Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

In Bushy's picture there was a woman in the garden, and the gate stood open. The series ought to be titled "Tourism," Qwilleran thought, and as soon as he reached the barn he hunted up Bushy's yellow boxes and pulled out the three photos. Each one had its surface defaced by Koko's rough tongue, and in each photo the woman was Melinda.

Thirteen

That was the week that Moose County was discovered by the media.

Overnight it became the Teddy Bear Capital of the nation.

Qwilleran's story and Bushy's photographs ran in the Moose County Something with a teaser on the front page and the full treatment on the back page. It was picked up by the wire services and published in several major newspapers around the country, and a television crew flew up from Down Below on Thursday to film the collection and interview the collectors. During the week there was also a series of break-ins in the affluent Purple Point area, but this untimely happening was played down while the TV people were around. It was also the week of the Goodwinter tag sale, and on Friday afternoon Qwilleran attended the preview. Goodwinter Boulevard was a broad, quiet avenue off Main Street with two stone pylons at the entrance to give it an air of exclusivity. A cul-de-sac with a landscaped median and old-fashioned street lights, it extended the equivalent of three blocks, ending at a vest-pocket park with an impressive monument. The granite monolith rose about twelve feet and bore a bronze plaque commemorating the four Goodwinter brothers who founded the city. Their mansions--and those of other tycoons who had made fortunes in mining and lumbering--lined both sides of the boulevard.

Qwilleran usually found it a pleasant place for a walk, having interesting architecture and virtually no traffic--only an occasional car turning into a side drive and disappearing into a garage at the rear. Friday afternoon was different. The ban on curb parking was lifted, and both sides of the streets were lined with parked cars bumper-to-bumper, while other vehicles cruised hopefully and continually, waiting for someone to leave. Many had to give up and park on Main Street. As for the sidewalks, they teemed with individuals going to and from the preview, with a large group gathered in front of No. 180. Qwilleran approached a woman on the fringe of the crowd and asked her what was happening. She squealed in delight at recognizing his moustache and said, "Oh, you're Mr. Q!

They won't let us in until some of the others come out. I've been out here since eleven. Wish I'd brought my lunch." No one showed impatience. They chatted sociably as they edged closer to the entrance of the mansion. Qwilleran slipped around to the rear and used his press card for admittance, although the well-known overgrown moustache would have accomplished the same end. He entered a kitchen large enough to accommodate three cooks, where a Bid-a-Bit employee at the coffee urn offered him a cup. He accepted and sat down on a kitchen chair just as Foxy Fred walked in from the front of the house, wearing a red jacket and his usual western hat.

Qwilleran, turning on his tape recorder, asked him, "How do you size up this collection?" "Four generations of treasures going at giveaway prices!" said the auctioneer, who was not known for understatement.

"Most prestigious sale in the history of Moose County! Fifty or seventy-five years from now, our grandkids will be proud to say they own a drinking mug or a pair of nail clippers that belonged to a great twentieth-century humanitarian!" "But Fred, this kind of sale raises havoc with a quiet neighborhood," Qwilleran said.

"Why didn't you cart the goods away and hold an auction in a tent out in the country?" "The customer requested a tag sale, and the customer is always right," said Foxy Fred, gulping down a cup of coffee.

"Well, I gotta get back where the action is." In the large rooms on the main floor the ponderous heirloom furniture had been pushed back and rugs had been rolled up. Long folding tables were loaded with china, crystal, silver, linens, and bric-a-brac. The interior had the sadness of a house that had not seen a formal dinner, afternoon tea, or cocktail party for twenty-five years, the span of Mrs. Goodwinter's illness. Curious crowds moved up and down the aisles, examining the items, checking the prices and muttering comments, while red-jacketed attendants announced repeatedly, "Keep moving, folks! Lots more waiting to get in." There were also three roving security guards, making themselves highly visible and looking seriously watchful.

Qwilleran dodged from aisle to aisle, asking viewers, "Why are you here? ... See anything you like? ... How are the prices? ... Will you come back tomorrow to buy? ... Did you know the Goodwinter family?" He himself spotted a silver pocketknife he wouldn't mind buying; engraved with the doctor's initials, it was priced at $150.