THE CAT WHO BLEW THE WHISTLE

LILIAN JACKSON BRAUN

-1-
   The engineer clanged the bell. The 
whistle blew two shrill blasts, and the 
old steam locomotive - the celebrated 
Engine No. 9 - huff-puff-puffed away from 
the station platform, pulling passenger 
cars. She was a black giant with six huge 
driving wheels propelled by the 
relentless thrust of piston rods. The 
engineer leaned from his cab with his 
left hand on the throttle and his eyes 
upon the rails; the fireman shoveled coal 
into the firebox; black cinders spewed 
from the funnel-shaped smokestack. It was 
a scene from the past.

   Yet, this was a Sunday afternoon in 
the hightech present. Thirty-six 
prominent residents of Moose County had 
converged on the railway station in 
Sawdust City to pay $500 a ticket for a 
ride behind old No.9. It was the first 
run of the historic engine since being 
salvaged and overhauled, and the ticket 
purchase included a champagne dinner in a 
restored dining car plus a generous tax-
deductible donation to the scholarship 
fund of the new community college.

   When the brass bell clanged, a stern-
faced conductor with a bellowing voice 
paced the platform, announcing, "Train 
leaving for KenNebeck, Pickax, Little 
Hope, Black Creek Junction, Lockmaster, 
and all points south! All abo-o-oard!" A 
yellow stepbox was put down, and well-
dressed passengers climbed aboard the 
dining car, where tables were set with 
white cloths and sparkling crystal. 
White-coated waiters were filling glasses 
with ice water from silver-plated 
pitchers.

   Among the passengers being seated were 
the mayors from surrounding towns and 
other civic functionaries who found it in 
their hearts, or politics, to pay $500 a 
plate. Also aboard were the publisher of 
the county newspaper, the publication's 
leading columnist, the owner of the 
department store in Pickax, a mysterious 
heiress recently arrived from Chicago, 
and the head of the Pickax Public 
Library.

   The flagman signaled all clear, and 
No.9 started to roll, the cars following 
with a gentle lurch. As the clickety-
clack of the drive wheels on the rails 
accelerated, someone shouted, "She's 
rolling!" The passengers applauded, and 
the mayor of Sawdust City rose to propose 
a toast to No.9. Glasses of ice water 
were raised. (The champagne would come 
later.)

   Her black hulk and brass fittings 
gleamed in the sunlight as she chugged 
across the landscape. Steel rumbled on 
steel, and the mournful whistle sounded 
at every grade crossing.

   It was the first run of the Lumbertown 
Party Train. . . . No one had any idea it 
would also be almost its last.


   Moose County, 400 miles north of 
everywhere, had a rich history, and 
railroads had helped to make it the 
wealthiest county in the state before 
World War I. Fortunes had been made in 
mining, lumbering, and transportation, 
and many of the old families were still 
there, hanging on to their inherited 
money or lamenting the loss of it. Only 
the Klingenschoen millions had escalated 
into billions, and then - by an ironic 
quirk of fate - had passed into the hands 
of an outsider, a middle-aged man with a 
luxuriant pepper-and-salt moustache and a 
unique distaste for money.

   The heir was Jim Qwilleran, and he had 
been a hard-working, prize-winning 
journalist Down Below, as Moose County 
citizens called the polluted and crime-
ridden centers of overpopulation. Instead 
of rejoicing in his good luck, however, 
Qwilleran considered a net worth of 
twelve digits to be a nuisance and an 
embarrassment. He promptly established 
the Klingenschoen Foundation to dispose 
of the surplus in philanthropic ways. He 
himself lived quietly in a converted barn 
and wrote the twice-weekly "Qwill Pen" 
column for the local paper. Friends 
called him "Qwill," with affection; the 
rest of the county called him "Mr. Q," 
with respect.

   If a cross-section of the populace 
were to be polled, the women would say: 
"I love his column! He writes as if he's 
talking to me!"

   "Why can't my boyfriend be tall and 
good-looking and rich like Mr. Q?"

   "His moustache is so romantic! But 
there's something sad about his eyes, as 
if he has a terrible secret."

   "He must be over fifty, you know, but 
he's in terrific shape. I see him walking 
and biking all over."

   "Imagine! All that money, and he's 
still a bachelor!"

   "He has a wonderful head of hair for 
his age. It's turning gray at the 
temples, but I like that!"

   "I sat next to him at a Red Cross 
luncheon once, and he listened to 
everything I said and made me feel 
important. My husband says journalists 
are paid to listen. I don't care. Mr. Q 
is a charming man!"

   "You know he must be a nice person by 
the way he writes about cats in his 
column."

   And if the men of Moose County were 
polled, they would say:

   "One thing I'll say about Mr. Q: He 
fits in with all kinds of people. You'd 
never guess he has all that dough."

   "He's a very funny guy, if you ask me. 
He walks into the barber shop, looking as 
if he's lost his last friend, and pretty 
soon he's got everybody in stitches with 
his cracks."

   "All the women like him. My wife goes 
around quoting his column like it was the 
Constitution of the United States."

   "They say he lives with a couple of 
cats. Can you beat that?"

   "You wonder why he doesn't get 
married. He's always with that woman from 
the library."

   "People think it's strange that he 
lives in an apple barn, but what the 
heck! It's better'n a pig barn."

   Qwilleran did indeed live in a 
converted apple barn, and he spent many 
hours in the company of Polly Duncan, 
head librarian. As for the cats, they 
were a pair of pampered Siamese with 
extraordinary intelligence and epicurean 
tastes in food. The barn, octagonal in 
shape and a hundred years old, had a 
fieldstone foundation two feet thick and 
as high as Qwilleran's head. Framing of 
twelve-by-twelve timbers rose to a roof 
three stories overhead. Once upon a time 
a wagonload of apples could go through 
the barn door, and bushels of apples were 
stored in the lofts. Now the interior was 
a series of balconies connected by ramps, 
surrounding a central cube of pristine 
white. There were fireplaces on three 
sides, and three cylindrical white flues 
rose to the octagonal roof. It was a 
lofty perch for cats who enjoyed high 
places. As for the spiraling ramps, the 
Siamese considered them an indoor race 
track, and they could do the hundred-
meter dash in half the time required by a 
human athlete.

   One evening in early summer Qwilleran 
and his two friends had just returned 
from a brief vacation on Breakfast 
Island, and he was reading aloud to them 
when the telephone rang. He excused 
himself and went to the phone on the 
writing desk.

   "I got it, Qwill!" shouted an excited 
voice. "I got the job!"

   "Congratulations, Dwight! I want to 
hear about it. Where are you?"

   " At the theatre. We've just had a 
board meeting."

   "Come on over. The gate's open."

   The home of the Pickax Theatre Club 
had been carved out of the former 
Klingenschoen mansion on the Park Circle. 
Behind the theatre a fenced parking lot 
had a gate leading to a patch of dense 
evergreen woods that Qwilleran called the 
Black Forest. It was a buffer between the 
traffic on the Park Circle and the apple 
barn. Within minutes Dwight's car had 
negotiated the rough track through the 
woods.

   "Glad everything worked out so well," 
Qwilleran said in greeting. "How about a 
glass of wine to celebrate?"

   "Just a soft drink," said the young 
man. "I'm so high on good news that 
anything stronger would launch me into 
space. How do you like my new facade?" He 
stroked his smooth chin. "My new bosses 
don't go for beards. I feel suddenly 
naked. How would you feel without your 
moustache?"

   "Destitute," Qwilleran said 
truthfully. His moustache was more than a 
facial adornment, more than a trademark 
at the top of the "Qwill Pen" column.

   As Qwilleran carried the tray of 
drinks and snacks into the lounge area, 
Dwight pointed to the top of the 
fireplace cube. "I see you've got your 
ducks all in a row."

   "I haven't heard that expression since 
the Army. How do you like them? They're 
handpainted, hand-carved decoys from 
Oregon.

   Polly brought them back from her 
vacation."

   "What did she think about Oregon? I 
hear it's a beautiful state."

   "I doubt that she saw much of the 
landscape," Qwilleran said. "She was 
visiting a former college roommate, who's 
now a residential architect, and it seems 
they spent the whole time designing a 
house for Polly. She's going to build on 
a couple of acres at the east end of my 
orchard."

   "I thought she wanted to keep her 
apartment on Goodwinter Boulevard."

   "That was her original idea when they 
started converting the boulevard into a 
college campus. She thought she'd enjoy 
living among students. But when they 
began paving gardens for parking lots, 
she changed her mind."

   "They should've made one large parking 
lot at the entrance and kept a grassy 
look on campus," Dwight said.

   "God forbid anyone would have to walk 
a block from his car, Dwight. Rural 
communities live on wheels. Only city 
types like you and me know how to use 
their legs. . . . But tell me about the 
new job."

   Dwight Somers, a publicity man from 
Down Below, had come north to work for a 
prosperous Moose County developer. 
Unfortunately the job fizzled, and the 
community that had benefited from his 
creativity and vitality was in fear of 
losing him.

"Okay," he began. "I told you I was 
having an interview with a PR firm in 
Lockmaster, didn't I? They want me to 
open a branch for them in Pickax, and we 
have a highly promising client for 
starters. Do you know Floyd Trevelyan in 
Sawdust City?"

   He referred to an industrial town that 
was considered unprogressive and 
undesirable by Pickax standards, although 
it had a larger population and a thriving 
economy.

   “I'm not acquainted with anyone in 
Sawdust City," Qwilleran said, "but I 
know the phone book is full of 
Trevelyans. This barn was part of the 
Trevelyan Apple Orchard a hundred years 
ago."

   "Well, this guy is president of the 
Lumbertown Credit Union in Sawdust City - 
good name, what? - and it's a really 
going institution. He and his family have 
a big house in West Middle Hummock with 
acreage. He also happens to be a railroad 
nut, and he has a model train layout 
that's worth half a mil. That's not all! 
Now he's into rolling stock - a steam 
locomotive and some old passenger cars. 
He intends to use them for charter 
excursions."

   " "What will he use for tracks?"

   "The old SC&L Line still hauls slow 
freight up from Down Below. No problem 
there. Floyd's idea is to rent his train 
out for dinners, cocktail parties, 
business functions, weddings, tourist 
excursions - whatever. We're calling it 
the Lumbertown Party Train. The civic 
leaders in Sawdust City are hot for 
tourism, like everyone else around here, 
and they've given him a few perks - 
helped him get a liquor license, for one 
thing."

   "Does he expect to make any money on 
this venture?" Qwilleran asked, 
remembering the dashed hopes of Dwight's 
previous employer.

   "Well, in Floyd's case it's a hobby or 
maybe a calculated loss for tax purposes. 
He's spent a mint on equipment, but he 
seems to have it to spend, so why not? It 
all started when he stumbled across this 
SC&L engine in mothballs. Steam 
locomotives are almost impossible to 
find, he says, and here was one with 
local connections. A great find! He's 
spent hundreds of thousands to restore 
it, starting with the removal of pigeon 
droppings. After that he bought a dining 
car, and then an Art Deco club car, and 
then a private railcar that had belonged 
to a textile magnate. The PV had fabulous 
appointments, but everything was in bad 
shape, and he spent a fortune to renovate 
the three cars. Amanda's Studio of Design 
supervised the renovation. How's that for 
a plummy contract? Maybe Amanda will 
retire now, and Fran Brodie can take 
over."

   "Is it old family money he's sinking 
into this project?" Qwilleran asked. "I 
know there are some well-heeled 
Trevelyans as well as some on public 
assistance."

   "No way! Floyd came up from a working 
class branch of the Trevelyan clan, but 
he inherited upwardly mobile genes from 
his pioneer ancestors. He started out as 
a carpenter and parlayed his toolbox into 
the largest construction firm in the 
county. Luckily he got in on the ground 
floor of the Moose County revival when 
federal funds were pouring in."

   "Do you mean to say that a builder in 
Sawdust City was doing more business than 
XYZ Enterprises?" Qwilleran asked in 
astonishment.

   "Believe it or not, XYZ didn't even 
exist until Exbridge, Young and Zoller 
formed a syndicate and bought out 
Trevelyan Construction. Floyd took their 
millions and opened the Lumbertown Credit 
Union. He was tired of the blue-collar 
image, and this move made him a white-
collar VIP in his hometown - sort of a 
local hero. For offices he built a 
building that looks like an old-fashioned 
depot. The interior is paneled with 
narrow boards, highly varnished, and he 
even got a couple of old, uncomfortable 
waiting-room benches. To cap it all, he 
has model trains running around the 
lobby. The depositors love it! They call 
it the Choo-Choo Credit Union, and the 
president is affectionately called F. T. 
. . . How do you feel about model trains, 
Qwill?"

   "At the risk of sounding un-American, 
I must say I never caught the fever. As a 
kid I received an oval track and four 
cars for Christmas. What I really wanted 
was a baseball mitt. After the cars went 
around the track six or eight times, I 
was a very bored first baseman. Let's 
assume that my whole life has been 
colored by that one disappointment. . . . 
Still, I wouldn't object to writing a 
column on toy trains, if your client will 
cooperate."

"We call them model trains," Dwight 
informed him. "The adult hobbyists 
outnumber the kids, if my statistics are 
accurate."

   "I stand corrected," said Qwilleran, 
who had a journalist's respect for the 
right word.

   "Do you realize, Qwill, that serious 
collectors will fight for vintage models? 
Floyd paid over a thousand dollars for a 
ten-inch locomotive in the original box."

   "Would he be interested in an 
interview?"

   "Well, he's not exactly comfortable 
with the media, but I'll coach him. Give 
me a couple of days, and then you can 
call him at the Lumbertown office. His 
home in West Middle Hummock is called The 
Roundhouse, and it's two miles beyond the 
fork, where Hummock Road splits off from 
Ittibittiwassee. You can't miss it. His 
mailbox is a locomotive. Don't use his 
address; he's antsy about theft. You 
should see his security system!"

   "When does the Party Train make its 
debut?"

   "In a couple of weeks. Three weeks 
max.

   What I'm planning is a blastoff 
that'll attract the best people in the 
county and get publicity around the 
state. How would you react to a trial run 
at $500 a ticket, with proceeds going to 
charity? Everything would be first-class: 
champagne dinner with Chateaubriand, 
fresh flowers, live music - "

   Qwilleran interrupted. "Give the 
proceeds to the scholarship fund of the 
new college, and I'll buy two tickets. 
I'll also twist Arch's arm until he buys 
a couple. . . Refresh your drink, 
Dwight?"

   "No, thanks. I'll coast along with 
what I have. . . Hey, these snacks are 
good! What are they? They look like dry 
dog food."

   "A friend sent them from Down Below - 
her own invention. She calls them 
Kabibbles."

   "She should package these and sell 
them."

   As he spoke, two slinky fawn-colored 
bodies with brown extremities were 
creeping silently toward the coffee table 
and the bowl of Kabibbles. Eyes that were 
celestial blue in daytime glistened like 
jet in the artificial light. Their 
concentration on their goal was absolute.

  "No!" Qwilleran thundered, and they 
rose vertically on legs like springs 
before running away to contemplate their 
next maneuver. Their names were Koko and 
Yum Yum. The male, whose real name was 
Kao K'o Kung, had a lean, strong body 
with musculature that rippled beneath his 
silky fur; he also had a determination 
that was invincible. Yum Yum was daintier 
in size and deportment, but she knew how 
to get what she wanted.

   "How did the cats like Breakfast 
Island?” Dwight asked.

   "They don't care where they are," 
Qwilleran replied, “long as they get 
three squares a day and a soft place to 
sleep."

   "What's going to be done about the 
mess on Breakfast Island?"

   "It hasn't been officially announced, 
but XYZ Enterprises will forfeit their 
equity in the resort, and the 
Klingenschoen Foundation will restore the 
south end of the island to its natural 
state. That includes reforestation and 
beach nourishment. Mother Nature is 
expected to do the rest."

   "A major undertaking, if you ask me," 
said Dwight.

   "But worth it."

   "What about the Domino Inn and the 
other bed-and-breakfasts?"

   "The plan is to have them function as 
youth hostels, elder hostels, and a 
summer campus for the new college. The 
islanders will continue to live in their 
secluded village, and the exclusive 
summer estates will have their taxes 
raised. . . . Now tell me about the 
theatre club, Dwight. What happened at 
the board meeting tonight?"

   "We decided to go out on a limb and do 
a summer production for the first time. 
I'm recording secretary and always tape 
the minutes. Want to hear it?"

   Dwight took a small recorder from his 
pocket and placed it on the coffee table. 
After a few seconds of fast-forwarding, 
familiar voices could be heard. Though 
distorted by the limitations of the 
device, they were recognizable: Larry 
Lanspeak, owner of the department store . 
. . Fran Brodie, interior designer. . . 
Scott Gippel, car dealer, who served as 
treasurer of the club. . . Dwight's own 
voice. . . and Junior Goodwinter, young 
managing editor of the newspaper.


   LARRY: Now for new business. 
Considering the influx of tourists, 
should we do a summer play?

   JUNIOR: The campers and fishermen and 
boaters have no place to go in the 
evening, except bars. Not even a movie 
house.

   GIPPEL: I'm for giving it a shot. 
Let's grab some of those tourist dollars. 
Let's do a Broadway comedy with lots of 
belly laughs.

   JUNIOR: Or a good mystery.

   DWIGHT: Or a campy melodrama, like 
Billy the Kid, that'll get the audience 
booing the villain.

   LARRY: Or a musical with a small cast, 
like The Fantasticks.

   FRAN: I'd like to see us do Midsummer 
Night's Dream.

   GIPPEL: You're nuts! That's 
Shakespeare!

   LARRY: Yes, but it has comedy, 
romantic love, glamorous court scenes, 
and magic. What more can you ask?

   JUNIOR: You can have a lot of fun with 
Dream. I played Puck in college.

   LARRY: All the costumes for Henry VIII 
are in the basement. We could use them 
for the court scenes.

   DWIGHT: Thrift, thrift, Horatio!

   FRAN: How about using students for 
extras, as we did in Henry?

   GIPPEL: Now you're talkin' turkey! All 
their friends and relatives will buy 
tickets. I say: Go for it. How many kids 
can we use?

   FRAN: There's no limit to walk-ons. 
High-schoolers can play the lords and 
ladies, and junior high kids can do the 
fairies.

   GIPPEL: Fairies? Are you kidding? 
You'd better make them little green men. 
Kids don't go for fairies. I've got three 
at home, and I know.

   DWIGHT: Three little green men? Or 
three kids?

   (Laughter)

   FRAN: I like the idea of little green 
men! Let's do it! I'd love to direct.


   Dwight turned off the recorder. "What 
do you think of it, Qwill?"

   "Sounds okay to me, but Polly will 
have a fit if you convert Shakespeare's 
fairies into extraterrestrials. She's a 
purist."

   "That detail isn't finalized, but 
we're going ahead with auditions. Off the 
record, we're precasting Junior as Puck 
and the Lanspeaks as the duke and his 
bride. They'll also double as Oberon and 
Titania. They've done the roles before, 
and we've got to take a few shortcuts if 
we want the show on the boards before 
Labor Day."

   It was eleven o'clock, and the Siamese 
had come stalking back into the room. 
They stared pointedly at the visitor.

   Suddenly he said, "Well, I'd better 
head for the hills. Thanks for 
everything."

   "Glad your career has taken a 
propitious turn, Dwight."

   "And that's not the only good news. I 
had a date with Hixie last night, and 
everything's coming up roses."

   "You're lucky! She's great fun." It 

was an appropriate match. Hixie Rice was 
another transplant from Down Below, and 
she was in char of public relations for 
the newspaper. Qwilleran put on a yellow 
baseball cap hanging near the kitchen 
door and accompanied his guest to his 
car. "We have an owl in the woods," he 
explained, "and if he sees a good head of 
hair, he might think it's a rabbit. I'm 
quoting Polly, the ornithology expert."

   "Well, I'm safe," Dwight said, passing 
a ha over his thinning hair. He cocked 
his head listen. "I can hear him hooting. 
Sounds like Morse code - long and short 
hoots."

   As the happy young man drove away 
Qwilleran watched the taillights bouncing 
through the ruts of the Black Forest and 
wondered what had happened to Hixie's 

previos heartthrob. He was a doctor. He 
owned a cab cruiser. He had a beard. 
Qwilleran walk around the barn a few 
times before going indoors; it was 
pleasantly warm, with a so breeze. He 
listened and counted.

   "Whoo-o-o hoo hoo . . . hoo hoo hoo . 
.whoo-o-o."

   Qwilleran decided to call him Marconi 
and write a "Qwill Pen" column about 
owls. Fresh topics were in short supply 
in the summer. Sometimes the newspaper 
had to rerun his more popular columns, 
like the one on baseball and the one on 
cats.

   When he went indoors, all was quiet. 
That was not normal. The Siamese should 
have been parading and demanding their 
nightly treat with ear-piercing yowls. 
Instead, they were assiduously washing 
their paws, whiskers, and ears, and the 
bowl on the coffee table was empty. 
Stuffed with Kabibbles, they staggered up 
the ramp to their apartment on the top 
balcony. Qwilleran, before he called it a 
day, wrote a thank-you note to a woman 
named Celia Robinson.

-2-

   When Qwilleran wrote his thank-you 
note for the Kabibbles, he sat at his 
writing table in the library area - one 
side of the fireplace cube that was lined 
with bookshelves. For serious work there 
was a writing studio on the balcony, off-
limits to the Siamese, but the bookish, 
friendly atmosphere of the library was 
more comfortable for writing notes and 
taking phone calls. For this brief letter 
to Celia Robinson he used a facetiously 
bombastic style that would send her into 
torrents of laughter. She laughed easily; 
it took very little to set the dear woman 
off.


Dear Celia,
I find it appropriate to pen an effusive 
expression of gratitude for the succulent 
delights that arrived today to tantalize 
my taste buds and heighten my spirit. 
Your Kabibbles are receiving rave reviews 
from connoisseurs in this northern 
bastion of gastronomy. I suggest you 
copyright the name and market them. You 
could become the Betty Crocker of the 
twenty-first century! Perhaps you would 
grant me the distribution franchise for 
Moose and Lockmaster counties. Let me 
know your new address so I can order 
Kabibbles in ten-pound sacks or twenty-
gallon barrels.

Gratefully, Q


   No one in Pickax knew about 
Qwilleran's whimsical acquaintance with 
Celia Robinson, not even Polly Duncan - 
especially not Polly, who was inclined to 
resent the slightest intrusion on her 
territory. The cross-country acquaintance 
had begun when Junior Goodwinter's 
grandmother died suddenly in Florida. 
Through long-distance conversations with 
her next-door neighbor, Qwilleran 
conducted an investigation into the 
death, and he and Celia developed a 
chummy rapport. He called her his secret 
agent, and she called him Chief. He sent 
her boxes of chocolate-covered cherries 
and the paperback spy novels that she 
liked; she sent him homemade brownies. 
They had never met.

   The case was closed now, but Qwilleran 
had an ulterior motive for continuing the 
connection: She enjoyed cooking. Fondly 
he envisioned her relocating in Pickax 
and catering meals for himself and the 
cats. It was not an improbability; she 
wanted to leave the retirement village in 
Florida. "Too many old people" was her 
complaint. Celia was only sixty-nine.

   Qwilleran posted the letter in his 
rural mailbox the next morning, walking 
down the orchard wagon trail to the 
highway, Trevelyan Road. The trail was 
the length of a city block. It ran past 
the skeletons of neglected apple trees, 
between other trees planted by squirrels 
and birds in the last hundred years, 
alongside the remains of the old 
Trevelyan farmhouse that had burned down, 
and past the two acres where Polly would 
build her new house. After raising the 
red flag on the oversized mailbox, he 
took a few minutes to consider the 
construction  site. The fieldstone 
foundation of the old house was barely 
visible in a field of waist-high weeds. 
An abandoned lilac bush was doing nicely 
on its own, having grown to the size of a 
two-story, three-bedroom house, and it 
still bloomed in season. When the wind 
direction was right, its fragrance wafted 
as far as the apple barn.

   Polly wanted to preserve the old stone 
foundation - for what purpose she had not 
decided. She kept asking, "Shall I build 
in front of it, or behind it, or beyond 
it? I can't build on top of it.”

   Qwilleran had tried to make 
suggestions, but her questions were 
merely rhetorical; she was an independent 
person and had to make her own decisions. 
As head librarian she had a brilliant 
reputation. She was efficient and briskly 
decisive. She charmed the members of the 
library board, improved the collection, 
controlled the budget, coped with the 
quirks of an old library building, staged 
events, and solved the personal problems 
of her young assistants with kindness and 
common sense. In facing her own dilemmas, 
however, she melted into a puddle of 
bewilderment.

   Returning from the mailbox, Qwilleran 
became aware of two pairs of blue eyes 
staring at him from an upper-level window 
of the barn. He waved to them and kept on 
walking through the Black Forest to the 
Park Circle, with its important buildings 
and multi-lane traffic. The proximity of 
town and country was one of the 
attractions of living in a small city 
(population 3,000). On the perimeter of 
the Park Circle were two churches, the 
courthouse, the K Theatre, and a building 
resembling a Greek temple: the public 
library.

   Qwilleran walked briskly up the stone 
steps of the library-steps. rounded into 
gentle concavities by a century of feet. 
Now added to the feet of booksubscribers 
were the feet of video-borrowers, and 
Qwilleran doubted that the steps would 
last another half-century. In the main 
room he headed directly toward the stairs 
to the mezzanine, nodding pleasantly to 
the young clerks who greeted him as Mr. 
Q. They also glanced mischievously at 
each other, amused at the sight of the 
middle-aged friend of their middle-aged 
boss paying a call in broad daylight. The 
relationship between the head librarian 
and the richest man in the northeast-
central United States was a subject of 
constant conjecture in Pickax.

   Qwilleran bounced up the stairs, 
noting the familiar sight of Homer 
Tibbitt at one of the reading tables, 
surrounded by books and pamphlets. 
Although well up in his nineties, the 
county historian spent every morning at 
the library, pursuing some esoteric 

research project. Or perhaps he was 
avoiding his overly attentive wife, as 
the giggling clerks surmised. In her 
eighties, Rhoda Tibbitt could still 
drive, and she chauffeured her husband to 
and from his life's work.

   Polly was seated in her glass-enclosed 
office in front of a deskful of 
paperwork. When she spoke, her serenely 
low-pitched voice gave Qwilleran a 
shudder of pleasure as it always did, no 
matter how often they met or how many 
hours they had spent together the evening 
before.

   "Morning," he said with an intimate 
nuance.

   He never used terms of endearment, 
except to Yum Yum, but he could infuse a 
two-syllable greeting with warmth and 
affection. He slid into a hard, varnished 
oak chair, library-style circa 1910.

   Polly said, "You look especially 
vibrant this morning, dear."

   "I'm a veritable fountain of news," he 
announced as he launched into his report 
on Dwight's new job, the Party Train, and 
the theatre club's decision to do A 
Midsummer Night's Dream. He avoided 
mentioning that the fairies might be 
updated. He even revealed Dwight's date 
with Hixie Rice as a kind of romantic 
milestone on the social scene. Outsiders 
might call it gossip, but in Pickax this 
was legitimate sharing of information. 
Good news, rumors, bad news, scandal, and 
other data somehow reached the library 
first, and Polly's assistant, Virginia 
Alstock, was tuned in to the Moose County 
grapevine for its dissemination.

   Today Polly's reactions were subdued. 
She seemed preoccupied, glancing 
frequently at the stack of manuals on 
home building that occupied a corner of 
her desk.

   The title on top of the pile was How 
to Build a Better House for Less Money, 
and he asked, "Are you making any 
progress with your house plans?"

   "I don't know," she said with a world-
weary sigh. "It's all so confusing. In 
Oregon, Susan did sketches for a one-
story house that would integrate with the 
terrain. No basement. Heating equipment 
in a utility room next to the laundry. . 
. . But these books say that a two-story 
house is more economical to build and to 
heat, and it would give Bootsie a chance 
to run up and down stairs for exercise."

   "Build a one-story house with a 
basement and let him run up and down the 
basement stairs," Qwilleran suggested 
with simple logic. Bootsie was the other 
male in Polly's life, a husky Siamese. He 
was grossly pampered, in Qwilleran's 
opinion.

   "I'm not fond of basements. I've seen 
too many that leak," she objected. "I was 
thinking of a crawl space with good 
insulation. What do you think, Qwill?"

   "You're asking the wrong person. I'm 
only a journalist; I leave the house 
building to the house builders. Why not 

line up a professional firm like XYZ 
Enterprises?"

   "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:

   To Scottie's Men's Store to look at 
summer shirts. Nothing caught his fancy, 
but he chatted with the proprietor and 
told him about the Party Train.
   To Edd's Editions, a shop specializing 
in pre-owned books from estate libraries. 
Eddington Smith was interested to hear 
about the Party Train because he had 
several books on railroads. Qwilleran 
bought one on the digging of the Panama 
Canal.

   To the office of the newspaper which, 
for strange reasons, was named the Moose 
County Something. His longtime friend 
from Down Below, Arch Riker, was 
publisher and editor-in-chief and was 
pleased to hear about the Party Train.

   To Toodle's Market to buy six ounces 
of sliced roast beef from the deli 
counter and two packages of macaroni and 
cheese from the frozen food chest. In the 
checkout line he stood behind Wally 
Toddwhistle's mother, who made costumes 
for the theatre club. She asked if he'd 
heard about A Midsummer Night's Dream, 
and he asked if she'd heard about the 
Party Train.

   Returning to the barn, he found it 
good to be greeted by importunate yowls 
and waving tails, even though he knew the 
cats' real motive. He diced roast beef 
for them and heated both packages of 
macaroni and cheese for himself. Dicing, 
thawing, and pressing the button on the 
computerized coffeemaker were his only 
kitchen skills.

   After dinner the three of them 
gravitated to the library area for a 
session of reading.

   Qwilleran's growing collection of old 
books was organized according to 
category: biography, classic fiction, 
drama, and so forth. He added his new 
purchase to the history shelf. Yum Yum 
waited patiently for him to sit down and 
make a lap; Koko was alert and awaiting 
his cue.

   "Book! Book!" It was one of several 
words understood by Kao K'o Kung, among 
them: treat, brush, leash, and NO! The 
cat surveyed the expanse of shelving 
before jumping up and teetering on the 
edge of the classic fiction collection. 
He sniffed the bindings critically, then 
pawed Swiss Family Robinson with 
enthusiasm.

   A curious choice, Qwilleran thought. 
He realized it was mere coincidence but a 
provocative one, Koko having a unique 
sense of association. Yet, the connection 
between an 1813 Swiss novel and the 
inventor of Kabibbles was too absurd even 
for a willing believer like Qwilleran.

   He sprawled in his favorite lounge 
chair and propped his feet on the 
ottoman. Yum Yum hopped lightly into his 
lap and turned around three times 
counterclockwise before settling down. 
Koko took his usual position on the arm 
of the chair, sitting tall.

   Qwilleran opened the book, which he 
had; bought for its illustrations, and 
said, "This is a book primarily for young 
people but is suitable for cats of any 
age. There are chapters on . . . let's 
see. . . whales, turtles, ostriches, and 
bears. You'll like it. Chapter One: 
Shipwrecked and Alone."

   Yum Yum was the first one to sigh and 
close her eyes; then Koko started swaying 
drowsily; finally Qwilleran, mesmerized 
by the sound of his own voice, read 
himself to sleep.


   One afternoon, before his appointment 

with the president of the Lumbertown 
Credit Union, Qwilleran drove to Sawdust 
City out of sheer curiosity. The town 
itself might be material for the "Qwill 
Pen" column. He knew only that it was the 
industrial hub of the county, straddling 
the mouth of the Ittibittiwassee River, 
where pollution was an ongoing problem. 
Although freight trains made regular runs 
to points Down Below, most manufactures 
were shipped by truck. Their tires 
constantly tracked mud from unpaved side 
streets onto the highway, giving the town 
the nickname of Mudville. Nevertheless, 
there was a healthy job market there, and 
Sawdust City was home to 5,000 working-
class residents whose soccer team 
regularly trounced others in the county.

   Outside the town limits Qwilleran 
noticed an athletic field with a running 
track, one softball diamond, and three 
soccer fields with goal nets - no tennis 
courts. There was also an extensive 
consolidated school complex with its own 
football stadium.

   On Main Street there was plenty of 
downtown traffic as well as cafes, gas 
stations, churches, a storefront library, 
gun shops, pawn-brokers, apparel shops 
with racks of clothing on the sidewalk, 
taverns, and a video store. The 
Lumbertown Credit Union occupied a new 
version of an old depot, while the real 
railway station was a neglected relic on 
the outskirts of town, surrounded by 
tracks, boxcars, trucks, and warehouses. 
The residential neighborhoods were 
notable for their neat lawns, swarms of 
schoolchildren on summer vacation, 
basketball hoops, barbecues, and 
satellite saucers. In every sense it was 
a thriving town. Whether it would be 
material for the "Qwill Pen" was 
questionable. Qwilleran knew only that 
Sawdust City stood in sharp contrast to 
West Middle Hummock, where the Lumbertown 
president lived. This was the most 
fashionable of the Hummocks with the 
largest estates, owned by families like 
the Lanspeaks, the Wilmots, and - in 
happier days - the Fitches. When 
Qwilleran set out to interview Floyd 
Trevelyan his route lay out 
Ittibittiwassee Road between stony 
pastures and dark woods, past abandoned 
mines and ghostlike shafthouses. After 
passing the Buckshot Mine, where he had 
suffered a nasty tumble from his bike, he 
reached a fork in the road. Ahead was 
Indian Village, a more or less swanky 
complex of apartments and condominiums. 
Hummock Road branched off to the left, 
forming a triangular meadow where car-
poolers left their vehicles. Share-the-
ride had been a Moose County custom long 
before the first energy crisis; it was 
the neighborly thing to do and an 
opportunity to keep abreast of rumors. 
Beyond the meadow the road passed a 
blighted hamlet or two before emerging in 
a landscape of knobby hills, bucolic 
vistas, architect-designed farmhouses, 
and no utility poles. All cables were 
underground, and the road curved to avoid 
cutting down ancient trees.

   Then there was a rural mailbox shaped 
like a locomotive and a sign hanging 
between railroad ties announcing "The 
Roundhouse." There was nothing round 
about the residence that perched on a 
hill at the end of the drive. It was a 
long, low contemporary building with wide 
overhangs and large chimneys - almost 
brutal in its boldness - and the rough 
cedar exterior was stained a gloomy 
brownish-green.

   Qwilleran parked at the foot of a 
terraced walkway and climbed wide steps 
formed from railroad ties, then rang the 
doorbell and waited in the usual state of 
suspense: Would this interview make a 
great story? Or would it be a waste of 
his time? The man who came to the door, 
wearing crumpled shorts and a tank top, 
was obviously one of the "hairy Welshmen" 
for whom Sawdust City was famous. 
Although seriously balding toward the 
brow, his head was rimmed with hair that 
was black and bushy, and although his 
jutting jaw was clean-shaven, his arms 
and legs were thickly furred. So also was 
his back, Qwilleran discovered upon 
following him into the foyer.

   His initial greeting had been curt. 
"You from the paper?"

   "Jim Qwilleran. Dwight Somers tells me 
you have a railroad empire on the 
premises."

   "Downstairs. Want a shot or a beer?"

   "Not right now, thanks. Let's have a 
look at the trains first. I'm completely 
ignorant about model railroading, so this 
visit will be an education." Following 
the collector toward a broad staircase to 
the lower level, Qwilleran quickly 
appraised the main floor: architecturally 
impressive, poorly furnished. On the way 
downstairs he tossed off a few warm-up 
questions: How long have you been 
collecting? How did you get started? Do 
you still have your first train?

   The answers were as vapid as the 

queries: "Long time. . . Dunno . . . 
Yep."

   The staircase opened into a large 
light room with glass walls overlooking a 
paved patio and grassy hillside. The 
opposite wall formed a background. for a 
table-height diorama of landscape and 
cityscape. There were buildings, 
roadways, rivers, hills, and a complexity 
of train tracks running through towns, up 
grades, across bridges, and around 
curves. A passenger train waited at a 
depot; a freight train had been shunted 
to a siding; the nose of a locomotive 
could be seen in the mouth of a tunnel.

   "How many trains do you' have?" 
Qwilleran asked, producing a pocket tape 
recorder.

   "Six trains. Thousand feet of track." 
The hobbyist started toying with a bank 
of controls at the front edge of the 
layout, and the scene was instantly 
illuminated: the headlight of the 
locomotive in the tunnel, the interior of 
the passenger coaches, and all street 
lights and railway signals. Then the 
trains began to move, slowly at first, 
and gradually picking up speed. One train 
stopped to let another pass. A locomotive 
chugged around a curve, with white smoke 
pouring from its smokestack. It blew its 
whistle as it approached a grade crossing 
and stopped at the station with a hiss of 
steam.

   Qwilleran was impressed but said 
coolly, "Quite realistic!"

   An engine pulled cars up a grade to 
cross a bridge while another passed 
underneath. Trains backed up as cars were 
coupled. A train of boxcars, tank cars, 
and gondolas stopped to give right-of-way 
to a diesel speeding through with 
passenger coaches and an observation car.

   "Watch 'em take those curves," 
Trevelyan said proudly. He operated the 
remote controls with practiced skill, 
switching tracks, unloading coal from 
hopper cars, and dumping logs from a 
flatcar. In a freight yard with seven 
parallel tracks he had a switch engine 
shifting boxcars. "You hafta be quick to 
figure how fast they go, what route to 
take and which turnouts to switch . . . 
wanna try it?"

   “And derail the whole railroad? No 
thanks," Qwilleran said. "Did you play 
with trains when you were a kid?"

   "Me? Nah, my folks were too poor. But 
I had the real thing in the backyard. Our 
house, it was next to the track, and I 
knew every train schedule and all the 
crews. The engineers, they always clanged 
their bell and waved at me. Man! Did I 
feel like a big shot! Saturdays I'd go 
down to the yard and watch 'em 
switchin'." I wanted to stowaway in a 
boxcar, but I knew my pop would lick the 
devil outa me."

   "I suppose you wanted to grow up to be 

an engineer," Qwilleran said.

   "Funny thing, I wanted to be a 
crossin' guard and sit in a little shack 
high up, lookin' down the tracks and 
workin' the gate. That's a kid for you!"

   Above the confusion of mechanical 
noises in front of him, Qwilleran heard 
an elevator door open at the far end of 
the room and turned to see a frail woman 
in an electric wheelchair coming 

hesitantly in their direction. Although 
she was in Trevelyan's line of vision, he 
ignored her. He was saying, "There was 
four of us kids. Pop worked in the 
plastic plant till the chemicals killed 
'im. I took Vocational in school. English 
and that kinda stuff, you could shove it! 
I could build things and tinker with 
motors, so who needed English? Summers I 
got jobs with builders. Finally got to be 
a contractor myself, licensed and all 
that."

   The woman in the wheelchair was fixing 
her gaze eagerly on Qwilleran, and he 
mumbled a polite good-afternoon.

   In a faltering voice she said, "You're 
Mr. Q.I see your picture in the paper all 
the time."

   It was the kind of ambiguous comment 
that beggared reply, but he bowed 
courteously.

   Trevelyan went on talking. "Like I 
said, I went as far as I could go with 
model trains. I'm into somethin' bigger 
now. Did Dwight tell you we're gonna - "

   The woman interrupted shrilly. "My pop 
was an engineer!"


   The man scowled and waved her away 
with an impatient hand. Obediently she 
wheeled back to the elevator, leaving 
Qwilleran to wonder who she might be. Her 
age was difficult to guess, her face and 
figure being ravaged by some kind of 
disease. The trains were still running 
and performing their automatic ballet, 
but Qwilleran had all the information he 
could use and had even learned some 
railroad terms:


Roundhouse: a round building where 
locomotives were serviced in the Steam 
Era

Hog: locomotive

Hoghead:engineer

Wildcat: a runaway locomotive

Consist: a train of cars (accent on first 
syllable)

Gandy dancer: member of a section gang 
repairing rails

Whittling: taking a curve at high speed 
and braking the wheels

Rule G: the SC&L rule against drinking 


   Trevelyan said, "We don't worry about 
Rule G around this man's railroad yard.

   How's about wettin' your whistle?" He 
opened the door to a well-stocked bar. 
"Whatever you want, we got it."

   "What are you drinking?" Qwilleran 
asked.

   "Whiskey and soda."

   "I'll take the same without the 
whiskey."

