Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

Better yet would be a few ounces of tenderloin from the butcher, to serve au tartare, but he would have to hand-mince it; ground meat was somehow objectionable. He settled for the pate. From there he followed the long way home, just for the exercise, trudging along a back road, then up a gravel trail through an old orchard. He was a hundred feet from the apple barn when he heard clarion voices yowling a welcome. The nineteenth-century barn was an octagonal structure four stories high, with large windows cut into the walls at various levels, and he could see two furry bodies darting about indoors, observing him first from one window and then another. They met him at the door, prancing and waving their tails like flags. It was a ritual that gave him a leap of inner joy in spite of his unsentimental greeting.

"What have you young turks been doing since you got home?" They sensed the liver pate with quivering whiskers.

In spasms of anticipation they dashed up the ramp that spiraled around the interior of the building, connecting the three balconies and ending in narrow catwalks under the roof. Then they pounded pell-mell down the slope to the first balcony, from which they flew like squirrels, landing in the cushioned seating on the main floor.

There they washed their paws and whiskers before dinner. When Qwilleran spread the pate on a plate and placed it on the floor, he watched them with fascination as they devoured it. They were masterpieces of design: sleek fawn bodies on long brown legs; incredibly blue eyes in seal-brown masks; expressive brown tails tapered like rapiers. To Qwilleran they seemed to have more elegance than Bootsie, who was being overfed to compensate for the loneliness of his solitary life. At seven o'clock he called for Polly at her carriage-house apartment behind the Gage mansion, and as he climbed the narrow staircase, Bootsie was waiting at the top with ears back and fangs bared.

"Greetings, thou paragon of animals," Qwilleran said, thinking a phrase from Shakespeare would please Polly. Bootsie hissed.

"You must forgive him," she apologized.

"He sensed danger when the prowler was outside, and he's been edgy ever since." After a warm, silent, meaningful embrace that would have astonished the library patrons and started the Pickax grapevine sizzling, Qwilleran presented Polly with a tissue-wrapped bundle.

"Sorry it isn't giftwrapped," he said.

"I brought it from the mountains. It looked like your shade of blue." Polly was thrilled.

"It's a batwing cape! It's handwoven! Who did it?" "One of the mountaineers," he said, shrugging off the question.

"They're all weavers and potters and woodworkers in the mountains." He avoided mentioning that the weaver was an interesting young woman whom he had taken to dinner and who had rescued him twice when he was in trouble on mountain passes.

Polly had shed the drab suit she wore at the library and was looking festive in a summer dress of mixed polka dots, red-on-white and white-on-red.

"You're sure it isn't too bold for me?" she asked when Qwilleran complimented her.

"Irma Hasselrich helped me choose it." They drove to the restaurant in the rental car that had brought him from the mountains.

"My own car broke down," he explained, "and I left it there." The tale was loosely true; the car had bogged down in mud, and he had given it to the young mountain woman, who would be able to haul it out with her swamp buggy. The restaurant called the Old Stone Mill occupied a historic gristmill. There was enough affluence in Pickax--and there were enough educated palates--to support one good eatery, and it was owned by a syndicate of businessmen who needed an unprofitable venture for tax purposes. It paid its chefs handsomely and offered a menu worldly enough for local residents who had dined in San Francisco, New Orleans, and Paris. After Qwilleran and Polly were greeted and seated at their usual table, a six-foot-seven busboy, who towered above customers and staff alike, shuffled up to the table with a water pitcher and basket of garlic toast. His name was Derek Cuttlebrink.

"Hi, Mr. Q," he said in friendly fashion.

"I thought you were going away for the summer." "I came back," Qwilleran explained succinctly.

"I'm taking two weeks in August to go camping." "Good for you!" "Yeah, I met this girl, and she has a tent. Blue nylon, seven-by-eight, with aluminum frame. Sets up in five minutes." "Take plenty of mosquito repellent," Qwilleran advised.

"Stay away from poison ivy. Watch out for ticks." Polly asked, "Have you given any more thought to college, Derek?" "Well, you know, it's like this, Mrs. Duncan. I've decided to stay in the food business. I'm getting promoted to the kitchen, end of the month--in charge of French fries and garlic toast." "Congratulations!" said Qwilleran. When the busboy had sauntered away, Polly wondered, "Do you think Derek will ever amount to anything?" "Don't give up hope," Qwilleran said.