The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

"Opposed?"

The men thundered an overwhelming negative.

"Why not alternate?" Qwilleran shouted. "Now there's a man with some sense!" said Amanda, starting for the exit. "As a member of the city council, I consider it my duty to bring in the New Year."

There were protests.

"Let her go!" said a man who had opposed her in the last election - and lost. "Maybe she'll catch pneumonia."

The women booed.

"Amanda, take your coat," Wetherby cautioned. "The wind chill is thirty below!"

The commotion subsided as everyone waited for the magic hour. Champagne corks were popping. The big clock over the bar was ticking. Wetherby was counting down the seconds. The hands reached twelve, and the crowd shouted "Happy New Year!"

Wetherby Goode played "Auld Lang Syne" as the new year was ushered in by Amanda Goodwinter. And Qwilleran, with the instincts of a veteran reporter, went around asking for prognostications for the coming twelve months.

"We'll see a sudden end to thievery at the local level," Riker predicted.

"Our First Annual Ice Festival will be a whopping success!" Hixie declared.

"Carter Lee's plans for Pleasant Street will be a national sensation," Willard said.

As the guests started bundling into their storm wear and trooping out into the snow, firecrackers and gunshots could be heard in the distance. Everyone was happy, except Carter Lee James. He discovered his lambskin car coat had been taken from the coatroom.

The New Year's eve incident was reported to the police, and the residents of Indian Village were in a furor. They were embarrassed that it had happened to a visitor from Down Below - and worried that me might decide not to return - and indignant that two such incidents had occurred in their squeaky-clean neighborhood. Qwilleran tried to discuss the matter with Brodie but was brushed off - a sure indication that the police were on the trail of a suspect.

Qwilleran had his own suspicions. George Breze had recently moved into the Village. With his red cap, overalls, and noisy pickup truck, he was an incongruous figure in the white-collar community. On Sandpit Road outside Pickax he had an empire of marginal commercial ventures behind a chain-link fence. It was under seven feet of snow in winter, and only the "office" was accessible - a shack with a pot-bellied stove. Yet in both winter and summer it was a hangout for kids. When the police dropped in from time to time, the kids were always reading comic books and playing checkers, and Red Cap was busy at his desk. On the same property was a large Federal-style house where Breze had lived with his wife until recently, when she went off with a hoe-down fiddle-player from Squunk Corners. That was when he moved to Indian Village.

Qwilleran had a strong desire to investigate this lead, considering Red Cap a latter-day Fagin, but he had to postpone extracurricular activity and work on the "Qwill Pen." Finding subject matter in winter was a greater problem than in summer, and this year he had encountered a few dead ends. The dowsing story was on hold until spring thaw; a piece on mushroom-growing had hit a credibility snag; it was too soon to write about the Ice Festival; Carter Lee was not ready.

In a quandary, Qwilleran paced back and forth across a floor that bounced more than usual. Suddenly there was a crash near the front door, and two cats fled from the foyer, either frightened or guilty. He had hung his snowshoes on the foyer wall, with their tails crossed, and the Siamese had ventured to investigate something new.

First, he phoned Polly at the library, asking if there might be a book on the fine points of showshoeing and, if so, would she bring it home? Meanwhile he gave the sport a try. He was clumsy. He tripped. His right shoe stepped on his left shoe. After he got the hang of it, he enjoyed tramping through the silent woods, although certain thigh muscles protested.

When he wrote his column on the joys of snowshoeing, it began: "Did you ever try walking through snow with your feet strapped to a couple of tennis rackets?"

Qwilleran was one of those invited to join the Nouvelle Dining Club. The prospectus - signed by Mildred Riker, Hixie Rice, and Willard Carmichael - stated; "We are committed to quality rather than quantity, pleasing the palate with the natural flavors of fresh ingredients seasoned with herbs, spices, and the essence of fruits and vegetables."

For each monthly dinner, a committee would plan the menu, assign cooking responsibilities, and provide the recipes. One member would host the event and serve the entr‚e. Others would bring the appetizers, soup, salad, and dessert courses. Expenses would be prorated.

Qwilleran signed up, volunteering for the wine detail, and he and Polly attended the first dinner one evening in January. It was held at the Lanspeaks' picturesque farmhouse in West Middle Hummock. Twelve members assembled in the country-style living room and talked about food as they sipped aperitifs.

Mildred entertained listeners with an account of her first cooking experience at the age of eleven. "I was visiting my aunt and was watching her make BLT sandwiches for lunch. Just as she started the bacon, the phone rang and she left the room, saying, `Watch the bacon,

Millie.' I did what she told me; I watched the strips turn brown and shrink and curl up. She kept yakking on the phone, and I kept watching the frying pan, and the bacon kept getting smaller and blacker. Just as I was opening a window to let out the smoke, my aunt came running. `I told you to watch the bacon!' she screamed."

Everyone laughed, except Danielle Carmichael, who looked puzzled. Foodwise she was at age eleven, according to her husband. Since he and Carter Lee had left for Detroit, she had driven to the dinner with Fran Brodie. Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers had carpooled with the Rikers. The Wilmots lived nearby.

For the sit-down courses, three tables-for-four were set up in the family room. There were place cards, and

Qwilleran found himself seated with Mildred, Hixie, and Pender Wilmot. He noted that Riker and Dwight were the lucky ones, seated with Danielle. At each place there was a printed menu:

Smoked whitefish on triangles of spoon bread with mustard broccoli coulis Black bean soup with conchiglie (pasta shells) Roast tenderloin of lamb in a crust of Pine nuts, mushrooms, and cardamom Pur‚e of Hubbard squash and leeks Pear chutney Crusty rolls Spinach and redleaf lettuce with ginger Vinaigrette and garnished with goat cheese Baked apples with peppercorn sauce

Mildred said, "The menu is built around local products: lamb, whitefish, beans, squash, goat cheese, pears, and apples. It's such a pity that Wilfred couldn't be here. I wonder what he's having for dinner tonight."

"If he's in Detroit," Qwilleran said, "he'll be headed for Greektown."

Hixie asked, "Do you think Carter Lee will ever come back?"

"I hope so," Mildred said. "He's such a gentleman, and that's unusual in one of his generation."

"He has a personality-plus, and he's not married."

"If you're staking out a claim, Hixie, I think you'll have to stand in line."

"Seriously," said Pender, `I see him as a visionary. I hope his plans for Pleasant Street come to fruition. It would be a stimulating triumph for the whole city."

Qwilleran said, "He's like some actors I've known,: laid back but fired with an inner energy that produces a great performance. I'm looking forward to interviewing him when he returns."

Pender asked about the status of the late Iris Cobb's cookbook. The long-lost recipe book was being edited for publication by Mildred. She said, I'm running into a problem. Only about two dozen recipes are original with her; the rest are photocopied from cookbooks by Julia Child, James Beard, and others."

Pender said, "You'll have to get permission to reprint, or risk being sued for plagiarism."

Hixie had an idea. Hixie always had an idea. "Make it a coffee-table book with large color photos on slick paper - large format, large print, and only her own creations. If it's going to be a memorial to Iris, make it spectacular."

Mildred said she would be happy to prepare the dishes. "Do you think John Bushland could shoot them?"

"It would be better to hire a specialist. I used to work with food accounts Down Below, and we'd fly in a photographer and food stylist from Boston or San Francisco. They'd use real food, but they'd glue it, oil it, paint it, sculpture it, spray it, pin it, sew it... "

"Stop!" Qwilleran said. "You're ruining my appetite!" He uncorked the wine and poured with an expert twist of the wrist when the lamb was served.

Pender complimented him. "Done like a professional sommelier!"

"I worked as a bartender when I was in college," Qwilleran explained. "I'm still available for private parties."

Before the forks could be raised, Larry stood and proposed a toast to Willard Carmichael. "To our best friend and mentor! May he live all the days of his life!"

The entr‚e was a taste sensation, especially the vegetable accompaniment. "I'll never eat mixed peas and carrots again!" said Qwilleran. At his table they began to talk about the best food they have ever eaten - and the worst.

Hixie said, "My worst was at a place between Trawnto Beach and Purple Point. I was driving around the county on ad business and hadn't eaten, so I stopped at a real shack that advertised pasties and clam chowder. It was mid-afternoon. The place was empty. A heavy woman came from the kitchen, and I ordered the chowder. She waddled back through the swinging doors, and I waited. Pretty soon a school bus stopped, and a young boy rushed through the door and threw his books on a table. Right away a voice yelled, `Baxter! Come in here!' He rushed into the kitchen and rushed out again, and I saw him running down the highway. Still no chowder.

Baxter returned with a bag of something which he tossed through the swinging doors before sitting down to do his homework. I began to hear cooking noises, so that was reassuring. In a while, the woman screamed for Baxter again, and he rushed into the kitchen and came out carrying a bowl with a spoon in it. He carried it very carefully with two hands and set it down in front of me. I looked at it and couldn't believe what I saw. It was watery, dirty gray, and appeared to be curdled, and there were lumps in it that looked like erasers from old lead pencils... I rushed from the premises."

Qwilleran said, "Too bad you didn't get the recipe."

"I think it was a quart of water, a package of instant mashed potatoes, and a can of minced clams," she said. "Serves four."

Just as the dessert course was being served, the telephone rang, and Carol went to the kitchen to answer it. She returned immediately with a look of anxiety and whispered to Fran Brodie, who jumped up and left the room.

