Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

"If you take a block, it can be closer to the stage. To get a full row you'll have to sit farther back." "Why is that?" "Because," he said patiently, "tickets have already been sold in various rows at the front of the auditorium, as you can see by this chart." He pushed the seating plan closer to the glass and waited for Mrs.

Olson to find her reading glasses. Frowning at the chart, she said, "Which is the front?" "Here's the stage. As you can see, the entire front row is still available, if you don't mind sitting that close." "No, I don't think we should sit in the front row. It might make Jennifer nervous." "In that case, the next full row available is H. That's the eighth row." "I wonder if Grandma Olson will be able to hear from the eighth row." "The acoustics are very good," he assured her.

"What are those?" Mrs. Olson asked. The customers standing in line were getting restless. The man behind her kept looking at his watch with exaggerated gestures. A young woman had a child in a stroller whose fretting had escalated to screams. An older woman leaning on a quad-cane was volubly indignant. And the front doors opened and closed constantly as frustrated ticket purchasers left and new ones arrived.

Qwilleran said, "Mrs. Olson, why don't you walk down into the auditorium and try sitting in the various rows to see how you like the location? Meanwhile, I can take care of these other customers... Take your time, so that you're sure." There was a groan of relief as she left, and Qwilleran was able to serve the entire lineup by the time she returned. The selection had dwindled considerably, but he could offer her an irregular block of seats in the center section.

"But we need three aisle seats," she said.

"My husband is with the volunteer fire department and will have to leave if his beeper goes off. My sister has anxiety attacks and sometimes has to rush out in a hurry. And Grandpa Olson has a bad leg from the war and has to stretch it in the aisle." "Left leg or right leg?" Qwilleran asked.

"It's his left leg. He took shrapnel." "Then you'll have to take the left of the center section or the left of the right section." "Oh, dearie me! It's so confusing. There are so many people to please." Helpfully Qwilleran suggested, "Why not let me select a block of tickets for you, and if your family decides they're not right, bring them back for exchange." "That's a wonderful idea!" she cried gratefully.

"Thank you, Mr. Q. You have been so helpful. And I must tell you how much I enjoy your column in the paper." "Thank you," he said.

"That will be sixty dollars." "And now I need eight more for Saturday night," she said.

"They're for Jennifer's godparents and her boyfriend's family." It crossed Qwilleran's mind that Jennifer probably had two lines to speak, but diplomatically he asked, "Is your daughter playing Lady Macbeth?" "Oh! How strange you should mention that!" Mrs. Olson seemed flustered.

"She's really doing Lady Macduff, but..." "That's a good role. I'm sure you'll be proud of her." The woman scanned the lobby and then said confidentially, "Jennifer has learned all of Lady Macbeth's lines--just in case." "Was that her own idea?" Qwilleran was aware that understudies were a luxury the Theatre Club had never enjoyed. In a near-whisper she said, "Mr. Somers, the director, asked her to do it and not tell anyone. You won't mention this, will you?" "I wouldn't think of it," he said. When Jennifer's mother had left, he thought, So! Dwight is doubting Melinda's capability to play the lead!

And she's already making errors in prescriptions!

What is happening to her? Despite Qwilleran's desire to be rid of Melinda, he could hardly ignore her plight. They had been good friends once. Quite apart from that, he had a newsman's curiosity about the story behind the story. The towering clock in the theatre lobby finally bonged four, and he counted the money, balanced it against the number of tickets sold, locked up, hid the keys, and walked home slowly. Ambling through the cool woods he began to think about Bushy's photographs, particularly three Highland scenes. There was a lonely moor without a tree or a boulder or a lost sheep-totally empty and isolated except for a telephone booth in the middle of nowhere, and Bushy had added a woman digging for a coin in the depths of her shoulder bag. One was a haunting scene of a silvery loch in which floated an uninhabited island with a ruined castle reflected in the still water. In the background a gray, mysterious mountain rose steeply from the loch, and in the foreground a woman sat on a stone wall reading a paperback with her back to the view. Then there was a riot of flowers behind a rustic fence and garden gate, on which hung the Sign: Be ye mon or be ye wumin, Be ye gaun or be ye cumin, Be ye early, be ye late, Dinna fergit tac SHUT THE GATE!