   His host gave him an incredulous 
glance, then shook his head as he poured 
plain soda. They carried their glasses 
outdoors and sat on the patio while the 
railroad buff talked about the Lumbertown 
Party Train and the $500 tickets.

   "How many can you seat in the dining 
car?" Qwilleran asked.

   "Thirty-six at a shot. We figure to 
have a double shift, two o'clock and six 
o'clock. We figure we can sell out."

   "How long will the ride last?"

   "We figure we can kill three hours on 
the rails, round trip, with a layover at 
Flapjack."

   "How did you go about buying your 
rolling stock?"

   "Went to train museums, read PV 
magazines, answered ads."

   "PV meaning. . . ?"

   "Private varnish - all about private 
railroads. But I found my hog in a 
scrapyard in Sawdust City. She was a 
mess! I almost cried. As soon as those 
SC&L sharpies saw I was hooked, they 
upped the price outasight. I didn't care. 
I hadda have that baby! Spent another 
bundle to fix 'er up. Diesels - you can 
have 'em. Steam is where it's at - for me 
anyway."

   "What's the big attraction?" The 
collector shrugged. "A hog's nothin' but 
a firebox and a big boiler on wheels, but 
what a sight when she rolls! Raw power! 
My Engine No.9 is a 4-6-2."

   "You'll have to explain that," 
Qwilleran said.

   Without a word Trevelyan went into the 
train room and returned with a framed 
photo of No.9. "Four small wheels in 
front keep the engine on the rails. The 
six big babies with piston rods are the 
drivin' wheels; they deliver the power. 
The two in back hold up the firebox and 
the engineer's cab. Dwight tells me you 
signed up for the first run. Tell him to 
show you through my PV; it's a palace on 
wheels! . . . How long did you know 
Dwight?"

   "Ever since he arrived from Down 
Below. He's a real pro - knows his job - 
good personality."

   "Yeah, nice fella . . . How come he 
isn't married?"

   "I don't know. Why don't you ask him?" 
Qwilleran replied in a genial tone that 
masked his annoyance at the prying 
question. Then he changed the subject. 
"There's a town south of Pickax called 
Wildcat, and I often wondered why. Any 
railroad connection?"

   "Sure is! A runaway train was wrecked 
on the trestle bridge there in 1908 - 
worst wreck ever! Old railroaders still 
talk about it."

   "Are their recollections being 
recorded?" Qwilleran asked. "Is there a 
railroad library in Sawdust City? Are any 
old engineers still living?" He was 
feeling an old familiar urge. With a 
little research and some oral histories 
from retired railroad personnel, plus 
stories handed down in their families, he 
could write a book! It would capture the 
horror of train wrecks as well as the 
nostalgia of the Steam Era when trains 
were the glamorous mode of transportation 
and locomotive engineers were the folk 
heroes. Homer Tibbitt, who had grown up 
on a farm, still remembered the haunting 
sound of a steam whistle in the middle of 
the night. He said it had filled him with 
loneliness and nameless desires. He 
doubted that it could be equaled today by 
the honking of a diesel, or the roar of a 
jet, or the whining tires of an eighteen-
wheeler on a freeway.

   "Ready for another drink?" the host 
asked. "I am."

   Qwilleran declined, saying he had to 
meet a newspaper deadline, but on his way 
out of the house he asked casually, "Do 
you happen to know a Trevelyan who's a 
house builder?"

   "My son," was the prompt reply. "Just 
starting out on his own."

   "Does he know his stuff? A friend of 
mine is thinking of hiring him."

   "Sure, he's a whizbang! learned the 
trade from me. I taught him the whole 
works. I said to both my kids: The trick 
is to start early and work hard. That's 
what I did."

   "You have another son?"

   "A girl. She took bookkeep in' in high 
school. Works in my office now."

   Strange family situation, Qwilleran 
thought as he drove away from The 
Roundhouse. There was the unkempt 
president of a successful family 
business. Then there was the 
undistinguished furniture in a 
pretentious house. And how about the 
shabbily treated woman in a state-of-the-
art wheelchair? Who was she? She seemed 
too old to be his wife, too young to be 
his mother. Was she a poor relative or 
former housekeeper living on his charity? 
In any case, the man should have made 
some sort of introduction or at least 
acknowledged her presence. The financial 
success that had vaulted him from Sawdust 
City to West Middle Hummock had hardly 
polished his rough edges.

   On the way home Qwilleran stopped at 
Toodles' Market for a frozen dinner and 
six ounces of sliced turkey breast. He 
was not surprised when Yum Yum met him at 
the kitchen door, slinking flirtatiously, 
one dainty forepaw in front of the other.

   "There she is! Miss Cat America!" he 
said. "Where's your sidekick? Where's 
Koko?"

   The other cat came running, and the 
two of them sang for their supper - a 
duet of baritone yowls and coloratura 
trills, the latter more like shrieks. 
After Qwilleran had diced their favorite 
treat and arranged it on their favorite 
plate, Koko made a dive for it, but Yum 
Yum looked at the plate sourly and veered 
away with loweredhead.

   Qwilleran was alarmed. Was she ill? 
Had she found a bug and eaten it? Was it 
a hair ball? Had she swallowed a rubber 
band? He picked her up gently and asked, 
"What's wrong with my little sweetheart?" 
She looked at him with large eyes filled 
with reproach.

   Meanwhile, Koko had polished off two-
thirds of the repast, leaving the usual 
one-third for his partner. Qwilleran, 
with Yum Yum still in his arms, picked up 
the plate and placed it on the kitchen 
counter. Immediately she squirmed from 
his grasp, landed on the counter, and 
devoured the turkey.

   "Cats!" he muttered. "They drive you 
crazy!"

-3-
   Qwilleran wrote a thousand words about 
Floyd Trevelyan's model trains and walked 
downtown to the office of the Moose 
County Something to file his copy. Junior 
Goodwinter had a managing editor's 
ability to read at the rate of fifty 
words a second, and he scanned the "Qwill 
Pen" copy in its entirety before 
Qwilleran could pour himself a cup of 
coffee.

   "You seem pretty enthusiastic about 
this guy's trains," the editor said.

   "The trick is to sound that way 
whether you are or not," Qwilleran 
retorted. "I like to increase the 
reader's pulse beat. . . . Actually, I 
was impressed by the train layout but not 
enthusiastic."

   "How about putting some of your fake 
enthusiasm into an extra assignment?"

   "Like what?"

   "You know, of course," Junior began, 
"that the club is doing Midsummer Night's 
Dream. We want to run a short piece on 
each of the leads - about eight inches 
with a head shot. It's not supposed to be 
a blurb for the play or a bio of the 
actor; it's a miniature think-piece on 
the actor's perception of both the role 
and the theme of the play."

   " All that in eight inches?"

   "Only you can do it, Qwill. Your style 
is concise and pithy. What's more, your 
readers devour anything and everything 
you write, and you'll get a by-line on 
each piece - also free coffee for life.

   Junior was wheedling him, and 
Qwilleran was succumbing to the flattery. 
"How many pieces would there be?"

   "Nine or ten. Since you live behind 
the theatre, it'll be easy to drop in 
during rehearsal and catch the actors on 
their break. We'll alert them to start 
thinking about it. Someone like Derek 
Cuttlebrink does more thinking about his 
costume than about the essence of his 
role."

   "How is he cast?"

   "He's doing Nick Bottom, the weaver."

   "That's a good one for him. He'll 
enjoy heehawing like a donkey."

   "He'll be a howl! As soon as he walks 
on stage he'll bring down the house."

   Derek, a resident of Wildcat, was a 
waiter at the Old Stone Mill. With his 
outgoing personality, engaging candor, 
and impressive height (six-feet-eight, 
going on nine) he was a favorite with 
restaurant diners, theatregoers, and 
impressionable young women.

   "When do you want to start the 
series?" Qwilleran asked.

   "Soonest. We're rehearsing five nights 
a week. . . . And say! Do you keep in 
touch with that Chicago heiress you 
brought over from Breakfast Island?"

   "I didn't bring her over; she happened 
to be on the same boat," Qwilleran said 
tartly. "Why do you ask?"

   "Well, she's joined the club, and 
she's helping with costumes. She has some 
good ideas."

   That's appropriate, Qwilleran thought. 
Her own wardrobe was straight out of 
Arabian Nights.

   "Also," Junior went on with relish, 
"she and Derek are hitting it off like 
Romeo and Juliet. If it's true that she 
has an annual income of $500,000, Derek's 
on the right track for once in his life."

   Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. 
"Don't place any bets. In my opinion, 
she's a mighty flighty young woman. . . . 
See you at rehearsal."

   "Before you leave the building," 
Junior called after him, "our esteemed 
editor-in-chief wants to see you."

   Arch Riker had the florid complexion 
and paunchy figure of a veteran 
journalist who has been a deskman 
throughout his career and has attended 
too many press luncheons. When Qwilleran 
appeared in the doorway, he was sitting 
in his high-back executive chair and 
swiveling in deep thought. "Come in. Come 
in," he said, beckoning. "Help yourself 
to coffee."

   "Thanks. I haven't had one for the 
last three minutes. What's up, Arch?"

   "Good news! . . . Sit down. . . After 
we ran our editorial on the Lumbertown 
Party Train, all tickets for the kickoff 
sold out, for both sittings! At $500 a 
ticket, that's pretty good for a county 
in the boonies. It was a stroke of 
genius, of course, to earmark the 
proceeds for college scholarships."

   "The charity angle was Dwight Somers's 
idea, not that of the train owner," 
Qwilleran said. "Trevelyan doesn't strike 
me as a great philanthropist."

   "Dwight just called and suggested we 
run a profile on the guy," Riker said. 
"What say you?"

   "I've just handed in a column on his 
personal collection of model trains, and 
I think that's enough for now."

   "I agree. We can cover the actual 
event from the social angle. . . . So you 
met Floyd-boy! What's he like?"

   "Not your average bank president. He's 
a rough-hewn, self-made man who started 
as a carpenter. He's sunk a fortune in 
his Party Train, and his model collection 
is incredible! What makes a guy want to 
own more, bigger, and better than anyone 
else? I've never understood the urge to 
collect. You never got bitten by the bug 
either, did you?"

   "Once!" Riker admitted. "When I was 
married to an antique collector, I 
collected antique tin like a madman. It's 
strange how suddenly I lost interest when 
wife, house, and cats went down the 
drain, k-chug!"

   Qwilleran nodded solemnly, remembering 
his own bitter past, when he himself 
almost went k-chug!

   His friend was in a talkative mood. 
"Mildred wants me to start another 
collection of something, so it'll be 
easier to buy me Christmas presents. I 
tell her I don't need Christmas presents. 
Every day in my life is Christmas since 
we took the plunge. . . . Qwill, why 
don't you and Polly - "

   Qwilleran interrupted. "Don't – start 
– that - again, Archibald!"

   "Okay, okay. At least you two will be 
within whistling distance when she builds 
her house. How's it coming?"

   "She's hired the son of Floyd 
Trevelyan to build it. He’s based in 
Mudville. His father says he's good."

   "What else do you expect a parent to 
say?"

   Riker remarked caustically. 
"Personally, I'd think twice before 
hiring a Sawduster to fix a leaky 
faucet!"

   "Well. . . you know Polly. . . when 
she makes up her mind!"


   About two weeks later, on a Sunday 
afternoon, Qwilleran and Polly drove to 
Sawdust City and met Arch and Mildred 
Riker on the railway platform. Well-
dressed patrons were arriving from all 
parts of the county, and curious 
Sawdusters watched as the strangers' cars 
were whisked away and parked by young men 
in red jumpsuits. It was the first valet 
parking in the history of Mudville. The 
weather was warm enough for the women to 
wear sheer summer dresses and cool enough 
for the men to wear light blazers. The 
one exception was Whannell MacWhannel1 of 
Pickax, sweltering in his pleated all-
wool kilt and full Scottish regalia.

   Surprisingly, the Chicago heiress was 
there with the waiter from the Old Stone 
Mill, and Riker said, "Derek must have 
been getting some good tips lately."

   Qwilleran said, "Last week I saw him 
buying her a hot dog at Lois's. This must 
be her turn to treat."

   Today, as always, she was theatrically 
dressed - the only woman wearing a hat. 
The high-crowned straw wound with yards 
of veiling and accented with a cabbage 
rose was vintage Edwardian. Furthermore, 
she was incredibly thin by Moose County 
standards. Polly, who wore size sixteen, 
guessed her size to be a four, or even a 
two.

   Also attracting attention was a young 
woman in a pantsuit: In Moose County the 
custom was skirts-on-Sunday, but this 
eye-catching beauty in a well-cut summer 
pantsuit made all the women in skirts 
look dowdy. She was with Floyd Trevelyan. 
He himself was well groomed and properly 
dressed for the occasion. Was she his 
wife? His daughter? They were not 
mingling with the crowd.

   Newspaper photographers and a video 
cameraman added excitement, and a brass 
band was blaring numbers like 
"Chattanooga Choo Choo" and "Hot Time in 
the Old Town Tonight." Riker recognized 
the trombone player, who worked in the 
circulation department of the Moose 
County Something.

   Polly said, "I do hope they're not 
going on the train with us."

   Commemorative programs had been handed 
to the passengers waiting on the 
platform, and Mildred said, "Can you 
believe this? They brought the crew out 
of retirement for this historic run. The 
engineer is eighty-two; the brake-man is 
seventy-six; the fireman is sixty-nine- 
all veterans of SC&L."

   Riker said, "I hope I can shovel coal 
when I'm sixty-nine."

   "Dear, you couldn't even shovel snow 
last winter," his wife said sweetly.

   "Do you suppose anyone had the 
foresight to check the engineer's vision 
and blood pressure? Has the fireman had 
an EKG recently? Will there be a doctor 
on the train?"

   "Where's the hog?" Qwilleran asked, 
exhibiting his knowledge of railroad 
slang.

   There had been no sign of the 
locomotive, except for puffs of steam 
rising from behind a warehouse. Then 
abruptly the music stopped, and the 
brasses sounded a fanfare. As the chatter 
on the platform faded away, No.9 came 
puffing and whistling around a curve. The 
crowd cheered, and the band struck up 
"Casey Jones."

   Old No.9 was a magnificent piece of 
machinery, towering above the passengers 
on the platform. Its noble nose had a 
giant headlight; the black hulk and brass 
fittings glistened in the sunlight; the 
piston rods were marvels of mechanical 
magic as they stroked the huge driving 
wheels; even the cowcatcher was 
impressive. Leaning from the cab and 
waving at the waiting crowd was an aging 
engineer with tufts of white hair showing 
beneath his denim cap. He was beaming 
with pride.

   Mildred, who had an artist's eye, 
called the locomotive a masterpiece of 
sensitive beauty and brute strength. "No 
wonder they called it the Great Iron 
Horse!"

   When the freshly painted coaches came 
around the bend, her husband said, 
"They're still the same old moldy, muddy 
green."

   "That's a perfectly acceptable color," 
Mildred said. "I can mix it on my palette 
with chrome oxide green and cadmium red 
deep, with a little burnt umber to muddy 
it."

   Dwight Somers, overhearing the 
conversation, informed them that the 
traditional Pullman green was designed to 
hide mud and soot. "What do you know 
about the engineer?"

   Polly asked. "He was an SC&L hoghead 
for fifty years. Many times his skill and 
bravery saved lives, and he only jumped 
once. He'd tell his fireman to jump, but 
Ozzie Penn was like the skipper who stays 
with his ship, braving it out."

   "That's comforting to know," Riker 
said. "I trust they gave him a gold watch 
when he retired."

   Then the conductor swung down the 
steps of the first car and shouted" All 
abo-o-oard!"

   Qwilleran had reserved a table for 
four in the center of the dining car, 
where woodwork gleamed with varnish, 
tablecloths were blindingly white, and 
wine glasses sparkled. There was a hubbub 
of delight as the diners were seated. 
Then came one of those long, unexplained 
waits inflicted on train passengers. The 
wags in the crowd made wild conjectures: 
"They ran out of coal. . . . The fireman 
slipped a disc. . . . The chef forgot his 
knives. . . . They're sending out for 
more ice cubes."

   Eventually the bell clanged, the 
whistle screamed and, as the train 
started to move, an army of waiters in 
white coats surged down the aisle with 
bottles of champagne. Everyone applauded.

   Qwilleran, riding backward, saw Floyd 
Trevelyan at an end table with his 
attractive companion, and their body 
language was not that of a husband and 
wife or father and daughter. Also in his 
line of vision were Carol and Larry 
Lanspeak with a fresh-faced young woman 
and the bearded doctor who had been Hixie 
Rice's escort for the last six months. 
All four seemed inordinately happy, 
leading Qwilleran to mumble a question to 
Polly. She replied that the young woman 
was Dr. Diane, the Lanspeaks' daughter, 
who had escaped the medical madness Down 
Below and had returned to Moose County to 
go into practice with Dr. Herbert.

   Polly said, "I'm transferring my 
medical records to Dr. Diane. I didn't 
like the man who replaced Dr. Melinda."

   The train was rolling along at a 
comfortable excursion clip through 
typical Moose County landscape: fields of 
potatoes and pastures dotted with 
boulders and sheep.

   The waiters kept pouring champagne, 
and Qwilleran produced a bag of snacks to 
accompany the drinks. "I'd like you to 
taste these," he said. "A friend of mine 
made them."

   "Who?" Polly asked too quickly.

   "A woman I know in Florida." He was 
purposely taunting her with incomplete 
information.

   "They're very good," Riker said. "I'll 
have another handful."

"They're rather salty," Polly murmured.

   Mildred, who wrote the food column for 
the newspaper, said they were actually 
croutons toasted with parmesan cheese, 
garlic salt, red pepper, and 
Worcestershire sauce. Qwilleran said, 
"Koko and Yum Yum think they're the cat's 
meow."

   The food expert nodded. "They detect 
the anchovy in the Worcestershire."

   In a far corner of the car, out of the 
path of the bustling waiters, a white-
haired accordionist was playing show 
tunes with the blank demeanor of one who 
has played the same repertoire at 
thousands of banquets.

   Polly said, "His lack of passion is 
refreshing. We attended a Mozart concert 
in Lockmaster where the string ensemble 
was so passionate, they almost fell off 
their chairs."

   "I watched their antics," Qwilleran 
said, "and forgot to listen to the 
music."

   "It's the same way in art," Mildred 
declared. "The artist is becoming more 
important than the art. I blame the 
media."

   "We get blamed for everything," Riker 
said. They discussed the curriculum at 
the Moose County Community College: No 
music. No art. Plenty of English, 
accounting, data processing, office 
systems, and business management. 
Introductory courses in psychology, 
economics, history, sociology, etc. No 
cosmetology. No real estate. No tennis.

   Polly said, "They're making giant 
strides with the remodeling of the 
campus. The administration offices are 
staffed and operating, and I introduced 
myself to the president. Dr. Prelligate 
is a very interesting man."

   "In what way?" Qwilleran asked 
bluntly. "He combines a solid academic 
background with a most congenial 
personality. He's from Virginia and has 
that ingratiating Southern charm."

   "I adore Southern men," Mildred said 
girlishly. "Is he married?"

   "I don't believe so."

   "But you are!" Riker informed his 
wife. Polly had more to report. "Dr. 
Prelligate's staff has been feeding a 
dirty orange-and-white stray who looks 
exactly like Oh Jay. I phoned the Wilmots 
and learned that Oh Jay disappeared last 
November, right after they moved from 
Goodwinter Boulevard."

   Riker said, "That's called 'psi 
trailing.' He's been on the road nine 
months, panhandling and living off the 
land! That's a fifteen-mile hike!"

   "Well, the Wilmots said he can stay on 
campus," Polly said in conclusion, "and 
he's going to be the college mascot."

   "And the school colors," Qwilleran 
guessed, "will be orange and dirty 
white."

   The soup course was served: jellied 
beef consommé. It was rather salty, 
according to Polly. The Chateaubriand was 
an excellent cut of beef, and everyone 
agreed that neither the meat nor the chef 
could have come from Mudville.

   Meanwhile, the cars rolled gently from 
side to side, the whistle blew at grade 
crossings, and the conversation in the 
dining room was animated. Eventually the 
landscape became craggy, and there were 
dramatic views never seen from the 
highway. The tracks ran through the town 
of Wildcat, then down a steep grade to 
the Black Creek gorge, and across a high 
bridge. Now they were in Lockmaster 
County with its rolling hills and lush 
woods. By the time the cheesecake and 
coffee had been served, the train pulled 
into Flapjack, an early lumbercamp 
converted into a public recreation park.

   The TV crew from Minneapolis was 
waiting. They wanted to video the train 
owner with his handsome companion on the 
observation platform of the private car, 
but Trevelyan vetoed that. He preferred 
to put on a striped railroad cap and lean 
out of the engineer's cab. In addition, 
there were sound bites of the Chicago 
heiress in her soufflé of a hat and 
Whannell MacWhannel1 in his kilt, each 
describing the thrill of riding behind 
old No.9.

   Polly told the portly Scot that he cut 
a magnificent figure in his tartan, and 
she wished Qwilleran would buy a kilt.

   "Your man has the right build," Big 
Mac assured her, "and his mother was a 
Mackintosh, so he's entitled."

   Riker explained with the authority of 
an old friend, "It's the idea of wearing 
a skirt that bugs Qwill, and you'll never 
convince him otherwise."

   Qwilleran was relieved when Dwight 
Somers put an end to the kilt claptrap by 
inviting them to see the private railcar. 
"The corporate jet of its day!" he said.

   No one was prepared for its splendor: 
the richly upholstered wing chairs in the 
lounge, the dining table inlaid with 
exotic woods, the bedrooms with brass 
beds and marble lavatories. All of the 
woodwork was carved walnut, and the 
window transoms and light fixtures were 
Tiffany glass.

   Dwight said, "The Lumbertown Party 
Train would be" great for a wedding. Have 
the ceremony in the club car and the 
reception in the diner en route to 
Flapjack. Then uncouple the private car 
and leave the newlyweds on a siding for a 
week, with access to the golf course, 
riding stables, hiking trails, and so 
forth. At the end of the week the train 
returns with the wedding guests whooping 
it up in the club car, and they all huff-
puff-puff back to Moose County and live 
happily ever after. . . . You should keep 
it in mind, Qwill," he added slyly.

   Ignoring the remark, Qwilleran asked 
with mock innocence, "Is the woman with 
Floyd his bookkeeping daughter?"

   "No, that's his knee-crossing 
secretary," Dwight said with a polite 
leer. "He met her in Texas while he was 
shopping for rolling stock."

   "Was she a cheerleader?"

   "Something like that" was the cryptic 
reply. The brass bell of No.9 clanged, 
and the commanding voice of the conductor 
swept the passengers back on board. As 
the train chugged north, waiters handed 
out souvenir whistles - long wooden tubes 
that duplicated the shrill scream of a 
steam locomotive. For a while the dining 
car reverberated with ear-splitting 
noise. Then the accordionist started 
playing requests. Mildred asked for "The 
Second Time Around." Qwilleran requested 
"Time After Time" for Polly. She might 
not know the lyrics, but the melody was 
unmistakably affectionate.

   By the time the train rumbled through 
the outskirts of Pickax, the excitement 
was winding down, and conversation 
reverted to the usual: " Are you going to 
the boat races? . . . Have you tried the 
new restaurant in Mooseville? . . . How 
are your cats, Qwill?"

   "After a lifetime of sharing a dinner 
plate with Koko," he replied, "Yum Yum 
suddenly demands separate dishes. I don't 
know what's going on in that little 
head."

   Mildred said, "She's had her 
catsciousness raised."
   Qwilleran groaned, Polly shuddered, 
and Arch said, "There are good puns and 
bad puns, and that's the worst I've ever 
heard. . . . Conductor! Throw this lady 
off the train!"

   Then he asked Polly about her house. 
"They're supposed to pour the concrete 
this week. Once the trenches are dug for 
the footings, they don't lose any time 
because a rainstorm could cause an 
earthslide. It's all so exciting! I've 
always lived in small, rented units, but 
now I'll have a guestroom and family room 
and two-car garage."

   "Who's your builder?"

   "The name on the contract is Edward P. 
Trevelyan. He's a big shaggy fellow with 
a full beard and a mop of black hair, and 
his grammar is atrocious! Incidentally, 
his father owns this train."

   Finally No.9 whistled at the grade 
crossings of Sawdust City, and the 
historic ride ended with a great hissing 
of steam. The valets in red jumpsuits ran 
for the parked cars, and the passengers 
drove back to Pickax, Mooseville, West 
Middle Hummock, and Purple Point. 
Qwilleran drove Polly home to Goodwinter 
Boulevard, now cluttered with paving 
equipment, piles of lumber, and other 
signs of campus renovation.

   Polly said, "This has been a 
delightful afternoon, dear."

   "Glad you enjoyed it. You look 
particularly attractive today."

   "Thank you. I'm feeling more relaxed 
now that work on the house has actually 
started. It bothers me, though, that I 
can't understand the architect's plans 
with their abbreviations and arcane 
symbols. I'd appreciate it if you'd come 
up and look at the blueprints."


   When Qwilleran finally left Polly's 
apartment, it was eleven p.m. and time 
for the nightly news. He tuned in the car 
radio in time to hear the WPKX announcer 
say, ". . . paid $500 a ticket to ride 
behind the historic No.9 steam locomotive 
on the SC&L Line, netting the Moose 
County Community College more than 
$16,000 for scholarships. Popular-priced 
excursions on the new Party Train will be 
announced, according to spokesperson 
Dwight Somers. . . . In local baseball, 
Lockmaster walloped Pickax nine to four, 
with the Safecrackers hitting two homers, 
one with bases loaded. . . . Next, the 
weather, after this late bulletin from 
Sawdust City: A surprise move by the 
state banking commission has padlocked 
the Lumbertown Credit Union, pending a 
state audit. No further details are 
available at this time."

-4-
   The morning after the train ride and 
the afterglow at Polly's apartment, 
nothing disturbed Qwilleran's deep sleep 
until the telephone rang at nine o'clock. 
He had slept through the yowling demands 
coming from the top balcony; he had slept 
through the rumble of the cement-mixing 
truck down the lane. He thought it was 
predawn when he said his sleepy hello 
into the bedside phone.

   "What's the matter? Aren't you up 
yet?" Arch Riker shouted at him. "All 
hell's breaking loose! Didn't you hear 
the news from Sawdust City?"

   "Only on the radio last night," 
Qwillcran replied with a lack of energy 
or interest. "Any more news?"

   "Only that Floyd Trevelyan can't be 
reached for clarification. It sounds like 
a bust! It must be a major case to 
warrant surprise action like this - on a 
Sunday, for Pete's sake!"

   Always grouchy before his first cup of 
coffee, Qwilleran replied with irritable 
sarcasm, "I can imagine a SWAT team of 
bookkeepers in business suits and knit 
ties, armed with portable computers, 
parachuting down on the Lumbertown office 
and kicking in the doors."

   "You're not taking this seriously," 
the publisher rebuked him. "Consider the 
timing! It happened while the evening 
excursion was in progress. The Capitol 
gang evidently knew the schedule of the 
Party Train."

   "Thanks to Dwight Somers's hype, 
everyone in three states knew the 
schedule."

   "Anyway, we"ll soon find out what it's 
all about. Junior is contacting the state 
banking commission, and Roger's on his 
way to Sawdust City, via Trevelyan's home 
in West Middle Hummock. We'll have a 
story for the front page, and if my 
hunches are right, it'll bump the Party 
Train to page three. . . . Talk to you 
later."

   Now that Qwilleran was awake, more or 
less, he pressed the Start button on the 
coffee maker and shuffled up the ramp to 
release the Siamese from their loft. As 
soon as he opened their door, they shot 
out of the room like feline cannonballs 
and streaked down to the kitchen. 
Qwilleran followed obediently.

   "Yow-ow-ow!" Koko howled upon arriving 
at the feeding station and finding the 
plate empty.

   "N-n-now!" echoed Yum Yum.

   As Qwilleran opened a can of red 
salmon, crushed the bones with a fork, 
removed the black skin, and arranged it 
on two plates, he thought, Cats don't 
fight for their rights; they take them 
for granted. They have a right to be fed, 
watered, stroked on demand, and supplied 
with a lap and a clean commode. . . and 
if they don't get their rights, they 
quietly commit certain acts of civil 
disobedience. . . . Tyrants!

   The two gobbling heads were so intent 
on their salmon that even the loud bell 
of the kitchen phone failed to disturb 
them.

   This time the call was from Polly. 
"Qwill, did you hear about the state 
audit in Sawdust City? What do you think 
of the timing?"

   "It looks fishy," he said, having 
gulped his first cup of coffee and geared 
up his usual cynicism. "Any crank can 
call the hotline to the state auditor's 
office and blow the whistle on a state-
regulated institution. One of the 
universities was investigated for misuse 
of funds, you remember, and it was a 
false alarm - the work of an anonymous 
tipster. In Trevelyan's case, the tip 
could be a spiteful hoax perpetrated by a 
customer who was refused a loan."

   "That's terrible!" she said.

   “In a way," he said, "it's better to 
embarrass the management than to barge 
into the office with a semiautomatic and 
wipe out innocent depositors."

   "Oh, Qwill! Things like that don't 
happen up here."

   "Times are changing," he said 
ominously. There was a pause on the line 
before she said softly, "I slept 
beautifully last night. It was a 
wonderfully relaxing day and evening - 
just what I needed. I've been worrying 
too much about my house."

   "No need to worry, Polly. I'll keep an 
eye on the action at the end of the trail 
- when I go down to the mailbox - and 
I'll keep you informed."

   "Thank you, dear. Ŕ bientôt!"

    "Ŕ bientôt."

   Qwilleran poured another mug of the 
blockbuster brew he called coffee and sat 
down at the telephone desk to call a 
number in Indian Village. "Dwight, this 
is Qwill," he said soberly.

   "Oh, God! Oh, God!" the publicity man 
wailed. "What the hell's going on? I 
didn't hear the news until this morning, 
on the air. I called Floyd's number in 
West Middle Hummock, but he wasn't home."

   "Who answered?"

   "His wife. She sounded as if she 
didn't know anything had happened, and I 
didn't want to be the messenger bringing 
bad news."

   "I didn't meet his wife when I was 
there."

   "She usually stays in her room, 
confined to a wheelchair. I don't know 
exactly what her problem is, but it's one 
of those new diseases with a 
multisyllabic name and no known cure. 
What a shame! All that money, and she 
can't enjoy it."

   "Hmmm," Qwilleran murmured with a 
mixture of sympathy and curiosity. "So 
what happened? Could she tell you where 
he was or when he'd be back?"

   "Well, she's quite frail and speaks in 
a weak voice that's hard to understand, 
but I gathered that he came home last 
night and went out again. Just between 
you and me, I think it's not unusual for 
him to stay out all night. Anyway, the 
nurse took the phone away from Mrs. T and 
told me not to upset her patient. So I 
asked to speak to the daughter, but she 
wasn't home either. The way it works: A 
nurse comes every morning, a companion 
every afternoon, and the daughter stays 
with her mother overnight."

   "Sad situation," Qwilleran said. "Do 
you know anything about matters in 
Sawdust City?"

   "No more than you do. You know, Qwill, 
I worked my tail off, getting that show 
on the road yesterday - "

   "And you did a brilliant job, Dwight. 
Everything was perfectly coordinated."

   "And then this bomb dropped! Talk 
about suspicious timing! It couldn't be 
purely coincidental."

   "Is Floyd mixed up in politics?"

   "Why do you ask?"

   "Has he made any enemies in the state 
bureaucracy? Did he support the wrong 
candidate for the legislature?"

   "Not that I know of. Maybe he 
distributed a little judicious graft here 
and there; he had no trouble getting a 
liquor license for the train, you know. 
But no. He's bored with politics. If it 
doesn't have steel wheels and run on 
steel tracks, he's not interested."

   Qwilleran said, "I'm sorry about this 
for your sake, Dwight. Let's hope it's a 
false alarm."

   "Yeah. . . well. . . it was a kick in 
the head for me, after I'd tried so hard 
to create a favorable image for Floyd and 
Lumbertown and Sawdust City."

   "One question: Was Floyd a passenger 
on the six o'clock train?"

   "No, he had to go home and take care 
of his wife - he said! I went on both 
runs, and I've had enough accordion music 
to last my lifetime!"

   "Arch has the staff digging for facts, 
so it'll be in the first edition if 
anything develops. If you hear any 
rumors, feel free to bounce them off a 
sympathetic ear. And good luck, whatever 
the outcome, Dwight."

   "Thanks for calling, Qwill. How about 
lunch later in the week when I've 
finished licking my wounds?"


   When the Moose County Something 
appeared, the front page was not what 
Qwilleran had been led to expect. The 
Party Train had the banner headline:


JOY IN MUDVILLE
OLD No.9 ROLLS AGAIN!


   The Lumbertown crisis was played down 
with only a stickful of type in a lower 
corner of the page: Sawdust C.V. Closed 
for Audit. Either there was no alarming 
development, or the editor had chosen not 
to throw the depositors into panic. That 
was small-town newspaper policy. Riker, 
with his background on large metropolitan 
dailies, preferred the eye-grabbing, 
heartstopping, hair-raising headline; 
Junior Goodwinter, born and bred 400 
miles north of everywhere, had other 
ideas, rooted in local custom. He always 
said, "Don't try to make bad news worse."

   Qwilleran was pondering this viewpoint 
over a ham sandwich at Lois's 
Luncheonette when Roger MacGillivray 
blustered into the restaurant and flung 
himself into the booth where Qwilleran 
was reading the paper.
   "I suppose you're wondering why we 
didn't play it up," the young reporter 
said.

   "You're right. I did. . . Why?"

   "Because there was nothing to report! 
Junior was stonewalled when he called the 
commission, and no one in Mudville would 
talk to me. Two state vehicles were 
parked behind the Lumbertown building, 
and there was a notice plastered on the 
front door with some legal gobbledy-gook, 
but the doors were locked front and back, 
and the dirty dogs completely ignored my 
knocking. Also they refused to answer 
when I called from a phone booth. Before 
I left, I got a shot of the building 
exterior with some old geezers standing 
on the sidewalk in a huddle. I also got a 
close-up of the official notice on the 
door, and another one of the license 
plate on a state car. . . . How's that 
for brilliant photojournalism?" he 
finished with a bitter laugh.

   "They didn't use any photos," 
Qwilleran said, tapping his newspaper."

   "I know, but you have to hand in 
something, just so they know you've been 
there."

   "Could you see through the window?"

   "I could see auditors at work 
stations, that's all. But then I talked 
to the old geezers and got some man-on-
the-street stuff, which I phoned in, and 
which they didn't print."

   "Maybe later," Qwilleran said 
encouragingly. "What did the old geezers 
say?"

   "Well! It was an eye-opener, I 
thought. First of all, they like Floyd. 
He's the local boy who was  captain of 
the high school football team, started to 
work as a carpenter, and made millions! 
They like the interest he pays. They like 
the electric trains in the lobby. They 
think this underhanded action on the part 
of vipers in the state capitol is unfair 
and probably in violation of the 
Constitution. They don't trust government 
agencies."

   "Did you try to reach Floyd's 
secretary?"

   "Yeah, but no luck. When I asked the 
old geezers about her, they sniggered 
like schoolkids. Anyway, they told me she 
lives in Indian Village, so I phoned out 
there. No answer. I went to Floyd's 
house. He wasn't there, and no one would 
talk or even open the door more than an 
inch. It's been a frustrating day so far, 
Qwill. On days like this I'd like to be 
back in the school system, teaching 
history to kids who couldn't care less."


   After his conversation with Roger, 
Qwilleran did a few errands before 
returning home. Whenever he walked about 
downtown, he was stopped by strangers who 
read the "Qwill Pen" or recognized him 
from the photo at the top of his column. 
They always complimented him on his 

writing and his moustache, not 
necessarily in that order. In the 
beginning he had welcomed reader 
comments, hoping to learn something of 
value, but his expectations were crushed 
by the nature of their remarks:

"I loved your column yesterday, Mr. Q. I 
forget what it was about, but it was very 
good."

   "How do you think all that stuff up?"

   "My cousin in Delaware writes for a 
paper. Would you like me to send you some 
of her clippings?"

   "Why do you spell your name like 
that?"

   Now, whenever he was complimented, he 
would express his thanks without making 
eye contact; it was eye contact that led 
to monologues about out-of-state 
relatives. Instead, he would say a 
pleased thank-you and turn his head aside 
as if modestly savoring the compliment. 
He had become a master at the gracious 
turnoff. Fifty percent of the time it 
worked.

   On this day the situation was quite 
different. While he was waiting in line 
to cash a check at the Pickax People's 
Bank, a security guard hailed him. "Hi, 
Mr. Q."

   Immediately the young woman ahead of 
him in the line turned and said, "You're 
Mr. Qwilleran! Reading your column is 
like listening to music! Whatever the 
subject, your style of writing makes me 
feel good." There was not a word about 
his moustache.

   Surprised and pleased, he made eye 
contact with a plain young woman of 
serious mien, probably in her early 
twenties. "Thank you," he said graciously 
without turning away. "I write my column 
for readers like you. Apparently you know 
something about the craft. Are you a 
teacher?"

   "No, just a constant reader. I have 
one of your columns pasted on my mirror. 
You gave three rules for would-be 
writers: write, write, and write. I'm a 
would-be, and I'm following your advice." 
There was not a word about sending him a 
manuscript for evaluation and advice.

   "Have you thought of enrolling at the 
new college?" he asked. "They're offering 
some writing courses. . . and there are 
scholarships available," he added, with a 
glance at her plain and well-worn shirt, 
her lack of makeup, her limp canvas 
shoulder bag.

   "I'd like to do that, but I'm rather 
tied down right now."

   "Then I wish you well, Ms. . . . what 
is your name?"

   Her hesitant reply was mumbled. It 
sounded like Letitia Pen.

   "P-e-n-n, as in Pennsylvania?" he 
asked and I added with humorous emphasis, 
"Is that a pen name?"

    "It's my own name, unfortunately," 
she said with a grimace. "I hate 
'Letitia.' "

   "I know what you mean. My parents 
named me Merlin, and my best friend was 
Archibald. As Merlin and Archibald we 
suffered the slings and arrows of 
outrageous first-graders."

   "It's not as terrible as Letitia and 
Lionella, though. That's the name of my 
best friend."

   "At least you could do a nightclub 
act. Can you sing? Dance? Tell jokes?"

   Letitia giggled. The two of them were 
the only ones in the bank line who were 
enjoying the wait. The man behind 
Qwilleran cleared his throat loudly. The 
bank teller rapped on the counter to get 
Letitia's attention and said, "Next!"

   Ms. Penn turned and stepped quickly to 
the window, saying a soft "I'm sorry."

   Qwilleran advanced a few steps also, 
shortening the long line behind them; the 
bank was always rushed on Mondays and 
Fridays. Ahead of him his constant reader 
seemed to be withdrawing a substantial 
sum. He could see over her shoulder. The 
teller counted the bills twice.

   "Fifty, a hundred, hundred-fifty, two 
hundred, two-fifty. . ."

   "I'd like an envelope for that," said 
Ms. Penn.

   "There you are," said the teller. 
"Have a nice day, Ms. Trevelyan." 
"Constant reader" stuffed the money into 
her shoulder bag and left the bank 
hurriedly.

   That, Qwilleran observed, was a 
curious development. Why would she choose 
not to give her right name? Before 
leaving the bank, he consulted the local 
telephone directory and found seventy-
five Trevelyans but no Letitia. There 
were no Penns at all - not that it 
mattered; it was one of the pointless 
things he did to satisfy his idle 
curiosity. After that, he walked home 
with a lighter step, buoyed by the 
knowledge that his twice-weekly words 
were not totally forgotten and might even 
be doing some good. He walked via the 
back road to pick up his mail and check 
Polly's building site.

   There were no trucks and no workmen, 
but concrete had been poured and smoothly 
troweled. She had decided on a crawl 
space instead of a basement, and on a 
poured foundation instead of concrete 
block - this after extensive reading on 
the subject. On one of their recent 
dinner dates she had explained, A poured 
foundation gives a stronger wall with 
less danger of cracks and leaks. Did you 
know they are supposed to leave a groove 
in the footings to tie in a poured 
concrete wall?" And after dinner they had 
visited the building site to check the 
grooves.

   Now the walls had been poured, and 
Qwilleran phoned Polly at the library to 
report.

   "Thank you for letting me know," she 
said. "Now I feel the project is finally 
under way."

   "Yes, you have something concrete to 
show for all your planning," he said 
lightly.

