The Cat Who Wasn't There

Two

The day following his evening with Polly, Qwilleran regretted his impulsive decision to go to Scotland and leave the Siamese for two weeks. As he brushed their silky coats-- Yum Yum with hindlegs splayed like a Duncan Phyfe table, and Koko with tail in a stiff Hogarth curve--he thought of canceling his reservation, but an inner voice deterred him, saying: You're a two-hundred-pound man, and you're allowing yourself to be enslaved by eighteen pounds of cat!

That evening he was reading aloud with the female cuddling contentedly on his lap and the male perched on the arm of his chair, when the telephone rang.

"Excuse me, sweetheart," he said, lifting Yum Yum gently and placing her on the warm seat cushion he had just vacated. It was Irma Hasselrich on the line, speaking with the syrupy, formal charm that was her style. She said, "Mr. Qwilleran, I learn with a great deal of pleasure that you wish to join the Bonnie Scots Tour." "Yes, it strikes me as an interesting adventure. My mother was a Mackintosh. And by the way, please call me Qwill." "Needless to say, Mr. Qwilleran," she continued as if she had not heard, "we're delighted that the Klingenschoen Foundation is offering a matching grant. We want to create a park for the patients at the facility, with flower beds, winding paths for wheelchairs, and a pavilion with tables for picnic lunches and games." "Very commendable," Qwilleran murmured.

"How many persons do you expect to enlist for the tour?" "Our goal is sixteen. That number will fill a minibus." "Did Polly tell you I want to spend some time in Glasgow?" "Yes. Several participants want to extend their stay abroad, so I suggest that we all make our own flight arrangements and meet on Day One at a prescribed location in Glasgow." "How many have signed up so far?" "Eleven. Perhaps you can suggest other compatible travelers that we might contact." Qwilleran thought for a few seconds.

"How about John and Vicki Bushland? They have a summer place in Mooseville, although they're residents of Lockmaster, where he has a commercial photography studio." "We would love to have a professional photographer along! May I call them and use your name?" "By all means." "As soon as it was known that you were joining the tour, Mr. Qwilleran, I was able to sign up three others: Mr. and Mrs.

MacWhannell--he's the CPA, you know--and Dr. Melinda Goodwinter.

Aren't we fortunate to have a doctor with us?" Qwilleran cringed inwardly and combed his moustache with his fingertips. He had visions of the importunate Melinda tapping on his hotel door at a late hour and inviting herself in for a chat. She was a persistent young woman, and, according to Arch Riker, who had met her after her father's funeral, she was still carrying the torch for him, Polly or no Polly. Qwilleran veiled his distress by inquiring about the weather in Scotland, and Irma assured him that she would send all pertinent travel information in the mail. When the conversation ended, he immediately phoned Arch Riker at the office of the Moose County Something. The two men had grown up together in Chicago and had pursued separate careers in journalism Down Below. Now they were reunited in Pickax, where Riker was realizing his dream of publishing a small-town newspaper.

"Arch, how would you like to knock off for a couple of weeks and go to Scotland with a local group?" Qwilleran proposed.

"We could save a few bucks by sharing accommodations." He added a few details and dropped some important names: Hasselrich, Lanspeak, Compton, Goodwinter, MacWhannell. Riker liked the idea, saying that he'd always wanted to play the seventeenth hole at St. Andrews.

"And now the bad news," Qwilleran said.

"Melinda Goodwinter is going." "The plot thickens," said Riker with a chuckle. He was amused by his friend's problems with women.

"Does Polly know?" "If she doesn't, she'll soon find out!" Complimenting himself on a successful maneuver, Qwilleran called Irma Hasselrich and changed his reservation to double occupancy. The next day it was his turn to chuckle when Riker telephoned.

"Hey, listen to this, Qwill," he said.

"I took Amanda to dinner last night and told her about the Scottish tour, and she wants to join! How do you like that kettle of fish?" "She'll have to pay the single supplement. No one will be willing to room with Amanda--not even her cousin Melinda." Amanda Goodwinter was a cranky, outspoken woman of indefinite age who "drank a little," as Pickax natives liked to say.

Yet, she operated a successful studio of interior design and was repeatedly elected to the city council, where she minced no words, spared no feelings, played no politics. Riker, with a journalist's taste for oddballs, found her entertaining, and fora while the Pickax grapevine linked them as potential mates, but Amanda's prickly personality guaranteed that she would remain single for life. Now he was enjoying the prospect of Amanda disrupting the harmony of a group tour.

