike you?"

"It strikes me as a huge undertaking," Qwilleran said. "Exactly what does a restoration consultant do, and what is his name?"

"Carter Lee James. Perhaps you've heard of him or seen his work in magazines. He appraises the possibilities, supervises the restoration, and helps get the houses registered as historic landmarks. He knows the techniques, sources, and - most important - what not to do! Can you imagine Pleasant Street with a bronze plaque in front of every house? It would be a unique attraction - not for hordes of noisy tourists but for serious admirers of nineteenth-century Americana."

They ordered spicy walnut cake and dark-roast coffee, and the banker continued. "Lynette has a fortune in antiques in her house - all inherited, she says."

Qwilleran, whose personal preference was for contemporary, remembered the ponderous furniture, dark wall coverings, velvet draperies, ornate picture frames, and skirted tables at Lynette's housel. Polly had recuperated there after her surgery. He tried to find something upbeat to say. "Lynette is the last of the Duncans-by-blood. It's a highly respected name around here. The Duncans were successful merchants in the boom years and they prospered without exploiting the mineworkers."

"That's to their credit," Willard was gazing thoughtfully into his coffee. `I imagine she doesn't have to work... yet she tells me she holds down a nine- to-five job."

"Lynette likes to keep busy. She's also active in volunteer work. Volunteerism is big in Pickax. You should get Danielle involved."

With a humorous grimace her husband said, "If it means visiting the sick, I don't think my dear wife would qualify." For a few minutes he occupied himself with the check and a credit card, then said, "We'll have to get together during the holidays. You should meet Carter Lee. You'll be impressed. Personable guy. Fine arts degree. Graduate study in architecture... Do you play bridge?"

"No, but Lynette has told me about the Village bridge club and the big glass jar."

It was an antique apothecary jar bout a foot high, with a wide mouth and a domelike stopper. At Village card parties each player dropped a ten-dollar bill into the jar and rubbed the stopper for luck. Bridge payers, Qwilleran had reason to believe, ranked with athletes, sports fans, actors, sailors, and crapshooters as creatures of superstition. To the credit of the bridgehounds at Indian Village, they also contributed their winnings to the jar, and when it was full, the total sum was donated to the Moose County Youth Center. He remarked to Willard, "I hope you've contributed generously to the jar."

"I've had a little luck," he admitted. "Lynette is a consistent winner, though. And Carter Lee's pretty good... Danielle should stay home and watch TV."

It was time to say goodnight. Qwilleran had genuinely enjoyed the conversation and the food. He thanked his host and added, "It's my turn to treat - the next time you're baching it." The qualifying clause was tacked on casually, but he hoped it registered.

The two men drove home in their respective vehicles, both of them vans. On the way, Qwilleran recalled the banker's remarks about his "dear wife" and feared the marriage was doomed. It had been too hasty. Too bad... Willard was interesting company, although nosey. He was certainly enthusiastic about Pleasant Street...The country club situation was unfortunate. No doubt he was a golfer. It was good news about the gourmet society, however.

Qwilleran glanced at the clock on the dashboard and tuned in the hourly newsbreak on WPKX. First he heard the high-school basketball scores. Then came Wetherby Goode with his forecast and usual silliness:

"Boots - boots - boots- boots- boots- sloggin' through the snow again. He always had a parody of a song or nursery rhyme or literary work to fit the occasion. Some of his listeners, like Lynette Duncan, thought he was terribly clever; others wished for better forecasts and fewer cultural allusions.

After Wetherby's prediction of more snow, the newscaster came in with a bulletin:

"A disturbing incident has just been reported in Indian Village. A sum of money estimated at two thousand dollars has been stolen from an unlocked cabinet in the clubhouse. It was being collected in a large glass jar by members of the bridge club, for donation to the Moose County Youth Center. Police are investigating."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache and snapped off the radio, thinking, Brodie was right; it's escalating... The editorial was right; it's time to lock up!

-3-

On December 24, Qwilleran went downtown at noon to celebrate with the staff of the Moose County Something. They were having the afternoon off, but first there was the office party. It featured ham sandwiches from Lois's Luncheonette, a sheet cake from the Scottish bakery, coffee, and year-end bonuses. Arch Riker was beaming as he handed out the envelopes with a ho-ho-ho.

Qwilleran said to him, "This is a far cry from the wild office parties we had Down Below. They were all booze, no bonuses."

"Don't remind me!" Riker protested. "I've been twenty-five years trying to forget my first one at the Daily Fluxion. Rosie and I were just married, and the whole Riker family was celebrating Christmas Eve at our house - with a potluck supper and me in a Santa suit handing out presents. That was the plan, anyway. I had to work all day, but it got whispered around that every department was holding open house. Bring your own glass! At five o'clock we all started making the rounds to Editorial, Sports, Women's, Photo Lab (that was the worst), Advertising, Circulation - the whole shebang! Everyone was wallowing in holiday cheer, and I completely forgot my wife and family! By the time some guys took me home in a cab, I flaked out and woke up the next morning. Oh, God! I was in the doghouse for a year!"

Qwilleran said, "You weren't the only heel. That's why firms outlawed office parties. There's nothing like a lawsuit to grab the corporate attention."

Then Hixie Rice, the promotion director and a resident of Indian Village, pulled him aside. "Did you hear about the theft?" she whispered.

"The Pickax Picaroon strikes again!

When was the money last seen?"

"The night before. We'd had our Christmas bridge party, and everyone was extra generous. Then we put the jar away in the manager's office as usual, camouflaged with a shopping bag."

"But all the players know where it's kept - right? Someone was waiting for it to fill up. Who are these players?"

"Mostly residents of the Village, but a few guest players as well, who drive out from Pickax or wherever. Ironically, the shopping bag was gone, too. They must have used it to carry the money. According to the denomination of the bills, it could be as much as two thousand... Do you have a noodle, Qwill?"

