Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 19 Who Tailed A Thief

Qwilleran pointed to another photo in the wall grouping a pretty young blond woman. "Your daughter?"

"Yes, that's Tracy, around the time she was married."

"She looks familiar."

"You've seen her at the Old Stone Mill. She works lunches there, dinners at the Boulder House Inn. She's a waitress. Server is what they want to be called now. She could have had a nice job in the insurance office, but she likes meeting people, and she likes those big tips! And believe me, she gets them! She has a nice personality... More coffee? Or do you want to see the dolls?"

Upstairs in the six-bedroom house there were three rooms outfitted with museum-type cases. The first room contained primitives made between 1850 and 1912. One doll consisted of thread spools strung together so that the arms and legs moved. Another was carved from the crotch of a small tree, with the forked branches for legs. A stuffed stocking had crudely stitched features crossed eyes, crooked nose, upside-down mouth.

"Ugly," Kemple said, "but every one was loved by some little kid."

"Who has access to these rooms?" Qwilleran asked.

"Personal friends, serious collectors, and groups we belong to - that's all. During the holidays we had Vivian's Sunday-school class and then the historical society. In our will we're leaving the primitives to the Goodwinter Farm Museum. The classics will be sold to put our grandkids through college. They're appreciating in value all the time."

"I'd like to see the classics."

Dazzling was the word for the two rooms displaying the china, porcelain, wax, bisque, and papier-mƒch‚ beauties. Twelve to twenty inches tall, they had pretty faces, real hair, and lavish costumes. There were hoop skirts, bustles, elaborate hats, muffs, parasols, kid boots, tiny gloves, and intricate jewelry. Rich fabrics were trimmed with lace, embroidery, ruffles, buttons, and ribbons.

Kemple pointed out French fashion "ladies," character dolls, brides, and pudgy infants. Flirty dolls with "googly" eyes that moved from side to side reminded Qwilleran of Danielle; he had always suspected she was not quite real.

Ever the historian, Kemple pointed out that the older dolls had small heads, long arms, and a look of surprise. Then came plump cheeks, soulful eyes with lashes, and tiny purse lips. Parted lips showing tiny teeth were a later development.

Qwilleran was fascinated by certain facts about the wax dolls. Some had humanhair set in the wax head with a hot needle, hair by hair. Wax had a tendency to melt or crack, and kids had been known to bite off piece and chew it like gum.

"Little cannibals!" Qwilleran said. He listened patiently as Kemple discussed patent dates, dollmakers' logos, and the construction of jointed and unjointed dolls. Then he asked about the doll that had been stolen. It was carved and painted wood, eight inches tall, and very old. The paint was badly worn, and it was thought to have come from a native American village on the banks of the Ittibittiwassee River. It might have been more of a talisman than a toy.

"It was the first that ever disappeared from our collection," Kemple said. Then he lowered his voice to a rumble. "It was found in Lenny Inchpot's possession, you know."

"In his locker," Qwilleran corrected him, "while he was out of town. Police had to cut the padlock, yet Lenny says he never locked it, and I believe him. I've asked my own attorney to take the case. It's my opinion that he was framed."

Kemple looked relieved. "Glad to hear that. Tell your attorney I'll go as a character witness at the hearing if he wants me to. That boy's been in this house hundreds of times. He was Tracy's boyfriend when they were in high school. He had a reputation as a prankster, but he wouldn't do anything like stealing from people."

"Aren't we all pranksters at that age?"

"Yes, but his were clever. Let me tell you about one. Everybody knew the mayor was having an affair with a woman who worked at the post office. One night Lenny painted big yellow footprints on the pavement, leading from the city hall to the post office. The cop on the nightbeat saw him doing it, but it was such a good joke he looked the other way. It was the kind of paint that washes off, and fortunately it didn't rain till the whole town had seen it. That was our Lenny! Vivian and I considered him a future son-in-law."

"What happened?"

"Tracy eloped with a football player from Sawdust City. She's impulsive. It didn't last, and she and Bobbie came home to live with us. Then Lenny's girlfriend was killed, and he started coming to the house again."

"How did Tracy react to his arrest?'

"She was troubled. I could tell, but she wouldn't talk to me. She'll talk to her mother, though. I'll be glad when Vivian gets home." He paused to reflect on family secrets. "You see, Tracy's always one to go for the main chance, and now she's set her sights on Carter Lee James. My fatherly instinct is flashing red. I don't want her to be disappointed again. It seems to me that all the women are flipping over him."

"Understandably," Qwilleran said. "He has a likable personality, good looks, and a glamorous profession."

"That's for sure, and my daughter is a beautiful young woman. James has wined and dined her a few times, and her hopes are up. She comes home late with stars in her eyes. What can I say? She's a grown woman. She wants a husband, a father for Bobbie, and a home of her own. Nothing wrong with that."

"Not to digress, but.... how does she feel about the Pleasant Street project?"

"Oh, she's all for it! She says it'll make our neighborhood world-famous. I'm not sure that prospect appeals to me... But look! Why am I burdening you with my problems?"

"No burden. No burden at all," Qwilleran said. "I can put myself in your shoes. I know exactly how you feel. " he had an interviewer's talent for empathy, and often it was genuine.

Driving home from Pleasant Street, he was glad he had no parental responsibilities. It was mid-afternoon, and it had been a day of diffused activity, little of which really concerned him. It was his congenital curiosity that involved him in the problems of others. What he needed now was a good shower, a dish of ice cream, and an absorbing book.

The Siamese were sleeping soundly. Only when he opened the refrigerator door did they wake and report to the kitchen for a lick of French vanilla. After that, Yum Yum ran around in a joyful circles, but Koko read Qwilleran's mind. That cat knew it was booktime and stood on his hind legs at the hutch cupboard and sniffed titles.

There were favorites brought from the barn, recent purchases from Eddington Smith, and gifts from friends who knew Qwilleran's fondness for old books. Koko's nose traveled up and down each spine, moving from one to the other until it finally stopped, like the planchette on a Ouija board. It stopped at Ossian and the Ossianic Literature, the book written by A. Nutt.

Qwilleran thought, Is he expressing an uncomplimentary opinion about me? Or does he really want to hear about ancient Gaelic poetry?

Although not in the mood for a scholarly study of a centuries-old mystery, Qwilleran gave it a try. He read aloud, and after a while all three of them were asleep in the big lounge chair.

-10-

By the end of January, Qwilleran had several leads for Short and Tall Tales, and one that particularly appealed to him was the story of Hilda the Clipper. It was funny, old-timers said, and yet it was sad. She was an eccentric woman who had terrorized the entire town of Brrr seventy years before. Brrr, so named because it was the coldest spot in the country, was a summer resort town situated on a promontory overlooking the big lake. In winter it resembled an iceberg in the North Atlantic.

The person said to know the details of the Hilda saga was Gary Pratt, proprietor of the Black Bear Caf‚ in Brrr, and Qwilleran drove out to see him one day. The noon rush was over, but one could still order a bearburger - not related to Ursus americanus but simply the best ground beef sandwich in the country.

The caf‚ was in a hotel on the highest point in town; a sign on the roof, visible for miles, said: ROOMS.. FOOD...BOOZE. A kind of poetry in the internal vowels made it memorable, and it had been there as long as anyone could remember, guiding trawlers and pleasure boats into harbor.

Affectionately known as the Hotel Booze, the plain, boxlike structure dated back to the rough-tough days of mining and lumbering. Gary Pratt had inherited it along with its debts and code violations. Wisely he had preserved its dilapidated appearance, which appealed to boaters and commercial fishermen, while making just enough repairs to satisfy the county license bureau.

He leaned on the bar while Qwilleran sat on a wobbly bar stool, eating a bearburger. Gary was a big bear of a man, having a lumbering gait and a shaggy black mop of hair, with beard to match. "Glad you agreed to be grand marshal of the Ice Festival, Qwill."

"I wasn't aware I'd agreed," Qwilleran muttered between bites. "Who else is in the parade?"

"The queen, wrapped in synthetic polar-bear skins and riding in a horse- drawn sleigh. Dogsleds drawn by packs of huskies. A fleet of motorbikes with riders in polar-bear costumes. Two high=school bands on flatbeds. Eight floats celebrating winter sports. And torch bearers on cross-country skis."

Qwilleran refrained from making the cranky remarks that came to mind. The festival, after all, was going to be good for the country, and hundreds of go- getters were working hard to make it a success. Besides, the sandwich he was eating was courtesy of the house.

"Tell me about your book," Gary said. "What's the idea?"

"A collection of stories and legends about the early days of Moose County, to be published by the K Fund and sold in gift shops. Proceeds will go to the historical museum. How do you happen to know about Hilda?"

"My father and grandfather told the story so many times, I learned it by heart. Are you gonna record it?"

"Yes. Let's go to your office, where it's quieter."

The following account was later transcribed:

My grandfather used to tell about this eccentric old woman in Brrr who had everybody terrorized. This was about seventy years ago, you understand. She always walked around with a pair of hedge clippers, pointing them at people and going click-click with the blades. Behind her back they laughed and called her Hilda the Clipper, but the same people were very nervous when she was around. The thing of it was, nobody knew if she was just an oddball or was really smart enough to beat the system. In stores she picked up anything she wanted without paying a cent. She broke all the town ordinances and got away with it. Once in a while a cop or the sheriff would question her from a safe distance, and she said she was taking her hedge clippers to be sharpened. She didn't have a hedge. She lived in a tar-paper shack with a mangy dog. No electricity, no running water. My grandfather had a farmhouse across the road, and Hilda's shack was on his property. She lived there rent-free, brought water in a pail from his handpump, and helped herself to firewood from his woodpile in winter. One night, right after Halloween, the Reverend Mr. Wimsey from the church here was driving home from a prayer meeting at Squunk Corners. It was a cold night, and cars didn't have heaters then. His model T didn't have side curtains, so he was dressed warm. He was chugging along the country road, probably twenty miles an hour, when he saw somebody in the darkness ahead, trudging down the middle of the dirt road, and wearing a bathrobe and bedroom slippers. She was carrying hedge clippers. Mr. Wimsey knew her well. She'd been a member of his flock until he suggested she quit bringing the clippers to services. Then she gave up going to church and was kind of hostile. Still, he couldn't leave her out there to catch her death of cold. Nowadays you'd just call the sheriff, but there were no car radios then, and no cell phones. So he pulled up and asked where she was going. "To see my friend," she said in a gravelly voice. "Would you like a ride, Hilda/" She gave him a mean look and then said, "Seein' as how it's a cold night.. " She climbed in the car and sat with the clippers on her lap and both hands on the handles. Mr. Wimsey told Grandpa he gulped a couple of times and asked where her friend lived. "Over yonder." She pointed across a cornfield. "It's late to go visiting," he said. "Wouldn't' you rather I should take you home?" "I told you where I be wantin' to go," she shouted, as if he was deaf, and she gave the clippers a click-click. "That's all right, Hilda. Do you know how to get there?' "It's over yonder." She pointed to the left. At the next road he turned left and drove for about a mile without seeing anything like a house. He asked what the house looked like. "I'll know it when we get there!" Click-click. "What road is it on? Do you know?" "It don't have a name. Click-click. "What's the name of your friend?' "None o' yer business! Just take me there." She was shivering, and he stopped the car and started to taking off his coat. "Let me put my coat around you, Hilda." "Don't' you get fresh with me!" she shouted, pushing him away and going click-click. Mr. Wimsey kept on driving and thinking what to do. He drove past a sheep pasture, a quarry, and dark farmhouses with barking dogs. The lights of Brrr glowed in the distance, but if he steered in that direction, she went into a snit and clicked the clippers angrily. Finally he had an inspiration. "We're running out of fuel!" he said in an anxious voice. "We'll be stranded out here! We'll freeze to death! I have to go into town to buy some gasoline!" It was the first time in his life, he told Grandpa, that he'd ever told a lie, and he prayed silently for forgiveness. He also prayed the trick would work. Hilda didn't object. Luckily she was getting drowsy, probably in the first stages of hypothermia. Mr. Wimsey found a country store and went in to use their crank telephone. In two minutes a sheriff deputy drove up on a motorcycle. "Mr. Wimsey! You old rascal!" he said to the preacher. "We've been looking all over for the Clipper! Better talk fast, or I'll have to arrest you for kidnapping!" What happened, you see: Hilda's dog had been howling for hours, and Grandpa called the sheriff.

