Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

"Why is the sale being held at the house?" "Too many ways to cheat when it's trucked away for an auction. I'm not saying Foxy Fred is a crook, you understand, but Dr. Melinda's a sharpie. Never underestimate that lassie!" "Tell me something, Andy--about those break-ins on Purple Point. We never had break-ins when I first came here, but since they've started promoting tourism, the picture is changing." "You can't blame the tourists for Purple Point; that was done by locals--young kids, most likely--whicho knew when to hit.

They knew the cottages are vacant in September except on weekends.

Besides, they took small stuff. An operator from Down Below would back a truck up to the cottage and clean it out." "What kind of thing did they take?" "Electronic stuff, cameras, binoculars. It was kids." The emcee rapped for attention and announced the serious business of drinking toasts. Tribute was paid to William Wallace, guerrilla fighter and the first hero of Scotland's struggle for independence. MacWhannell said to Qwilleran, "He was a huge man. His claymore was five feet four inches long." Then the diners toasted the memory of Robert the Bruce, Mary Queen of Scots, Bonnie Prince Charlie, Flora Macdonald, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson, the response becoming more boisterous with each ovation. Qwilleran was toasting with cold tea, but the others were sipping usquebaugh. The evening ended with the reading of Robert Burns's poetry by the proprietor of Scottie's Men's Store and the singing of "Katie Bairdie Had a Coo" by the entire assembly with loud and lusty voices, thanks to the usquebaugh. That was followed by a surprisingly sober "Auld Lang Sync," after which Brodie said to Qwilleran, "Come to the kitchen. I told the catering guy to save some haggis for that smart cat of yours." Many of the members lingered in the lounge, but Qwilleran thanked his host and drove home with his foil-wrapped trophy. When he reached the barn the electronic timer had illuminated the premises indoors and out.

"Treat!" he shouted as he entered through the back door, his voice reverberating around the balconies and catwalks. The cats came running from opposite directions and collided head-on at a blind corner. They shook themselves and followed him to the feeding station for their first taste of haggis. As Qwilleran watched their heads bobbing with approval and their tails waving in rapture, an infuriating thought occurred to him: Is this why Koko wanted me to go to the lodge hall?

The notion was too farfetched even for Qwilleran to entertain. And yet, he realized Koko was trying to communicate. Qwilleran wondered, Am I barking up the wrong tree? ... Am I suspecting the wrong person?

... Are my suspicions totally unfounded? And then he wondered, Am I working on the wrong case? He considered Koko's reaction to Melinda's voice on the tapes... the licking of photographs in which she appeared... the whisker bristling when she called on the phone... his hostile attitude after Qwilleran had spent a mere two minutes with her at the rehearsal. It could be Koko's old animosity, remembered through sounds and smells. It could be a campaign to expose something reprehensible: a lie, a lurking danger, a guilty secret, a gross error. That was when Qwilleran dared to wonder, Did Melinda make a mistake in Irma's medication? Could it be that she--not the bus driver-was responsible for Irma's fatal attack?

Fourteen

On Saturday morning, in the hours between midnight and dawn, residents of Goodwinter Boulevard sleeping in bedrooms insulated by foot-thick stone walls became aware of a constant rumbling, like an approaching storm. If they looked out the window, they saw a string of headlights moving down the boulevard. Several of the residents called the police, and the lone night patrol that responded found scores of cars, vans, and pickups parked at the curb, leaving a single lane for moving traffic. The occupants of these vehicles had brought pillows, blankets, and thermos jugs; some had brought children and dogs. The more aggressive were on the front porch of the Goodwinter mansion, lined up on the stone floor in sleeping bags.

When the officer ordered the motorists to move on, they were unable to comply, being trapped at the curb by incoming bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Both eastbound and westbound lanes were clogged with the constant stream of new arrivals, and when the curb space was all occupied, they pulled into private drives and onto the landscaped median. The patrol car itself was unable to move after a while, and the officer radioed for help. Immediately the state police and sheriff's cars arrived, only to be faced with a vehicular impasse.