   "I wonder how long it takes to dry 
before they can start the framing. Mr. 
Trevelyan uses platform framing 
construction. I must phone him tomorrow 
morning to see if he spaces the joists on 
twelve-, sixteen-, or twenty-four-inch 
centers."

   "I'd go with twelve-inch, considering 
the way Bootsie goes around stamping his 
feet," Qwilleran said in another attempt 
to amuse her.

   With worry in her voice she said, 
"Will I regret my decision to eliminate 
the fireplace? It makes a charming focal 
point, but it adds to the initial cost 
and then creates extra work if one burns 
wood, and I would never consider the gas-
fired type."

   "Be of good cheer," he said. "I have 
three fireplaces, and you're welcome to 
come and enjoy one or more at any hour of 
the day or night. I'll chop the wood, 
keep the logs burning, and haul the 
ashes. Reservations should be made an 
hour in advance." He was doing his best 
to divert her, without success, and the 
conversation ended with frustration on 
Qwilleran's part.

   He turned from the telephone to his 
stack mail. An envelope with an Illinois 
postm caught his eye:


Dear Chief,

   I got your letter about the Kabibbles 
and almost died laughing. Glad you like 
them. I'll send some more. You can see by 
the envelope I've left Florida. I'm back 
on my son's farm. Sorry to say, I don't 
get along too good with my daughter-in-
law-she's such a sourpuss - and you may 
think I'm crazy, but I'm thinking of 
moving to Pickax. It sounds very nice. I 
know you get lots of snow, but I love to 
throw snowballs at the side of a barn. 
I'd need to somehow find a furnished room 
because I sold everything when I moved to 
Florida, and maybe I could find a part-
time job-cleaning houses or waiting on 
tables. I'd like to sort of give it a try 
for a year anyway. What do you think?

Yours truly
Celia Robinson


   She gave a phone number, and Qwilleran 
called immediately without waiting for 
the evening discount rates as he was 
prone to do. The phone rang and rang, and 
he let it ring while fragments of thought 
teased his brain: Celia could cook. . . 
Did he need a live-in housekeeper? . . . 
No, he liked his privacy. . . Some 
macaroni and cheese, though. . . Some 
meatloaf for the cats. . .

   He was wondering about Celia's mashed 
potatoes when a woman's harassed voice 
shouted a breathless hello.

   In a menacing monotone he said, "I'd 
like to speak to Mrs. Celia Robinson."

   "She's out back, collecting eggs. 
Who's calling?"

   "Tell her it's the Chief."

   "Who?"
   "Chief of the Florida Bureau of 
Investigation," Qwilleran said with his 
talent for impromptu fabrication.

   The receiver was put down abruptly, 
and a woman's voice could be heard 
shouting, "Clay, go and get Grandma 
quick. Tell her to hurry!"

   There was a long wait, and then he 
could hear Celia's laughter before she 
reached the phone. "Hello, Chief," she 
said happily. "You must've got my 
letter."

   "I did indeed, and it's a splendid 
idea! Your grandson can spend Christmas 
with you, and you can have snowball 
fights. How is Clayton?"

   "He's fine. Just got back from science 
camp. He won a scholarship."

   "Good! Now to answer your questions: 
Yes, you'll have no trouble finding part-
time work. Yes, you can find a furnished 
apartment. There's one close to downtown, 
if you don't mind walking up a flight of 
stairs."

   "I don't want to pay too much rent."

   "No problem. The owner will be only 
too happy to have the premises occupied."

   "Could I bring my cat? You remember 
Wrigley, from Chicago."

   "By all means. I'll look forward to 
meeting him." He waited for her merry 
laughter to subside before asking, "Do 
you have transportation?"

   "Oh, you should see the cute little 
used car I bought, Chief! It's bright 
red! I bought it with your check. I 
didn't expect you to send so much. It was 
fun helping you."

   "You performed a valuable service, 
Celia. And now. . . Don't waste any of 
our glorious summer weather. Plan on 
coming soon. I'll send you the 
directions."

   "Oh, I'm all excited!" she crowed, and 
he could hear her happy laughter as she 
hung up.

   The apartment he had in mind was a 
four-room suite in the carriage house 
behind the former Klingenschoen mansion, 
now the K Theatre. It was imposing in its 
own right, being constructed of 
glistening fieldstone with carriage 
lanterns at all four corners and four 
stalls for vehicles. Qwilleran had lived 
there while his barn was being remodeled, 
and it was still equipped with his basic 
bachelor-style furnishings in 
conservative colors.

   After talking to Celia, he tore into 
action, his first call being to Fran 
Brodie at the design studio. She had 
selected the original furnishings and 
also those in the barn.

   "Fran, drop everything - will you? - 
and do a quick facelift on my old 
apartment. . . No, I'm not moving back 
into it. A woman who was a friend of 
Euphonia Gage in Florida has been advised 
by her doctor to move up here for the 
salubrious climate."

   "Well! I never heard anything like 
that!" Fran exclaimed. "Perhaps we should 
open a health spa. What kind of person is 
she?"

   "A fun-loving grandmother, who has a 
cat and drives a red car. . . . Yes, I 
agree the place needs some color - and 
some feminine fripperies, if you'll 
pardon the political faux pas. The cats' 
old hang-out should be made over into a 
guestroom for her teenage grandson, and 
my Pullman kitchen should be replaced by 
a full-scale cooking facility, with an 
oven big enough to roast a turkey. How 
fast can you .do this? She'll be here in 
ten days."
   "Ten days!" Fran yelped into the 
phone. "You're a dreamer! Free-standing 
appliances are no problem, and we can get 
stock cabinets from Lockmaster, but 
there's the labor for installing 
countertops, flooring, lighting - "

   "Offer the workmen a bonus," Qwilleran 
said impatiently. "Get them to work 
around the clock! Send me the bill." He 
knew Fran liked a challenge; she prided 
herself on doing the impossible.

   Breaking the news to Polly required 
more finesse, however. He called her at 
home that evening. "How did everything go 
today?" he asked pleasantly. "I see they 
painted the yellow lines on the library 
parking lot."

   "Yes, but that wasn't the main event 
of the day," she said. "Mr. Tibbitt's 
seat cushion developed a slow leak and 
whistled every time he moved. It could be 
heard on the main floor, and the clerks 
were in hysterics. It was rather amusing 
in a bawdy way." Polly trilled a little 
discreet laughter.

   Finding her in a good mood, Qwilleran 
broached the real subject on his mind. "I 
know your assistant likes to moonlight on 
her day off. Would she be willing to act 
as mentor for a new resident of Pickax?"

   "What would it entail?"

   "Driving someone around town and 
pointing out the stores, churches, 
restaurants, civic buildings, medical 
center, and so forth. Information on 
local customs would be appreciated - also 
city ordinances, like 'No whistling in 
public.' And she might throw in some 
current gossip," he added slyly, knowing 
that Virginia Alstock was the main fuse 
in the Pickax gossip circuit.

   "Who is this person?" Polly asked 
crisply. Expecting the third degree, 
Qwilleran roguishly teased her with 
piecemeal replies. "A friend of Junior's 
grandmother in Florida."

   "Why would anyone in his or her right 
mind leave the subtropics to live in the 
Snow Belt? Is this person male or 
female?"

   "Female."

   There was a brief pause. "Where is she 
going to live?"

   "In my old apartment."

   "Oh, really? I didn't know it was 
available for rent. How did she find out 
about it?"

   "The subject of housing arose in a 
telephone conversation, and I offered it 
to her."

   There was another pause. "You must 
know her quite well."

   "As a matter of fact," he said, 
thinking the game had gone on long 
enough, "she was instrumental in solving 
tire mystery surrounding Euphonia's 
death."

   "I see. . . . How old is she?"

   "Polly, I never ask a lady her age. 
You know that."

   There was an audible sniff.

   "Approximately."

   "Well. . . old enough to have a 
teenage grandson. . . and young enough to 
like snowball fights."

   "What is this woman's name?"

   "Celia Robinson, and I'll appreciate 
it, Polly, if you'll alert Mrs. Alstock. 
Mrs. Robinson will be here in about ten 
days."

   Qwilleran chuckled to himself after 
hanging up the receiver. He could imagine 
the gabby Mrs. Robinson and the gossipy 
Mrs. Alstock having lunch at Lois's 
Luncheonette.


   For the next few days he made discreet 
inquiries, wherever he went, about 
parttime work for a newcomer. One day he 
met Lisa Compton in the post office. She 
worked at the Senior Care Facility, and 
her husband was superintendent of 
schools; between them they could provide 
answers for most questions.

   Qwilleran mentioned his quest, and 
Lisa asked, "Does this woman have a warm, 
outgoing personality?"

   "She's got it in spades," he said.

   "Do you know about our new outreach 
program? It's called Pals for Patients. 
We supply Pals to homebound Patients; the 
Patients pay us, and we pay the Pals, 
minus a small commission for booking and 
collecting. Patients who can't afford to 
pay are subsidized by the Klingenschoen 
Foundation. You probably know all about 
that."

   "That's what you think," Qwilleran 
said. "No one tells me these things. . . 
. Was the program your brainchild?"

   "No, it was Irma Hasselrich's last 
great idea. I merely implemented it," 
said Lisa. "What's your friend's name?"

   Qwilleran hesitated, knowing that a 
bulletin would flash across the Pickax 
grapevine: Mr. Q has a new friend. He 
explained his hesitation by saying 
glibly, "Her last name is Robinson. Her 
first name is Sadie or Celia - something 
like that. We've never met. She was a 
dear friend of Euphonia Gage in Florida, 
who said Celia - or Sadie - had an 
exceptionally warm and outgoing 
personality."

   "Okay. Send her to me when she 
arrives. We'll put her name on the list."

   "She'll appreciate it, I'm sure. How's 
your grouchy old husband, Lisa?"

   "Believe it or not, he's happy as a 
lark. You know Lyle's perverse 
temperament. Well, he's tickled to see 
Floyd Trevelyan in trouble. They've been 
enemies ever since Floyd sued the school 
board for expelling his son."

   As it turned out, Floyd was in more 
trouble than anyone imagined, and the 
Moose County Something could gloat over 
its first front-page coverage of a 
financial scandal.

   The Lumbertown Credit Union was closed 
indefinitely and its assets frozen, 
pending a hearing before the state 
banking commission on charges of fraud.

   Millions of dollars belonging to 
depositors were allegedy missing.

   Also missing were the president of the 
institution and his secretary.

-5-
   News of the Mudville scandal broke in 
mid-morning, enabling the Moose County 
Something to remake the front page. Arch 
Riker phoned Qwilleran for help with 
rewrites and phones. "And listen, Qwill: 
Stop at Toodles' and pick up a few 
bottles of champagne."

   Suffused with a newsman's urge to 
disinter the story behind the story, 
Qwilleran left in a hurry, although not 
without waving good-bye to the Siamese. 
He told them where he was going and when 
he might return, as if they cared. After 
their breakfast they could be 
infuriatingly blasé. Yum Yum merely sat 
on her brisket and gave him a glassy 
stare; Koko walked away and was heard 
scratching in the commode.

   At the newspaper office the mood was 
one of jubilation. Rarely did breaking 
news break on their deadline. Ordinarily 
the public heard it first from the 
electronic media - sketchily, but first. 
Not until the next day would the 
newspaper come in a poor second. True, 
they were able to publish photos, 
sidelights, background facts, quotes from 
individuals involved, and opinions from 
casual observers. After all, the Moose 
County Something claimed to be the north-
country newspaper of record. "Read all 
about it" was their slogan, recalling the 
cry of the old-time corner newshawker.

   When the presses were finally rolling, 
the champagne corks popped in 
celebration. If Qwilleran remembered his 
own exuberant days of champagne-squirting 
Down Below, it was without any wishful 
pangs of yearning. He was simply glad to 
be where he was when he was - and who he 
was.

   Eventually Riker's booming voice 
announced, "Enough hilarity! Back to 
reality!" The staff calmed down and went 
to work, and Qwilleran went on his way, 
leaving his car in the parking lot and 
walking around town to do his own 
snooping.

   First he went to the police station to 
see his friend Andrew Brodie, but the 
chief was absent - probably meeting with 
state and county lawmen to organize a 
manhunt, and woman-hunt.

   Qwilleran's next stop was Amanda's 
Studio of Interior Design on Main Street. 
Amanda was not there, but Fran Brodie was 
holding the fort attractively, sitting at 
a French writing table with her long 
slender legs crossed and her double-hoop 
earrings dangling. She had been one of 
the seductive young women who pursued 
Qwilleran when he arrived in Pickax to 
claim his inheritance. Only Polly Duncan 
remained in the running; in this case, he 
had done the pursuing. Fran was still a 
friend and confidante, however. He 
admired her talent as a designer, her 
dedication to the theatre club, and her 
strawberry blond hair. Also, she was the 
daughter of the police chief and an 
occasional source of privileged 
information.

   When he entered the shop, she saw him 
immediately and turned her face away, 
groaning loudly - a bit of theatre-club 
pantomime.

   "Is it as bad as all that?" Qwilleran 
asked. He knew that the studio had 
handled the renovation of the Party 
Train.

   "That rat owes us tens of thousands!" 
she wailed. "Amanda's at the attorney's 
office right now. Floyd had signed a 
contract for the work, and we never 
dreamed he'd run out on it."

   "Were the rail coaches the only work 
you'd done for him?"

   "No. The first was the Lumbertown 
office, and he liked it. Maybe you've 
seen how we duplicated the atmosphere of 
an old railway depot. He had just sold 
his construction firm to XYZ Enterprises 
and had tons of money. He paid the bill 
in thirty days."

   "And what about his house in West 
Middle Hummock? I had a glimpse of it 
when I interviewed him about the model 
trains. The interior didn't look like 
you; it looked like Mudville thrift 
shop."

   "Well, he said his wife didn't want 
any professional help with the house. 
That meant one of two things: Either he'd 
rather spend the money on model trains, 
or Mrs. T was too ill to care. We 
accepted that. Apparently Floyd himself 
didn't care how the house looked as long 
as the bar was well stocked. I don't know 
who drinks all that stuff. I think they 
never have company. Maybe Floyd has 
drinking buddies from Sawdust City. . . . 
But then, he commissioned us to do the 
interiors of the PV and the diner and the 
club car, and believe me, they needed a 
lot of doing!"

   "You did a beautiful job, Fran."

   "Well, why not? He was willing to 
spend a fortune. . ."

   "And you thought you were on the gravy 
train," Qwilleran said sympathetically.

   Fran groaned again. "I'm afraid Amanda 
will have a stroke. You know how 
excitable she is."

   "Did you work directly with Floyd on 
the cars?"

   "No. With his secretary - or assistant 
- or whatever she is. Nice person. Good 
to work with. Nella Hooper has fine 
taste. When Floyd wanted something 
flashy, she toned him down."

   "I saw her on the Party Train. Very 
attractive. Know anything about her 
background?"

   "Only that she's from Texas. She never 
wanted to talk about herself, and I know 
when not to ask questions. Floyd had me 
do her apartment in Indian Village and 
gave me carte blanche to spend money. She 
wanted a south-western theme."

    "How about your father, Fran? Has he 
had anything to say about the 
embezzlement?"

   "It's too soon."

   "Or the disappearance of the 
principals?"

   "Too soon."

   The way it worked: The police chief 
would come home from his shift and talk 
shop with his wife at the kitchen table; 
then, when Fran made her daily phone call 
to her mother, Mrs. Brodie would pass 
along some tidbit of information in 
strict confidence; later, if Qwilleran 
dropped into the studio looking genuinely 
concerned and utterly trustworthy, Fran 
would feel free to confide in him. She 
was aware that he had helped the police 
on several occasions, behind the scenes.

   "It's too early for any scuttlebutt," 
Fran said, "although I haven't called 
home yet. Why don't you come to rehearsal 
tonight? By that time I might have heard 
something."

   "Will Derek Cuttlebrink be there?" 
Qwilleran asked. “He's on my list of 
leads to interview."

   "He'll be there. So will his latest 
girlfriend."

   "You mean - Elizabeth Appelhardt?"

   "She prefers to be called Elizabeth 
Hart now."

   "I must say they're an odd couple."

   "But they're good for each other," 
Fran said. "She's talked him into 
enrolling at the college, and Derek is 
gradually nudging her into the 
mainstream. When you first brought her 
from the island, she was in a world of 
her own."

   "Please! I didn't bring her here," 
Qwilleran said gruffly. "She happened to 
be on the same boat."

   "Whatever," the designer said with 
raised eyebrows. "She's started wearing 
natural makeup and patronizing my 
hairdresser, and now she looks less like 
a character in a horror movie."

   "I hear she's joined the club. That'll 
be good for her."

   "Good for us, too! She has some fresh 
ideas for costumes and staging, although 
I expect some opposition from our older 
members."

   "Any other news?"

   "I'm doing an apartment in Indian 
Village for Dr. Diane - country French, 
lots of blue. She seems to have replaced 
Hixie in Dr. Herbert's life, but here's 
an off-twist: When Hixie broke her foot, 
she stayed with Dr. Herbert's mother 
until she could walk, and now Dr. Diane 
is staying with his mother until her 
apartment is ready."

   Qwilleran said, "I'm sure there's some 
underlying significance to that fact, but 
it escapes me. . . . I like that 
paperweight. What is it supposed to be?" 
He pointed to a fanciful chunk of 
tarnished brass on Fran's desk.

   "That's Cerberus," Fran told him. "The 
three-headed dog that guarded the gates 
of Hades in ancient mythology. Amanda 
picked it up at an estate sale in 
Chicago. It belonged to a wealthy 
meatpacker."

   The detail was meticulous, even to the 
snakes that formed the dog's mane and 
tail. Qwilleran often bought a small 
object in the design studio; it pleased 
Fran, and it was advantageous to please 
the daughter of the police chief.

   "If you like it," she said, "I'll give 
you a price on it and shine it up for 
you."

   "I like it," he said, "but I have some 
other stops to make. How about shining it 
up and bringing it to the rehearsal 
tonight?"

   As Qwilleran left the studio, he was 
chuckling to himself in anticipation of 
the cats' reaction to the grotesque 
bauble. They were always aware of any new 
item that arrived in their territory.

   His next stop was the office of 
MacWhannell & Shaw. There was a question 
he wanted to ask an accountant.

   Big Mac, as he was called, met him 
with a welcoming hand. "Just thinking 
about you, Qwill. We're planning Scottish 
Night at the lodge, and we'd like you to 
be our guest again."

   "Thank you. I enjoyed it last year - 
even the haggis."

   "I was telling the committee that your 
mother was a Mackintosh, and Gordie Shaw 
said you ought to join the clan 
officially, as a tribute, you might say, 
to her memory. The Shaws had Mackintosh 
connections, you know."

   The suggestion hit Qwilleran in a 
tender spot. He had grown up with a 
single parent, and now that he was 
maturing he realized how much she had 
done for him. He could forget the piano 
lessons, and drying the dishes, and two-
handed games of dominoes; he owed her a 
great deal. "What would it entail?" he 
asked.

   "According to Gordie, you apply for 
membership, pay your dues, and receive a 
periodic newsletter. After that you 
probably start attending Scottish 
Gatherings and Highland Games."

   "Sounds okay," said the writer of the 
"Qwill Pen" column, sensing a source of 
material. "Ask Gordie to send me an 
application."

   "But I've been doing all the talking," 
the accountant said. "Is there anything I 
can do for you?"

   "Just answer a question, Mac. How do 
you react to the Lumbertown fraud - or 
alleged fraud?"

   "Fortunately, I have no clients who 
would be affected, but I sympathize with 
the Sawdusters. When a white-collar crime 
is committed in a blue-collar community, 
it seems particularly reprehensible - to 
me, that is. Don't ask me why."

   "At the risk of sounding financially 
naive, may I ask how a guy like Trevelyan 
can abscond with millions belonging to 
his customers? I'm sure he doesn't carry 
it out in a suitcase."

   "Basically, he has to be a crook," 
said MacWhannell, "but if you're talking 
about ways and means, well. . . there are 
such practices as juggling the books, 
forging documents, falsifying financial 
statements, and so forth."

   "Floyd is, or was, a carpenter by 
trade," Qwilleran pointed out. "Would he 
have such educated tricks in his 
toolbox?"

   "Sounds as if there was an accomplice, 
doesn't it? This will be an interesting 
case. With today's crime information 
networks, he'll be found soon enough."

   Leaving the accountant's office, 
Qwilleran passed the department store and 
saw Carol Lanspeak on the sidewalk, 
waving her arms and shouting. She was 
directing the setup of a clothing display 
in the main window, giving terse but loud 
instructions to an assistant inside the 
glass, while the young woman mouthed 
replies.

   Catching Qwilleran's reflection in the 
plate glass, Carol turned and explained, 
"The one inside the window can hear the 
one outside, but not vice versa." She 
waved to her helper and told her to take 
a break. "This is our last window before 
back-to-school, Qwill. How time flies! 
And oh! Weren't you shocked by the news 
from Sawdust City? Some of our employees 
live there, and they're Lumbertown 
depositors. What will happen? When this 
has occurred elsewhere in the country, 
it's been a real disaster."

   Qwilleran said, "If the guy is a 
swindler and a fugitive, can't his assets 
be liquidated to cover debts and 
embezzled funds? He has a big house in 
the Hummocks near you, and a model train 
layout that's worth a mint, and the Party 
Train. That alone must be valued in the 
millions."

   "But the justice system is so slow, 
Qwill! And the victims are families with 
children, and factory workers subject to 
layoffs, and retirees with nest eggs on 
deposit. What will they do when 
emergencies arise?"

   "Well, let me tell you something 
surprising," Qwilleran said. "This 
morning I was helping to man the phones 
at the paper, when our reporters were 
calling in man-on-the-street opinions, 
and the victims, as you call them, 
weren't blaming Trevelyan; they were 
blaming the government for deception and 
injustice! They called it a plot, a 
conspiracy, a dirty trick! They refused 
to believe that Floyd would take their 
money and skip. They said he'd been a 
high school football hero and a good 
carpenter; his picture hung in the lobby 
of the credit union; he paid daily 
interest; he was crazy about trains."

   Carol shook her head. "Everyone in 
Sawdust City must be nutty from exposure 
to industrial pollution."


   Before leaving for the rehearsal that 
evening, Qwilleran started to read the 
first few scenes of A Midsummer Night's 
Dream aloud. Both cats enjoyed the sound 
of his voice, whether he was reading 
great literature or the baseball scores. 
On this occasion Koko was particularly 
attentive and even got into the act a few 
times.

   The first scene opened with an 
indignant father hauling his disobedient 
daughter before the duke for reprimand. 
Full of vexation am I, with complaint 
against my daughter, Hermia.

   "Yow!" said Koko.

   "That's not in the script," Qwilleran 
objected.

   After the father had raved and ranted, 
the duke argued with gentle 
reasonableness. What say you, Hermia? Be 
advised, fair maid.

   "Yow!" Koko said again.

   The young woman was being forced by 
law to marry a man of her father's 
choosing, or enter a convent, or die. 
Therefore, Hermia, question your desires.

   "Yow!"

   Qwilleran closed the book. He said, 
"This is getting monotonous, if you don't 
mind my saying so." Later, as he walked 
through the Black Forest to the theatre, 
he construed Koko's responses as 
infatuation with a certain sound. To a 
cat, "Hermia" might have a secret 
meaning. Then again, Koko might be 
playing practical jokes; he had a sense 
of humor.

   The K Theatre, originally the 
Klingenschoen mansion, was a great three-
story mass of fieldstone, transformed 
into a two-hundred-seat amphitheatre. 
From the lofty foyer a pair of staircases 
curved up to the lobby, from which the 
seating sloped down to the stage. When 
Qwilleran arrived, the cast was doing a 
run-through without the book, while the 
director watched from the third row and 
scribbled notes. Other cast members were 
scattered throughout the auditorium, 
waiting for their scenes. Quietly he took 
a seat behind Fran Brodie.

   The "rude mechanicals" were onstage: 
tinker, tailor, joiner, bellowsmaker, 
carpenter, and the six-foot-eight weaver, 
who delivered the final line of the 
scene: Enough: Hold, or cut bowstrings.

   "Break! Take five!" Fran called out. 
Qwilleran tapped her on the shoulder. 
"That line about bowstrings - I've never 
quite understood it."

   "I take it to mean 'cooperate - or 
else,' but I don't know its origin. Ask 
Polly. She'll know."

   Actors wandered up the aisle to get a 
drink of water in the lobby or stopped to 
ask Fran a question. As soon as she and 
Qwilleran were alone, she said in a low 
voice, "They've picked up Floyd's car. It 
was in that meadow where car-poolers 
park. It had been there all week, and the 
sheriff was aware of it, but Floyd wasn't 
on the wanted list then."

   "Do you suppose someone tipped him off 
about the audit? Who could it be?"

   "It looks as if an accomplice drove in 
from Indian Village and picked him up - 
Nella, for example. They're both 
missing."

   "But how would she know about the 
audit?"

   "Interesting question."

   "If they're headed for Mexico," he 
said, "they've had a headstart of three 
days. She'd know a lot about Mexico, 
being from Texas."

   "Wherever they went, they'll be found 
easily enough." Fran looked at her watch. 
"Time for the next scene. Don't go. I 
have more to report. . . . And do you 
know what? I brought your paperweight and 
left it in my car."

   "Why don't you drive down to the barn 
when you're through here. I'll pour. You 
can bring the paperweight."

   "Elizabeth Hart will be with me. Do 
you mind? I'm her ride tonight."

   "That's fine. She's never seen the 
barn. . . . Is it okay to interview Derek 
now?"

   "Sure. He won't be called for fifteen 
minutes."

   Before interviewing the young actor, 
Qwilleran checked his bio in the most 
recent playbill:


DEREK CU1TLEBRINK. Veteran of five 
productions. Best-remembered roles: the 
porter in Macbeth and the villain in The 
Drunkard. Lifelong resident of Wildcat. 
Graduate of Pickax High School, where he 
played basketball. Currently employed as 
a waiter at the Old Stone Mill. Major 
interests: acting, camping, folk-singing, 
girls.


   The last of these was only too true. 
At performances in the K Theatre there 
was always claque of Derek's girlfriends 
and ex-girlfriend and would-be 
girlfriends, ready to applaud a soon as 
he walked on stage. Whatever the source 
of his magnetism, his turnover in female 
companions was of more interest than the 
Dow Jones averages in Pickax. Tonight 
Derek was sitting with his latest, 
Elizabeth Hart, in the back row, where 
they could whisper without disturbing the 
proceedings on stage.

   Qwilleran asked her if he might borrow 
Derek for a brief interview in the lobby.

   "May I listen in?" she asked.

   "Of course."

   The eccentric young woman he had met 
on Breakfast Island had improved her 
grooming, but her taste for exotic 
clothing had not changed. While other 
club members were in grungy rehearsal 
togs, Elizabeth wore an embroidered vest 
and skullcap, possibly from Ecuador, with 
a balloon-sleeve white silk blouse and 
harem pants. Their bagginess camouflaged 
her thinness. The interview was taped:


   QWILLERAN: You're playing the role of 
Nick Bottom, the weaver. How do you 
perceive Mr. Bottom?

   DEREK: You mean, what's he like? He's 
a funny guy, always using the wrong words 
and doing some dumb thing, but nothing 
gets him down. People like him.

   ELIZABETH: (interrupting) His 
malapropisms are quite endearing.

   DEREK: Yeah. Took the words right outa 
my mouth.

   QWILLERAN: How does Bottom fit into 
the plot?

   DEREK: Well, there's a wedding at the 
palace, and for entertainment they've got 
a bunch of ordinary guys to put on a 
play. Bottom wants to direct and play all 
the roles himself.

   ELIZABETH: His vanity would be 
insufferable, if it weren't so 
ingratiating.

   DEREK: Yeah. You can quote me. The 
players rehearse in the woods, and one of 
the little green men turns me into a 
donkey from the neck up. The joke of it 
is: the queen of the greenies falls in 
love with me.

   ELIZABETH: She's a bewitcher who is 
bewitched.

   DEREK: That's pretty good. Put it in.

   QWILLERAN: How do you feel about 
little green men in a Shakespeare play?

   DEREK: No problem. He called 'em 
fairies; we call 'em greenies. They're 
all aliens, right?

   QWILLERAN: What is your favorite line?
   DEREK: I like it when I roar like a 
lion. . . Arrrrgh! Arrrrgh! And at the 
end I have a death scene that's fun. Now 
die, die, die, die, die. That always gets 
a laugh.


   Qwilleran, having completed his 
mission, more or less, returned to the 
barn through the Black Forest, listening 
for Marconi. It was still daylight, 
however, and Marconi was a night owl.

   Yum Yum was waiting at the kitchen 
door. He picked her up and whispered 
affectionate words while she caressed his 
hand with her waving tail. Koko was not 
there. Koko was in the foyer, looking out 
the window.

   The formal entrance to the barn was a 
double door flanked by tall, narrow 
windows. These sidelights had sills about 
twenty inches from the floor, a 
convenient height for a cat who wanted to 
stand on his hind feet and peer through 
the glass. There was something out there 
that fascinated Koko. With his neck 
stretched and his ears pricked, he stared 
down the orchard trail. Surveyors had 
been there and lumberyard trucks and 
carpenters' pickups and a cement mixer, 
but that was daytime activity, and there 
was no action after four-thirty. Yet Koko 
watched and waited as if expecting 
something to happen. His prescience was 
sometimes unnerving. He could sense an 
approaching storm, and a telephone about 
to ring. He often knew what Qwilleran was 
going to do before Qwilleran knew.

   Koko also had a sense of right and 
wrong. The decoys on the fireplace cube, 
for example, were lined up facing east. 
One day Mrs. Fulgrove came to clean and 
left them facing west. Koko threw a fit!

   On this summer evening he watched and 
waited, while Qwilleran listened to the 
tape of Derek's interview; to make an 
eight-inch think-piece out of it would 
require all his fictive skills. Only once 
was Koko lured away from the window, and 
that was when Derek roared like a lion.

   A run-through without the book was 
always a long rehearsal, and it was dark 
when Qwilleran's guests arrived. As soon 
as the car headlights came bobbing along 
the wooded road, he floodlighted the 
exterior of the barn to play up its 
striking features: a fieldstone 
foundation ten feet high, three stories 
of weathered shingle siding, and a series 
of odd-shaped windows cut in the wall of 
the octagonal building. Visitors were 
usually awed.

   Qwilleran put on his yellow cap and 
went to meet the two women, and as he 
opened the passenger's door Elizabeth 
stepped out and looked around. "You have 
an owl," she said. "It sounds like a 
great horned owl. They hoot in clusters. 
We had one in our woods on the island, 
and we used to count the hoots. The 
pattern varies with the season and the 
owl's personal agenda."

   "Shall we go indoors? I'm thirsty," 
Fran said impatiently.

   The interior was aglow. Indirect 
lighting accented the balconies and the 
beams high overhead; downlights created 
mysterious puddles of light on the main 
floor; a spotlight focused on a huge 
tapestry hanging from a balcony railing. 
Appropriately, the design was an apple 
tree.

   As Fran gazed around in admiration, 
Elizabeth went looking for the cats.

   Fran said, "I've been here a hundred 
times, and I never cease to marvel at 
Dennis's genius. His death was a flagrant 
waste of talent. If he had lived, would 
he have stayed in the north?"

   "I doubt it," Qwilleran said. "His 
family was in St. Louis."

   "I can't find Koko and Yum Yum," 
Elizabeth complained.

   "They're around here somewhere, but we 
have an abundance of somewhere in this 
place. Shall we go into the lounge area 
and have a glass of wine or fruit juice?"

   Koko, having heard his name, suddenly 
appeared from nowhere, followed by Yum 
Yum, yawning and stretching her dainty 
hindquarters.

   "They remember me from the island!" 
Elizabeth said with delight, as she 
dropped to her knees and extended a 
finger for sniffing.

   Fran followed Qwilleran into the 
kitchen to watch him prepare wine 
spritzers.

   "What did you want to tell me?" he 
asked quietly.

   In a low voice she said, "The police 
have been questioning Floyd's associates, 
and they've discovered something that I 
consider bizarre. Have you heard of the 
Lockmaster Indemnity Corporation? They 
were supposed to be private insurers of 
depositors' funds in the Lumbertown 
Credit Union, but they're broke! They 
can't cover the losses!"

   "How can that be? Sounds to me as if 
they're part of the scam."

   "I don't know, but they'd transferred 
their assets to their wives' names. They 
call it estate planning. Dad calls it 
dirty pool."

   "I'd say your dad is right. If they 
get away with it," Qwilleran said, 
"there's something radically wrong in 
this state!"

   As he carried the tray into the lounge 
area two spritzers and one club soda - 
Elizabeth rose gracefully from the floor. 
"We've been having a significant 
dialogue," she said. "They're glad to see 
me."

   All five of them sat around the large 
square coffee table, where Qwilleran had 
placed three small bowls of Kabibbles. 
There was also a copy of that day's Moose 
County Something. Fran commented on the 
in-depth coverage of the scandal, and 
Qwilleran gloated over the journalistic 
feat, while Elizabeth listened politely. 
She was known to have a high I.Q. and an 
interest in esoteric subjects, as well as 
a sizable trust fund, but she had no idea 
what was happening in the world. She 
avoided reading newspapers, finding them 
too depressing.

   After a few minutes the host steered 
the conversation to her realm of 
interest. He said, "I hear you're working 
on costumes for the play. What do you 
have in mind for the fairies?"

   "We call them greenies," she replied, 
"and the assumption is that they come 
from outer space. We know, of course, 
that extraterrestrials have been visiting 
our planet for thousands of years."

   "I see," he said. "For our production 
they'll wear green leotards and tights, 
green wigs, and green makeup. We have to 
get parental approval for the young 
people to wear green makeup. The effect 
will be surreal, and Fran is coaching 
them in body movements that will make 
them appear amiable and slightly comic."

   "How about the king and queen of the. 
. . greenies? Oberon and Titania usually 
wear something regal."

   "They'll have glitter: green foil 
jumpsuits with swirling capes of some 
gossamer material - and fantastic 
headdresses. I really love this play," 
she said with eyes dancing.

   Qwilleran remembered how dull her eyes 
had been when he first met her on the 
island.

   Moose County - or Derek - had a 
salutary effect. "Do you have a favorite 
character? If you were to play a role, 
what would you choose?"

   He expected her to choose Titania in 
green foil. Her reply was prompt. 
"Hermia."

   "Yow!" said Koko, whose ears were 
receiving the conversation even while his 
nose was tracking the Kabibbles.

   "I can relate to her parent problem," 
Elizabeth explained, "although in my case 
it was my mother who insisted on ordering 
my life."

   Fran said, "We'd have the greenies 
arriving in a spacecraft, if it were 
feasible, but we don't have the stage 
machinery. Larry thinks they should 
appear in puffs of stage smoke. Pickax 
audiences love stage smoke. But I'd like 
to see something more high-tech. 
Elizabeth has an idea, but I can't figure 
out the logistics. Tell Qwill about your 
pyramids, Elizabeth."

   She turned to Qwilleran. "Do you know 
about pyramid power?"

   "I've read about it - quite a long 
time ago."

   "It's nothing new. It dates back 
thousands of years, and my father really 
believed in it. He had little pyramids 
built for my brothers and me, and we were 
supposed to sit in them to make wonderful 
things happen. I thought it was magic, 
but my mother said it was subversive. She 
had them destroyed after Father died." 
Her voice drifted off in a mist of 
nostalgia and regret.

   Fran said, "Wally Toddwhistle can 
build us a portable see-through pyramid 
out of poles. For a scene change we'd 
black out the house briefly, and when the 
stage lights came on, there'd be a 
pyramid in the forest. Wouldn't it be 
wonderful if the poles could be neon 
tubes?"

   Qwilleran questioned whether the 
audience would understand the magical 
implications of such a pyramid, and Fran 
said it would be explained in the 
playbill.

   "How many playgoers read the program 
notes?" he asked. "Most of them are more 
interested in the ads for Otto's Tasty 
Eats and Gippel's Garage. That's been my 
observation based on preshow chitchat. 
How does Larry feel about it?"

   "He thinks it'll clutter the stage 
without contributing dramatically, but we 
haven't given up yet, have we, 
Elizabeth?"

   Qwilleran offered to refresh their 
drinks, but Fran said it was time to 
leave. On the way out, she handed him a 
black felt-tip pen. "Where did you find 
this?" he asked.

   "On the floor near the coffee table." 
"Yum Yum's at it again! She's an 
incorrigible cat burglar." He returned 
the pen to a pewter mug on the telephone 
table and escorted the women to their 
car, first putting on his yellow-cap. 
When they had driven away, he walked 
around the barn a few times, reluctant to 
go indoors on this perfect midsummer 
night. With a little suspension of 
disbelief one could imagine Puck and the 
other greenies materializing from the 
woods in a puff of smoke. . . A high-
pitched yowl from the kitchen window 
reminded him that he was neglecting his 
duty.

   "Treat!" he announced as he opened the 
kitchen door.

   Yum Yum responded immediately, but. . 
. where was Koko? When he failed to 
report for food, there was cause for 
alarm. Qwilleran went in search and found 
him on the large square coffee table - 
not eating the Kabibbles, not playing 
with the wooden train whistle, not 
sniffing the book on the Panama Canal. He 
was sitting on the Moose County Something 
with its front-page treatment of the 
Mudville scandal and two-column photo of 
the president. It was the same as the 
portrait hanging in the lobby of the 
Lumbertown Credit Union.

   Koko's attitude indicated something 
was wrong - and not just the 
embezzlement. Qwilleran felt a tingling 
sensation on his upper lip and tamped his 
moustache with a heavy hand. Koko was 
trying to communicate. Perhaps the tipoff 
had been a hoax. Perhaps the auditors 
were trying to cover up their own 
mistake. Perhaps Trevelyan was being, so 
to speak, railroaded.

   As if reading the man's mind, Koko 
slowly rose on four long legs, his body 
arched, his tail bushed. With whiskers 
swept back and eyes slanted, he circled 
the newspaper in a stiff-legged dance 
that sent shivers up and down Qwilleran's 
spine. It was Koko's death dance.

-6-
   Following Koko's macabre dance on the 
coffee table, Qwilleran brooded about its 
significance. He had seen that 
performance before, and it meant only one 
thing: death. And it pointed to Floyd 
Trevelyan. To Qwilleran's mind it pointed 
to suicide. The arrogant, self-centered, 
self-made man would self-destruct rather 
than suffer the humility of capture, 
trial, and imprisonment. He was too rich, 
too cocky, too vain, too autocratic to 
return to his hometown in handcuffs.

   Qwilleran made no mention of his 
theory to Polly when they had dinner 
Saturday night. His fanciful suspicions 
were always politely dismissed by the 
head librarian, whose mind was as fact-
intensive as the World Almanac. He had 
never told her about Koko's supra-normal 
intuition either, nor his unique ways of 
communicating. By comparison her beloved 
Bootsie was a Neanderthal cat!

   They had dinner at Tipsy's restaurant 
in North Kennebeck without referring to 
the scandal that had electrified Moose 
County. Polly had other concerns: Would 
her house be ready in time for 
Thanksgiving? Would the fumes of paint 
and vinyl and treated wood - the "new 
house smell" - be injurious to Bootsie's 
sensitive system? Qwilleran's attempts to 
change the subject were only temporary 
distractions from the major issues: 
insulation and roofing.

   "Have you met Eddie Trevelyan?" she 
asked.

   "Not formally," he replied. "When I 
walk to my mailbox, he looks up and 
waves, and I say 'Lookin' good' or 
something original like that. He has a 
helper called Benno - short, stocky 
fellow with a ponytail-and a beautiful 
chow dog who comes to work with him 
everyday and sits in the bed of Eddie's 
pickup or in the shade of a tree. I tell 
him he's a good dog, and he pants for joy 
with his tongue hanging out. His name is 
Zak, I found out."

   There were other details that he 
thought it wise to omit; Polly would only 
worry. There were the cigarette butts 
allover the property. There was the 
"essence of barroom" that Eddie exuded 
much of the time.

   “At first the men - they're both young 
- seemed to be enjoying their work, 
bantering back and forth," Qwilleran 
reported. "But now there's an air of 
tension that's understandable. To see 
one's parent, a leading citizen, suddenly 
branded as a thief must be hard to take. 
Eddie keeps nagging Benno to 'get the 
lead out' and pound more nails. It occurs 
to me that he's rushing the job in order 
to collect his second payment. When is it 
due?"

   "When the house is weathered-in. Oh, 
dear! I hope this doesn't mean he'll be 
cutting corners."