"Great story!" Qwilleran said. "Is there a sequel? What happened to Hilda?"

"Well, for her own protection the county put her in a foster home, and she had to surrender her hedge clippers. The whole town breathed a lot easier."

"How long had they tolerated her threats?"

"For years! People were long- suffering in those days. They were used to the hardships of pioneer living. Their motto was: Shut up and make do! Is life better in the Electronic Age, Qwill? Sometimes I think I was born too late. My mother lives Down Below, and one night she had dinner in a neighborhood restaurant. The computer was down, and not a single employee could add up a dinner check! Geez! I'm only thirty-five, but I feel like a dinosaur because I can add and subtract."

"Don't lose the skill," Qwilleran advised. "Computers may not be here to stay."

"Let's go back in the bar and get something to drink. I'm dry," Gary suggested. "And I want to ask you about something." He poured coffee for Qwilleran and beer for himself, and then said, " A guy came in here a couple of weeks ago and said he was a restoration consultant from Down Below, doing a lot of work in Pickax. He said this hotel could be a gold mine if I restored it and got it on the National Register, but it would have to be authentic. Well, the thing of it is: My customers like it the way it is - grungy! However, I just told him I couldn't afford it."

"What kind of money was he talking about?' Qwilleran asked.

"Twenty thousand up front for his services, plus whatever the contractor would charge for doing the work. Do you know anything about this guy?"

"Carter Lee James. Willard Carmichael spoke highly of him. He's doing over Pleasant Street as a historic neighborhood - or that's what the plans are."

"How come I haven't read anything in the paper?"

"The project is only now getting under way. He didn't want any premature publicity."

"He's a nice guy, very friendly and down to earth. He had his assistant with him, and she was a real babe."

Qwilleran said, "She's his cousin, and she's Willard's widow."

"Oh... yeah...yeah. Too bad about Willard. I met him at the Boosters Club. He was all excited about the Ice Festival. You say they're cousins? I bought them a drink when they were here, and they sat in that corner booth. They didn't act like cousins, if you know what I mean."

"She flirts with everyone," Qwilleran said. "She'd flirt with John Wayne's horse!" Then he asked Gary what he thought about Lenny Inchpot's arrest.

"They're nuts! He's about as guilty as you and me! I know Lenny. He belongs to the Pedal Club. Won the silver in the Labor Day race!"

"I'm sure he'll get off. G. Allen Barter is taking his case. Then what? One wonders if the police have any other leads."

Driving home, Qwilleran realized how much he missed his late-night get- togethers with Chief Brodie at the apple barn, when suspicions were aired and official secrets were leaked over Scotch and Squunk water.

Even before he unlocked the his front door, he knew there was a message on the answering machine. Koko was announcing the fact with yowls and body-bumps against the door panels. Given the condo's quality of construction, it was doubtful how much battering the door could take.

The message was from Celia Robinson, requesting him to call her at the clubhouse before five-thirty, her quitting time. She had a little treat for him and the cats and would drop it off on the way home.

He phoned immediately. "Visitors bearing treats are always welcome. Do you know where we are? Building Five on River Lane. Park in the driveway of Unit Four."

At five-thirty her bright red car pulled in, looking brighter and redder against the maze of snowbanks.

Always jolly, she greeted Qwilleran in a flurry of contagious happiness. "Here's some goat cheese, a thank-you for steering me to this wonderful job! I only wish it were permanent... Hello, kitties!...I saw your picture on the front page and cut it out. I'm going to frame it. I bought an extra copy to send to Clayton." She walked into the living room and flopped into the deep cushions of the sofa, facing the frozen riverbank. "This is a lot smaller than the barn, but you've got more of a view. And some new furniture! I never saw a coffee table like this!"

"It's an old pine woodbox that had four or five coats of paint. Fran Brodie stripped it down to the wood and waxed it."

"Some people are so clever! It sure is pretty. What do you keep inside?'

"Old magazines. Would you like a hug of hot cider, Celia?"

"No thanks. I have to go home and cook. Mr. O'Dell is coming to supper. Clayton thinks we should get married. What do you think, Chief?"

"Never mind what I think," Qwilleran said. "What does Mr. O'Dell think? Has he been consulted?"

Celia screamed with laughter. "He hasn't said anything, but I know he's interested. He has a house. I'd hate to leave my apartment. It's so central."

"What are your priorities, Celia? Love or location?"

She laughed again, uproariously. "I might have known you'd say that!... Well, what I want to tell you: I've found a home for the little black dog that Clayton liked. He couldn't take it home; it would only make trouble with his stepmother. What's the dog's name?"

"Cody. A female schnauzer. Who wants to adopt her?"

"A nice young man form the Split Rail Goat Farm. He came to the clubhouse today to give a talk to the Daffy Diggers - that's a garden club."

"I know Mitch Ogilvie very well," Qwilleran said. "Also his partner, Kristi. Cody will be happy with them."

Confidentially Celia said, "They're thinking of getting married. I hope they do. He's such a nice young man!"

"Are you implying that all nice young men make good husbands? I'm a nice middle-aged man, but you don't see me galloping down the aisle."

"Oh, lawsy!" She laughed. "I put my foot in it again! Anyway, Mr. Ogilvie said he'd give what's-her-name a good home."

"Good! I'll pick up what's-her-name and deliver her to the farm." As the wordplay sent her into a spasm of hilarity, he added, "Now tell me about your job, Celia."

"Well, I collect members' dues and schedule parties and help the caterers and supervise the janitors."

"Has there been any talk about Lenny Inchpot?"

"Plenty! Nobody thinks he's guilty, except for one man who thinks Lenny cracked up after his girlfriend was killed in the explosion. Is there anything I can do about the Lenny case, Chief?" Being an avid reader of detective and espionage fiction, Celia relished her role as secret agent.

"Just keep your eyes and ears open," Qwilleran suggested. "Bear in mind that Lenny may have been framed, and the person who stole the bridge club's money may have rigged Lenny's locker. Who's the man who said he'd cracked up?"

"I don't know. He's around a lot. Want me to find out who he is?'

"Yes. Do that. As soon as possible."

"Okay, Chief. And now I've really got to go home and cook. We're having spaghetti."

Qwilleran politely averted his eyes as she struggled to get out of the deep sofa.

When he went to the MacMurchie house the next morning, he was met at the door by a smiling Scot and a bouncing schnauzer, yipping for joy. Her travel luggage was assembled in the foyer: a carton contained her comb and brush, leashes, dishes, a supply of dried food, a blanket, and some old socks. MacMurchie said, "The food is a combination of rice and lamb that she seems to prefer, but she also likes popcorn and bananas. The horse blanket is her bed. The socks are her toys, knotted together in pairs. On TV she likes National Geographic programs and dog-food commercials."

Qwilleran said, "It looks as if you're ready to move out yourself. What will happen to the house then?"

"The restoration won't start until after spring thaw, but that's all right. By that time more property owners will have signed up, and there'll be a saving on labor costs. The work will be done by an out-of-town contractor. He specializes in restoration."

"That won't make the local construction industry happy," Qwilleran said.

"It makes sense, though. The job's too big for the little fellers around here XYZ Enterprises could handle it, but Carter Lee James isn't impressed by the kind of work they do. He's been staying, you know, in one of their apartment buildings."

"I know exactly what he means, Gil. I live in the Village, too."

Cody was listening, pancaked on the floor in her froggy-doggy pose.

"On your feet, young lady," Qwilleran ordered. "We're going for a ride."

On the way to the country, Cody rode up front in the passenger seat, standing on her hind legs and watching the snowy landscape whiz past. The Split Rail Goat Farm was in the Hummocks, where drifts swirled in grotesque configurations and made familiar landmarks unrecognizable. The split rail fence that gave the goat farm its name had disappeared under the hummocks of snow thrown up by county plows, and the long driveway was a narrow white canyon. As for the Victorian farmhouse with its menacing tower, it looked surreal against the white background. Strangest of all was the silence.

Mitch Ogilvie, looking bucolic in his rough beard and heavy stormwear, came from a low sprawling barn to meet them. A few years before, he had been a fastidiously groomed and properly suited desk clerk at the Pickax hotel. After that he was the casual but neat manager of the Farm Museum. Now he was the cheesemaker on a goat farm.

"Kristi's milking," he said, "but she told me to say hello. She's all excited about getting the pooch. What's his name?"

"Cody is a she. You'll like her," Qwilleran said. He carried her into the house, saying, "Here we are! Good dog1 Nice new home!"

Mitch piled her luggage in the middle of the kitchen floor. "Let her explore," he said. "We'll have some cheese and crackers while she decides if she wants to live here. I wonder how she feels about goat cheese."

"In my humble opinion, Mitch, any dog who eats popcorn and bananas won't balk at goat cheese."

They drank coffee and sampled several cheeses and listened for canine noises in other parts of the house. Occasionally there would be a musical moaning as Cody talked to herself about some questionable discovery.

After a while Qwilleran asked about the procedure in getting the house on the National Register. Built by a Civil War hero, it was the only edifice in Moose County to have official historic recognition. A bronze plaque in the driveway testified to the honor.

