Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Blew The Whistle

Celia laughed merrily at this mild quip. "I'll carry his sandbox and water dish."

As they climbed the stairs, Qwilleran apologized for the narrowness of the flight and the shallowness of the treads. "This was built a hundred years ago when people had narrow shoulders and small feet." This brought another trill of laughter, and he thought, I've got to be careful what I say to this woman; she's jacked up.

Upstairs she gushed over the spaciousness and comfort of the rooms, while Wrigley methodically sniffed the premises that had once been home to two Siamese.

"Now, while I'm bringing up your luggage," Qwilleran instructed Celia, "you sit down and make a list of what groceries you need. Then I'll do your shopping while you take a rest."

"Oh, that's too much trouble for you, Chief!"

"Not at all. I have an ulterior motive. Did you bring your recipe for chocolate brownies?"

She laughed again. "I brought a whole shoebox of recipes!"

He had a reason for wanting to shop alone. Otherwise it would be allover town that Mr. Q was buying groceries in the company of a strange woman who laughed at everything he said and was not at all like Mrs. Duncan.

"This evening," he said in a businesslike way, "it will be my pleasure to take you to dinner, and tomorrow a pleasant woman by the name of Virginia Alstock will drive you around and give you a crash course in what Pickax is all about."

"Oh, Chief! I don't know what to say. You're so kind!"

"Don't say anything. Get to work on that list. I have a four-thirty appointment."

"Yes, sir!" she said with a stiff salute and torrents of laughter.

Qwilleran himself was a chuckler, not a laugher, and on the way to Toodles' Market he began to wonder how much of Celia's merriment he could stand. He pushed a cart up and down the aisles briskly, collecting the fifteen items on her list. At the checkout counter the cashier expressed surprise.

"Gonna do some cooking, Mr. Q?"

Ordinarily he checked out a few ounces of turkey or shrimp and a frozen dinner. Tonight he was buying unusual items like flour, potatoes, bananas, and canned cat food. "Just shopping for a sick friend," he explained.

He delivered the groceries to the carriage house and returned to the barn just as Eddie Trevelyan's pickup came bouncing up the trail. The young man, in jeans and a tank top, jumped out of the cab and gestured toward the decrepit orchard. "Y'oughta do somethin' about them weeds and rotted trees."

"What would you suggest?" Qwilleran asked amiably. "I could clean 'em out with a bulldozer and backhoe, pave the road, and build a string of condos." He glanced toward the front window. "There's the weasel again. You sure he's a cat?"

"Sometimes.I'm not sure what he is" was the truthful answer. "'Hey, this is some barn, ain't it?"

"Wait till you see the interior. Come in and have a drink."

As soon as they went indoors, Koko came forward with mouth open and fangs bared, emitting a hostile hiss. His stiffened tail was straight as a fencer's sword.

"Does he bite?" the visitor asked, drawing back.

"No, he's overreacting because you think he's a weasel. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Sit anywhere," he added, noting the young man's reluctance to step on the unbleached Moroccan rug or sit on the pale, mushroom-tinted furniture. "What's your drink?"

"Shot On' a beer's okay." He sank into a capacious lounge chair and stared in awe at the balconies, catwalks, ramps, and giant fireplace cube.

"How do you like it?" Qwilleran called from the bar.

"Piece o' work, man!"

"I heard about the house you built for the Alstocks in Black Creek. It's been highly praised."

"Yeah... well..." Eddie was uncomfortable with the compliment.

At the barn the drinks were usually served on a tray, but on this occasion Qwilleran carried the beer can and shot glass by hand. "How are you getting along with Mrs. Duncan?" he asked.

"She's okay, but she worries too much. She's always on my back about somethin'." He downed the whiskey. "Hey, I don't know your name."

"Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran."

"I think I heard it somewheres."

"Could be.... I noticed you had an extra helper today."

"The job'll go faster now."

"Who's your regular man? You two seem to work well as a team."

"Benno. He's from Chipmunk. I knew him in high school. We both took Vocational. What do you do?"

"I'm a writer. I write books... about...baseball." It was the whitest lie Qwilleran could devise on the spur of the moment. He could get away with it because Eddie obviously did not read the Moose County Something.

"I like soccer," Eddie said, and Qwilleran became an instant soccer enthusiast.

After the builder's second shot of whiskey, he seemed more relaxed. "Wotcha think of my dog?"

"Beautiful chow! Friendly personality! What was his name?"

"Zak."

"Good name. Who came up with that?"

"My sister."

"Did she get along with Zak, or was he strictly a man's dog?" "Zak liked everybody. But him and me, we were like buddies. He was a joker, too. I'd take him out on a job, and he"d hang around all day till I started to pack up. Then he'd take off, and I'd hafta chase him. The louder I yelled, the faster he'd run, like he was laughin' at me. He liked to run, di'n't like to be chained. He had a long dog run at my folks' house. That's where they got 'im. Right between the eyes. Musta come outa the kennel to see who was prowlin' around."

"Did he bark? Shouldn't he have barked?"

"Di'n't nobody hear any barkin'."

"Where was his body found?"

"Right near the fence."

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "So he was evidently shot at close range, and he didn't bark. Sounds as if the shooter was someone he knew."

Eddie's delayed response and nervous eyeballs gave the impression that he knew more than he was telling. "Zak knew lotsa people."

Qwilleran was at his sympathetic best: the concern in his eyes, the kindly tilt of his head, the way he leaned toward his listener, the gentle tone of his voice. "How's your mother feeling these days?"

Eddie looked startled. "D'you know her?" "We've met, and I feel very bad about her illness. Does she have good medical care?"

"Aw, the doctors don't know nothin'. There's one doctor that has a cure, but he's in Switzerland."

"Is that so? Have you thought of taking her there?"

"Yeah, my sister and me, we thought about it, but... we di'n't have the dough. The trip, y'know.... the treatment... stayin' there a long time... outa sight! I dunno..."

"How about another drink?" Qwilleran suggested.

"Nah, I gotta hit the road."

"Some coffee? I could throw a burger in the microwave."

"Nah, I gotta meet a guy in Sawdust."

As the contractor drove away in his pickup, Koko ambled inquisitively into the room as if saying, Has he gone?

"That was impolite to hiss at a guest", Qwilleran reprimanded him, though realizing the cat had never before seen such a hairy human. He himself was pleased that he had concealed his connection with the media, while establishing a contact with the Trevelyan family that could be pursued without arousing suspicion. He made a mental list of procedures:

-Continue to take an insulated chest of cold drinks to the building site.

-Talk soccer with the crew during their; break; read the soccer news in the daily paper.

-Attend a soccer game.

-Show interest in the house construction and ask dumb questions. Qwilleran's ideas concerning the shooting of the dog were crystallizing. The perpetrator (a) had a grudge against Floyd and (b) knew where and how the dog was kenneled, although (c) he was unaware that he was shooting someone else's pet. One distasteful idea came to mind: The crime was purposely committed to encourage public sympathy for Floyd. The notion was not completely farfetched in this stronghold of dog owners.