Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

"I hardly ever see a New England car. Funny, isn't it?" "This was not the original maroon car, but it had the original bushy beard behind the wheel. I didn't catch the license number." "I'll watch for it." Nick's eye had been sharpened by his job at the prison.

"It's a tan car. Try to get the number. Brodie ran a check on the previous vehicle. It's registered to one Charles Edward Martin." "Will do, Qwill. Now I've got to get home to dinner. Here are your letters to sign. Anything to go?" "Only this." Qwilleran handed him a small white box with CRM on the cover.

"A souvenir of Scotland for Lori." "Gee, thanks. She really likes that cape you brought her from the mountains." Nick had to wade through a tangle of legs, tails, and undulating bodies on his way to the door.

"And thanks for the Scotch. It's good stuff!" Qwilleran had still another gift to deliver that day, and he walked downtown for the third time. The three commercial blocks of Main Street constituted a stone canyon. In the nineteenth century, the surrounding countryside had been quarried to pave Main Street and build the stores and civic buildings. Squeezed between the imitation forts, temples, and castles was the Old English storefront housing Amanda's Studio of Interior Design. When he walked into the studio, he was greeted by Fran Brodie, who was always as chic and personable as her boss was dowdy and cranky.

"How's Amanda?" he `=5

"Did she recover from the tour?" "Oh, yes," Fran replied with an airy wave of the hand.

"Dr. Zoller repaired her denture, and she's once more her old, sweet, smiling self. She left on a buying trip this morning.

What did you think of Scotland?" "Ask me what I think of tourists!

We travel to a foreign country and never really leave home. We take our own egos, preferences, hobbies, dislikes, and conversation and never really appreciate what we see and experience. In Glasgow I went exploring at my own pace and enjoyed it more. You'd like the Charles Rennie Mackintosh exhibits, Fran." He handed her a small white box.

"Here's what the contemporary artists are doing in the Mackintosh tradition. I thought you'd like it." "It's lovely! It's Art Nouveau! What is this unusual stone?" "A Scottish cairngorm." She pinned it on the lapel of her bronze-toned suit and gave him a theatrical kiss.

"You're a darling! Will you have coffee?" "Not this time, thanks. It's late, and you're probably ready to close up. I just wanted to ask when you start rehearsals for Macbeth. How are you going to get the show on the boards by the last week in September?" "We're used to chaos in community theatre, Qwill, but it always works out by opening night. Dwight did the casting and blocking before he left, and I worked with the supporting cast while you were away, the witches, the bleeding captain, the porter, and so forth. Derek Cuttlebrink is doing the porter in act two, scene three. Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? He'll provide our comic relief." Before leaving, Qwilleran said, "About that fragment of the Mackintosh kilt--I'll take it. Now that I've seen the battlefield at Culloden, it has some meaning. Go ahead and have it framed... and I may see you at one of the rehearsals," he said as he left the studio. On the sidewalk he stopped abruptly. Parked at the curb was a tan car that had not been in evidence when he arrived a few minutes before. He walked behind it and wrote down the license number. Then, hurrying back into the studio just as Fran was preparing to lock the door, he demanded, "What's that tan car parked out in front?" "Is he there again?" she said indignantly.

"He's supposed to park in the rear. I'm going to complain to the hotel." "Who is he?" "The new chef they've just hired. God knows they needed one! The menu hadn't been changed for forty years." "Where did they get him? Where's he from?" "Fall River." "Fall River, Massachusetts? That's not exactly the gourmet capital of the east coast!" "No, but he's offering things like chicken cordon bleu instead of pig hocks and sauerkraut, and that's an improvement." "Does he have a beard?" Qwilleran asked.

"Yes, a shaggy one. He wears it in a hairnet to cook." "What does he give as his name, do you know?" Fran said hesitantly, "I think it's Carl. I'm not sure. You seem unusually curious about him." "May I use your phone?" "Sure. Go ahead. We'll put it on your bill," she said archly.

"As we say in Scotland," he admonished her, "don't be paw ky He called the police station.

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