   "If his operating capital is tied up 
in the credit union, he may be strapped 
for cash to meet his payroll and pay 
bills. Has he dropped any hints?"

   "No, he hasn't, and I talk to him on 
the phone every morning, early, before he 
gets away."

   The next day, after Sunday brunch at 
Polly's apartment, they drove to the 
building site. Polly was appalled by the 
cigarette butts; she would tell Mr. 
Trevelyan to get a coffee can and pick 
them up. The future rooms were a maze of 
two-by-fours; she thought the rooms 
looked too small. Rain was predicted, and 
she worried that the roof boards would 
not be installed in time.

   Polly's constant worrying about the 
house caused Qwilleran to worry about 
her. "Why don't we take a pleasant 
break," he suggested, "and drive to the 
Flats to see the wildfowl. They might be 
nidulating, or whatever they do in July." 
This was a noble concession on his part; 
she was an avid bird watcher, and he was 
not. "We might see a puffin bird," he 
added facetiously.

   "Not likely in Moose County," she said 
with a bemused smile, "but I really 
should go home and study the blueprints, 
in order to figure out furniture 
arrangement."

   After dropping her off, Qwilleran went 
home to the barn, grateful for the 
company of cats who never worried. Both 
were pursuing their hobbies. Yum Yum was 
batting a bottle cap around the floor, 
losing it, finding it, losing it again-
until she flopped down on her side in 
utter exhaustion. Koko was standing on 
his hind legs in the foyer, gazing down 
the orchard trail. Did he know that a 
chow came to work with the builder every 
day? Had Zak ventured up the trail to the 
barn? In any case, it seemed abnormal for 
a four-legged animal to spend so much 
time on two legs.

   "Come on, old boy! Let's go 
exploring," he suggested. "Leash! Leash!"

   Yum Yum, recognizing the word, 
scampered up the ramp to hide. Koko 
trotted to the broom closet, where the 
harnesses were stored, and purred while 
the leather straps were being buckled. 
Then, dragging his leash, he walked 
purposefully to the front door. When it 
was opened, however, he stood on the 
threshold in a freeze of indecision. He 
savored the seventy-eight-degree 
temperature and the three-mile-an-hour 
breeze; he looked to right and left; he 
noted a bird in the sky and a squirrel in 
a tree.

   "Okay, let's go. We don't have two 
days for this excursion," Qwilleran said, 
picking up the leash and shaking it like 
reins. "Forward march!"

   Koko, an indoor cat in temperament and 
lifestyle, stepped cautiously to the 
small entrance deck and sniffed the 
boards, which were laid diagonally. He 
sniffed the spaces between the boards. He 
discovered an interesting knot in the 
wood and a row of nailheads. In 
exasperation Qwilleran grabbed him and 
swung him to his shoulder. Koko was quite 
amenable. He liked riding on a shoulder. 
He liked the elevation.

   Everyone had advised Qwilleran to "do 
something" about the orchard, a tangle of 
weeds and vines choking neglected apple 
trees. Many had lost their limbs for 
firewood; others had fallen victim to 
storms.

   "Why don't you clean out that 
eyesore?" Riker had said. "Plant 
vegetables," Polly suggested. "Have a 
swimming pool," Fran Brodie urged.

   At the building site, Qwilleran 
allowed the excited cat to jump down but 
held a firm hand on the leash. It was not 
the skeleton of the house that interested 
Koko, nor the tire tracks where the 
builders parked their pickups, nor the 
spot under a tree where Zak liked to nap 
in the shade. Koko wanted only to roll on 
the floor of the future garage. He rolled 
ecstatically. Both cats had discovered 
this unexplainable thrill at their 
Mooseville cabin, where the screened 
porch was on a concrete slab. They rolled 
on their backs and squirmed voluptuously. 
Now Koko was inventing new contortions 
and enjoying it immensely.

   "Let's not be excessive," Qwilleran 
said to him, jerking the leash. "If 
that's all you want to do, let's go 
home."

   On the way back to the barn he had an 
idea: He would add a screened porch on a 
concrete slab for the Siamese, where they 
could have a sense of outdoor living and 
roll to their hearts' content. Eddie 
could build it after he finished Polly's 
house. It would not be attached to the 
barn; that would only destroy the 
symmetry of the octagonal structure. It 
would be a separate summer house - a 
pergola - like the one he had visited on 
Breakfast Island, and like the one he had 
built in the Potato Mountains.

   Yum Yum met them at the door and 
sniffed Koko with disapproval; he had 
been out having fun, and she had been 
left at home.

   "That's what happens," Qwilleran 
advised her, "when you elect to be 
asocial." At any rate, he hoped the jaunt 
had satisfied Koko's curiosity and there 
would be no more absurd trail gazing. It 
was a futile dream. Soon the cat was back 
in the foyer, standing on two legs at the 
window, watching and waiting.

   Ordinarily Qwilleran would have 
shrugged off Koko's aberration, but he 
was feeling edgy. There was the itch of 
suspicion without the opportunity to 
scratch. There was the uneasy feeling 
that Koko knew more than he did. And 
there was frustration caused by too much 
of Polly's house and not enough of Polly.

   He was still feeling cranky the next 
day when he walked downtown to hand in 
his thousand words on the aurora 
borealis. The colorful phenomenon in the 
midnight sky was a tourist at- traction, 
although locals took it for granted, and 
some thought "Northern Lights" was simply 
the name of a hotel in Mooseville.

   Looking more than usually morose, 
Qwilleran walked through the city room 
where staffers sat in front of video 
display terminals and stared blankly at 
the screens. In the managing editor's 
office, the slightly built Junior 
Goodwinter was further dwarfed by the 
electronic equipment surrounding him.

   When Qwilleran threw his copy on 
Junior's desk, the young editor glanced 
at the triple-spaced typewritten sheets 
and said, "When are you getting yourself 
a word processor, Qwill?"

   "I like my electric typewriter" was 
the belligerent reply, "and it likes me! 
Are you implying that a word processor 
would make me a better writer? And if so, 
how good do you want me to be?"

   "Don't hit me!" said the younger man 
with an exaggerated cringe. "Forget I 
said it. Have a cup of coffee. Sit down. 
Take a load off your feet. Will you be at 
the softball game tonight?"

   "I haven't decided" was the curt 
answer. Polly usually accompanied him to 
the annual event, but he doubted she 
could tear herself away from her 
blueprints.

   Junior threw him a copy of Monday's 
paper. "Read the third bite," he said.

   A new feature on the front page was a 
column of brief news items of twenty-five 
words or less, each preceded by a single 
word in caps: ARRESTED, or HONORED, or 
LEAVING, or PROMOTED. Other newspapers 
labeled such a column "Briefs" or 
"Shorts." Hixie Rice, who had been 
responsible for naming the paper the 
Something, wanted to call the new front-
page column "Undies." The editorial 
committee decided, however, on "Bites."

   Qwilleran read the third bite:


   SHOT: Police are investigating the 
shooting of a watchdog in West Middle 
Hummock Sunday night. The animal was 
penned in a dog-run on Floyd Trevelyan's 
estate.


   "What do you deduce from this?" he 
asked Junior.

   That victims of the embezzlement are 
finally transferring their hostility from 
the government to the embezzler. Roger's 
been hanging out in Mudville coffee 
shops, and he says the emotions range 
from gloomy self-pity to vengeful rage. 
Someone was trying to get back at Floyd 
by killing his dog."

   "Stupid!" Qwilleran murmured.

   “And now read the first letter on the 
ed page,


To the Editor:

   I am writing in behalf of the Sawdust 
City High School Summer Camp Fund, which 
enables seniors to spend a week in the 
woods, living with nature, studying 
ecology, and learning to share. For 
twenty-four years this has been a 
tradition at oar school.

   This year forty-seven students have 
spent their junior year selling cookies, 
washing cars, chopping wood, and cleaning 
garages to earn money for the camping 
experience. They deposited their earnings 
regularly in the Lumbertown Credit Union 
and watched them earn interest - a 
worthwhile lesson in thrift and financial 
management. Next week they were to 
shoulder their backpacks, hike into the 
woods, and pitch their tents.

   How can we explain to them that there 
will be no campout for the new senior 
class? How can we explain that $2,234.43 
of their own money is being withheld by 
order of the government?

Elda Mayfus-Jones
Faculty Sponsor
SCHSSCF


   Qwilleran finished reading and said 
irritably, "Why doesn't Ms. Mayfus-Jones 
just tell them their uncle Floyd is a 
crook, and he spent their $2,234.43 on 
toy trains to run around his office 
lobby?"

   "You're in a grouchy mood today," 
Junior said. "I thought the K Foundation 
could afford to stake these kids to the 
money until their deposits are released."

   "The Foundation could afford to send 
all forty-seven brats on a round-the-
world cruise!" Qwilleran snapped. "All 
they have to do is apply. It's in the 
telephone book under K.

   That's between J and L." He started to 
leave without finishing his coffee.

   "Hey!" Junior called after him with a 
grin. "If the kids get their money, you 
can go camping with them for a week and 
write a 'Qwill Pen' series!"

   Qwilleran stomped from the room. As he 
passed the publisher's office, Riker 
beckoned to him. "I've just been talking 
to Brodie. How come they haven't caught 
that guy? They nabbed the Florida crooks 
right away, and they were pros! Floyd is 
only a small-town conniver. Why haven't 
they found him?"

   "They'll never find him."

   "What makes you think so? Do you know 
something we don't know?"

   Qwilleran shrugged. "Just a hunch." If 
he were to mention Koko's input, it would 
only lead to an argument. Riker thought 
he took the cat's abstract messages too 
seriously. "You seem to be giving the 
scandal a lot of space, Arch."

   "We're trying to keep the public 
outrage alive, spur the manhunt, and goad 
the banking commission into action. Our 
stories are being picked up by major 
newspapers around the state. We've 
assigned Roger to the Mudville beat 
exclusively until something breaks, one 
way or the other. . . So! . . . Where are 
you going from here, Qwill?"

   "Home."

   "How's Polly's house progressing?"

   "Slowly, and that's what concerns me, 
Arch. She worries about it too much. She 
worries unnecessarily. I'm afraid she's 
headed for a nervous collapse."

   His friend nodded sympathetically.

   "Polly's so desk-bound that she's not 
getting any exercise - not even fresh 
air. She didn't even want to go bird 
watching yesterday."

   "Are you bringing her to the game 
tonight?" Riker asked.

   "Are you kidding? That's the last 
thing in the world she'd want to do!"

   Chatting with his old friend bolstered 
Qwilleran's flagging spirits somewhat, 
and walking a few miles helped dispel his 
gloom. He took the long way home and, in 
doing so, passed the photo studio of John 
Bushland. His van was in the parking lot, 
meaning that the photographer was 
shooting a subject in the studio or 
developing film in the darkroom.

   Bushy, as the nearly bald young man 
liked to be called, was a recent 
transplant from Lockmaster, and it was 
evident that he was doing well. The van 
was new. The lobby, it was obvious, had 
been professionally designed. On the 
walls were framed photographs from 
Bushy's prize-winning Scottish series. 
There was even a receptionist in the 
lobby, and she was not bad-looking. True, 
she seemed to be doing invoices and 
correspondence as well as phones, but she 
was a pleasant addition to the lobby.

   Qwilleran said to Bushy, "Your 
business seems to be thriving."

   "Yeah, they keep me busy all right: 
studio portraits Wednesdays and Saturdays 
by appointment only; commercial work at 
my own pace; free-lance assignments for 
the newspaper."

   "Your photo of Trevelyan on the front 
page - wasn't it the same one that hangs 
in the Lumbertown lobby? You made him 
look good!"

" Are you kidding? That's the last thing 
in the world she'd want to do!" 
Chatting with his old friend bolstered 
Qwilleran's flagging spirits somewhat, 
and walking a few miles helped dispel his 
gloom. He took the long way home and, in 
doing so, passed the photo studio of john 
Bushland. His van was in the parking lot, 
meaning that the photographer was 
shooting a subject in the stu- dio or 
developing film in the darkroom. 
Bushy, as the nearly bald young man liked 
to be called, was a recent transplant 
from Lock- master, and it was evident 
that he was doing well. The van was new. 
The lobby, it was obvi- ous, had been 
professionally designed. On the walls 
were framed -photographs from Bushy's 
prize-winning Scottish series. There was 
even a receptionist in the lobby, and she 
was not bad- looking. True, she seemed to 
be doing invoices 
. and correspondence as well as phones, 
but she 
was a pleasant addition to the lobby. 
Qwilleran said to Bushy, "Your business 
seems to be thriving." 
"Yeah, they keep me busy all right: 
studio portraits Wednesdays and Saturdays 
by appoint- ment only; commercial work at 
my own pace; free-lance assignments for 
the newspaper." 
"Your photo of Trevelyan on the front 
page-wasn't it the same one that hangs in 
the Lumbertown lobby? You made him look 
good!"

   "I'll say I did! If the police use it 
for their Wanted poster, they'll never 
catch the guy! You see, I was shooting 
his train layout for a hobby magazine, 
and the editor wanted a head-shot of 
Floyd. I tried a candid, but it made him 
look like the wild man in a carnival. So 
I got him to put on a shirt and tie and 
do a formal sitting in the studio. His 
secretary came along. She's a knockout, 
but she drove me crazy, telling Floyd to 
turn his head, or raise his chin, or not 
look at the camera. Finally I asked her 
to wait in the lobby while I took the 
picture. That didn't make points with her 
boss, but I got a good portrait."

   "Interesting sidelight," Qwilleran 
said. . . . . "Are you going to the game 
tonight?"

   "Should I?" asked the newcomer to 
Pickax.

   "It's the sporting highlight of the 
year!" Qwilleran said seriously, as if it 
were true. "Take your receptionist."


   Once a year there was a softball game 
between the Typos and the Tubes - two 
scrub teams composed of newspaper 
staffers and hospital personnel. Compared 
to the regular league games, their 
efforts were ludicrous, and the only 
spectators were family members and fellow 
employees, but everyone had a good time. 
On this occasion, Qwilleran was in no 
mood to attend the game alone, but he 
knew Roger MacGillivray would be on the 
sidelines, hurling scurrilous insults at 
the Tubes. Roger was the on-the-spot 
reporter in Mudville.

   The softball field had been merely a 
bare spot in the landscape west of Pickax 
until the K Foundation added two more 
diamonds, a soccer field, bleacher seats, 
and a pavilion. Now it was named 
Goodwinter Field, after the founders of 
the city. A Goodwinter was playing 
shortstop this year - Junior, the 
managing editor. Others were recruited 
from the city room, sports department, 
and photo lab. Their bright red T-shirts 
and baseball caps made a lively scene 
when they were in the field. The hospital 
team, composed mostly of technicians, 
wore T-shirts in operating-room green and 
happened to win every year.

   Most of the spectators sat in the 
second and third rows of the bleachers. 
Junior's wife was there with a baby in a 
car tote and a small boy who couldn't sit 
still. Bushy had brought his 
receptionist, who was more attractive 
than Qwilleran had previously thought. 
Arch and Mildred Riker were there, of 
course, wearing red baseball caps with 
the MCS logo.

   "Where's Polly?" Mildred asked. Hixie 
Rice and Dwight Somers were a chummy duo 
seated apart from the others, a 
development that was duly noted by the 
matchmakers at the game. She waved to 
Qwilleran and called out, "Where's 
Polly?"

   When he saw Roger arriving and heading 
for the pavilion, he followed him. "Nice 
piece in the paper today, Roger."

   "Thanks. I finally learned how to make 
no-news sound like news."

   "The shooting of the dog was a bizarre 
twist."

   "Right! The natives are restless. 
Someone threw a brick through the 
Lumbertown office window this afternoon, 
and when they talk about F. T., the 
initials stand for something else."

   The cry of "Batter up" sent the two 
men scurrying to the bleachers with their 
soft drinks. At Qwilleran's suggestion 
they climbed to the top row. "Better 
view," he explained. More privacy, he 
thought.

   The sun was still high in the sky, 
where it belonged on a summer evening in 
the north country. The play on the field 
was leisurely. The sports fans were 
appropriately rude.

   During a lull in the game, Qwilleran 
asked, "How did you find out about the 
dog?"

   "The family reported it to the police, 
and I went out to their house. They're 
not supposed to talk to the media, and 
the nurse wouldn't let me in, but then 
the daughter saw me and said it was all 
right. She was in my history class when I 
was teaching - an A-plus student. When 
I'd assign a chapter, she'd augment it 
with research in the library. . . . Sock 
it to 'im, Dave! Break his bat! . . . She 
should've gone on to college."

   "Why didn't she?"

   "They wanted her at home to take care 
of her invalid mother. I think she's a 
lonely and frustrated girl. I could tell 
she wanted to talk to me, lawyer or no 
lawyer. We went out on the patio and 
reminisced about high school - had a few 
laughs."

   "Could you tell how she was reacting 
to the publicity and the pressure?"

   "She was all broken up about the dog. 
He was a chow. His name was Zak, spelled 
Z-a-k. Dead on second! Good mitt, Juny! . 
. . Finally she told me, off the record, 
that the dog really belonged to her 
brother, but the lawyer wanted the public 
to think he was Floyd's."

   "So all the dog lovers would feel 
sorry for his client," Qwilleran 
suggested.

   "Right! Her brother lives in an 
apartment where they don't allow pets, so 
he kenneled Zak at his parents' house, 
nights. Served a double purpose. 
Everybody in the country has a watchdog. 
. . . Make it three, Dave. You're hot!"

   Dave made it three, the green shirts 
trotted onto the field, and the red 
shirts took their turn at bat.

   "Was Floyd's son in any of your 
classes?" Qwilleran asked.

   "All I can say is: He occupied a seat. 
A student he was not! He and his buddy 
from Chipmunk were always in trouble."

   "What kind of trouble?"

   "Fighting. . . carrying knives. . . 
underage drinking. . ."

   " Any drugs?"

   "Alcohol was the chief problem then. 
That was a few years ago, you know. Eddie 
and the other kid were expelled. . . . 
Okay, Typos! Murder those bedpan 
pushers!"

   From the third row Riker bellowed, 
"Send those bloodsuckers to the morgue!"

   Nevertheless, at the end of the sixth, 
the score stood 12 to 5 in the Tubes' 
favor. Qwilleran watched with mild 
enthusiasm; he preferred hardball to 
softball. He liked the overhand or 
sidearm pitch, the crack of a real 
baseball, the long run to first, and nine 
innings. At the next lull he asked Roger, 
"Does Floyd's daughter think the shooting 
was connected with the charge against her 
father?"

   "She didn't say, and I didn't ask. 
Sensitive subject."

   "What time did the shooting take 
place?"

   "About two in the morning. Her mother 
was awake and heard the shot. She rang 
for her daughter."

   "Did anyone hear the dog bark at the 
prowler?"

   "I guess not."

   The game ended at 13 to 8, and Roger 
stood up, yelling. "Good try, guys! Next 
year we'll anesthetize those tube 
jockeys!"

   When Qwilleran returned to the barn 
after the game, Yum Yum was curled up 
like a shrimp in his favorite lounge 
chair, asleep. Koko was in the foyer, 
looking out the window.

   "If it's Zak you're waiting for, give 
up!" Qwilleran told him. "He won't be 
coming around anymore. . . . Let's have a 
read. Book!

   Book!"

   After one last intense look down the 
trail, Koko tore himself away from the 
window and did some educated sniffing on 
the bookshelves. Finally he nosed The 
Panama Canal: An Engineering Treatise.

   "Thank you for reminding me," said 
Qwilleran, who had forgotten to open the 
book since bringing it home.

   It contained many statistics and 
black-and-white photos of World War I 

vintage, and although Qwilleran found it 
quite absorbing, Yum Yum quickly fell 
asleep, and Koko kept yawning 
conspicuously.

   "To be continued," Qwilleran said as 
he replaced the book on the history 
shelf.

-7-
   After the ballgame and the Panama 
Canal session, Qwilleran phoned Polly at 
her apartment. "Did you read the front 
page today?" he asked. "Did you see the 
item about the Trevelyan dog?"

   "Wasn't that a senseless, uncivilized 
thing to do?" she replied vehemently. 
"What did they hope to accomplish? It 
won't bring the fugitive back! It won't 
compensate them for their financial 
losses!"

   "And it wasn't even Floyd's dog," 
Qwilleran told her. "It belonged to his 
son, your builder."

   "That's even worse!"

   "He's the chow who came to work with 
the crew every day - a beautiful animal, 
friendly and well-behaved."

   "Are there any suspects, have you 
heard?"

   "Not as yet, I guess. Police are 
investigating."

   "Oh, dear," Polly sighed. "One evil 
only leads to another."

   Qwilleran changed the tone of his 
voice from objective to warmly personal. 
"And how is everything with you and 
Bootsie?"

   "We're well, thank you. And what did 
you do today, dear?"

   "Well, this evening I watched the 
Tubes trounce the Typos in the annual 
ballgame. I knew you'd be too busy to go, 
but everyone wanted to know where you 
were." This was stretching the truth; 
there had been only two inquiries, 
although everyone was probably wondering 
why the richest bachelor in the northeast 
central United States was alone. Hope 
sprang eternal in the breasts of several 
hundred single and soon-to-be-single 
women in Moose County.

   "I'm sorry, dear," Polly said. "I know 
I haven't been good company recently. 
I've had so much on my mind."

   "That's all right," he said and then 
added naughtily, "Celia Robinson arrives 
tomorrow, and I feel obliged to spend 
some time with her. She doesn't know 
anyone up here."

   There was an eloquent pause before 
Polly said coolly, "That's very 
hospitable of you."

   "You'll meet her sooner or later, 
although I think she's not your type. She 
splits infinitives."

   "I'll look forward to meeting her." 
Polly's voice dripped icicles.

   "Well, I'll let you get back to your 
blueprints."

  "Thank you for calling. . . dear."

   "I'll keep in touch. Don't let the 
house get you down, Polly."

   Qwilleran hung up with a pang of 
misgiving. He had deliberately irked 
Polly by mentioning Celia, and he 
recognized it as an act of unkindness to 
vent his own frustration. It was like 
shooting the embezzler's dog, he 
realized.

   Tomorrow, he told himself, he might 
call and apologize; then again, he might 
not.

   The next day was sunny with little 
breeze and temperatures higher than 
usual. An Anvil Chorus of ringing hammers 
at the end of the trail indicated that 
the carpenters were working feverishly. 
After coffee and a roll, Qwilleran walked 
down to the building site. There were now 
three men on the job, all wearing sweat- 
bands and no shirts. Their perspiring' 
backs glistened in the sun.

   Qwilleran called to them, "Could you 
guys use some cold drinks? I live at the 
end of the trail. Be glad to bring a 
cooler down here."

   "Got any beer?" asked the helper with 
a ponytail.

   "No beer!" Eddie ordered. "No drink 
in' on the job when you work for me. . . 
Benno!" The way he spoke the man's name 
was a reprimand in itself.

   Qwilleran went home and loaded a 
cooler with soft drinks, which he 
delivered by car. The trio of workers 
removed their nail aprons and dropped 
down under a tree - Zak's tree - and 
popped the cans gratefully.

   After a couple of swallows, Eddie set 
down his drink and started sharpening a 
pencil with a pocketknife.

   Qwilleran said, "I notice you sharpen 
that pencil a lot."

   "Gotta have a sharp pencil when you 
measure a board," the carpenter said, "or 
you can be way off."

   "Is that so? It never occurred to me. 
. . . Where's your dog? Is it too hot for 
him today?"

   The two helpers looked at their boss 
questioningly, and Eddie said with a glum 
scowl, "He won't be comin' with me no 
more. Some dirty skunk shot him, night 
before last."

   "You don't mean it!" Qwilleran said in 
feigned surprise. "Sorry to hear it. Was 
it a hunter, mistaking him for a wild 
animal?"

   Furiously Eddie said, "Wasn't no 
accident! I could kill the guy what done 
it!"

   Qwilleran commiserated with genuine 
feeling and then said he'd leave the 
cooler and pick it up later.

   Eddie followed him to the car. "D'you 
live in the barn up there? Somebody in my 
family built it, way back. This was his 
orchard. I see you fixed up the barn 
pretty good. I poked around one day when 
there wasn't nobody home, 'cept a cat 
lookin' at me out the window. At first I 
I thought it was a weasel."

   "Would you like to see the inside of 
the barn when you've finished work 
today?" This was a rare invitation. 
Qwilleran discouraged ordinary 
sightseers.

   "Would I! You bet!" the young man 
exclaimed. "We quit at four-thirty. I'll 
drive up and bring your cooler back."

   "Good! We'll have a drink." Qwilleran 
knew how to play the genial host. Before 
driving back up the trail, he picked up 
his mail and noticed with foreboding a 
bulky envelope from the accounting firm. 
It suggested tax complications with pages 
of obscure wordage in fine print. When he 
opened it, however, out fell a large 
swatch of plaid cloth in bright red - the 
Mackintosh tartan. He felt the quality. 
It was a fine wool, and the red was 
brilliant. An accompanying note from 
Gordie Shaw stated that custom-made kilts 
could be ordered from Scottie's Men's 
Store. There was also an application for 
membership in the Clan Mackintosh of 
North America. It was simple enough; the 
dues were low; his mother's clan 
affiliation qualified him for membership. 
It was something he would have to think 
about seriously - the membership, not the 
kilt. He left the envelope on the 
telephone desk where it would catch his 
eye and jog his decision.

   Qwilleran planned to stay home all 
day, waiting for an important phone call. 
Celia Robinson was driving up from 
Illinois and was instructed to telephone 
upon reaching Lockmaster.

   Throughout the day there were frenzied 
sounds of building at the end of the 
trail: the clunk of two-by-fours, the 
buzz of a tablesaw, the syncopated rhythm 
of hammers. Qwilleran admired a 
carpenter's skill in sinking a nail with 
three powerful blows. His own attempts 
started with a series of uncertain taps, 
a smashed thumb, and a crooked nail, 
which he tried to flatten by beating it 
into the wood sideways.

   At about two o'clock the phone rang, 
and Koko's uncanny sense knew it was 
important; he raced to the telephone and 
jumped on and off the desk. Qwilleran 
followed, saying, "I'll take it, if you 
don't mind."

   A cheery voice said, "I'm in 
Lockmaster, Chief, and I'm reporting like 
you said. Permission requested to 
proceed." This little charade was 
followed by a trill of laughter.

   "Good! You're thirty miles from 
Pickax, which is straight north," he said 
crisply. "When you reach the city limits, 
it's three more blocks to a traffic 
circle with a little park in the center. 
Look for the K Theatre on your right. 
It's a big fieldstone building. Turn into 
the driveway. I'll be watching for you. 
Red car, did you say?"

   "Very red, Chief," she said with a 
hearty laugh.

   Qwilleran immediately jogged through 
the woods to the carriage house to check 
its readiness. The windows were clean, 
the phone was connected, and the rooms 
had been brightened with framed flower 
prints, potted plants, and colorful 
pillows. He added a copy of the Moose 
County Something to the coffee table. The 
kitchen was miraculously complete, even 
to red-and-white checked dishtowels. In 
the bedroom there was a floral bedspread; 
in the guestroom, a Navajo design. He 
thought, Nice going, Fran!

   Qwilleran went downstairs, just in 
time to see a red car pulling into the 
theatre parking lot. The driver rolled 
down her window and gave him a wide, 
toothy smile. "We made it!"

   "Welcome to Pickax," he said, reaching 
in to shake her hand.

   She was a youthful-looking, gray-
haired woman whose only wrinkles were 
laugh lines around the eyes and smile 
creases in the cheeks.

   "You look just like your picture in 
the paper, Chief!"

   He grunted acknowledgment. "How was 
the trip?"

   "We took it easy, so as not to put a 
strain on Wrigley. Most of the way he was 
pretty good." In the backseat a black-
and-white cat peered mutely through the 
barred door of a plastic carrier. "One 
motel in Wisconsin didn't take pets, but 
I told them he was related to the White 
House cat, so they let him stay."

   "Quick thinking, Celia."

   "That's something I learned from you, 
Chief - how to make up a neat little 
story. . . . Where shall I park?"

   "At the doorway to the carriage house 
- over there. I'll carry your luggage 
upstairs, but first we'll show the 
apartment to Wrigley, to see if it meets 
with his approval."

   Celia laughed merrily at this mild 
quip. "I'll carry his sandbox and water 
dish."

   As they climbed the stairs, Qwilleran 
apologized for the narrowness of the 
flight and the shallowness of the treads. 
"This was built a hundred years ago when 
people had narrow shoulders and small 
feet." This brought another trill of 
laughter, and he thought, I've got to be 
careful what I say to this woman; she's 
jacked up.

   Upstairs she gushed over the 
spaciousness and comfort of the rooms, 
while Wrigley methodically sniffed the 
premises that had once been home to two 
Siamese.

   "Now, while I'm bringing up your 
luggage," Qwilleran instructed Celia, 
"you sit down and make a list of what 
groceries you need. Then I'll do your 
shopping while you take a rest."

   "Oh, that's too much trouble for you, 
Chief!"

   "Not at all. I have an ulterior 
motive. Did you bring your recipe for 
chocolate brownies?"

   She laughed again. "I brought a whole 
shoebox of recipes!"

   He had a reason for wanting to shop 
alone. Otherwise it would be allover town 
that Mr. Q was buying groceries in the 
company of a strange woman who laughed at 
everything he said and was not at all 
like Mrs. Duncan.

   "This evening," he said in a 
businesslike way, "it will be my pleasure 
to take you to dinner, and tomorrow a 
pleasant woman by the name of Virginia 
Alstock will drive you around and give 
you a crash course in what Pickax is all 
about."

   "Oh, Chief! I don't know what to say. 
You're so kind!"

   "Don't say anything. Get to work on 
that list. I have a four-thirty 
appointment."

   "Yes, sir!" she said with a stiff 
salute and torrents of laughter.

   Qwilleran himself was a chuckler, not 
a laugher, and on the way to Toodles' 
Market he began to wonder how much of 
Celia's merriment he could stand. He 
pushed a cart up and down the aisles 
briskly, collecting the fifteen items on 
her list. At the checkout counter the 
cashier expressed surprise.

   "Gonna do some cooking, Mr. Q?"

   Ordinarily he checked out a few ounces 
of turkey or shrimp and a frozen dinner. 
Tonight he was buying unusual items like 
flour, potatoes, bananas, and canned cat 
food. "Just shopping for a sick friend," 
he explained.

   He delivered the groceries to the 
carriage house and returned to the barn 
just as Eddie Trevelyan's pickup came 
bouncing up the trail. The young man, in 
jeans and a tank top, jumped out of the 
cab and gestured toward the decrepit 
orchard. "Y'oughta do somethin' about 
them weeds and rotted trees."

   "What would you suggest?" Qwilleran 
asked amiably.
   "I could clean 'em out with a 
bulldozer and backhoe, pave the road, and 
build a string of condos." He glanced 
toward the front window. "There's the 
weasel again. You sure he's a cat?"

   "Sometimes .I'm not sure what he is" 
was the truthful answer.
   "'Hey, this is some barn, ain't it?"

   "Wait till you see the interior. Come 
in and have a drink."

   As soon as they went indoors, Koko 
came forward with mouth open and fangs 
bared, emitting a hostile hiss. His 
stiffened tail was straight as a fencer's 
sword.

   "Does he bite?" the visitor asked, 
drawing back.

   "No, he's overreacting because you 
think he's a weasel. Sit down and make 
yourself comfortable. Sit anywhere," he 
added, noting the young man's reluctance 
to step on the unbleached Moroccan rug or 
sit on the pale, mushroom-tinted 
furniture. "What's your drink?"

   "Shot On' a beer's okay." He sank into 
a capacious lounge chair and stared in 
awe at the balconies, catwalks, ramps, 
and giant fireplace cube.

   "How do you like it?" Qwilleran called 
from the bar.

   "Piece o' work, man!"

   "I heard about the house you built for 
the Alstocks in Black Creek. It's been 
highly praised."

   "Yeah. . . well. . ." Eddie was 
uncomfortable with the compliment.

   At the barn the drinks were usually 
served on a tray, but on this occasion 
Qwilleran carried the beer can and shot 
glass by hand. "How are you getting along 
with Mrs. Duncan?" he asked.

   "She's okay, but she worries too much. 
She's always on my back about somethin'." 
He downed the whiskey. "Hey, I don't know 
your name."

   "Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran."

   "I think I heard it somewheres."

   "Could be. . . . I noticed you had an 
extra helper today."

   "The job'll go faster now."

   "Who's your regular man? You two seem 
to work well as a team."

   "Benno. He's from Chipmunk. I knew him 
in high school. We both took Vocational. 
What do you do?"

   "I'm a writer. I write books. . . 
about. . .baseball." It was the whitest 
lie Qwilleran could devise on the spur of 
the moment. He could get away with it 
because Eddie obviously did not read the 
Moose County Something.

   "I like soccer," Eddie said, and 
Qwilleran became an instant soccer 
enthusiast.

   After the builder's second shot of 
whiskey, he seemed more relaxed. "Wotcha 
think of my dog?"

   "Beautiful chow! Friendly personality! 
What was his name?"

   "Zak."

   "Good name. Who came up with that?"

   "My sister."

   "Did she get along with Zak, or was he 
strictly a man's dog?"
   "Zak liked everybody. But him and me, 
we were like buddies. He was a joker, 
too. I'd take him out on a job, and he"d 
hang around all day till I started to 
pack up. Then he'd take off, and I'd 
hafta chase him. The louder I yelled, the 
faster he'd run, like he was laughin' at 
me. He liked to run, di'n't like to be 
chained. He had a long dog run at my 
folks' house. That's where they got 'im. 
Right between the eyes. Musta come outa 
the kennel to see who was prowlin' 
around."

   "Did he bark? Shouldn't he have 
barked?"

   "Di'n't nobody hear any barkin'."

   "Where was his body found?"

   "Right near the fence."

   Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "So 
he was evidently shot at close range, and 
he didn't bark. Sounds as if the shooter 
was someone he knew."

   Eddie's delayed response and nervous 
eyeballs gave the impression that he knew 
more than he was telling. "Zak knew lotsa 
people."

   Qwilleran was at his sympathetic best: 
the concern in his eyes, the kindly tilt 
of his head, the way he leaned toward his 
listener, the gentle tone of his voice. 
"How's your mother feeling these days?"

   Eddie looked startled. "D'you know 
her?" "We've met, and I feel very bad 
about her illness. Does she have good 
medical care?"

   "Aw, the doctors don't know nothin'. 
There's one doctor that has a cure, but 
he's in Switzerland."

   "Is that so? Have you thought of 
taking her there?"

   "Yeah, my sister and me, we thought 
about it, but. . . we di'n't have the 
dough. The trip, y'know .. . . the 
treatment. . . stayin' there a long time. 
. . outa sight! I dunno . . ."

   "How about another drink?" Qwilleran 
suggested.

   "Nah, I gotta hit the road."

   "Some coffee? I could throw a burger 
in the microwave."

   "Nah, I gotta meet a guy in Sawdust."


   As the contractor drove away in his 
pickup, Koko ambled inquisitively into 
the room as if saying, Has he gone?

   "That was impolite to hiss at a 
guest", Qwilleran reprimanded him, though 
realizing the cat had never before seen 
such a hairy human. He himself was 
pleased that he had concealed his 
connection with the media, while 
establishing a contact with the Trevelyan 
family that could be pursued without 
arousing suspicion. He made a mental list 
of procedures:

-Continue to take an insulated chest of 
cold drinks to the building site.

-Talk soccer with the crew during their; 
break; read the soccer news in the daily 
paper.

-Attend a soccer game.

-Show interest in the house construction 
and ask dumb questions. Qwilleran's ideas 
concerning the shooting of the dog were 
crystallizing. The perpetrator (a) had a 
grudge against Floyd and (b) knew where 
and how the dog was kenneled, although 
(c) he was unaware that he was shooting 
someone else's pet. One distasteful idea 
came to mind: The crime was purposely 
committed to encourage public sympathy 
for Floyd. The notion was not completely 
farfetched in this stronghold of dog 
owners.

   In any case, since Zak had not barked 
and was shot at close range, the shooter 
was obviously someone he knew, and yet. . 
. that could be anyone. Zak was friendly 
to a fault.

   Regarding the police investigation of 
the shooting, Qwilleran assumed that they 
knew all of the above but had more 
important matters to investigate, such as 
the whereabouts of the embezzler himself.

   Something Eddie had said now started a 
new train of thought: Floyd might have 
stashed the stolen money in Swiss banks; 
he might now be in Switzerland and not 
Mexico as everyone assumed; he might be 
arranging to fly his wife there for 
treatment. This theory, Qwilleran 
realized, had its flaws, but if it were 
viable, why had Koko performed his death 
dance? Baffled, he decided to table the 
matter and take Celia Robinson to dinner.

   First he had to feed the cats. He 
often reflected that he was retired from 
the workplace, had no family 
responsibilities, and was the richest man 
in the northeast central United States. 
Yet his entire life was structured around 
the humble routine of feeding the 
Siamese, brushing their coats, 
entertaining them, doing lap service, and 
policing their commode. Early in his life 
it would have been inconceivable!


   The question now arose: Where to take 
the loudly gleeful Mrs. Robinson to 
dinner? The New Pickax Hotel was the 
usual choice for business dinners and 
social obligations; no one went there for 
fun. On this evening Polly would be 
dining there with the library board, a 
group of genteel older women whose voices 
never rose higher than a murmur. The 
dining room was small, furthermore, and 
other tables would be occupied by lone 
business travelers intent on their tough 
steak. Celia's shrieks of laughter would 
reverberate like a tropical bird in a 
mortuary.

   Qwilleran's own favorite restaurant 
was the Old Stone Mill, but he was too 
well known there, and the entire staff 
kept tabs on his dining companions. The 
safest choice was a steakhouse in North 
Kennebeck named Tipsy's. It occupied a 
large log cabin; the atmosphere was 
informal; the patrons were noisy; and the 
restaurant had the distinction of being 
named after the owner's cat. That would 
please Celia.

   When he called for her, she was 
obviously wearing her best dress, her 
best jewelry, and full makeup. She looked 
nice, although she would be conspicuous 
at Tipsy's.

   "Where are we going?" she asked with 
excitement. "I saw ads in the paper for 
Otto's Tasty Eats and the Nasty Pasty. 
Such funny names! And Moose County 
Something is a crazy name for a 
newspaper! I also read about a town 
called Brrr; was that a misprint?"

   "Brrr happens to be the coldest spot 
in the county," he informed her.

   "That's a good one!" she exclaimed 
with hearty laughter. "Wait till I tell 
my grandson! I write to Clayton once a 
week, sometimes twice."

   "You can plan on plenty of two-letter 
weeks while you're here," Qwilleran said. 
"People who live 400 miles north of 
everywhere tend to be different. It's 
called frontier individualism."

   On the way to North Kennebeck Celia 
continued to be convulsed with merriment 
at signposts pointing to Chipmunk, West 
Middle Hummock, and Sawdust City. "I 
don't believe it!" she cried when 
Ittibittiwassee Road crossed the 
Ittibittiwassee River. "Are they for 
real?"

   "Sawdust City is not only real but 
recently it's been the scene of a major 
financial scandal."

   "I like scandals!" she cried happily.

   "Virginia Alstock will fill in the 
details tomorrow, but briefly: The 
president of a financial institution has 
disappeared along with his secretary and 
millions of dollars belonging to 
depositors. Mrs. Alstock will also take 
you to meet Lisa Compton at the Senior 
Care Facility. Would you care for part-
time work as a companion for elderly 
shut-ins?"

   "Oh, yes! I'm good with old people and 
invalids. I cheer them up."

   "I believe it!" he said sincerely.

   Celia became serious. "Do you think I 
laugh too much, Chief?"

   "How much is too much?"

   "Well, my daughter-in-law says I do. 
My husband was just the opposite. He 
always expected the worst. I've always 
been an optimist, and I began laughing to 
make up for his bad humor, but the more I 
laughed, the worse he got, and the worse 
he got, the more I laughed. It was funny 
when you think about it. I noticed you 
never laugh, Chief, although you've got a 
terrific sense of humor."

   "I'm a chuckler," he said. "My 
laughter is internal. I wrote a column 
once about the many kinds of laughter. 
People giggle, titter, guffaw, snicker, 
cackle, or roar. My friend Polly Duncan, 
whom you'll meet, has a musical laugh 
that's very pleasant. Laughter is an 
expression of mirth involving the facial 
muscles, throat, lungs, mouth, and eyes. 
It's usually involuntary, but one can 
control the volume and tone to suit the 
time and place. It's called fine-tuning. 
. . . My next lecture will be at 9 a.m. 
tomorrow."

