Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

"Do you tape the interview?"

"If he gives permission; that's our paper's policy. But I take notes, whether we tape or not. When I was younger, I could commit a whole interview to memory, and it would be printed verbatim without error. But that was just showing off."

The man who responded to the bell was a leathery-faced Scot whose red hair was turning sandy with age. "Come in! Come in, Qwill!" was his hearty welcome.

"Gil, this is my photographer, Clayton Robinson."

"Hiya, there! Let's go right back to the kitchen. There's some folks from the bank working in the front rooms. All my dowsing gear is laid out on the kitchen table."

A long hall extended through to the rear, similar to that in the Duncan house. Lynette's furnishings were stubbornly Victorian, however; this collection represented the taste of passing generations and the fads of recent decades: a little William Morris, a little Art Deco, a little Swedish modern, a little French provincial, a little Mediterranean.

As the trio walked down the hall, Qwilleran glimpsed antique weapons in a glass-topped curio table....a small black dog asleep on the carpeted stairs... a man and a woman examining one of the parlors and making notes.

"Excuse the mess," the dowser apologized when they reached the kitchen. "My wife passed away last year, and I'm no good at housekeeping. I'm getting ready to move into a retirement complex, and I'm selling the house and most of my goods. Willard Carmichael at the bank said I can get more for the house if I fix it up so that it's historic. You know Willard, don't you? He sent this out-of- town expert over here today to figure out what needs to be done and what it'll cost. Sounds pretty good to me!... Pull up a couple of chairs. Do you want me to explain this gear? Or do you want to ask questions?"

Laid out on the table was an array of forked twigs, L-shaped rods, barbed wire, string, even a wire coat hanger.

"Let's talk first," Qwilleran suggested, setting up his tape recorder. "How long have you been dowsing, Gil?... I'll tape this, if you don't mind."

"Ever since I was a kid and my granddad showed me how to hold the forked stick. He found good water for folks, and also veins of iron ore and copper. The mines closed a long time ago, but folks always need good drinking water. When there's a drought, some wells run dry. When a new building's going up, they have to know if there's water down there and how many gallons a minute they can get."

Qwilleran asked, "Considering new technology, is water witching a dying art?"

"No way! No way! My grandson's been finding water since he was twelve. It's a gift, you know, and you pass it on, but it skips a generation. My father couldn't find water to save his life! My son can't either. But my grandson can. See what I mean?"

Occasionally there was the soft click of a camera and a flash of light.

"How often are you called upon to use this skill?"

"All depends. I'm a licensed plumber, and my wife and me ran the hardware store for years, but I'd always go out and dowse if somebody wanted me to. Still do."

"Are you always successful?"

"If the water's down there, by golly I'll find it! Sometimes it just ain't there! Either way, I never charge for my services, and I've made a lot of friends. Of course, I've made enemies, too. There's a well-driller in Mooseville who hates my guts. He'll drill a couple of dry holes, and then I'm called in and I find water with my little forked stick. Drives the guy nuts!"

MacMurchie stopped to enjoy a chuckle. "Then there's an old biddy in Kennebeck who says it's the work of the devil. But just wait till her well runs dry and see who she calls!" The dowser slapped his knee and had another laugh. "If she calls me, I'm gonna go out there with one of them Halloween masks with red horns."

"How about the scientists? The geologists?"

"Oh, them! Just because they can't explain it, they think it's all superstition. How about you, Qwill? What's your honest opinion?"

"I'll reserve my opinion until next spring when you give a demonstration. Meanwhile, what are these gadgets?" He waved his hand at the odd assortment on the kitchen table. "Okay. Here's the famous forked twig - goes back hundreds of years. Can be birch, maple, willow, apple, whatever. Should be fresh, with the sap in it... So you hold it in front of you, stem pointing up. The two forks are in your hands, palms up - like this." The camera clicked. "You walk across the ground, concentrating. You pace back and forth. Suddenly the stick quivers, and the stem swings down and points to the ground. There's a vein of water under your feet!"

"Uncanny!" Qwilleran said. "How far down?"

"Could be twenty, forty, sixty feet. If I say it's down there, all you gotta do is drill - or dig. My granddad dug wells by hand, as deep as eighty feet! Sent the mud up in buckets."

Qwilleran heard voices in the next room: the rumble of a man's voice and a woman's shrill laughter. Catching Clayton's eye, he jerked his head in that direction, and the young photographer quietly left the room.

"Are there any women dowsers, Gil?"

"In some places. Not here."

"Explain these other gadgets."

"They'll all find water, but mostly it depends on the dowser. Nothing works if you're just fooling around, or if you don't feel too good, or if you think it's really a lot of baloney." MacMurchie looked up suddenly, over Qwilleran's shoulder, and said, "Yes, Mr. James. Want to see me?"

A deep, pleasant voice said, "We're leaving now. We'll be back tomorrow to appraise the upstairs. I think you have a gold mine here. Don't let me disturb you. We can find our way out."

Qwilleran had his back to the voice and saw no reason tot urn around.

"Nice fella," the dowser said as footsteps retreated and a woman's laughter drifted back to them. Qwilleran stood up and pocketed his records. "This has been very enlightening. I'll look forward to the demonstration in the spring... Where's my photographer? Let's go, Clayton."

"Here I am - in the dining room. I've found a friend." He was sitting cross- legged on the floor, and a black schnauzer was curled on his chest, looking up at him with a shameless expression of devotion.

"That's Cody," said MacMurchie. "You can have her if you want. I can't have a pet where I'm going. She's a sweet little girl. She was my wife's."

Clayton said, "I live on a farm. She'd like it there. Can I take her on the plane, Chief?"

"Better discuss it with your grandmother."

While Clayton took a few pictures of Cody, the two men walked toward the front door, and Qwilleran asked about the weapons in the curio table.

"They're Scottish dirks - longer than daggers, shorter than swords." He lifted the glass top and removed a dirk from its scabbard. "See these grooves in the blade? They're for blood. Those Highlanders thought of everything." There were also two silver pins three inches in diameter, set with stones as big as egg yolks - a kind of smoky quartz. "Those are brooches to anchor a man's plaid on his shoulder. The stones are cairngorms, found only on Cairngorm mountain in Scotland. We call the brooches poached eggs. Sorry to say, I've got to unload all this stuff. No room in my new place. I'll only keep the dirk with the silver lion. It was a gift from my wife."

"How much do you want for all the others?" Qwilleran asked.

MacMurchie rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Well... let's see... four dirks with brass hilts and leather scabbards... and two silver brooches... You could have `em for a thousand, and I'd throw in the table."

"I wouldn't need the table, but I'll think about the others and let you know."

"Are you going to Scottish Night at the lodge?" "They've invited me, and I've bought a kilt, but so far I haven't had the nerve to wear it."