Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

Throughout the day there were frenzied sounds of building at the end of the trail: the clunk of two-by-fours, the buzz of a tablesaw, the syncopated rhythm of hammers. Qwilleran admired a carpenter's skill in sinking a nail with three powerful blows. His own attempts started with a series of uncertain taps, a smashed thumb, and a crooked nail, which he tried to flatten by beating it into the wood sideways.

At about two o'clock the phone rang, and Koko's uncanny sense knew it was important; he raced to the telephone and jumped on and off the desk. Qwilleran followed, saying, "I'll take it, if you don't mind."

A cheery voice said, "I'm in Lockmaster, Chief, and I'm reporting like you said. Permission requested to proceed." This little charade was followed by a trill of laughter.

"Good! You're thirty miles from Pickax, which is straight north," he said crisply. "When you reach the city limits, it's three more blocks to a traffic circle with a little park in the center. Look for the K Theatre on your right. It's a big fieldstone building. Turn into the driveway. I'll be watching for you. Red car, did you say?"

"Very red, Chief," she said with a hearty laugh.

Qwilleran immediately jogged through the woods to the carriage house to check its readiness. The windows were clean, the phone was connected, and the rooms had been brightened with framed flower prints, potted plants, and colorful pillows. He added a copy of the Moose County Something to the coffee table. The kitchen was miraculously complete, even to red-and-white checked dishtowels. In the bedroom there was a floral bedspread; in the guestroom, a Navajo design. He thought, Nice going, Fran!

Qwilleran went downstairs, just in time to see a red car pulling into the theatre parking lot. The driver rolled down her window and gave him a wide, toothy smile. "We made it!"

"Welcome to Pickax," he said, reaching in to shake her hand.

She was a youthful-looking, gray- haired woman whose only wrinkles were laugh lines around the eyes and smile creases in the cheeks.

"You look just like your picture in the paper, Chief!"

He grunted acknowledgment. "How was the trip?"

"We took it easy, so as not to put a strain on Wrigley. Most of the way he was pretty good." In the backseat a black- and-white cat peered mutely through the barred door of a plastic carrier. "One motel in Wisconsin didn't take pets, but I told them he was related to the White House cat, so they let him stay."

"Quick thinking, Celia."

"That's something I learned from you, Chief - how to make up a neat little story.... Where shall I park?"

"At the doorway to the carriage house - over there. I'll carry your luggage upstairs, but first we'll show the apartment to Wrigley, to see if it meets with his approval."

Celia laughed merrily at this mild quip. "I'll carry his sandbox and water dish."

As they climbed the stairs, Qwilleran apologized for the narrowness of the flight and the shallowness of the treads. "This was built a hundred years ago when people had narrow shoulders and small feet." This brought another trill of laughter, and he thought, I've got to be careful what I say to this woman; she's jacked up.

Upstairs she gushed over the spaciousness and comfort of the rooms, while Wrigley methodically sniffed the premises that had once been home to two Siamese.

"Now, while I'm bringing up your luggage," Qwilleran instructed Celia, "you sit down and make a list of what groceries you need. Then I'll do your shopping while you take a rest."

"Oh, that's too much trouble for you, Chief!"

"Not at all. I have an ulterior motive. Did you bring your recipe for chocolate brownies?"

She laughed again. "I brought a whole shoebox of recipes!"

He had a reason for wanting to shop alone. Otherwise it would be allover town that Mr. Q was buying groceries in the company of a strange woman who laughed at everything he said and was not at all like Mrs. Duncan.

"This evening," he said in a businesslike way, "it will be my pleasure to take you to dinner, and tomorrow a pleasant woman by the name of Virginia Alstock will drive you around and give you a crash course in what Pickax is all about."

"Oh, Chief! I don't know what to say. You're so kind!"

"Don't say anything. Get to work on that list. I have a four-thirty appointment."

"Yes, sir!" she said with a stiff salute and torrents of laughter.

Qwilleran himself was a chuckler, not a laugher, and on the way to Toodles' Market he began to wonder how much of Celia's merriment he could stand. He pushed a cart up and down the aisles briskly, collecting the fifteen items on her list. At the checkout counter the cashier expressed surprise.

"Gonna do some cooking, Mr. Q?"

Ordinarily he checked out a few ounces of turkey or shrimp and a frozen dinner. Tonight he was buying unusual items like flour, potatoes, bananas, and canned cat food. "Just shopping for a sick friend," he explained.