Qwilleran stroked his moustache. There was something about this pantomime that worried him. Glancing toward the kitchen door, he saw Fran beckoning him. Now it was his turn to excuse himself and leave the table. She said a few words to him before he went to the phone.

In the family room the baked apples with peppercorn sauce were untouched. There was a murmur of concern.

Qwilleran returned and touched Larry's shoulder, and the two of them went to the foyer. Carol joined them for a moment of conference. Then the Lanspeaks together went to Danielle and led her across the foyer to the library.

"What's the trouble, Qwill?" Mildred asked when he sat down again.

"Andy Brodie called. He knew Fran was here with Danielle. It's bad news. Very bad! The Detroit police got in touch with him. You know Willard left yesterday to attend a conference - "

"An air crash?" Mildred asked, clutching her throat.

"No he arrived safely and was registered at a hotel. Apparently he was walking to a restaurant when he was mugged. And shot... "

"Fatally?" Pender asked under his breath.

"Fatally."

"Oh, my God!" Mildred said in a horrified whisper. "They're still trying to break the news to her gently."

At that moment there was a shriek from the library.

Larry returned to the room and faced the diners. "Friends," he said, "you won't feel like eating your dessert."

-6-

The WPKX bulletin about the homicide sent the entire county into shock and rage, and individuals wanted to share their feelings with others. When thwarted by busy signals on the phone, they went out in the snow and cold to gather in public places and bemoan the loss of Willard Carmichael, who had died in such an unthinkable way. Qwilleran, with his usual compulsion to take the public pulse, joined them and listened to their comments:

"Those cities Down Below are jungles! He shouldn'ta went there!"

:We've lost a good man. He would have been an asset to the community. He attended our church."

"What'll happen now? He was married to that young girl. They'd bought the Fitch house."

"I feel sorry for his wife. We shoulda been nicer to her, even though she didn't fit in."

"If she moves back Down Below, she's nuts!"

"The church'll send their Home Visitors to call on her and try to give her some comforting thoughts."

With grim amusement Qwilleran visualized Danielle receiving these well- intentioned visitors with their "comforting thoughts."

With grim amusement Qwilleran visualized Danielle receiving these well- intentioned visitors with their "comforting thoughts." That alone would drive her back Down Below, where her citified wardrobe would be appreciated, and where she could buy a kinkajou. No doubt Willard had provided for her generously.

While downtown he stopped at the design studio, expecting Fran Brodie to be up-to-date on developments. The husky delivery man was there alone. "She flew Down Below with that woman," he said. "I'm mindin' the store till the boss gets back from a call, if that's what's she's doin'. I think she's goofin' off."

Qwilleran went to the department store for more details and found the compassionate Carol Lanspeak still distraught. "Fran took Danielle home last night and stayed with her, and my daughter went over and gave her a sedative. Danielle's a good customer of Fran's and feels comfortable with her, so we thought Fran should be the one to take her to Detroit. We got in touch with

Carter Lee James, and he's meeting them at the airport and taking care of everything. Fran will stay in the airport hotel tonight and come right home tomorrow. We don't want her wandering around in that city!"

"I predict Danielle won't return," said Qwilleran, influenced by wishful thinking.

"Well, maybe not, but if she does, we want to have a quiet little dinner for her, and we want you and Polly to be there. Danielle likes you, Qwill."

He hoped the day would never come. He had always disliked women who were sexually aggressive. Melinda Goodwinter, broke and in need of a rich husband, had been a problem. Now he feared he would have a merry widow on his trail, winking and pouting and remarking about his moustache. Danielle was not one to wear black for very long, if at all.

His next stop was the newspaper office. It was late morning, and the staff was on deadline. Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor, was writing an editorial in the nature of a tribute to Willard. Roger MacGillivray was punching out a piece on the banking improvements instituted by the victim. Jill Handley was on the phone collecting laudatory quotes to be used in a human interest feature. q Qwilleran found the publisher at his massive executive desk, juggling two phones. "What's the latest?" he asked when Riker had a breathing space.

"I talked to Brodie. He's in touch with the Detroit police, but I'm afraid Willard is just another statistic. Thousands of homicides go unsolved Down Below."

Qwilleran said, "He had wanted Danielle to go with him. If she had been along, no doubt they would have taxied to the restaurant, and this wouldn't have happened - or, at least, the odds would have been better. If she's sensitive enough or smart enough to figure that out, she could feel guilty."

"Well, we'll never know. She won't come back," Riker predicted, shaking his head soberly. On his way out of the executive suite, Qwilleran was hailed by Hixie Rice. He went into the promotion office and sat down.

"What do you know?" she asked.

"No more than you do."

"It was a shocker. Willard was a nice guy - cocky but kind of sweet. He worked with Mildred and me on the organization of the club and the dinner menu. What did you think of it?"

"Everything was excellent. I don't know about the dessert. No one felt like eating dessert."

"And wouldn't you know. The dessert was my contribution!" Hixie had a long history of major and minor disappointments, yet she always bounced back. "How about lunch, Qwill? I'll buy and put it on my expense account."

"Those are the word I love to hear." She started pulling on her boots. "We'll drive to Mooseville and eat at the Northern Lights. That's headquarters for the Ice Festival, and I want to fill you in on the plans. You might get a slant for your column. We'll take my van. How do you like your four-over-four?"

"It takes more gas, and the cats find it a little bumpier."

"Willard drove a Land-Rover, and you could probably get a good deal on it. I'm sure Danielle won't kept it. He bought her a Ferrari."

"She flew to Detroit this morning, and I doubt whether she'll come back. She didn't want to move here in the first place," he said.

"But didn't they buy the Fitch house?"

"That was to humor her. I doubt whether Carter Lee will return, either. The Pleasant Street project was half Willard's idea, and the bank was going to finance it. Without him, I don't know.... "

"Too bad. Carter Lee was a really neat guy. He always wore monogrammed shirts." Then after a few moments' silence, Hixie said, "After some serious reflection I can see why a man of Willard's age would marry a gorgeous young woman like Danielle, but why would she marry him, except for his money?"

"Don't forget," Qwilleran reminded her, "Willard could cook."

The turned onto the lakeshore drive, where beach houses were boarded-up, snowed-in, bleak and forbidding. Mooseville, a teeming fishing village in summer, was chillingly quiet in January, and relentlessly white. Piers protruded blackly from the white frozen lake. On Main Street, where most commercial enterprises were closed, the dark log cabins and pseudo-log cabins had snow in their chinks and on their rooftops. Dark evergreens drooped with their white burden. The fishing fleet and pleasure craft were somewhere else, in dry dock.

They parked at the Northern Lights Hotel, overlooking the expanse of ice that extended to the horizon. Far, far out it was dotted with a row of black fishing shanties, like dominoes. In the dining room there was one waiter and a limited menu: fried fish sandwich with lumbercamp fries and cole slaw.

Hixie said, "The Ice Festival will be a shot in the arm for the shoreline. By the end of January, the ice on the lake will be twenty inches thick at least. All of the activities will take place on the ice: races, tournaments, hospitality, and entertainment."

"What kind of races?"

"Dogsled, snowmobile, motorcycle, cross-country ski, snowshoe, and ice skate. Plows will clear the race tracks and rinks, building up snow barriers as viewing ridges for spectators. Other areas will be cleared for hospitality tents... And see those fishing shanties out there? We'll have twice that many for the tournament. They've signed up already. Colleges all over are sending artists to the snow sculpture competition. And there'll be a torchlight parade on Friday night to kick off the whole exciting weekend!"

Qwilleran listened dumbly to her exuberant recital, finally asking, "How many people do you expect?"

"As many as ten thousand."

"What! Where'll they park, for Pete's sake!"

"No problem. Parking will be inland at Gooseneck Creek, where there's lots of open area, frozen solid," she explained glibly. "Shuttle buses will transport people to the ice, where they'll buy admission tickets and get their Festival buttons. The design is a three-inch plastic button with a polar bear on a blue background, a souvenir worth saving. We've ordered fifteen thousand, because people will want to buy extras to take home."

"Where'll they sleep?"

"Most will be day-trippers from the tri-county, but we have lodgings lined up all Moose County, even in private homes."

"And what are the hospitality tents?"

"They'll sell food and drink, admissions, and tickets for prize drawings. There'll also be a first-air tent and two EMS ambulances."

Qwilleran said, "I'm impressed, Hixie. Some brilliant brain has thought of all this, and I suspect it's yours."

She pointed to the frozen lake outside the hotel window. "Look out there, Qwill, and imagine flags flying, striped tents, portable johns painted in bright colors, and thousands of people having a wonderful time! Doesn't it make your blood race?"

"It makes me want to move to Mexico," he said.

She pounded his arm with a friendly fist. "I know you, Qwill. You'll wind up loving it! You'll want to hang out here for two days!"

"And how does the newspaper fit into the picture?"

"We're sponsoring it as a public service. That means advancing the money, but costs will be more than covered by admissions, contestants' fees, and raffle tickets. All prizes are donated." Hixie paused for a sobering thought. "Willard was all for it! The bank was donating a microwave."

The fish sandwiches were not bad, and Qwilleran was contemplating a piece of apple pie when Hixie said, "Could I ask you a favor, Qwill?"

"I thought so," he said. "There's no such thing as a free lunch. What do you want me to do?"

"Well, there'll be a couple of thousand people here Friday night, and you're the most famous personality in three counties. Would you be noble enough to act as grand marshal of the torchlight parade?"

