“You speak as if she’s the brain of the operation, and yet she was meek as milk when I met her at the dinner party.”
“Did your smart cat meet her?”
“No, he never had the pleasure, but I’ll tell you one thing he did, Andy: He howled in the middle of the night at the precise time of Delacamp’s death.”
Brodie grunted. “Dogs do that.”
“But only when it’s someone they know. I’ll show you something else dogs don’t do. I’m going to play a piano recording of Flight of the Bumblebee. Watch Koko!”
He slipped the disc into the stereo, setting it for track three. The pianist’s fingers started to fly. From his lofty perch Koko looked down on the men and the machine. They waited. The cat did nothing.
“I don’t get it!” Brodie said. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s making a fool of me that’s what he’s doing. It’s his favorite hobby.”
Nine
Monday, September 14 ‘A cat in gloves catches no mice.’
WHILE BRUSHING THE CATS’ coats that morning, Qwilleran kept up a running patter to relax them. He said, “Culvert’s calendar tells us it’s Monday, but what do you care? All days are alike to you guys. No Saturday night dates. No Monday blues. No Tuesday deadlines.” After the grooming they liked a reading session, and he chose Mark Twain’s story about the jumping frog. Koko wanted ‘Oedipus Rex’ but Qwilleran said it was too tragic for their tender ears.
His own day started with a visit to the public library, where he was greeted warmly by Mac and Katie, the feline mascots. They knew he always brought a pocketful of crunchy treats. On the mezzanine he found Polly in her glass-enclosed office, eating her lunch a tuna sandwich and carrot sticks. “Good news!” she said. “Our bookmobile will be back in circulation by the end of the week!”
The vehicle had been acquired through private donations and a matching grant from the K Fund. Manufactured by a maker of school buses, it looked like a school bus without windows. The interior had bookshelves instead of seats, and hundreds of books could be circulated to communities that were without libraries. Unfortunately, it was painted white, giving rise to a public outcry. Letters to the newspaper said it looked like a milk truck, an ambulance, a laundry van. To settle the unrest, readers were invited to suggest ideas. The best was selected by a panel of civic leaders, Polly included, and the bus was sent to a commercial art studio in Lockmaster to be repainted. The panel’s selection was top secret. And now it was returning to Pickax, shrouded in a tarpaulin until the Thursday unveiling.
Qwilleran said to Polly, “How about telling me, off the record, what the new design is.”
“My lips are sealed,” she said smugly.
“Could I sneak a peek under the tarp? Or do you have armed guards?”
“You declined an invitation to serve on the panel, so you’ll have to wait, along with the other citizens…. Have some carrot sticks.”
“No thanks.”
“They’re good for you.”
“I know. That’s why I don’t want any.”
Qwilleran’s next stop was the newspaper office, where he handed in his copy to Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor.
“Is something wrong?” asked the editor. “You’re a day early!” Usually the “Qwill Pen” met its deadline with only minutes to spare. Then Junior said, “Wait till you see today’s edition! On page one the Highland Games are the banner story, with some great shots of the caber cavorting in midair and Campbell getting his gold medal plus a sidebar on Brodie and the pibroch. On the picture page we have the dancers, fiddlers, pipe-and-drum bands, and a candid of a couple of stalwart Scots in kilts, eating bridies. On page two we congratulate Homer Tibbitt on his ninety-eighth birthday. And on the editorial page we have some interesting letters to the editor.”
“Interesting-good? Or interesting-bad?”
“Wait and see.”
“By the way, junior, do you know anything about an old shack on Chipmunk Road near the Big B minesite? It’s said to be a hangout for kids.”
“Oh, that! It was torn down during the roadside beautification campaign, but there was so much public sentiment attached to it, the county salvaged the boards and auctioned then off. There are plenty of stories about that dump.”
“Do you have time for lunch? I’ll treat at Rennie’s.”
“Can’t. Arch has called an emergency meeting during the lunch hour.”
“What happened?” Qwilleran asked. “Did the water cooler spring a leak? Did somebody cancel a subscription?”
“Goodbye!” Junior barked. “And I’ll see that they misspell your name in tomorrow’s paper.”
Fellow staffers always teased Qwilleran about his personal crusade against typographical errors, and on one occasion they conspired to sprinkle his entire column with typos. Even he had to chuckle over the comic enormity of the April Fool trick.
Now it was Monday, September 14, and he liked to lunch with someone on the first day of the workweek. On the way out of the building he came face to face with a wiry, vigorous man in farmer’s denims and feed cap Sig Dutcher, the county’s agricultural agent. They met often at the Dimsdale Diner, where farmers gathered for coffee, agritalk, gossip, and a few laughs.
Qwilleran said, “Sig, you mud-devil! What brings you in from the back forty?”
“Just delivering some red-hot ag news to your business editor.”
“Are you free for lunch at the Mackintosh Inn? My treat.”
“Sure. Can I go like this?”
“Of course. We’ll have a burger in the coffee shop.”
It was the agent’s first visit to the refurbished inn, and he was thunderstruck. When he saw Rennie’s with its clean white walls and bright blue and green tables, he said, “It beats the Dimsdale Diner!”
“Anything new at the Diner?” Qwilleran asked after they took seats in the high-backed chairs. “I haven’t been there for a while.”
“Well… Benny broke his leg in a tractor rollover… Calvin had a couple of cows die on him… Doug’s daughter won a blue ribbon at the fair for a black-face ewe… Spencer’s wife needs an operation, and their insurance lapsed… That’s about it… How about you, Qwill? Are you still eating a McIntosh a day to keep the doctor away?”
“Actually, I have nothing against the medical profession, but I do like apples, and my favorite happens to be the McIntosh, if I can’t get Winesaps.”
“We don’t get many Winesaps around here, but we have one of the best McIntosh orchards in the state. And thereby hangs a tale that might steal its way into your column. Did you know there were no so-called eating apples on this continent before the European settlers brought them? Only crab apples. And here’s another interesting fact: The millions of McIntosh trees in the U.S. are all direct descendents of a single seedling found in the Canadian wilderness.”
“How did it get there?” Qwilleran asked.
“That’s the mystery! In 1832 a farmer in Ontario was clearing land when he found this seedling. He transplanted it to his farmyard, and it bore fruit for thirty years. Then his son found out about grafting fruit trees, and the rest is history.”
“It sounds like a ‘Qwill Pen’ story, all right.”
“That’s what I thought, Qwill. If you go to my office in the county building and ask for the McIntosh file, they’ll copy a lot of material for you.”
While waiting for their burgers they discussed the Highland Games, Bixby’s proposal to build a gambling casino, the remarkable Border collie, and the weather.
“Any new jokes at the Diner?” Qwilleran asked.