"There was a lot of red tape," Mitch replied, "and Kristi and I have a lot of sweat equity invested in it. Luckily we had the experts from the K Fund advising us. There was one government printout six yards long that really threw me for a loop. To me it was all gobbledy-gook...Why do you ask, Qwill? Are you going to try and get your barn registered?"

"No, it's been irreversibly modernized, but there's a whole neighborhood in Pickax that hopes to be registered, and I wondered about the procedure. Do you still have the six-yard printout? I wouldn't mind reading it."

"Sure. I'll dig it out for you. With your sense of humor you might have some fun with it in the `Qwill Pen' column."

Cody, having okayed the premises, returned to the kitchen where her lares and penates were till in the middle of the floor. Mitch found her dishes and put out water and food for her.

"She'll be happy here," Qwilleran said as he put on jacket, hat and gloves. "Take care of her, she comes from a good Scottish household. And tell Kristi I was sorry to miss her, but goats come before guests."

It was Qwilleran's responsibility to pick up the champagne and birthday cake for Lynette's party. In ordering the cake from the Scottish bakery, he had requested a Scots theme, and he expected the usual three-layer confection with a thistle design in pink and green icing. His reaction, when he picked it up, was: Ye gads! It was a foot-square sheet cake frosted in all all-over plaid in red, blue, green, and yellow; a skewer was stuck in the middle, flying a paper flag with an indecipherable message.

"That `Happy Birthday' in Gaelic," the baker said proudly. "It's the first I've ever done like this. Do you like it?"

"It's absolutely... unique!" he said with a gulp of dismay, as he wondered what Polly would say. She might have another heart attack.

"I'll wrap the flag in a bit of wax paper. You can stick it in the cake when you get home."

Polly was having her hair done at Brenda's, and he delivered the cake to her condo, letting himself in with his own key and explaining to Bootsie the legitimacy of his errand. He had been given instructions to leave it in the refrigerator, the only cat-proof vault in the house, and he took the precaution of taping a sign to the front of the appliance: OPEN DOOR WITH CARE! WILD CAKE INSIDE!

Lynette's birthday party lacked effervescence, despite the bubbles in the champagne that Qwilleran poured. The hostess worried about the prime rib she was roasting in a new and untested oven. The bereaved widow was resolutely glum. The guest of honor seemed nervous; did she fear her age would be revealed? Background music might have relieved the tension, but the stereo was out-of-order. According to Moose County custom, the right-hand end of the sofa was reserved for the guest of honor. Carter Lee sat at the other end, wearing one of his monogrammed shirts. Lynette looked as if she had dressed to dance the Highland fling: pleated green tartan, black velvet jacket, and ghillies with long laces wound about her white-stockinged legs.

They said all that could be said about the weather. Carter Lee had no desire to talk shop. Qwilleran's skill as an interviewer failed him; his questions produced no interesting answers. To fill the silences, Bushy hopped around with his camera, taking candids.

When Qwilleran suggested that Lynette open her gifts, she said firmly, "No! After dinner!" Fortunately the roast beef was superb, the Yorkshire pudding was properly puffy, and Lynette thought the plaid birthday cake was stupendous.

For coffee and cordials the diners moved back into the living room, and Lynette opened her gifts: violet sachets from Polly, a silver "poached egg" from Qwilleran, Bushy's framed photo, a bottle of wine from Danielle, and the smallest of small boxes from Carter Lee.

It was obviously a ring. Was that why Lynette had been self-conscious and Carter Lee had seemed unnaturally shy? When he slipped the ring on her left hand, Polly gasped audibly at the size of the diamond. Danielle merely tapped the floor with her uncommonly high-heeled shoe. Bushy took another picture or two. Qwilleran opened another bottle of champagne.

Then the couple answered questions: Yes, they had set the date... No, there would be no announcement in the paper until after the ceremony... Yes, it would be soon, because they were honeymooning in New Orleans and wanted to be there for Mardi Gras.. No, it would not be a church wedding - just a small affair at the Indian Village clubhouse... yes, that' where they had met, across a bridge table.

After the guests had left, Qwilleran's question to Polly was: "Did you know anything about his little bombshell?" He was helping her clear away the party clutter.

"Not an inkling! They haven't known each other very long. I hope she knows what she's doing."

"I thought she was deeply involved at the church. Why no church wedding?" he asked.

"I can guess why," Polly said. "I was in her wedding party twenty years ago when she was left waiting at the church - literally. She was in her grandmother's satin gown with yards of veil. She was carrying white roses and violets. Six attendants were in violet taffeta. The church was filled with wedding guests. But the groom and groomsman didn't arrive. Someone telephoned the hotel; they had left, so they must be on the way. The organist started playing voluntaries to reassure the fidgety guests. Someone called the police to inquire if there had been an accident. We waited in the afternoon, and waited, and waited. Lynette started looking pale, then she turned the color of our dresses and passed out. The groom never showed up."

"That was a brutal thing to do," Qwilleran said. "what was wrong with the guy?"

"He was a local boy from a good family, but he was afraid of marriage and afraid to break it off. His family was mortified."

"What happened to him? Did he ever show his face?"

"He joined the armed services and lost touch with everyone. Lynette was hospitalized. The worst part was returning the hundreds of wedding presents!"

Qwilleran said, "So we can assume that's why she doesn't want an item in the paper until after the ceremony."

"It appears so, doesn't it?" Polly agreed. "Danielle seemed less than happy about her cousin's engagement, it seemed to me."

"Someone should tell her she's not losing a cousin; she's gaining a cousin-in-law." Then, after a moment's reflection, he added, "Do you suppose Lynette is going to get her revenge by jilting Carter Lee?"

"Oh, Qwill! How can you be so cynical? She'd never do a thing like that!"

-11-

The morning after Lynette's birthday party and the surprising engagement announcement, Qwilleran was wakened by what he feared was a pounding heartbeat, but it was the thrum-thrum-thrum of Wetherby Goode's wake-up music on the Sousabox. The volume was low enough to eliminate all but the percussion, which reverberated along the steel beam running the length of Building Five. A brochure listing fifty Sousa marches, with dates, had been stuck behind Qwilleran's door handle by his friendly neighbor, but whether the morning selection was the "U.S. Field Artillery March" (1917) or "Pet of the Petticoats" (1883), one could not tell.

The Siamese, too, were awake and could hear and feel the thrum-thrum-thrum. Koko waiting for his breakfast sat on his haunches and slapped the carpet with his tail in time with the percussion.

A remarkable cat, Qwilleran thought; his tail was becoming more eloquent all the time. He fed them, brushed them, and joined them in a little active recreation. Although the day was cold, the sun was bright, streaming in the living room window and reviving the lone housefly that had come with the condo and was spending the winter in Unit Four, Building Five. In the game they played, Qwilleran stood with folded newspaper, ready to swat; the cats leaped and made futile passes and crashed into each other as the fly swooped playfully around the two-story living room. He had been living with them long enough to have a name, Mosca, and none of his pursuers really wanted to catch him.

For his own breakfast, Qwilleran had two sweet rolls from the freezer and several cups of coffee from the computerized coffeemaker. Then he got an early start on his column for February 1:

January is the jet lag of December, March wishes it were April, but February is its own month - noble in its peaceful whiteness, the depths of its snowdrifts, and the thickness of its ice. February is unique in its number of days. February is the only month that can be pronounced four different ways. It's the birthdate of presidents and the month of lovers. Let us all praise..

His typing was interrupted by the telephone, and he heard Celia Robinson's voice saying with unusual crispness, "Mr. Qwilleran, this is your accountant's office. The numbers you requested are two, eighteen, five, twenty-six, five. Repeat: two, eighteen, five, twenty-six, five."

"Thank you for your prompt assistance," he said.

"It was exactly as he had guessed. The code spelled B-R-E-Z-E. It was scoundrelly George Breze who suggested that Lenny Inchpot had "cracked up." According to conventional wisdom in Moose County, it was Old Gallbladder himself who was cracked - or crooked. Breze-bashing was a favorite pastime in the coffee shops, partly in fun and partly in earnest. He was suspected of everything, yet was never charged with anything, leading critics to believe that corrupting government officials was one of his crimes. Where did he get his dough, they wondered. On Sandpit Road he rented trucks, leased mini-storage units, ran a do-it-yourself car wash that was always out of detergent, cannibalized junk cars, and sold odds and ends of seasonal merchandise, such as rusty, bent, secondhand snow shovels.

Qwilleran returned to his typewriter. There was much to be said about February. It was second only to December as the favorite month of the greeting card industry. Commercially, valentines had an edge over year-end holiday greetings, which specialized in goodwill; valentines could be sentimental, passionate, flattering, comic, or insulting - something for everyone. Qwilleran described his own seven-year valentine feud that began in high school:

In my sophomore year there was a girl in Mrs. Fisheye's English Comp class who was brainy and aggressively disagreeable. The problem was that we were rivals for Top Dog status in the class. That year I received an anonymous homemade valentine that I knew came from her. A large red folder had these words printed on the cover. "Roses are red, violets are blue, and this is how I feel about you." Inside was one word - BORED! - along with a repulsive magazine photo of a yawning dog. I said nothing but saved it and mailed it back to her the following February, anonymously. In our senior year it returned to me, somewhat dog-eared but still anonymous. The charade continued annually all through college. Then I left Chicago, and that was the end of our silent feud. I don't remember the girl's name, but I think she really like me.

As Qwilleran typed, both cats were on his writing table: Yum Yum laying around on her brisket and enjoying the vibration transmitted through the wooden surface. Koko, the more cerebral of the two, watched the type bars jump and the carriage lurch, as if he were inventing a better way. Suddenly his ears alerted, and he looked toward the phone. A few moments later, it rang.

Qwilleran expected Polly to phone her day's grocery list. Instead, it was Lynette. "I had a wonderful time last night! Thank you again for that lovely brooch. I'll wear it to pin my clan sash on my wedding day."

"I'm glad you like it," he murmured.

"And the plaid cake was so clever! Polly said you brought it. Was it your idea?"

"I'm afraid I can't take the credit," he said tactfully.

"Now Carter Lee and I have a big favor to ask. Would you mind if we dropped by for a few minutes?"

"Not at all. Come at five o'clock and have a glass of wine."

After that, Qwilleran drove to Pickax to hand in his copy and have lunch at the Spoonery. He hoped also to see Brodie about Lenny's case, but the police chief was attending a law enforcement meeting. He attended quite a few of those, and Qwilleran wondered if they were held in ice fishing shanties on the frozen lake.

The Spoonery was a downtown lunchroom specializing in soups; it was the brainchild of Lori Bamba, an ambitious young woman who was always trying something new. Qwilleran sat at the counter and ordered the Asian hot and sour sausage soup. "How's Nick?" he asked Lori. "I never see him anymore."

"He' spending such long hours at the turkey farm, I hardly see him myself, but he's happy not to be working at the prison."