"What does that entail?" He remembered his traumatic experience in a Santa Claus suit the previous year. "If it means wearing a polar-bear costume - "

"Nothing like that! You simply ride a horse-drawn sleigh with the cheering multitude lining the route. They love you, Qwill."

"Yes, but do I love them? All it takes is only ugly kid throwing the first snowball, and then it's avalanche time, with everyone playing hit-the-moustache. No thanks!"

Hixie was only momentarily rebuffed. "Is there any kind of conveyance you could suggest?"

"An army tank," he said. "Or how about a county snowblower with enclosed cab? I could ride in the cab and spray the cheering multitude with snow. I might enjoy that."

"You're not taking this seriously," she chided him.

"Do you know that the temperature drops at night, and the wind comes off the lake, and the wind chill is sixty below? And you're having a parade!"

"Okay, so we have a few details to rethink, but will you be grand marshal?"

"I can't say no, can I? You'd make me walk home. Let's say I'll take it under advisement."

They drove home via Sandpit Road, past George Breze's snow-covered empire, with only a curl of smoke coming from the "office."

"Does Red Cap pay club dues?" Qwilleran asked. "He was conspicuously absent on New Year's Eve."

"He must have clubhouse privileges. He's always in the TV lounge, but no one speaks to him."

"How's Lenny Inchpot working out as club manager? Lois is bursting with pride these days."

"She should be proud! He's very reliable and helpful and even studies at his desk in his spare time. Don Exbridge likes him because he's clean-cut and good with people - the result of having been a hotel desk clerk, I suppose."

"How does Lenny react to the two thefts?" Qwilleran asked.

"He was upset, but Don told him there was nothing he could have done to prevent either of them."

"Do you suspect anyone, Hixie?" "Yes. It's either Amanda Goodwinter or you."

The day Fran Brodie was due back from Detroit, Qwilleran left a message on her answering machine: "Fran, you must be bushed. Would you like dinner at the Old Stone Mill?"

Around seven in the evening she called back. "You're right, Qwill. I'm even too exhausted to go out to dinner. I just want to take my shoes off and have a cup of cocoa and a graham cracker, but if you want to come over in half an hour, I'll give you a report."

"I'll be there."

Meanwhile he fed the cats and thawed his own dinner: a freezer carton marked M-and-C. This, plus Fran's reference to C-and-GC, gave him an idea for the "Qwill Pen." Comfort food! What did prominent townsfolk crave in times of exhaustion, sadness, or frustration? Polly always prepared poached eggs on toast with the crusts cut off. He could imagine the mayor gulping red Jell-O, George Breze wallowing in mashed potatoes and gravy, and Amanda Goodwinter gorging on Oreos, Chief Brodie eating chocolate pudding.

As he swallowed his macaroni and cheese, the Siamese sat in quiet bundles on the carpet, not looking at each other, not looking at anything. Abruptly Koko rose, stretched, walked over to Yum Yum and, without apparent malice, bopped her on the head. She winced.

"Stop that!" Qwilleran shouted. "Act like a gentleman!"

Koko strolled nonchalantly from the room.

Picking up the little female and fondling her silky ears, Qwilleran murmured, "Why do you let him get away with that? Sock him on the nose!" She purred throatily.

Then it was time to visit Fran. Bundled in layers of warm clothing, he walked the length of the Village to her apartment. The young woman who opened the door wore sweats and no makeup. She looked pale and frazzled.

"Help yourself in the fridge, if you want anything," she said, flopping on the sofa. The living room was furnished with items he had seen in the design studio in times gone by - items that apparently had failed to sell: a houndstooth-check sofa, an elephant cocktail table, a lamp with a grapeleaf shade.

"Rough day?" he asked sympathetically.

"We really started the Nouvelle Dining Club with a bang, didn't we? - if you'll pardon the pun," she said.

"The timing seemed more like fiction than fact."

Danielle was lucky to be with friends. If she'd been home alone, Dad would have gone to her apartment to break the news, cop-style. Even so, she was hysterical. When we got home, Dr. Diane was waiting with a hypo, so that helped. In fact, she slept just fine, but I didn't sleep a wink. Larry lined up our tickets, and in the morning we took off. She was groggy until we boarded the jet in Minneapolis. Then she had a drink and started to talk. She'd had a hunch something would happen, because he forgot to take the cigarettes he always packed - for luck."

"Did she feel any guilt?"

"No," said Fran. "After another drink she started putting him down. He called her Danny-girl, which she hates. She'd begged him not to go to the seminar, but his work always came first. He was critical of the way she acted, the clothes she wore, the things she said, and the food she ate... Isn't it ironic, Qwill, that a fast-foodie like Danielle should marry an epicure who thinks ketchup is a mortal sin?"

"They hadn't known each other long before they married," Qwilleran observed.

"She didn't mention how he lavished money on her. He seemed to have plenty. He paid cash for the Fitch house an gave her an unlimited budget to do it over... But now I'm worried, Qwill. She ordered fabulous custom furniture and carpets for the house. Suppose... just suppose she never comes back and the studio is stuck for the order! Some of the fabric are a hundred dollars a yard!"

"What kind of deposit did they give you?"

Fran looked sheepish. "None, actually. We didn't ask for one. This is a small town; her husband was head of the bank; they were fantastic customers... When I ordered things for your barn, Qwill, did I ask for a deposit?"

"Well... no."

"So when we were on the plane and she was jabbering away, I was dying to know her plans, although I didn't want to ask her flat out. I thought about it hard and then took a deep breath and said, `Danielle, this is going to be a rough time for you, but it would help you adjust if you'd really get involved in the theatre club. You have talent. You should be playing a role in our next production.' You can see I was desperate, Qwill."

"People have been struck down by lightning for lesser lies."

"Well, it worked. Danielle perked up and asked what kind of role."

"I could suggest a couple," Qwilleran said unkindly.

Fran ignored the jibe. "We're scheduled to do Hedda Gabler, and I'm to do the title role, but I'd gladly step aside if it would convince her to stay in Pickax and finish the house." "And let her do Hedda? You're losing it, Fran. You're tired, I'll go home. You go to bed and sleep it off."

"No, I mean it! I'd coach her every step of the way. She's got a phenomenal memory for prices, style numbers, and names of fabrics. She should be able to learn lines."

"There's more to acting than learning lines. Do you want to turn a tragedy into a farce?"

Fran said, "Any port in a storm, as Dad says. Anything to keep a good customer, as Amanda says. By the time Danny-girl had tossed off her third drink, she wanted to finish the house, move in, add a swimming pool, give some parties, buy a couple of horses, and take riding lessons. She also asked about a voice coach and acting lessons. By the time we landed at Metro, she was feeling no pain. Carter Lee was waiting, and they had a tearful reunion. As soon as possible, I said good-bye and told them we looked forward to seeing them both in Pickax - soon."

Qwilleran walked home through the snow and cold, hardly noticing either. He kept stroking his frosted moustache as he pondered Fran's problem and her dubious solution. By the time he let himself into the condo, he looked like a snowman, and the hoary image frightened the Siamese.

He brushed off his outerwear and mopped up the puddles on the foyer's vinyl floor. Then he called Polly with the news.

She was equally aghast. "That tinny voice? In the role of Hedda?"

"I'm afraid so."

"And what about Carter Lee? Is he coming back? Lynette will be disappointed if he doesn't. She's dying to have her house listed on the National Register."

"Do you think it will qualify?"

"Carter Lee thinks so. And Willard Carmichael thought so." Then Polly changed the subject abruptly. "Have you heard the latest newscast?"

"No. What's happened?"

"The police have arrested a suspect in the string of robberies."

"Who?" he asked impatiently.

"The name won't be released until the arraignment."

If I were a betting man," Qwilleran said, "I'd put my money on George Breze."

-7-

"Late to bed and late to rise," was Qwilleran's motto, and he was remarkably healthy, certainly wealthy, and - if not exactly wise - he was witty. On that particular January morning at seven o'clock, he was sleeping peacefully when he was jolted awake and virtually catapulted from his bed by the crashing drums and brasses of the "Washington Post March," as if the entire U.S. Marine Band were bursting through his bedroom wall. He required a few seconds to realize where he was: on the balcony of a poorly built condominium in Indian Village, and his next-door neighbor was playing John Philip Sousa.

Before he could find Wetherby Goode phone number, the volume was toned down. One could still hear and feel the thrum- thrum-thrum of the drums, but the music itself was replaced by the sound of gushing, pelting water. Wetherby Goode was taking a shower.

Only then did Qwilleran recall the news of the night before: the arrest of a robbery suspect, name withheld. He knew he could cajole Brodie into confiding the name if he went downtown to headquarters, so he dressed, fed the cats, and left the house without coffee.

His neighbor was shoveling snow instead of waiting for the Village sidewalk blower. "Good exercise!" he shouted, puffing clouds of vapor.

"I can see that," Qwilleran said. "Good concert this morning, too, but rather short."

Wetherby paused and leaned on his shovel. "Sorry about that. I have a new Sousabox, and my cat must've rubbed her jaw against the controls. I was in the shower and didn't realize what was happening." "That's all right. What's a Sousabox?"

"It plays fifty Sousa marches. The inventor's a friend of mine in California, and I can get you one wholesale if you're interested."

"I'll give it some serious thought," Qwilleran said. "Better finish your shoveling before it starts to snow again."

