Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"I'm a chuckler," he said. "My laughter is internal. I wrote a column once about the many kinds of laughter. People giggle, titter, guffaw, snicker, cackle, or roar. My friend Polly Duncan, whom you'll meet, has a musical laugh that's very pleasant. Laughter is an expression of mirth involving the facial muscles, throat, lungs, mouth, and eyes. It's usually involuntary, but one can control the volume and tone to suit the time and place. It's called fine-tuning.... My next lecture will be at 9 a.m. tomorrow."

"I never thought of that," she said. "I'm going to try fine-tuning."

"There's a hostess at the restaurant where we're going who greets customers with loud, cackling laughter. I always think, There goes another egg."

Celia tried to smother her screams of delight. "What's the name of the restaurant?"

"The Chicken Coop." She exploded again but cut it short. "No, it's really called Tipsy's." Then he explained how it was founded in the 1930s and named after a white-and-black cat whose markings made her look inebriated, and whose deformed foot made her stagger. "Her portrait in the main dining room was the subject of county-wide controversy recently," he said, "resolved only when art fakery was revealed."

When they arrived at the restaurant and were greeted by the hostess with a cackling laugh, Celia struggled to keep a straight face as she mumbled to Qwilleran, "Another egg!"

The menu was limited. Qwilleran always ordered the steak. Celia asked if the fish had bones, because she wanted to take some home to Wrigley. During the meal she had many questions to ask.

"Who is your friend with the nice laugh?"

"The administrator of the public library. It's her assistant who will chauffeur you around town tomorrow."

"Where do you live?"

"No doubt you've noticed the evergreen forest behind the theatre parking lot. Beyond that is an old orchard with a hundred-year-old apple barn. That's where I live."

"You live in a barn?"

"I've fixed it up a little. You'll see it one of these days. After you're settled, we'll have a talk. I think... I may have another assignment for you, Celia."

After dropping his dinner guest at her apartment, Qwilleran hurried to the barn to make a phone call. Just inside the kitchen door he picked up a black felt- tip pen from the floor. "Drat that cat!" he muttered as he dropped it into the pewter mug on the desk. A pen lying on a desktop was fair game to Koko, but he never filched one from the mug. He suspected Yum Yum.

It was the Compton residence that he called, and Lisa answered. "Do you want to speak to my grouchy husband?"

"No, I want to speak with his charming wife. It's about Pals for Patients."

"Sure. What can I do for you?"

"Does the Trevelyan family in West Middle Hummock ever call you for help?"

"All the time! The Pals we send out there never keep the job very long. It's a long drive for only a few hours' work, and it's an unhappy family. No one's assigned to them at the moment-not since the credit union closed. Their daughter worked there, but now she's at home, taking care of her mother herself. Why do you ask?"

"I've met the son. He's building Polly's house. It was his dog who was shot. Did you read about it?"

"Nasty business!" Lisa said.

"I agree. I have no sympathy for Floyd, but I feel sorry for his family, especially his wife, and I have a suggestion. The Celia Robinson I mentioned to you has a cheerful disposition that would do wonders for Mrs. Trevelyan, I'm sure. Mrs. Robinson will call at your office tomorrow, and I wish you'd see what you can do."

"You don't think she'd mind the drive?"

"She's just driven for three days with a cat in the backseat, and there were no complaints from either of them. She's an inspiration, I tell you! She could even make Lyle smile."

"Hands off my husband!" Lisa said. "He may be an old curmudgeon, but he's mine!... Okay, I'll see what I can do."

Qwilleran hung up slowly with a satisfied feeling of accomplishment. Already his logical mind was telling him how to brief Celia for her assignment. As he sat at the desk, making notes with a black felt-tip, he realized that neither cat had greeted him at the door. He glanced around casually, then with mounting concern. That's when he saw the blood-red splotch on a light-colored sofa.

Logic gave way to panic! He jumped up, knocking over the desk chair, and rushed toward the lounge area. "Koko! Yum Yum!" he shouted. There was no answer.

-8-

Words can hardly express Qwilleran's panic when he glimpsed the blood-red splotch in the lounge area, nor his relief upon finding that it was the swatch of fabric in the Mackintosh tartan. The Siamese had stolen it! The envelope containing the application for membership in the clan was on the floor nearby. And where were the culprits? On top of the fireplace cube, observing Qwilleran's brief frenzy with wonder, as if thinking, What fools these mortals be!