Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

Leaving the managing editor's office, he stopped in the city room and put a note in Roger MacGillivray's mailbox: "While you're scratching for stories in Mudville, find out what happened at the Trackside Tavern ten years ago. Your reference to it was provocative. Perhaps you know what happened. Perhaps it's too horrendous to mention in a family newspaper. Whisper in your uncle Qwill's ear."

On the way out of the building, Qwilleran passed Hixie Rice's office. The vice president in charge of advertising and promotion hailed him. "Qwill, I loved your column about the sweet corn of August - and about this being the corniest county in the state! I sent Wilfred out to buy several dozen ears. We're sending them to advertisers as a promo."

He grunted a lukewarm acknowledgment of the compliment. "Not to change the subject," he said, "but was Floyd Trevelyan a customer of yours?"

"Yes and no. He was tight-fisted with advertising dollars."

"His son lives in Indian Village. Do you know him?"

"I see him in the parking lot. I thought Gary Pratt looked like a black bear, but Floyd's son is too much!"

"Is he in your building?"

"No, I think he's in Dwight's building. Why?

Is it important?"

"No, I'm just addressing my Christmas cards early," Qwilleran said with a nonchalant shrug.

Hixie looked at him with suspicion. "You've got something up your sleeve, Qwill! What is it?"

"Are you still chummy with the manager at Indian Village?"

"Not exactly chummy, but she's on my Christmas list in a big way, and she's extremely cooperative. What can I do for you?"

"Floyd Trevelyan's secretary had an apartment in G building. Tell the manager you have a friend Down Below who's being transferred to Pickax and wants to rent an upscale apartment. Ask if Nella Hooper's is vacant - or will it be vacant soon."

"Would you like to tell me what this is all about?"

"Only my journalistic curiosity," he said. "If the apartment is not available, someone must be paying the rent, and it would be interesting to know who - or why."

"I smell intrigue," Hixie said. "Anything else?"

"Find out when Eddie Trevelyan moved in. That's all. Get back to work! Sell ads! Make money for the paper!"

"How's Polly? I haven't seen her lately."

"She's fine - excited about her new house, of course. By the way, she's due for a physical and wants to switch doctors. She doesn't care for the man who bought Melinda's practice. Have you heard any good reports about the Lanspeaks' daughter?"

Hixie waggled an accusing finger at him. "Qwill, you old rogue! Is that your underhanded way of finding out what happened to my late lamented romance? Well, I'll tell you. He was a wonderful, sincere, thoughtful, attentive bore! But I still see his mother once a week for French lessons."

"Pardonnez-moi," he said with a stiff bow.

Qwilleran next stopped at Amanda's Studio of Design to see Fran Brodie. She was in-house, three days a week, sketching floor plans, working on color schemes, and greeting customers.

"Cup of coffee? Cold drink?" she asked.

He chose coffee. "Have you started dress rehearsals?"

"Tonight's the first. We test our system for handling extras. A bus load of lords and ladies will come from the high school in time for the first act - complete with sweeping robes and elaborate headdresses. After the first scene they're not needed until the end of the play. What do we do with them in the meantime? There's no room backstage. Do we put them on the school bus to wait? Do we send them back to school for an hour? You know how giddy kids can get if they're having to wait."

Qwilleran thought for a moment. "Would the Old Stone Church let you use one of their social rooms? Bus the kids across the park, give them a horror video, and pick them up an hour later."

"Super!" Fran exclaimed. "Why didn't we think of that? The Lanspeaks are pillars of the church; they can swing it for us.... More coffee?"

While she poured, he asked, "What's the latest from your confidential source? The last thing you told me, the police were checking the secretary's story."

"It turned out to be true, Qwill. Nella Hooper was really fired two weeks before Audit Sunday. She collected severance pay and filed for unemployment benefits."

"How long ago did you do her apartment in Indian Village?"

"More than a year."

"I suppose Floyd paid for the furnishings."

"No, the credit union paid the bill; they could take it as a business expense. Did I tell you the FBI went in with a search warrant? Nella hadn't left anything but the furniture and a tube of toothpaste."

"What brand?" Fran smirked at his humor. "How do you like my flowers?" A magnificent bouquet of white roses stood on her desk.

"You must have acquired a well-heeled admirer," Qwilleran said. "How come I can't smell them? How come I'm not sneezing?"