Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"Well! It was very interesting! It's a nice drive out there, and I didn't mind it at all. They have a cute mailbox like an old railroad engine, and they call the house The Roundhouse on the sign, but it isn't round at all!"

He explained that railroad yards used to have round buildings for servicing locomotives in the days of steam, and there was a turntable in the center to shunt the engines into different stalls.

"Learn something every day!" she said with an airy wave of the hand.

"How well were you received?"

"Well, first I met the nurse, who was in a hurry to go off duty. She impressed me as being kind of a cool cucumber. I'll bet she lives in Brrr." Celia stopped to enjoy a laugh at her own humor. "She showed me the medicines and told me not to get off schedule or the patient might wind up in the hospital. Then she left, and I met the patient's daughter. She could be quite pretty if she was happy, but I'm afraid she's a very bitter young lady-in her early twenties."

"What's her name?"

"When I asked, she didn't answer right away, but then she said it was Tish. Later, though, her mother called her Lettie. She hates Lettie. I know how she feels. I always hated Celia."

As his informer rambled on, Qwilleran was doing some quick arithmetic: Lettie plus Tish equals the young woman he met in the bank; she claimed her last name was Penn, although the teller called her Trevelyan. He said, "Her name is probably Letitia - a bad choice, any way you look at it. Letitia Trevelyan sounds like 'thank you' in a foreign language."

Celia giggled. "I must remember to tell that one to my grandson." She dug in her large handbag for her notebook and wrote it down, then went on: "Tish was polite but not what you'd call friendly. That's all right; I didn't expect an afternoon social. She said she was going out and would be back at five o'clock-my quitting time-but first she took me into her mother's room. Oh, my! That poor woman! She can't be more than fifty, but her body is so frail, and her face is so white! The way her eyes looked, they were searching for something. I don't think she gets enough attention, although she's never left alone."

"That could be true," Qwilleran said. "Attendance is not attention."

"She told me to call her Florrie. I fixed her a nice little lunch but had to coax her to eat. She wanted to talk. Her voice is thin and whiney."

"What did she talk about?"

"Well, she skipped around a lot. She doesn't like vegetables. Someone killed their dog. The nurse is mean to her. No one comes to see her. She hates what's on TV. Lettie goes out and never says where she's going." Celia stopped for. breath. "I listened and sympathized with her until she got tired and wanted to lie down. I asked if she'd like me to sing to her."

"Don't tell me you sang Mrs. Robinson!" Qwilleran said teasingly.

"Oh, you remembered!" That was cause for more laughter. "No, I sang hymns, and she fell asleep and had a peaceful nap. That gave me time to poke around the house. It's big and has an elevator, but it doesn't look as if anybody loves it, if you know what I mean. And those electric trains in the basement! Never saw anything like it! Do you suppose they let school kids come and see them at Christmas-time?"

"Probably not."

"There was a family album in Florrie's sitting room, and when she woke up I asked if we could look at it together. I took her down on the elevator and wheeled her out on the stone patio, and we had a good time looking at snap-shots."

"Did you learn anything?"

"Oh, I learned a lot! She grew up in a railroad family. Her father was a famous engineer. They lived in Sawdust City near the tracks. Railroad people liked to live near the tracks, Florrie said. Watching the trains was big entertainment, I guess. They knew everybody. Everybody waved."

Qwilleran said, "You have a good ear for detail and apparently an excellent memory."

Celia waved her small notebook. "I wrote everything down. Her grandfather, uncles, and brothers all worked on the railroad. They were firemen, brakemen, engineers, flagmen, crossing guards, and hostlers, whatever they are."

"Did Florrie wonder why you were writing things down?" he asked with a note of concern.

"I know what you're thinking, Chief, but I was careful to explain that I wrote long letters to my grandson twice a week and jotted down things to tell him."

"Smart thinking! Perhaps we should put Clayton on the payroll."