Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"Celia," he interrupted, "why don't you jump into your little red car and drive down here? You can see the apple barn, meet the cats, and tell me about the sad case."

Moments later she stepped out of her car in the barnyard and gasped at the sight. "I grew up on a farm and never saw anything like this!" She was equally enthralled by the interior but shocked at the condition of the orchard.

"According to legend," Qwilleran explained, "a curse was placed on the orchard a hundred years ago. I thought the curse had exceeded the statute of limitations, but lately the property's been under surveillance by the FBI."

"Really?" "Yes, we have our own Feline Bureau of Investigation."

Celia laughed at his quip, but it was controlled laughter. She was fine-tuning.

The Siamese were listening to the conversation from a safe distance, sitting alertly and ready for flight if the visitor's laughter should hit the wrong note. Meanwhile they were sensing that she came from a poultry farm, lived with a black-and-white cat named Wrigley, and manufactured Kabibbles in her kitchen.

"Seriously," he said, "I'm glad you've enlisted in the Pals for Patients program. You're perfect for the job. What do you know about your first assignment?"

"Only that the patient is the wife of the man who disappeared with a lot of money that doesn't belong to him. It must be terrible for the poor woman, to be ill and have that happen. A practical nurse comes in five mornings a week, and I work afternoons. The rest of the time her daughter is there."

Qwilleran said, "I've heard that they're two lonely and unhappy women. With your cheerful personality you'll be very good for them. And you can do more than that! There's an element of mystery surrounding the scandal. I believe there's more to the story than people think." Then he added with heavy implication, "The police investigators may be on the wrong track."

Excitedly she asked, "Are you investigating it yourself, Chief?"

"I have no authority to do so, and the Trevelyans' lawyer has instructed them not to talk to the media."

"But you're not really media," she protested. "You just write a column, don't you?"

Qwilleran took a moment to enjoy an internal chuckle. "Be that as it may, it would be inadvisable for me to involve myself personally in the case."

Celia was sitting on the edge of her chair. "Could I help you, Chief?"

"I'm sure you could. When do you start?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"Suppose you get the lay of the land, and we'll talk again tomorrow evening. By that time I'll have planned our strategy."

"Is there anything special I should do tomorrow?"

"Just be friendly and sympathetic. They may welcome the chance to talk to someone. Don't ask too many questions; keep it conversational. And never... never let them know you're associated with me!"

"I'll write it down," she said. "I always write everything down." Her large handbag was on the floor near her chair, and she fumbled in it for a notepad, whereupon two quiet slinky Siamese approached in slow motion to explore its contents.

"No!" Qwilleran said firmly, and they withdrew backward at the same slow pace. "It's never a good idea to leave your handbag open while they're around," he explained. "Koko is an investigator, and Yum Yum is a kleptomaniac."

-9-

With unusual anticipation Qwilleran awaited Celia Robinson's report on her first day in West Middle Hummock. He patted his moustache frequently as he assured himself he was finally on-line with the investigation.

Copy was due for his Friday column, but his profound treatise on baseball was not quite finished, so he dashed off a thousand words on "the sweet corn of August," one of Moose County's much- vaunted crops. Like vintners with certain wines that don't travel well, farmers produced only enough sweet corn for local consumption - a rare delicacy that had never been exported.

He delivered the copy by bicycle, then took a long ride, hoping the monotony of pedaling would crystallize his thoughts about the Trevelyan case. It was an inspiration, he believed, to use Celia as a secret agent. In Florida she had proved herself to be entirely trustworthy: she used common sense; she followed instructions; she read spy novels. They would call this investigation Operation Whistle.

As Qwilleran approached the Park Circle, he was wondering whether to make an illegal left turn into the theatre driveway, or cut through the park where biking was prohibited, or circle the park and make an illegal U-turn. Before he could make up his mind, a police car pulled him to the curb, and Andrew Brodie stepped out.

"See your license?" the chief barked. "Attempting to elude an officer. Biking without a helmet. Exceeding the speed limit. Failure to provide a reflector on the rear fender."

"Write me a ticket," Qwilleran shot back, "and I'll see you in court on your day off."