Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

"He's such a congenial and thoughtful young man." "Talented, too. Wait till you see his pictures of Scotland. They have nothing to do with postcard art. Arch is going to start giving him assignments." "That's good news! The photos in the Something are so unimaginative." "We use amateurs with smart cameras. What we need is a smart photographer. For starters, Bushy is going to photograph Grace Utley's teddy bears." "Are you interested in teddy bears?" asked Trilby, who had returned to discuss the evening's specials.

"We have a teddy bear club in Lockmaster." "Good for you!" Qwilleran said.

"What do you recommend this evening?" "We have a new chef, and he's prepared some very exciting things: for an appetizer, a nice grilled duck sausage with sage polenta and green onion con fit Our soup tonight is three-mushroom velout@e." "Is your chef from Fall River, by any chance?" "I don't think so. Our specials tonight are a lovely roasted quail with goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, and hickory-smoked bacon and also a pan-seared snapper with herb crust and a red pepper and artichoke relish." "Oh, dear!" Polly said in dismay.

"What do you think I would like?" "My personal favorite," said Trilby, "is the roasted pork tenderloin with sesame fried spinach, shiitake mushrooms, and garlic chutney." Polly decided on plain grilled swordfish, and Qwilleran ordered fillet of beef for himself. Raising his glass of Squunk water he proposed, "Lang may your lums reek, as they say in Scotland." "That sounds indecent," Polly replied as she raised her glass uncertainly.

"I believe it means "Long may your chimneys smoke." In the old days they weren't concerned with pollution. They just wanted to keep warm and cook their oatmeal." They talked about the Chisholm sisters' teddy bear collection (incredible!)... the prospect of a tag sale on Goodwinter Boulevard (deplorable!)... the forthcoming production of Macbeth (ambitious!). Qwilleran said, "I've promised Carol I'll work in the box office next week." "You have? There'll be a run on tickets," Polly predicted teasingly.

"Everyone will want to buy a ticket from a handsome bachelor who is also a brilliant journalist and philanthropist." "You're blethering, as they say in Scotland, " he protested modestly, although he knew she was right. He had enjoyed semicelebrityhood while writing for major newspapers Down Below, but that was nothing compared to his present status as a billionaire frog in a very small frog pond.

She said, "I hear that Derek Cuttlebrink is playing the porter, and Dwight has him telescoping his six-feet-seven into a five-foot S-curve that will probably steal the show." "I know Derek," said Trilby swooping in with the entrees.

"He's a sous chef at the Old Stone Mill." "Very sous," Qwilleran muttered under his breath.

"I'll bring you some hot sour-dough rolls," she said as she whisked away.

"Quick!" he said to Polly.

"Do you have anything private to discuss before Mata Hari brings the rolls?" "Well... yes," she said, taking him seriously.

"My sister-in-law does the bookkeeping at the Goodwinter Clinic, you know, and she told me in strict confidence that the staff is beginning to worry about Dr. Melinda." "For what reason?" "She's made at least two mistakes on prescriptions since returning from Scotland. In both cases the pharmacist caught the error--it had to do with dosage--and phoned the nurse at the clinic." Qwilleran smoothed his moustache.

"She has too many irons in the fire: worrying about the liquidation sale, rehearsing the lead in the play, running off to Scotland--was "All the while carrying a full load of appointments," Polly reminded him.

"I thought her patients were deserting her." "Most of Dr. Hal's male patients transferred, but women are flocking to the clinic in droves." The hot rolls came to the table, and Qwilleran applied his attention to enjoyment of the food, but his imagination was flirting with the idea of Melinda's mistakes. Doctors are not always right, he told himself. She could have been wrong about Irma's death. Wisely, he refrained from mentioning it to Polly. The house salad, served after the entre, was a botanical cross section of Bibb lettuce surrounded by precise mounds of shredded radish, paper-thin carrot, and cubed tofu, drizzled with gingered rice wine vinaigrette dressing and finished with a veil of alfalfa sprouts and a sliver of Brie.

"And for dessert tonight," Trilby recited, "the chef has prepared a delicate terrine of three kinds of chocolate drenched in raspberry could is "I'm fighting it," Polly said wistfully.