"Yes. Let's get some ham sandwiches before the vultures from the city room eat them all."

After the camaderie of the office party, Qwilleran was reluctant to leave the festive downtown scene, where shoppers were hurrying faster and carolers were singing louder. He picked up a few extra gifts: perfume for Polly, a scarf for Mildred, and a few small cans of smoked turkey pƒt‚ and gourmet sardines for the cats he knew.

The first can went to the longhair at the used book store. The bookseller was overwhelmed, saying it was the first Christmas present Winston had ever received. Eddington Smith was a gentle little old man who loved books, but not for their content. He loved them for their titles, covers, illustrations, paper quality, and provenance. He slept and cooked meals and repaired books in a room at the back of the store.

Slyly he said to Qwilleran, "I know what Santa's bringing you!"

"Don't' tell me. I want to be surprised."

"It's an author you like a lot."

"That's good."

"I could tell you his initials."

"Please, Eddington, no clues! Just show me what's come in lately." He never left the store without buying something.

The bookseller puttered among opened and unopened cartons until he found a box from the estate of a professor of Celtic literature, who had spent his last years in Lockmaster; the area reminded him of Scotland. "Beautiful bindings," he said. "Most printed on India paper. Some very old but the leather is well cared for... Here's one published in 1899."

Qwilleran looked at it. The title was Ossian and the Ossianic Literature, and it was written by A. Nutt. "I'll take it," he said, thinking he might give it to Arch Riker for a gag. As he left the store, he called out, "merry Christmas, Edd! When I die, I'm leaving you all my old books."

"I'll be the first to go," the old man said earnestly, "and I'm leaving you my whole store. It's written in my will."

He mentioned his purchase to Polly Duncan that evening. They met at her place for their traditional Christmas Eve together. "I bought a book on Ossian today at Eddington's. The author was someone by the name of Nutt. Wasn't there a scandal concerning Ossian in Samuel Johnson's time?"

"Yes, and quite a controversy," she said. "An eighteenth-century poet claimed to have found the third-century poems of Ossian. Dr. Johnson said it was a hoax."

After serving a low-fat supper, the offered Qwilleran a choice of pumpkin pie or fruitcake with a scoop of frozen yogurt.

"Is there any law against having both?" he asked.

"Qwill, dear, I knew you'd say that !... By the way, Lynette has been chiding me for calling you `dear'. She says it's old-fashioned."

"You're the only one in my whole life who's ever called me that, and I like it! You can quote me to your sister-in-law. For someone who hasn't had a love affair for twenty years, she hardly qualifies as an authority on affectionate appellations." They listened to carols by Swiss bell-ringers and French choirs. He read Dickens's account of the Cratchits' Christmas dinner. She read Whittier's SnowBound. In every way it was an enjoyable evening, unmarred by any hostility from Bootsie. (The husky male Siamese, who considered Qwilleran a rival for Polly's affection, had been sequestered in the basement.) Perhaps the occasion was made more poignant by Polly's recent crisis, when they feared they might never have another Christmas Eve together. The blissful evening ended only when the banging on the basement door became insufferable.

On Christmas morning Qwilleran's telephone rang frequently as friends called to thank him for their gift baskets. One of them was a fun-loving, gray-haired grandmother: Celia Robinson. She was his neighbor when he lived in the barn and she supplied meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, and other home-cooked fare that he could keep in the freezer.

"Merry Christmas, Chief! Thank you for the goodies! And Wrigley thanks you for the gourmet sardines. He sends greetings to Koko and Yum Yum. Are they having a good Christmas?"

"They had some of your meatloaf, and that made their day." This mild quip occasioned a burst of merry laughter.

"Guess what, Chief!" She called him "Chief" for reasons that only he and she understood. "My grandson is here for the holidays."

"Clayton?" He knew about the fourteen-year-old science and math whiz who lived on a farm in Illinois.

"I picked him up at the airport yesterday afternoon. Mr. O'Dell came to supper, and we all opened presents and had a good time. Then we floodlighted the yard and built a big snowman. Today Clayton went to your barn on snowshoes and checked it out. Everything's okay. No damage. Today we're having dinner with Virginia Alstock's family. Her kids are about Clayton's age."

While she was talking, Qwilleran was thinking. He had never met the fourteen- year-old science and math whiz who had helped solve the Euphonia Gage case in Florida, and he felt obliged to extend some form of hospitality, although he was not fond of the underage bracket. He said, "Would your grandson like to go along with me on an assignment for the paper?"

"Oh, Chief! He'd love it! He's outside now, using the snowblower, but I'll tell him when he comes in. He'll be thrilled! It might change his life! He might decide to be a newspaperman!"

"Tell him to stick with cybernetics. It pays better. Does he have a camera?"

"Yes A new one his dad gave him for Christmas. And he has the little tape recorder he used in Florida."

"Good! He can pose as my photographer. Tell him to pick up a roll of film, and I'll pay for it. Meanwhile, I'll set up an interview and call you back."

"Shall I cut his hair?" Celia asked.

"Not necessary," Qwilleran said. "Photographers aren't expected to look too civilized."

Her laughter was still resounding as they hung up.

Then Polly called to discuss how they should dress for dinner.

"Arch will be wearing his twenty- year-old red wool shirt," Qwilleran said, "so I suggest we go in sweaters."

Polly's staff had given her a white sweater embroidered with red cardinals and green holly - livelier than her usual garb, but Polly herself was livelier since her surgery. Qwilleran had a new sweater, ordered from Chicago, that looked like an Oriental rug - high style for a man whose peers Down Below used to call a lovable slob.

"I'll pick you up at one o'clock," he said. "Bundle up, and we'll walk. It isn't windy."

"Do you know who's just moved into the unit next to you, Qwill?"

"A husky man. Drives a large van."

"That's Wetherby Goode!"

"No! What did I do to deserve that clown for a neighbor?"