"For both you sakes, I'm glad he cut loose from that job. And how's the soup business?"

"I'm learning," she said with a good-natured shrug. "There's more demand for tomato rice and chicken noodle than for eggplant peanut."

"This, my friend, is Pickax," he reminded her.

"Do the kitties feel at home in Indian Village?" Lori had five of her own and was his mentor in affairs of the cat.

"Home is where the food is. Feed them at the appointed hour, and they'll be happy anywhere. There's one odd development, though. Our next-door neighbor plays Sousa marches, and not only does Koko beat time with the music, but he's started whacking the floor at other times."

"Does he swish his tail from side to side?"

"Definitely! Right, left - bam, bam, - right, left!"

Lori said seriously, "That's a danger signal. Does he direct his anger at Yum Yum?"

"Yes, and at me, too! He's trying to tell me something, and I'm not getting it. He's exasperated. Cats! They can drive you crazy.. This soup is great, Lori."

"Thanks. May I quote you? All I need to do is say, `Mr. Q likes it,' and there'll be a run on Asian hot and sour sausage soup."

From there he went to the design studio to pick up his dirks. "Superb job of framing!" he told Fran Brodie. "My compliments!"

"Where'll you hang them?"

"In the foyer, over the chest of drawers."

"Don't hang them too high," she cautioned. "Men of your height tend to hang wall decorations too high. It's the Giraffe syndrome." Then her manner changed from flip to confidential. "I heard a fantastic rumor this morning. Lynette is getting married at long last! And to Carter Lee James, if you can believe it!"

"It just proves there's hope for you, Fran," he said, knowing how to tease her.

"Yes, but how many Carter Lee Jameses are there to go around?" she retorted.

"Where did you hear the rumor?"

"One of my good customers called me. Do you think it's true? Lynette's older than he is, you know. He might be marrying her for the Duncan money."

"That's an unkind remark. She has a lot of good qualities, and they're both interested in old houses - and bridge. I hear they're excellent players."

"I'm surprised Danielle didn't tell me - if it's true."

"How's the play going?" he asked, smoothly changing the subject.

"Good news! We were able to get Ernie Kemple for Judge Brack, and it's perfect casting, although his booming voice and Danielle's tinny one sound like a duet for tuba and piccolo. You should come to rehearsal some night and have a few laughs. She calls him J.B. You know the line where Hedda points General Gabler's pistol and says: I'm going to shoot you, Judge Brack. Well, Danielle gave a little wiggle and said, `I'm gonna shoot you, J.B.' We all broke up!"

Qwilleran tamped his moustache. "If you want my opinion, Fran, this play will never make it to opening night." On the way out of the studio he asked casually, "Is your dad an ice fisherman?"

"No, he's not much of a sportsman. A little duck hunting in the fall, that's all. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondered... Has he said anything lately about the Willard Carmichael murder?"

"Not recently. When it first happened he said it would never be solved unless a suspect in another street crime confessed in a bid for leniency."

On the way home Qwilleran thought about Lena Inchpot and George Breze. He needed to confer with Celia Robinson - but how and where? Her bright red parked in front of his condo twice in quick success would arouse the curiosity of neighbors, Polly included. Gossip was a way of life in Pickax, although it was called "sharing information." Rumors traveled on Pickax grapevine with the speed of light. When Qwilleran was living at the barn, his location was secluded; even so, Andy Brodie had observed a red car entering woods that screened the barn from Main Street. With all of this in mind Qwilleran found it wise to brief Celia mail, as he had done when they worked together on Florida investigation... As soon as he arrived home he typed the following communication

(For your eyes only Memorize shred and flush) TO: Agent 00l3 FROM Q MISSION: Operation Winter Breeze ASSIGNMENT: To tail the subject identified in your report. Code name: Red Cap. Introduce yourself as Lenny's replacement. Play the friendly club hostess. Find out why Red Cap spends so much time in the TV lounge when he could be selling rusty snow shovels on Sandpit Road. Be charming. If he offers to buy you a drink, accept. You can pour it in the plastic ferns when he isn't looking. Bear in mind that Red Cap may be the Pickax Pilferer, and he may be covering up by falsely accusing Lenny. When mission is accomplished, phone headquarters to set up a rendezvous in the fresh produce department at Toodle's Market.

Toodle's Market was the perfect venue for a clandestine meeting. Strangers commonly exchanged opinions the best oranges for juice, the best way to cook beets, the best buy in wine. Furthermore, food demonstration created a party atmosphere by handing out samples of cheese spread or olive butter, and there were little per cups of coffee available. One could easily talk to the opposite sex without causing a traffic jam in the telephone system.

To deliver the briefing to Celia's mailbox at the gate-house, Qwilleran strapped on his snowshoes - or "webs" as they were called by the real buffs - and he trekked through the woods over a fresh fall of snow, trudging with wide-legged stance and long strides, keeping a slow and steady pace with a slightly rolling gait. He found it tranquilizing. At the gatehouse, he found a certain esthetic satisfaction in unstrapping the webs and sticking their tails in the snowbank.

As five o'clock approached, Qwilleran gave the Siamese an early dinner and instructions on how to behave during the visit of the happy couple. "No flying around! No knocking things down! No domestic quarrels!" They acted as if they understood, regarding him soberly, although actually they were just digesting their food.

The guests drove up promptly at five, Carter Lee driving Willard's Land-Rover. In the foyer, they removed their boots and hung scarfs and coats on the clothes tree, which Lynette admired at length. It was a square column of brass seven feet tall, with angular hooks of cast brass at varying levels.

"It's Art Deco, old but not antique," Qwilleran said. "Fran found it in Chicago. It came from the office of an old law firm."

The visitors hung their hats on the top hooks: one fluffy white angora knit, and one Russian-style toque of black fur. Then they walked into the living room and remarked about the fine wintery view and the beautiful cats.

"This one is Koko, and that one is Yum Yum," said Lynette, who had fed them one weekend in Qwilleran's absence. She extended a hand familiarly for them to sniff, but with typical feline perversity they ignored her and went to Carter Lee.

"Don't take it personally," the host explained to her. "They always consider it their duty to check out a new-comner."

The newcomer said, "My mother, who lives in Paris, has a Siamese called Theoria Dominys du Manoir des Ombreuses. Dodo, for short."

Lynette said, "We're going to France in May. Carter Lee speaks French fluently, and I'm going to brush up what I learned in high school. Le crayon est sur la table."

"For starters, then, how about a glass of merlot or pinot noir?" Qwilleran suggested. Red was Moose County's wine of choice in cold weather.

While he was pouring, they took the best seats in the house: the deep-cushioned sofa sheltered somewhat by the overhanging balcony and in full command of the view. The waning daylight was prolonged by the brilliant whiteness of the riverbank and the frozen river below.

"To all appearances, it's frozen solid," Qwilleran said, "but when I'm snowshoeing and all is silent, I can hear a faint trickle of water under the ice. The cats can hear it all the time. They sit in the window, listening."

The starry-eyed bride-to-be said, "We plan to have a summer place... don't we, honey? Either on the Ittibittiwassee or Rocky Burn." He nodded and smiled, looking quietly contented.

Amiable small talk continued for a while. Sitting apart on the sofa, the couple held hands across the center cushion and exchanged fond glances occasionally. Then, as if by hand signal, Lynette said, "We'd be grateful, Qwill, if you and Polly would stand up for us at our wedding. Folly is willing."

"Of course! I'm honored to be asked. What's the date?"

"A week from Tuesday. It's scheduled so we can honeymoon during Mardi Gras."

Carter Lee added, "We have a reservation that starts Wednesday, at an inn near the French Quarter."

"New Orleans is an exciting place for a wedding trip," Qwilleran murmured.

Lynette said blithely, waving the hand with the dazzling diamond, "There's an old superstition: `Marry on Tuesday, many a bluesday.' But I'm not worried. The ceremony will be here in the clubhouse, with the pastor of our church officiating. Then there'll be a simple reception for about forty - "

"But we'd like you and Polly," Carter Lee interrupted, "to be our guests for dinner at the Boulder House Inn. We're staying there overnight and leaving on the shuttle flight Wednesday morning. The inn has limo service to the airport."

"It'll be a Scottish wedding, Qwill," Lynette said. "I'll wear a sash in my clan tartan over a white dress and fasten it with the silver brooch you gave me. Polly will wear her floor-length kilt and a clan sash. Then there are several Scottish customs, like a wreath of flowers in my hair and a silver coin in my shoe - for luck. At the reception Polly will break the traditional oatcake over my head."

Qwilleran said, "You can buy oatcakes at the Scottish bakery, but silver coins haven't been struck since the l960s."

"I'll cheat. I'll put a thin dime in my shoe. Carter Lee has to leave his left shoelace untied during the ceremony."

"I'll cheat, too," Carter Lee said. "I'll wear evening pumps."

"Yes, he'll be in dinner clothes," Lynette said, "but we're counting on you, Qwill, to wear full Highland dress."

He nodded his agreement, having received innumerable compliments on his Scottish Night debut.

"Since I'm marrying out of my clan, I'm supposed to keep my maiden name. Once a Duncan, always a Duncan... But you don't mind, do you, honey?"

Her fianc‚ squeezed her hand and smiled indulgently. They were being so coyly sentimental that Qwilleran shuddered inwardly. Coy sentimentality was beyond his frame of reference. Furthermore, he had a dinner date, and they had said they would drop in for a few minutes; they had been there more than an hour. He should never have served them a second glass of wine. In an effort to jog them loose from their prenuptial euphoria, he changed the subject, saying somberly, "Carter Lee, how is your cousin? Is she - ? Is she - ?"

"She's holding up," he replied. "She'd like to marry again, and that's a healthy sign. She should go on with her life. She has so much to give. I hate to see it go to waste, don't you, Qwill?"

Before Qwilleran could formulate an appropriate reply to a debatable question, all three of them were unnerved by a sudden fracas in the foyer: snarling, thumping, hissing, growling. He jumped up and rushed to the scene. The two cats were fighting over the Russian fur hat, rolling in it and kicking it - and each other - with hind legs like steel pistons.

"Stop that!" Qwilleran thundered, and the two culprits streaked away in opposite directions. "My apologies!" he said to Carter Lee.

"No problem. I'll just give it a good shake."

They drove away in the Land-Rover, and Qwilleran went to dinner at Polly's, but not before giving the Siamese a treat and saying, "You rascals!"

-12

Qwilleran's life that winter was a jigsaw puzzle of work, social events, reading, daily snowshoeing, telephone calls, and the exigencies of domesticity with two Siamese cats. Once a week the pieces fell into place when he spent a predictable weekend with Polly Duncan. He could count on contentment and stimulation in equal quantities, plus at least one set-to with Bootsie. The weekend following Lynette's birthday party, something went wrong, however. It started with broiled whitefish and broccoli at her place on Saturday evening and ended with Sunday dinner at the Palomino Paddock, a five-star restaurant in Lockmaster County.

