Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

"Is that because she's a doctor? You can't tell them anything, you know. Was she difficult when she lived here before?" "No, she was fun to be with, and she had a great zest for life. When I inherited the Klingenschoen mansion, she staged a formal dinner party for me-with a butler, footmen, two cooks, musicians, sixteen candles on the table, and a truckload of flowers.

She had unbounded energy and enthusiasm then. Something must have happened to her in Boston." "I hate to mention this, Qwill, but I wonder if she's on drugs. I know there are hard-driving physicians who take diet pills to keep going, then downers so they can unwind.

They become addicted." Qwilleran recalled the new strangeness in Melinda's eyes.

"You could be right. One reads about health-care professionals becoming chemically dependent, as they say." "What can anyone do about it? She might get into serious trouble." "There are treatment centers, of course, but how would one convince her to get help? Assuming that's really her problem." The director said, "I'm concerned enough that I've coached someone to do Lady Macbeth in case Melinda doesn't make it on Wednesday night. Keep your fingers crossed!" He pocketed his tin whistle and stood up.

"This is all between you and me, of course. Thanks for the coffee.

You've got a fabulous barn." After he had left, the Siamese ambled down the ramp cautiously, and Yum Yum looked in vain for the tin whistle. Koko alarmed Qwilleran, however, by sniffing one of the light Moroccan rugs. With his nose to the pile, he traced a meandering course as if following the path of a spider. Qwilleran dropped down on hands and knees to intercept it, but there was nothing but an infinitesimal spot on the rug. Koko sniffed it, pawed it, nuzzled it.

"You and your damned spots!" Qwilleran rebuked him.

"You just like to see me crawling around! This is the last time I'm going to fall for it!" The next day, when Qwilleran went out for the Sunday papers, he walked past the entrance to Goodwinter Boulevard and was appalled at the condition of the exclusive enclave. Food wrappers and beverage containers littered the pavement and sidewalks. Lawns had been trampled and the landscaped median was gouged by tires. Melinda had made no friends among her neighbors. It would be Monday before the city equipment could undertake the cleanup, and the cartage trucks were yet to come. When Qwilleran picked up Polly for their dinner date that evening, she said, "For two days trucks will be backing into the Goodwinter driveway, running over curbs, ruining bushes, and knocking down stone planters." "Why did the city let them do it?" he asked.

"In the first place, no one asked permission, I suppose, and even if they did, who would speak up against the estate of the revered Dr.

Halifax? This is a small town, Qwill." To reach Linguini's restaurant they drove north toward Mooseville, and Qwilleran was describing Scottish Night at Brodie's lodge when his voice trailed off in mid-sentence. They were passing the Dimsdale Diner, and he spotted a maroon car with a light-colored license plate in the parking lot.

"You were saying..." Polly prompted him.

"About the haggis... yes... It's not bad. In fact, it's pretty good if you like spicy concoctions. Even the cats liked it!" The Italian trattoria in Mooseville was one of the county's few ethnic restaurants--a small mama-and-papa establishment in a storefront with a homemade sign. Mr. Linguini cooked, and Mrs. Linguini waited on tables. There were no murals of Capri or Venice, no strings of Italian lights, no red-and-white checked tablecloths or candles stuck in antique chianti bottles, no romantic mandolins on the sound system--just good food, moderate prices, and operatic recordings. Mr.

Linguini had made the tables from driftwood found on the beach, and they were covered with serviceable plastic, but the napkins were cloth, and diners could have an extra one to tie around the neck.

Qwilleran had chosen Linguini's because... well, that was the surprise. Mildred Hanstable was still living at her cottage on the beach, so they stopped to pick her up, Arch Riker choosing to meet them at the restaurant. There was a reason why he wanted to drive his own car, Qwilleran suspected; they had not been lifelong friends without developing a certain transparency. The paunchy, ruddy-faced publisher was Mildred's boss at the Moose County Something, for which she wrote the food column, and when the three of them arrived, he was already sitting at the four-stool bar sipping a tumbler of Italian red. The opera of the evening was Lucia di Lammermoor. Mrs.

Linguini gave them the best of the eleven tables and then stood staring at the four of them with one fist on her hip. That was Linguini body language for "What do you want from the bar?" "What are you drinking tonight?" Qwilleran asked Mildred.

"Whatever you're having," she said.