"Do I detect inter-media jealousy?" she said, teasing gently. "Most radio listeners think he's entertaining. It's not all about dew point and barometric pressure. One windy day he sang `Rockabye Baby.' After an ice storm he quoted from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. One of his listeners had sent it in: The ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around. People are afraid he'll run out of quotes."

"Well, if you have to have a gimmick with your weather, I guess that's as good as any," Qwilleran acknowledged. "Who lives next to you?"

"The Cavendish sisters, retired teachers, very quiet."

At one o'clock they started out for the Riker condo in Building Two, muffled in down jackets, scarfs, woolly hats, mittens, and boots. They walked hand-in- hand as they had done during her first post-surgery outings. Now it has become a pleasant custom to both of them; to observers it was romantic grist for the gossip mill.

Polly had a red wool scarf, six feet long, wrapped around her chin and ears and trailing front and back. "A present from Lynette," she said.

"What did you give her?"

"A set of violet-scented soap, bath oil, and cologne. Violet is all she ever wears."

"I always wondered what that aroma was on Pleasant Street. I thought it was furniture polish."

"Oh, Qwill, you're wicked! Violet is a lovely scent. To simplify my Christmas shopping I mailed the same thing to my sister in Cincinnati, and she phoned this morning to say how much she liked it."

"Do people on your gift list ever call to say they hate what you gave them?"

"Now you're being the cynical journalist!"

Arriving at their destination, they were greeted at the door by a committee of three: the beaming host in a red wool shirt, the plump and pretty hostess in a chef's apron, and their cat in his usual tuxedo with white shirt-front and spats. Toulouse looked slyly satisfied with his lot, like an alley-smart stray who has found a home with the food writer of a newspaper. The two women hugged, and each told the other she looked wonderful. The men, friends since childhood, had only to make eye contact to express all that needed to be said.

There was a Scotch pine tree in the living room, trimmed like the one at their wedding the previous Christmas: White pearlescent ornaments, white doves, white streamers. The festively wrapped packages under the tree included those sent over by Polly and Qwilleran. The aromas were those of pine boughs, roasting turkey, and hot mulled cider.

Mildred removed her apron and joined the others around a low party table loaded with hot and cold hor d'oeuvres.

Polly said, "I always feel so secure when I come to dinner here. Mildred doesn't fuss in the kitchen; she doesn't expect anyone to help; and everything turns out perfectly: the hot foods hot and the cold foods cold."

"Hear! Hear!" Qwilleran said.

As the four busied themselves with the hors d'oeuvres, conversation came in short bites:

About the theft: "An inside job! An outsider could have stolen it only if an insider talked on the outside."

About Lynette: "Suddenly she's looking ten years younger! Is she in love?... She was jilted twenty years ago and hasn't dated since... Maybe it's Wetherby Goode. She thinks he's cute."

About George Breze: "What's he doing in Indian Village?... His house on Sandpit Road is up for sale... His wife left him. Why did she stay as long as she did?"

About the Carmichaels: "Big difference in their ages... He's an asset to the community, but she's a misfit... Someone should talk to her about her wardrobe."

Polly said, "She has such a pouty mouth! Is it natural?"

"It's what they call a fish-mouth," Mildred said. "You can have it done."

"My wife is so worldly," said Arch.

Toulouse walked into the room with a solemn tread and rubbed against the cook's ankles as a reminder that the turkey was ready. Mildred served it with a brown-rice-and-walnut stuffing, twice- baked sweet potatoes with orange glaze, sesame-sauced broccoli, and two kinds of cranberry relish.

"I feel compelled to serve two kinds," she said, "or the turkey will be dry and the stuffing will be soggy. It's just a superstition."

"It's absurd," said her husband, "but I don't fight it."

Qwilleran claimed he had never been superstitious. "As a kid, I deliberately walked under ladders and stepped on cracks in the sidewalk."

"And look how he turned out!" Riker said. "Luckiest guy in the northeast central United States."

In pioneer days, Mildred related, it was unlucky to whistle in the mines, kill a woodpecker in a lumber camp, or drop a knife on the deck of a fishing boat.

"Today," Polly said, "we observe superstitions half in fun and half hopefully. Lynette always wears her grandmother's ring to play bridge, and she almost always wins."

"Anything will work if you think it will, Qwilleran said. "With the ring on her finger, she expects to win - a positive attitude that enables her to think clearly and make the right moves."

"The right bids," Arch corrected him. "You're thinking of chess."

With a wink at the others, Mildred said, "Arch always puts on his right shoe before the left."

"It has nothing to do with superstition. It has everything to do with efficiency," he explained. "It's the result of a lifelong time-and-motion study."

"You never told me that," she said innocently. "But if you accidentally put on the left shoe first, you take it off and start over."

"Who needs Big Brother? I've got Big Wife monitoring my behavior."

"Ooh! I'm going on a diet after the holidays," Mildred said.

"Isn't it strange," Polly remarked, "how many superstitions have to do with the feet, like putting a penny in your shoe for luck or wearing mismatched socks to take an exam? Bootsie gives his paw three licks - no more, no less - before starting to eat."

"Will someone explain to me," Qwilleran asked, "why Koko always eats with his rear end pointed north? No matter where he's being fed, he knows which way is north. And Yum Yum always approaches her food from the left. If something`s in way and she has to do otherwise, she throws up."

Arch groaned. "This conversation is getting too deep for me. Let's have dessert."

After the plum pudding had been served and after the coffee had been poured, the presents were opened - not in a mad scramble but one at a time, with everyone sharing the suspense.

The first - to Qwilleran from the Rikers - was an odd-shaped package about four feet long. "A short stepladder," he guessed. "A croquet set." It proved to be a pair of snowshoes. "Great!" he said. "There are snow trails all around here! It's just what I need to get some exercise this winter!" And he meant it.

Polly was thrilled with her suede suit and silk blouse, and the Rikers whooped in unison over the Majolica coffeepot. Then Arch unwrapped his baseball tie and exploded with laughter, while Mildred screamed in glee.