Over the whitefish Qwilleran said, "If Lynette thinks she can keep her wedding sub rosa until after the fact,she's living in a fool's paradise. I saw Fran Brodie today, and already she'd heard the news from a customer."

Polly said, "It's the newspaper publicity she wants to avoid. Her friends are being invited informally by phone, and they understand she doesn't want them to talk about it."

"Of course they understand, but will they keep their traps shut? This county is inhabited entirely by blabber-mouths."

"Qwill, dear, you're so cynical."

"I've decided why Danielle was so moody at last night's party. Willard had arranged to take her to Mardi Gras, and it's his hotel reservation that's now being used by Carter Lee for his honeymoon, so Danielle is left out... unless Lynette jilts him, in which case he can take Danielle."

"It's not a matter for levity," Polly said in gentle rebuke. "Lynette's intensely committed to this marriage. She's resigned from her job at the clinic, and she's transferring her property to joint ownership."

"So you think it's safe to go ahead and buy a wedding gift? If we'd known sooner, they could have had a black female schnauzer."

"It's really a problem, deciding what to give them. She has a houseful of heirloom silver, porcelain, and art."

Qwileran said, "We could commission a portrait artist to paint the two of them together in front of their gingerbread house - like Grant Wood's American Gothic but without the pitchfork. There's a guy in Lockmaster who does portraits, and he's quite good."

Polly liked the idea enormously.

During their time together they talked about this and that. She said, "You're enjoying your snowshoes, aren't you? I see you shoeing around the Village in your orange padded vest and orange hat."

"That's so rabbit hunters won't mistake me for a snowshoe hare... Have you done anything about getting your stereo repaired?"

"I've called Lucky Electronics three times."

"When you call Lucky, you're lucky if he shows up, and if he comes to look at your problem, he has to order a new part, and if it ever arrives and he installs it, you're lucky if it works. We should buy you a new rig, state-of-the-art."

Then they talked about the library. "We have a problem with the new water-saving commode in the restroom," Polly said. "It flushes with a crash and a roar that resounds throughout the building. The clerks giggle; the subscribers are alarmed; and I'm embarrassed, but the plumber says there's no way out - it's the law!"

On the way home from Lockmaster on Sunday evening, Qwilleran made a big mistake. He asked, "Have you had any luck in finding Bootsie a companion?"

"At last! My friend in Lockmaster is having a litter, and she's promised me first choice."

"Be careful what you call your new kitten. T. S. Eliot says the name you give your cat can affect his selfesteem, or words to that effect. It may be that Bootsie doesn't like his name."

"What do you mean?" she asked tartly.

"You have to admit that Bootsie is hardly an appropriate name for a noble, aristocratic animal like a Siamese. If it's causing him to doubt his self-worth, that could account for his bad disposition."

Polly bristled. "He's very sweet and loving when we're alone."

"But you have to lock him up when you have company. Does that sound like a well-adjusted pet?"

"You're the only one who can't get along with him!" Polly said belligerently. "I think you and your theories are absurd, and that goes for T. S. Eliot, too."

Qwilleran was unaware that one should never question a person's choice of name for a pet, no matter how intimate the friendship. Unwittingly he had crossed the line. "Sorry I mentioned it, Polly. I didn't mean to upset you."

"Well, I'm very much upset, and I find this entire conversation unconscionable. Just drop me at the front door. I have a headache."

He did as she requested, and she was gone without another word. He had never witnessed such an outburst from this intelligent, reasonable woman.

The Siamese realized he was disturbed, and they kept their distance, regarding him anxiously. Without speaking to them, he got into a lounge robe and bedroom slippers and scooped a dish of ice cream for himself. Snow was falling lightly. The daylight was fading. Sprawled in his big chair with feet propped on the ottoman, he wondered, Now what? Should I call and apologize? Will she come to her senses? What did I say? How did it start?

Suddenly the doorbell rang urgently and repeatedly. He swung his feet to the floor and hurried to open the door. Standing in the snow was a little birdlike woman with no coat, no boots, merely a shawl over her gray hair and around her thin shoulders.

"Please help!" she cried. "Our cat's trapped! She'll kill herself!" She pointed down the row of condos.

"Right away!" He pulled a jacket off the clothes tree and followed her through the snow in his bedroom slippers. She was one of the retired schoolteachers in Unit Two.

Their golden Persian had fallen behind the laundry equipment and was entangled in the works, struggling frantically, squealing piteously, and in danger of strangling.

"Stand back!" he said. "I'll pull the washer out. She'll be all right." Speaking reassuringly to the terrified animal, he extricated her and handed her to the small woman who had come to his door.

"Poor Pinky! Poor Pinky!" she sobbed, hugging and kissing her pet.

The other sister, a taller woman but equally thin, said emotionally, "How can we thank you, Mr. Qwilleran?" Then she saw him standing in a puddle of melting snow on the vinyl floor. "My heavens! Look at you! No shoes! You poor man! You must be frozen!... Jenny! Bring towels!... What can we do, Mr. Qwilleran?"

"Just give me a towel and throw my slippers in the dryer," he said, "and a cup of hot coffee wouldn't hurt." The aroma of coffee was drifting from the kitchen.

"Would you like some brandy in it? Come and sit down... Jenny, where's the heating pad? And bring the blue quilt!"

Pinky had disappeared, no doubt dismayed by the half-clad male intruder who now sat in her favorite chair, wrapped in the blue quilt, with bare feet bundled in a heating pad, while the two women fluttered about, worrying and trying to help.

They introduced themselves as Ruth and Jenny Cavendish. "We have two cats, and we know you have a pair of Siamese," Ruth said. "We read about them in your excellent column."

Jenny presented Pinky's partner, another golden Persian, named Quinky. "Actually, the names are Propinquity and Equanimity."

"Ideal names for cats!" he declared. This adventure, he thought, is going to pay off; already ideas were crowding his head. He gave his keys to Ruth, who brought his boots from the foyer of Unit Four, and his slippers were returned to him, warm and dry.

The sisters insisted they would be eternally grateful.

About the idea spawned by the adventure: He would write a trenchant treatise on the specialized art of naming cats (Polly, take note!) and would invite readers to mail in the names of their own cherished felines. As a columnist, Qwilleran was not averse to letting subscribers do his work for him. Reader participation, it was called. He knew Arch Riker would say, "Not another cat column! Please!" Let him scoff! Riker was not yoked with the responsibility of penning a thousand entertaining, informative, well-chosen words twice a week. For starters, Qwilleran made a list of well-named cats of his acquaintance:

Toulouse, a black-and-white stray adopted by an artist.

Wrigley, a native of Chicago, now living in Pickax.

Winston, the bookstore longhair, who resembled an elder statesman.

Agatha and Christie, two kittens abandoned in the parking lot of the library.

Magnificat, who lived at the Old Stone Church.

Beethoven, a white cat born deaf.

Holy Terror, the pet of a retired pastor and his wife.

Then he developed some of his pet ideas: Oriental breeds react favorably to names with an Eastern connotation, like Beau Thai and Chairman Meow. Others like important titles that bolster their self-esteem, like Sir Albert Whitepaws, Lady Ik Ik, or Samantha Featherbottom, even though these honorifics are used only in formal introductions; nicknames are acceptable for everyday use. A cat who dislikes his name may develop behavior problems, which are corrected when his name is changed from Peanuts to Aristocat. In three days a cat named Booby will adjust to the proud, Roman senatorial name of Brutus.

When deftly organized and couched in Qwilleranian prose, the ideas made a commendable "Qwill Pen" column, which concluded with the following:

Who are your cats? Write their names on a postcard and mail it to "Cat Poll" at the Moose County Something. The names may be clever, ordinary, bawdy, sentimental, silly, or scatological. This is not a contest! There are no prizes!

When Qwilleran handed in his copy at the newspaper, Junior Goodwinter said, "We've been swamped with phone calls from readers, wanting to know the four ways to pronounce February." He scanned the new copy in bemused silence until he reached the final paragraph. "Oh boy! Wait till the Lockmaster Ledger sees this! They'll think we've gone bananas. You say no prizes! You'll never get results without offering a reward. How many postcards do you expect to get?"

"A few," Qwilleran said with a shrug. "The point of the column is to get people thinking and talking."

The paper was on the street at mid-afternoon. That evening he received a phone call from a voice that was soft, gentle, and low. "Qwill, are you on speaking terms with me?"

"No, but I'm on listening terms," he said gently. "I've missed your soothing voice."

"Forgive me for being so peevish. I've always been touchy about Bootsie's name, I'm afraid. I don't know why. You're not the only one who's objected to it."

Qwilleran knew why. In naming her cat, she had made a bad choice, and she knew it, but she resented having it pointed out.

Polly said, "But your column gave me an idea. Do you really think Bootsie would adjust to a new name in three days? I'm thinking of calling him Brutus. This was the noblest Roman of them all!"

There were other calls that evening, one in the grating voice that made his blood curdle. "Hi, Qwill. This is Danielle. I've seen you out hiking on your snowshoes."

"It's cheap transportation," he said.

"How would you like to hike over here some afternoon and run lines with me, and maybe you could give me some advice."

"Thank you for the invitation, but I'm a working stiff, and my days are fully scheduled," he said, adding quickly, "How are the rehearsals going?"

"Oh, they're fun - "

"That's good. I wish I had time to chat, Danielle, but I have a houseful of guests here. Will you excuse me?"

"Dammit!" he said to Koko after hanging up. The cat was sitting on the table, slapping it with his tail-right, left, right, left.

The next call was more welcome, being the brisk voice that Celia Robinson used for undercover communication:

"Mr. Qwilleran, this is Mrs. Robinson. I'm going to Toodle`s Market tomorrow morning. They have a good buy on apples, and I know you eat a lot of apples. I'll pick up a bagful for you, if you want me to. I'm going at ten o'clock before they're all picked over."

"I'll appreciate that. Very thoughtful of you," he said.

At ten o'clock the next morning he found her in the fresh produce department at Toodle's Market, inspecting apples for bruises and wormholes.

Carrying the store's green plastic shopping basket, he sidled up to her and said loudly, "Do you think these are good eating apples?"

"They're Jonathans, a nice all-purpose apple." Then she added under her breath, "Had a long talk with Red Cap."

"Winesaps are what I really like."

"I think they're out of season... I've got the tape in my handbag."

Another customer joined them. "Aren't you Mr. Q? I think your column is just wonderful!"

"Thank you," he said as he loaded his basket with apples.

"I always clip it and send it to my daughter in Idaho."

"That's pleasant to hear." He moved away in slow motion, following Celia to the oranges. "How can you tell if these are good juicers?"