He went on his way, thinking that Wetherby was friendly and well intentioned, even though he overdid the quotations and had strange taste in music. Fifty marches! Yet, he had a cat, and that was to his credit.

There was a coffeepot at the police station, and Qwilleran helped himself before barging into Brodie's office and dropping into a chair.

"Who invited you?" The chief scowled.

"I won't stay long. I just came for coffee. Tell me who was arrested, and I'll leave. It'll probably be in the paper this afternoon and on the air at twelve."

Brodie shook his head. "You'll never believe it, Qwill. I didn't myself, but the evidence was there. When we found the loot and went to pick him up for questioning, he'd skipped town."

"Who? Who?" Qwilleran insisted with some irritation.

"Lenny Inchpot."

"No! What led you to Lenny?"

"Anonymous tip on the hotline, telling us to search the manager's locker at the Indian Village clubhouse. We went out there with a warrant and had to cut the padlock. And there they were - all the items reported stolen - well, not all of the stuff. Things like sunglasses, videos, gloves, you know. No money, though. And no lambskin car coat. There was even a doll that the Kemple family reported stolen not too long ago."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "Can you imagine a young man like Lenny stealing a doll?"

"It was a rare one, they said."

"And is Lenny Inchpot suddenly an expert on rare dolls?" This was said tartly.

"He's a friend of the Kemples' daughter. Do you know about the family's doll collection?"

"I've heard about it." For two years or more, Qwilleran's readers had been urging him to "write up" the Kemple collection. He declined. He had written about teddy bears, but that was under duress. Under no circumstances was he prepared to write about dolls. He said, "So where did you find Lenny? You said he skipped town."

"In Duluth. He's being arraigned this morning, with a public defender."

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "I get a fishy feeling about this case, Andy. I'd like to use the phone on my way out."

On his way out he called his attorney, G. Allen Barter.

The youngest partner in the Hasselrich, Bennett & Barter law firm was Qwilleran's representative in all dealings with the Klingenschoen Foundation, and the two men saw eye-to- eye on many matters. Even the attorney's choice of office furniture suited Qwilleran's taste. It was a contemporary oasis in a dark jungle of aged walnut and deep red leather. And while old Mr. Hasselrich served his clients tea in his grandmother's porcelain cups, G. Allen Barter served coffee in Art Deco mugs. He had recently changed his letterhead from George A. Barter because the name was confused once too often with George A. Breze. Either way, his clients called him Bart. He was fortyish - a quiet, effective professional without pretensions.

When Qwilleran turned up in his office, Barter said, "We'll have someone at court for the arraignment, and I think we can get him released to the custody of his mother until the hearing."

Qwilleran nodded, thinking of all the courthouse personnel, from judges on down, who lunched at Lois's. He patted his moustache. "Something tells me it's a frame-up, Bart. I don't know anything about Lenny's personal life, except that his girlfriend was killed in the explosion last fall. But he could have an enemy - a rival who wants his job. It's only part-time, but it's a soft spot for a student; interesting work, good pay, flexible hours... Incidentally, did you read in the paper that the stolen money was replaced by an anonymous donor? The check was drawn on a Chicago bank, and the public is assuming it came from the K Fund. I know nothing about it. How about you?"

"I certainly wasn't involved."

"Any new developments I the Limburger file?"

"Yes, the estate is willing to sell the hotel and the family mansion, and the K Fund is willing to buy, restoring the hotel and converting the mansion into a country inn."

"In that case, they might consider Carter Lee James for the restoration work. He's the cousin of Willard Carmichael's widow. He was here for the holidays and had a sensational idea for Pleasant Street. You may have heard about it. Everyone's hoping he'll return to implement it."

"Do you think he's good?"

"Willard recommended him, and the property owners are impressed. It appears he's done most of his work on the East Coast. At any rate, the K Fund should check him out."

"What's his name?" Barter wrote it down.

"Meanwhile, there's something good you could do. Gus Limburger had promised to leave his German Bible and cuckoo clock to his handyman, but they weren't mentioned in his will. Someone should grab those two items and give them to the handyman, Aubrey Scotten."

"I think we can swing that," the attorney said, making a note. "And how do your cats like living in a small condo instead of a large barn?"

"Oh, they're happy," Qwilleran said. "They enjoy listening to the plumbing noises."

When Lenny Inchpot was charged with several counts of robbery, the locals vented their emotions loudly in the supermarkets and other public places:

"I don't believe it! Somebody made a mistake! He's a good kid!"

"What'll happen to him? Will he go to jail? It'll kill his poor mother?"

"Not Lois! Most likely his poor mother will go out and kill the judge with a frying pan!"

Two days later Danielle Carmichael returned to town, and the gossip was less kind:

"Nobody's seen her wearin' black."

"I'll bet he left her well fixed."

"What'll she do with that big house he bought? Open a bed-and-breakfast or something?"

"Or something! That's about the size of it."

Qwilleran checked in at the design studio to get an update from Fran Brodie.

"Yes, Danny-girl is back. I've talked to her on the phone, but I haven't seen her. The things I ordered for her house are trickling in - all contemporary, of course. That was the big quarrel between her and Willard. When I dropped her off in Detroit, she couldn't wait to dump the traditional furniture his first wife had bought. He'd had it in storage."

"How soon can she move into her house?" he asked, hoping for her early departure from Indian Village. She was too close for comfort; she would become increasingly chummy.

"Not soon. The drifts are so deep in the Hummocks, even our delivery truck couldn't get in. Besides, her lease at the Village has a few months to run. Meanwhile, she intends to work with Carter Lee. Amanda thinks they'll cut into our business, but she just likes to carp. Actually, the whole restoration project on Pleasant Street will be good for us."

"In what way?"

"When Carter Lee recommends an authentic wall-covering, window treatment, and rug, the order will be placed through our studio, which gets a designer discount. Likewise, when he suggests an antique pier mirror as a focal point, Susan Exbridge will scout for it."

"And in both cases he gets a kickback," Qwilleran presumed.

"The word is commission, darling," Fran corrected him loftily. "Has he returned as yet?"

"He'll be here at the end of the week."

"And what news about Hedda Gabler? Are you going ahead with your insane idea?"

Fran threw him an expressive scowl she had learned from her father. "Frankly, that's why Danielle returned so soon. She attended rehearsal last night and read lines."

"And?...."

Fran's scowl changed to involuntarily laughter. "When the snooty Hedda says She's left her old hat on the chair in Danielle's rusty-gate voice, it's hard to keep a straight face."

"I warned you it would turn into a farce," Qwilleran said. "The only Ibsen drama ever played for laughs!"

"Don't panic! We'll work it out. Unfortunately, she doesn't like the man who's playing Judge Brack. She'd rather play opposite you, Qwill."

"Sure. But she's not going to play opposite me. I'm the drama critic for the paper, remember? I can't have one leg on the stage and the other in row five."

"But she's right. You'd be a perfect Brack, and you have such a commanding voice. Also, to be grossly mercenary about it, your presence in the cast would sell tickets."

"If you're chiefly interested in the box office, the K Fund will be glad to buy out the house for all nine performances."

"Forget I mentioned it," Fran said.

The four o'clock lull at Lois's Luncheonette would be an auspicious time to visit the suspect's mother, Qwilleran thought. Would she be fighting mad or pained beyond words? To his surprise, Lenny himself was the only one in sight. He was mopping the new vinyl floor, a hideous pattern of flowers an geometrics that had been donated to the lunchroom and installed by devoted customers.

"Mom's in the kitchen, prepping dinner," Lenny said. Though in work clothes, he looked more like a club manager than a mop-pusher.

"Don't disturb her," Qwilleran said. "It's you I want to see. Let's sit in a booth." He indicated a corner booth behind the cash register. "Did G. Allen Barter contact you?"

"Yeah. Do you think I need him?"

"You certainly do! Don't worry about the expense. The K Fund is interested in your case. Bart will see that you're exonerated."

"But what if I'm guilty?" the young man said with a mischievous grin.

"We'll take that chance, smart-ape! Even Brodie thinks the allegations are preposterous, but he had to follow the letter of the law. You'll notice they didn't keep you in jail or ask you to post bond. Now... would you like to tell me what you know? I'd like to find the real culprit, not that it's any of my business. How long have you been working at the clubhouse?"

"About six weeks. Don's a good boss. All the members are fun. It's better than desk clerk at the hotel, plus I get a nice office."

"Where was the money jar kept?"

"In my office, in a cabinet with pencils, tallies, nut dishes, and other stuff. There wasn't any lock on the cabinet, but the jar was covered with a paper bag."

"What did you think when the money was stolen?"

"I couldn't understand it. Nobody knew the jar was there except the bridge club."

"Who else had access to your office?"

"Anybody who wanted to pay their dues or see the schedule of events - plus there were maintenance guys, cleaning crew, caterers."

"Where was your locker?" Qwilleran asked.

"In the back hall with all the other employee lockers." "Do they have locks?"

"Padlocks are supplied, but nobody uses them. I just put my boots and jacket in there."

"Is your name on your locker?"

"Sure. They all have names."

"Why did you go to Duluth?"

"Well, I had to study for exams, you see, and in Pickax I've got too many friends who like to party, so I went to my aunt's house in Duluth. I no sooner opened my books than a couple of deputies knocked on the door. They were guys I went to school with, and they were embarrassed because they thought I really stole the stuff. I knew I hadn't... At least, I don't think I did," Lenny said with a wicked grin."