Qwilleran said, "It was supposed to be a joke, but I didn't know it was that funny!" He understood their reaction when, a few minutes later, he opened a long, narrow giftbox from Arch. It was a baseball tie.

The largest box under the tree - Qwilleran from Polly - was a set of leather-bound books by Herman Melville, a 1924 printing in mint condition. Included were novels that Qwilleran, a Melville buff, had never been able to find. He dug into the box excitedly, announcing title after title, and reading aloud some of the opening lines.

"Okay," Arch said, "you've got all winter to read those books. Let's open some more presents."

Also for Qwilleran was an opera recording from Polly: Adriana Levouvreur with Renata Tebaldi... Toulouse gave Koko and Yum Yum a gift certificate good at Toodle's fish counter... Arch gave Mildred a three-strand necklace of onyx beads accented with a cartouche of gold- veined lapis lazuli.

The last gift under the tree was tagged to Qwilleran from Bootsie. "It's a package bomb," he guessed. After unwrapping it with exaggerated care, he exclaimed, "I can only quote the bard: I am amazed and know not what to say! It's a sporran!"

"You could have fooled me," said Arch. "I thought it was something for cleaning the windshield."

"A sporran, for your information, Arch, is a fur ouch worn with a kilt by men in the Scottish Highlands. It's used to carry, money, car keys, driver's license, cigarettes, lighter, credit cards, sunglasses, and possibly a sandwich." He turned to Polly. "How did Bootsie find out I'd bought a kilt?"

"Everyone in town knows it, dear. There are no secrets in Pickax."

"Well, we're now a two-sporran family. Yum Yum has a cat-size sporran attached to her underside. It flaps from side to side when she trots, but hers is real fur. I think this one can be machine-washed and tumble-dried."

When dusk fell and the gaslights on River Lane began to glow, it was snowing, so Arch drove Polly and Qwilleran home with their loot and foil-wrapped packs of turkey for their cats. Qwilleran minced some before going to Polly's for mint tea and a recap of the afternoon:

"Carol gets the credit for selecting your suit, Polly."

"Mildred made your sporran, Qwill."

"The snowshoes are good-looking enough to hang on the wall when I'm not using them."

"Did you know Adriana was the last role Tebaldi sang before she retired?"

"Eddington Smith searched a whole year for a Melville collection. This one turned up on Boston."

It had stopped snowing when Qwilleran finally went home, and he was surprised to find footprints in the fresh snow on his front walk, leading to and from his doorstep. They were a woman's footprints. There were no tire tracks. She lived in the Village and had walked. Who in the Village would pay a call without phoning first or being invited? Not Hixie or Fran. Certainly not Amanda Goodwinter. Opening the storm door, he found a gift on the threshold, wrapped in conservative holly paper and about the size and weight of a two-pound box of chocolates. He felt obliged to quote Lewis Carroll: Curiouser and curiouser! He carried it indoors, hoping it was not chocolates.

The Siamese, dozing on the sofa, raised their heads expectantly.

"Three guesses!" he said to them as he tore open the paper. It was a book with an unusual binding: leather spine and cloth-covered boards in a red and green Jacobean design, leafy and flowery. The gold tooling on the spine spelled out The Old Wives' Tale.

"Hey," he yelped, alarming the cats. Arnold Bennett was one of his favorite authors, and this was considered his best novel. It was obviously a special edition of the 1908 book, with heavy quality paper, deckled edges, and woodcut illustrations. There was a note enclosed:

Qwill - You mentioned Bennett in your column last week, and I thought you'd like to have this precious book from my father's collection.

-Your Number-One Fan - Sarah

Qwilleran was flabbergasted. Sarah Plensdorf was the office manager at the Something - an older woman, rather shy. She lived alone in the Village, surrounded by family treasures.

Clutching the book, he dropped into his favorite easy chair and propped his feet on the ottoman. Koko and Yum Yum came running. Reading aloud was one of the things they did together as a family.

Bennett had been a journalist, and his novels were written in an unromantic style with detailed descriptions. As Qwilleran read, he dramatized with sound effects: the resounding call of the cuckoo in the English countryside, the clanging bell of the horse-car in town, the snores of Mr. Povey, asleep on the sofa with his mouth wide open. (He had taken a painkiller for his aching tooth.) When the prankish Sophie reached into the gaping mouth with pliers and extracted the wobbly tooth, Mr. Povey yelped. Qwilleran yelped, Yum Yum shrieked. But where was Koko?

Some muttering could be heard in the foyer, where Qwilleran had piled all the Christmas gifts; Koko was doing his best to open the carton containing the set of Melville's works.

Was he attracted to the leather bindings? Did he detect codfish on a set of old books from Boston? Could he sense that the box contained a novel about a whale? He was a smart cat, but was he that smart?

Koko did indeed have a baffling gift of extrasensory perception. He could tell time, read Qwilleran's mind, and put thoughts in Qwilleran's head. All cats do this, more or less, at feeding time. But Koko applied his powers to matters of good and evil. He sensed misdeeds, and he could identify misdoers in an oblique sort of way. Melville's novels were concerned with good and evil to a large degree; was Kao K'o Kung getting the message?

Was it coincidence that he pushed the The Thief off the bookshelf when Pickax was plagued with petit larceny - and some not so petit?

Trying to find answers to such questions could drive a person mad, Qwilleran had decided. The same approach was to be receptive, open-minded. There was one clue, however, that he had divined: Normal cats have twenty-four whiskers on each side, eyebrows included. Koko had thirty!

-4-

Between Christmas and New Year's, Qwilleran took Celia Robinson's grandson out on an assignment. He had been scheduled to interview an innkeeper in Trawnto Beach, but a dowser in Pickax seemed more likely to interest a future scientist. Furthermore, the dowser lived nearby, and Qwilleran could avoid sixty miles of driving in the company of a precocious fourteen-year-old. Admittedly, summer would be more appropriate for a dowsing story, but the interview could be conducted during Clayton's visit and put on hold. Then, after spring thaw, Qwilleran cold return for a demonstration of the mysterious art.

