Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

Qwilleran said to Bushy, "Your business seems to be thriving."

"Yeah, they keep me busy all right: studio portraits Wednesdays and Saturdays by appointment only; commercial work at my own pace; free-lance assignments for the newspaper."

"Your photo of Trevelyan on the front page - wasn't it the same one that hangs in the Lumbertown lobby? You made him look good!"

" Are you kidding? That's the last thing in the world she'd want to do!" Chatting with his old friend bolstered Qwilleran's flagging spirits somewhat, and walking a few miles helped dispel his gloom. He took the long way home and, in doing so, passed the photo studio of john Bushland. His van was in the parking lot, meaning that the photographer was shooting a subject in the stu- dio or developing film in the darkroom. Bushy, as the nearly bald young man liked to be called, was a recent transplant from Lock- master, and it was evident that he was doing well. The van was new. The lobby, it was obvi- ous, had been professionally designed. On the walls were framed -photographs from Bushy's prize-winning Scottish series. There was even a receptionist in the lobby, and she was not bad- looking. True, she seemed to be doing invoices. and correspondence as well as phones, but she was a pleasant addition to the lobby. Qwilleran said to Bushy, "Your business seems to be thriving." "Yeah, they keep me busy all right: studio portraits Wednesdays and Saturdays by appoint- ment only; commercial work at my own pace; free-lance assignments for the newspaper." "Your photo of Trevelyan on the front page-wasn't it the same one that hangs in the Lumbertown lobby? You made him look good!"

"I'll say I did! If the police use it for their Wanted poster, they'll never catch the guy! You see, I was shooting his train layout for a hobby magazine, and the editor wanted a head-shot of Floyd. I tried a candid, but it made him look like the wild man in a carnival. So I got him to put on a shirt and tie and do a formal sitting in the studio. His secretary came along. She's a knockout, but she drove me crazy, telling Floyd to turn his head, or raise his chin, or not look at the camera. Finally I asked her to wait in the lobby while I took the picture. That didn't make points with her boss, but I got a good portrait."

"Interesting sidelight," Qwilleran said..... "Are you going to the game tonight?"

"Should I?" asked the newcomer to Pickax.

"It's the sporting highlight of the year!" Qwilleran said seriously, as if it were true. "Take your receptionist."

Once a year there was a softball game between the Typos and the Tubes - two scrub teams composed of newspaper staffers and hospital personnel. Compared to the regular league games, their efforts were ludicrous, and the only spectators were family members and fellow employees, but everyone had a good time. On this occasion, Qwilleran was in no mood to attend the game alone, but he knew Roger MacGillivray would be on the sidelines, hurling scurrilous insults at the Tubes. Roger was the on-the-spot reporter in Mudville.

The softball field had been merely a bare spot in the landscape west of Pickax until the K Foundation added two more diamonds, a soccer field, bleacher seats, and a pavilion. Now it was named Goodwinter Field, after the founders of the city. A Goodwinter was playing shortstop this year - Junior, the managing editor. Others were recruited from the city room, sports department, and photo lab. Their bright red T-shirts and baseball caps made a lively scene when they were in the field. The hospital team, composed mostly of technicians, wore T-shirts in operating-room green and happened to win every year.

Most of the spectators sat in the second and third rows of the bleachers. Junior's wife was there with a baby in a car tote and a small boy who couldn't sit still. Bushy had brought his receptionist, who was more attractive than Qwilleran had previously thought. Arch and Mildred Riker were there, of course, wearing red baseball caps with the MCS logo.

"Where's Polly?" Mildred asked. Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers were a chummy duo seated apart from the others, a development that was duly noted by the matchmakers at the game. She waved to Qwilleran and called out, "Where's Polly?"

When he saw Roger arriving and heading for the pavilion, he followed him. "Nice piece in the paper today, Roger."

"Thanks. I finally learned how to make no-news sound like news."

"The shooting of the dog was a bizarre twist."

"Right! The natives are restless. Someone threw a brick through the Lumbertown office window this afternoon, and when they talk about F. T., the initials stand for something else."

The cry of "Batter up" sent the two men scurrying to the bleachers with their soft drinks. At Qwilleran's suggestion they climbed to the top row. "Better view," he explained. More privacy, he thought.