   "I never thought of that," she said. 
"I'm going to try fine-tuning."

   "There's a hostess at the restaurant 
where we're going who greets customers 
with loud, cackling laughter. I always 
think, There goes another egg."

   Celia tried to smother her screams of 
delight. "What's the name of the 
restaurant?"

   "The Chicken Coop." She exploded again 
but cut it short. "No, it's really called 
Tipsy's." Then he explained how it was 
founded in the 1930s and named after a 
white-and-black cat whose markings made 
her look inebriated, and whose deformed 
foot made her stagger. "Her portrait in 
the main dining room was the subject of 
county-wide controversy recently," he 
said, "resolved only when art fakery was 
revealed."

   When they arrived at the restaurant 
and were greeted by the hostess with a 
cackling laugh, Celia struggled to keep a 
straight face as she mumbled to 
Qwilleran, "Another egg!"

   The menu was limited. Qwilleran always 
ordered the steak. Celia asked if the 
fish had bones, because she wanted to 
take some home to Wrigley. During the 
meal she had many questions to ask.

   "Who is your friend with the nice 
laugh?"

   "The administrator of the public 
library. It's her assistant who will 
chauffeur you around town tomorrow."

   "Where do you live?"

   "No doubt you've noticed the evergreen 
forest behind the theatre parking lot. 
Beyond that is an old orchard with a 
hundred-year-old apple barn. That's where 
I live."

   "You live in a barn?"

   "I've fixed it up a little. You'll see 
it one of these days. After you're 
settled, we'll have a talk. I think. . . 
I may have another assignment for you, 
Celia."


   After dropping his dinner guest at her 
apartment, Qwilleran hurried to the barn 
to make a phone call. Just inside the 
kitchen door he picked up a black felt-
tip pen from the floor. "Drat that cat!" 
he muttered as he dropped it into the 
pewter mug on the desk. A pen lying on a 
desktop was fair game to Koko, but he 
never filched one from the mug. He 
suspected Yum Yum.

   It was the Compton residence that he 
called, and Lisa answered. "Do you want 
to speak to my grouchy husband?"

   "No, I want to speak with his charming 
wife. It's about Pals for Patients."

   "Sure. What can I do for you?"

   "Does the Trevelyan family in West 
Middle Hummock ever call you for help?"

   "All the time! The Pals we send out 
there never keep the job very long. It's 
a long drive for only a few hours' work, 
and it's an unhappy family. No one's 
assigned to them at the moment-not since 
the credit union closed. Their daughter 
worked there, but now she's at home, 
taking care of her mother herself. Why do 
you ask?"

   "I've met the son. He's building 
Polly's house. It was his dog who was 
shot. Did you read about it?"

   "Nasty business!" Lisa said.

   "I agree. I have no sympathy for 
Floyd, but I feel sorry for his family, 
especially his wife, and I have a 
suggestion. The Celia Robinson I 
mentioned to you has a cheerful 
disposition that would do wonders for 
Mrs. Trevelyan, I'm sure. Mrs. Robinson 
will call at your office tomorrow, and I 
wish you'd see what you can do."

   "You don't think she'd mind the 
drive?"

    "She's just driven for three days 
with a cat in the backseat, and there 
were no complaints from either of them. 
She's an inspiration, I tell you! She 
could even make Lyle smile."

   "Hands off my husband!" Lisa said. "He 
may be an old curmudgeon, but he's mine! 
. . . Okay, I'll see what I can do."

   Qwilleran hung up slowly with a 
satisfied feeling of accomplishment. 
Already his logical mind was telling him 
how to brief Celia for her assignment. As 
he sat at the desk, making notes with a 
black felt-tip, he realized that neither 
cat had greeted him at the door. He 
glanced around casually, then with 
mounting concern. That's when he saw the 
blood-red splotch on a light-colored 
sofa.

   Logic gave way to panic! He jumped up, 
knocking over the desk chair, and rushed 
toward the lounge area. "Koko! Yum Yum!" 
he shouted. There was no answer.

-8-
   Words can hardly express Qwilleran's 
panic when he glimpsed the blood-red 
splotch in the lounge area, nor his 
relief upon finding that it was the 
swatch of fabric in the Mackintosh 
tartan. The Siamese had stolen it! The 
envelope containing the application for 
membership in the clan was on the floor 
nearby. And where were the culprits? On 
top of the fireplace cube, observing 
Qwilleran's brief frenzy with wonder, as 
if thinking, What fools these mortals be!

   "You devils!" he said, shaking his 
fist in their direction. Then he had 
second thoughts. It was not necessarily a 
two-cat caper. Which one of them was 
guilty? They both looked annoyingly 
innocent. Most likely Koko had heisted 
the envelope for some obscure reason of 
his own. Did he smell the red dye in the 
cloth? At one time in his brief but 
stellar career he had chewed red 
neckties.

   Then Qwilleran had a quirky thought. 
"If you're trying to get me into a kilt," 
he shouted at Koko, "no dice!"

   Nevertheless, he read the application 
blank once more. By nature he was not a 
joiner of clubs, societies, or 
associations (apart from the press club). 
Yet, as Big Mac had said, it would be a 
tribute to his mother if he joined the 
clan; she had been so proud of her 
Scottish heritage. Having reached middle 
age, he now found himself thinking about 
her with appreciation and admiration. He 
remembered her precepts: Give more than 
you get. . . . Be yourself; don't imitate 
your peers. . . . Always serve beverages 
on a tray.

   She had died when he was in college. 
If she had lived longer, she would have 
gloried in his success as a journalist, 
wept over the crisis that almost ruined 
his life, and finally delighted in his 
new prosperity, especially since it was 
her Klingenschoen connection that sowed 
the seed.

   Qwilleran filled out the membership 
application. Polly would be happy. "But 
no kilt!" he muttered to himself.

   "YOW!" came a comment from the top of 
the fireplace cube.


   The day after his visit with Eddie 
Trevelyan, Qwilleran drove to the mailbox 
with another cooler of soft drinks in the 
trunk. This was Phase One in his plan to 
get into the Trevelyan household by the 
back door. For Phase Two he would need 
Celia's help and the cooperation of Lisa 
Compton.

   There were five trucks at the building 
site; electrician and plumber were 
"roughing in," according to Eddie. 
Qwilleran dropped off the cooler and 
returned to the barn to read his mail. 
One letter piqued his curiosity. The 
stationery had character, and the 
envelope was hand written in a 
distinctive script. He read:


Dear Mr. Q,

   Just a note to say I'm sending you a 
memento from my father's personal 
collection. Whenever you sit in it, your 
creativity will scintillate. I want you 
to have this souvenir because I shall 
never forget that you saved my life on 
the island and encouraged me to improve 
my life-style.

   My brother will bring it over on his 
boat, and Derek will pick it up at the 
pier in Mooseville and deliver it in his 
truck.

Gratefully, Liz


   Qwilleran's first thought was: No! Not 
a pyramid! What will I do with it? Where 
can I put it? How large is it? Can I 
donate it to a school or museum without 
hurting Elizabeth's feelings? She had 
wanted him to call her Liz, a diminutive 
that only her father had used, but 
Qwilleran had no desire to be a surrogate 
parent.

   He read the rest of his mail, throwing 
most of it into the wastebasket or red-
inking it for handling by the secretarial 
service. A few letters he would answer 
himself, by postal card or phone call. 
Cards required fewer words than letters 
and were cheaper to mail. Despite his new 
wealth, there was an old frugality in his 
nature.

   After that he went to work in his 
balcony studio, which was off-limits to 
the Siamese. The closed-door policy, he 
liked to explain, kept the cats out of 
his hair and the cat hairs out of his 
typewriter. Now he was trying to find 
something different to say about baseball 
for the "Qwill Pen" column.

   He wrote, "Compared to a nervous, 
hyped-up, violent, clock-watching game 
like football, baseball is a spectator 
sport that encourages relaxation. The 
leisurely pace - punctuated by well-
spaced spurts of running, sliding, and 
arguing - promotes a feeling of well-
being, enhanced by the consumption of a 
hot dog or beverage of choice. The 
continual pauses - for bat-swinging, 
mitt-thumping, cap-tugging, belt-
hitching, hand-spitting, and homeplate-
dusting - produce a pleasant hypnosis."

   Qwilleran's concentration was 
interrupted by the urgent ringing of the 
doorbell, as well as banging on the 
kitchen door. He ran down the ramp and 
found Derek Cuttlebrink towering on the 
doorstep. "Special delivery from 
Breakfast Island!" he announced. "Want me 
to carry it in?"

   "Will it come through the doorway?" 
Qwilleran asked. A pyramid large enough 
to sit in, he reasoned, would have 
awkward dimensions.

   "No problem," Derek yelled as he 
returned to his pickup and unloaded an 
item of furniture. "Where d'you want me 
to put it?" he asked as he maneuvered it 
through the kitchen door.

   "Do I have to tell you?" Qwilleran 
responded tartly. "What is it supposed to 
be?"

   "A rocking chair! Handmade! Antique! 
One size fits all! It belonged to 
Elizabeth's old man." Derek set the 
rocker down and sat in it. "Comfortable, 
too! Try it; you'll like it!"

   It was made entirely of bent twigs, 
except for the rockers - and the bowl-
shaped seat that appeared to be varnished 
treebark. Qwilleran thought, It's the 
ugliest chair I've ever seen! He slid 
into the seat cautiously and was 
immediately tilted back as if ready for 
dental surgery. It was, however, a 
remarkably comfortable sling.

   "There's something I'm supposed to 
give you." Derek dashed out to his truck 
and returned with a snapshot. "This is 
her old man, posing with his chair. She 
thought you'd like to see what he looked 
like. Now I've gotta get to work. I'm on 
for the dinner hour, five to eight."

   "What about your rehearsal?" Qwilleran 
called after him.

   "The rude mechanicals aren't scheduled 
tonight."

   After Derek had driven away, raising 
more dust than other visitors had done, 
Qwilleran grabbed the phone and called 
Amanda's Studio of Design, hoping Fran 
Brodie would be in-house. She answered.

   "Stay there! I'll be right over!" he 
shouted. He hung up while she was still 
sputtering, "What. . . What. . . ?"

   He usually chose to walk downtown, but 
this time he drove. At the design studio 
he barged through the front door and 
threw a snapshot on Fran's desk. "Know 
anything about this? The chair, not the 
man."

   The designer's eyes grew wide. "Where 
did you get this picture? Who is he? Is 
he selling the chair?"

   "The man's dead. The chair is in my 
barn. It's supposed to be a thank-you 
from Elizabeth for saving her life on the 
island. If I'd known I was getting this, 
I'd have thrown her back in the swamp."

   "Very funny," Fran said, "but you 
don't know what you're talking about. 
This is a twistletwig rocker, a hundred 
years old, at least. It was the poor 
man's bentwood, made of willow."

   "Well, the poor man can have it! Even 
Whistler's Mother would think it was 
ugly. Koko sniffed it and made a face. 
Yum Yum won't go anywhere near it; that 
should tell you something!"

   "I don't consider Yum Yum an arbiter 
of taste!" The two females had feuded 
briefly at one time, and Yum Yum won. "As 
a matter of fact, it's a beautiful piece 
of folk art, and a dealer on the East 
Coast recently advertised one for 
$2,000."

   "You're pulling my leg!"

   "I'm not! This is a choice 
collectible! Do you want to sell? Amanda 
will give you a thousand without 
blinking. Is it comfortable?"

   "Very, but I still think it's a 
nightmare masquerading as furniture."

   "Go back! You're not ready!" Fran said 
impatiently. "The chair is linear 
sculpture! It'll be a dynamic accent for 
your light, contemporary furniture. Live 
with it for a while, and you'll be 
writing a treatise for the "Qwill Pen" on 
the charms of twistletwig. I'll help you 
do some research."

   She had said the magic word; whenever 
anyone mentioned material for his column, 
Qwilleran went on red alert. To save face 
he pointed to a wooden box on her desk. 
"What's that? Is that another high-priced 
collectible?" It was slightly crude, in 
the size and shape of a two-pound loaf of 
bread.

   "That's an English pencil box," Fran 
said. "A country piece, rather old. I 
believe it's walnut. It came from the 
Witherspoon estate in Lockmaster."

   The wood was a mellow brown enhanced 
by the distress marks of age. The lid was 
rimmed with a fine line of brass, and 
there was a small brass key in the lock. 
Qwilleran lifted the lid and found a 
shallow compartment.

   "You could use it for cufflinks," she 
suggested.

   "I don't use cufflinks. No one in 
Pickax uses cufflinks! What I need is a 
place to lock up my pens. One of our 
resident cat burglars has been swiping 
them, and I suspect Koko."

   "This would be perfect, and you could 
use the drawer at the bottom for paper 
clips."

   "Yum Yum opens drawers and collects 
paper clips." He tugged at the drawer. 
"It's jammed."

   "No, it isn't. There's a secret 
latch."

   "I'll take it," he said. “Also my 
snapshot." Carrying the pencil box under 
his arm, Qwilleran walked to his car two 
blocks away; parking was a major problem 
in downtown Pickax. He could never set 
foot in the center of town without 
meeting a dozen acquaintances, and today 
he threw greetings to his barber, an off-
duty patrolman, the cashier from Toodles' 
Market, and the proprietor of Scottie's 
Men's Store, who said, “Aye, there's the 
Laird hi'self!

   When will you be comin' in to be 
measured for a kilt?"

   "Not until you hear from my 
undertaker," Qwilleran retorted.

   Then Larry Lanspeak, on the way to the 
bank, stopped him to ask, "What's that 
you're carrying? Your lunch bucket?"

   "No, a pistol case. I'm on my way to a 
duel. . . . How's the play coming, 
Larry?"

   "We've had problems. Fran and the new 
girl from Chicago wanted to incorporate a 
pyramid in the forest scenes. Imagine 
cluttering the stage, complicating the 
blocking, and confusing the audience with 
such a senseless gimmick! Carol, Junior, 
and I had to threaten to drop out before 
Fran would listen to reason. That girl is 
a good client of hers and also made a 
sizable donation to the club's operating 
budget. Politics! Politics!"

   Arriving home with his English pencil 
box, Qwilleran filled the top compartment 
with felt-tip pens. One of the black ones 
was missing again, and he found it in the 
foyer. The drawer he filled with jumbo 
paper clips. The Siamese watched, their 
inquisitive tails curved like scimitars.
   "Foiled, you villains!" he said as he 
locked the lid. He left the key in the 
lock, since neither cat had learned how 
to turn keys. It would be only a matter 
of time, he surmised.

   He and Polly dined early at the Old 
Stone Mill, as she was attending a 
dessert-and-coffee wedding shower for one 
of the library clerks. "Would you care to 
join us?" she asked teasingly. "Men often 
attend showers now, you know."

   "This man doesn't," he said, putting a 
brusque end to the subject. "The 
electrician and plumber were working on 
your house this morning. It's beginning 
to look less like a lumberyard and more 
like a habitation."

   "What am I going to do with all those 
mounds of soil they excavated for the 
foundation?" she asked with a worried 
frown.

   "I suppose they'll use some of it for 
fill and then grade the lot. They'll move 
the dirt anywhere you say, with two 
swipes of the bulldozer. "

   "I'd love to have a berm between the 
house and the highway. With plantings it 
would give a sense of privacy, but I 
don't want it to look landscaped. I want 
it to look completely natural. How does 
one do that?"

   Rather too sharply Qwilleran said, 
"One calls Kevin Doone. He attended 
horticultural college for four years to 
learn how to do that."

   "Do I bore you with my concerns about 
the house, dear?" Polly asked with a 
frank gaze.

   "You never bore me! You know that. But 
for your own sake - I wish you'd delegate 
your problems to the professionals 
instead of trying to make all the 
decisions yourself."

   "It'll be the only house I'll ever 
build, and I want it to express me," she 
said meekly. "I've always lived in places 
where I've had to compromise and make 
do."

   "I understand, and I apologize for 
being flip. What else is preying on your 
mind? I want to hear."

   "Well. . . the interior. I'd love to 
have white plastered walls and 
Williamsburg blue woodwork. I saw it in a 
magazine - with country antiques - but 
one needs good furniture with such a 
stark background. My things aren't good, 
but they're family heirlooms, and I 
couldn't part with them. I know wallpaper 
backgrounds are more flattering to a 
hodgepodge of furniture, but. . . I'm 
absolutely smitten with the idea of white 
walls and blue woodwork. Last night I 
couldn't sleep for thinking about it."

   The solution would be so easy, he 
thought, if she would let him bankroll a 
houseful of pedigreed country antiques. 
She could have the twistletwig rocker for 
starters. But Polly would never approve 
of such largess. He said, "Suppose one of 
your clerks came to you with such a 
problem. How would you advise her?"

   After a pause, she said with an 
abashed half-smile, "I'd tell her to keep 
the things she loves and use wallpaper."

   "And I believe you'd be right."

   Polly breathed a large sigh. "I've 
been doing all the talking. How 
thoughtless of me! What have you been 
doing?"

   "Well, I had a chat with your builder, 
and he's not a bad fellow, in spite of 
his raggle-taggle appearance and double 
negatives. I've come to the conclusion 
that Moose County is bilingual. Half of 
us speak standard English, and the other 
half speak Moose."

   "What did you talk about?"

   "Soccer, and the fact that one of his 
ancestors built the barn. Neither of us 
mentioned his father, of course, but I 
inquired about his mother's health. He 
seems to think that a Swiss doctor has a 
cure for her rare disease. One wonders 
how true it is, and how effective, and 
how safe."

   "It's not to be dismissed out-of-
hand," Polly asserted. "Alternative 
medicine has always been practiced in 
other countries, and now by maverick 
physicians here."

   Then it was time for her to leave for 
the wedding shower. Qwilleran drove her 
back to the library, where her car was 
parked, and then went home to phone 
Celia.

   She was waiting eagerly for his call. 
"I had a ball!" she cried. "Virginia is a 
lot of fun. She's contralto soloist at 
the little Stone Church. She told me I 
could sing in the choir. And do you want 
to hear something funny? There's a cat 
that attends services every Sunday! They 
leave the front door ajar, and she walks 
in, picks out a lap, and sleeps all 
through the sermon. . . . Besides working 
at the library, Virginia has three 
teenagers, a dog, two cats, a hutch of 
rabbits, and some chickens."

   "Where did you have lunch?"

   "Lois's Luncheonette, and Lois sent 
two free desserts to our table - bread 
pudding. It wasn't as good as mine. I use 
egg whites to make it fluffy and whole 
wheat flour to make it chewy, plus nuts 
and raisins, and vanilla sauce."

   "How do I place an order?" Qwilleran 
asked.

   "Do you accept credit cards?" There 
was laughter on the line before he could 
ask, "Did you meet Lisa Compton?"

   "Yes, I did, and she's very nice. She 
told me about a sad case in West Middle 
Hummock where she can send me to - "

   "Celia," he interrupted, "why don't 
you jump into your little red car and 
drive down here? You can see the apple 
barn, meet the cats, and tell me about 
the sad case."

   Moments later she stepped out of her 
car in the barnyard and gasped at the 
sight. "I grew up on a farm and never saw 
anything like this!" She was equally 
enthralled by the interior but shocked at 
the condition of the orchard.

   "According to legend," Qwilleran 
explained, "a curse was placed on the 
orchard a hundred years ago. I thought 
the curse had exceeded the statute of 
limitations, but lately the property's 
been under surveillance by the FBI."

   "Really?"
   "Yes, we have our own Feline Bureau of 
Investigation."

   Celia laughed at his quip, but it was 
controlled laughter. She was fine-tuning.

   The Siamese were listening to the 
conversation from a safe distance, 
sitting alertly and ready for flight if 
the visitor's laughter should hit the 
wrong note. Meanwhile they were sensing 
that she came from a poultry farm, lived 
with a black-and-white cat named Wrigley, 
and manufactured Kabibbles in her 
kitchen.

   "Seriously," he said, "I'm glad you've 
enlisted in the Pals for Patients 
program. You're perfect for the job. What 
do you know about your first assignment?"

   "Only that the patient is the wife of 
the man who disappeared with a lot of 
money that doesn't belong to him. It must 
be terrible for the poor woman, to be ill 
and have that happen. A practical nurse 
comes in five mornings a week, and I work 
afternoons. The rest of the time her 
daughter is there."

   Qwilleran said, "I've heard that 
they're two lonely and unhappy women. 
With your cheerful personality you'll be 
very good for them. And you can do more 
than that! There's an element of mystery 
surrounding the scandal. I believe 
there's more to the story than people 
think." Then he added with heavy 
implication, "The police investigators 
may be on the wrong track."

   Excitedly she asked, "Are you 
investigating it yourself, Chief?"

   "I have no authority to do so, and the 
Trevelyans' lawyer has instructed them 
not to talk to the media."

   "But you're not really media," she 
protested. "You just write a column, 
don't you?"

   Qwilleran took a moment to enjoy an 
internal chuckle. "Be that as it may, it 
would be inadvisable for me to involve 
myself personally in the case."

   Celia was sitting on the edge of her 
chair. "Could I help you, Chief?"

   "I'm sure you could. When do you 
start?"

   "Tomorrow afternoon."

   "Suppose you get the lay of the land, 
and we'll talk again tomorrow evening. By 
that time I'll have planned our 
strategy."

   "Is there anything special I should do 
tomorrow?"

   "Just be friendly and sympathetic. 
They may welcome the chance to talk to 
someone. Don't ask too many questions; 
keep it conversational. And never. . . 
never let them know you're associated 
with me!"

   "I'll write it down," she said. "I 
always write everything down." Her large 
handbag was on the floor near her chair, 
and she fumbled in it for a notepad, 
whereupon two quiet slinky Siamese 
approached in slow motion to explore its 
contents.

   "No!" Qwilleran said firmly, and they 
withdrew backward at the same slow pace. 
"It's never a good idea to leave your 
handbag open while they're around," he 
explained. "Koko is an investigator, and 
Yum Yum is a kleptomaniac."

-9-
   With unusual anticipation Qwilleran 
awaited Celia Robinson's report on her 
first day in West Middle Hummock. He 
patted his moustache frequently as he 
assured himself he was finally on-line 
with the investigation.

   Copy was due for his Friday column, 
but his profound treatise on baseball was 
not quite finished, so he dashed off a 
thousand words on "the sweet corn of 
August," one of Moose County's much-
vaunted crops. Like vintners with certain 
wines that don't travel well, farmers 
produced only enough sweet corn for local 
consumption - a rare delicacy that had 
never been exported.

   He delivered the copy by bicycle, then 
took a long ride, hoping the monotony of 
pedaling would crystallize his thoughts 
about the Trevelyan case. It was an 
inspiration, he believed, to use Celia as 
a secret agent. In Florida she had proved 
herself to be entirely trustworthy: she 
used common sense; she followed 
instructions; she read spy novels. They 
would call this investigation Operation 
Whistle.

   As Qwilleran approached the Park 
Circle, he was wondering whether to make 
an illegal left turn into the theatre 
driveway, or cut through the park where 
biking was prohibited, or circle the park 
and make an illegal U-turn. Before he 
could make up his mind, a police car 
pulled him to the curb, and Andrew Brodie 
stepped out.

   "See your license?" the chief barked. 
"Attempting to elude an officer. Biking 
without a helmet. Exceeding the speed 
limit. Failure to provide a reflector on 
the rear fender."

   "Write me a ticket," Qwilleran shot 
back, "and I'll see you in court on your 
day off."

   Brodie was an imposing figure on the 
Pickax landscape, always growling and 
scowling and snapping commands - except 
when he was playing the bagpipe at 
weddings and funerals. He did both very 
well. Qwilleran considered him one of his 
best friends, and the two friends rarely 
missed an opportunity to exchange gibes.

   After the usual banter, the chief 
dropped his official brusqueness and said 
in a voice brimming with innuendo, "I've 
noticed some activity behind the 
theatre."

   The eagle-eyed cop had apparently seen 
the red car, but Qwilleran ignored the 
oblique reference and launched a long 
explanation that had nothing to do with 
the question. One of his many skills was 
his seemingly innocent failure "to get 
it."

   "Yes, the parking lot's busy these 
days," he began. "They're in the throes 
of producing a new play, and you know 
what that means: actors rehearsing every 
night, set builders and costume makers on 
the job every day. It's quite an 
ambitious project: A Midsummer Night's 
Dream with a cast of hundreds. Your 
daughter's directing it. Shakespeare 
wrote it. Junior Goodwinter is playing 
Puck. Carol and Larry are doubling as – “

   "Knock it off!" Brodie interrupted. 
"You've rented your carriage house to 
somebody - older woman - drives a red car 
- Florida plates."

   Qwilleran's aimless babbling about the 
play had given him time to formulate a 
defense. "The real estate division of the 
K Foundation handles rentals. I don't get 
involved with that."

   "But you know who she is," the chief 
said accusingly.

   "Of course! Everyone knows who she is: 
a friend of Euphonia Gage in Florida."

   "What's she doing up here?"

   "I'm not entirely clear about this, 
but I believe it had to do with doctor's 
orders. She was in a deep depression 
following the death of her favorite 
grandson - or something like that - and 
Euphonia had praised Moose County as a 
good place to start a new life."

   Brodie was unconvinced. "What kind of 
new life does she expect to start at her 
age?"

   "Again: Don't quote me! But I've heard 
that she's a good cook, and the rumors 
are that she intends to start a small 
catering business. And you have to admit 
this town could stand some improved food 
service. The catering department at the 
hotel is an abomination. In fact, I 
wouldn't be surprised if the economic 
development division of the K Foundation 
had been instrumental in bringing this 
woman up from Down Below."

   "So what was she doing in West Middle 
Hummock today? She was seen driving into 
Floyd Trevelyan's property."

   "What time was it?"

   "Around noon."

   Qwilleran had to think fast. "She was 
probably delivering a hot lunch to a 
shut-in. Mrs. Trevelyan is said to be - "

   "So why didn't she come out until 
after five o'clock?"

   "Andy, how many spies do the state 
police have stationed in Floyd's trees? 
And why haven't they found the guy yet? 
Maybe they're looking in the wrong 
place."

   "Go home! You're wasting my time." 
Brodie jerked his thumb over his shoulder 
and headed back to his official vehicle.

   "It was your idea to stop and chat," 
Qwilleran called after him.

   "Go home and get that two-wheeled 
suicide contraption off the street."

   "Okay, tell me how to get out of this 
traffic without breaking the law!"

   "Follow me!" The police car led the 
way to the head of the circle with light 
flashing and stopped the flow of traffic 
in both directions while the richest man 
in the northeast central United States 
made his illegal U-turn.

   Arriving at the barn he said to Yum 
Yum, "I had a touch-and-go session with 
your boyfriend a minute ago." She was in 
love with Brodie's badge.


   Polly was dining with the Hasselriches 
that evening, an obligation she usually 
dreaded, so he thawed a frozen dinner for 
himself and opened a can of crabmeat for 
the Siamese. Then, at a suitable hour, he 
telephoned Celia and invited her to the 
barn "for a cold drink on this warm 
evening."

   She arrived with a joyful, toothy 
smile and, while Qwilleran reconstituted 
limeade concentrate, wandered about the 
barn in search of the Siamese. They were 
nested together in the bowl-shaped seat 
of the twistletwig rocking chair.

   "We used to have a rocker like yours 
at the farm," she said when they were 
seated with their cold drinks. "It was 
handed down in my husband's family. He 
burnt it when we got television."

   "What was the connection?" Qwilleran 
asked with genuine curiosity.

   "Well, for TV he had to have a 
recliner, and we didn't have room for 
both. You've got lots of room here. Where 
are your TV sets?"

   "We have only one. It's in the cats' 
loft apartment. They enjoy nature 
programs or commercials without the 
audio."

   Celia laughed with delight. "I wish my 
husband was alive, so I could tell him 
that! We had barn cats, and they weren't 
allowed in the house. They certainly 
didn't have TV in the hayloft!"

   After a few minutes of polite small 
talk, Qwilleran broached the subject. 
"How did you fare at West Middle Hummock 
today?"

   "Well! It was very interesting! It's a 
nice drive out there, and I didn't mind 
it at all. They have a cute mailbox like 
an old railroad engine, and they call the 
house The Roundhouse on the sign, but it 
isn't round at all!"

   He explained that railroad yards used 
to have round buildings for servicing 
locomotives in the days of steam, and 
there was a turntable in the center to 
shunt the engines into different stalls.

  "Learn something every day!" she said 
with an airy wave of the hand.

   "How well were you received?"

   "Well, first I met the nurse, who was 
in a hurry to go off duty. She impressed 
me as being kind of a cool cucumber. I'll 
bet she lives in Brrr." Celia stopped to 
enjoy a laugh at her own humor. "She 
showed me the medicines and told me not 
to get off schedule or the patient might 
wind up in the hospital. Then she left, 
and I met the patient's daughter. She 
could be quite pretty if she was happy, 
but I'm afraid she's a very bitter young 
lady-in her early twenties."

   "What's her name?”

   "When I asked, she didn't answer right 
away, but then she said it was Tish. 
Later, though, her mother called her 
Lettie. She hates Lettie. I know how she 
feels. I always hated Celia."

   As his informer rambled on, Qwilleran 
was doing some quick arithmetic: Lettie 
plus Tish equals the young woman he met 
in the bank; she claimed her last name 
was Penn, although the teller called her 
Trevelyan. He said, "Her name is probably 
Letitia - a bad choice, any way you look 
at it. Letitia Trevelyan sounds like 
'thank you' in a foreign language."

   Celia giggled. "I must remember to 
tell that one to my grandson." She dug in 
her large handbag for her notebook and 
wrote it down, then went on: "Tish was 
polite but not what you'd call friendly. 
That's all right; I didn't expect an 
afternoon social. She said she was going 
out and would be back at five o'clock-my 
quitting time-but first she took me into 
her mother's room. Oh, my! That poor 
woman! She can't be more than fifty, but 
her body is so frail, and her face is so 
white! The way her eyes looked, they were 
searching for something. I don't think 
she gets enough attention, although she's 
never left alone."

   "That could be true," Qwilleran said. 
"Attendance is not attention."

   "She told me to call her Florrie. I 
fixed her a nice little lunch but had to 
coax her to eat. She wanted to talk. Her 
voice is thin and whiney."

   "What did she talk about?"

   "Well, she skipped around a lot. She 
doesn't like vegetables. Someone killed 
their dog. The nurse is mean to her. No 
one comes to see her. She hates what's on 
TV. Lettie goes out and never says where 
she's going." Celia stopped for. breath. 
"I listened and sympathized with her 
until she got tired and wanted to lie 
down. I asked if she'd like me to sing to 
her."

   "Don't tell me you sang Mrs. 
Robinson!" Qwilleran said teasingly.

   "Oh, you remembered!" That was cause 
for more laughter. "No, I sang hymns, and 
she fell asleep and had a peaceful nap. 
That gave me time to poke around the 
house. It's big and has an elevator, but 
it doesn't look as if anybody loves it, 
if you know what I mean. And those 
electric trains in the basement! Never 
saw anything like it! Do you suppose they 
let school kids come and see them at 
Christmas-time?"

   "Probably not."

   "There was a family album in Florrie's 
sitting room, and when she woke up I 
asked if we could look at it together. I 
took her down on the elevator and wheeled 
her out on the stone patio, and we had a 
good time looking at snap-shots."

   "Did you learn anything?"

   "Oh, I learned a lot! She grew up in a 
railroad family. Her father was a famous 
engineer. They lived in Sawdust City near 
the tracks. Railroad people liked to live 
near the tracks, Florrie said. Watching 
the trains was big entertainment, I 
guess. They knew everybody. Everybody 
waved."

   Qwilleran said, "You have a good ear 
for detail and apparently an excellent 
memory."

   Celia waved her small notebook. "I 
wrote everything down. Her grandfather, 
uncles, and brothers all worked on the 
railroad. They were firemen, brakemen, 
engineers, flagmen, crossing guards, and 
hostlers, whatever they are."

   "Did Florrie wonder why you were 
writing things down?" he asked with a 
note of concern.

   "I know what you're thinking, Chief, 
but I was careful to explain that I wrote 
long letters to my grandson twice a week 
and jotted down things to tell him."

   "Smart thinking! Perhaps we should put 
Clayton on the payroll."

  She laughed, of course, before 
continuing. "Let me tell you about 
Florrie's wedding pictures! She married a 
carpenter who was crazy about trains, and 
he married her because her father was an 
engineer. That's what she said! And 
here's where it gets good: The marriage 
ceremony was in the cab of a steam 
locomotive, with everyone wearing 
coveralls and railroad caps - even the 
bride and the preacher! Her flowers were 
tied on a shiny brass oilcan, and when 
the couple was pronounced man and wife, 
the preacher pulled the handle that blows 
the whistle. That meant the best man had 
to fire the boiler, too, and it got very 
hot in the cab, and there was coal dust 
on her flowers." In recounting it, Celia 
rocked back and forth with mirth.

   "Did Florrie think this was funny?"

   "No, she didn't laugh or smile or 
anything. It was just something she 
thought Clayton would be interested to 
hear about. They had the reception in the 
depot. Her mother-in-law made the wedding 
cake like a train of cars coming around a 
curve. It was all done with loaf cakes 
and chocolate icing. For music they had a 
man with a guitar singing songs about 
train wrecks."

   "No wonder her husband turned out the 
way he did," Qwilleran said. "He was a 
nut even then."

   "Now comes the sad part. After a few 
pictures of the young couple and their 
two young children, the pages of the 
photo album were, blank. I wanted to know 
why no more snap-shots, and Florrie said, 
'My husband got too rich. I never wanted 
to be the wife of a rich man. I liked it 
when he'd come home tired and dirty from 
digging a basement or shingling a roof, 
and we'd sit at the kitchen table and 
drink a beer and talk before we ate 
supper. . . .' Isn't that sad, Chief?"

   "It is indeed. Did she say anything 
else about her husband?"

   "Not a word, and I didn't think I 
should ask."

   "You're right. The questions will come 
later."

   "When Tish came home, I said good-bye 
to Florrie, and she held out her arms for 
a hug." Celia blinked her eyes at the 
recollection. "On the way out I had a few 
words with Tish. She'd brought home an 
armful of library books, and we talked a 
bit about our favorite authors. She said 
she'd like to be a writer herself. I 
asked if she'd studied it in college, and 
she said, 'My father didn't think college 
was necessary, because I could go right 
into the family business.' "

   "How did she say it? Regretfully? 
Apologetically? Matter-of-factly? 
Bitterly?"

   "Kind of stiffly, I thought. So then I 
looked innocent and said, 'What business 
is your family in?' She looked surprised, 
so I explained that I'd just moved to 
town a couple of days ago and didn't know 
anything about anything. She said they 
were in the financial business, but she 
was on vacation."

   "I'm proud of you, Celia," Qwilleran 
said. "You've done very well for 
starters."

   "Thank you. I really enjoyed every 
minute. And before I left, I told Tish I 
was sorry to hear their dog had been 
shot. Tish felt sick about it. He was a 
beautiful chow. And that gave me an idea! 
Pets are supposed to be good for elderly 
patients - for their morale, you know - 
so I suggested bringing Wrigley to visit 
her mother. He's a lovable cat, very 
clean, very quiet. Tish thought it would 
be wonderful, so that's what I'm going to 
do. Do you have any other suggestions, 
Chief?"

   "Yes. Continue to do your Pals for 
Patients job. Take Wrigley, by all means. 
Both of those lonely women need your 
cheery presence, and Tish may prove to be 
your best source of information. Continue 
to play the uninformed newcomer. At the 
same time, acquaint yourself with all the 
published facts on the scandal to date. I 
have a file of clippings for you to take 
home and read. Good luck! I'll call you 
tomorrow night."

   "Oh, I'm so excited!" she exclaimed. 
She reached for a long wooden object on 
the coffee table. "Is this what I think 
it is?" She blew one end and produced the 
high-pitched whistle of a steam 
locomotive. Yum Yum vanished; Koko stood 
his ground and swiveled his ears wildly.

   Qwilleran could do his best thinking 
with his feet elevated, a legal pad in 
his left hand and a black felt-tip in his 
right, and this is how he settled down in 
the library area after Celia had driven 
away. Yum Yum immediately came trotting 
down the ramp. Whenever he sat down, her 
built-in antenna signaled his whereabouts 
and flashed green. There she was, ready 
to curl up on his lap, and who could deny 
that appealing little creature? He had 
known her when she was a trembling, 
mistreated kitten. Now she was a self-
assured young lady who wanted her own 
plate at dinnertime and who had once 
tried to steal the police chief's badge 
off his chest. Qwilleran propped his 
writing pad against the furry body on his 
lap and started an off-the-cuff list of 
questions that needed to be explored. The 
writing surface rose and fell as she 
inhaled and exhaled:


   Does Tish have any life of her own, 
apart from job and family 
responsibilities? Did she, or does she, 
resent her father's interference in her 
career possibilities?

   When he was gallivanting around the 
country in pursuit of his personal 
pleasures, how did Tish feel about being 
a live-in Cinderella? How did she react 
to his all-night absences and travels 
with his secretary, while Florrie wasted 
away at The Roundhouse?

   How much, if anything, does Tish know 
about the embezzlement? Was she a 
collaborator in juggling the books? Was 
that Floyd's reason for wanting her in 
his office instead of in college? Did she 
collaborate willingly, or was Floyd a 
tyrant who gave orders and insisted on 
being obeyed?

   Does she know where he is? Does she 
have any guesses where he is?


   It was about eleven o'clock when 
headlights came bobbing through the Black 
Forest. Koko announced the fact, having 
seen them first. Qwilleran switched on 
the exterior lights and went out to 
investigate. There were two sets of 
headlights. He stood with his fists on 
his hips and listened to the owl hooting 
until the vehicles came into full view.

   The first was a pickup truck, and 
Derek Cuttlebrink unfolded his long frame 
from the driver's seat. "Brought you a 
load of wood," he announced flippantly.

   Two women from the second vehicle 
walked forward. "Hi, Qwill," said Fran 
Brodie. "We're delivering a surprise!"

   Elizabeth was with her. "You can sit 
in it, Mr. Q, and wonderful things will 
happen! I have it on good authority."

   "Not another rocking chair!" he said, 
trying not to sound ungrateful, yet 
leaving himself leeway to refuse it.

   What Derek was unloading from the 
truck was an armload of five-foot poles. 
"Where shall I set 'em up?" he asked, 
pausing on the threshold.

   Fran, who had led the way into the 
barn, pointed toward the lounge area. 
"Over there, Derek. There's plenty of 
space between the fireplace and the 
sofa." Having been the interior designer 
for the barn, she retained a proprietary 
interest in it. Whenever she visited, she 
went about straightening pictures, moving 
furniture, and giving unsolicited advice. 
Her sincere, good-natured aggressiveness 
usually amused Qwilleran, but he drew the 
line at five-foot poles.

   "What the devil are those things 
supposed to be?" he demanded in a cranky 
voice.

   "It's a portable pyramid," Elizabeth 
announced with the air of a generous 
benefactor. "Wally Toddwhistle designed 
it; Derek will put it together for you."

   "Only takes a jiffy," Derek said. "All 
you need is a screwdriver. Got a 
screwdriver?"

   "There's a toolkit in the broom 
closet." Qwilleran threw himself on the 
sofa and watched with a dour expression 
as five-foot poles were joined to become 
ten-foot poles, which fitted together to 
make a ten-foot square; then four other 
ten-foot poles were attached to the 
corners and joined at the apex.

   "Voila! A pyramid!" cried Elizabeth.

   Derek crawled into the cagelike 
structure and sat cross-legged. "Wow! I'm 
getting vibrations! I'm getting ideas! 
How about selling Elizabeth the barn, Mr. 
Q, and I'll open a restaurant?"

   "How about telling me what this damm 
fool thing is all about?" Qwilleran 
retorted.

   Fran spoke up. "Larry and Junior 
ganged up on us and wouldn't let us use 
it in our stage set. I thought you'd 
enjoy experimenting with it. Then you 
could write a column about pyramid power. 
It has something to do with the 
electromagnetic field."

   "Hmmm," he murmured, mellowing a 
trifle. Derek, still in the pyramid, 
said, "Somebody get my guitar!"

   Elizabeth ran out to his truck, 
returning with the instrument, and he 
sang a ballad titled "The Blizzard of 
1912." Everyone said he'd never done it 
better. Derek said he'd felt inspired. 
Qwilleran suggested some refreshments.