When he drove into Celia's parking lot, he saw Clayton on the snowblower, spraying his grandmother with plumes of white flakes, while she pelted him with snowballs in gleeful retaliation. Brushing snow from their outerwear, they approached Qwilleran's car, and Celia made the introductions: "Mr. Qwilleran, this is my famous grandson... Clayton, this is the famous Mr. Q. I call him `Chief. ` "

"Hi, Chief," the young man said, thrusting his hand forward. His grip had the confidence of a young teen who is expecting a scholarship from M.I.T.

"Hi, Doc," Qwilleran replied, referring to his role in the Florida investigation. He sized him up as a healthy farm-bred youth with an intelligent face, freshly cut hair, and a voice deeper than the one on last year's tape recording. "Got your camera? Let's go!"

"Where are we off to, Chief?" Clayton asked as they turned into Park Circle.

"We're going to Pleasant Street to interview Gil MacMurchie. His ancestors came here from Scotland about the time of Rob Roy. Do you know about Rob Roy? Sir Walter Scott wrote a novel with that title."

"I saw the movie," Clayton said. "He wore skirts."

"He wore a kilt, customarily worn by Scottish Highlanders for tramping across the moors in wet heather, and also as a badge of clansmanship. During the Jacobite rebellion, clans were stripped of their names and kicked off their land. Rob Roy had been chief of the MacGregor clan but changed his name to Campbell. `Roy' refers to his red hair."

"How do you know all that?"

"I read. Do you read, Doc?"

"Yeah, I read a lot. I'm reading Einstein's Philosophy of Civilization."

"I'm glad you're not waiting for the movie... Mr. MacMurchie is retired from the plumbing and hardware business, but he's still active as a dowser. Know anything about dowsing? Scientists call it divining. It's also known as water witching."

"Sure, I know about that! When our well ran dry, my dad hired a water witch. He walked around our farm with a branch of a tree and found underground water. I don't know how it works."

"No one knows exactly, but there are plenty of guesses. Geologists call it an old wives' tale."

"What does that mean?"

"Folklore....superstition. Yet proponents of dowsing say it works, in spite of the controversy."

Pleasant Street was an old neighborhood of Victorian frame houses ornamented with quantities of jigsaw trim around windows, porches, rooflines, and gables. The large residences had been built by successful families like the MacMurchies and Duncans in the heyday of Moose County.

"This street looks like Disneyland," said Clayton. "It doesn't look real."

"There may be no other street in the United States with so much gingerbread trim still intact. Right now there's a proposal to restore all the houses and have it recognized as a historic neighborhood."

Qwilleran parked in front of a neat two-tone gray house that still had a stone carriage step at the curb. The sidewalk and the steps of the house had been recently broomed, showing the streak marks of the broom straw in the snow. As they walked up the front steps, Clayton asked, "What kind of pictures shall I take?"

"Close-ups of Mr. MacMurchie and his dowsing stick, plus anything else that looks interesting. If you get some good shots, the paper might do a picture spread and give you a credit line."

Clayton had never seen a doorbell in the middle of the door, and he snapped a picture of it. he had never heard the raucous clang it made either.

"Remember, Doc," Qwilleran said. "I ask the questions; you click the camera, but do it unobtrusively."

"Do you tape the interview?"

"If he gives permission; that's our paper's policy. But I take notes, whether we tape or not. When I was younger, I could commit a whole interview to memory, and it would be printed verbatim without error. But that was just showing off."

The man who responded to the bell was a leathery-faced Scot whose red hair was turning sandy with age. "Come in! Come in, Qwill!" was his hearty welcome.

"Gil, this is my photographer, Clayton Robinson."

"Hiya, there! Let's go right back to the kitchen. There's some folks from the bank working in the front rooms. All my dowsing gear is laid out on the kitchen table."

A long hall extended through to the rear, similar to that in the Duncan house. Lynette's furnishings were stubbornly Victorian, however; this collection represented the taste of passing generations and the fads of recent decades: a little William Morris, a little Art Deco, a little Swedish modern, a little French provincial, a little Mediterranean.

As the trio walked down the hall, Qwilleran glimpsed antique weapons in a glass-topped curio table....a small black dog asleep on the carpeted stairs... a man and a woman examining one of the parlors and making notes.

"Excuse the mess," the dowser apologized when they reached the kitchen. "My wife passed away last year, and I'm no good at housekeeping. I'm getting ready to move into a retirement complex, and I'm selling the house and most of my goods. Willard Carmichael at the bank said I can get more for the house if I fix it up so that it's historic. You know Willard, don't you? He sent this out-of- town expert over here today to figure out what needs to be done and what it'll cost. Sounds pretty good to me!... Pull up a couple of chairs. Do you want me to explain this gear? Or do you want to ask questions?"

Laid out on the table was an array of forked twigs, L-shaped rods, barbed wire, string, even a wire coat hanger.

"Let's talk first," Qwilleran suggested, setting up his tape recorder. "How long have you been dowsing, Gil?... I'll tape this, if you don't mind."

"Ever since I was a kid and my granddad showed me how to hold the forked stick. He found good water for folks, and also veins of iron ore and copper. The mines closed a long time ago, but folks always need good drinking water. When there's a drought, some wells run dry. When a new building's going up, they have to know if there's water down there and how many gallons a minute they can get."

Qwilleran asked, "Considering new technology, is water witching a dying art?"

"No way! No way! My grandson's been finding water since he was twelve. It's a gift, you know, and you pass it on, but it skips a generation. My father couldn't find water to save his life! My son can't either. But my grandson can. See what I mean?"

Occasionally there was the soft click of a camera and a flash of light.

"How often are you called upon to use this skill?"

