Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

"Everything was excellent. I don't know about the dessert. No one felt like eating dessert."

"And wouldn't you know. The dessert was my contribution!" Hixie had a long history of major and minor disappointments, yet she always bounced back. "How about lunch, Qwill? I'll buy and put it on my expense account."

"Those are the word I love to hear." She started pulling on her boots. "We'll drive to Mooseville and eat at the Northern Lights. That's headquarters for the Ice Festival, and I want to fill you in on the plans. You might get a slant for your column. We'll take my van. How do you like your four-over-four?"

"It takes more gas, and the cats find it a little bumpier."

"Willard drove a Land-Rover, and you could probably get a good deal on it. I'm sure Danielle won't kept it. He bought her a Ferrari."

"She flew to Detroit this morning, and I doubt whether she'll come back. She didn't want to move here in the first place," he said.

"But didn't they buy the Fitch house?"

"That was to humor her. I doubt whether Carter Lee will return, either. The Pleasant Street project was half Willard's idea, and the bank was going to finance it. Without him, I don't know.... "

"Too bad. Carter Lee was a really neat guy. He always wore monogrammed shirts." Then after a few moments' silence, Hixie said, "After some serious reflection I can see why a man of Willard's age would marry a gorgeous young woman like Danielle, but why would she marry him, except for his money?"

"Don't forget," Qwilleran reminded her, "Willard could cook."

The turned onto the lakeshore drive, where beach houses were boarded-up, snowed-in, bleak and forbidding. Mooseville, a teeming fishing village in summer, was chillingly quiet in January, and relentlessly white. Piers protruded blackly from the white frozen lake. On Main Street, where most commercial enterprises were closed, the dark log cabins and pseudo-log cabins had snow in their chinks and on their rooftops. Dark evergreens drooped with their white burden. The fishing fleet and pleasure craft were somewhere else, in dry dock.

They parked at the Northern Lights Hotel, overlooking the expanse of ice that extended to the horizon. Far, far out it was dotted with a row of black fishing shanties, like dominoes. In the dining room there was one waiter and a limited menu: fried fish sandwich with lumbercamp fries and cole slaw.

Hixie said, "The Ice Festival will be a shot in the arm for the shoreline. By the end of January, the ice on the lake will be twenty inches thick at least. All of the activities will take place on the ice: races, tournaments, hospitality, and entertainment."

"What kind of races?"

"Dogsled, snowmobile, motorcycle, cross-country ski, snowshoe, and ice skate. Plows will clear the race tracks and rinks, building up snow barriers as viewing ridges for spectators. Other areas will be cleared for hospitality tents... And see those fishing shanties out there? We'll have twice that many for the tournament. They've signed up already. Colleges all over are sending artists to the snow sculpture competition. And there'll be a torchlight parade on Friday night to kick off the whole exciting weekend!"

Qwilleran listened dumbly to her exuberant recital, finally asking, "How many people do you expect?"

"As many as ten thousand."

"What! Where'll they park, for Pete's sake!"

"No problem. Parking will be inland at Gooseneck Creek, where there's lots of open area, frozen solid," she explained glibly. "Shuttle buses will transport people to the ice, where they'll buy admission tickets and get their Festival buttons. The design is a three-inch plastic button with a polar bear on a blue background, a souvenir worth saving. We've ordered fifteen thousand, because people will want to buy extras to take home."

"Where'll they sleep?"

"Most will be day-trippers from the tri-county, but we have lodgings lined up all Moose County, even in private homes."

"And what are the hospitality tents?"

"They'll sell food and drink, admissions, and tickets for prize drawings. There'll also be a first-air tent and two EMS ambulances."

Qwilleran said, "I'm impressed, Hixie. Some brilliant brain has thought of all this, and I suspect it's yours."

She pointed to the frozen lake outside the hotel window. "Look out there, Qwill, and imagine flags flying, striped tents, portable johns painted in bright colors, and thousands of people having a wonderful time! Doesn't it make your blood race?"

"It makes me want to move to Mexico," he said.

She pounded his arm with a friendly fist. "I know you, Qwill. You'll wind up loving it! You'll want to hang out here for two days!"

"And how does the newspaper fit into the picture?"

"We're sponsoring it as a public service. That means advancing the money, but costs will be more than covered by admissions, contestants' fees, and raffle tickets. All prizes are donated." Hixie paused for a sobering thought. "Willard was all for it! The bank was donating a microwave."

The fish sandwiches were not bad, and Qwilleran was contemplating a piece of apple pie when Hixie said, "Could I ask you a favor, Qwill?"

"I thought so," he said. "There's no such thing as a free lunch. What do you want me to do?"

"Well, there'll be a couple of thousand people here Friday night, and you're the most famous personality in three counties. Would you be noble enough to act as grand marshal of the torchlight parade?"

"What does that entail?" He remembered his traumatic experience in a Santa Claus suit the previous year. "If it means wearing a polar-bear costume - "

"Nothing like that! You simply ride a horse-drawn sleigh with the cheering multitude lining the route. They love you, Qwill."

"Yes, but do I love them? All it takes is only ugly kid throwing the first snowball, and then it's avalanche time, with everyone playing hit-the-moustache. No thanks!"

Hixie was only momentarily rebuffed. "Is there any kind of conveyance you could suggest?"

"An army tank," he said. "Or how about a county snowblower with enclosed cab? I could ride in the cab and spray the cheering multitude with snow. I might enjoy that."

"You're not taking this seriously," she chided him.

"Do you know that the temperature drops at night, and the wind comes off the lake, and the wind chill is sixty below? And you're having a parade!"

"Okay, so we have a few details to rethink, but will you be grand marshal?"

"I can't say no, can I? You'd make me walk home. Let's say I'll take it under advisement."

They drove home via Sandpit Road, past George Breze's snow-covered empire, with only a curl of smoke coming from the "office."

"Does Red Cap pay club dues?" Qwilleran asked. "He was conspicuously absent on New Year's Eve."

"He must have clubhouse privileges. He's always in the TV lounge, but no one speaks to him."

"How's Lenny Inchpot working out as club manager? Lois is bursting with pride these days."

"She should be proud! He's very reliable and helpful and even studies at his desk in his spare time. Don Exbridge likes him because he's clean-cut and good with people - the result of having been a hotel desk clerk, I suppose."

"How does Lenny react to the two thefts?" Qwilleran asked.

"He was upset, but Don told him there was nothing he could have done to prevent either of them."

"Do you suspect anyone, Hixie?" "Yes. It's either Amanda Goodwinter or you."

The day Fran Brodie was due back from Detroit, Qwilleran left a message on her answering machine: "Fran, you must be bushed. Would you like dinner at the Old Stone Mill?"

Around seven in the evening she called back. "You're right, Qwill. I'm even too exhausted to go out to dinner. I just want to take my shoes off and have a cup of cocoa and a graham cracker, but if you want to come over in half an hour, I'll give you a report."