Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"How about putting some of your fake enthusiasm into an extra assignment?"

"Like what?"

"You know, of course," Junior began, "that the club is doing Midsummer Night's Dream. We want to run a short piece on each of the leads - about eight inches with a head shot. It's not supposed to be a blurb for the play or a bio of the actor; it's a miniature think-piece on the actor's perception of both the role and the theme of the play."

" All that in eight inches?"

"Only you can do it, Qwill. Your style is concise and pithy. What's more, your readers devour anything and everything you write, and you'll get a by-line on each piece - also free coffee for life.

Junior was wheedling him, and Qwilleran was succumbing to the flattery. "How many pieces would there be?"

"Nine or ten. Since you live behind the theatre, it'll be easy to drop in during rehearsal and catch the actors on their break. We'll alert them to start thinking about it. Someone like Derek Cuttlebrink does more thinking about his costume than about the essence of his role."

"How is he cast?"

"He's doing Nick Bottom, the weaver."

"That's a good one for him. He'll enjoy heehawing like a donkey."

"He'll be a howl! As soon as he walks on stage he'll bring down the house."

Derek, a resident of Wildcat, was a waiter at the Old Stone Mill. With his outgoing personality, engaging candor, and impressive height (six-feet-eight, going on nine) he was a favorite with restaurant diners, theatregoers, and impressionable young women.

"When do you want to start the series?" Qwilleran asked.

"Soonest. We're rehearsing five nights a week.... And say! Do you keep in touch with that Chicago heiress you brought over from Breakfast Island?"

"I didn't bring her over; she happened to be on the same boat," Qwilleran said tartly. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, she's joined the club, and she's helping with costumes. She has some good ideas."

That's appropriate, Qwilleran thought. Her own wardrobe was straight out of Arabian Nights.

"Also," Junior went on with relish, "she and Derek are hitting it off like Romeo and Juliet. If it's true that she has an annual income of $500,000, Derek's on the right track for once in his life."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "Don't place any bets. In my opinion, she's a mighty flighty young woman.... See you at rehearsal."

"Before you leave the building," Junior called after him, "our esteemed editor-in-chief wants to see you."

Arch Riker had the florid complexion and paunchy figure of a veteran journalist who has been a deskman throughout his career and has attended too many press luncheons. When Qwilleran appeared in the doorway, he was sitting in his high-back executive chair and swiveling in deep thought. "Come in. Come in," he said, beckoning. "Help yourself to coffee."

"Thanks. I haven't had one for the last three minutes. What's up, Arch?"

"Good news!... Sit down... After we ran our editorial on the Lumbertown Party Train, all tickets for the kickoff sold out, for both sittings! At $500 a ticket, that's pretty good for a county in the boonies. It was a stroke of genius, of course, to earmark the proceeds for college scholarships."

"The charity angle was Dwight Somers's idea, not that of the train owner," Qwilleran said. "Trevelyan doesn't strike me as a great philanthropist."

"Dwight just called and suggested we run a profile on the guy," Riker said. "What say you?"

"I've just handed in a column on his personal collection of model trains, and I think that's enough for now."

"I agree. We can cover the actual event from the social angle.... So you met Floyd-boy! What's he like?"

"Not your average bank president. He's a rough-hewn, self-made man who started as a carpenter. He's sunk a fortune in his Party Train, and his model collection is incredible! What makes a guy want to own more, bigger, and better than anyone else? I've never understood the urge to collect. You never got bitten by the bug either, did you?"

"Once!" Riker admitted. "When I was married to an antique collector, I collected antique tin like a madman. It's strange how suddenly I lost interest when wife, house, and cats went down the drain, k-chug!"

Qwilleran nodded solemnly, remembering his own bitter past, when he himself almost went k-chug!

His friend was in a talkative mood. "Mildred wants me to start another collection of something, so it'll be easier to buy me Christmas presents. I tell her I don't need Christmas presents. Every day in my life is Christmas since we took the plunge.... Qwill, why don't you and Polly - "

Qwilleran interrupted. "Don't - start - that - again, Archibald!"

"Okay, okay. At least you two will be within whistling distance when she builds her house. How's it coming?"

"She's hired the son of Floyd Trevelyan to build it. He's based in Mudville. His father says he's good."

"What else do you expect a parent to say?"

Riker remarked caustically. "Personally, I'd think twice before hiring a Sawduster to fix a leaky faucet!"

"Well... you know Polly... when she makes up her mind!"