"I hope everyone has a sense of humor," he said to Qwilleran on the phone.

"What's so absurd is that she hates bagpipes, mountains, bus travel, and Irma Hasselrich." "Then why is she going?

Surely not only to be with you, old chum!" "No, I can't take the credit. She's excited about visiting whiskey distilleries. She's heard they give free samples." While Qwilleran was relishing this news, Chief Brodie phoned to report that state troopers had spotted a Massachusetts license plate on a maroon car headed south near the county line.

"Probably leaving the area," he said.

"We ran a check, and it's registered to one Charles Edward Martin of Charlestown, Massachusetts." "What was he doing here?" Qwilleran asked sharply, a rhetorical question.

"In five years I've never seen a Massachusetts car in Moose County.

Those New Englanders don't even know it exists!" "Could be a friend of Dr. Melinda's. Could be he came for her dad's funeral. There were lots of beards there," Brodie said.

"Tell you what, Qwill: If he shows up again and we get a complaint, we'll know who he is, at least. For now, we're stepping up the night patrols on Goodwinter Boulevard, and you tell Polly not to go out alone after dark." Qwilleran's moustache bristled. Whenever he thought of that maroon car, he felt a distinct tremor on his upper lip. His luxuriant moustache was more than a prominent facial feature; it had long been the source of his hunches and suspicions, bristling and tingling to get his attention, and experience had taught him to trust the signals. This peculiar sensitivity was a matter he was loath to discuss with any but his intimate friends, and even they were disinclined to believe it. Nevertheless, it was a fact. He was not alone in his ability to sense trouble. Kao K'o Kung possessed a unique faculty for exposing evil deeds and evildoers, in the same way that he sniffed a microscopic spot on the rug, or detected a stereo control turned to "on" when the power should be off. When Koko's ears pointed and his whiskers twitched, when he scratched industriously and sniffed juicily, he was on the scent of something that was-not--as--it-comshd--but every After the phone conversation with Brodie, Qwilleran turned to Koko, who always perched nearby to monitor calls.

"Well, old boy," he said, "the Boulevard Prowler seems to have left town." "Yow," said Koko, scratching his ear.

"So far, so good. Now, how do we find you a suitable cat-sitter?" Koko jumped to the floor with a grunt and trotted to the pantry, where he stared pointedly at his empty plate.

Yum Yum was not far behind. It was time for their mid-day snack.

Qwilleran gave them a handful of crunchy cereal concocted by the food writer of the Moose County Something, Mildred Hanstable. It was the only dry food the Siamese would deign to eat. As he watched them munching and waving their tails in rapture, an idea struck him.

"I've got it!" he said aloud.

"Mildred Hanstable!" Besides writing the food column for the newspaper, she taught home economics in the Pickax schools, and she enjoyed cooking for cats, dogs, and humans.

Widowed, she lived alone. Plump and pretty, she had a kind heart, a lively imagination, and an ample lap.

"Perfect!" Qwilleran yelped, so loudly that the Siamese turned to look at him in alarm before finishing the last morsel on the plate. Mildred Hanstable was the mother-in-law of his friend Roger MacGillivray, and he tracked down the young reporter at Lois's Luncheonette.

"What do you think of the idea, Roger? She likes the cats, and they like her." "It would do her a lot of good--help get her mind off the past," said Roger.

"She thinks your barn is sensational, and the chance to live there for a couple of weeks would be like halfway to heaven!" "One thing I must ask: Is she still drinking heavily?" "Well, she went through a twisted kind of alcoholic mourning for that no-good husband of hers, but she snapped out of it. Now she's overeating instead. Basically she's lonely. I wish she could meet a decent guy." "We'll have to work on that, Roger... Where are you headed now?" "I have an assignment in Kennebeck. The Tuesday Afternoon Women's Club is planting a tree in the village park." It so happened that Qwilleran had brought several handwoven batwing capes from the mountains, and he presented one to Mildred after a staff meeting at the newspaper.

It was the kind of voluminous garment that she liked for camouflaging her excess poundage, and the invitation to cat-sit and barn-sit for two weeks thrilled her beyond words. With that worrisome matter concluded, he now applied himself to other matters.

He gave batwing capes to his part-time secretary, the young interior designer who had helped him furnish the barn, and the advertising manager of the Moose County Something, making three women deliriously happy. Next, to replace the car that was left mired in the mountains, he found a white four-door on the used-car lot; he never wasted money on new models. All the while, he was cleverly managing to avoid Dr.

