Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Tailed A Thief

Victorian house! In fact, the entire street is a throwback to the late 1880s. `Carpenter Gothic' is what Danielle's cousin calls it."

" `Gingerbread Alley' is what the local wags have named Pleasant Street," Qwilleran said.

Will Carmichael put down his knife and fork and warmed to his subject. "What's good is that the property owners haven't modernized with vinyl siding and sliding glass doors. The way we see it, Pleasant Street could become a mecca for preservation buffs, with houses operating as living museums or bed-and-breakfasts. There's money to be made in that field today. My bank would offer good deals on restoration loans...How does it strike you?"

"It strikes me as a huge undertaking," Qwilleran said. "Exactly what does a restoration consultant do, and what is his name?"

"Carter Lee James. Perhaps you've heard of him or seen his work in magazines. He appraises the possibilities, supervises the restoration, and helps get the houses registered as historic landmarks. He knows the techniques, sources, and - most important - what not to do! Can you imagine Pleasant Street with a bronze plaque in front of every house? It would be a unique attraction - not for hordes of noisy tourists but for serious admirers of nineteenth-century Americana."

They ordered spicy walnut cake and dark-roast coffee, and the banker continued. "Lynette has a fortune in antiques in her house - all inherited, she says."

Qwilleran, whose personal preference was for contemporary, remembered the ponderous furniture, dark wall coverings, velvet draperies, ornate picture frames, and skirted tables at Lynette's housel. Polly had recuperated there after her surgery. He tried to find something upbeat to say. "Lynette is the last of the Duncans-by-blood. It's a highly respected name around here. The Duncans were successful merchants in the boom years and they prospered without exploiting the mineworkers."

"That's to their credit," Willard was gazing thoughtfully into his coffee. `I imagine she doesn't have to work... yet she tells me she holds down a nine- to-five job."

"Lynette likes to keep busy. She's also active in volunteer work. Volunteerism is big in Pickax. You should get Danielle involved."

With a humorous grimace her husband said, "If it means visiting the sick, I don't think my dear wife would qualify." For a few minutes he occupied himself with the check and a credit card, then said, "We'll have to get together during the holidays. You should meet Carter Lee. You'll be impressed. Personable guy. Fine arts degree. Graduate study in architecture... Do you play bridge?"

"No, but Lynette has told me about the Village bridge club and the big glass jar."

It was an antique apothecary jar bout a foot high, with a wide mouth and a domelike stopper. At Village card parties each player dropped a ten-dollar bill into the jar and rubbed the stopper for luck. Bridge payers, Qwilleran had reason to believe, ranked with athletes, sports fans, actors, sailors, and crapshooters as creatures of superstition. To the credit of the bridgehounds at Indian Village, they also contributed their winnings to the jar, and when it was full, the total sum was donated to the Moose County Youth Center. He remarked to Willard, "I hope you've contributed generously to the jar."

"I've had a little luck," he admitted. "Lynette is a consistent winner, though. And Carter Lee's pretty good... Danielle should stay home and watch TV."

It was time to say goodnight. Qwilleran had genuinely enjoyed the conversation and the food. He thanked his host and added, "It's my turn to treat - the next time you're baching it." The qualifying clause was tacked on casually, but he hoped it registered.

The two men drove home in their respective vehicles, both of them vans. On the way, Qwilleran recalled the banker's remarks about his "dear wife" and feared the marriage was doomed. It had been too hasty. Too bad... Willard was interesting company, although nosey. He was certainly enthusiastic about Pleasant Street...The country club situation was unfortunate. No doubt he was a golfer. It was good news about the gourmet society, however.

Qwilleran glanced at the clock on the dashboard and tuned in the hourly newsbreak on WPKX. First he heard the high-school basketball scores. Then came Wetherby Goode with his forecast and usual silliness:

"Boots - boots - boots- boots- boots- sloggin' through the snow again. He always had a parody of a song or nursery rhyme or literary work to fit the occasion. Some of his listeners, like Lynette Duncan, thought he was terribly clever; others wished for better forecasts and fewer cultural allusions.

After Wetherby's prediction of more snow, the newscaster came in with a bulletin:

"A disturbing incident has just been reported in Indian Village. A sum of money estimated at two thousand dollars has been stolen from an unlocked cabinet in the clubhouse. It was being collected in a large glass jar by members of the bridge club, for donation to the Moose County Youth Center. Police are investigating."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache and snapped off the radio, thinking, Brodie was right; it's escalating... The editorial was right; it's time to lock up!

-3-

On December 24, Qwilleran went downtown at noon to celebrate with the staff of the Moose County Something. They were having the afternoon off, but first there was the office party. It featured ham sandwiches from Lois's Luncheonette, a sheet cake from the Scottish bakery, coffee, and year-end bonuses. Arch Riker was beaming as he handed out the envelopes with a ho-ho-ho.

Qwilleran said to him, "This is a far cry from the wild office parties we had Down Below. They were all booze, no bonuses."

"Don't remind me!" Riker protested. "I've been twenty-five years trying to forget my first one at the Daily Fluxion. Rosie and I were just married, and the whole Riker family was celebrating Christmas Eve at our house - with a potluck supper and me in a Santa suit handing out presents. That was the plan, anyway. I had to work all day, but it got whispered around that every department was holding open house. Bring your own glass! At five o'clock we all started making the rounds to Editorial, Sports, Women's, Photo Lab (that was the worst), Advertising, Circulation - the whole shebang! Everyone was wallowing in holiday cheer, and I completely forgot my wife and family! By the time some guys took me home in a cab, I flaked out and woke up the next morning. Oh, God! I was in the doghouse for a year!"

Qwilleran said, "You weren't the only heel. That's why firms outlawed office parties. There's nothing like a lawsuit to grab the corporate attention."

Then Hixie Rice, the promotion director and a resident of Indian Village, pulled him aside. "Did you hear about the theft?" she whispered.

"The Pickax Picaroon strikes again!

When was the money last seen?"

"The night before. We'd had our Christmas bridge party, and everyone was extra generous. Then we put the jar away in the manager's office as usual, camouflaged with a shopping bag."

"But all the players know where it's kept - right? Someone was waiting for it to fill up. Who are these players?"

"Mostly residents of the Village, but a few guest players as well, who drive out from Pickax or wherever. Ironically, the shopping bag was gone, too. They must have used it to carry the money. According to the denomination of the bills, it could be as much as two thousand... Do you have a noodle, Qwill?"

"Yes. Let's get some ham sandwiches before the vultures from the city room eat them all."

After the camaderie of the office party, Qwilleran was reluctant to leave the festive downtown scene, where shoppers were hurrying faster and carolers were singing louder. He picked up a few extra gifts: perfume for Polly, a scarf for Mildred, and a few small cans of smoked turkey pƒt‚ and gourmet sardines for the cats he knew.