Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"All the women like him. My wife goes around quoting his column like it was the Constitution of the United States."

"They say he lives with a couple of cats. Can you beat that?"

"You wonder why he doesn't get married. He's always with that woman from the library."

"People think it's strange that he lives in an apple barn, but what the heck! It's better'n a pig barn."

Qwilleran did indeed live in a converted apple barn, and he spent many hours in the company of Polly Duncan, head librarian. As for the cats, they were a pair of pampered Siamese with extraordinary intelligence and epicurean tastes in food. The barn, octagonal in shape and a hundred years old, had a fieldstone foundation two feet thick and as high as Qwilleran's head. Framing of twelve-by-twelve timbers rose to a roof three stories overhead. Once upon a time a wagonload of apples could go through the barn door, and bushels of apples were stored in the lofts. Now the interior was a series of balconies connected by ramps, surrounding a central cube of pristine white. There were fireplaces on three sides, and three cylindrical white flues rose to the octagonal roof. It was a lofty perch for cats who enjoyed high places. As for the spiraling ramps, the Siamese considered them an indoor race track, and they could do the hundred- meter dash in half the time required by a human athlete.

One evening in early summer Qwilleran and his two friends had just returned from a brief vacation on Breakfast Island, and he was reading aloud to them when the telephone rang. He excused himself and went to the phone on the writing desk.

"I got it, Qwill!" shouted an excited voice. "I got the job!"

"Congratulations, Dwight! I want to hear about it. Where are you?"

" At the theatre. We've just had a board meeting."

"Come on over. The gate's open."

The home of the Pickax Theatre Club had been carved out of the former Klingenschoen mansion on the Park Circle. Behind the theatre a fenced parking lot had a gate leading to a patch of dense evergreen woods that Qwilleran called the Black Forest. It was a buffer between the traffic on the Park Circle and the apple barn. Within minutes Dwight's car had negotiated the rough track through the woods.

"Glad everything worked out so well," Qwilleran said in greeting. "How about a glass of wine to celebrate?"

"Just a soft drink," said the young man. "I'm so high on good news that anything stronger would launch me into space. How do you like my new facade?" He stroked his smooth chin. "My new bosses don't go for beards. I feel suddenly naked. How would you feel without your moustache?"

"Destitute," Qwilleran said truthfully. His moustache was more than a facial adornment, more than a trademark at the top of the "Qwill Pen" column.

As Qwilleran carried the tray of drinks and snacks into the lounge area, Dwight pointed to the top of the fireplace cube. "I see you've got your ducks all in a row."

"I haven't heard that expression since the Army. How do you like them? They're handpainted, hand-carved decoys from Oregon.

Polly brought them back from her vacation."

"What did she think about Oregon? I hear it's a beautiful state."

"I doubt that she saw much of the landscape," Qwilleran said. "She was visiting a former college roommate, who's now a residential architect, and it seems they spent the whole time designing a house for Polly. She's going to build on a couple of acres at the east end of my orchard."

"I thought she wanted to keep her apartment on Goodwinter Boulevard."

"That was her original idea when they started converting the boulevard into a college campus. She thought she'd enjoy living among students. But when they began paving gardens for parking lots, she changed her mind."

"They should've made one large parking lot at the entrance and kept a grassy look on campus," Dwight said.

"God forbid anyone would have to walk a block from his car, Dwight. Rural communities live on wheels. Only city types like you and me know how to use their legs.... But tell me about the new job."

Dwight Somers, a publicity man from Down Below, had come north to work for a prosperous Moose County developer. Unfortunately the job fizzled, and the community that had benefited from his creativity and vitality was in fear of losing him.

"Okay," he began. "I told you I was having an interview with a PR firm in Lockmaster, didn't I? They want me to open a branch for them in Pickax, and we have a highly promising client for starters. Do you know Floyd Trevelyan in Sawdust City?"

He referred to an industrial town that was considered unprogressive and undesirable by Pickax standards, although it had a larger population and a thriving economy.

"I'm not acquainted with anyone in Sawdust City," Qwilleran said, "but I know the phone book is full of Trevelyans. This barn was part of the Trevelyan Apple Orchard a hundred years ago."