Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

Pickax could use your talent and energy. If you don't mind working for a paper, the Something could give you plenty of assignments. And with your kind of enthusiasm, I predict you'll be president of the Boosters Club within a year!" "Thanks, Qwill, I needed that! Those are the first upbeat words I've heard since I got back from Scotland And now I've got work to do. I'll bring the mug shot of the bus driver tomorrow when I come up to shoot the bears." "Deliver it to Andy Brodie," Qwilleran advised.

"Start making points with the police chief." When the photographer had left, he opened the yellow boxes on the dining table, where he could spread the prints out, and he was astounded at what he saw. Bushy had used unorthodox camera angles and different lenses and exposures to produce a startling kind of travel photography: impressionist, partially abstract in some shots, surreal in others. He went to the phone to call Arch Riker.

"Got an idea for you," he told the publisher.

"I've just been talking to Bushy." "Yes, we're running his Bonnie Scots pix Monday.

How about writing some cut lines We'll need them by noon tomorrow." "Do I get a by-line?" "Depends on how good they are. We'll go with the teddy bears Tuesday.

That means copy's due Monday morning... Now what's your idea?" "I've been looking at Bushy's scenic photos, and that guy definitely has a different way of looking at castles, mountains, sheep, fishermen, and all the other stuff. They're exhibition quality, Arch! Why couldn't the Something sponsor an exhibition of his travel photos?" "Where?" "In the lobby of the K Theatre, to tie in with the opening of Macbeth.

He also has interesting shots of Larry and Melinda rehearsing in the courtyards of old inns." There was a pensive pause before Riker said, "Once in a while you come up with a good one, Qwill." As Qwilleran returned to the dining area, feeling pleased with himself, he was abashed to hear a telltale sound that was not good; Koko was slurping photos.

"NO!" he yelled.

"Bad cat!" Koko leaped from the table with a backward kick, scattering prints in all directions.

"Cats!" Qwilleran grumbled as he segregated the damaged glossies. Several had been de glossed in spots by the cat's sandpaper tongue and potent saliva. He mentioned Koko's aberrant behavior to Polly as they drove to Lockmaster Saturday evening.

"It's not the first time he's done this." "Bootsie never does anything like that," she said. Sure, Qwilleran thought. Bootsie never does anything--but eat. The exclusive Palomino Paddock was located in lush horse country, and they found a parking place between an Italian sports car and a British luxury van. Eight o'clock guests in dinner jackets and long dresses were beginning to arrive--one pair in a horse-drawn surrey.

The building itself, in purposeful contrast to the exquisite food and elegant customers, resembled an old horse stable--which it may well have been--and the interior was artfully cluttered with saddles, bales of hay, and portraits of thoroughbreds. Informality was the keynote, and the wait staff--all young equestrians--were dressed like grooms.

Early diners in hunting pinks, sipping their exotic demitasses, sprawled in their chairs with breeched and booted legs extended stiffly in the aisles. Qwilleran and his guest were conducted to a cozily private table in a horse stall, where a framed portrait of a legendary horse named Cardinal was enshrined, with credit given to the Bushland Studio. When a young wine steward wearing the keys to the cellar on heavy chains presented the wine list, Qwilleran waved it away.

"The lady will have a glass of your driest sherry, and you can bring me Squunk water with a slice of lime. That is," he added slyly to test the young man's education, "if you have a recent vintage." With perfect aplomb and a straight face the steward said, "I happen to have a bottle dated last Thursday and labeled Export Reserve. I think you'll find it exciting, with a mellow bouquet and distinctive finish." In reference to Squunk water, "bouquet" was a flattering term. The waitress had the breezy self-confidence of a young woman who keeps her own horse, wins ribbons, and looks terrific in a riding habit.

"I'm your wait person she said.

"We love having you here tonight. My name is Trilby." "May I guess the name of your horse?" Qwilleran asked.

"Brandy. He's a buckskin. No papers, but beautiful points! I'll bring you the menus." To Polly he said, "The woman in a red dress over there is Bushy's wife, Vicki. Her escort is someone I don't know." "Vicki's my aunt," said Trilby, presenting the menus, "and he's an officer of the riding club. They're going to open their own restaurant." She dashed away again. In a lower voice, Qwilleran said, "The Bushlands are having marital problems." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," she said.