"All depends. I'm a licensed plumber, and my wife and me ran the hardware store for years, but I'd always go out and dowse if somebody wanted me to. Still do."

"Are you always successful?"

"If the water's down there, by golly I'll find it! Sometimes it just ain't there! Either way, I never charge for my services, and I've made a lot of friends. Of course, I've made enemies, too. There's a well-driller in Mooseville who hates my guts. He'll drill a couple of dry holes, and then I'm called in and I find water with my little forked stick. Drives the guy nuts!"

MacMurchie stopped to enjoy a chuckle. "Then there's an old biddy in Kennebeck who says it's the work of the devil. But just wait till her well runs dry and see who she calls!" The dowser slapped his knee and had another laugh. "If she calls me, I'm gonna go out there with one of them Halloween masks with red horns."

"How about the scientists? The geologists?"

"Oh, them! Just because they can't explain it, they think it's all superstition. How about you, Qwill? What's your honest opinion?"

"I'll reserve my opinion until next spring when you give a demonstration. Meanwhile, what are these gadgets?" He waved his hand at the odd assortment on the kitchen table. "Okay. Here's the famous forked twig - goes back hundreds of years. Can be birch, maple, willow, apple, whatever. Should be fresh, with the sap in it... So you hold it in front of you, stem pointing up. The two forks are in your hands, palms up - like this." The camera clicked. "You walk across the ground, concentrating. You pace back and forth. Suddenly the stick quivers, and the stem swings down and points to the ground. There's a vein of water under your feet!"

"Uncanny!" Qwilleran said. "How far down?"

"Could be twenty, forty, sixty feet. If I say it's down there, all you gotta do is drill - or dig. My granddad dug wells by hand, as deep as eighty feet! Sent the mud up in buckets."

Qwilleran heard voices in the next room: the rumble of a man's voice and a woman's shrill laughter. Catching Clayton's eye, he jerked his head in that direction, and the young photographer quietly left the room.

"Are there any women dowsers, Gil?"

"In some places. Not here."

"Explain these other gadgets."

"They'll all find water, but mostly it depends on the dowser. Nothing works if you're just fooling around, or if you don't feel too good, or if you think it's really a lot of baloney." MacMurchie looked up suddenly, over Qwilleran's shoulder, and said, "Yes, Mr. James. Want to see me?"

A deep, pleasant voice said, "We're leaving now. We'll be back tomorrow to appraise the upstairs. I think you have a gold mine here. Don't let me disturb you. We can find our way out."

Qwilleran had his back to the voice and saw no reason tot urn around.

"Nice fella," the dowser said as footsteps retreated and a woman's laughter drifted back to them. Qwilleran stood up and pocketed his records. "This has been very enlightening. I'll look forward to the demonstration in the spring... Where's my photographer? Let's go, Clayton."

"Here I am - in the dining room. I've found a friend." He was sitting cross- legged on the floor, and a black schnauzer was curled on his chest, looking up at him with a shameless expression of devotion.

"That's Cody," said MacMurchie. "You can have her if you want. I can't have a pet where I'm going. She's a sweet little girl. She was my wife's."

Clayton said, "I live on a farm. She'd like it there. Can I take her on the plane, Chief?"

"Better discuss it with your grandmother."

While Clayton took a few pictures of Cody, the two men walked toward the front door, and Qwilleran asked about the weapons in the curio table.

"They're Scottish dirks - longer than daggers, shorter than swords." He lifted the glass top and removed a dirk from its scabbard. "See these grooves in the blade? They're for blood. Those Highlanders thought of everything." There were also two silver pins three inches in diameter, set with stones as big as egg yolks - a kind of smoky quartz. "Those are brooches to anchor a man's plaid on his shoulder. The stones are cairngorms, found only on Cairngorm mountain in Scotland. We call the brooches poached eggs. Sorry to say, I've got to unload all this stuff. No room in my new place. I'll only keep the dirk with the silver lion. It was a gift from my wife."

"How much do you want for all the others?" Qwilleran asked.

MacMurchie rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Well... let's see... four dirks with brass hilts and leather scabbards... and two silver brooches... You could have `em for a thousand, and I'd throw in the table."

"I wouldn't need the table, but I'll think about the others and let you know."

"Are you going to Scottish Night at the lodge?" "They've invited me, and I've bought a kilt, but so far I haven't had the nerve to wear it."

"Wear it to Scottish Night, Qwill. There'll be twenty or thirty fellas in kilts there, and you'll feel right at home. I'll lend you a knife to wear in your sock. You have to have a knife in your sock to be proper."

"Isn't it considered a concealed weapon?"

"Well, Andy Brodie wears one to Scottish Night, and he never got arrested. When you go in, you show it to the doorman, that's all. Wait a second." MacMurchie disappeared and returned with a stag-horn-handled knife in a scabbard. "You borrow this, Qwill. It's lucky to wear something borrowed."

Qwilleran accepted, saying it was a good-looking knife.

"It's called a d-u-b-h, but it's a pronounced thoob."

They said good-bye. Qwilleran told Cody she was a good dog. He and his photographer drove away from Pleasant Street.

"That was cool," Clayton said.

"How'd you like to stop at the Olde Tyme Soda Fountain for a sundae?"

It was a new addition to downtown Pickax, part of the revitalization sponsored by the K Fund. A light, bright shop with walls and floor of vanilla white, it had small round tables and a long fountain bar in chocolate-colored marble. Customers sat on "ice cream" chairs or high stools of twisted wire, with strawberry red seats. Sundaes were called college ices; sodas were called phosphates; banana splits remained banana splits. That was Clayton's choice. Qwilleran had a double scoop of coffee ice cream. Everything was served in old- style ice cream dishes of thick molded glass.

"Did you shoot the whole roll?" Qwilleran asked.

"No, I've got a few exposures left,

I'm leaving tomorrow, so I'll send you the prints. I hate to go. Grandma's a lotta fun."

"Did you get a look at the people from the bank?"

"Yeah, he was okay, but she was weird."

