Lilian Jackson Braun - The Cat Who Tailed A Thief
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It was a strange winter in Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere. First, there was disagreement about the long-range weather forecast. The weatherman at the local radio station predicted a winter of zero temperature, daily snow, minus-sixty windchill, and paralyzing blizzards - in other words: normal. On the other hand, farmers and woodsmen who observed the behavior of the fuzzy caterpillars insisted the winter would be mild. Bad news!
No one wanted a mild winter. Merchants had invested in large inventories of snowblowers, antifreeze, snowshoes, and long johns. The farmers themselves needed a heavy snow cover to ensure a good summer crop. Dogsledders and icefishermen stood to lose a whole season of wholesome outdoor sport. As for the First Annual Ice Festival, it was doomed. All that - plus the unthinkable possibility of a green Christmas!
Throughout November, traditionally a month of natural disasters, the weather was disappointingly good, and the natives cursed the fuzzy caterpillars. Then... suddenly, in mid-December, temperatures plummeted and a few inches of no-melt snow started to fall every day. In downtown Pickax, the county seat, the Department of Public Works plows threw up the usual eight-foot walls of snow along curbs and around parking lots. Young people did their Christmas shopping on cross-country skis, and sleigh bells could be heard on Main Street. Best of all, the schools closed twice during the month because of blizzard conditions.
The weather was only the first strange happening of the winter, however. In late December, an outbreak of petty larceny dampened the holiday spirit in Pickax. Trivial items began to disappear from cars and public places, prompting the local newspaper to run an editoriaclass="underline"
PLAY SAFE! LOCK UP! BE ALERT! You leave a video on the seat of your car while paying for self-serve gas. You never see it again. You forget your gloves in the post office. Minutes later, they're gone. You hang your sun-glare glasses on a supermarket cart while you select oranges. The glasses disappear. Who is to blame? Mischievous kids? Gremlins? Your failing memory? The time has come to stop searching for excuses and start playing safe. In Moose County we're foolishly lax about security. We must learn to lock our cars... put valuables in the trunk... keep an eye on belongings... stay alert! Some say the incidents are minor, and the pilfering is a temporary nuisance like Mosquito Week in spring. If that's what you think, listen to our police chief, Andrew Brodie, who says, "A community that tolerates minor violations leaves the door open for major crimes."
Natives of Moose County were a stubborn, independent breed descended from early pioneers, and it would take more than an editorial in the Moose County Something to change their ways. Yet, there was one prominent citizen who applauded the police chief's maxim.
Jim Qwilleran was not a native but a transplant from Down Below, as the locals called the metropolitan cities to the south. Surprising circumstances had brought him to Pickax (population 3,000), and he was surprisingly content with small-town life.
Qwilleran was a tall, well-built, middle-aged man with a luxuriant pepper- and-salt moustache and hair graying at the temples. If asked, he would say that he perceived himself as:
A journalist, semi-retired. A former crime reporter and author of a book on urban crime. Writer of a twice-weekly column for the Something. Devoted friend of Polly Duncan, head of the Pickax Public Library. Protector and slave of two Siamese cats. Fairly agreeable person blessed with many friends. All of that would be true... He would not perceive himself, however, as the richest man in northeast central United States, but that, too, would be true.
An enormous inheritance, the Klingenschoen fortune, had brought Qwilleran to this remote region. Yet, he was uncomfortable with money - its trappings as well as its responsibilities - and he immediately consigned his billions to philanthropic purposes. For several years, the Klingenschoen Foundation had been managed by a Chicago think tank, with little or no attention from James Mackintosh Qwilleran.
It was not only this generous gesture that caused him to be esteemed in Moose County. Admirers cited his entertaining column, "Straight from the Qwill Pen"... his amiable disposition and sense of humor... his lack of pretension... his sympathetic way to listening... and, of course, his magnificent moustache. Its drooping contours, together with his brooding eyes, gave him a look of melancholy that made people wonder about his past. Actually, there was more to that moustache than met the eye.
On the morning of December 23, Qwilleran said good-bye to the Siamese and gave instructions for their deportment in his absence. The more intelligently one talks to cats, he believed, the smarter they become. Their deep blue eyes gazed at him soberly. Did they know what he was saying? Or were they waiting patiently for him to leave so they could start their morning nap?
He was setting out to do his Christmas shopping, but first he had to hand in his copy at the newspaper office: a thousand words on Santa Claus for the "Qwill Pen." It was hardly a newsworthy topic, but he had a columnist's knack of making it sound fresh.
The premises of the Moose County Something were always devoid of seasonal decorations, leaving such frivolities to stores and restaurants. Qwilleran was surprised, therefore, to see a small decorated tree on a file cabinet in the publisher's office. Arch Riker, his lifelong friend and fellow journalist, had followed him to Pickax to be publisher and editor-in-chief of the new backwoods paper. A paunchy, ruddy-faced man with thinning hair, he sat in a high- backed executive chair and looked happy. Not only had he realized his dream of running his own newspaper; he had married the plump and congenial woman who wrote the food page.
"Mildred and I are expecting you and Polly to have Christmas dinner with us," he reminded Qwilleran.
"Turkey, I hope," Qwilleran replied, thinking of leftovers for his housemates. "What's that tree on your file cabinet?"
"It was Wilfred's idea," Riker said almost apologetically. "He made the ornaments with newsprint and gold spray."
Wilfred Sugbury was secretary to the executives - a quiet, hardworking young man who had not only amazed the staff by winning a seventy-mile bike race but was now taking an origami course at the community college. Qwilleran, on his way out, complimented Wilfred on his handiwork.
"I'd be glad to make one for you," Mr. Q," he said.
"It wouldn't last five minutes, Wilfred. The cats would reduce it to confetti. They have no appreciation of art. Thanks just the same."
To fortify himself for the task of gift-shopping, Qwilleran drove to Lois's Luncheonette, a primitive side-street hole-in-the-wall that had been serving comfort food to downtown workers and shoppers for thirty years. Lois Inchpot was an imposing woman, who dispensed pancakes and opinions with the authority of a celebrity. Indeed, the city had recently celebrated Lois Inchpot Day, by mayoral proclamation.
When Qwilleran entered, she was banging the old-fashioned cash register and holding forth in a throaty voice: "If we have a mild winter, like the caterpillars said, we'll be swamped with bugs next summer!... Hi, Mr. Q! Come on in! Sit anywhere that ain't sticky. My customers got bad aim with the syrup bottle."
"How's Lenny?" Qwilleran asked. Her son had been hurt in an explosion.
"That boy of mine!" she said proudly. "Nothin' stops him! He has mornin' classes at the college, and then he's a found himself a swell part-time job, managin' the clubhouse at Indian Village. He gave you as a reference, Mr. Q. Hope you don't mind."
"He's going to be a workaholic like his mother."
"Better'n takin' after his father!... Done your Christmas shoppin', Mr. Q?"
"Don't rush me, Lois. It's only the twenty-third."
The first gift he purchased was a bottle of Scotch. He carried it in a brown paper bag under his folded jacket when he climbed the stairs to police headquarters at city hall. He was a frequent visitor, and the sergeant at the desk jerked his head toward the inner office, saying, "He's in." The chief was visible through a glass partition, hunched over the computer that he earnestly hated.