Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

The "New" Pickax Hotel had been built in 1935 after the Old Pickax Hotel burned down, and now the locals were saying that it was time for another fire. In 1935 the public rooms had been furnished in Early Modern--not comfortable, not attractive, but sturdy. Recently a runaway snowplow had barged into the front of the building, demolishing the lobby but not the sturdy oak furniture. Qwilleran and his guest were the first to arrive in the dining room, and the hostess seated them at a window table overlooking Main Street. He remarked, "I hear you have a new chef." "He's completely redone the menu," she said.

"It's very exciting! Would you like something from the bar?" After ordering dry sherry for Polly and Squunk water with a twist for himself, Qwilleran scanned the menu card. Only a diner familiar with the hotel for the last forty years would consider the selection exciting: French onion soup instead of bean, grilled salmon steak instead of fish and chips, chicken cordon bleu instead of chicken and dumplings, and roast prime rib instead of swiss steak.

When the waiter brought the drinks, Qwilleran asked, "Is the chicken cordon bleu prepared in the kitchen, or is it one of those frozen, prefabricated artifacts shipped in from Ontario?" "No, sir. The chef makes it himself," the waiter assured him.

Qwilleran decided to try it, but Polly thought the ham and cheese stuffing would violate her diet; she ordered the salmon. The previous cooks had merely dished up the food; the new chef arranged the plates: parsley, boiled potatoes, broccoli, and a cherry tomato with the salmon; broccoli, a cherry tomato, and steamed zucchini straws with the chicken cordon bleu.

"I see they've gone all-out," Qwilleran commented. Surveying the neat bundle on his plate, he plunged his knife and fork into the chicken, and a geyser of melted butter squirted fifteen inches into the air, landing on his lapel and narrowly missing his left eye.

"This isn't what I ordered!" he said indignantly as he brushed the greasy streak with his napkin.

"Waiter! Waiter!" "It's chicken Kiev!" Polly cried. Qwilleran said to the young man, "Is this supposed to be chicken cordon bleu?" "Yes, sir." "Well, it's not!

It's something else. Take it back to the kitchen and tell Karl Oskar I want chicken cordon bleu." "Your coat is ruined!" Polly said in dismay.

"Do you think the cleaner can get it out?" The waiter soon returned with the plate.

"The chef says this is chicken cordon bleu, like it says on the menu." Blowing furiously into his moustache, Qwilleran said, "It may be so described in Fall River, but it's chicken Kiev in the rest of the civilized world! ... Come on, Polly.

We're going to the Old Stone Mill." To the bewildered hostess he said, "I'm sending you the bill for a new suede coat, and if I hadn't ducked, you'd be paying for an eye, too." Over dry sherry and Squunk water at their favorite restaurant, the pair tried to relax, but Qwilleran was in a bad humor, and he plunged recklessly into a subject that had been on his mind for a couple of days, his suspicions augmented by the tape he had heard before coming to dinner.

"You know, Polly," he blurted out, "I'm beginning to wonder if Irma's death could have been murder." Polly recoiled in horror.

"Qwill! What makes you say that? Who would do such a thing? And why?" "How well did you really know Irma?" She hesitated.

"She was just a casual acquaintance until recently, when we started to go birding together. Out there on the riverbank or in the wetlands, where it was quiet and peaceful, it was easy to exchange confidences--was "Did she ever tell you what she did on her frequent trips to Scotland?" "Not in detail. I know she went birding in the islands. She always mentioned puffin birds and the red-necked phalarope--was "Hmmm," he murmured cynically, thinking that birdwatchers on the islands would make good lookouts, especially if equipped with radios.

"I hate to say this, Polly, but I always received the impression that Irma was hiding something behind a somewhat artificial facade, and now it occurs to me that the Bonnie Scots Tour may have been a cover for something else--a scam that backfired." "What!" Polly's throat flushed.

"What in God's name are you talking about?" She pushed her sherry away in an angry gesture.

"For centuries the Scottish coastline has lent itself to smuggling.

Today the contraband is probably drugs." Shocked, Polly demanded, "Are you suggesting that Irma was involved in smuggling drugs? Why, that's unthinkable!" Qwilleran thought, Irma was fanatically devoted to raising money for charity, and fanaticism makes strange bedfellows. He said, "She never told you anything about her friends in Scotland. What about this man she sneaked away with every night-always in wild, secluded country where the inns had no names? What were they doing?

And did something go wrong? He could have slipped her a drug because she became a threat. He had a police record.