"Don't let your whimsical sense of humor get you into trouble," Qwilleran advised him.

A loud voice from the kitchen interrupted. "Lenny! Who's that you're gabbin' with? Get off your duff and mop that floor! Folks'll be comin' in for supper."

Lenny yelled back, "It's Mr. Q, Mom. He wants to talk about the case."

"Oh!... Okay... Give him the other mop and put him to work. He can talk at the same time."

"I'm leaving," Qwilleran shouted.

"Want a doggie bag? I've got some meatballs left over from lunch."

Back in Indian Village the Siamese were sleeping in Qwilleran's reading chair. They had cushioned baskets, windowsills, and perches in their own rooms on the balcony. Yet, with feline perversity they preferred a man-size lounge chair with deep cushions and suede covering.

While they were walking and yawning and stretching and scratching their ears. Qwilleran phoned Don Exbridge at home and caught him in the middle of the happy hour.

"Something's screwy somewhere!" Exbridge said. "If Lenny's guilty, I'm a donkey's uncle! Come on over for a drink! Bring Polly!"

"Wish I could, but I'm working tonight," Qwilleran said. "I just want you to know G. Allen Barter is representing him."

"Great! Great! And his job will be waiting for him when it's all over."

"Have you had any applicants for it?"

"Some other students. We've taken applications, that's all. We're waiting to see which way the wind blows. The manager at the gatehouse is working two jobs."

"Well, you know, there's no telling how long Lenny will have to wit for a hearing, and I could recommend a temporary substitute who'd be perfect in the interim - an older woman, very responsible, cheerful - used to working with people. And she doesn't want to earn much money; it might affect her Social Security."

Who is she?"

"Celia Robinson. You wouldn't be disappointed. Why don't I tell her to apply for the job?'

"She's got it! She's got it already!... Sure you don't want to come over for a drink?"

Feeling smug, Qwilleran hung up the phone and called Celia at her apartment in town.

"Hi, Chief!" she greeted him. "Happy New Year! Or is it too late?"

"It's never too late. Happy New Year! Happy Mother's Day!"

She screamed with laughter, a chronic overractor to his quips.

"Seriously, Celia, have you heard about Lenny Inchpot's trouble?"

"Have I? It's all over town. His mother must be out of her mind."

"We're all concerned, and I personally suspect dirty work."

"Do I smell something cooking, Chief?" she asked eagerly.

"Just this: Lenny's position at Indian Village needs to be filled, quickly, by a temporary substitute. It's part-time, managing the social rooms at the clubhouse. I suggested you apply. Don Exbridge is expecting your call. I'll explain later. It's your kind of job, Celia."

"Gotcha, Chief!" she said knowingly and with a final peal of laugher.

Two cats were watching Qwilleran closely when he replaced the receiver, as if to say, What about those meatballs? He crumbled one, and they gobbled it with gusto, spitting out the onion fastidiously. Then, while he was watching them do their ablutions, Koko deliberately walked over Yum Yum and rapped her on the nose. She cowered.

"Koko! Stop that! Bad cat!" Qwilleran scolded as he picked up the little one and nuzzled her head under his chin. "What's that monster doing to my beautiful little girl? Why don't you hiss at him - scare the daylights out of him.?"

To Koko he said, sharply, "I don't like your behavior, young man! What's wrong with you? If this continues, we'll have to find a cat shrink."

He reported the incident to Polly that evening when he went to her place for dinner. The Siamese were curled up blissfully together when he left. Polly thought Koko was frustrated by some new development in his life. It might have something to do with hormones. The veterinarian could prescribe something. Bootsie was taking pink pills.

Once a week Polly invited Qwilleran to what she laughingly called a "chicken dinner." The dietician at the hospital had given her seventeen low-calorie, low- cholesterol recipes for glamorizing a flattened chicken breast: with lemon and toasted almonds, with artichoke hearts and garlic, and so forth.

"Think of it as scaloppini di pollo appetito," Polly suggested. To Qwilleran it was still flattened chicken breast - in fact, half a flattened chicken breast. He always thawed a burger for himself when he went home. On this occasion the week's special was FCB with mushrooms and walnuts.

Upon arrival, Qwilleran had first checked the whereabouts of Polly's Siamese. Now he noticed that Bootsie was watching him and crouched as if ready to spring.

Qwilleran inquired, "Why doesn't he lay comfortably on his brisket, the way other cats do?"

"He's not relaxed in your presence, dear," she explained.

"Bootsie's not relaxed?" he exploded. "What about Qwilleran? Did I ever pounce on his back and refuse to get off? Did I ever ambush him from underneath a table?"

"I'll put him upstairs in his room," she said, "or all three of us will have indigestion."

They had much to talk about. Qwilleran described his forthcoming book: a compilation of Moose County legends, anecdotes, and scandals, to be title Short and Tall Tales. All would be collected on tape, and it might be possible to produce a recorded book, as well as a print edition. Homer Tibbit would kick off with the story of the Dimsdale Jinx. Suggestions would be welcome.

"Try Wetherby Goode," she said. "He has stories about lake pirates that he tells to children at the library once in a while. Do you ever see him?"

"Only when he's shoveling his sidewalk. He has a cat so he can't be too bad. It's a technocat who operates an electronic device that plays only Sousa marches."

"That reminds me, Qwill. You haven't mentioned how you like Adriana Levouvreur. I've never heard it myself and don't know anything about the composer."

He had forgotten to listen to his Christmas gift, but he had read the brochure and spoke convincingly. "Francesco Cilea was born in Italy in 1866 and had already composed works at the age of nine. Adriana is an interesting opera with good female roles and some lush melodies. We'll listen to it together, some Sunday afternoon." He had handled that rather well but took the precaution of changing the subject. "Have you and Lynette made your annual pilgrimage to the hill?"

Lynette had a driving desire to visit the Hilltop Cemetery once every winter. The gravestones on the crest of the hill, rising from the snow and silhouetted against the sky, were a moving sight when viewed from the base of the slope. Her ancestors were among them, and one gravesite was reserved for the "the last of the Duncans-by-blood."

Polly said, "I don't mind going with her. On a good day it's a beautiful sight. It would make a poignant painting...Incidentally, Lynette is on cloud nine; Carter Lee phoned her from Detroit. He's coming back and wants her to be cheerleader for the Pleasant Street project."

"Is this a paid position?"

"I don't think so, but Lynette enjoys working for a cause, and she's very enthusiastic about the project. He took her to dinner several times before he left, and she was the first property owner to sign a contract...By the way, her birthday will be soon, and I'd like to give a party. Would you join us?"

"If you'll let me provide the champagne and birthday cake."

"That would be nice. But no candles! It's her fortieth. I'd invite Carter Lee, or course, and that would mean inviting Danielle, and that would mean inviting another man."

"How abut John Bushland?" Qwilleran said. "He'll bring his camera." It occurred to him that the presence of a professional photographer might distract the photogenic young widow.

They had dined on petti di pollo con funghi e noci and were now having decaffeinated coffee in the living room when Qwilleran felt he was being watched again. Bootsie was staring at him between the balustrade of the balcony railing.

"Oh, dear! He got out!" Polly said. "He's learned to stand on his hind legs and hang on the lever-type door handle. Does Koko do that?"

"Not yet," Qwilleran said with some disquietude. "Not yet!"

-8-

The first contributor to Short and Tall Tales was to be Homer Tibbitt, official historian of Moose County, who knew the story of the Dimsdale Jinx. The retired educator, now in his late nineties, was still researching and recording local history, and his fantastic memory made him a treasure. He might not remember where he left his glasses or what he had for breakfast, but events and personages of the distant past could be retrieved on demand. He lived with his sweet eighty-five-year-old wife in a retirement village, her responsibilities being to find his glasses, watch his diet, and drive the car - in good weather. In winter they both welcomed visitors.

"How were your holidays?" Qwilleran greeted them. "Was Santa good to you? Did he bring you a few more books?" Their apartment was cluttered with books and memorabilia.

Rhoda touched her ears prettily. "Homer gave me these garnet earrings. They were in his family."

Her husband, a bony figure sitting in a nest of cushions, was wearing a maroon shawl. "Rhoda gave me this. Gloomy color! Makes me feel like an old man."

"I knitted it," she said. "He's forgotten that he chose the color... Shall I refill your hot water bottle, dear?"

While she was out of the room, Qwilleran said, "She's a lovely woman, Homer. You're lucky to have her."

"She chased me for twenty-five years before she caught me, so I'd say she's lucky to have me! What's news downtown?"

They were discussing the murder of Willard Carmichael and the arrest of Lenny Inchpot when Rhoda returned with the towel-wrapped bottle. "Terrible things are happening these days," she said, shaking her head. "What is the world coming to?"

"Terrible things have always happened everywhere," her husband said with the stoicism of age."

"Like the Dimsdale Jinx?" Qwilleran suggested, turning on the tape recorder. "What brought it about?"

"It started about a hundred years ago, when the mines were going full blast, and this was the richest county in the state. This isn't a tall tale, mind you. It's true. It isn't short either."

"Fire away, Homer. I won't ask questions. You're on your own."