"I always look for thin skins... Meet me at the deli counter."

They separated, then met again where Qwileran was buying sliced turkey breast for the cats and some Greek olives for himself. Celia was eating cheese spread on a cracker. She slipped him something in a paper napkin and then disappeared in the crowd. It was the tape.

What he heard when he played Celia's recording impressed him as a boy-meets-girl script for over-sixties. Her friendly voice alternated with a hoarse male twang:

"Are you Mr. Breze? Hi! I'm Celia Robinson from the manager's office." "Howdy! Sit down. Have a drink." "How do you like this weather? Pretty cold, isn't it?" "No good for the rheumatiz!" "That's a nice-looking shirt you're wearing. I like to see a man in a plaid shirt." "Wife give it to me eight years ago. `Bout ready to be washed. Heh heh heh." (Female laughter.) "Oh, Mr. Breze! You're so funny!" "Call me George. You're a nice-lookin' woman. You married?" "I'm a widow and a grandmother." "Have a slug o' whiskey. I'm divorced. Wife run off with a hoedown fiddler." "Is that why you're living in the Village?" "Yep. Gotta house on Sandpit Road - too big for just me. Know anybody with ninety thou to throw away?" "Ninety thousand! It must be quite a fine house." "Well, the roof don't leak. If I find me another woman, I'll keep the house and fix it up. There's a feller what says I can get money from the guv'ment to fix it up. Showed me some pitchers, what it'd look like. Mighty purty pitchers." "That sounds too good to be true, doesn't it? Who is this man?" "Young feller. Lives here in the Village. Don't know his name... Have a snort. I'm havin' another. What's your drink?" "Thanks, but I never drink on the job." "Don't go away. Be right back. (Pause.) Well, here's mud in yer eye! What's yer name?" "Celia Robinson. I'm substituting for Lenny Inchpot while he's away. Do you know him?" "Sure. He got thrown in jail for stealin'." "But people tell me he's a very honest young man. He's going to college part-time." "That don't make him honest. They found the goods on `im, di'n't they?" "I wonder who tipped off the police to look in Lenny's locker." "Warn't me!" "Do you know what kinds of things were stolen?" "Nope. Di'n't say on the radio. Maybe it said in the paper. Don't read the paper." "Why not, Mr. Breze? It's a very good one." "Call me George. It's a waste o' time readin' the paper. I'm a successful businessman. I don't need to read. I can hire people to read and write." "Are you telling me you can't read, Mr. Breze?... George?" "Could if I felt like learnin'. Never took the time. Too busy makin' money. Plenty o' people can read and write, but they're broke." "What kind of business are you in George?" "Any goldurned thing that'll make money. Wanna job? Can you cook?" (Click)

When the tape clicked off, Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. It was the old duffer he had tried to interview during the mayoralty campaign - the candidate who made news by polling only two votes. His house was an ugly, square, two-story barracks with a hip roof and a tall brick chimney rising from its center. Local wags said it looked like a plumber's plunger. A sad piece of real estate, it had no trees or shrubs, no grass, no window shutters, not even any paint. Breze himself was either pathetically naive or arrogantly ignorant.

Koko had been listening and making gurgling noises that sounded sympathetic, and Qwilleran suddenly felt sorry for Old Gallbladder. He had suspected the despised fellow on the basis of prejudice, not evidence. In fact, the moustache that was the source of Qwilleran's hunches had been entirely dormant during Operation Winter Breeze... So, if Breze didn't steal the goods and rig Lenny's locker and tip off the police, who did?

-13-

It was the weekend before the wedding, and Qwilleran and Polly were together again. As a peace offering he gave her the jewel box of polished horn and brass that he had been saving for February 14. For her valentine he had ordered a state-of-the-art stereo from a catalog.

Polly said one evening, "I always thought Lynette and Wetherby Goode might get together. She admires his whimsical weathercasting style, and they both play bridge, and he presents a good appearance, although slightly heavyset."

Qwilleran thought Wetherby's emcee personality might be too exuberant as a steady diet. "Carter Lee is laid-back, sophisticated, a perfect gentleman. Wetherby is the `Stars and Stripes Forever'; Carter Lee is Pachelbel's Canon."

"Did you know, Qwill, that Wetherby's real name is Joe Bunker?"

"That being the case, he was wise to change it," Qwilleran said sagely.

The Tuesday-night wedding took place in the social hall of the clubhouse. A white runner on the red carpet led to the fireplace, which blazed festively. Before it, a white-draped table held red and white carnations in a brass bowl and red candles in tall brass holders. A Valentine wedding, the guests said; so romantic! They stood on either side of the runner: chiefly Lynette's friends from the bridge club, the church, and the medical clinic, plus the Rikers and the Lanspeaks and John Bushland with his camera. Many of the men were in kilts; the women wore clan sashes draped from shoulder to hip.

When the recorded music - Scottish tunes for flute and dulcimer - suddenly stopped, the guests turned toward the entrance. The double doors opened, and Andrew Brodie in bagpiper's regalia piped the wedding party down the white aisle with the traditional strains of "Highland Wedding." First came the officiating clergyman, then the groom and groomsman and - after a few suspenseful moments - the bride and her attendant.

Lynette's clan sash, predominantly green, was a column of brilliant color fastened on her shoulder and cascading down the front and back of her long white dinner dress. She wore a wreath of stephanotis in her hair. The same green tartan figured in Polly's evening skirt and clan sash, worn with a white silk blouse. Qwilleran was resplendent in full Highland kit. Against the Duncan green and Mackintosh red, the groom's black dinner clothes looked ominously somber.

"He looks like a waiter," Riker later confided to? Qwilleran.

The ceremony was brief and flawless. There were no sentimental tears - only happiness - as the fire crackle on the hearth and the words were said. Then Brodie piped the triumphal "Scotland the Brave" and led the wedding party and guests to the dining hall. An oatcake was broken over the bride's head, and she made the first cut in the wedding cake with a dirk.

Champagne was poured and toasts were said and guests kissed the bride. Danielle was the first to kiss her cousin. "Give me a big hug," she said.

Even Qwilleran was kissed by many of the women including, of all people, Amanda Goodwinter. "This is turning into an orgy," he said to her.

"You said it!" she muttered. "Did you see how the Carmichael woman bussed her cousin? I hope Lynette knows what she's doing. It's bad luck to marry on Tuesday or marry in green."

"Don't worry," Qwilleran said. "With a silver coin in her shoe and oatcake crumbs in her hair, she's home safe."

Carter Lee was his usual charming self, flashing his winning smile at the guests in between fond glances at his bride. She was brimming with the joy she had lost twenty years before. When Brodie played a lively tune, she hoisted her skirt and danced the Highland fling.

Mac MacWhannell said to Qwilleran, "Too bad she didn't marry a Scot. Know anything about his genealogy?"

"No, but James is a good British name. You know: King James... P. D. James... and all those others."

"When they're back from their honeymoon," Big Mac promised, "we'll invite him to join the genealogy club." And then he said, "That was an interesting column on naming cats. We have two gray ones, Misty and Foggy, and our daughter in New Hampshire has a kitten called Arpeggio. It runs up and down the piano keys."

"The things you hear when you don't have a pencil!" Qwilleran said. "Send the names in on a postcard."

"No!" Arch Riker protested. "No more postcards! The mailroom is swamped! What are we supposed to do with them all?"

Mildred said, "My grandkids have a tomcat called Alvis Parsley. He likes rock and roll."

"I believe they tune in to a rhythmic beat," said the choir leader from the church. "Ours sits on the piano with her tail swinging to the music. We call her Metro, short for metronome."

Everyone joined the game. Everyone knew an aptly named cat: a tom named Catsanova; a shrimp addict called Stir Fry; a pair of Burmese known as Ping and Pong.

"Send postcards!" Qwilleran reminded them.

Polly said to him, "You've opened a Pandora's box. Is it going to be a blessing or a curse?"

When the piper swung into a strathspey, it was a signal that the newlyweds were leaving. Qwilleran, who was driving the getaway car, fished the car keys from his sporran and asked Riker to bring his van to the clubhouse door.

En route to Boulder House Inn, the couple in the backseat raved about the gift from the couple in the front seat, little knowing how close they had come to getting a schnauzer. Carter Lee said they would schedule a sitting with the portraitist as soon as they returned. Polly hoped they would have good weather in New Orleans. Lynette hoped not to gain any weight.

As for the driver, his moustache was giving him some uneasiness. Champagne had flowed freely at the reception, and he was probably the only one who was totally sober. He kept thinking about the X-rated kiss that Danielle had bestowed on the groom... and about the hints that they were not really cousins... and about the hasty marriage that was a topic of local gossip.

The Boulder House Inn perched on a cliff overlooking the frozen lake and was indeed built of boulders, some as big as bathtubs, piled one on top of another. Snow accented every ledge, lintel, sill, and crevice. Indoors, some of the floors were chiseled from the huge flat rock that made the foundation of the building. Four-foot split logs blazed in the cavernous fireplace, around which guests gathered after dinner to listen to the innkeeper's stories.

Silas Dingwall was like the innkeeper in a medieval woodcut: short, rotund, leather-aproned, and jolly. Smiling and flinging his arms wide in welcome, he ushered the wedding party to the best table in the dining room. The centerpiece was a profusion of red carnations, white ribbons, and white wedding bells of plastic foam. A wine cooler stood ready, chilling a bottle of champagne, courtesy of the house.

"May I open it?" he asked.

The cork escaped from the bottleneck with a gentle pfffl! and he poured with a flourish, while lavishing felicitations on the bridal pair. He ended by saying, "I'll be your wine steward tonight, and Tracy will be your server."

Involuntarily Qwilleran's hand went to his upper lip as he saw the innkeeper speak to a pretty young blond woman. He saw Dingwall gesture toward their table. He saw her nod.

Lynette and Carter Lee were drinking an intimate toast to each other, with arms linked and eyes shining, when the blond server approached the table. She took a few brisk steps, wearing a hospitable smile, then slowed to a sleepwalker's pace as her smile turned to shock. "Oh, my God!" she cried and ran blindly from the dining room, bumping into chairs and lurching through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

There was silence among the diners. Then hysterical screams came from the kitchen, and the innkeeper rushed through the swinging doors.

"Well!" Polly said. "What was that all about?"

Lynette was bewildered. Carter Lee seemed poised. Qwilleran looked wise. He thought he knew what it was all about.

The innkeeper, red-faced, bustled up to the table. "I'm sorry," he said. "Tracy is not well. Barbara will be your server."

After the wedding dinner, Qwilleran and Polly chose to drive back to Pickax without waiting for the storytelling hour around the fireplace. She had to work the next day, and he was less than comfortable with the situation as he perceived it. But he was "best man," and he had made the best of it.

While the two sisters-in-law embraced with tears of joy, the two men shook hands, and Carter Lee thanked his best man for being witness to the ceremony.