"In what way?"

"I don't know. Just weird. Her voice - it sounded kind of electronic."

An apt description of Danielle Carmichael, Qwilleran thought. "What were they doing?"

"He was walking around and measuring things and talking, and she was writing down what he said. I turned on my recorder. Want me to send a transcript when I get home?"

"Good idea! Did you enjoy your holiday?"

"Yeah, lotsa fun, lotsa food. Grandma remembered all my favorites. Do you think she'll marry Mr. O'Dell?"

"I don't know. Both have a very positive attitude. They both like to help people. They might make a good match."

Clayton was lost for a while in deep thought as he tackled the complexities of a banana split.

Then Qwilleran questioned him about life on the farm. It was a poultry factory. There were no farm animals, just watchdogs, and barn cats, but no indoor pets. Clayton had a stepmother who wouldn't allow animals in the house.

"I'd like to come up here and live with Grandma and go to Pickax High School. It's cool!" he said. "My stepmother wouldn't mind, but my dad doesn't want me to."

As they pulled into Celia's parking lot, Clayton said, "Thanks a lot, Chief. It was cool."

When Qwilleran returned home, he noticed heavy vehicle tracks and large footprints in the recently fallen snow around his condo, but he was not alarmed. It meant that some long-awaited furniture had been delivered. Fran Brodie, who knew his likes and dislikes, had been able to supply the basics for his condo, but additional items were straggling in. She had bought certain items of old pine farm furniture, almost contemporary in its simplicity, and had stripped the finish to a honey color. A light interior was a good choice for a building nestled in the woods. The walls were off-white, and honey was the color of the pine woodwork.

Qwilleran's unite had a lofty living room with large windows overlooking the river. On the opposite wall was a balcony with two bedrooms, and below it were the kitchen and dining alcove. He would use the alcove as an office, and he needed a table or desk surface large enough for typewriter, lamp, papers, books, files, and two supervisory cats.

On this day, as soon as he unlocked the door, Koko notified him that something had been added, yowling and running back and forth to the office alcove. The writing table was indeed large, and it had character. One could imagine that families had been fed on its ample surface, bread had been kneaded, tomatoes had been canned, babies had been bathed, sheets had been ironed, and letters had been written to loved ones during the Spanish American War. There was also a huge stripped-pine cupboard with open shelves above and cabinet below.

Qwilleran lost no time in loading the shelves with books recently purchased or brought from the barn. One shelf he reserved for the Melville set, volumes one to twelve, numbered in chronological order: Typee; Omoo; Mardi; Redburn; White-Jacket; Moby-Dick; Pierre; The Piazza Tales; Israel Potter; The Confidence-Man; Billy Budd; and Weeds and Wildings, the last being a book of poems. He could hardly believe his good fortune.

Koko was impressed, too. During the evening, when it was time for another reading from The Old Wives; Tale, only one cat reported. Koko was curled up on the shelf with the leather-bound volumes. Had he become a literary critic? Was he saying that Melville was a better writer than Bennett?

-5-

On the last day of the year it snowed as usual, and high winds were predicted. Wetherby Goode advised New Year's Eve celebrants to stay off the highways if possible. Then blow ye winds, heigh-ho! was his quotation for the day.

In Indian Village it was customary for neighbors to celebrate with neighbors, and there were numerous at- home parties. For those who liked elbow- to-elbow conviviality, there was a late- night get-together at the clubhouse: light supper, champagne at midnight, no paper hats, no noisemakers. Earlier, Qwilleran and Polly and two other couples would dine with the Exbridges. Don Exbridge, the X in XYZ Enterprises, was the developer responsible for Indian Village, and he and his new wife lived in Building One. They had a double unit, said to be quite posh, with gold faucets and all that. Qwilleran wondered if the Exbridges' windows rattled when the wind blew, heigh-ho, as they did in Building Five. He wondered if the floors bounced like trampolines, and if the Exbridges could hear the plumbing next door. He enjoyed a recurring fantasy: The K Fund would buy Indian Village - the only planned, upscale community in the county - then tear it down and build it right.

The Exbridges proved to be charming hosts, and the dinner was excellent. They had a cook and houseman in addition to gold faucets. Qwilleran kept his ear tuned to the fenestration, but there was no rattle even when the wind swayed the trees frighteningly. As for the floors, they were hardwood with Oriental rugs - not plywood with wall-to-wall carpet. The plumbing was discreetly quiet.

There was much conversation about the theft of the bridge club's money. The new clubhouse manager, Lenny Inchpot, had been questioned by the police; the money jar was kept in a cabinet in his office. Also questioned were the officers of the clubhouse association and the maintenance crew of the building. All agreed there was too much casual traffic in and out. The premises were available for rental, and there were catered parties, lectures, classes, art exhibits, and the like. There was a TV lounge, and there was a room with exercise equipment. Anyone could walk in and watch a soap opera or pump a little iron. There was even a cash bar during certain hours. Locking doors and issuing keys to members would be the first move.

When the time came to ring in the New Year, scores of residents converged on the clubhouse. The main hall had the air of ski lodge, with a lofty wood-paneled ceiling, exposed beams, and a big stone fireplace. Windows overlooked the floodlighted woods, enchanting in winter white. Indoor trees and baskets of ferns, with all the green perfection of plastic, were banked in corners. Silver letters were strung across the chimney breast spelling H-A-P-P-Y N-E-W Y-E-A-R.

Since dress was optional, it ranged from jeans to black tie. Polly was wearing her terra-cotta suit, admired by everyone, and Qwilleran was in suit and tie. He and Arch had considered wearing their baseball ties, but their women vetoed it; the Exbridges would not be amused. Amanda Goodwinter was there in her thirty-year-old dinner dress; she considered large parties an abomination but attended for commercial and political reasons. A husky man who looked dapper in a double-breasted suit wore a large lapel button inscribed: HIT ME! I'M THE WEATHER GUY!