Melinda Goodwinter, ignoring the reminder that he was due for his annual checkup according to the records of the late Halifax Goodwinter, M.D. Irma Hasselrich was prompt in mailing tour participants a detailed itinerary as well as information on Scottish weather and appropriate clothing: "Sweaters and jackets are a must, because evenings can be cool, and we'll be traveling to windswept islands and mountaintops. Be sure to include a light raincoat, umbrella, and waterproof shoes or boots." The last was underlined in red. Then: "For special evenings, men are requested to pack a blazer or sports coat with shirt and tie, and women are advised to have a dress and heels for such occasions.

Luggage must be limited to one bag per person, plus a small carry-on.

There will be no smoking on the bus or in restaurants as a matter of courtesy, and no smoking in country inns because of the fire hazard." Enclosed was a brief glossary of Highland and Lowland terms: loch... lake moor... treeless hill glen... secluded valley fen.

marsh ben... mountain firth... arm of the sea burn... creek strath... wide river valley =yle... strait croft... farmhouse crofter.

farmer bothy... farmhands' barracks nee ps... turnips tat ties.

potatoes haggis... meat pudding toilet... restroom usquebaugh.

whiskey (spelled "whisky" in Scotland) Included was a suggested reading list: Boswell, Dr. Johnson, Sir Walter Scott, and the like, most of which were in Qwilleran's growing collection of secondhand books. Nevertheless, he went to Eddington Smith's used-book store and picked up an old travel book with a yellowed fold-out map of Scotland. The bookseller also suggested Memoirs of an Eighteenth Century Footman. He said, "It's about Scotland. It was published in 1790 and reprinted in 1927. It's not in bad condition for a sixty-year-old book." Qwilleran bought it and was on his way out of the store when Eddington mentioned, "Dr.

Melinda came in yesterday. She wants me to buy Dr. Hal's library, but she's asking too much money." That evening, as Qwilleran sat in his favorite lounge chair with Memoirs, the cats arranged themselves for a read: Koko on the wide upholstered arm of the chair and Yum Yum on his lap with forelegs extended and paws crossed prettily.

Sixty years of assorted household odors made the book fascinating to the Siamese. Qwilleran was enthralled by the incredible account of four motherless children--ages two, four, seven, and fourteen-setting out to find their father, who had left to fight for Prince Charlie.

After walking 150 miles, being on the road for three months, begging for food and shelter, they learned that he had fallen in battle at Culloden. Absorbed in their predicament, Qwilleran was almost too stunned to answer when the telephone rang, until Koko yowled in his ear.

"Uh... hello," he said vaguely.

"Hello, lover.

Is that you? You sound far away. Do you recognize a voice from your high-flying past?" "Who is this?" he asked in a flat voice, although he knew.

"Melinda!" "Oh... hello." "Am I interrupting something important?" "No. I was reading a book." "It must be pretty good.

What's the title?" "It's... uh... Memoirs of an Eighteenth Century Footman by John Macdonald." "Sounds like hot stuff. Someone told me you're collecting old books now." "I have a few." He was trying to sound like a poor prospect, not to mention a dull and uninteresting person.

"I'm selling my father's library. Are you interested?" "I'm afraid not. I pick up one book at a time, here and there." "Why don't you meet me at the house for a look at Dad's library. You might see-something--you like. I'm living at Indian Village, but I could run into town." "That's a good idea," he said with misleading enthusiasm.

"I'll see when Polly Duncan's available, and we'll make an appointment with you. She's my guru when it comes to old books." There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Okay. I'll get in touch with you later, if the books are still available... I hear we're going to Scotland on the same tour, lover." "Yes, Polly talked me into x." "Well, don't let me keep you away from your exciting book." "Thanks for calling," he said in a routine voice.

"Nightynight." Melinda never called back about the books, for which Qwilleran was thankful, but her name was frequently mentioned around town. One afternoon he dropped into Amanda's Studio of Interior Design to scrounge a cup of coffee and use the telephone, as he often did when Fran Brodie was in-house. Fran was assistant to Amanda Goodwinter but younger, more glamorous, and betterdispositioned. As a member of the Theatre Club and daughter of the police chief, she had still another attraction: She could always be relied upon for the latest gossip--or local information, as Qwilleran preferred to call it. Fran greeted him with welcome news: "You've just missed Melinda! She came in to try to sell us her father's books. I don't know what she thought we could do with them.

Cup of coffee?" She served it in a mug stenciled with the letter Q, a mischievous reference to his habitual freeloading.

