Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

That prompted Qwilleran to describe Koko's reaction to the Scottish tapes--how he responded to certain voices and certain sounds. Then Polly told how she liked to tease Bootsie when he was on her lap by reciting "Pickin' up paw paws, puttin' 'em in a basket." She said, "The implosive P tickles the sensitive hairs in his ears, and he protests." "Now I'll tell one," Qwilleran said.

"On one of my tapes, Lyle Compton tells about the Scottish psychopath who poisoned prostitutes in three countries. As soon as he mentions "pink pills for pale prostitutes," Koko protests forcibly, although the implosive P is coming from a recorder and can't possibly tickle his ears!" "We all know that Koko is an extraordinary animal," Riker said mockingly.

"He gives new meaning to the word "cat"... Ye gods! Here comes dessert!" "Zuccotto! Verra nice," said Mrs. Linguini. As the overstuffed diners gazed at the concoction of cream, chocolate, and nuts, the coloratura aria coming from the speakers was the Mad Scene from Lucia.

"How appropriate!" Polly remarked. Abruptly the music stopped, and diners at all the tables looked up as Mr. Linguini in long apron and floppy white hat burst through the kitchen door. Going down on one knee alongside Polly, he flung his arms wide and sang in a rich operatic baritone: "Hoppy borrrthday to you, "Hoppy borrrthday to you, "Hoppy borrrthday, cara mia, "Hoppy borrrthday to you!" Everyone in the room applauded. Polly clasped her hands in delight and looked fondly at Qwilleran, and Lucia di Lammermoor resumed.

Mildred said, "No one told me it was your birthday, Polly. You must be a Virgo. That's why you're so modest and efficient and serene." The evening ended with espresso, and with difficulty the party pushed themselves away from the table. Riker volunteered to drop Mildred off at her cottage, since it was right on his way to Indian Village.

Uh-huh, Qwilleran mused; just what I expected. He and Polly drove home in silence. She was a happy woman who had had too much food; he was purposely holding his tongue. He wanted to say, I still think your friend didn't die of natural causes; I suspect Melinda made an error in Irma's medication. But it was Polly's birthday, and he refrained from spoiling it with another conjecture. One should be able to say anything to a close friend, he reflected, and yet part of friendship was knowing what not to say and when not to say it, a bit of philosophy he had learned from recent experience. When they turned into Goodwinter Boulevard, the old-fashioned streetlamps were shedding a ghastly light on the scene of Saturday's nightmare, and their car headlights exposed piles of litter in the gutter. As they approached the Gage mansion and slowed to turn into the side drive, their headlights picked up something else that should not have been there: a car parked the wrong way, with a bearded man at the wheel.

"There he is again!" Polly screamed.

Fifteen

When Polly screamed, Qwilleran opened his car door and stepped out, facing the parked car.

"Don't!" she cried.

"He may be dangerous!" Immediately the other car went into reverse, then gunned forward, swerving around Qwilleran and narrowly missing his elbow. It headed for Main Street, traveling the wrong way in the westbound lane, traveling without lights.

"Let's get to the phone," Qwilleran said as he jumped back in the car and turned up the drive to the carriage house. The patrol car responded at once, followed by the police chief himself, wrenched away from his Sunday night TV programs.

Qwilleran told Brodie, "This is the same prowler who was hanging around last June--the same M.O." the same beard--although he pulled the visor down when he found himself spotlighted. Last June you ran a check.

He's Charles Edward Martin of Charlestown, Massachusetts." "Did you get the number tonight?" Brodie asked.

"He drove away fast without lights, although I'd guess it was a light-colored plate--the kind we've seen before. His taillights didn't go on until he reached Main Street and turned right... I told you the car had been seen in Dimsdale, Mooseville, and Indian Village, and you made some quip about selling cemetery lots." The chief's grunt was half recollection and half apology.

"Since we pried you out of your comfortable recliner, Andy, would you take a cup of coffee? ... Polly, do you feel like brewing a pot?" She was sitting on the sofa, hugging her cat and looking upset.

"Certainly," she said weakly and left the room. In a lower voice Qwilleran said, "Why does this guy lie in wait for Polly? I've told you my suspicions. Whoever this creep is, he knows her connection with me, and he's plotting abduction. Believe me!" He massaged his moustache vigorously.

"Incidentally, he's the same guy I saw shoplifting at the Goodwinter sale." Brodie was not interested in coffee, but he gulped it, promised full cooperation, and went home to catch the eleven o'clock news. Polly paced the floor nervously.