The old man's account, interrupted only when his wife handed him a glass of water, was later transcribed as follows:

Thee was a miner named Roebuck Magley, a husky man in his late forties, who worked in the Dimsdale mine. He had a wife and three sons, and they lived in one of the cottages provided for workers. Not all mine owners exploited their workers, you know. Seth Dimsdale was successful but not greedy. He saw to it that every family had a decent place to live and a plot for a vegetable garden, and he gave them the seed to plant. There was also a company doctor who looked after the families without charge. Roebuck worked hard, and the boys went to work in the mines as soon as they finished eighth grade. Betty Magley worked hard, too, feeding her men, tending the garden, and making their shirts. But somehow she always stayed pretty. Suddenly Roebuck fell sick and died. He'd been complaining about stomach pains, and one day he came home from work, ate his supper, and dropped dead. Things like that happened in those days, and folks accepted them. Men were asphyxiated in the mines, blown to bits in explosions, or they came home and dropped dead. Nobody sued for negligence. Roebuck's death certificate, signed by Dr. Penfield, said "Heart failure." Seth Dimsdale paid Mrs. Magley a generous sum from the insurance policy he carried on his workers, and she was grateful. She'd been ailing herself, and the company doctor was at a loss to diagnose her symptoms. Well, about a month later her eldest son Robert died in the mineshaft of "respiratory failure," according to the death certificate, and it wasn't long before the second son, Amos, died under the same circumstances. The miners' wives flocked around Betty Magley and tried to comfort her, but there was unrest among the men. They grumbled about "bad air." One Sunday they marched to the mine office, shouting and brandishing pickaxes and shovels. Seth Dimsdale was doing all he could to maintain safe working conditions, considering the technology of the times, so he authorized a private investigation. Both Robert and Amos had died, he learned, after eating their lunch pasties underground; Roebuck's last meal had been a large pasty in his kitchen. The community was alarmed. "Bad meat!" they said. Those tasty meat-and-potato stews wrapped in a thick lard crust were the staple diet of miners and their families. Then something curious happened to Alfred, the youngest son. While underground, he shared his pasty with another miner whose lunch had fallen out of his pocket when he was climbing down the ladder. Soon both men were complaining of pains, nausea, and numb hands and feet. The emergency whistle blew, and the two men were hauled up the ladder in the "basket," as the rescue contraption was called. When word reached Seth Dimsdale, he notified the prosecuting attorney in Pickax, and the court issued an order to exhume the bodies of Roebuck, Robert, and Amos. The internal organs, sent to the toxicologist at the state capital, were found to contain lethal quantities of arsenic, and Mrs. Magley was questioned by the police. At that point, neighbors started whispering: "Could she have poisoned her own family? Where did she get the poison?" Arsenic could be used to kill insects in vegetable gardens, but people were afraid to use it. Then the neighbors remembered the doctor's visits to treat Mrs. Magley's mysterious ailment. He visited almost every day. When Dr. Penfield was arrested the mining community was bowled over. He was a handsome man with a splendid moustache, and he cut a fine figure in his custom- made suits and derby hats. He lived in a big house and owned one of the first automobiles. His wife was considered a snob, but Dr. Penfield had a good bedside manner and was much admired. It turned out, however, that he was in debt for his house and car, and his visits to treat the pretty Betty Magley were more personal than professional. He was the first defendant placed on trial. Mrs. Magley sat in jail and awaited her turn. The miners, or convinced of the integrity of the doctor, rose to his support, and it was difficult to seat an unbiased jury. The trial itself lasted longer than any in local history, and when it was over, the county was broke. Twice its annual budget had been spent on the court proceedings. The story revealed at the trial was one of greed and passion. Dr. Penfield had supplied the arsenic - for medical purposes, he said, and any overdose was caused by human error. Mrs. Magley had baked the pasties and collected the insurance money, giving half to the doctor. He was found guilty on three counts of murder and sentenced to life in prison. Mrs. Magley was never tried for the crime because the county couldn't afford a second trial. The commissioners said it wasn't "worth the candle," as the saying went. It would be better if she just left town, quietly. So she disappeared, along with her youngest son, the only one to survive. Seth Dimsdale retired to Ohio and also disappeared. The Dimsdale mine disappeared. The whole town of Dimsdale disappeared. It was called the Dimsdale Jinx.

When Homer finished telling his tale, Qwilleran clicked off the tape recorder and said, "Great story! Is any of this on public record?"

"Well, the Pickax Picayune never printed unpleasant news, but other newspapers around the state covered it," the historian said. "Those clippings are on file in the public library." "On microfilm, thanks to the K Fund," said Rhoda, smiling and nodding.

Homer said, "You should be able to get a transcript of the trial at the courthouse, but there was a fire some years back, and I don't know if the Penfield file was saved. Mostly, the story has been handed down by word of mouth. My relatives still talk about it and take sides, sometimes violently... I warn you, Qwill, never argue with a fellow whose grandfather told him the doctor was innocent!"

It had been a strenuous recital, and the old man's energy was flagging. It was time for his nap, his wife said. Qwilleran thanked him for a well-told tale and squeezed Rhoda's hand.

On the way home he drove through the scene of the crime: the ghost town called Dimsdale. The only landmark was a dilapidated diner, surrounded by weeds that choked the stone foundations of miners' cottages. Back in the woods was a slum of rusty trailer homes occupied by squatters, and a side road led to a high chain-link fence around the abandoned mineshaft. A sign said "Danger - Keep Out." A bronze plaque created by the historical society said: SITE OF THE DIMSDALE MINE, 1872 - 1907.

It was January 25, and Qwilleran phoned the public library. While waiting to be connected with the chief librarian, he could visualize her in her glass cubicle on the mezzanine, reigning like a benevolent despot over the paid staff, the unpaid volunteers, and the obedient subscribers who never, never brought food, beverages, radios, or wet boots into the building.

"Polly Duncan here," she said pleasantly.

"What's today's date?" he asked, knowing she would recognize his voice.

"January twenty-fifth. Is it significant?"

"Birthday of Robert Burns. Tonight's the night! Point of no return!"

Gleefully she exclaimed, "It's Scottish Night! You're going to wear your kilt! I wish I could see you before you leave. What time is the dinner?"

"I leave at six-thirty, with trepidation," he admitted.

Polly said she would stop on her way home from work, to bolster his courage.

Qwilleran was allowing two hours to dress for Scottish Night at the men's lodge. He fed the cats early, then disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door. There he faced the unfamiliar trappings: the pleated kilt, the sporran, the flashes, the bonnet, the dubh. Bruce Scott, owner of the men's store, had told him the evening would be informal: no Prince Charlie coatees, no fur sporrans, and no fringed plaids thrown over the shoulder and anchored with a poached egg. Bruce had sold him a leather sporran and a correct pair of brogues and had given him a booklet to read.

The trick, according to the helpful text, was to develop an attitude of pride in one's hereditary Scottish attire. After all, Qwilleran's mother had been a Mackintosh, and he had seen movies in which the kilt was worn by brave men skilled with the broadsword.

With this attitude firmly in place, Qwilleran strapped himself into what the dictionary called "a kind of short pleated petticoat." His kilt had been custom-tailored from eight yards of fine worsted in a rich red Mackintosh tartan. On this occasion, it would be worn with a white turtleneck and bottlegreen tweed jacket, plus matching green kilt-hose and red flashes. "Not flashers," Bruce had cautioned him. These were tabs attached to the garters that held up the kilt-hose - a small detail but considered vital by the storekeeper and the author of the booklet. The kilt itself had to end at the top of the kneecap and could not be an eighth-of-an-inch longer. The leather sporran hung from a leather belt.

Then there was the bonnet. Qwilleran's was a bottlegreen Balmoral - a round flat cap worn squarely on the forehead, with a slouchy crown pulled down rakishly to the right. It had a ribbon cockade above the left temple, a pom-pom on top, and two ribbons hanging down the back. According to the booklet, they could be knotted, tied in a bow, or left hanging. He cut them off and hoped no one would notice.

Studying his reflection in the full- length mirror, Qwilleran thought, Not bad! Not bad at all! Meanwhile, the Siamese were out in the hall, muttering complaints about the closed door. After one last glance in the mirror, he opened the door abruptly. Both cats levitated in fright, turned to escape, collided headlong, and streaked down the stairs with bushy tails.

When Polly arrived, she was overwhelmed with delight. "Qwill!" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "You look magnificent! So jaunty! So virile! But I do hope you're not going to catch cold in your bad knee, dear."

"No chance," he told her. "The parking lot's behind the lodge, and we duck into the rear entrance in bad weather. I won't need boots or earmuffs - just a jacket. Also, Bruce says the knee is all gristle and doesn't feel cold, as long as you're wearing good wool socks. That may be true, or he may be a good sock salesman. You wouldn't believe what I paid for these socks!"

She walked around him and noted the straight front of the kilt - a double panel wrapped left over right. "Why isn't it pleated all around?"

"Because I don't play in a marching band and I'm not going into battle. Ask me anything. I've read the book. I know all the answers."

"What's that odd thing in your sock?"

"A knife, spelled d-u-b-h and pronounced thoob. I can use it to peel an orange or spread butter."

"Oh, Qwill! You're in a playful mood tonight! Do I know you well enough to ask what you wear under the kilt?"

"You do! You do indeed! And I know you well enough not to answer. It's known as the mystique of the kilt, and I'm not going to be the first to destroy a centuries-old Arcanum arcanorum!"

Downtown Pickax was deserted except for men in kilts or tartan trews ducking into the back door of the lodge. Qwilleran showed his knife to the doorman and was greeted by Whannell MacWhannell, who had invited him to be a guest. "I'll introduce you and mention your mother," he said. "What was her full name?"

"Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran."

Big Mac nodded. "Half my female relatives are named after Lady Anne. Let's go downstairs and look at the new exhibit."

The walls of the lower lounge were covered with maps, photographs of Scotland, and swatches of clan tartans. Qwilleran found the Mackintosh dress tartan, mostly red, and the Mackintosh hunting tartan, mostly green for camouflage in the woods. The majority of men were in kilts, and he felt comfortable among them.

Gil MacMurchie, the dowser, was wearing a lively Buchanan tartan. Qwilleran said to him, "I'm ready to buy your dirks, if you haven't sold them."

"They're still there." MacMurchie paused and looked down sadly. "But the one I was saving for myself was stolen."

"No! When?"

"While I was running those ads to sell my furniture and dishes and pots and pans. Strangers were traipsing through the house, some of them just nosey, and I couldn't keep an eye on all of them."

"Did you report it to the police?"

"Oh, sure, and after Lois's boy was arrested, I went to the station to see if my dirk turned up in his locker, but it wasn't there."

"How ironic," Qwilleran said, "that the thief should take the one your wife gave you."

"The hilt was silver," MacMurchie said. "The others have brass hilts."

The wail of a bagpipe summoned them to the dining hall on the upper level, where the walls were hung with antique weaponry. As soon as everyone was seated at the large round tables, the double doors were flung open, and in came the police chief in kilt, red doublet, towering feather bonnet, and white spats. A veritable giant, he walked with a slow swagger as he piped the inspiring air "Scotland the Brave." The skirling of the pipes, the swaying of the pleated kilt, and the hereditary pride of the piper made an awesome sight. He was followed by a snare drummer and seven young men in kilts and white shirts, each carrying a tray. On the first was the celebrated haggis; on each of the other six was a bottle of Scotch.

Bagpipe, haggis, and Scotch circled the room twice. Then a bottle was placed on each table, and toasts were drunk to the legendary pudding, which was sliced and served. Diners guffawed while old haggis jokes were told. "Did you know the haggis is an animal with two short legs on one side, for running around mountains?"

Then dinner was served: Forfar bridies, taters and neeps, and Pitlochry salad. Big Mac said to Qwilleran "I hear you interviewed Gil for you column."

"Yes, but it can't run until I've seen a dowsing demonstration. When do you think snow will melt this year?"

"My guess is April. In 1982, it was all gone by March twenty-ninth, but that was a fluke. Last year the official meltdown was three-eighteen p.m. on April fourth. My backyard was the Secret Site.

Every year the Moose County Something invited readers to guess the exact minute when the last square inch of snow would disappear from a Secret Site, usually someone's backyard. It was considered an honor, and the property owner was sworn to secrecy.

MacWhannell said, "I had to monitor the situation constantly near the finish time. When the last patch of snow was the size of a saucer, I phoned the paper, and they sent a reporter, photographer, notary public from city hall, and Wetherby Goode. They stood around, watching it shrink and holding a stopwatch. It disappeared at three- eighteen exactly."

Qwilleran said, "One wonders if the hot breath of the onlookers hastened the finish time."

"Not enough to make a difference. The nearest guess was four-twenty-two p.m. The winner was a carpenter from Sawdust City. He won a year's subscription to the paper and dinner for two at the Old Stone Mill."

The emcee rapped for attention. The evening would include the reading of Robert Burns's poems and the serious business of drinking toasts to Scottish heroes. First there was a moment of silence, however, in memory of Willard Carmichael, who had connections with the Stewart clan. Brodie piped "The Flowers of the Forest" as a dirge.

Then Whannell MacWhannell stood up and announced, "Tonight we honor someone who came to Pickax from Down Below and made a difference. Because of him we have better schools, a better newspaper, better health care, a better airport, and a column to read twice a week for entertainment and enlightenment. If you pay him a compliment, he'll give credit to his mother, who was a Mackintosh. It gives us great pleasure to add a name to our roll of distinguished Scots: the son of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran!"

Qwilleran walked to the platform amid cheers in English and Gaelic. A photographer from the Something was taking pictures.

"Officers, members, and guests," he bean. "I've long admired the Scots - with their bagpipes, kilts, and tolerance for oatmeal porridge. For hundreds of years Scottish fighting men, shepherds, and outlaws have worn the kilt and wrapped themselves in the plaid on cold nights, out on the moor. Wearing kilts they faced the muskets of English redcoats at Culloden, brandishing their swords and howling their defiance. In World War One, regiments of soldiers in tartan kilts stormed the beaches, led by intrepid pipers. They plowed through icy water, cursed the choking smoke, and fell to enemy fire, but the Scots kept on coming - screaming their battle cries and urged on by the screeching pipes. The Germans called them `Ladies from Hell.'

"Gentlemen, I confess it has taken some heavy persuasion to get me into a kilt, but here I am, wearing the Mackintosh tartan as a tribute to Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran, a single parent who struggled heroically to raise an obstreperous male offspring. Anything I have achieved - and anything I have become - can be traced to her influence, encouragement, and devotion. In her name I accept this honor, proud to be among the Ladies from Hell!"

Brodie piped "Auld Lang Syne," and the audience stood up and sang, "We'll take a cup o' kindness yet."

Later in the evening, after circulating in the lounge and accepting congratulations, Qwilleran said to Gil MacMurchie, "If you're going home from here, I'll meet you there and write a check." In short while he was on Pleasant Street, and Gil was admitting him to a house that was emptier than before. Qwilleran followed him to the glass- topped display table, hopping aside to avoid stepping on Cody.

"Sorry. I thought she was a black rug," he said. The dog was flat out on the floor, belly on the floorboards, and all four legs extended.

"That's her froggy-doggy trick. I don't suppose you've found a home for her, have you?"

"Not yet, but I'm working on it."

The four dirks with scabbards and brass hilts were under the glass in the curio table, along with the two brooches.

"Was the table not locked?" Qwilleran asked.

"Hasn't been locked for years! The lock's broken. The key's lost." He wrapped the dirks and brooches in newspaper while Qwilleran wrote a check for a thousand.

The Siamese recognized the sound of the car motor when he drove into the attached garage, and they knew the sound of his key in the lock. They had forgotten their original scare at the sight of the kilt and bonnet. Their greeting was positive without being effusive.

When he unwrapped his purchases on the kitchen counter, both cats jumped up to investigate the large round stones in the brooches, the brass hilts of the dirks, and the brass-mounted scabbards. Qwilleran withdrew one dirk from its scabbard, and Koko went into paroxysms of excitement over the blade, baring his fangs and flattening his ears as he moved his nose up and down the blood grooves.

-9-

When Qwilleran returned home after Scottish Night, there were messages on the answering machine from friends who had heard about his honor on the eleven o'clock newscast, and there were phone calls the next morning. John Bushland was one who called with congratulations. Qwilleran said, "I saw you taking pictures at the dinner. Was that for the newspaper or the lodge?"

"Both. I'm doing a video for lodge members: Brodie playing the pipe, MacWhannell reading Burns's poetry, and everybody whooping it up."

"Did Polly call you about Lynette's birthday party?"

"Yes, and I've got an idea for a gift. See what you think...On New Year's Eve I got a great full-face color shot of her, talking with two guys - wineglass in hand, eyes sparkling, nice smile. The light balance was just right, and she looked young and happy."

"Who were the guys?"

"Wetherby Goode and Carter Lee James. I could blow it up and put it in a neat frame. Do you think she'd like it?"

"She'd be thrilled. Do it!" Qwilleran said.

Then Carol Lanspeak phoned congratulations and said, "You deserve a monument on the courthouse lawn, but that will come later."

"Much later, I hope," he said.

"Are you and Polly free on Sunday? I want to give a quiet little dinner for Danielle. I know it's short notice." When he hesitated, she added, "She thinks you're a super guy, and it would do her a world of good if you could be there. You always know exactly the right thing to say."

Qwilleran was thinking fast. Danielle would be at Lynette's birthday party, and one evening with Goggly Eyes would be enough in one week, if not too much. He said, "You're right about the short notice, Carol. I've invited guests for Sunday and couldn't possibly cancel."

"I wouldn't ask you to do that," she said, "but we'll do it another time, won't we?"

"How is Danielle?" He thought it only civil to inquire.

"She's holding up very well, and Carter Lee is coming back, so she won't be lonely. It's important for her to do something constructive, and the lead in Hedda Gabler is a real challenge."

Qwilleran thought, It's a disaster waiting to happen.

"She's a quick study. I wish the whole cast could learn lines as fast." Carol was directing the play. "The main problem is that she doesn't like the actor that we cast for Judge Brack. It's a personality clash."

"Who's playing Brack? George Breze? Scott Gippel? Adam Dingleberry?" Gippel weighed three hundred pounds; Dingleberry was about a hundred years old; Breze was a mess.

Carol was not amused. "We have the drama and debate coach from the high school, and he's good, but he's dropping out. Danielle would rather play opposite you."

"It's out of the question." He thought, She's used to having her own way because she's gorgeous.

"I understand, Qwill. Sorry you and Polly can't be with us on Sunday."

Qwilleran had some errands to do downtown. He always did Polly's grocery shopping on days when she was working at the library, in return for which she invited him to dinner frequently. It was one of the mutual advantages in living only three doors apart. He rolled her trash container to the curb once a week; she sewed on buttons for him; they fed each other's cats when necessary.