"I'm glad you dropped in, Qwill. I've found something that you simply must have! It's you!" "I should know the free coffee is never free," he said.

"What is it?" She opened a flat box with exaggerated care.

"This is an acid-free box, and this is acid-free tissue," she explained, as she unwrapped a drab fragment of cloth.

"What the devil is that?" "It's a Scottish relic--a fragment of a Mackintosh kilt that was worn by a Jacobite rebel at the Battle of Culloden in 1746!" "How do you know it is? It looks like a reject from a trash can." "It's documented. It belonged to an old family in Lockmaster, who came here from Canada. Their ancestors were exiled to the New World during the Scottish Clearances." "And what am I supposed to do with this faded rag? It wouldn't even be good enough to wash the car!" "We'd preserve it in a protective frame for you, as they do in museums, and you could put it on display. Of course, we'd have to pick a location without much daylight or artificial light." "That limits us to the broom closet and the cats' bathroom," he said.

"How much is it worth?" "It's expensive, but you can afford it, considering all the money you save on coffee and phone calls." "I'll kick it around." "Do that," Fran said, refilling his coffee mug.

"So you're going to Scotland with my boss! I hear they're having trouble filling all the seats. Is that because Amanda is one of the passengers? Or because Irma Hasselrich is the tour director?" "Doesn't Irma have much of a fan club?" Qwilleran asked.

"I'm afraid people think she's snobbish and bossy, and her perfect grooming frightens some of the casual types around town. Amanda says she looks like a peeled egg... One thing I'd like to know: Why did Irma schedule the tour to overlap our rehearsals of Macbeth? Our three most important people are taking the trip: the two leads and the director!" "Is Melinda playing Lady Macbeth?" Fran nodded with disapproval.

"Several women read for it, and Carol was my choice, but Dwight Somers wanted Melinda. He's sort of goggle-eyed about Melinda. She's probably the reason he signed up for the Scottish tour." Qwilleran thought, Good! I hope he monopolizes her and keeps her out of my hair.

One evening shortly after that, when he and Polly were dining at Tipsy's Tavern in North Kennebeck, Melinda was seated at a table in the same room. He avoided looking in her direction but was aware that her escort was a man with a neat beard.

Polly said it was Dwight Somers.

"They're both going on the Bonnie Scots Tour. Melinda is a longtime friend of Irma, you know." "Is that so?" Qwilleran remarked inanely, wincing at the prick of his vanity; he thought that he himself was Melinda's reason for signing up.

Polly was saying, "I had a physical at her office today. I remember her fifteen years ago when she brought her high school assignments to the library, and it's difficult to relate to her as a doctor, but Irma says we women must be supportive. My sister-in-law works in the office at the Goodwinter clinic, and I've learned that Dr. Hal's male patients are transferring their records to a man in Lockmaster, an internist and urologist." Qwilleran said, "If you want my guess, it's their wives who don't want them going to a young woman doctor." He was going to say "young attractive woman doctor" but edited his own dialogue. As if on cue, Melinda passed their table on the way to the restroom.

"Hi, lover," she said breezily, pausing for a moment that seemed too long. Qwilleran rose from his chair and said something trite.

"Dr. Goodwinter, I presume.

" He rose courteously, but he kept one hand on the back of his chair and stood in a semi crouch ready to sit down again when she moved on, which he hoped would be soon.

"Are you all excited about our trip together?" she asked with a sly glance, addressing him directly.

"Polly and I are both looking forward to it." He nodded graciously to his guest.

"Then I'll see you on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, lover," Melinda said as she sauntered away, drawing a manicured hand suggestively across their tabletop. The whiff of fragrance that she left behind was the same she had worn three years before.

"Indeed!" Polly said with raised eyebrows.

"What was the significance of that pretty performance?" "She's half-bombed," Qwilleran said with a sense of relief. He had feared he might find Melinda as appealing as before, but the impudent manner that formerly enchanted him now annoyed him; her hair was done in a trendy style he disliked; and she was too thin. His taste had changed. Lest his silence be misconstrued, he quickly said to Polly, "I don't know about you, but I've never traveled with a group, except for a bunch of hyper reporters on a press junket, so I'm hoping for the best and expecting the worst on this excursion." "We'll enjoy it," she assured him and then said, "Do you remember the bronchitis I had when I spent the summer in England? On this trip I'm taking vitamin C as a preventive. The pharmacist told me about a high-potency capsule, and I respect his advice." "Did you discuss it with--your doctor?" Qwilleran was dubious of vitamins, broccoli, and anything else said to be salubrious.

