Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"Police are investigating last night's homicide at the Trackside Tavern in Sawdust City. James Henry Ducker, twenty- four, of Chipmunk Township, was the victim of a knifing during a power failure, while soccer fans held a post- game celebration. The Moose County Electric Cooperative is unable to explain the power outage that blacked out the entire county between eleven-thirty and eleven forty-five. There was no equipment failure, according to a spokesman for the co-op. No storm conditions or high winds were recorded by the WPKX meteorology department. An inquiry is continuing."

The murder changed Qwilleran's thinking entirely. If he even hinted at his conjecture in print, the national media - always hungry for bizarre news from the boondocks - would pounce on it. TV crews and news teams from Down Below would descend on Moose County, and the family of James Henry Ducker would sue Koko for three billion. Forget it! he told himself.

As for the victim, residents of Chipmunk were subject to mayhem, and post-game soccer celebrations were notoriously violent, especially in Mudville, which was known for its roister-doister taverns. Qwilleran could imagine the yelling, table banging, brawling, and bottle smashing prompted by the total darkness. In the resulting bedlam someone could empty a semiautomatic without being heard.

Bedlam was the order of the day as he prepared breakfast for the Siamese. "Feeding time at the zoo!" he shouted above the cacophany of yowls and shrieks. "Let's hear it for Alaska smoked salmon!" he exhorted in his Carnegie Hall voice. "Smoked over alderwood fires! Age-old process!" He was reading from the can, and the louder he projected, the louder they howled. All three of them enjoyed exercising their lungs. On such a day, when the atmosphere was clear and the windows were open, the din could be heard as far as the theatre parking lot. For his own breakfast Qwilleran walked downtown to Lois's Luncheonette and stopped at the library on the way back, to visit with Polly in her fishbowl of an office on the mezzanine.

"Where were you and Bootsie when the lights went out?" he inquired.

"We both retired early and missed it completely," she said with a weariness unusual so early in the morning. "I felt some discomfort after dining with the Hasselriches. It was rather stressful, and my digestion is below par these days."

"I've reiterated, Polly, that you're worrying too much about your house."

"I suppose so, but it's such a tremendous responsibility. I'm working on my color schemes now. One has to bear in mind the exposure of each room, the choice of advancing or receding hues, tints that are flattering to complexions, and so forth."

. "Fran Brodie could do that for you, one-two-three."

"But I want to do it myself, Qwill! I've told you that!" she said curtly. "If I make mistakes, I'm prepared to live with them." Then, with a slight inquiring lift of eyebrows, she asked, "How did Mrs. Robinson enjoy dinner at Tipsy's?"

Ah! The women have been talking, Qwilleran thought: Robinson to Alstock to Duncan. He replied, "She seemed favorably impressed. It would have been more enjoyable if you were there. What did your literary ladies have for dinner? Was it chicken pot pie again?"

"Turkey chow mein," Polly said stiffly.

The mention of food was his cue to invite her to dinner. Instead, he asked where he would find dog books. He said he planned to write a column on chows. Dinner dates with Polly were becoming more of an obligation than a pleasure.

On the way out, Qwilleran stopped to check on Homer Tibbitt's current project.

"Railroads!" the old man said. "The SC&L Line was the lifeblood of the county in mining and lumbering days, and it was all done with steam. I grew up on a farm outside Little Hope and knew the language of the whistles before I knew the alphabet. When I was five years old, my brothers and I would go into town on Saturdays to watch the trains go by. I remember the station platform: wood boards put together with nailheads as big as dimes. Little Hope was only a flagstop, and most trains went straight through. I could hear them coming, getting louder and louder, until the big wheels went roaring past. It was frightening, I tell you! Seventy-five tons of iron, breathing fire!"

"Were there many wrecks?"

"Yes, a lot of blood was spilled, most of it for the sake of being on time. Being on time made money for the SC&L and meant a bonus for the engineer, so he'd go too fast, trying to get his lading to a cargo ship that was ready to sail.... One of these days I'll write a book."

When Qwilleran picked up his mail and daily paper, he usually walked down the trail, but now he drove in order to deliver a cooler of beverages. The morning after the blackout, Eddie's only helper was one of the Herculean young blond men indigenous to Moose County.

"Where's Benno?" Qwilleran asked.

Eddie walked over to him and started sharpening a pencil. "I dunno. Prob'ly hung over."

"Where were you when the lights went out last night?"