While downtown he stopped at the office of the Moose County Something to pick up a free newspaper. The day's edition had just been delivered from the printing plant, and he found the whole staff in a state of jocosity, grinning in slyly and making abstruse quips. The reason soon became clear.

On the front page was a full-length photo of Qwilleran in Scottish Highland attire. He groaned. Did they have to print it four columns wide and eighteen inches high? Did they have to headline it "Lady from Hell"? The ribbing from fellow staffers did nothing to ease his embarrassment:

"Hey Qwill, you look like an ad for Scotch!"

"Look at those knees!"

"What's that thing in his sock?"

"All he needs is a bagpipe!"

"Are you available for films and commercials, Qwill?"

He said, "Obviously it was a slow day on the newsbeat." He picked up an extra copy for Polly and left the building, briefly considering a week's vacation in Iceland. But then he drew upon the qualities that life had bestowed upon him: the aplomb of a journalist, the spirit of an actor, and the confidence of the richest man in northeast central United States. He parked in the municipal lot and entered Amanda's Design Studio through the back door, carrying a newspaper-wrapped package.

Fran greeted him, waving that day's edition of the Something. "Qwill! Your picture on the front page is fabulous! Marry me!"

"You'll have to wait your turn. Take a number."

"Dad even called me about it! He was all choked up with emotion - something that never happens. Everyone's talking about it."

"I'm afraid so. I'm thinking of leaving the country until it blows over."

"What do you have wrapped in newspaper?" she asked. "Fresh fish?"

He showed her the four dirks he had bought and asked how to display them on the wall. "I don't want them under glass. I want instant access in case of attack by the Pickax pilferer. He, or she, stole a dirk from Gil MacMurchie."

She unwrapped the dirks, frowned at them silently, then vanished into the stockroom, leaving Qwilleran to wander around the shop and look for a valentine gift for Polly. He found an oval jewel box shaped from natural horn and inset with a sunburst of brass.

Fran returned from the stockroom carrying an antique pine picture frame, a simple rectangle of wide flat boards mitered at the corners and waxed to a mellow golden brown. She said, "This was the base for an old ornate frame of gilded gesso, which was badly chipped. We stripped it down to the pine and gave it this nice finish. We can put a backing in it for mounting the dirks and then devise clamps or clips for holding them."

"Perfect! You're so clever, Fran."

"The bill will go out in the mail tomorrow."

"How's the play going?"

"Not splendidly. Danielle's become a temperamental star. We lost a good Judge Brack because of her. She wants someone exciting for the role, since they have so many scenes together." Fran looked at Qwilleran hopefully, and he could see where the discussion was leading.

He said, "Couldn't Larry play the judge?"

"He's playing Tesman."

"How about your friend Prelligate?"

"He's doing Lovborg."

"Why not switch Larry to the judge, let Prelligate do Tesman, and bring in Derek Cuttlebrink for Lovborg?"

"You're bonkers, Qwill. Derek is almost seven feet tall. It would be a joke."

"Derek playing Lovborg is no funnier than Danielle playing Hedda."

"Forget Derek!" she said with finality.

Qwilleran persisted. "In Macbeth he crumpled his figure so that he looked a foot shorter. That might work well for Lovborg, who has a crumpled reputation, so to speak. Furthermore, Derek is a popular actor, and you wouldn't have to worry about ticket sales. His groupies would attend every performance, and the K Fund wouldn't have to bail you out."

Fran rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Go away, Qwill. Just leave your dirks and go away! Leave the country! You need a change of climate."

Obediently he started for the back door, then returned, "Do you happen to know the family with the famous doll collection?"

"Of course I know the Kemples. I worked with Vivian Kemple on their house. It's on Pleasant Street. She and her husband are both involved in rare dolls."

"May I use your phone?" he asked, adding dryly, "You can add the charge to my bill."

A man with a particularly loud voice answered, and Qwilleran identified himself.

"Sure! We've met at the Boosters Club, Qwill. I'm Ernie Kemple." He was the Boosters' official backslapper and glad-hander, greeting members at every meeting.

"I'm calling about your doll collection, Ernie, as a possibility for the `Qwill Pen' column."

"Well, now... we don't like publicity. You know what happened to the Chisholm sisters' teddy bears."

"That was a freak situation," Qwilleran said.

"Yeah, but we had a doll stolen recently - not worth a lot in dollars but highly collectible. Makes you stop and think, you know... Tell you what: Come and see the collection for your own enjoyment. It's art; it's history; it's an investment."

"Thank you. I'll accept the invitation." It was a break for Qwilleran. He could satisfy his curiosity without having to write about... dolls.

"Tell you what," Kemple said. "Come over now, and I'll rustle up some refreshments. My wife's out of town, and I'm waiting for three o'clock so I can pick up my grandson from school. I retired January One. Sold Kemple Life and Accident to the Brady brothers."

"I'll be right there," Qwilleran said.

Pleasant Street looked particularly pleasant that afternoon. A new fall of snow had frosted the lacy wood trim on the houses, and the whole street was an avenue of white ruffles. The Kemple house, more attractive than most, was painted in two shades of taupe, reflecting Fran Brodie's educated taste.

"A most attractive house," Qwilleran said to Ernie Kemple when he was admitted. Like the exterior, the rooms showed the hand of a professional designer. Traditional furniture was arranged in a friendly contemporary manner; colors dared to depart from the historically correct; old paintings and engravings were hung with imagination. And there was not a single doll in sight!

Kemple replied in a booming voice that would make crystal chandeliers quiver. "You like it? I think it's pretty good myself. Comfortable, you know...But now my wife thinks maybe we should let Carter Lee James restore it to nineteenth-century authenticity. He and his assistant went through the house, making notes. But I hate to see it go down the drain. Vivian - that's my wife - says everybody on the street is going along with James. It's supposed to increase the value of the property, and maybe give us a tax break. What do you think, Qwill? This James fellow presents a convincing case. Of course, he's not doing it for nothing! But he seems to be knowledgeable, and people like him. What's your opinion?"

"I haven't heard his pitch firsthand, but Lynette Duncan is sold on him," Qwilleran said.

"The question is: Suppose we stick to our guns. Would we want to be the only holdout in the neighborhood?... Well, why are we standing here? Let's go in the kitchen and have some cake and coffee. I have a sweet tooth, and the Scottish bakers has this Queen Mum's cake that's unbeatable, if you like chocolate."

Qwilleran sat at the kitchen table and looked at a group of framed photos on a side wall. "Is the curly-haired blond boy your grandson? You don't look old enough to have grandchildren."

"Well, thanks for the compliment.

Yes, that's my little Bobbie. My daughter's divorced and living with us, and she works part-time, so Vivian and I get pressed into service as baby-sitters. And Qwill, I'm here to tell you it's the greatest thing that ever happened to a retired insurance agent! I have granddaughters, too, but they're in Arizona. That's where Vivian is now, visiting our son."

The kitchen was old-fashioned in its large size and high ceiling but updated in its cabinetry, appliances, and decorating. Slick surfaces made Kemple's great voice reverberate and made Qwilleran wince. "Have you ever been on the stage, Ernie?"

"Sure! I belonged to the theatre club for years. I played Sheridan Whiteside in The Man Who Came to Dinner. I left the club when we started doing a lot of traveling... Do you drink regular or decaf? We've got both. I grind the beans fresh."

"Regular," Qwilleran requested and waited for the racket of the grinder to stop before saying, "The club is casting a play right now that has a perfect role for you. Are you familiar with Hedda Gabler?"

"Is that the one where a woman is so wrapped up in her house that she loses her husband?'

"You're thinking of Craig's Wife, by George Kelly. This is Ibsen's drama about another self-centered woman who destroys one man and falls under the power of another. The role of Judge Brack is made to order for you, and I happen to know they're looking for an actor powerful enough to carry it. How do you look in a moustache?'

"Sure, I could handle that role, and I have the time now. The moustache is no problem. I've lived with spirit gum before."

"You'd be playing opposite a very striking young woman who's new in this area."

"is that so?" Kemple said with increased interest. "Who's directing?'

"Carol Lanspeak."

"Oh, she's good! Not only talented but organized. I think I'll take your suggestion and surprise Vivian when she comes home. She's always telling me I could play Madison Square Garden without a mike."

"Are you both natives of Moose County?"

"No, we came up here from Down Below twenty years ago, because it seemed like a good place to raise kids. Also because I liked to hunt. I had mounted heads all over the place - my office, too. Then suddenly I turned off. I brought down a six-point buck one day, only wounded, and when I went to finish him off, he looked up at me with sad eyes. It was like a knife in my heart! I never went hunting again. Even got rid of the trophies."

The two men applied themselves, almost reverently, to the Queen Mum's cake, and there was little conversation for a while.

"How did you get interested in dolls?" Qwilleran asked then.

"When I gave up hunting, I needed a new hobby. History was my minor in college, and Vivian was getting into classic dolls, so I started researching historic doll-makers in England, France, and Germany - almost a hundred of them. It's good for a couple to have a hobby they can share, and it's good to be learning something."

"What did Vivian collect before classic dolls?'

"Primitives. Old Moose County dolls that the pioneers made for their kids. Carved and painted wood, stuffed flour sacks, all that type of thing."

Qwilleran remarked that he had yet to see a doll on the premises.

"All upstairs. In glass cases."

"Under lock and key?"

"Never thought it necessary, but now..." Kemple shrugged.