   With their drinks and bowls of 
Kabibbles, they sat around the big coffee 
table, facing the pyramid. Fran and Derek 
were in the usual rehearsal clothes, 
straight from the ragbag, but Elizabeth 
was striking in a baggy red jumpsuit tied 
about the middle with a long sash of many 
colors. The Siamese sat a safe distance 
from both guests and pyramid.

   "How are the rehearsals progressing?" 
Qwilleran asked.

   "Situation normal," said the director. 
"Larry is allergic to green makeup. . . 
The prop girl has eloped, and we can't 
find any of the props. . . The stage 
manager broke his thumb. And the donkey 
head hasn't arrived from Down Below."

   "Hee-haw! Hee-haw!" Derek put in for 
dramatic effect.

   Yum Yum scooted up the ramp and looked 
down from the second balcony, but Koko 
merely wiggled his ears.

   "When is the first dress rehearsal?"

   "Monday. The tickets are selling very 
well. We may not have a show, but we'll 
have an audience."

   "How many intermissions?"

   "One. We're cutting after Bottom and 
Titania are bewitched. It sends the 
audience out smiling and brings them back 
ready for more."
   "Hey! What are those ducks up there?" 
Derek asked, pointing to the top of the 
fireplace cube.

   Qwilleran said, "From left to right: 
Quack, Whistle, and Squawk. They're hand-
carved decoys that Polly brought from 
Oregon. Actually, left to right, they're 
a merganser, a pintail, and a lesser 
scaup."

   Derek tried quacking, whistling, and 
squawking like a duck before the 
conversation returned to community 
theatre: its problems, calamities, and 
embarrassments.

   "Like the time we were doing a 
romantic costume play," Fran recalled. 
"Hoop skirts, powdered wigs, and satin 
breeches! The female lead was in a car 
crash on opening night, and Larry had to 
do her whole part, reading from the book, 
wearing a beard and tattered jeans. Talk 
about embarrassing! To the audience it 
was high comedy. They loved it!"

   Then Qwilleran remembered, "In my 
first stage experience, I played the 
butler and dropped a silver tray with a 
whole tea service - crash! I felt like 
cutting my throat with the butter knife."

   "The worst thing," Derek said, "is 
when somebody forgets his lines – freezes 
- goes blank! For some reason the 
audience stares at you! And you're 
standing there with egg on your face."

   At that moment, Qwilleran, who was 
keeping an eye on Koko and the cheese, 
saw the cat approach the pyramid and 
cautiously step into .. the so-called 
electromagnetic field. When he reached 
the exact center, the hair on his back 
stood on end! His tail puffed up like a 
porcupine! Then the lights went out.

   "Don't move," Qwilleran warned his 
guests. "Stay where you are till I find 
the flashlights." He groped his way to 
the kitchen, while the others said, "What 
happened? . . . There's no storm. . . 
Transformer blew, somewhere in the 
neighborhood, maybe. . ."

   Qwilleran announced that everything 
was out: refrigerator, electric clock, 
everything. He distributed flashlights 
and asked Derek to go to the top balcony 
and check for lights on Main Street. "If 
we're the only ones affected, I'll call 
the power company."

   Soon Derek shouted down to the main 
floor, "The whole county's without power! 
It's blacked out in every direction."

   "We'd better go home," Fran said.

   Qwilleran accompanied them to their 
vehicles and collected the flashlights 
after they had turned on their 
headlights. On the way to the parking 
area, Fran grabbed his arm and said in a 
low voice, "They found the girl."

   "What girl?"

   "Trevelyan's secretary, but not him."

   "How do you know?"

   "My mother got it from Dad when he 
came off his shift. The girl was in 
Texas, but not hiding out - just driving 
around to the mall and the hair-dresser 
as if nothing had happened."

   "Did they pick her up?"

   "Not yet. They're checking out her 
story - that she was fired two weeks 
before the surprise audit, which she 
claims to know nothing about."

   Qwilleran said, "That sounds like a 
well-rehearsed explanation. She was on 
the Party Train with her boss on the day 
of the audit."

   "Well, according to her story, the 
management had fired her with two weeks' 
notice. The train ride was her farewell 
party. After that, she drove to her home 
state, alone. One thing she volunteered: 
Her boss always talked about Alaska and 
might have gone there."

   Or Switzerland, Qwilleran thought. 
Floyd must have known an audit would be 
inevitable, but how would he know the 
timing? And then he thought, The person 
who tipped him off to leave town may have 
been the one who blew the whistle. It was 
improbable, but not impossible.

   When Qwilleran returned to the barn, 
he made a cursory search for the Siamese, 
flashing his battery-operated lantern to 
left and right. To his surprise, Koko was 
still in the pyramid, sitting in dead 
center, looking as large as a raccoon.

   "Koko! Get out of that thing!" There 
was no response.

   He likes it, Qwilleran decided. He's 
getting a treatment.

   Then he yelled the word that always 
got results: "Treat!"

   Yum Yum's paws could be heard pelting 
down the ramp. As for Koko, he stepped 
calmly out of the pyramid and shook 
himself until he returned to his normal 
size and shape. One thing disturbed 
Qwilleran: the instant that Koko left the 
center of the pyramid, the lights came 
on, and the refrigerator started humming. 
There was a glow above the trees to the 
west: the lights of Main Street.

   Whether his suspicions were right or 
wrong, Qwilleran immediately went to work 
with the screwdriver, disassembling the 
pyramid. He carried the poles gingerly 
from the barn and pitched them into the 
jungly remains of the orchard.

   "Whoo-hoo-hoo . . . hoo-hoo," flashed 
a message from Marconi.

   "Same to you!" Qwilleran shouted.

-10-
   The morning after the blackout, 
Qwilleran regretted his impulsive dumping 
of the pyramid" poles. Was the power 
failure a coincidence or not? With some 
experimentation he might be able to write 
a column about it, if Koko would 
cooperate. The cat never liked to do 
anything unless it was his own idea, and 
any attempt to deposit him bodily in the 
cagelike contraption would be thwarted by 
a whirlwind of squirming, kicking, 
spitting, and snarling. Then. . . the 
morning newscast on WPKX affected 
Qwilleran's decision:

   "Police are investigating last night's 
homicide at the Trackside Tavern in 
Sawdust City. James Henry Ducker, twenty-
four, of Chipmunk Township, was the 
victim of a knifing during a power 
failure, while soccer fans held a post-
game celebration. The Moose County 
Electric Cooperative is unable to explain 
the power outage that blacked out the 
entire county between eleven-thirty and 
eleven forty-five. There was no equipment 
failure, according to a spokesman for the 
co-op. No storm conditions or high winds 
were recorded by the WPKX meteorology 
department. An inquiry is continuing."

   The murder changed Qwilleran's 
thinking entirely. If he even hinted at 
his conjecture in print, the national 
media - always hungry for bizarre news 
from the boondocks - would pounce on it. 
TV crews and news teams from Down Below 
would descend on Moose County, and the 
family of James Henry Ducker would sue 
Koko for three billion. Forget it! he 
told himself.

   As for the victim, residents of 
Chipmunk were subject to mayhem, and 
post-game soccer celebrations were 
notoriously violent, especially in 
Mudville, which was known for its 
roister-doister taverns. Qwilleran could 
imagine the yelling, table banging, 
brawling, and bottle smashing prompted by 
the total darkness. In the resulting 
bedlam someone could empty a 
semiautomatic without being heard.

   Bedlam was the order of the day as he 
prepared breakfast for the Siamese. 
"Feeding time at the zoo!" he shouted 
above the cacophany of yowls and shrieks. 
"Let's hear it for Alaska smoked salmon!" 
he exhorted in his Carnegie Hall voice. 
"Smoked over alderwood fires! Age-old 
process!" He was reading from the can, 
and the louder he projected, the louder 
they howled. All three of them enjoyed 
exercising their lungs. On such a day, 
when the atmosphere was clear and the 
windows were open, the din could be heard 
as far as the theatre parking lot. 
For his own breakfast Qwilleran walked 
downtown to Lois's Luncheonette and 
stopped at the library on the way back, 
to visit with Polly in her fishbowl of an 
office on the mezzanine.

   "Where were you and Bootsie when the 
lights went out?" he inquired.

   "We both retired early and missed it 
completely," she said with a weariness 
unusual so early in the morning. "I felt 
some discomfort after dining with the 
Hasselriches. It was rather stressful, 
and my digestion is below par these 
days."

   "I've reiterated, Polly, that you're 
worrying too much about your house."

   "I suppose so, but it's such a 
tremendous responsibility. I'm working on 
my color schemes now. One has to bear in 
mind the exposure of each room, the 
choice of advancing or receding hues, 
tints that are flattering to complexions, 
and so forth."

   . "Fran Brodie could do that for you, 
one-two-three."

   "But I want to do it myself, Qwill! 
I've told you that!" she said curtly. "If 
I make mistakes, I'm prepared to live 
with them." Then, with a slight inquiring 
lift of eyebrows, she asked, "How did 
Mrs. Robinson enjoy dinner at Tipsy's?"

   Ah! The women have been talking, 
Qwilleran thought: Robinson to Alstock to 
Duncan. He replied, "She seemed favorably 
impressed. It would have been more 
enjoyable if you were there. What did 
your literary ladies have for dinner? Was 
it chicken pot pie again?"

   "Turkey chow mein," Polly said 
stiffly.

   The mention of food was his cue to 
invite her to dinner. Instead, he asked 
where he would find dog books. He said he 
planned to write a column on chows. 
Dinner dates with Polly were becoming 
more of an obligation than a pleasure.

   On the way out, Qwilleran stopped to 
check on Homer Tibbitt's current project.

   "Railroads!" the old man said. "The 
SC&L Line was the lifeblood of the county 
in mining and lumbering days, and it was 
all done with steam. I grew up on a farm 
outside Little Hope and knew the language 
of the whistles before I knew the 
alphabet. When I was five years old, my 
brothers and I would go into town on 
Saturdays to watch the trains go by. I 
remember the station platform: wood 
boards put together with nailheads as big 
as dimes. Little Hope was only a 
flagstop, and most trains went straight 
through. I could hear them coming, 
getting louder and louder, until the big 
wheels went roaring past. It was 
frightening, I tell you! Seventy-five 
tons of iron, breathing fire!"

   "Were there many wrecks?"

   "Yes, a lot of blood was spilled, most 
of it for the sake of being on time. 
Being on time made money for the SC&L and 
meant a bonus for the engineer, so he'd 
go too fast, trying to get his lading to 
a cargo ship that was ready to sail. . . 
. One of these days I'll write a book."


   When Qwilleran picked up his mail and 
daily paper, he usually walked down the 
trail, but now he drove in order to 
deliver a cooler of beverages. The 
morning after the blackout, Eddie's only 
helper was one of the Herculean young 
blond men indigenous to Moose County.

   "Where's Benno?" Qwilleran asked.

   Eddie walked over to him and started 
sharpening a pencil. "I dunno. Prob'ly 
hung over."

   "Where were you when the lights went 
out last night?"

   "Over at a friend's place. It di'n't 
last long." Eddie looked red-eyed and 
minus pep, and Qwilleran was in no mood 
to linger. He wanted to go home and read 
what the Something had to say about the 
murder.

The headline read: BLACKOUT SPAWNS 
KILLING IN BAR.


   When the lights went on again at the 
Trackside Tavern in Sawdust City, 
following last night's brief power 
outage, one customer was found dead, the 
victim of a knifing. The body of James 
Henry Ducker, 24, of Chipmunk Township, 
was slumped in a booth, bleeding 
profusely from wounds apparently 
inflicted by a hunting knife or similar 
weapon. He was pronounced dead at the 
scene.

   The table in the booth had been swept 
clean of beer bottles and shot glasses in 
the scuffle that preceded the assault, 
according to barkeeper Stan Western.

   "We always have a noisy demonstration 
when the lights go out," he said, "but 
last night was a blinger! Never heard 
such rowdy carrying-on. Soccer fans, 
mostly."

   The rowdy outburst followed an Inter- 
county League game between Sawdust City 
and Lockmaster, which the visiting team 
won by the close score of 5 to 3.

   Police questioned patrons, but no one 
in the dimly lighted bar had noticed the 
deceased or his drinking partner in the 
corner booth.

   Western said Ducker was not a regular 
customer. Barmaid Shirley Dublay had 
noticed a ponytail on the man who was 
later killed, but she was unable to 
describe the second individual in the 
booth where the crime was committed. "I 
was too busy," she said. "The other 
barmaid called in sick, and I was working 
the floor all alone."

   No arrests have been made. Sawdust 
City police and state troopers are 
investigating.

   The reason for the 15-minute blackout 
remains a mystery, according to a 
spokesperson for the Moose County 
Electric Cooperative.


   Also on page one was a sidebar with 
Roger MacGillivray's by-line, describing 
the scene of the crime:


   On a normal night the Trackside Tavern 
on East Main Street in Sawdust City is a 
quiet neighborhood bar, where folks drop 
in for a nip, a friendly chat, and maybe 
a game of pool. When the TV set isn't 
covering sports, the radio is tuned to 
country western and the new rock station, 
but there are no video games.

   Factory workers, downtown business-
men, truckers, railroad personnel, and 
retirees mingle at the long bar, or in 
the handful of booths, or at the small 
scarred tables. It's strictly a male 
hangout, following an incident ten years 
ago that made it unpopular with women.

   Otherwise, its hundred-year-old 
history includes some swashbuckling 
fights when it was Sully's Saloon before 
Prohibition, a period as a blind pig, and 
a series of different owners as the 
Trackside Tavern.

   The typical old north-country 
atmosphere of the tavern has remained 
unchanged, however: Knotty pine walls 
hung with mounted deer heads, wide pine 
floorboards rippled with a century of 
work boots and scraping chairs, and a 
wood-burning stove that heats the 
barnlike interior in winter. On the rare 
summer occasions when air conditioning is 
needed, the front and back doors are 
opened to funnel lake breezes through the 
barroom.

   The mood is easygoing, relaxing - 
except on Thursday nights if the local 
soccer team is playing a home game. 
"Strangers come in and whoop it up," said 
barkeeper Stan Western. "They're always 
welcome. Good crowd, mostly. Never had 
anything like this happen before. I think 
that fights between fans that started on 
the field after the game carried over 
into the bar."

   Roger was honing his craft as a 
newswriter, Qwilleran thought, but he 
should have explained the incident that 
kept women away from the Trackside.

   As for the soccer-brawl theory as a 
motive for murder, Qwilleran had a 
different idea, and he wanted to run it 
past his friend at the police station. He 
phoned first, to be sure Brodie was 
there, then drove downtown in a hurry. 
The sergeant waved him into the inner 
office.

   "Too late for coffee, if you came for 
a handout," the chief said.

   "That's all right," Qwilleran said 
lightly. "Your constabulary brew leaves 
something to be desired. Nothing 
personal, of course."

   Brodie grunted a constabulary reply. 
"What did you think of the mysterious 
blackout, Andy?"

   "Hard to figure. A woman called the 
station this morning and wanted us to 
investigate. She thought it was done 
purposely by UFOs. We told her it was 
only a large fish going over the dam near 
the hydro plant."

   "Did she buy that?"

   "I don't know. The sergeant hung up."

   "Whatever the cause," Qwilleran said, 
"it was a convenient cover-up for murder. 
Did you like the coverage in the paper?"

   "Not bad. Most of it was accurate. It 
wasn't a hunting knife, though. That was 
a reporter's guesswork. It was some other 
kind, but that's classified. It could 
affect the investigation."

   "Are you in on the case, Andy?"

   "We cooperate with the Sawdust PD and 
the state troopers."

   "Do you find it strange that none of 
the customers noticed the person who was 
with Ducker?"

   Brodie gave him a sharp glance. "Don't 
believe everything you read in the 
paper."

   "Are you implying that you have a 
description of the suspect?"

   "Are you just here to ask questions?" 
the chief growled.

   "No, as a matter of fact, I have a 
theory to bounce off your official skull. 
As you know, Polly is building a house at 
the corner of the orchard trail and 
Trevelyan Road."

   "How's she comin' with it?"

   "That's a long story, but my point is 
that one of the carpenters is a young 
Chipmunk fellow with a ponytail - "

   "A lot of guys have 'em if they jog or 
do sweaty work outdoors," Brodie 
interrupted.

   "Hear me out, Andy. This guy failed to 
show up for work today. His peers call 
him Benno. I have a wild hunch - "

   Qwilleran stroked his moustache. "I 
have a hunch that Benno is James Henry 
Ducker, and that the murder was not 
soccer-related but drug-related. I know 
you don't have a big drug problem up 
here. . ."

   "But it's starting, and Chipmunk is 
where it's at."

   "That being the case, he could have 
been dealing in bennies."

   "Who does he work for?"

   "Polly's contractor is Eddie 
Trevelyan, Floyd's son."

   "Sure, I knew him when he was in high 
school and I was with the sheriff's 
department. Eddie got into trouble and 
would have had a juvenile record, only 
his father pulled strings to get it off 
the books. He was good at that! Even so, 
Eddie was expelled from Pickax High, and-
wouldn't you know? - Floyd-boy sued the 
school board."

   Qwilleran said, "Eddie seems to be 
doing all right now. He works hard and 
does a good job, as far as I can see. 
Drinks heavily, I suspect, but not during 
work hours. Smokes a lot - only the legal 
stuff. Keeps a sharp pencil, so he can't 
be all bad."

   "Yeah, all he needs is a shave and a 
haircut."

   "Eddie told me that Benno had been his 
buddy since high school."

   "Then your hunch is right. Benno is 
James Henry Ducker, and Eddie has lost a 
carpenter as well as a father who can 
pull strings."

   "Any news on the manhunt, Andy?" 
"Nothing for publication."

   "I wonder what happened to the 
Lumbertown Party Train."

   "It's on a siding in Mudville."

   "One more question, and then I'm 
leaving," Qwilleran said. "What happened 
at the Trackside Tavern ten years ago 
that scared women away?"

   "Who knows? That's not my beat. Look 
it up in your newspaper files."

   "The Something wasn't publishing ten 
years ago, and the Pickax Picayune was 
never more than a chicken dinner 
newspaper. But there's some hushed-up 
reason why women don't patronize that 
bar."

   Brodie waved the subject away, saying 
impatiently, "Maybe they didn't like the 
cigars and four-letter words. Maybe the 
bartender wouldn't mix pink drinks. Who 
cares? It was ten years ago. Why don't 
you ask your smart cat? Lieutenant Hames 
was asking about him the other day. He 
was up here for a few days."

   "What was he doing here?" Qwilleran 
asked. He had known the detective Down 
Below while working for the Daily 
Fluxion, and now he wondered why a 
metropolitan lawman would be involved in 
an investigation 400 miles north of 
everywhere, unless – 

   "He was up here with his family, doing 
some camping and fishing. They caught 
some big ones. I met him at a drug 
seminar Down Below a while back and gave 
him a big selling on Moose County. His 
kids were crazy about it."


   As Qwilleran was leaving the police 
station, he saw Dwight Somers coming out 
of city hall.

   "Dwight, you old buzzard! Where've you 
been?"

   "Buzzin' around the county, picking up 
clients," the publicity man said. "How 
about an early dinner at the Mill?"

   "Suits me. I'll meet you there after I 
go home and feed the cats."

   Dinner at the Old Stone Mill was 
brief. Dwight had another appointment, 
and Qwilleran was anticipating another 
report from Celia.

   The younger man was elated. He had 
lined up the Moose County Community 
College as a client and was working on a 
great project with the K Foundation. 
"That's the good news," he said. "On the 
down side, I'm being hounded by Floyd-
boy's creditors. Just because I promoted 
his party train, they think I'm going to 
pay his outstanding bills. It's strange 
they haven't found him, isn't it?"

   "Are you in touch with the family?" 
Qwilleran asked.

   "Only with their attorney. He doesn't 
allow them to talk to anybody, including 
me."

   "Didn't you tell me that Floyd's 
secretary had an apartment in your 
building in Indian Village?"

   "Yeah, but I never got an invitation 
to drop in for a neighborly visit. 
Perhaps I'm too neat and clean. I've seen 
some scruffy types knocking on her door, 
and Floyd himself was a little on the 
wild side, sartorially."

   It was a one-drink, small-steak, no-
dessert dinner, and the publicity man 
apologized for having to rush away.' As 
they walked to the parking lot, Qwilleran 
asked, "Do you happen to remember the 
name of the engineer who drove the 
locomotive when we took our historic 
ride?"

   "Historic in more ways than one," 
Dwight . said bitingly. "There'll never 
be another. The government will be sure 
to get their hands on Floyd's rolling 
stock. . . . But to answer your question: 
Sure, his name is Ozzie Penn. He's 
Floyd's father-in-law."

   "If he could tell me some good 
railroad stories, I'd interview him - not 
for the 'Qwill Pen.' I want to write a 
book on the Steam Age of railroading."

   "Well, he's in his eighties, but in 
good shape and mentally sharp. We got a 
doctor's okay before letting him drive 
No.9. He lives at the Railroad Retirement 
Center in Mudville," Dwight said as he 
stepped into his car. There was a packet 
on the seat, which he handed to 
Qwilleran. "Here's the video of our train 
ride. Run it and see if you think we 
could sell copies to benefit the 
college."

   "Thanks. I'll do that," Qwilleran 
said, "and . . . uh . . . keep it under 
your hat, Dwight, about the railroad 
book. I'll be using a pseudonym, and I 
haven't told anyone but you." The two men 
went their separate ways.

   At home Qwilleran looked up the phone 
number of the Railroad Retirement Center; 
the address was on Main Street. Then he 
checked the Trackside Tavern. First, out 
of curiosity, he called the bar.

   "Not open!" the man's harried voice 
shouted into the phone before slamming 
the receiver.

   At the Retirement Center the male 
switchboard operator paged Ozzie Penn and 
tracked him down in the TV room.

   "Hello? Who is it?" said a reedy voice 
with the surprise and apprehension of one 
who never receives a phone call.

   "Good evening, Mr. Penn," Qwilleran 
said slowly and distinctly. "1 was one of 
the passengers on the Party Train when 
you drove old No. 9. We all had a good 
time. That engine's a wonderful piece of 
machinery."

   "Yep, she be a beaut!"

   "My name is James Mackintosh, and I'm 
writing a book on the old days of 
railroading. Would you be willing to talk 
to me? You've had a long and honorable 
career, and I'm sure you know plenty of 
stories."

   "That I do," said the old man. 
"Plenty!"

   "May I visit you at the Center? Is 
there a quiet place where we can talk? 
You'll receive payment for your time, of 
course. I'd like to drive out there 
tomorrow."

   "Tomorrow?"

   "Saturday."

   "What be yer name again?"

   "Mackintosh. James Mackintosh. How 
about one o'clock?"

   "I ain't goin' no place."

   As Qwilleran replaced the receiver, he 
thought, This old man speaks a 
fascinating kind of substandard English 
that will fade out in another generation. 
Eddie Trevelyan's speech was simply the 
bad grammar common in Moose County. Ozzie 
Penn spoke Old Moose.

   "May I use your TV?" Qwilleran asked 
the Siamese, who had been watching him 
talk into the inanimate instrument. The 
telephone was something even Koko had 
never understood.

   The three of them trooped to the 
highest balcony, furnished to feline 
taste with soft carpet, cushioned 
baskets, empty boxes, a ladder, 
scratching pads and posts, and a small TV 
with VCR. There was one chair which the 
cats commandeered, while Qwilleran sat on 
the floor to watch the video.

   It was a festive collage of important 
people arriving at the depot and milling 
about on the platform, with the camera 
lingering on certain subjects: woman with 
large hat, man with oversized moustache, 
woman in expensive-looking pantsuit, man 
in Scottish tartan. (Koko yowled at 
certain images for no apparent reason.) 
The car valets jumped around like red 
devils. The brass band tootled. Then the 
great No.9 came puffing around a curve, 
blowing its whistle. The elderly engineer 
leaned from his cab; two firemen posed in 
the gangway with their shovels. Then the 
conductor bawled the destinations, and 
feet mounted the yellow step-stool. When 
the diners drank a toast in ice water, 
Qwilleran thought, It was symbolic!

   Although the camera occasionally 
panned picturesque stretches of 
countryside, the emphasis was on the 
passengers, who might be induced to buy 
the video to benefit the college. 
Qwilleran rewound the tape, thanked the 
Siamese for the use of their facilities, 
and went down the ramp to greet Celia 
Robinson.

   Her face was lively with smiles, and 
her large handbag produced a box of 
chocolate chip cookies. "We can have a 
party. They're good with milk. Do you 
have any milk, Chief?"

   "No, only a milk substitute called 
black coffee," he apologized, "but I'm a 
master at its preparation." With a grand 
flourish he pressed a button on the 
computerized coffeemaker, which started 
the grinding, gurgling, and dripping. The 
brew that resulted was good, Celia said, 
but awfully strong.

   As they sat down with their coffee and 
cookies, Qwilleran said to her in an 
ominous tone of voice, "Celia, you're 
being tailed by the police."

   "What!" she cried. "What have I done?"

   "Only kidding; don't be alarmed. The 
police chief has seen your red car in the 
parking lot and knows you're living in 
the carriage house, and the detectives 
staking out the Trevelyan property know 
you've visited The Roundhouse.

   Next, they'll see you driving through 
the Black Forest for these meetings."

   "Should I get my car painted?"

   "That won't be necessary, but it 
emphasizes the need to keep Operation 
Whistle under wraps. Here's what I 
suggest for your cover: You're planning 
to start a specialized catering service: 
hot meals for shut-ins. . . refreshments 
for kids' birthday parties. . . gourmet 
delicacies for cats and dogs. We might 
run an ad in the paper to that effect."

   "Do you mean it?" she asked in 
astonishment.

   "Only to fool the cops. You might take 
a casserole to Florrie, just in case 
you're stopped. . . . And now, what 
happened today? Did you take Wrigley?"

   "Oh, he was a big hit! He sat on 
Florrie's lap, and she stroked him and 
looked so happy! Tish didn't want to miss 
the fun, so she fixed lunch for us and 
gave Wrigley a bit of tuna. After a while 
I asked the name of the bank that they 
own, so I could open an account. Tish 
said it was a credit union especially for 
railroad workers, and she began to get 
very fidgety. Pretty soon she said she 
had to go and buy groceries. Then I 
thought of a sneaky question to ask 
Florrie. . . It would be nice if I could 
tape these conversations, Chief."

   "It would arouse suspicion," he said. 
"I mean, with a hidden tape recorder. My 
grandson had one that he used in Florida. 
I could phone him, and he'd send it by 
overnight mail."

   "It's illegal, Celia, to tape 
someone's conversation without 
permission. Thousands of persons do it 
and get away with it, but if it came to 
light in this case, you'd be in trouble, 
and Operation Whistle would be involved. 
It's a bright idea, but please forget it. 
You're doing very well with your little 
notebook. Did you do your homework?"

   "Yes, I read all the clippings about 
the scandal and figured out some ways to 
get the women to talk. After Tish left, I 
asked Florrie what time her husband 
usually came home to supper. She looked 
at me funny - all bright-eyed and excited 
- and said, 'If he comes home, they'll 
put him in jail, and they'll take all his 
trains away. He stole a lot of money.' 
She finished with a wild laugh that 
frightened Wrigley. I tried to calm her 
down, but she wanted to go down on the 
elevator and show me the trains. Have you 
ever seen them, Chief?"

   "I have indeed-a fantastic display! I 
wrote a column about Floyd's model 
railroad a couple: of months ago, before 
he absconded."

   "Well! Wait till you hear this! 
Florrie told me to press the button and 
start the trains running, but I was 
afraid of pressing the wrong one and 
wrecking the whole shebang. So Florrie I 
wheeled herself to the switchboard and 
started pushing buttons and turning 
knobs. All the trains started to move at 
the same time - faster and faster until 
they crashed into each other and into 
bridges and buildings! I screamed for her 
to turn it off, but she was enjoying it 
and laughing like crazy. Then a fuse 
blew, I guess, because all the lights 
went out, but it was too late. The whole 
thing was wrecked! I was a wreck myself, 
believe me! When Tish came back from the 
store, I was still as limp as a rag, and 
I couldn't find Wrigley."

   "How did she react to the disaster?"

   "Quite cool. She disconnected 
something and said it was all right - no 
danger. But after we tucked Florrie in 
for her afternoon nap, Tish put her face 
in her hands and started to bawl. She 
really sobbed and wailed! I said, 'I'm 
terribly sorry about the trains, but 
there was nothing.I could do.' She shook 
her head from side to side and said it 
wasn't the trains she cared about; it was 
other things. I put my arm around her and 
said, 'Have a good cry, dear. It'll do 
you good. Don't be afraid to tell me your 
troubles. I'm your friend.' That started 
another gush of tears."

   Qwilleran said, "You tell this story 
very well, Celia."

   "Do you think so? I used to tell 
stories to Clayton when he was little. . 
. So after a while Tish dabbed her eyes 
and sniffled and suddenly said in a 
bitter voice, 'I despise my . . . 
mother's husband!' I tried to get her to 
talk about it and unburden herself."

   Qwilleran nodded, but his thoughts 
were elsewhere. If Tish despised her 
father - for whatever reason - could she 
have been the one who blew the whistle? 
Or could her show of hostility be 
camouflage for her own involvement in the 
fraud?

   "Yow!" came a warning from Koko, who 
was looking out the kitchen window.

   "Someone's coming!" Qwilleran jumped 
to his feet. "He heard a car coming 
through the woods!"

   "Police? Where shall I go?" Celia 
asked in alarm, grabbing her handbag.

   "Stay where you are."

   It was only Mr. O'Dell, the 
maintenance man, wanting to pick up his 
check for services rendered.

   "So. . . go on, Celia. Did Tish talk?"

   "Yes, she told me about F.T. That's 
what she calls her father. He terrorized 
her and her brother Eddie when they were 
growing up. Today she resents the fact 
that he made her take business courses in 
high school and go to work in his office 
instead of going to college. But mostly 
she hates the way. he ruined Florrie's 
life - with his neglect, and his stingy 
way with money, and his girlfriends."

   Qwilleran checked the notes he had 
been taking. "It's not true, you know, 
that the Lumbertown Credit Union is only 
for railroad employees. Tish was trying 
to steer you away from the subject."

   "I believe it. She's very cagey about 
certain things. Just before I left, I 
said to her, 'Florrie told me something I 
didn't understand. She said her husband 
stole some money and might go to jail. 
Was she out of her head?' When I said 
that, Tish got terribly flustered, saying 
there are some complications at his 
office, and no one knows for sure what 
it's all about. Then she froze up, so I 
didn't ask any more questions. We 
searched for Wrigley and found him 
crouched in his sandbox, as if it was the 
only safe place in the house. They want 
me to take him again on Monday, but. . . 
Oh! Look at the parade!" she squealed, 
pointing to the top of the fireplace 
cube.

   Soberly Qwilleran said, "Left to 
right, their names are Quack, Whistle, 
Squawk, Yum Yum, and Koko."

   The two cats were in perfect alignment 
with the decoys, folded into compact 
bundles that made them look like sitting 
ducks.

   "You can't tell me " he said "that 
cats don't have a sense of humor!"

   Celia's explosive laughter disturbed 
the masquerade, and the two "live" ducks 
jumped to the floor. "I'm sorry, 
kitties," she apologized. "I've always 
heard that cats don't like to be laughed 
at. . . . Well, that's all I have to 
report. I'd better go home and see if 
Wrigley is recovering from his scare."

   As Qwilleran escorted her to the 
parking area, he said, "I may devise a 
new strategy this weekend. Shall we get 
together for a briefing Sunday evening?"

   "Okay with me, Chief," she said 
blithely.

   Back at the barn, another pantomime 
was in progress. Koko was on the 
telephone desk, pushing the English 
pencil box with his nose, pushing it 
toward the edge of the desk.

   "NO!" Qwilleran thundered. Rushing to 
the spot, he caught the antique treasure 
before it landed on the clay tile floor. 
"Bad cat!"

Koko flew up the ramp in a blur of fur.

-11-
   For his interview with Ozzie Penn, 
Qwilleran went equipped with his usual 
tape recorder plus some snapshots of No.9 
making her comeback on Audit Sunday, as 
the newspaper called it. Before leaving, 
he trimmed his moustache somewhat and 
hoped he would look more like James 
Mackintosh, author, than Jim Qwilleran, 
columnist.

   The Railroad Retirement Center was 
directly across Main Street from the 
Trackside Tavern, still closed. Two 
police vehicles were parked at the curb, 
one obviously from the forensic lab. The 
Center, formerly a railroad hotel, was a  
three-story brick building without such 
unnecessary details as porches, shutters, 
or ornamental roof brackets.

   When Qwilleran walked into the lobby, 
it was vacant except for a young male 
telephone operator at the switchboard. 
Behind him was a bank of pigeonholes for 
mail and messages, with a room number on 
each; all were empty. The lobby was 
clean, one could say that for it. Brown 
walls, brown floors, and brown wood 
furniture gleamed with high-gloss 
varnish, reminding Qwilleran of a press 
club Down Below that occupied a former 
jail. Through double glass doors he could 
see a television screen, lively with 
colorful commercials. Several elderly men 
sat around it, staring or dozing. A few 
others were playing cards.

   "Are you Mr. Mackintosh?" the operator 
asked. "Ozzie's waiting for you. Room 
203. Elevator down the hall; stairs at 
the back."

   Qwilleran trusted his knees more than 
he trusted the grim-looking elevator with 
folding metal gate. He chose to walk up 
the brown varnished stairwell to a brown 
hallway, where he knocked on the brown 
door of 203. It opened immediately, and 
there stood the old engineer he 
remembered from Audit Sunday - a big, 
husky man, though slightly stooped. He 
had changed, however, since the debut of 
No.9. The ruddy face that had beamed with 
pride in the window of the engineer's cab 
was now gray and weary.

   "Good afternoon, Mr. Penn. I'm the one 
who's writing a book on railroading in 
the Age of Steam. Mackintosh is the 
name."

   "Come in. I been waitin'. Where ye 
from?"

   "Chicago."

   "Set ye down. Call me Ozzie." His 
welcome was cordial, although he seemed 
too tired to smile. He slapped his denim 
chest and said, "Wore my over-halls for 
the pitcher."

   "Sorry I didn't bring a camera, Ozzie, 
but I have some good photos of you in the 
cab of No.9, and they're yours to keep."

   The old man accepted the snapshots 
gratefully. "By Crikey, she be a purty 
hog, no mistake."

   They sat with a small lamp table 
between them, and Qwilleran set up his 
tape recorder. "Mind if I record this? 
Did you drive No.9 in the old days?"

   "Yep. I were a young-un then. Them 
diesels, they be okay, but ain't nothin' 
like steam!" The man spoke pure Old 
Moose.

   Qwilleran's practiced eye roved over 
the shabby furnishings without staring or 
criticizing. "That's a beautiful oil 
can," he said, nodding toward a shiny 
brass receptacle with a thin, elongated 
spout. "How was it used?"

   "That were for oilin' piston rods and 
drivers. Kep' the wheels on the rails for 
nigh onto fifty year, it did. They give 
it me when I retired. Better'n the gold 
watch, it were."

   "I believe it! You were a master of 
your craft, I'm told. What does it take 
to make a good engineer?"

   Ozzie had to think before answering. 
"l'arnin' to start up slow and stop 
smooth. . . l'arnin' to keep yer head 
when it be hell on the rails. . . Prayin' 
to God fer a good fireman. . . And 
abidin' by Rule G," he finished with a 
weak chuckle.

   "What's the fireman's job on a steam 
locomotive?"

   "He be the one stokes the firebox an' 
keeps the boiler steamin'. Takes a good 
crew to make a good run and come in on 
time. Spent my whole life comin' in on 
time. Eleventh commandment, it were 
called. Now, here I be, an' time don't 
mean nothin'."

   Qwilleran asked, "Why was it so 
important to be on time?"

   "Made money for the comp'ny. Made 
wrecks, too. . . takin' chances, takin' 
shortcuts."

   "Were you in many wrecks?"

   "Yep, an' on'y jumped once. I were a 
young-un, deadheadin' to meet a crew in 
Flapjack. Highballin' round a curve, we 
run into a rock-slide. Engineer yelled 
'Jump!' an' I jumped. Fireman jumped, 
too. Engineer were killed."

   "What do you know about the famous 
wreck at Wildcat, Ozzie?"

   "That were afore my time, but I heerd 
plenty o' tales in the SC&L switchyard. 
In them days the yard had eighteen tracks 
and a roundhouse for twenty hogs." His 
voice faded away and his eyes glazed as 
his mind drifted into the past.

   Qwilleran persisted with his question.

   "It weren't called Wildcat in them 
days. It were South Fork. Trains from up 
north slowed down to twenty at South Fork 
afore goin' down a steep grade to a 
mighty bad curve and a wood trestle 
bridge. The rails, they be a hun'erd feet 
over the water. One day a train come 
roarin' through South Fork, full steam, 
whistle screechin'. It were a wildcat - a 
runaway train - headed for the gorge. At 
the bottom - crash!-bang! Then hissin' 
steam. Then dead quiet. Then the 
screamin' started. Fergit how many 
killed, but it were the worst ever!"

   Both men were silent for a moment. 
Qwilleran could hear the gold watch 
ticking. Finally he asked, "Did they ever 
find out what caused the wreck?"

   "Musta been the brakes went blooey, 
but the railroad, they laid it on the 
engineer - said he were drinkin'. Saved 
the comp'ny money, it did, to lay it on 
the engineer. Poor feller! Steam boiler 
exploded, an' he were scalded to death."

   "Horrible!" Qwilleran murmured.

   'Yep. It were bad, 'cause he weren't a 
drinkin' man."

   "So that's why they changed the name 
of the town to Wildcat! You're a very 
lucky man, Ozzie, to have survived so 
many dangers! If you had your life to 
live over again, would you be a hoghead?"

   "Yep." After the excitement of telling 
the story, the old man was running out of 
steam.

   Qwilleran said, "Too bad the Trackside 
is closed. We could get some food and 
drink."

   "There be another place down the 
street," said Ozzie, reviving somewhat. 
"Better'n the Trackside."

   As the two men walked down Main 
Street, slowly, Qwilleran asked if any 
women lived in the Retirement Center.

   "Nope."

   "I hear women never go into the 
Trackside. Do you know why?"

   "Nope."

   "Railroads are hiring women as 
engineers now," Qwilleran said.

   "Not up here! Not the SC&L!"

   The old man was breathing hard when 
they arrived at the bar and grill called 
The Jump-Off. A middle-aged woman with a 
bouncer's build and a rollicking 
personality greeted them heartily. Four 
young women in baseball jerseys were 
talking loudly about their recent win. A 
few elderly men were scattered about the 
room. The hearty greeter took their 
order: rye whiskey straight for Ozzie, 
ginger ale for Qwilleran.

   When Ozzie had downed his drink, 
Qwilleran asked, "How did you feel about 
driving old No.9 and hauling the Party 
Train?"

   "Purty good" was the answer.

   "It hasn't made any more runs since 
then."

   "Nope."

   "Too bad the credit union had to 
close. Sawdusters must be feeling the 
pinch. Were you affected?"

   "Nope. Had m'money in a bank."

   Hmm, Qwilleran mused; why not in his 
son-in-law's corporation? "Can you stand 
another rye, Ozzie? And a burger?"

   "Doc says one won't do no harm, so I 
figger two'll do some good."

   Qwilleran signaled for refills. "Did 
someone tell me Floyd Trevelyan is your 
son-in-law?"

   "Yep."

   "How do you like the model trains at 
his house?"

   "Never see'd 'em," Ozzie said, staring 
into space.

   There was an awkward silence, which 
Qwilleran filled with questions about the 
quality of the burgers, the degree of 
doneness, the availability of condiments, 
and the kind of fries. The bar served 
railroad fries: thick, with skins on. 
Finally he said, "I met your daughter 
once. Do you have other children?"

   Ozzie's reply was bluntly factual: 
"One son killed on the rails. One killed 
in Vietnam. One somewheres out west."

   "Sorry to hear that. Do you see your 
daughter often?"

   "Nope. Don't get around much."

   Qwilleran coughed and took a bold 
step. "Did you know she's seriously ill? 
You ought to make an effort to visit her. 
She may not have long to live."

   Ozzie blinked his eyes. Was it emotion 
or the rheuminess of old age? Suddenly he 
said angrily, "Ain't see'd 'er since she 
married that feller! Way back then I said 
he weren't no good. They wasn't even 
married in church! Guess she l'arned a 
lesson."
   In a voice oozing with sympathy, 
Qwilleran said, "She tells people she's 
very proud of you, Ozzie - proud to have 
a father who's a famous engineer. No 
matter what happened, you were always her 
hero."