"It's the third time I've performed this role," Qwilleran said, "and it's the first time I've done it without dropping the ring, so that bodes well!"

Before leaving, he told Silas Dingwall about Short and Tall Tales and made an appointment for the next day to record "something hair-raising, mysterious, or otherwise sensational." The innkeeper promised him a good one.

On the way home, no mention was made of the waitress's outburst. Polly told him he was the handsomest man at the wedding; he told her she looked younger than the bride. Both agreed that Lynette looked beatific.

"So you see, you were wrong about her jilting him, Qwill."

"First time in my life I've ever been wrong," he said with a facetious nonchalance that he did not really feel.

On the way to Boulder House Inn, the day after the wedding, Qwilleran reviewed the incident of the previous evening. The server's name was Tracy; she was a pretty blond; she was obviously Ernie Kemple's daughter, who had been wined and dined by Carter Lee James. Her father knew she was gullible; he feared she would be hurt again. Now Qwilleran was wondering what kind of husband Lynette had acquired. He was a suave young man who was enchanting local women, including Polly. She remarked about his engaging ways. He was being called charming, gallant, gentlemanly. What else was he?

Arriving at the inn, Qwilleran was greeted effusively by Silas Dingwall, who was excited about being "in a book." He said, "We'll go in the office, where it's quiet."

"And first tell me something about yourself," Qwilleran said.

Over coffee he learned that Dingwall was descended from the survivors of a shipwreck more than a century before. All his life he had been fascinated by tales handed down through the generations.

"There were ghost stories, murder mysteries, rumrunning thrillers and you-name-it. My favorite is the Mystery of Dank Hollow, a true story about a young fisherman who was also a new bridegroom. It happened, maybe, a hundred and thirty years ago when Trawnto was a little fishing village. Want to hear it?"

"I certainly do. Just tell it straight through. I won't interrupt."

As eventually transcribed, the story went like this:

One day a young fisherman by the name of Wallace Reekie, who lived in the village here, went to his brother's funeral in a town twenty miles away. He didn't have a horse, so he set out on foot at daybreak and told his new bride he'd be home at nightfall. Folks didn't like to travel that road after dark because there was a dangerous dip in it. Mists rose up and hid the path, you see, and it was easy to make a wrong turn and walk into the bog. They called it Dank Hollow. At the funeral, Wallace helped carry his brother's casket to the burial place in the woods, and on the way he tripped over a tree root. There was an old Scottish superstition: Stumble while carrying a corpse, and you'll be the next to go into the grave. It must have troubled Wallace, because he drank too much at the wake and was late in leaving for home. His relatives wanted him to stay over, but he was afraid his young wife would worry. He took a nap before leaving, though, and got a late start. It was a five-hour trek, and when he didn't show up by nightfall, like he'd said, his wife sat up all night, praying. It was just turning daylight when she was horrified to see her husband staggering into the dooryard of their little hut. Before he could say a word, he collapsed on the ground. She screamed for help, and a neighbor's boy ran for the doctor. He came galloping on horseback and did what he could. They also called the pastor of the church. He put his ear to the dying man's lips and listened to his last babbling words, but for some reason he never told what he heard. From then on, folks dreaded the Dank Hollow after dark. It was not only because of the mists and the bog but because of Wallace's mysterious death. That happened way back, of course. By 1930, when a paved road bypassed the Hollow, the incident was mostly forgotten. And then, in 1970, the pastor's descendants gave his diary to the Trawnto Historical Society. That's when the whole story came to light: Wallace had reached the Dank Hollow after dark and was feeling his way cautiously along the path, when he was terrified to see a line of shadowy beings coming toward him out of the bog. One of them was his brother, who had just been buried. They beckoned Wallace to join their ghostly procession, and that was the last thing the poor man remembered. How he had found his way home in his delirium was hard to explain. The pastor had written in his diary: "Only the prayers of his wife and his great love for her could have guided him." And then he added a strange thing: "When Wallace collapsed in his dooryard, all his clothes were inside out."

"Whew' Qwilleran said when the story ended Is Dank Hollow still there'?

"No they filled it in a few years ago and built condominiums I'm not superstitious but I'd sure think twice before buying one When will your book be published?"

"As soon as I've collected a sufficient number of yarns I might have space for one of your rum running tales at a later date if you d be good enough to - " "I'd be honored!... More coffee?"

While drinking his second cup of coffee Qwilleran asked, "What happened to the server who was supposed to wait on our table last night?"

"Tracy? Well she's a good worker and pretty and has a nice way with customers but she's a very impulsive type She suddenly rushed into the kitchen as if she'd seen a ghost She was hysterical and my wife took her into our private quarters so the guests wouldn't be disturbed We didn't know what kind of seizure it was so we called 911. We also called her home and her father came and got her It turned out that the gentleman who just got married was supposed to be her boyfriend. Can you beat that?"

It's been the stuff of Greek tragedy opera, and novels for centuries Qwilleran said The villain usually gets stabbed."

"She has a little boy, you know, and that might be why she lost out. An elegant young man like Mr. James might not want to take on a ready made family."

Especially Qwilleran thought when the alternative is a woman with property and inherited wealth.

From the Boulder House Inn Qwilleran drove to the Pickax community hall, where the Boosters Club was having its weekly luncheon. Ernie Kemple would be there as official greeter, and Qwilleran wanted to have a few words with him. There would be a fast lunch and an even faster business meeting, and then the members would hurry back to their stores and offices.

Kemple was welcoming them at the door with his usual hearty banter, but Qwilleran detected an undertone of anxiety. He said, "Ernie, let's talk after the meeting." He wanted to brace him for the newspaper coverage of the wedding. But first he had to stand in line for his soup-and-sandwich platter, which he carried to one of the long institutional tables. He sat next to Wetherby Goode and across from Hixie Rice.

"Bean soup again! Ham and cheese again!" the weatherman complained. "I thought the lunches would have more class after they let you gals join."

"Don't worry," she said. "Next week it'll be fruit salad and melba toast."

During the business session it was she who gave the update on the Ice Festival:

Contestants coming from eight states, including Alaska. Prizes valued at a quarter-million, donated by business firms and well-wishers. Seven colleges sending student-artists to the ice sculpture competition. Snow-moving equipment in three counties on standby, ready to build the rinks, race tracks, and snow barriers. Hospitality tents leaving Minneapolis by truck on Monday. Fifteen thousand polar-bear buttons already delivered. Jim Qwilleran lined up as grand marshal of the torchlight parade. Volunteers needed for hospitality tents and traffic control.

"Need any indoor volunteers?" Wetherby Goode called out. "I can't stand the cold."

After the applause and the grand rush for the exit, Qwileran and Ernie Kemple stayed behind. "How goes it?" Qwilleran asked in a warmly sympathetic tone.

"Tracy's in the hospital. She tried to OD. Vivian's flying home from Arizona. That Carter Lee James is a heel! He's been trying to use Tracy to get us to sign up for his project. Last night she found out in the cruelest way. She was assigned to wait on his table at the Boulder House. It turned out to be his wedding party! He'd married the Duncan woman, who has a house on our street."

"I know," Qwilleran said. "I was there, and I just want to tip you off; there'll be a big spread on the wedding in today's paper."

"Oh, God! I'll be glad when Vivian gets home. She's coming in on the five o'clock shuttle. Tracy won't talk to me. I'd warned her, but she wouldn't listen, so now she hates me because I was right. Can't win!"

"They have to make their own mistakes," Qwilleran murmured as if he were an expert on parenting.

"You don't know how hard it is," Kemple said, "to stand by and see them go over the cliff. This is her second disappointment. She should've stayed with Lenny. She'll never get him back now... but here I am, dumping my woes on you again."

"Don't apologize," Qwilleran said. "I'm really concerned."

He was, too. There were increasing tremors on his upper lip.

-14-

After the Boosters' luncheon, Qwilleran killed time until three o'clock, reading out-of-town newspapers at the public library. He was waiting for a chance to talk to Lenny Inchpot at his mother's restaurant. At three o'clock he bought a copy of the something and took it with him to Lois's Luncheonette, where he dawdled over apple pie and the local news. The wedding was handled as a photo feature with a minimum of text:

VALENTINE WEDDING IN THE VILLAGE

Lynette Duncan of Pickax and Carter Lee James of New York City were united in marriage Tuesday evening in a Scottish wedding at the Indian Village clubhouse. Witnesses for the couple were Polly Duncan and James Qwilleran. The Reverend Wesley Forbush officiated.

The photos were credited to John Bushland: a close-up of the bride and groom; the wedding party in front of the fireplace; the oatcake ritual; the bride making the first cut in the wedding cake with a Scottish dirk; and a group shot of guests in tartans and Brodie with his bagpipe.

When the last customer had left and the Closed sign was hung in the window, Lenny started mopping the floor. Qwilleran went to the kitchen pass-through and shouted at Lois, "Permission requested to speak to the mop-jockey on matters of vital importance."

"Go ahead," she yelled back, "but make it snappy. He's got work to do."

"Park the mop, Lenny, and sit down for a few minutes," Qwilleran said. "Did you hear that Tracy Kemple's in the hospital?"

"No! What happened?"

"Nervous breakdown. Have you seen today's paper?" He opened it to the wedding page. "The bridegroom is Carter Lee James."

"Oh-oh!" Lenny said with a gulp. "Tracy thought she was on the inside track with that guy. I guess it was wishful thinking."

Or, Qwilleran thought, deliberate misrepresentation. "Do you know how she met him?"

"Sure. He was trying to sell the Kemples on signing up for his big project. It meant paying a lot of money up front, and Ernie wasn't keen on the deal. To me, Carter Lee sounded like a sharpie, but Tracy was impressed by the houses he'd had published in magazines... You know, Mr. Q, I've been suspicious of strangers ever since that smooth talker with a bunch of flowers blew up the hotel last year. Where I made my mistake with Tracy - I told her I thought Carter Lee was a phoney. That was a dumb thing to do. I should've kept my big mouth shut. All it did was make her mad, and she told me to get lost... That's the story. Now what?"

"It's for you to decide. For starters, you might call Ernie and sympathize with him. He's feeling down."

"Yeah, I could do that. I always got along with Ernie."

"He's willing to appear at your hearing as a character witness. So am I."

"Honest? That's great, Mr. Q! And thanks for lining up Mr. Barter. He's a super guy!"

"Okay. See you in court."

When Qwilleran left the lunchroom, Lenny was swishing the mop around like a sleepwalker.

"Get with it!" his mother screamed. "Folks'll be comin' in before the floor's clean!"

Before going home, Qwilleran bought six copies of the Something for Polly to give Lynette on her return. He dropped them off at the library.

"Did you know Carter Lee is from New York?" he asked.