"I mentioned it to Melinda, and she said it wouldn't do any harm but probably wouldn't do any good, either.

Nevertheless, I intend to try it... Have you made your packing list, Qwill?" "I never make a list. I just throw stuff into my suitcase." "You're singularly offhand, dear! I make a list and take only basic colors, double-duty garments, minimal accessories, and just enough toothpaste, face cream, and shampoo for fourteen days." "You're singularly efficient," he retorted dryly.

"No wonder the library operates so smoothly." "Have you done any of Irma's suggested reading?" "No, but Edd Smith sold me a book with a fold-out map of Scotland. As soon as I opened the map, both cats came running and pounced in the middle of it, tearing it along the old yellowed creases and making a horrible muddle, as Old Possum would say. I hope it was not a prediction that our trip is going to be a horrible muddle." "With Irma in charge, have no fear!" Polly assured him.

During the summer, following that accidental meeting with Melinda at Tipsy's Tavern, Qwilleran received several phone calls from her, making unacceptable suggestions that he found annoying. He solved that problem by screening calls through his answering machine, but the proximity of two weeks in a minibus could lead to murder, he reflected with testy humor. Eventually the final orders came from Sergeant Hasselrich, as Lyle Compton called her: "The evening before Day One we shall gather in a private parlor at our Glasgow hotel (see itinerary) for a Happy Hour from six to seven o'clock, after which you will be on your own for dinner. The tour will depart the next morning after a lavish Scottish breakfast (included in your tour package)." There followed a list of participants in alphabetical order: John Bushland Ms. Zella Chisholm Mr. and Mrs. Lyle Compton (lisa) Mrs. Polly Duncan Ms. Amanda Goodwinter Dr. Melinda Goodwinter Ms.

Irma Hasselrich Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Lanspeak (carol) Mr. and Mrs.

Whannell MacWhannell glen da James Qwilleran Archibald Riker Dwight Somers Mrs. Grace Chisholm Utley Qwilleran showed the list to Mildred Hanstable when she arrived at the barn for her briefing prior to cat-sitting with their Royal Highnesses.

She arrived in a cloud of fluttering gauze garments that did nothing to minimize her corpulence but gave her the majesty of a clipper ship in full sail. The Siamese greeted her with enthusiasm, knowing her as the source of their crunchy treats. Mildred perused the list of names and predicted, "Interesting group! Lyle is a certified sourpuss, but nice... Amanda has foot-in-mouth disease, which can be very funny at times... Irma is so fastidious, she'll probably inspect everyone's fingernails before breakfast... Let me know how you like the Chisholm sisters." "Do they sing?" "You don't know them, Qwill, because you don't belong to the country club.

Grace is a rich widow, and her unmarried sister lives with her on Goodwinter Boulevard. They collect teddy bears." "May I offer you a drink, Mildred?" "Make it coffee," she said.

"I've brought some cookies. But first show me the ropes." As he conducted her up the ramp to the three balconies, they were followed by two inquisitive cats with stiffly vertical tails and stiffly horizontal whiskers. He explained, "My bedroom and studio are on the first balcony. The door is closed to keep the cats out, because Koko licks postage stamps and gummed envelopes... The guest room is on the second balcony. I suggest you lock up your toothbrush. Yum Yum has a brush fetish; she'd steal my moustache if it weren't firmly attached... I regret that the only television is in the cats' loft on the top balcony." "Don't apologize. I'll just set up my quilting frame on the main floor and listen to radio," she said.

"How often are the cats fed?" "Morning and evening, plus a handful of your crunchy cereal at noon and bedtime. You'll find canned and frozen delicacies for them in the kitchen." "To tell the truth, I'd rather cook for them," Mildred said.

"I really would! I miss having someone to cook for. What other care do they require?" "They appreciate brushing once a day, and intelligent conversation, and a little entertainment. Koko prefers activities that challenge his intellect; he's a very cerebral animal.

" As they both turned to look at him in admiration, Kao K'o Kung rolled over and groomed the base of his tail.

"Forget I said that," Qwilleran added.

"That scoundrel likes to make a fool of me." Mildred picked up the female cat, who was now rubbing against her ankles. They were slender and shapely, he noted, for a woman of her weight.

"Yum Yum is so hug gable she said.