   "Then why di'n't she listen to me? She 
were a good girl till she met that crook. 
I knowed he'd turn out bad."

   "Yet you agreed to drive No.9 for 
him."

   "That publicity feller wanted me to do 
it. Paid good money. It were an honor. 
All those people cheerin' and the band 
playin'! Nobody knowed No.9 were owned by 
a crook!"

   "Have you never seen your 
grandchildren?"

   "Nope."

   "The boy is a house builder, and the 
girl is an accountant, I believe. Is your 
wife living?"

   "Nope. Been gone nine year."

   "How did she feel about being 
estranged from your daughter?"

   "Never talked about it. Wouldn't let 
her say Florrie's name in the house. . . 
. You say the boy's buildin' houses? Like 
father, like son. Prob'ly turn out to be 
another crook!"

   Qwilleran thought of their physical 
resemblance; Eddie had the black 
Trevelyan hairiness. He said, "Ozzie, a 
reunion with your daughter might prolong 
her life. It would mean so much to her. 
You might find it painful, but it could 
be the finest thing you've ever done. How 
long since you've seen her?"

   "Twenty-five year. She were on'y 
nineteen when they had that sham weddin' 
in an engine cab. In over-halls! Not even 
a white dress! I di'n't go. Wouldn't let 
m'wife go neither."

   Ozzie hung his head and said no more, 
and Qwilleran thought, He'd be shocked if 
he saw her!

   After a silence during which they 
munched their burgers, Qwilleran said, 
"The woman who takes care of Florrie 
could pick you up some afternoon and 
bring you back. Her name is Mrs. 
Robinson."

   There was no response from Ozzie.

   "Mrs. Robinson has a video of you 
driving No.9 for the Party Train. She'd 
be glad to show it to you."

   "Like t'see that! Fred and Billy, 
they'd like t'see it, too."

   "Who are they?"

   "Fred Ooterhans, fireman, and Billy 
Poole, brakeman. We worked together since 
I-don't-know-when. We was the best crew 
on the SC&L. Still together at the 
Center, playin' cards, shootin' the 
breeze."

   Qwilleran paid the tab and said, "It's 
been a pleasure meeting you, Ozzie. Thank 
you for the interview."

   "Gonna print it in the book?"

   "That's my intention. And don't be 
surprised if you get a call from Mrs. 
Robinson."


   Shared weekends had always been 
important to Qwilleran and Polly, ever 
since he lost his way in a blizzard and 
stumbled into her country cottage looking 
like a snowman with a moustache. And yet, 
weekends were losing their savor, and he 
blamed it on Polly's house. In an effort 
to restore some of the magic, however, he 
proposed Saturday night dinner at the 
Palomino Paddock in Lockmaster, a five-
star, five-thousand-calorie restaurant.

   Polly was surprised and pleased. "What 
is the occasion?"

   "You don't know it, but we're 
exchanging our vows tonight," he said. 
"You're vowing to stop worrying about 
your house, and I'm vowing to end the 
Cold War with Bootsie."

   "I'll wear my opals," she said, 
entering into the spirit of the occasion.

   The Paddock was a mix of 
sophistication and hayseed informality, 
decorated with bales of straw and 
photographs of Thoroughbreds. The servers 
were young equestrians, fresh from a day 
of riding, eventing, jumping, or hunting. 
The chef-owner lived on a two-hundred-
acre horsefarm.

   Seated in a stall, Polly and Qwilleran 
drank to their new resolve - she with a 
glass of sherry and he with a glass of 
Squunk water.

   He said, "Don't forget, the play opens 
Thursday evening, and I have four 
tickets. We can have dinner with the 
Rikers."

   "Who's playing my namesake?" Polly had 
been named Hippolyta by a parent who was 
a Shakespeare scholar.

   "Carol Lanspeak. Who else?"

   "She's not very Amazonian."

   "She doesn't look like a fairy queen, 
either, but she's doubling as Titania." 
He pronounced Titania to rhyme with 
Britannia.

   "According to my father, Qwill, 
Shakespeare took Titania from Ovid and 
undoubtedly used the Elizabethan 
pronunciation of the Latin, which would 
be Tie-tain-ia."

   "Try that on Moose County for size," 
Qwilleran quipped. "Did your father ever 
explain Hold, or cut bowstrings?"

   "He said that etymologists have been 
debating its source for two centuries. I 
could look it up for you."

   "No thanks. Sometimes it's more fun 
not to know. . . . By the way, I've 
uncovered another Hermia case: a father 
who forbade his daughter to marry the man 
of her choice, disowning her when she 
disobeyed, and forbidding his wife ever 
to mention their daughter's name."

   "Shakespeare at least had a happy 
ending. Is there more to your story?"

   "There may be. Meanwhile, I've been 
reading the play aloud, and Koko gets 
excited whenever I mention Hermia. He 
also knocked Androcles and the Lion off 
the shelf - not one of Shaw's best, but I 
enjoyed reading it again. I played the 
lion when I was in college. It was a good 
role; no lines to learn."

   "What else have you been reading?"

   "A mind-boggling book on the 
engineering of the Panama Canal. Do you 
realize the Big Ditch took ten years to 
complete? It's forty miles long, and they 
dug out 240 million cubic yards of 
earth!"

   She listened in a daze, and Qwilleran 
knew she was wondering how many cubic 
yards of earth would be necessary to 
build a berm on her property.

   He rattled on, doubting that she was 
really listening. "The book was written 
by Colonel Goethals, the engineer in 
charge. It was published in 1916. The 
flyleaf of my copy was inscribed by 
Euphonia Gage to her father-in-law. It 
was a Christmas present. He would be 
Junior Goodwinter's great-grandfather. 
I'll give the book to Junior when I've 
finished reading it."

   "That will be nice," Polly mused. When 
it was time to order from the menu, 
Qwilleran had no problem in making a 
choice: she - crab soup, an appetizer of 
mushrooms stuffed with spinach and goat 
cheese, a Caesar salad, and sea scallops 
with sun-dried tomatoes, basil, and 
saffron cream on angel hair pasta. Polly 
ordered grouper with no soup, no 
appetizer, and no salad.

   "Are you feeling all right?" he asked 
anxiously. She tended to keep her 
ailments a secret.

   "Well, I've been plagued with 
indigestion lately," she confessed, as if 
it were a character flaw. "I have an 
appointment with Dr. Diane this week."

   He thought, She's getting ulcers over 
that damned house!

   Polly seemed to enjoy her spartan 
dinner and seemed to be having a good 
time. And yet, Qwilleran sensed a curtain 
between them. She was really thinking 
about her house, and he, to tell the 
truth, was really thinking about the 
briefing of his secret agent.


   Celia arrived at the barn Sunday 
evening in a flurry of smiles and 
youthful exuberance. "I had a wonderful 
weekend!" she cried. "I attended service 
at the little Stone Church and met the 
pastor during the coffee hour in the 
basement. The choir leader said she could 
use another voice, and everyone was so 
friendly! Then Virginia took me to Black 
Creek to meet her folks, and we had a 
lovely brunch. I know I'm going to like 
it here, Chief."

   "Good!" he said. "Make yourself 
comfortable while I concoct an exotic 
drink."

   While he opened cans of pineapple 
juice and grapefruit juice, Celia found 
the wooden whistle on the coffee table 
and blew a few toots. "This takes me 
back!" she said. "When I was little and 
living on a farm, I could hear train 
whistles blowing all the time. That was 
to warn people to get off the tracks. 
Anybody who didn't have a car or a truck 
used to walk the rails to get to the next 
town." She sipped her drink. "My! This is 
good! What did you put in it?"

   "I never reveal my culinary secrets," 
Qwilleran replied pompously.

   "In the newspaper the police say 
they're investigating the scandal. Aren't 
they getting anywhere?"

   "They do things their way, Celia, and 
we do things our way. We're searching for 
answers to questions, not hard evidence, 
which is what they have to have. That's 
why any scraps of information you pick up 
at The Roundhouse will help solve the 
puzzle."

   "Something's bothering me, Chief. I 
feel guilty because I'm sort of . . . 
spying on Tish and Florrie."

   "No need to feel that way. You're 
giving them something they desperately 
need: friendship, warmth, and sympathy, 
and at the same time helping to bring a 
criminal to justice. Just remember not to 
sound like an interrogator; keep the 
conversation chatty. Talk about your 
grandson, and ask Tish about her 
grandparents. Talk about your brothers, 
and inquire about hers."

   Celia laughed at this. "I'll never go 
to heaven, Chief, after telling so many 
lies for you. I only had sisters."

   "St. Peter will understand this 
ignoble means to a noble end. You must 
also bear in mind, Celia, that Tish may 
be lying to you; she may be part of the 
scam."

   "Oh, my! That's hard to believe!"

   "Nevertheless, keep your wits about 
you. It would be interesting to know what 
they're doing for money. Tish is laid 
off; all credit union deposits are 
frozen; her father has disappeared; that 
house must be costly to maintain, to say 
nothing of the cost of nursing care and 
medication. Did Floyd provide for the 
family before decamping? Did he keep a 
safe in the house? Is that where he kept 
his ill-gotten gains? Or did he have 
millions stashed in a suitcase under the 
bed?"

   Celia laughed uproariously. "Now 
you're really kidding, Chief. How could I 
find out stuff like that?"

   "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."

   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?"

   "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."

   "Well, wait till you hear! When I 
arrived, they both hugged me - Tish and 
Florrie - and said they'd been lonely 
over the weekend, and they wanted to know 
if I'd come and live with them! I and 
Wrigley! I almost fell over! I had to 
think quick, and I said my grandson was 
coming up from Illinois to live with me 
so he could go to school in Pickax, 
starting in September. They said Clayton 
could move in, too! I told them I was 
really touched by the kind invitation and 
would have to think about it. Whew!"

   "Nice going," Qwilleran commented.

   "So we had lunch and talked about this 
and tha't. Tish reads your column, Chief, 
and she raved about the one on sweet 
corn. I was dying to tell her I know you, 
but I didn't. They asked about Clayton, 
and I asked if they had many relatives. 
Tish has one brother - no sisters - 
grandmother dead, aunts and uncles moved 
away, grandfather a retired railroad 
engineer in Sawdust City. And here's the 
sad part: He lives twenty miles away and 
has never been to visit them! Her 
grandmother never even sent a birthday 
card! Tish hasn't met either of them. 
This family is very strange, Chief."

   "Was anything more said about the 
dog?"

   "I asked if they were going to get 
another watchdog. I said my son had a 
German shepherd. Tish got all teary-eyed 
and talked about Zak and how sweet and 
cuddly he was. She said he might have 
been killed by her brother's best friend; 
they'd been having some violent 
arguments. Isn't that terrible!"

   Qwilleran agreed but was not 
surprised. The pieces of the puzzle were 
beginning to fit together. "Could you get 
her to talk about the credit union?"

   "Not yet, but I'm getting there! After 
Florrie went to have her nap, I told Tish 
she was a wonderful person to give up 
college and stay home to take care of her 
mother. I said office work must be boring 
for someone with her talent. Then she 
showed me a clipping of a book review she 
wrote for your paper, and they paid her 
for it! She was so thrilled to see her 
name in print! She signed it Letitia 
Penn. That's Florrie's maiden name. . . . 
I asked what kind of work she did at the 
office, and she said a little bit or 
everything. She seems afraid to talk 
about it."

   "You're doing very well, Celia. Now I 
think it's time for that strange family 
to have a reunion. The grandfather has 
reached an age when many persons look 
back on their lives with remorse and a 
desire to make amends for past mistakes. 
I mentioned it to Mr. Penn when I 
interviewed him, and you might sound out 
the women tomorrow."

   "I know they'll love it!"

   "Do you mind picking up the old 
gentleman in Sawdust City?"

   "Be glad to."

   "When the family is together, you can 
show a video of the Party Train, with Mr. 
Penn in the engineer's cab," he said, and 
then thought, Unfortunately, it includes 
shots of F. T. in the engineer's cab and 
F. T. with his secretary.

   "Oh, we'll have a ball!" Celia 
squealed. "I'll make some cookies." She 
stood up. "I should drive home now. When 
the sky's overcast, it gets dark early, 
and the woods are kind of scary at 
night."

   Qwilleran accompanied her to her car 
and asked if she had noticed a lot of 
cars in the theatre parking lot. "It's a 
dress rehearsal for Midsummer Night's 
Dream, and I have a pair of tickets for 
you for opening night, if you'd like to 
see the show."

   "I'd love it! Thank you so much! I'll 
take Virginia; she's been so good to me . 
. . What's that rumbling noise?"

   "Only a bulldozer working overtime at 
the end of the orchard." He opened the 
car door for her. "Fasten your seatbelt. 
Observe the speed limit. And don't pick 
up any hitchhikers."

   The irrepressible Mrs. Robinson was 
laughing merrily as she started through 
the block-long patch of woods at a bumpy 
ten miles per hour.


   To Qwilleran the rumbling of the 
tractor was a welcome sound. It meant 
that Polly could cross off one item on 
her worry list. The man-made hill between 
house and highway would give her a sense 
of privacy, though there was little 
traffic on Trevelyan Road. Paving it had 
been a political boondoggle; no one used 
it except locals living on scattered 
farms.

   So Qwilleran listened to the 
comforting grunting and groaning of 
Eddie's skim-loader. . Lounging in his 
big chair, he asked himself: What have we 
learned to date? Benno may have killed 
Zak. Yet, even if he were a vengeful 
victim of the embezzlement, he would have 
known that the dog was not Floyd's. Tish 
had said the two young men had been 
arguing violently.

   Over what? A soccer bet? A woman? 
Drugs? Eddie may have killed his friend 
in a fit of drunken passion. The tension 
between boss and helper had been evident 
on the job - ever since Audit Sunday. 
When Eddie visited the barn, Koko hissed 
at him.

   "Yow!" said Koko, sitting on the 
telephone desk, perilously close to the 
English pencil box: His comment gave 
Qwilleran another lead: The police were 
being evasive about the murder weapon at 
the Trackside Tavern. "Not a hunting 
knife" was all Andy Brodie would say. 
Could it have been a well-sharpened 
pencil?

   With a growl and an abrupt change of 
mood, Koko sprang from the desk and 
launched a mad rush around the main floor 
- across the coffee table, up over the 
fireplace cube, around the kitchen. 
Objects not nailed down were scattered: 
books, magazines, the wooden train 
whistle, one of the carved decoys, the 
brass paperweight. Qwilleran grabbed the 
wooden pencil box from the path of the 
crazed animal.

   "Koko!" he yelled. "Stop! Stop!" 
Another decoy went flying. There was the 
sound of breaking glass in the kitchen. 
Then the cat flung himself at the front 
door. He bounced off, picked himself up, 
gave his left shoulder two brief licks, 
and stormed the door again like a 
battering ram.

   "Stop! You'll kill yourself!" 
Qwilleran had never interfered in a 
catfit; it usually stopped as suddenly as 
it had started. But he honestly feared 
for Koko's safety. He rushed to the foyer 
and threw a scatter rug over the writhing 
body and pinned him down. After a few 
seconds the lump under the rug was 
surprisingly quiet. Cautiously he lifted 
one corner, then another. Koko was lying 
there, stretched out, exhausted.

   It was then that the growl of the 
bulldozer floated up the trail on the 
damp night air. So that was it! The 
constant stop-and-go noise was driving 
Koko crazy. Or was that the only reason 
for the demonstration? Qwilleran felt an 
urgent tingling on his upper lip. He 
pounded his moustache, put on his yellow 
cap, and started out with a flashlight.

   Following Koko's significant catfit, 
Qwilleran jogged to the building site, 
where the skim-loader was making its 
nervous racket-starting and stopping, 
advancing and retreating, climbing and 
plunging. He could see bouncing flashes 
of light as the vehicle's headlights 
turned this way and that. While he was 
still a hundred yards away from the 
earth-moving operation, the noise stopped 
and the headlight was turned off. Time 
for a cigarette, Qwilleran thought; he'd 
better not leave any butts around.

   At that moment there was a gut-
wrenching scream - a man's scream - and 
then an earth-shaking thud - and then 
silence.

   "Hey! Hey, down there!" Qwilleran 
shouted, running forward and ducking as 
something large and black flew over his 
head.

   His flashlight showed the tractor 
lying on its side, half in the ditch. The 
operator was not in sight. Thrown clear, 
Qwilleran thought as he combed the area 
with a beam of light. Then he heard a 
tortured groan from the ditch. The 
operator was pinned underneath.

   Futilely he threw his shoulder against 
the machine. Desperately he looked up and 
down the lonely highway. A single pair of 
headlights was approaching from the 
north, and he waved his flashlight in 
frantic arcs until it stopped.

   "Gotta CB? Gotta phone?" he yelled at 
the driver. "Call 911! Tractor rollover! 
Man trapped underneath! Trevelyan Road, 
quarter mile north of Base Line!" Before 
he could finish, the motorist was talking 
on his car phone. He was Scott Gippel, 
the car dealer, who lived nearby.

   Almost immediately, police sirens 
pierced the silence of the night. Seconds 
later, red and blue revolving lights 
converged from north and south, 
accompanied by the wailing and honking of 
emergency vehicles.

   While Gippel turned his car to beam 
its headlights on the scene, Qwilleran 
climbed down into the ditch, searching 
with his flashlight. First he saw an arm, 
grotesquely twisted. . .next a mop of 
black hair. . . and then a bearded face 
raked with bleeding clawmarks.

   A police car was first to arrive, 
followed by the ambulance from the 
hospital and the volunteer rescue squad 
from the firehall. Seven men and a woman 
responded. They had rescue equipment and 
knew what to do. They jacked the tractor 
and extricated the unconscious body from 
the mud.

   Qwilleran identified him for the 
police officer: Edward Trevelyan of 
Indian Village; next of kin, Letitia 
Trevelyan in West Middle Hummock. The 
door closed on the stretcher, and the 
ambulance sped away.

   The others stood around, somewhat 
stunned, despite their composure during 
the rescue.

   "I heard the tractor," Qwilleran said, 
"and was on my way here to watch the 
action, when I heard a scream and the 
machine toppling over and a huge bird 
flying away. I think it was a great 
horned owl. There's one living in the 
woods."

   "When they're after prey at night, 
they can mistake anything for an animal," 
the officer said. "You're smart to wear 
that yellow cap."

   Gippel said, "That guy'll never make 
it. His bones are crushed. Do you realize 
how much that tractor weighs?"

   "The soil is wet, though," Qwilleran 
pointed out. "He was partially cushioned 
by the mud."

   "Don't bet on it!" Gippel was 
notorious for his pessimism, being the 
only businessman in town who refused to 
join the Pickax Boosters Club.
   As Qwilleran walked back to the barn, 
he dreaded the task of notifying Polly. 
The thought of a serious accident on her 
property would blight her attitude toward 
the house and add to her worries.

   By the time he arrived, his phone was 
ringing. It was Celia. "Bad news!" she 
said breathlessly. "Tish just called. Her 
brother's been in a terrible accident. 
He's in Pickax Hospital, and she asked me 
to go there, because she can't leave 
Florrie."

   "Call me if there's anything I can do, 
no matter how late," he said. "Call and 
tell me his condition."

   He turned on all the lights in the 
barn in an effort to dispel the gloom 
that hung over him. The Siamese felt it, 
too. They forgot to ask for their bedtime 
treat and were in no mood for sleep. They 
followed him when he circled the main 
floor. After several laps, he considered 
the twistletwig rocker, wondering if its 
efficacy included the therapeutic. When 
he gave it a try, both cats piled into 
his lap, Koko digging industriously in 
the crook of his elbow. Qwilleran endured 
the discomfort, remembering that it was 
Koko's catfit that had sent him down to 
the building site - before the accident 
happened!

   Eventually Celia called back. "He's 
unconscious, and only a relative is 
allowed to see him. I said I was his 
grandmother. He looks more dead than 
alive. The nurse wouldn't tell me 
anything, except that he's critical. . . 
What's that?" she cried, hearing a crash.

   "Koko knocked something down," he said 
calmly.

   "The hospital will call me if there's 
a turn for the worse. Tomorrow morning, 
after Florrie's nurse reports, Tish will 
drive to town, and we'll go to the 
hospital together."

   "That's good. She'll need moral 
support. Keep me informed, but right now 
you'd better get some rest. Tomorrow 
could be a hectic day for you." Qwilleran 
spoke softly and considerately; he 
returned the receiver to its cradle 
gently. Then he turned around and yelled, 
"Bad cat! Look what you've done!"

   Koko gave him a defiant stare, while 
Yum Yum scampered away guiltily. The 
epithet could refer to either male or 
female, but it was Koko who had been 
nosing the pencil box for several days. 
Now it lay on the clay tile floor in two 
pieces. The tiny hinges had pulled out of 
the old wood, and the box had burst open. 
The drawer with the secret latch held 
firm, and the paper clips were secure, 
but pens, pencils, a letter-opener, and 
whatnot were scattered allover the floor. 
As Qwilleran gathered them up, he saw 
Koko walking away, impudently carrying a 
black-barreled felt-tip in his mouth.

   "Bad cat!" he bellowed again. "Bad 
cat!" It may have vented his anger, but 
it did nothing to dent the cat's 
equanimity.

   Qwilleran set his alarm clock for six 
forty-five, an unprecedented hour for a 
late-riser of his distinction. He wanted 
to break the news to Polly before she 
heard it on the radio.

   At seven a.m. the WPKX announcer said, 
"A bulldozer rolled over late last night 
on the outskirts of Pickax, injuring 
Edward P. Trevelyan, twenty-four, of 
Indian Village. He was grading a building 
site in a secluded area when he was 
attacked by a large bird, thought to be 
an owl. He lost control of the tractor, 
which rolled into a ditch, pinning him 
underneath. The accident victim was taken 
to Pickax Hospital by the emergency 
medical service, after being freed by the 
volunteer rescue squad. His condition is 
critical."

   Qwilleran called Polly shortly after 
her wake-up hour of seven-thirty and 
heard her say sleepily, "So early, Qwill! 
Is something wrong?"

   "I have an early appointment and want 
to inquire about Bootsie before leaving."

   "I phoned the hospital last night," 
Polly said, "and Bootsie was resting 
comfortably after the initial treatment. 
It was nice of you to call."

   "One other thing. . . I'm sorry to 
report that Eddie Trevelyan is in the 
hospital."

   "How do you know?" she asked 
anxiously.

   "It was on the air this morning. He 
was in an accident last night."

   "Oh, dear! I hope it wasn't drunk 
driving."

   "They called it a tractor rollover. It 
looks as if he won't be able to supervise 
his crew for a while."

   In the pause that followed, Qwilleran 
could imagine the questions racing 
through Polly's mind: How bad is it? How 
long will he be incapacitated? Can his 
helpers proceed without him? Will it 
delay my construction?

   "Oh, no!" she cried. "Was he working 
on my property?"

   "I'm afraid so. He was doing a little 
midnight grading while he had the use of 
a rented skim-loader."

   "I feel terribly guilty about this, 
Qwill. I've been nagging him about the 
grading," Polly said in anguish. "It's so 
discouraging. Everything seems to be 
happening at once. First Bootsie, and now 
this!"

   "One thing I can assure you, Polly. 
You have no reason to worry about the 
house. If any problem arises, it'll be 
solved. Just leave everything to me."

   Qwilleran hung up with a sense of 
defeat, knowing his advice would be 
ignored; she would worry more than ever. 
It was nearly eight o'clock, and he 
walked briskly down the trail in the hope 
of finding workmen on the job. The site 
was deserted. The tractor lay on its side 
in the ditch; across the highway its 
flatbed trailer was parked on the 
shoulder; the pavement was a maze of 
muddy tracks. Soon a pickup pulled onto 
the property, and one of Eddie's workmen 
jumped out.

   Qwilleran went to meet him. "Do you 
know your boss is in the hospital?"

   "Yeah. He's hurt bad."

   "Can you continue to work on the 
house?"

   The man shrugged. "No boss, no pay. I 
come to pick up my tools."

   "Do you know where Eddie rented this 
machine?"

   "Truck-n-Track in Kennebeck."

   At that moment a late-model car 
stopped on the shoulder, driven by Scott 
Gippel on his way to work.

   "Did you hear the newscast, Scott?" 
Qwilleran asked.

   "Sure did! That guy's gonna cash it 
in, take it from me. It's the Trevelyan 
curse, allover again. Same place. Same 
family. Look! You can see the foundation 
where their farmhouse burned down."

   "Well, don't be too worried about 
Eddie. He's young, and he's strong - "

   "And he drinks like a sponge," the car 
dealer said. "He's probably got alcohol 
instead of blood in his veins."

   Qwilleran let that comment pass. There 
had been a time when he fitted the same 
description, more or less. He said, 
"Could your tow truck get this thing out 
of the ditch and deliver it to 
Kennebeck?"

   "Who pays?"

   "I do, but I want it done fast. . . 
immediately . . .now.

   Without answering, Gippel picked up 
his car phone and gave orders.

   Qwilleran waited until the carpenter 
had picked up his tools - and nothing 
belonging to Eddie. He waited until the 
tractor had been towed away. Only then 
did he go home and feed the cats. They 
were unusually quiet; they knew when he 
was involved in serious business.

   He himself breakfasted on coffee and a 
two-day-old doughnut while pondering 
Koko's bizarre behavior in recent weeks: 
the interminable vigils at the front 
window. . . his perching on the fireplace 
cube with the decoys . . . his vociferous 
and absurd reaction to the name Hermia. . 
. his digging in the crook of Qwilleran's 
elbow, ad nauseam.

   As the man ruminated, the cat was 
investigating the bookshelf devoted to 
nineteenth-century fiction.

   "You'd better shape up, young man," 
Qwilleran scolded him, "or we'll send you 
to live with Amanda Goodwinter."

   "Ik ik ik!" said Koko irritably as he 
shoved a book off the shelf. It was a 
fine book with a leather binding, gold 
tooling, India paper, and gilt edges. 
With resignation and the realization that 
one can never win an argument with a 
Siamese, Qwilleran picked up the book and 
read the title. It was Dostoyevsky's The 
Idiot.

   "Thanks a lot," he said crossly.


   Qwilleran's telephone was in constant 
use that morning. He called Kennebeck and 
instructed Truck-n- Track to send him 
Eddie's rental bill, not forgetting to 
credit the deposit. He instructed Mr. 
O'Dell to pick up Eddie's table saw and 
other tools and store them in a stall of 
the carriage house.

   At one point he telephoned the 
Lanspeaks, who called their daughter at 
the medical clinic, who spoke to the 
chief of staff at the hospital, who 
revealed that the patient was in and out 
of consciousness, having sustained 
massive internal injuries and multiple 
fractures. The next twenty-four hours 
would be decisive.

   Soon after, Celia called again. She 
had been to the hospital with Tish. Eddie 
was conscious but didn't recognize his 
sister. "I think they had him all doped 
up," she said. "We were wondering how to 
break the news to Florrie and how she'd 
take it, and we decided that the reunion 
with Grandpa Penn might soften the blow. 
What do you think, Chief?"

   Qwilleran thought, It'll either soften 
the blow or deliver the coup de grace. He 
said, however, "Good idea!"

   "So I'll phone him and ask if I can 
pick him up this afternoon. I hope it 
isn't too short notice."

   "It won't be. The social schedule at 
the Retirement Center seems to be 
flexible."

   "Also, I have something to report 
right now, Chief, if you can see me for a 
few minutes before I leave for The 
Roundhouse."

   When she arrived, she was flushed with 
excitement.

   "Coffee?" he asked.

   "I haven't time." Sinking into the 
cushions of the sofa, she rummaged in her 
handbag for her notebook and then dropped 
the roomy carryall on the floor, where 
its gaping interior immediately attracted 
the Siamese. It was used to transport 
such items as cookies, paperback novels, 
house slippers, drugstore remedies, and 
more. "What do you think they're looking 
for?" she asked, as the two blackish-
brown noses sniffed the handbag's 
mysteries.

   "Wrigley," Qwilleran said. "They think 
you've got Wrigley in there, and they 
want to let the cat out of the bag."

   Celia howled with more glee than the 
quip warranted, Qwilleran felt, but he 
realized she was overexcited by the day's 
happenings. He waited patiently until she 
calmed down, then asked, "Where's Tish 
now?"

   "Still at the hospital. They have a 
comfy waiting room for relatives in the 
intensive care wing, and that's where we 
had a heart-to-heart talk this morning - 
Tish and I. I asked if Eddie had friends 
we should notify, but she doesn't know 
any of his friends. . . I told you 
they're a strange family, Chief. . . Then 
she said Nella Hooper liked Eddie a lot 
and would be sorry to hear what happened, 
but she didn't leave a forwarding 
address. Nella, I found out, is the 
secretary at the credit union who was 
fired a couple of weeks before it closed. 
She and Eddie lived in the same apartment 
building. She wasn't a secretary, Tish 
said, but more like an assistant to the 
president. She had a degree in accounting 
and knew computers and made a big 
impression on Tish. They used to go to 
lunch together."

   "First question," Qwilleran said. 
"What was this highly qualified woman 
doing in a tank town like Sawdust City? 
Besides everything you mention, she has 
smashing good looks! I've seen her."

   "She loved trains! That's all. It was 
a dream job, traveling around the country 
with the president, looking at trains and 
- "

   She was interrupted by the phone. 
Hixie was calling to say that Nella 
Hooper's apartment would not be available 
until October first - and maybe not then 
if she decided to come back. The credit 
union always paid her rent – quarterly - 
in advance. Eddie Trevelyan had moved, to 
Indian Village four months before Audit 
Sunday. Hixie concluded, "Is he the one 
who was in that bad accident last night?"

   "He's the one. Floyd's son. Thanks, 
Hixie. Talk to you later."

   As Qwilleran returned to the lounge 
area, he was thinking, If they were going 
to fire Nella in July, why would they pay 
her rent until October? To Celia he said, 
"Did Tish mention why Nella was fired?"

   "She wasn't fired, really. Nella's 
father in Texas has Alzheimer's disease, 
and her mother needed her at home, so 
Nella had to quit her job. But the office 
made it look like she was fired, so she 
could collect benefits. She left without 
saying good-bye, which really hurt Tish's 
feelings, although she realizes Nella had 
family troubles on her mind."

   "Hmmm, makes one wonder" was 
Qwilleran's comment. "As 1 recall, Tish 
said she hated her father for cheating on 
Florrie. How does she react to Nella's 
relationship with her father?"

   "Strictly business, she said. Her 
father's real girlfriend owns a bar in 
Sawdust City. Tish told Nella how she 
felt about F.T. and how he wouldn't spend 
the money to send Florrie to Switzerland. 
Nella was very sympathetic and said it 
would be easy to switch $100,000 into a 
slush fund for Florrie, and F.T. would be 
none the wiser. Also, it would be legal 
because it was all in the family. . . . 
Do you understand how this works, Chief?"

   "I don't even understand why seven-
times-nine always equals sixty-three."

   "Me too! Glad .I'm not the only 
dumbbell. . . . Well, anyway, the next 
thing was that Tish introduced Eddie to 
Nella, because he wanted money to build 
condos. If he could buy the land, he 
could borrow against it to start 
building, but F.T. wouldn't back him. 
Nella told him not to worry; she could 
work the same kind of switch because it 
was all in the family. But before 
anything happened, Nella had to quit, and 
the credit union went bust. Tish was 
lucky to have her savings in a Pickax 
bank. She didn't trust F.T." Celia had 
been talking fast. She looked at her 
watch. "I've gotta dash. If I'm late, the 
nurse gets snippy."

   As Qwilleran walked with Celia to the 
parking area, she said, "Someone backed a 
truck up to the carriage house today and 
started unloading stuff. I went 
downstairs to see what it was all about, 
and I met the nicest man! He said he 
works for you."

   "That's Mr. O'Dell. You'll see him 
around frequently. He's the one who 
cleaned your win dows before you moved 
in."

   "They may need cleaning again soon," 
she replied with a wink, and she drove 
away laughing.

   Indoors Qwilleran found something on 
the floor that belonged on the telephone 
desk: the paperback playscript that Fran 
wanted him to read. Koko was under the 
desk, sitting on his brisket and looking 
pleased with himself. Qwilleran smoothed 
his moustache with a dawning awareness: 
There was a leonine theme in Koko's 
recent antics, starting with the lion in 
A Midsummer Night's Dream. . . then 
Androcles and the Lion. . . and now the 
Lion in Winter. Did he identify with the 
king of beasts? For a ten-pound house cat 
he had a lion-sized ego.

   Or, Qwilleran thought, he's trying to 
tell me something, and I'm not getting 
it!

-14-
   When Qwilleran's secret agent reported 
to Operation Whistle HQ on Tuesday 
evening, she was in a state of 
exhaustion. "I'm absolutely whacked!" she 
said. "First, the hospital this morning. 
. . then the family reunion. . . and then 
some flabbergasting news!"

   "Sit down before you fall down," 
Qwilleran said. "Relax. Have a swig of 
fruit punch. Say hello to Koko and Yum 
Yum."

   The Siamese came forth, looking for 
her handbag. When plumped on the floor it 
looked like a treasure-filled 
wastebasket. "Have you been good 
kitties?" she asked them.

   "No," Qwilleran replied. "Koko is 
still in the doghouse for malicious 
destruction of property. . . . Now go on 
with your story. In the last episode of 
The Trials of the Trevelyans, you were 
having a heart-to-heart talk with Tish, 
and Nella had just left without saying 
good-bye."

   "Yes, that was the Sunday they had 
that train ride at $500 a ticket. After 
the train ride, Floyd came home, got a 
mysterious phone call, and said he had to 
go and see a man about a train. He left, 
and they never saw him again."

   "When did Tish tell you this?"

   "This morning at the hospital. I 
couldn't tell you because I had to rush 
off to The Roundhouse. . . . So then I 
called Grandpa Penn and said I'd pick him 
up at two o'clock. He sounded as if it 
was the video he was really excited 
about. I didn't mention Eddie's 
accident."

   "Did Florrie know he was coming?"

   "Oh, yes! She was thrilled at the idea 
of seeing 'Pop' after so many years. She 
wanted to get all dressed up. At two 
o'clock, like I promised, I drove out to 
Sawdust City. That retirement home is a 
depressing building. Have you seen it?"

   "I have, and I think the residents 
spend most of their waking hours at the 
Trackside Tavern and the Jump-Off Bar. 
Who can blame them?"

   Celia told how she walked into the 
lobby and found three old fellows sitting 
in a row - all shaved and combed and 
respectable in white summer shirts. "They 
all stood up, and I asked which one was 
the famous engineer. The tallest one 
said, 'I'm the hoghead.' I told him my 
car was at the curb, and he said, 'Full 
steam ahead.' But when I led the way to 
my car, all three men followed me! Before 
I knew it, three husky old men were 
squeezing into my little car. I was 
worried about my springs, but what could 
I do? I said, 'I didn't know you were 
bringing your bodyguards, Mr. Penn.' They 
all laughed."

   "Well put," Qwilleran said. "It turned 
out they were his fireman and brakeman, 
who'd always worked as a crew and still 
stuck together. Their names were Fred and 
Billy, and they were all excited about 
seeing the video. On the way to The 
Roundhouse they talked a mile a minute!"

   "NO!" Qwilleran shouted, and Yum Yum - 
caught pilfering a pocketpack of tissues 
from the wonderful hand bag - dropped it 
and ran. "Sorry, he said. "Go on with 
your story."

   "Well, when we got to the house, Tish 
ran down the steps and threw her arms 
around her grandpa. Florrie was in her 
wheelchair on the porch, wearing a pretty 
dress. Her old dad stumbled up the steps, 
crying 'My little Florrie!' And he 
dropped down on his knees and hugged her, 
and they both cried. When she asked, 
'Where's Mom?' I cried, too."

   "A touching scene," Qwilleran said.

   "I took Fred and Billy out to the 
patio, so the others could have a private 
talk. The men remembered Florrie when she 
was a pretty young girl, waving at them 
as the train went by. They also knew 
about her wedding and didn't like it one 
bit! Then they started cursing F.T. to 
high heaven for stealing their life 
savings. They hoped he'd be caught and 
get prison for life. When I showed them 
the trains Florrie had wrecked, they 
laughed and cheered."

   "Did you show the video?"

   "Twice! Tish refused to look at it, 
and Florrie had to go to bed because the 
excitement had knocked her out, but the 
three men thought the video was 
wonderful. After that, I drove them back 
to Sawdust City."

   "I'd say you handled everything nobly, 
Celia."

   "Thanks, Chief, but that's not the 
end. When I got back to The Roundhouse, I 
got the shock of my life! Are you ready 
for it?"

   "Fire away."

   "It's something the lawyer had just 
told Tish. He said Floyd had put the 
Party Train in Florrie's name to protect 
himself from creditors and lawsuits!"

   "Well! That puts a new complexion on 
the matter, doesn't it?" Qwilleran said. 
"The train can be sold and the proceeds 
used to send Florrie to Switzerland."

   "But you haven't heard the whole 
story, Chief. Grandpa Penn is buying the 
train!"

   "Wait a minute! Does he have that kind 
of money?"

   "That's what I wondered," Celia said, 
"but Tish says he's had a good railroad 
job for fifty-years and always believed 
in saving for a rainy day. What's more, 
his money is in banks and government 
bonds, so it's not tied up. He's turning 
everything over to Florrie. They've 
called the lawyer already."

   "Will the old man have enough left to 
live on?" Qwilleran inquired.

   "She says he has his railroad pension 
and social security and good medical 
insurance. He doesn't need much else. . . 
. What do you think of it, Chief?"

   "Sounds like the ending of a B-movie 
made in the 1930s, but I'm happy for 
everyone. You didn't say how much he's 
turning over to Florrie, but he can sell 
the train for well over a million. More 
likely, two million. I heard that Floyd 
had put $600,000 in the locomotive alone. 
Just imagine! An old engineer's dream! To 
own the celebrated No.9!"

   Celia looked puzzled. "But if he wants 
to sell the train, who would buy it? 
That's an awful lot of money to spend on 
a thing like that."

   "Train collecting is a growing hobby. 
More people than you think are pursuing 
it." It also occurred to Qwilleran that 
the economic development division of the 
K Foundation, currently promoting 
tourism, might take over the Party Train 
and operate it as Floyd intended.

   "Well, it's time for me to go home and 
see what Wrigley's doing," she said.

   Qwilleran handed her an envelope. 
"Here are your tickets for the play 
Thursday night, plus a little something 
extra in appreciation of your work."

   "Oh, thank you!" she said. "I'm 
enjoying this assignment so much, I don't 
expect a reward."

   "You deserve one. And the next time 
you talk to Tish, see if she has any idea 
who tipped off the auditors to the 
Lumbertown fraud. . . and why they 
haven't been able to find Floyd . . . and 
who made the mysterious phone call on the 
night of his disappearance. She's a smart 
young woman. She might be able to make 
some guesses."

   "Yes, but I don't know how much longer 
she and Florrie will be here. Tish has 
already phoned the airline. They'll 
probably leave this weekend."

   After Celia had driven away, Qwilleran 
walked around the barn exterior several 
times and pondered a few more questions: 
Does Tish want to leave the country in a 
hurry for reasons other than those 
stated? Is there really a doctor in 
Switzerland who has a miracle cure? Is 
Florrie actually as ill as she appears to 
be?


   After the shocks, successes, and 
surprises of the last twenty-four hours, 
the next forty-eight were consistently 
disappointing. Operation Whistle came to 
a sudden standstill; Polly upset the 
plans for opening night at the theatre; 
and Qwilleran's imaginings about lurid 
secrets at the Trackside Tavern were 
squelched.

   Wednesday morning: He ran into Roger 
MacGillivray at Lois's Luncheonette, and 
the reporter said, "Hey, Arch told me to 
check out what happened at the Trackside 
Tavern ten years ago. Women boycotted it 
because they weren't allowed to use the 
pool tables."

   "Is that all?"

   "That's all. They picketed the bar for 
a couple of weeks and then got a better 
idea. They opened the Jump-Off Bar and 
went into competition with the Trackside. 
The food's better, and the owner is a 
buxom, fun-loving gal that everyone 
likes. Floyd lent her the dough to get 
started and helped her to get a license."

   "I've been to the Jump-Off 
establishment," Qwilleran said, "and I 
don't remember seeing any billiard 
tables."

   "Right! I asked the boss lady, and she 
said the women didn't want to shoot pool 
when no one told them they couldn't. She 
considers that a big laugh."

   Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. 
"Well, I suppose I'll see you at the play 
tomorrow night."