Willard Carmichael and his houseguest wore dinner jackets. Danielle was spectacular in a low-cut, high-cut cocktail sheath, leading Arch Riker to mumble, "You'd think a banker could afford to buy his wife something longer."

"At least she had good legs," Qwilleran mumbled in reply, "but she makes Lynette look like a prison matron."

In a navy blue taffeta shirtdress with her grandmother's jewelry, Lynette had dined with the Carmichaels. She reported that Willard had prepared a delicious beef Wellington; Danielle's cousin was adorable; his deep voice gave her goosebumps; even his name was romantic: Carter Lee James. All the women were talking about him, she said.

For several years Qwilleran had been the pick of Pickax, as far as eligible bachelors were rated. One woman had donated fifteen hundred dollars to charity for the privilege of having dinner with him. Although he appreciated compliments on his writing, the adulation centering around his moustache was cloying. He would be glad to share his lionization with the new fair-haired boy in town.

When Lynette pointed him out, Qwilleran recognized him as the man who had been measuring the MacMurchie house; his voice was indeed ingratiatingly pleasant. He had blond hair, medium good looks, and a relaxed way with strangers, young and old, men and women. Compared to his blockbuster cousin, he seemed quite acceptable by Pickax standards. "His hair's bleached," Amanda muttered to Qwilleran.

Polly said, "He has a frank, boyish way of looking at one that's quite disarming."

Lynette said, "All his shirts and sweaters are monogrammed."

"How do you know?" Qwilleran asked.

"He's been playing bridge with us, and I had the three of them to Sunday brunch once. Carter Lee is crazy about my house!"

Danielle was in a giddy mood. Her electronic laugh frequently pierced the even level of background conversation.

Her husband, too, was in high spirits, saying, "That suit looks fabulous on you, Polly!... Hixie baby, we've gotta do lunch... Qwill, my wife wants me to grow a moustache like yours. Don't you think I'm more the Charlie Chaplin type?"

Hixie Rice grabbed Qwilleran's arm. "An anonymous donor has sent a check for fifteen hundred to cover the theft from the money jar? It's drawn on a Chicago bank. Does that mean it's from the Klingenschoen Foundation?" "Don't ask me," he said. "They never tell me anything."

She was circulating with a tape recorder, collecting New Year's resolutions for the monthly newsletter, The Other Village Voice. Qwilleran told her he was going to write a book. Mildred declared she would lose thirty pounds. Polly resolved to find a playmate for Bootsie. Lynette, the confirmed single, amused bystanders by saying, "This is the year I get married." Danielle was determined to buy a kinkajou. Her husband said he was determined to get his wife pregnant.

Then Wetherby Goode surprised the crowd by sitting down at the patio and playing cocktail music, while Danielle surprised them further by singing ballads.

Lynette said, "I didn't know Wetherby could play."

Polly said, "I didn't Danielle could sing."

"She can't," Qwilleran muttered as he returned to the buffet for seconds. Standing in line behind Amanda, he said, "I didn't hear your New Year's resolution."

"They wouldn't print mine," she said grouchily. "I'm campaigning to eliminate those family newsletters that people do on home computers and send out instead of Christmas cards! Whatever happened to those beautiful reproductions of Raphael and Murillo? All we get is a long, sickening report on family reunions, weddings, scholarships, vacations, holes- in-one, and new babies! Who cares if Uncle Charlie was elected president of the bowling club? I never even heard of Uncle Charlie!"

"you're absolutely right!" Qwilleran like to encourage her tirades. "They never tell you that Junior was kicked out of college for cheating, and Daddy lost his job, and Cousin Fred was arrested for driving while impaired."

"Next year," she said, with a conspiratorial punch in his ribs, "you and I will make up a phoney newsletter that's nothing but bad news, and we'll send it to every name in the Pickax phone book!"

"We'll sign it: Ronald Frobnitz and family," he said. Later, Riker asked him, "What were you two talking about? No one's seen her laugh since George Breze ran for mayor and got two votes!"

"Just nonsense," Qwilleran said. "You know Amanda."

Then Willard Carmichael approached him. "Qwill, have you met Danielle's cousin yet?"

"I've been watching for an opportunity, but he's always surrounded."

"Come with me. We'll bust in."

The visiting celebrity stood with his back to the fireplace, answering questions calmly and modestly.

"Excuse me," Willard said loudly. "Carter Lee's visit won't be complete until he shakes hands with the hand that writes the `Qwill Pen' column."

The group moved aside, and the two men gripped hands heartily.

"Welcome to Moose County," Qwilleran said. "I hope you brought your snowshoes."

"Snow or no snow, I'm glad to be here," the visitor said with sincerity. "I've been reading your column. Let me compliment you."

"Thank you. Perhaps we could arrange an interview in the coming week. I understand you have some interesting proposals to make."

"Well, I have to be in Detroit for a few days to finish up some business, and then I'll return, and we'll see what happens." Willard said, "I'll be down there at the same time, and I'll make sure he comes back. We need him."

Mildred overhearing them, said, "Willard, how can you miss the first dinner of the gourmet society? It was all your idea!"

"I feel worse than you do," he said, "but I have to attend a seminar. Technology is advancing at such a breakneck speed that bankers have to go back to school every year."

Danielle said, "He wanted me to go with him, but it would be so boring!"

The conversation was interrupted by an announcement by Wetherby Goode in his radio voice: "Who wants to bring in the New Year? To guarantee good luck in the next twelve months, the first one to enter the building after the stroke of twelve has to be a male - cat, dog, or human."

"Bosh!" a woman's voice shouted.

"It's an old custom, Amanda. You know that."

"Well, you brought in the New Year last January, and we had a hurricane, and explosion on Main Street, and a financial disaster!"

"Take a vote!" Hixie yelled above the hubbub of dissension.

"Okay," Wetherby said, "all in favor of a female bringing in the New Year?... "

"Yea!" chorused all the women present.