Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"They're merely questions to keep in the back of your head. How did Tish feel about the secretary who absconded with Floyd? The attorney has instructed them not to talk about the case, but if you can get her to break down, find out what kind of work she did at the Lumbertown office. Did she suspect tampering with the books? If so, did fear of her father prevent her from reporting it? Perhaps... Tish was the one who blew the whistle. This is all long-range probing, of course."

"It's going to be so much fun!" Celia said in great glee.

"Then let's confer again tomorrow evening."

"Do you mind if it's later than usual? Choir practice is Monday nights at seven."

"Not at all. Call me at your convenience," Qwilleran said as he escorted her to the parking area. "How's your little car running?"

"Just fine! It gets good mileage, and I love the color!"

After the red car had driven away, Qwilleran walked the floor to collect his thoughts - through the much-used library area, the seldom-used dining area, the spacious foyer, the comfortable lounge, and back to the library. Twenty-eight laps equalled one mile, Derek Cuttlebrink had computed in one of his goofy moments. Whenever Qwilleran traversed this inside track, both cats would fall into line behind him, marching with tails at twelve o'clock.

Around and around the fireplace cube the three of them traipsed, the man feeling like a Pied Piper without pipes. On the sixth lap he noticed the twistletwig rocker in front of the fireplace cube, its intricately bent willow twigs silhouetted against the white wall. According to Elizabeth Hart, one could sit in the grotesque piece of furniture and expect to think profound thoughts. What Qwilleran needed at the moment was a little profundity, and he undertook to test her theory.

He slid into the rocker's inviting contours gingerly, not quite trusting it to bear his weight. When there was no sign of collapse, he relaxed and began to rock, slowly at first, and then more vigorously. The action attracted Koko, who circled him three times and then leaped lightly into his lap. This was surprising; Koko was not a lap-sitter.

"Well, young man, what's this all about?" Qwilleran asked.

"Yow!" Koko replied as he started to dig in the crook of Qwilleran's elbow. Yum Yum sometimes gave a few casual digs before settling down, but Koko was excavating with zeal. His claws were retracted, but his paws were powerful. Could this be blamed on the twistletwig mystique?

"Who do you think you are?" Qwilleran demanded. "Digger O'Dell? Colonel Goethals? This is not the Panama Canal!"

The cat stopped for a few moments, then resumed his chore with increased energy. The game was not only ridiculous; it verged on the painful.

"Ouch! Enough!" Qwilleran protested. "Hold or cut bowstrings!"

-12-

Qwilleran started the week by grinding out a thousand pseudo-serious words on the history of sunburn. It was inspired by an oil painting in Polly's apartment depicting a beach scene at the turn of the century; the women wore bathing suits with sleeves, knee-length skirts, matching hats, and long stockings. The ninety miles of beaches bordering Moose County were now frequented by summer vacationers without stockings, hats, sleeves, or skirts - and sometimes without tops. He titled his column "From Parasols and Gloves... to Sunscreen with SPF-30." For his readers who had never seen a parasol, he described it as a light, portable sunshade carried like an umbrella, its name derived from French, Italian, and Latin words meaning "to ward off the sun."

He had to work hard to stretch the subject into a thousand words, and he was not particularly proud of the result when he delivered the copy to Junior Goodwinter. "Consider it a summer space filler," he said as he threw it on the editor's desk.

After scanning the pages, Junior said, "It's topical, but I've seen better from the Qwill Pen. Want us to run it without a by-line and say you're on vacation?"

"It's not that bad," Qwilleran protested. "Any more news from Mudville?"

"There's a rumor they've located Floyd-boy's secretary in Texas, but nobody will confirm it."

"How about the murder in the tavern?" "The police are being cagey, which means (a) they're onto something big or (b) they're not onto anything at all and hate to admit it. What's really odd is that the power company can't explain the outage. Being countywide, it couldn't be part of a local murder plot - or could it? I'm beginning to agree with the UFO buffs. Do you have a theory, Qwill? You usually come up with a wild one." Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "If I told you my theory, you'd have me committed."