   "I'm afraid not. We'd have to hire a 
baby-sitter, and that costs more than the 
tickets. Besides, Sharon's the 
Shakespeare nut, not me."

   Wednesday afternoon: Celia phoned. "I 
won't have anything to report tonight, 
Chief.

   They didn't need me at The Roundhouse. 
Tish is there with Florrie. They're 
getting ready for their trip. I went to 
the hospital, and they've got Eddie 
trussed up like a mummy and hooked up to 
tubes and bottles. He doesn't look like 
anything human."

   Wednesday evening: Qwilleran 
telephoned Polly to inquire about 
Bootsie.

   "I'm bringing him home tomorrow," she 
said. "If you don't mind, I'll stay with 
him instead of going to the theatre. You 
can go and concentrate on your review. 
I'll look forward to reading what you 
think of the production."

   With a hint of annoyance he replied, 
"What I think about it and what I say 
about it in print aren't necessarily the 
same. I don't need to remind you this is 
a small town."

   Thursday morning: Celia called again, 
saying somberly, "Eddie isn't expected to 
last the morning. The hospital notified 
Tish to come right away. I'll meet her 
there and let you know what happens."

   Thursday afternoon: "Chief, I have sad 
news. Eddie passed away at ten thirty-
seven. Tish is in Pickax, and I'm looking 
after Florrie, but I'll be back in time 
for the play."


   A gala crowd attended the opening of A 
Mid- summer Night's Dream. There was 
excitement in the hum of voices in front 
of the theatre, in the foyer, and in the 
upstairs lobby. Half of the playgoers 
were friends, relatives, or classmates of 
the young extras. The rest were people; 
Qwilleran knew. Among them:

   The Comptons. "Where's Polly?" they 
asked him.

   Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers. They too 
wanted to know why Polly was absent. Dr. 
Diane Lanspeak with Dr. Herbert, Hixie's 
former attachment. As luck would have it, 
both couples had tickets in the same row.

   Celia Robinson with her new friend, 
Virginia Alstock. Celia and Qwilleran 
exchanged discreet nods.

   Dr. Prelligate of the Moose County 
Community College with a few faculty 
members.

   Scott Gippel, the worried treasurer of 
the club. "Looks like we'll end up in the 
black, but you never know."

   Three generations of the Olsen family. 
Jennifer Olsen was playing Hermia.

   Amanda Goodwinter, alone. "I hate this 
play, but Fran's directing it, and she 
gave me a ticket."

   Qwilleran met his guests in the 
upstairs lobby: Arch and Mildred Riker 
and Mildred's daughter, Sharon, who had 
driven in from Mooseville to use Polly's 
ticket.

   "What's with Polly?" Riker asked.

   Qwilleran described the situation. 
"Look here, Qwill! We've got to do 
something about your most favored friend. 
She's not herself these days. I realize 
how she feels about Bootsie, but her 
house is driving her batty. A sister of 
mine once had a nervous breakdown over 
the remodeling of her kitchen. What can 
we do about Polly?"

   "I wish I knew. To make matters worse, 
her builder died this morning."

   The lobby lights blinked, and they 
took their seats in the fifth row.

   The play was wildly acclaimed. The 
audience applauded the students dressed 
as lords and ladies, as they made their 
entrance down the central aisle. Derek 
Cuttlebrink and the crew of rude 
mechanicals brought down the house, as 
expected. The greenies with their weird 
makeup and robotic movements stole the 
show, however. Meanwhile, the Shakespeare 
buffs waited for their favorite lines: I 
am amazed and know not what to say. . . 
The course of true love never did run 
smooth. . . What fools these mortals be!

   As the king of the greenies delivered 
his line, I am invisible, and disappeared 
in a puff of smoke, Qwilleran heard the 
wail of a siren passing the theatre. It 
always alarmed him; he thought of fire. 
Then it faded away in the distance beyond 
the city limits. Moments later, he heard 
the honking of the rescue squad's 
vehicle. Then, just before intermission, 
Riker's beeper sounded, and the 
publisher, sitting on the aisle, made a 
quick exit to the lobby.

   As soon as the first act ended, 
Qwilleran hurried up the aisle and found 
Riker in front of the telephone booth.

   "Qwill, there's been a bad train wreck 
- south of Wildcat. The city desk is 
sending a man, but I think I should go, 
too. Want to come along? Sharon can take 
Mildred home."

   The two men missed the second act. As 
they pulled out of the theatre parking 
lot, Riker said, "I'm taking you away 
from the play, and you have to write a 
review for tomorrow's paper."

   "That's all right," Qwilleran said. "I 
know what I'm going to say about the 
first act, and I'll wing it for the 
second."

   Outside the city limits Riker drove 
fast, and conversation was terse.

   "Roger's baby-sitting. He'll be sorry 
to miss a hot story."

   "Yeah. . . well. . ."

   "Who's on tonight?"

   "Donald. The new guy."

   "He's getting his baptism by train 
wreck. Wonder what kind of train it is."

   "Freight is all they pull on SC&L."

   "Northbound or southbound?"

   "They didn't say."

   Reaching the town of Wildcat, they 
noticed unusual activity. The hamlet 
consisted of a general store, bar, gas 
station, and antique shop, with railroad 
tracks running parallel to the main 
street. People were milling around the 
intersection or standing on the tracks 
and staring to the south. Riker had to 
sound the horn to get through. "It's 
supposed to be a half-mile south of 
town."

   "If you remember the Party Train," 
Qwilleran said, "the tracks veer away 
from the highway south of Wildcat. We saw 
views from the train that we'd never seen 
before."

   It was still daylight but overcast, 
and a strange glow lighted up the gloom 
ahead of them. As they rounded a curve, 
they found the highway blocked with 
police vehicles, ambulances, and fire 
trucks. A few private cars were parked on 
the shoulder, their occupants gawking at 
the emergency equipment. Riker found a 
space, and they walked toward the center 
of activity. As soon as an ambulance was 
loaded, it took off for Lockmaster or 
Black Creek, and another took its place. 
All surrounding towns had responded. 
Medics running into the woods and 
stretcher bearers come back from the 
wreck had to push through underbrush, 
although rescue personnel with axes and 
chain saws were frantically trying to 
clear a path.

   Riker showed his press card to a state 
trooper. "Can we reach the scene of the 
accident?"

   "Follow those guys, but stay out of 
their way," the officer said. "Take 
flashlights. It'll be dark soon."

   The newsmen plunged into the woods, 
Riker grumbling that it was going to ruin 
his new shoes.

   Voices could be heard shouting orders 
that bounced off the cliffs on both sides 
of the creek. The whining of chain saws 
and hacking of axes added to the feeling 
of urgency. When they emerged from the 
brush, they were on a railroad right-of-
way with a single track and a string of 
old telegraph poles. A team of 
paramedics, carrying a victim strapped to 
a stretcher, came running up the track, 
hopping awkwardly from tie to tie.

   As the newsmen hobbled toward the 
wreck, they could see a flatcar with a 
huge floodlight that illuminated the 
trestle bridge. On the opposite bank of 
the creek was another flatcar with a 
railroad wrecking crane. Then a surreal 
scene came into view: a row of dazed 
victims sitting or lying on the 
embankment, while white-coated doctors 
moved among them. No train was in sight.

   "There's our guy!" Riker said. "Hey, 
Donald! Getting anything?" They ran to 
meet him.

   "Not much," said the young reporter. 
"Only pictures. Nobody knows anything for 
sure."

   "Keep on shooting," said the boss. 
"We'll hang around and try for quotes."

   "They think the train was stolen from 
a siding in Mudville."

   "My God!" Qwilleran shouted as he ran 
toward the gulch. "It's No.9!"

   Three jack-knifed cars were piled on 
top of a locomotive lying on its side in 
the mud - a grotesque monster still 
breathing smoke and steam.

-15-
   The Friday edition of the Moose County 
Something carne off the presses two hours 
early, following the episode at Wildcat. 
The banner headline read:


TRAIN WRECKED IN BLACK CREEK
No.9 and Party Train Crash After 
Whittling Joyride

   The fabled engine No.9 roared at top 
speed through the village of Wildcat 
Thursday night before plunging down a 
steep grade and around a treacherous 
curve. It derailed and crashed into the 
muddy water of Black Creek. One person 
was killed. Forty were injured, some 
seriously.

   The ill-fated run, unscheduled and 
allegedly unauthorized, left the switch-
yard at Sawdust City about 9:15, 
according to witnesses. It raced south 
with whistle blowing through Kennebeck, 
Pickax, and Little Hope, narrowly missing 
a consist of 20 freight cars being 
shunted at Black Creek Junction.

   Residents of Wildcat heard the 
continuous screaming whistle that 
signified a runaway train and rushed to 
the cross-roads in time to see the last 
car hurtling down the grade. Signals to 
slow down are clearly posted on the 
approach to Wildcat. An investigation is 
under way to determine whether the 
accident was due to mechanical failure or 
human error.

   In either case the SC&L disclaims 
responsibility, a spokesman for the 
railroad said, since the Party Train was 
privately owned and berthed on a private 
siding.

   At presstime, the reason for the 
unexpected run had not been ascertained. 
A spokesman for the Lockmaster County 
sheriff's department called the ill-fated 
run "a joyride for railroad nuts who knew 
how to shovel coal."

   The Party Train is known to be the 
property of Floyd Trevelyan, who is 
wanted on charges of fraud in connection 
with the Lumbertown Credit Union. The 
crew and passengers were all residents of 
the Railroad Retirement Center in Sawdust 
City. The only fatality was the engineer, 
Oswald Penn, 84, retired after 50 years 
with SC&L. He had an outstanding safety 
record. He was Trevelyan's father-in-law.

   Passengers and other crew members 
jumped to save their lives before the 
crash. Eighteen sustained injuries 
requiring hospitalization; 22 were 
treated and released. They were being 
questioned by investigators. Conspiracy 
has not been ruled out.

   A paramedic on the scene said, "All 
these old fellows are long past 
retirement age. Looks like they wanted to 
make one last jump. They didn't know 
their bones are getting brittle. We've 
got a lot of fracture cases here."

   Emergency medical teams, volunteer 
rescue squads, and volunteer firefighters 
from Lockmaster, Black Creek Junction, 
Flapjack, and Little Hope responded. The 
sheriffs of two counties were assisted by 
state police. SC&L wrecking equipment was 
brought from Flapjack to clear the right-
of-way for northbound and southbound 
freight consists.

   The Black Creek trestle bridge itself 
was not damaged, but tracks and ties are 
being replaced. A repair foreman on the 
scene said, "The train was traveling so 
fast, it tore off the curved tracks and 
made them straight as a telephone pole. 
Man, that's real whinlin'."


   Twelve hours before the headlines hit 
the street, Riker and Qwilleran drove 
away from the wreckage with divided 
reactions. One was exhilarated; the other 
was troubled.

   Riker conjectured that the train was 
stolen by depositors defrauded by 
Trevelyan, who were indulging in a 
senseless act of revenge. It was ironic, 
he said, that the embezzler's father-in-
law lost his life, trapped in the cab and 
scalded to death by the steam. Why didn't 
he jump, like the others? The alleged 
thieves knew what they were doing; the 
engine was fueled with plenty of coal and 
water for a short high-speed run.

   Qwilleran, on the other hand, had 
privileged information that he could not 
divulge without exposing Operation 
Whistle. His professional instincts 
required him to tell Riker what he knew, 
but it would all be revealed in the end.

   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."

   Koko went on rubbing industriously. 
One never knew when he was trying to 
communicate and when he was just being a 
cat. There was the matter of the felt-tip 
pens he had been stealing recently - not 
red ones, not yellow, only black. Was it 
a coincidence that Polly had hired the 
black-haired, black-bearded Edward Penn 
Trevelyan? Penn was Florrie's maiden 
name. Tish's pen name was Letitia Penn. 
Koko's attempts to convey information - 
if that's what they were - failed to get 
through to Qwilleran. He went for a long 
bike ride to clear his head. It was good 
exercise, and he filled his lungs with 
fresh air, but no questions were 
answered.

   When Celia arrived that evening, she 
flopped on, the sofa, dropped her 
shapeless handbag on the floor, and said, 
"Could you put a little something in the 
lemonade tonight, Chief? I need it!"

   "I mix a tolerable Tom Collins," he 
said. "I take it you've had a hectic 
day."

   "We've had two deaths in the family on 
the same day! Both funerals are on 
Saturday. The women leave for Switzerland 
on Sunday. Tish is upset! Florrie is 
hysterical!"

   "Drink this and relax awhile," he 
said, presenting the tray. "Tell me what 
you thought of the play."

   "I liked it! We both did. I had to 
read it in high school, but I'd never 
seen it on the stage. The greenies were 
fun - better than fairies. And I loved 
that young man who's so tall. Derek 
Cuttlebrink was the name in the program."

   Qwilleran assured her that there was a 
whole village full of Cuttlebrinks. 
"They're all character~!" he said.

   "That nice Mr. O'Dell was there with 
his daughter. He talked to us in the 
lobby. Charming Irish accent!" She looked 
around the barn. "This would make a good 
theatre - with people on the balconies 
and the stage on the main floor."

   Qwilleran said, "Everyone wants to 
convert it into a theatre or a restaurant 
or a poor man's Guggenheim. You've never 
seen the view from up above. Let's take a 
walk. Bring your drink."

   They climbed the ramps, and he showed 
her his studio, the guestroom, the cats' 
loft apartment, and the exposed beams 
where the Siamese did their acrobatics.

   When they returned to ground level, 
Celia dug into her handbag for her 
notebook. "Well! Are you ready for this, 
Chief? Tish told me some terrible things 
after Eddie died. Do you think a dying 
man comes back to life just before his 
last breath?"

   "Sometimes there's a moment of 
lucidity before death," he said. "Great 
men utter memorable last words, according 
to their biographers, and others reveal 
lifelong secrets."

   "Well, here's what happened yesterday 
morning. It's lucky the nurse was at the 
house when the hospital called. Tish 
drove into town in a hurry. Eddie was 
slipping away, but she talked to him, and 
all of a sudden his eyes moved, and he 
struggled to speak - just snatches of 
this and that."

   "Were you there?" Qwilleran asked.

   "I was waiting outside the room. Tish 
told me about it after. We came back to 
my apartment for a cup of tea, and she 
began to cry. Eddie had been mixed up in 
more dreadful things than anyone 
guessed."

   At that moment the telephone rang. 
"Excuse me," he said and took the call in 
the library.

   A shaking voice said, "Qwill, take me 
to the hospital. I don't feel well."

   "I'll be right there!" he said firmly. 
"Hang up! Hang up!" As soon as he heard 
the dial tone, he punched 911. Then he 
dashed to the back door, calling to 
Celia, "Emergency! Gotta leave! Let 
yourself out!"

   He drove recklessly to Goodwinter 
Boulevard and arrived just ahead of the 
ambulance. Using his own key, he let the 
EMS team into the apartment and ran up 
the stairs ahead of them.

   Polly was sitting in a straight chair, 
looking pale and frightened. "Chest 
pains," she said weakly. "My arms feel 
heavy."

   While the paramedics put a pill under 
her tongue and attached the oxygen tube 
with nose clips, Qwilleran made a brief 
phone call.

   She was being strapped onto the 
stretcher when she turned a pathetic face 
to him and said. "Bootsie - "

   "Don't worry. I've called your sister-
in-law. She'll take care of him. I'll 
follow the ambulance." He squeezed her 
hand. "Everything will be all right. . . 
sweetheart."

   She gave him a grateful glance.

   He was there at the hospital when 
Polly was admitted and when Lynette 
Duncan arrived shortly afterward. The two 
of them sat in a special waiting room and 
talked about Polly's recent worries.

   "You know," Lynette confided, "before 
she visited that friend in Oregon and got 
hooked on the idea of building a house, I 
wanted her to come and share the old 
Duncan homestead. I just inherited it 
from my brother. He'd had it ever since 
our parents died. Polly was married to my 
younger brother. He was a volunteer fire- 
fighter and lost his life in a barn fire. 
Tragic! They were newlyweds. Maybe she 
told you. Anyway, now I own this big 
house, over a hundred years old, with 
large rooms and high ceilings. Really 
nice! But too big for me. I think Polly 
would love it, and Bootsie could run up 
and down stairs."

   It was the kind of nervous, rambling 
chatter heard in hospital waiting rooms 
when relatives wait for the doctor's 
verdict.

   Finally a young woman in a white coat 
appeared. Qwilleran held his breath.

   "Mrs. Duncan is doing very well. Would 
you like to see her? I'm Diane Lanspeak; 
I happened to be a few blocks away when 
they brought her in."

   Qwilleran said, "I know your parents. 
We're all glad to have you back in 
Pickax."

   "Thank you. I've heard a lot about 
you. One question: the cardiologist may 
recommend a catheterization. It's well to 
take pictures and determine exactly what 
the situation is. A mild heart attack is 
a warning. If Mrs. Duncan needs help in 
making a decision, who will - ?"

   "I'm her nearest relative," Lynette 
said, "but Mr. Qwilleran is - " She 
turned to look at him. No more needed to 
be said.

   In the hospital room they found Polly 
looking peaceful for the first time in 
weeks, despite the clinical atmosphere 
and the tubes. They exchanged a few 
words, Polly speaking only about the 
capable paramedics, the kind nurses, the 
wonderful Dr. Diane.


   When Qwilleran returned to the barn, 
Celia had gone, leaving a note: "Hope 
everything is okay. Call me if I can 
help."

   The Siamese, unnaturally quiet, walked 
about in bewilderment; they knew when 
Qwilleran was deeply concerned, but not 
why. As soon as Qwilleran sat in the 
twistletwig rocker to calm his anxiety, 
Yum Yum hopped into his lap and comforted 
him with small, catly gestures: an 
extended paw, a sympathetic purr. Koko 
looked on with fellow-feeling, and when 
Qwilleran spoke to him, he squeezed his 
eyes.

   The gentle rocking produced some 
constructive ideas: Polly would recover, 
move into the Duncan homestead, and 
forget about building a house. The K 
Foundation would reimburse Polly for her 
investment and complete the building as 
an art center. The Pickax Arts Council 
had been campaigning to get the carriage 
house for that purpose before Celia 
arrived.

   As Qwilleran rocked and gazed idly 
about the lounge area, he caught sight of 
a small dark object on the light tile 
floor. His first thought: a dead mouse! 
Yet it was too geometric for that, more 
nearly resembling a large domino. 
Unwilling to leave the comforting embrace 
of the bent willow twigs, he tried to 
guess what the foreign object might be, 
but eventually he succumbed to curiosity.

   "You'll have to excuse me for a 
minute, sweetheart," he said to Yum Yum 
as he hoisted himself out of the 
underslung rocker.

   The unidentified object was the 
smallest of tape recorders, and the truth 
struck Qwilleran with suddenness: Celia's 
grandson had mailed it from Illinois; the 
cats had stolen it from her handbag; she 
had been secretly recording her meetings 
with Tish, in spite of his admonition. 
That explained her graphic reports and 
remarkable memory for details. She had 
transcribed the taped dialogue into her 
notebook, which she then consulted so 
innocently at their briefings. While 
admiring her initiative, he frowned at 
her noncompliance.

   Nevertheless, he lost no time in 
playing the tape.

-16-
   Before playing Celia's secret tape, 
Qwilleran asked himself, Shall I 
embarrass her by returning it . . . or 
let her think she lost it? He set it up 
on the telephone desk and prepared to 
take notes. The first sounds were nothing 
but sobs and whimpers, with sympathetic 
murmurs and questions from Celia. Then he 
heard a wracked voice say:


   "I can't believe it, Celia! I thought 
she was my friend - my best friend! But 
she used me! She used all of us!"

   "What do you mean, Tish?"

   "She was going to divert funds for 
Mother's treatment in Switzerland! She 
was I going to divert money for Eddie's 
condos, too. We believed her, because she 
was so knowledgeable and so nice! (Burst 
of sobs.) I even cheated so it would look 
as if she'd been fired. She's the one who 
suggested it. . . . Oh-h-h! She was so 
clever! Why I didn't I see through her 
scheme?"

   "What was her scheme, Tish? What did I 
she do that was so bad?"

   "It's what Eddie tried to tell me 
before he died. She wanted someone to do 
a special job for her, and he took Benno 
to see her."

   "What kind of job? Didn't Eddie ask 
questions?"

   "I guess not. My poor brother wasn't 
smart. He only went to tenth grade. And 
he drank too much. He ended up being an 
accomplice in a terrible crime." (Choking 
sobs.)

   "Oh, dear! What kind of crime?"

   (Long pause.) "Murder! When F.T. 
disappeared, they said he'd skipped with 
millions of dollars that didn't belong to 
him, but it was Nella who skipped. Floyd 
was dead!"

   "Was Eddie able to tell you all this?"

   "In snatches. He was gasping for 
breath. I had to put my ear close to his 
lips to hear him."

   "Are you sure it's true?"

   "People don't lie when they're dying, 
do they?"

   "Maybe you're right, Tish. But how was 
Eddie an accomplice?"

   "He helped Benno bury the body. But 
Nella was gone, and Benno didn't get his 
blood money. He wanted Eddie to pay off."

   "How much? Do you know?"

   "No, but it must have been a lot. 
Eddie's money was tied up. They argued. 
Benno shot his dog for spite. Then, one 
night in a bar, the lights went out. 
Benno pulled a knife. Eddie tried to get 
it away from him. He didn't mean to kill 
him - "

   "Oh, Tish, I feel so sorry for you! I 
wish I could do something to help. What 
can I do?"

   "Nothing. It just helps to have 
someone to talk to. You've been so good 
to us, Celia."

   "Are you going to do anything about 
Eddie's confession?"

   "I don't know. I can't think 
straight."

   "But Nella should be arrested, if she 
plotted the murder and stole the money. 
Where did they bury the body?"

   "Eddie tried to tell me, but he 
couldn't get it out. His eyes rolled up 
in his head, and he was gone." 
(Convulsive crying.)

   "There must be something I can do to 
help you, dear."

   "I don't know. I just want to get on 
that plane and never come back."

   "Could I handle the funeral 
arrangements for you?"

   "Would you? I'd be so thankful."

   "Do you need me at the house this 
afternoon?"

   "No, I'll be there, getting Mother 
ready for the trip. She's never been on a 
plane. I haven't either. Wouldn't it be 
ironic if it crashed in the Atlantic?"

   “Oh, Tish! Don't say that!"

   "The Trevelyan curse!" (Wild 
laughter.)


   As the tape ended, Qwilleran realized 
the meaning of Koko's eccentric behavior 
in recent weeks. The first hint of 
something wrong was the cat's unusual 
vigil at the front window; he sensed 
impending evil!

   The day after Audit Sunday, Qwilleran 
recalled, Koko performed his ominous 
death dance on the coffee table - 
specifically circling the scandal 
headline on the front page of the paper. 
After that, he became a cat possessed. 
While Yum Yum pursued wads of crumpled 
paper and collected paper clips, Koko was 
infatuated with black pens, duck decoys, 
the wooden whistle, the brass 
paperweight, and other significant items. 
The three-headed dog may have been 
symbolic of the three felons involved in 
the Lumbertown fraud and its bloody 
aftermath. (On the other hand, Koko may 
have found the sharp edges of the 
paperweight useful, Qwilleran had to 
admit.)

   Then the question arose: Were Eddie's 
deathbed accusations only hallucinations? 
Did Nella really mastermind the plot? 
Dwight Somers had seen "scruffy 
characters" knocking on her door; both 
Eddie and Benno fitted that description. 
Did Nella urge Eddie to move to Indian 
Village and into her own building for 
devious reasons? She was nothing less 
than gorgeous, everyone agreed, and the 
unkempt high school dropout from Sawdust 
City could easily have fallen under her 
spell.

   Qwilleran's eye fell on the wooden 
whistle that someone had knocked off the 
coffee table for the twentieth time. 
Perhaps Nella herself tipped off the 
auditors; that would account for the neat 
timing of the scheme. She juggled the 
books; she plotted the murder; she blew 
the whistle and collaborated with the 
auditors; she made the phone call that 
lured Floyd to the fork in the road, 
where he parked his car and met a pickup 
truck with two carpenters, one with a 
hammer and one with a shovel. His 
disappearance was intended to confirm his 
guilt, and it fooled everyone - except 
Koko.

   Qwilleran looked at his watch. It was 
late, but not too late to call the police 
chief at home. "What are you doing 
tomorrow morning, Andy?" he asked, after 
some teasing about late-night X-rated TV 
movies.

   "Taking the wife shopping" was the 
gruff reply.

   "How about driving over to the apple 
barn first, for half an hour?"

   "Business or social?"

   "Business, but I'll have coffee 
waiting for you."

   "Oh, no, you won't! I'm not ready to 
have my hair fall out. I'll bring a 
nontoxic take-out from Lois's."

   "What time?"

   "Nine o'clock."


   On Saturday morning Koko knew 
something was afoot. While eating his 
breakfast, he kept looking over his 
shoulder and listening. When Brodie 
arrived, he was not in uniform, and Yum 
Yum kept staring at him.

   "What's the matter with her?" Brodie 
asked.

   "She's looking for your badge."

   Qwilleran had been wondering how to 
report his information to the police 
chief without naming his collaborators: a 
pleasant gray-haired grandmother and an 
intuitive cat. He began by enlisting 
Andy's sympathy. "Polly's in the 
hospital," he said morosely. "Heart 
attack."

   "How bad?"

   "I phoned this morning, and she's out 
of danger. It was a shock, although I 
should have seen it coming. Too much 
stress and not enough exercise."

   "You've gotta look after that lady, 
Qwill. She's an asset to the community. 
Why don't you and Polly - "

   "Never mind," Qwilleran said. "You can 
go and play your bagpipe at someone 
else's wedding."

   The two men sat at the breakfast bar 
with their coffee and some doughnuts from 
Lois's.

   "How's the Lumbertown investigation 
coming along?" Qwilleran asked.

   "To tell the truth, I think they've 
run out of places to look for that guy."

   "It's my opinion that he's right here 
in Moose County - underground."

   "You mean - hiding out?"

   "No. Buried."

   Brodie swallowed a gulp of coffee too 
fast and coughed. "What makes you think 
so? Have you been conversing with your 
psychic cat?"

   "I have an informant."

   "Who?"

   "I'd be crazy to reveal my source."

   "Why did he come to you? Why not the 
police?"

   "Well, it's like this, Andy. A lot of 
people out there don't like the media, 
but they like the media better than they 
like the cops. Tipsters, you know, are 
whispering in our ears all the time."

   Brodie grunted. "D'you pay for the 
information?"

   "Why would we pay for it? We didn't 
ask for it; we didn't want it; we can't 
use it."

   "So what did you find out?"

   "Floyd was no financial wizard, but he 
hired someone who was. That person 
juggled the books to defraud the 
depositors, and Floyd wasn't savvy enough 
to realize it, or he was too involved 
with his trains to care. Then the true 
embezzler threw suspicion on Floyd by 
having him disappear, when actually she 
had plotted his murder."

   "She?" Brodie said with unprofessional 
astonishment. "You mean - his secretary?"

   "She posed as his secretary, although 
she was second in command, hired to 
introduce new accounting methods - and 
she sure did! Not only did she abscond 
with the loot, but she didn't even payoff 
her hitman. The investigators questioned 
her in Texas but let her slip through 
their fingers."

   "She told them she was fired for 
accusing the Lumbertown president of 
sexual harassment," Brodie explained.

   "Okay, now I want to show you a video 
of the Lumbertown Party Train on Audit 
Sunday, if the cats will allow us to use 
their TV. The suspect appears in several 
frames."

   "Why don't you get a TV of your own?" 
the chief grumbled as they climbed the 
ramp to the highest balcony. The Siamese 
followed them, then bounded ahead to 
claim the only available chair.

   "Sorry, we have standing room only," 
Qwilleran apologized. "Now watch the 
crowd scenes for a gorgeous woman in 
trousers - also in the dining car with 
Floyd."

   The video played. Brodie watched. Koko 
yowled at intervals.

   "So where's the body?" he asked when 
the tape was rewinding.

   "No one knows; that's for you guys to 
find out. The hitman himself was killed 
in that fracas at the Trackside Tavern, 
and his accomplice has since died in an 
accident. If you ever find the body, I 
believe your forensic experts will say he 
was killed by a blow, or blows, to the 
head, inflicted by a carpenter's hammer."

   "You expect me to believe all this? 
Well. . . thanks for the entertainment. 
It was better than the play I saw 
Thursday night." They started down the 
ramp, and in passing one of the large 
windows Brodie said, "You should clear 
out that jungle and build a motel."

   "The far end of the jungle," Qwilleran 
told him, "is where Floyd's son, Eddie, 
was fatally injured in the tractor 
rollover."

   "Must be true what they say about the 
Trevelyan curse."

   After walking with his guest to the 
parking area, Qwilleran made a few turns 
around the barn before letting himself in 
the front door. As he opened it, 
something slammed into his legs, throwing 
him off balance. It was Koko, shooting 
out of the door like a cannonball!

   "Koko! Come back here!" Qwilleran 
yelled, but the cat was headed lickety-
split down the orchard trail. The man 
charged after him, shouting. Koko kept on 
going. It was a hundred yards to 
Trevelyan Road, and he was covering it 
with the speed of a gazelle. There was 
the danger that he might dash across the 
highway in front of a car.

   "Koko! Stop!" Qwilleran yelled with 
all the breath he could muster during the 
chase.

   The cat stopped, but not until he had 
reached the building site. He ignored the 
framework of the new building. He went 
directly to the concrete slab of the 
garage and started his digging act. His 
hindquarters were elevated, and his 
brisket was close to the slab as he 
scraped the rough surface. Then he 
flopped on his side and rolled 
luxuriously on the concrete, twisting 
this way and that in apparent ecstasy.

   The demonstration chilled Qwilleran's 
blood. He remembered that Eddie had 
poured the slab early in the morning 
after Audit Sunday, although the cement 
work had been scheduled for later in the 
week. It was on that Monday, also, that 
Koko had commenced his vigil at the foyer 
window. Had he witnessed something 
unusual during the night? From his window 
on the top balcony he had a view of the 
orchard trail. With his feline nightsight 
he might have seen a truck without 
headlights pulling onto the property. 
Perhaps he heard the clink of shovels in 
the rocky soil. Later came Koko's 
resolute digging in the crook of 
Qwilleran's elbow, not to mention his 
interest in the Panama Canal.
   Qwilleran grabbed Koko and carried him 
back to the barn. Now what? he asked 
himself. If he confided his suspicions to 
Brodie, the jackhammers would move in, 
digging up Polly's garage floor, and 
she'd have another heart attack.


   Carrying a bunch of fresh daisies, 
Qwilleran went to the hospital and found 
Polly sitting in a chair, looking 
remarkably serene. She was feeling fine, 
she said. She was looking forward to the 
catheterization; it might be an 
adventure. The hospital food was better 
than she expected. Dr. Diane was a dear 
young woman. The cardiologist from 
Lockmaster was most encouraging.

   There was a sparkle in Polly's eyes 
that Qwilleran had not seen for several 
weeks, and finally she said, "I have a 
subject to broach to you, dear. I hope 
you won't be offended."

   "You know I'm offense-proof where 
you're concerned, Polly."

   "Well, I believe that this little 
setback of mine is a message from the 
fates that I should not build a house; 
Bootsie and I should move into the Duncan 
homestead with Lynette. That is, if you 
think I can dispose of my two acres and a 
half-finished house."

   "No problem," he said with a sigh of 
relief.

-17-
   It was mid-September, and in Moose 
County the vicissitudes of summer were 
simmering down. Most vacationers had 
left; children were back in school; and 
the new college reported excellent 
enrollment for its first semester.

   Polly Duncan, who had been flown to 
Minneapolis for coronary bypass surgery, 
was convalescing at the Duncan homestead. 
She claimed to feel better than she had 
in years! Bootsie was enjoying his new 
diet, running up and down stairs, and 
losing weight.

   The Pickax Arts Council hoped to move into its new gallery and studios by Thanksgiving. Thanks to the generosity of the Klingenschoen Foundation, they had taken over the unfinished house on Trevelyan Road. References to the legendary curse were avoided.

   Celia Robinson received a postcard from Switzerland: Florrie was improving, and Tish had met an interesting ski instructor.

   Word was circulating on the Pickax grapevine that Mr. Q had been seen in Scottie's Men's Store, being measured for a kilt.

   As for the Lumbertown scandal, the body of Floyd Trevelyan, buried under concrete, had been disinterred, and Nella Hooper replaced him on the wanted list. It seemed odd to Qwilleran that the law enforcement agencies, with all their technology and expertise, had failed to find this spectacularly good-looking woman. Earlier they had found her and let her go after questioning. Now they had the video of the Party Train, in which she appeared several times. And yet. . . It was Arch Riker's theory that the lawmen weren't trying hard enough, and he wrote an editorial to that effect. Anything that happens 400 miles north of everywhere, he argued, is of lesser importance to the establishment Down Below.

   Then, quite by accident, Qwilleran uncovered a new clue. Following the final matinee of A Midsummer Night's Dream, theatre club members were invited to an afterglow at the apple barn. Among those present were Fran Brodie, the Lanspeaks, Junior Goodwinter, Derek Cuttlebrink, Elizabeth Hart, and Jennifer Olsen, who was becoming the club's leading ingenue. The Lanspeaks inquired about Polly's health. Derek demonstrated his exuberance by climbing the loft ladder straight up to the third balcony. Fran reminded Qwilleran that he had promised to read her playscript and give an opinion. He apologized for overlooking it.

   Derek, having brought his guitar, also volunteered to sing a new folksong, titled The Wreck of Old No.9:


There was once a famous hoghead On the old SC&L.
His name was Ozzie Penn,
And he could drive a hog through hell!
But he had to give up drivin'
'Cause they said he was too old.
They retired him with a dinner And a watch of solid gold.
"You've survived your share of train wrecks
"In fifty years," they said.
"Now go home and join the lucky ones
"That get to die in bed."


Chorus:
"No, I want to go out whittlin',"
Said good old Ozzie Penn.
But they said his dreams were over, And he'd never drive again.
He hung around the switchyard
And told hair-raisin' tales:
How he made the fastest runs
And kept the hog upon the rails.
Then one day he saw a vision
That made his old eyes shine.
On a siding east of Mudville Sat old Engine No. 9
The great steam locomotive,
A mighty 4-6-2,
Had a tender full o' coal
And - by Crikey! - looked like new.


Chorus:
"I want to go out whittlin',"
Said the famous engineer.
There was nobody to see him
Wipe away an old man's tear.
He rounded up his buddies
And said, "Let's have some fun!
"Let's take the whole dang consist
"Por one last whittlin' run!
"You fellas gotta jump
"Before we hit the final curve.
"So don't sign on with Ozzie
"If you haven't got the nerve."
With a crew of three old-timers
And fifty deadheads, too,
They left the yard at Mudville
To make Ozzie's dream come true.


Chorus:
"I want to go out whittlin',"
They'd often heard him say,
And he'd earned his chance to do it
Now that he was old and gray.
With the whistle screamin' "wildcat!" They whittled down the line,
All knowin' what would happen
To engine No.9.
As the fiery, sweatin' monster
Plunged down the steepest grade,
The final order came to jump
And every man obeyed.
But Ozzie at the throttle
Said he'd go down with the hog 
As it sank with hiss in', scaldin' steam In the muck o' Black Creek bog.


Chorus:
"I want to go out whittlin',"
Said good old Ozzie Penn,
And the hoghead got his wish
Because he'll never drive again.


   Derek's listeners applauded and wanted to know if he'd written it himself. He glanced at Qwilleran, who nodded.

   "Yep," said the folksinger in an offhand way.

   Elizabeth said, with her eyes shining, "He's so talented!"

   Meanwhile, Yum Yum watched the festivities from the balcony, tantalized by the aroma of pizza drifting up from the main floor. Koko, always more adventurous, mingled with the guests, accepting compliments and slices of pepperoni. He was within earshot when Qwilleran commended Jennifer for her portrayal of Hermia.

   "Yow!" he said.

   "See? Koko agrees with me. I believe his favorite character in all of Shakespeare is Hermia."

   "Yow!" Koko repeated with added emphasis.

   Qwilleran pondered the incident when the guests had left. The Siamese were enjoying a private afterglow-of-the-afterglow under the kitchen table, nibbling sausage and cheese and fastidiously avoiding the bits of mushroom and green pepper. Qwilleran, watching them, suddenly said, "Hermia!"

   Koko looked up from his plate and made the usual comment.

   Qwilleran thought, There's more to Hermia than meets the ear! During the summer the cat had exhibited many quirks, which were now abandoned. As soon as the mystery of Floyd's disappearance was solved, Koko stopped staring out the foyer window in the direction of the two-car garage slab. At the same time he stopped his everlasting digging in Qwilleran's elbow and lost interest in the Panama Canal. After the crimes of Edward Penn Trevelyan and James Henry Ducker were exposed, he no longer stole black pens or sat on the fireplace cube with the decoys.

   Was it coincidence that he had pursued these activities so assiduously? Was it ordinary feline fickleness when he stopped? Qwilleran knew otherwise. Koko had a gift of intuition and prescience that was not given to mere humans - or even to the average cat - and he had an unconventional way of communicating. It amused Qwilleran to paraphrase Shakespeare: There are more things in Koko's head, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

   When the Siamese had finished their gourmet treat and washed up, the three of them ambled into the library for a read.

   "What'll it be?" Qwilleran asked. He had asked that question several weeks before, and Koko's choice was Swiss Family Robinson. And what happened? Celia Robinson moved to Pickax, and the Trevelyan women flew to Switzerland. Coincidence? "Sure," Qwilleran said with derision.

   Now Koko sniffed the bookshelf devoted to drama and nudged the copy of Androcles and the Lion.

   "We had that book a few weeks ago," Qwilleran reminded him. "Try again."

   This time the cat's choice was a slender paperback, Fran Brodie's playscript of the Lion in Winter.

   In a flash of revelation Qwilleran remembered the young woman in the Pickax People's Bank: Letitia Penn, who turned out to be Letitia Trevelyan. . . and who had a friend named Lionella. Later it developed that the one name was shortened to Tish and the other to Nella.

   That was the answer! That remarkable cat knew from the beginning that the Lumbertown fraud was masterminded by Nella a.k.a. Li onella! Now Qwilleran understood Koko and the lions, but what about Hermia? There was something about this H word that triggered Koko's brain cells and was supposed to trigger Qwilleran's. Yet, he was stymied - until he thought about the dictionary. His unabridged dictionary always stimulated the associative process.

   As he climbed the ramp to consult its erudite pages, the Siamese followed with vertical tails. On this occasion he had a reason for allowing them into his sanctum. One of them immediately inspected the typewriter and left a few cat hairs among the type bars; the other lost no time in knocking a gold pen off the desk.

   Looking up the definition of Hermia, Qwilleran found what he already knew: Hermia was a lady in love with Lysander in A Midsummer Night's Dream. There were other proper nouns, however, that might have a similar sound to a cat's ear, and he read them aloud: "Hermo . . . Hermione. . . Hermitage. . . Hermes." Nothing attracted Koko's attention until he reached "Hermaphrodite."

   The sound of the word brought an alarming response that started as an ear-splitting falsetto and ended in a menacing growl.

   Qwilleran checked the definitions of hermaphrodite. It referred to a two-masted vessel, square-rigged forward, and schooner-rigged aft. It also referred to a vertebrate or invertebrate having male and female organs.

   He read no further. He grabbed the telephone and called the police chief at home. "Andy! I've got a far-out idea!"

   "Let's hear it - fast. My favorite program's just beginning."

   "It's only a hunch, but it might help your colleagues in their womanhunt. First, it's a fact that Nella Hooper's name was shortened from Lionella. It's my guess that this person's name was really Lionel. The bloodhounds are hunting for a suspect of the wrong sex! Impersonating a woman was part of the scam. Now that Nella Hooper is on the wanted list, Lionel Hooper is probably growing a beard. . . . Now hang up and go back to the tube."

   Qwilleran returned to the lounge area and sprawled on the sofa. The Siamese took up positions on the coffee table, where the day's last shaft of sunlight slanted in from a high window to warm their fur and make each guard-hair look like spun gold. It turned their whiskers into platinum. Yum Yum sat comfortably on her brisket like a regular cat. Koko sat taillike an ancient Egyptian deity.

   "You've done it again, young man!" Qwilleran said with admiration. "You blew the whistle on the whole crew!"

   Koko gazed at the man with a superior cast in his blue eyes, as if he were thinking, What fools these mortals be!