Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 17 Who Blew The Whistle

"But it's so large and commercial, and I've lost respect for them since the fiasco on Breakfast Island. It's my belief that a small builder gives more personal attention to one's needs and ideas. Mrs. Alstock's in-laws in Black Creek hired a young man. He finished on schedule and very close to the estimated cost. We should encourage young people in the trades, don't you think? He works out of Sawdust City."

"Hmmm," Qwilleran mused, having heard that the Sawdusters were all roughnecks who threw bottles through tavern windows on Saturday nights. "What is his name?"

"He's a Trevelyan - another of those 'hairy Welshmen,' as they're called, but I have no objection to long hair and a shaggy beard if he does a good job."

"Want me to check him out for you? The paper has a stringer in Sawdust City."

"Well... thank you, Qwill, but... Mrs. Alstock is taking me to see her in- laws' house tomorrow night, and Mr. Trevelyan will be there. I'll have my sketches with me, and if he impresses me favorably - "

"Find out if he eyeballs the construction from the sketches," Qwilleran suggested, remembering the underground builder he had encountered in Mooseville.

"Oh, no! In Pickax the plans and specifications must be drawn up by an architect in order to obtain a building permit."

Changing the subject abruptly, Qwilleran said, "I'm keeping you from your work. How about dinner tonight at the Old Stone Mill?"

"I'd love to, dear, but I've called a special meeting of the library board. We'll have dinner at the hotel, then come back here to discuss the paving of the parking lot. We've had it out for bids."

Teasingly he said, "I hope your literary ladies enjoy the inevitable chicken pot pie and lemon sherbet, spelled 'sherbert' on the menu."

Polly smiled, recognizing his genial thrust at the hotel's cuisine and the library's frugal allowance for board members' meals. "You're welcome to join us," she said coyly.

"No thanks, but why don't you get the board to budget a few dollars for cushions for these chairs?"

"Go away," she said affectionately, waving him out of her office. She was wearing the ring he had given her for Christmas - a fiery black opal rimmed with tiny diamonds. He knew that she was wearing it to impress the "literary ladies."

Leaving Polly's office, Qwilleran stopped to say hello to Homer Tibbitt. The old man's eyes were glazed after poring over his books, and he blinked a few times before he could recognize the face.

"Tell me, Homer. How can you sit on these hard chairs for so many hours?" Qwilleran asked.

"I bring an inflated cushion," said the historian. "Also a thermos of decaf, but don't tell Polly. The sign says: No food or beverages. I take my brown bag into the restroom every hour or so and have a swig."

Qwilleran nodded with understanding, knowing there was a shot of brandy in Homer's decaffeinated coffee. "How are you feeling these days?" The old man was wheezing audibly.

"I suffer the usual tweaks and twinges of advancing age, plus a touch of bronchitis from these dusty, mildewed records." He slapped his chest. "My tubes whistle. You can hear me all over the building. I'm trying to do a paper (whistle) on Moose County mines, 1850 to 1915."

"What do you know about the Trevelyan family?"

"They go back six generations, all descended from two brothers who came from Wales (whistle) to supervise the mines. Second generation built sawmills and founded Sawdust City." Mr. Tibbitt stopped for a coughing spell, and Qwilleran rushed to the water cooler for a cup of water. "Sorry about that," the old man apologized when the coughing was relieved. "Now, where was I?"

"Sawdust City," Qwilleran reminded him. "The Trevelyans."

"Believe it or not, that ugly little town was the county seat originally, when Pickax was only a bump in the road. When they switched government functions to Pickax because of (whistle) its central location, the Sawdusters rose up in arms and tried to secede from Moose County. All they accomplished was an independent school system."

"Do you know a Floyd Trevelyan, Homer? He's president of the Lumbertown Credit Union in Sawdust City."

"Can't say that I do. We Pickaxians are unmitigated snobs, you know. Are you aware you're living (whistle) in the old Trevelyan orchard? No one would touch the property for generations until you came along - a greenhorn from Down Below, heh heh heh."

"Because of snobbery?" Qwilleran asked.

"Because of the Trevelyan curse," the historian corrected him. "The apple trees withered, the farmhouse was struck by lightning, and the farmer hanged himself."

"Who pronounced the curse?"

"Nobody knows."

"For your information, Homer, Polly is building a house where the farmhouse used to be."

"Well, don't tell her (whistle) what I said."

"That's all right. She's not superstitious."

"Just the same, don't tell her," the old man warned.

After leaving the library, Qwilleran continued his walk downtown, making a few unscheduled visits for the purpose of sharing information: