Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"They're silk! Aren't they fabulous? Amanda found this new source in Chicago. My grandmother used to make crepe paper flowers during the Depression and sell them for a dollar a dozen. These are twenty-five dollars each! Why don't you buy a big bunch for Polly?"

"She'd rather have fresh daisies," he said truthfully.

"Qwill, why doesn't Polly let me help her with her house?" Fran said earnestly. "I don't mean to belittle your beloved, but she's a color-fusser. I showed her some fabrics, and she fussed over the colors, trying to get a perfect match. I could teach her something if she'd listen."

"I don't know the answer, Fran. I'm even more concerned than you are." He started to leave.

"Wait a minute! I have something for you to read." She handed him the working script of a play. "See if you think we should do this for our winter production. The action takes place at Christmastime. I'd love to play Eleanor of Aquitaine.... You could grow a beard and play Henry," she added slyly.

"No thanks, but I'll give it a read."

On the way home Qwilleran took a detour into the public library to see Polly, but she was out of the building, the clerks informed him. They always considered it appropriate to tell their boss's friend where she had gone and why: to Dr. Zoller's office to have her teeth cleaned, or to Gippel's Garage to have her brakes adjusted. Today she had an appointment with the vet; Bootsie had been vomiting, and there was blood in his urine.

"If she returns, ask her to call me," he said in a businesslike tone, but he was thinking, That's all she needs to push her over the edge! A sick cat!

At the barn he loaded a cooler of soft drinks into his car and drove down the trail for his mail. Eddie was bending over a whining table saw, lopping off boards as if slicing bread, while two new helpers climbed about the framed building, hammering nails with syncopated blows.

"Comin' right along!" he called out encouragingly.

"Yeah," said Eddie, walking in his direction and sharpening a pencil. "If it don't rain tonight, I'll do some gradin'. I'll do all that fill and start on that hill she wants next to the road."

"That'll make a long day for you," Qwilleran said.

"Yeah... well... a guy in Kennebeck'll rent me a skim-loader cheaper at night."

"How do you transport it all that distance?"

"Flatbed trailer."

Qwilleran asked, "Do you live in Kennebeck? That's where they have that good steakhouse."

"Nah, I live in... uh... out in the country."

"Where's Benno? Still hung over?"

"Di'n't you hear? He got his!"

"You mean, he was killed? In an accident?"

"Nah. A fight in a bar."

"That's too bad," Qwilleran said. "You'd known him a long time, hadn't you?"

"Yeah... well... gotta get back to work."

Driving back to the barn, Qwilleran wondered why Eddie considered it necessary to conceal his Indian Village address. The development on the Ittibittiwassee River was swanky by Moose County standards, catering to young professionals with briefcases and styled hair: Fran Brodie, Dwight Somers, Hixie Rice, and Elizabeth Hart had apartments there. Eddie hardly fitted the picture, with his rough appearance and rusty pickup.

Qwilleran arrived at the barn in time to hear the phone ringing and see Koko hopping up and down as if on springs. It was Polly, calling in a state of anxiety. Bootsie was in the hospital. He had feline urological syndrome. They were giving him tests. He might need surgery. Listening to her anguished report, his reaction was: I told you so! Many times he had warned Polly that she was overfeeding Bootsie; he was gorging on food to compensate for loneliness; what he needed was a cat friend.

Now Qwilleran tried to comfort her by mumbling words of encouragement: She had caught it in time; Bootsie was in good hands; the vet was highly skilled; Bootsie was still a young cat and would bounce back; would she like to talk about it over dinner at the Old Stone Mill?

No, she said. Unfortunately the library was open until nine o'clock, and it was her turn to work.

It was raining slightly when Celia arrived for her briefing - not really raining, just misting. "Good for the complexion," they liked to say in Moose County.

She was wearing a plastic hat tied under her chin. "Did anyone expect this rain?" she asked.

"In Moose County we always expect the unexpected. Come in and tell me about the day's excitement at The Roundhouse. Did Wrigley steal the show? Did Tish break down and tell all? Did Florrie plant a bomb in the elevator? This is better than a soap opera."

"I decided not to take him," she said. "That train wreck really scared him! So I told them his little tummy was upset from eating a rubber band. I'm getting good at inventing stories, Chief."

"I'm proud of you, Celia."