"I know only that he's worked in eastern cities. Lynette says his portfolio of past projects is thrilling. I'd like to see it."

"So would I," he said.

"I'm expecting you to come for another chicken dinner tonight. We've had seven of the recipes so far; only ten to go."

"I can hardly wait," he said ambiguously. "Any excitement at the library today? Any loud voices? Any wet boots?"

"You wouldn't believe it, Qwill! The clerks and volunteers talk about nothing but the naming of cats! I told them Bootsie is now Bretus, and his companion will be named Catta, which is said to be Latin for the female of the species. My assistant has three cats: Oedipuss, Octopuss, and Platypuss. And the silver tabby who sleeps in the window of Scottie's men's shop is Haggis MacTavish."

Soon Moose County would have something else to talk about.

Late that same afternoon, Qwilleran was pulling into his driveway, and Wetherby Goode was pulling out. The weatherman tooted his horn lightly and lowered the window. "Got a minute, Qwill?"

There was an element of anxiety in the question that made Qwilleran say, "Sure. Want to come in?"

When Wetherby saw the Siamese, who were being politely inquisitive, he said, "You've got two top-of-the-line cats here. Mine's an orange tiger called Jet Stream, slight pun intended. He answers to Jet-boy."

"Care for a drink, Wetherby?"

"No, thanks. I'm on my way to the station. Call me Joe. That's my real name."

"Well, sit down, Joe, and tell me what's eating you."

He sat on the edge of a chair. "What did you think about the Ice Festival update at the luncheon?"

"I'd say they've done a superlative job of organization and promotion. I'm not keen on being grand marshal, but I hope it's a popular and financial success."

"So do I, but - I hate to say this, Qwill - there's a warming trend in the offing. A real warming trend!"

"It can't last more than a couple of days. This is February!"

"The weather's been weird all over the globe. An unseasonable and prolonged warm spell is not only possible but inevitable - that plus warm rain! Do you realize what it'll do to the Ice Festival? A premature thaw could wipe out the profits expected by local business firms, not to mention disappointing thousands of people in three counties! After I give the long-range forecast tonight, I may have to leave town. Don't they always shoot the messenger who brings bad news? A meteorologist's lot, like that of a policeman, is not a happy one. Listeners expect forecasts to be perfect, but they don't care about warm fronts and cold air pockets. They only want to know which jacket to wear and whether to close the car windows... Well, anyway, I felt like unloading the bad news on somebody. Thanks for listening."

When Wetherby left, Qwilleran went to his office alcove to read the day's mail and have another look at the wedding photos in the Something, only to find that someone... someone had thrown up a hairball on the newspaper. Both cats crouched nearby, waiting for him to make the discovery.

"I don't know which of you did this," he said, "but I consider it a new low! A breach of etiquette!"

Yum Yum squeezed her eyes, and Koko acted as if he'd lost his hearing.

While dressing to have dinner at Polly' s (flattened chicken breast with ripe olives, garbanzos, and sun-dried tomatoes), Qwilleran received another annoying phone call from Danielle. Impudently she said, "Hi, snookums! Wanna come out to play tonight?"

Stiffly he replied, "Whom are you calling? We have no small dogs by that name at this number."

"Qwill, this is Danielle," she said with the shrillness that jarred his nerves.

"I would never have guessed."

"Oh, you're a big kidder! My cousin's away on his honeymoon, and I don't have anybody to play with. Why don't you come on over for drinks and dinner? I'll thaw something."

"The invitation is almost irresistible," he said, "but I have a previous engagement."

The brief but irritating exchange made the prospect of flattened chicken breast a gustatory delight. For the walk to Polly's, he left his hat and gloves at home. The temperature was incredibly mild, and the sidewalk - instead of being dusted with white - was black with wetness.

"You're not wearing your hat!" Polly greeted him.

"It seems to be a little warmer tonight," he said, without revealing his privileged information.

"I've just found out the difference between friendly snow and unfriendly snow," she said with enthusiasm. Polly collected scraps of information as avidly as the Kemples collected dolls. "Flurries and snow showers are friendly; blizzards and snow squalls are unfriendly. Do you find that interesting?"

"Very," he replied, thinking of the forthcoming thaw. "How's Brutus?"

"I think he's pleased with his new name."

"Have you heard from Lynette?"

"No, I'm sure she has other things on her mind," Polly said. "But Mildred called about the gourmet club. They're skipping the February meeting as a token of respect for Willard - a moment of silence, so to speak."

"That's appropriate. I'll go along with that."

"Have you heard how Danielle is doing in the play?"

"Only that tickets for all performances are selling fast. It's my theory that Pickax audiences will eagerly pay money to see the widow of a murdered man."

"How ghoulish!" Polly said with a shudder.

After dinner - it was the best recipe so far - they listened to the tapes Qwilleran had recorded for Tall Tales.

He said, "Koko has heard them twice, and each time he yowls at `The Dimsdale Jinx.' Either he's uncomfortable with Homer Tibbitt's high-pitched voice, or he knows what pasties are all about."

"Brutus loves pasties," Polly said over her shoulder as she went to answer the phone. "Lynette! We were just I talking about you! Qwill's here. Wait a minute.

Qwill, would you take this phone? I'll pick up the one on the balcony."

"How's New Orleans?" he said to the caller.

"Warm and wonderful!" Lynette talked fast and excitedly. "We're staying at a charming old inn. Our room has a four-poster bed and a fireplace. Breakfast is brought up on a huge tray: croissants, fabulous preserves, and delicious hot chocolate!"

"Be careful with that hot chocolate!" Polly warned, slipping into the conversation.

"You should see the French Quarter and the lacy wrought-iron balconies! So romantic! The coffee is strange; Carter Lee says they put chicory in it. But my favorite is the Creole gumbo. It's seasoned with something called fil‚ powder. I'm going to buy some, so I can make it when I get home." She hardly stopped for breath. "Everything is different here. When they drink a toast, they say, `Here's to a short life and a merry one!' The parades start Saturday. I can hardly wait!"

"Go easy on the Sazeracs," Qwilleran advised.

"I'm so happy!" she said, almost tearfully. "Carter Lee is just wonderful! Everything is perfect!"

"Well!" said Polly when the conversation ended.

"I get the impression she likes New Orleans," Qwilleran remarked.

"I'm so happy for her!"

At the end of the evening, as he sloshed home through the deepening puddles he thought about Lynette and her new life She had quit her job at the medical clinic and would assist her husband in a public relations capacity, promoting restoration. She had the qualifications. She knew everyone in town, and her enthusiasm for Carter Lee's accomplishments was boundless. Qwilleran had a great curiosity about the portfolio of his work that everyone praised so highly. Even Old Gallbladder had referred to the "mighty purty pitchers." Breze was no arbiter of historic design, but he might afford a way to borrow the portfolio in Carter Lee's absence.

When Qwilleran arrived home, he typed a briefing for Celia:

Mission: Operation Winter Breeze Assignment: To lay hands on the book of "mighty purty pitchers" belonging to Carter Lee James. Start by giving Red Cap some of your homemade brownies, to prove you can cook. Let him know that you've seen his house on Sandpit Road and think it would be worth a lot of money if fixed up a little. Say you're interested in decorating and would like to see the book of pictures... Then contact Danielle Carmichael on Woodland Trail and ask to borrow it for Mr. Breze, who is extremely eager to have his house restored. When mission is completed, signal headquarters.

The next morning Qwilleran deposited Celia's briefing in her mailbox at the gatehouse. Snowshoeing was out of the question. The temperature was in the unbelievable fifties, and a steady rain was turning the white landscape into a porous gray blanket. Walkways an pavements hemmed in by the shrinking snowbanks were becoming canals. In the mailroom the sudden thaw w the sole topic of conversation:

"What does this do to the Ice Festival?"

"The fuzzy caterpillars were right after all. They predicted a mild winter."

"Yeah, but their timing was off-by about ten weeks."

"How much of this can the storm sewers take?"

Qwilleran took his mail home to open, throwing most of the communications into his Procrastination File - a small drawer in the hutch cabinet. One was a letter from Celia's grandson, enclosing snapshots of the dowser and a transcript of a tape recording. The other was an invitation to an opening-night party at Danielle's apartment - just a cozy little afterglow. RSVP.

When the telephone rang, he was pleased to hear the good radio voice of his next-door neighbor:

"Qwill, things are getting pretty sloppy out there, but we have to eat, and they say the road to Kennebeck is not too bad. Are you free? Are you hungry? Would you like to go to Tipsy's?"

"I always like to go to Tipsy's, rain or shine, with friend or foe," said Qwilleran.

"Let's take my van. It's bigger and makes bigger rooster tails."

"Apparently no one has shot the messenger as yet."

"Not yet! But the promoters of the Ice Festival are monitoring the ice from hour to hour!... "

-15

The two men splashed down River Lane in Wetherby Goode's van. "Some weather!" the weatherman said.

"How did the landscape liquefy so fast?" Qwilleran asked.

"Warm rain. Like pouring hot tea on ice cubes."

"The county's gone from a beautiful swan to an ugly duckling overnight."

"And it's going to get uglier," Wetherby predicted. "The rain, it raineth every day."

"Is the Ice Festival doomed?"

"I'm not predicting. I'm not even opening my mouth. All I can say is: The fuzzy caterpillars knew something we didn't know. The parking lot at the Dimsdale Diner is underwater, and the people in Shantytown are being evacuated. They're afraid the old mine may cave in."

"How about the Buckshot mine on our road?"

"The situation's not so dangerous. The Dimsdale mine, you see, is in a fork between two rivers, the Ittibittiwassee and the Rocky Burn."

Qwilleran said, "Our river seemed to be rushing faster and making more noise, but I don't see much rise in the water level. In any case, I suppose the bank is high enough to protect us. And we have all those cats in Building Five; if they can predict an earthquake, they should be able to predict a simple flood."

"The only bad thing would be if a freak wave in the lake sent a surge up the river. It might reach Sawdust City, but it wouldn't reach us. You don't need to give your cats swimming lessons yet."

"The schools will have to close if the buses can't get through the mud on the back roads. Perhaps we should lay in a supply of emergency foods. My barn was prepared for power outages - with canned goods, a camp stove, bottled water, and batteries - but I have nothing here. I should buy for Polly, too."

Wetherby said, "We can shop at the Kennebeck Market after lunch, if there's anything left."

"I suggest we shop before lunch," Qwilleran countered.

The town of Kennebeck was situated on a hummock, and Tipsy's Tavern was high and dry on the summit. The restaurant had started in a small log cabin in the 1930s, named after the owner's cat. Now it was a sprawling roadhouse of log construction, with dining rooms on several levels. In one of them hung an oil portrait of the celebrated white cat with black markings. The food was simple and hearty; rustic informality prevailed; and the servers were older women who called customers by their first names and knew what they liked to drink.