Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

Meanwhile, he had to protect his private mission - and Celia's part in it, for that matter. He had no doubt that Ozzie had intended to "go out whittlin' " and never intended to jump. He wondered if the old man had consciously wanted to re-enact the famous 1908 wreck at Wildcat, hoping to go down in railroad history. While Riker had been flashing his press credentials on the embankment, Qwilleran had been talking quietly with the survivors. They balked at talking to the press, but Qwilleran introduced himself as a friend of Ozzie's. There were no secrets at the Retirement Center. They had heard all about this "Mackintosh feller from Chicago," who had interviewed Ozzie for a book he was writing and who had bought him two shots and a burger at the Jump-Off Bar. Now they all related the same story: The idea had come up suddenly, the day before, during a huddle at the bar. Ozzie Penn had said it would be a helluva joke to steal the train and wreck it. He would drive the hog, and he'd need a crew of three to keep up a good head of steam for a fast run. Anyone else could go along for the ride, unless he was too old to jump. Everyone would be expected to jump before the hog hit the curve north of the bridge. They all knew how to jump. Now - waiting on the embankment, fortified by a good dose of painkiller - they had no regrets. It was the most excitement they'd had in years!

They had known instinctively that Ozzie would not jump. He'd keep his hand on the throttle no matter what, and to hell with the reverse bar. He was a brave man. He'd proved it in countless emergencies. He always said he didn't want to die in bed; he wanted to go out whittlin'. It gave Qwilleran a queasy feeling to realize that his own suggestion of a Penn family reunion had resulted in Ozzie's purchase of the train, Florrie's possible cure in Switzerland, the train's destruction, and Ozzie's death. Call it heroic or not, being scalded to death by steam was blood-chilling. Could it have been an old man's penance for abandoning his daughter so cruelly?

The next morning Qwilleran wrote his review of the play in time for the noon deadline and also dashed off the lyrics for a folksong, titled The Wreck of Old No.9. These he took to the Old Stone Mill when he went there for lunch. He asked to be seated in Derek's station.

"Good show last night," he told the tall waiter. "Best role you've ever done."

"Yeah, I was really up," the actor acknowledged.

"Did you hear about the train wreck on the radio this morning?"

"Nah. I slept in, but they're talking about it in the kitchen."

Qwilleran handed him an envelope. "Here's a new folksong to add to your collection. You can sing it to the tune of the Blizzard ballad." "Gee, thanks! Who wrote it?"

"Author unknown," said Qwilleran. He had done his bit to launch Ozzie Penn into the annals of local folk history. He knew Derek would sing it allover the county.

Another news item - one that would never be memorialized in song - appeared in the paper that day:

Edward Penn Trevelyan, 24, son of Floyd and Florence Trevelyan, died yesterday as a result of injuries suffered in a tractor accident. He had been on the critical list in Pickax Hospital since Monday.

Trevelyan was a resident of Indian Village and had recently started his own construction firm. He attended Pickax High School, where he played on the soccer team. He is survived by his parents and a sister, Letitia, at home. Funeral arrangements have not been announced

It was Polly's day off, and Qwilleran phoned her at home. He assumed she would have read the obituary and the account of the train wreck. She had read both, yet she seemed unperturbed by either.

"How's Bootsie?" he asked.

"He's glad to be home."

"You missed a good play last night."

"Perhaps I can go next weekend."

Something's wrong with her, Qwilleran thought; she's in another world. "Would you like to drive up to Mooseville and have dinner on the porch at the Northern Lights?" he asked.

"Thank you, Qwill, but I'm really not hungry."

"But you have to eat something, Polly."

"I'll just warm a bowl of soup."

"Want me to bring you a take-out from Lois's? Her chicken soup is the real thing!"

"I know, but I have plenty of soup in my freezer."

"Polly, aren't you feeling well? You sound rather down. Is it indigestion again? Did you tell Dr. Diane about your condition?"

"Yes, and she gave me a digestant, but she wants me to take some tests, and I dread that!"

"I think I should drive over there to cheer you up. You need some fresh daisies and a friendly shoulder."

"No, I just want to go to bed early. I'll be all right by morning; we have a big day at the library tomorrow. But thanks, dear."

Following that disturbing conversation, Qwilleran stayed in his desk chair, staring into space and wondering what to do, whom to call. Koko was on the desk, rubbing his jaw against Cerberus, the three-headed dog, and he said to him quietly, "That's a paperweight, friend - not a fang scraper."