Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

On the other hand, it might be Saturday if the bells were celebrating a wedding. He thought of phoning the city desk at the Moose County Something and asking, "Is this Saturday or Sunday?" He had answered stranger questions than that when he worked for metropolitan newspapers Down Below. The local radio station was of no help; the announcer gave the time, the temperature, the wind velocity, and the relative humidity, but not the day of the week. As for the WPKX brand of daily news casting it was a half hour of what Qwilleran called mushy news--noto less mushy on Saturday than on Sunday. If the day proved to be Saturday, that meant he had arrived home on Friday. Yet, would Mildred Hanstable have been there on a Friday morning? She taught school and would have been in the classroom unless, of course, it was a Teacher-Optional Workday, in which case she might have opted to stay home and prepare macaroni and cheese, although that was extremely unlikely for one as conscientious as Mildred. Ergo, this had to be Sunday, and the church bells were calling the faithful to worship. That was Qwilleran's cue to walk to the drug store and pick up the out-of town Sunday papers. The cats were relaxing in a patch of sunlight on the rug without a thought in their sleek brown heads. What matter to them that it was Sunday--or even Thursday? Every day was Today in their scheme of things, and there was no such thing as Yesterday or Tomorrow.

"I'm going downtown," he announced to them.

"Is there anything you want from the drug store?" They looked at him as if he were demented. Or daft, as they said in Scotland. (qwilleran had bought a glossary of Scottish terms at the Edinburgh airport.) The Siamese knew very well when he was talking nonsense. Or blethering, as they said in Scotland. A brisk walk downtown had the effect of clearing the stupefied brain he had brought home from the Bonnie Scots Tour. He did his best thinking while walking alone. Now he resumed his ruminations begun on the plane: Irma knew about Bruce's past record... She might have relived her youthful passion on the moor... She might have vented some hidden bitterness caused by her own conviction for manslaughter... She might have been Bruce's accomplice in the jewel theft! This wild scenario brought forth not so much as a tickle on Qwilleran's upper lip, but when he tried another avenue of brainstorming, his moustache bristled slightly: Irma might have been Bruce's victim. If he planned to steal the jewels, wouldn't it be logical to eliminate the one person who knew his identity? Could he have slipped her some kind of drug that would stop her heart? This was a technical detail he would have to check with Dr.

Melinda-an undertaking he hardly relished. To phone her on a Sunday afternoon would give rise to sociable invitations, such as, "Come over for a drink, and we'll discuss it," or "Let's have dinner." To visit her clinic on Monday would lead to other undesirable developments, such as, "Remove everything except your socks and shoes, and the doctor will be right with you." No, he decided, it would be safer to meet her "accidentally" in some crowded or busy place, where they could exchange a few words without getting involved in anything personal. Qwilleran found himself walking with clenched teeth. It annoyed him to be in this awkward position with Melinda after three years of an easy relationship with Polly. He resented being hounded by an overzealous female. He had terminated other liaisons without embarrassment, and he had been jilted himself without creating a rumpus. Somehow he had to get rid of that woman! Koko had never liked her. Did the cat's uncanny prescience foretell this course of events? It was not beyond the realm of imagination. At the drug store, Qwilleran picked up several out-of-town newspapers--his way of keeping in touch with the turmoil Down Below.

"How was Scotland, Mr. Q?" asked the cashier.

"Okay." "I heard about Ms. Hasselrich." "Yes, it was too bad." "Did you see the Loch Ness monster?" "No, we were there on his day off." On the way home Qwilleran's mind turned to the subject of Irma's address book.

If he could learn the whereabouts and/or phone number of the pivotal Katie, he could turn the whole matter over to Andrew Brodie and let him make a case of it, if he wished. Andy would be interested in Koko's startling reaction to the obituary, being one of the few who knew about the cat's sensitivity to the scent of crime. A detective from Down Below had told him about it in all seriousness. To the Pickax police chief, Koko was the town psychic. Qwilleran walked home with his newspapers via the back road, hoping to avoid questions from well-meaning townsfolk. There was little traffic on Trevelyan Road, but eventually a car stopped and the driver called to him, "Want a lift, Qwill?" It was Scott Gippel, the used-car dealer.

"No, thanks. I'm walking for my health," Qwilleran said with a comradely salute.