"Yes, propinquity is her middle name... And now let me demonstrate the fine art of policing their commode." After the briefing they sat in the lounge area with coffee and Mildred's date-nut bars. Massive, square-cut, deep cushioned chairs and sofas were arranged around a large square coffee table, facing the fireplace cube--a large white monolith with fireplaces on two sides and bookshelves on a third. It was high enough for two Siamese cats to perch like Olympian deities, looking down on the mere mortals below.

"Now, is there anything else I should know?" Mildred asked.

"Mrs. Fulgrove comes in once a week for light cleaning. Mr. O'Dell is our handyman. We have a colony of fruit flies that came with the apple barn, and they come out of hibernation at this time of year. Koko catches them on the wing and munches them as hors d'oeuvres.... I guess that's about all." "And tell me what you're going to do in Scotland." "Listen to bagpipes, stay in country inns, visit castles, eat haggis--all the usual, I imagine." "Ugh! Haggis is the innards of sheep, boiled and cut up and mixed with oatmeal and spices, then sewn into a sheep's stomach.

" "Sounds delicious." Mildred's attitude turned suddenly sober.

"Before coming over here," she said, "I read the tarot cards for you, and I think you ought to know what they revealed." "It doesn't sound propitious, but let's hear it." Qwilleran was skeptical about card reading, palmistry, and all the occult sciences that interested his plump friend, but she was sincere, and he always humored her.

"Do you mind if I tape this, Mildred?" "Not at all. I wish you would." He had already turned on his pocket-size recorder.

"What did you learn?" "Strangely, when I asked the cards about you," she began, "the answers concerned someone else-someone in danger." "Man or woman?" "A mature woman. A woman with strict habits and upright values." That's Polly, Qwilleran thought; someone has told Mildred about the prowler.

"What kind of danger?" he asked.

"Well, the cards were rather vague, so I brought the pack with me, and I'd like to do another reading-in your presence." With mental reservations, he agreed, and they moved to the card table, Qwilleran politely averting his eyes as Mildred struggled to get out of the deep-seated lounge chair. When she asked him to shuffle the pack, Koko hopped to the table with an excited "Yowl" "Want me to lock him up, Mildred?" Qwilleran suggested.

"No, let him watch." She was laying out a certain number of cards in a certain pattern.

"I'm using the Celtic pattern for this reading. This card is the significat or They were colorful cards in fanciful designs, and as she manipulated them she mumbled to herself. There was a thoughtful pause.

Then she said, "I see a journey... a journey across water... with stormy weather ahead." "Glad I packed my raincoat," he said lightly.

"Stormy weather could stand for dissension, mistakes, accidents, or whatever.

" "Too bad I didn't know before I paid my money." "You're not taking this seriously, Qwill." "Sorry. I didn't mean to sound flippant." "This final card... is not auspicious... You might consider it a warning." The card showed a scene in a grape arbor, with a woman in flowing robes, a bird perched on her wrist, and a scattering of gold coins.

"Looks like a happy card to me," Qwilleran observed.

"But it's reversed." "Meaning..." "Some kind of fraud... or treachery." "Yowl" said Koko.

"In conclusion... I urge you to be prepared... for the unexpected." Mildred always became short of breath toward the end of a reading, and her energy flagged, so Qwilleran thought it best not to pursue the subject.

"Very interesting. Thank you," he said as he turned off the tape recorder. Mildred walked away from the table and took a few deep breaths. When she recovered, she said, "I'll look forward to hearing the outcome." "So will I!" Qwilleran admitted.

"When do you leave?" "I catch the shuttle to Chicago tomorrow noon, and the international flight leaves at six P.M. After changing planes at Heathrow and going through the formalities, I should arrive in Glasgow at ten A.M." their time. I'm leaving a list of telephone numbers where we can be reached, and don't hesitate to call if there's an emergency. Mildred, you don't realize how much this is appreciated by all three of us." "The pleasure is all mine.

We'll have a ball, won't we, cats?" "Yowl" said Koko, squeezing his eyes as if visions of shrimp Newburgh danced in his head.

The next morning Qwilleran said a regretful goodbye to the cats and looked back as he walked out the door to see two pairs of large blue eyes filled with concern. He would have wished for a more cheerful send-off. And when he drove away he was aware of two tiny creatures watching him from an upper level of the huge barn. At the Moose County Airport he parked his car in the new indoor facility, and the shuttle plane departed without requiring the usual last-minute repairs. The connection in Chicago went smoothly, perhaps too smoothly. Three meals and several magazines later, he arrived in Glasgow on schedule. His luggage was flown, unfortunately, to another city in Western Europe. So began the Bonnie Scots Tour.