Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Into The Closet

"But she's light, like a jockey, and that makes a good racer. What do you think of her story?"

"It bears a closer look."

"Yeah, that ex-husband of hers is a jerk! Imagine brushing her off like that!"

"If she wants to talk to me, you dial the number for her, Gary."

"Sure, I understand. I'll bet you're pestered by all kinds of people."

Qwilleran threw a ten dollar bill across the bar. "Keep the change for a down payment on some new barstools. And I'll see you Monday night."

From the Hotel Booze he drove directly to the police station in downtown Pickax, where his friend Andrew Brodie was chief.

Brodie waved him away. "If you're looking for free coffee, you're too late. The pot's dry."

"False deduction," Qwilleran said. "My prime objective is to see if you're doing your work, issuing lots of parking tickets, and arresting leaf burners. Did you blow your leaves into the street, Andy? The vacuum truck will be on your side of town tomorrow."

The chief shot him a veiled look. "The wife takes care of that."

"Oh, hot Now I understand why you're always advocating matrimony! I knew there was some ulterior reasoning."

Brodie scowled. "What's on your mind, besides leaves?"

"Do you know a guy named Gil Inchpot?"

"Potato farmer. Brrr Township."

"Right. His daughter's worried about him. He's disappeared. His truck's gone. He abandoned his dog. And he decamped when the potatoes were ready to harvest."

"That's the sheriff's turf," Brodie pointed out. "Did she report it to the sheriff's department?"

"She talked to a deputy named Dan Fincher."

"That guy's a lunkhead! I used to work for the sheriff, and I have firsthand evidence."

"Well, the lunkhead laughed it off, said Inchpot was off on a binge somewhere."

"The daughter should notify the state police. They cover three counties. Do you know the license number of the missing vehicle?"

"No, but it's a blue Ford pickup, and I have Inchpot's address, in case you want to run a check on it - with that expensive computer the taxpayers bought for you."

"Seeing as how it's you," Brodie said, "I'll run down the number and turn it over to the state police post."

"That's decent of you, Andy. If you ever want to run for mayor, I'll campaign for you."

The chief scowled again. "It would do me good to give Dan Fincher a swift kick in the pants, that's all."

-6-

WHEN QWILLERAN RETURNED home after his discussion with the police chief, Goodwinter Boulevard was transformed. AIl the leaves had been blown from the front lawns and sidewalks into the gutters, in preparation for the vacuum truck on Saturday. He found a lawn service vehicle parked behind the house, and three industrious young men with backpack blowers were coaxing the backyard leaves into heaps.

"Did Junior Goodwinter hire you?" Qwilleran asked one of them, feeling guilty that he had failed to take care of it himself. "Send the bill to me, but first, answer one question: What happens to these huge piles of leaves?"

"We'll be back tomorrow to finish up. We've run out of leaf bags," said the boss of the crew. "It's been a busy day. Everybody's in a rush to get rid of the leaves before snow flies."

"What happens if a big wind comes up tonight and blows these piles allover the yard?"

"We get another day's work, and you get another bill," the lawnman said with a guffaw.

As the backpackers went on their merry way, Qwilleran walked about the yard through rustling leaves - a joyous activity he remembered from boyhood. Suddenly, through the comer of his eye, he saw something crawling through the shrubs that bordered the property. He was prepared to yell "Scat!" when he realized it was the attorney's son. He called out sternly, "Is there something you want, young man?"

Timmie Wilmot scrambled to his feet. "Is Oh Jay over here?"

"I don't know anyone of that name."

"He's our cat. A great big orange one with bad breath."

"Then he'd better not hang around here," Qwilleran said in a threatening voice.

"I'm afraid he'll go out in the street and get sucked up in the leaf sucker." The boy was looking anxiously about Qwilleran's yard. "There he is!" He ran across the grass to a pile of leaves that effectively camouflaged a marmalade cat. Grabbing the surprised animal around the middle, he staggered back across the yard, clutching the bundle of fur to his chest, the orange tail dangling between his knees and the orange legs pointing stiffly in four directions. The pair reached the row of shrubs on the lot line and crawled through the brush to safety.

Indoors, the Siamese were concerned chiefly with Qwilleran's recent association with a dog-handler who also raised Siberian huskies. Their noses, like Geiger counters detecting radiation, passed over every square inch of Qwilleran's clothing, their whiskers registering positive.

He arranged some roast beef and boned chub from Toodle's Deli on a plate and placed it under the kitchen table. Then, turning on the kitchen radio for the weather report, he heard the following announcement instead:

"The hobgoblins will be out tomorrow night, which is official Beggars' Night in Pickax. A resolution passed by the city council limits trick-or-treating to one-and-a-half hours, between six o'clock and seven-thirty. Children should stay in their own neighborhoods unless accompanied by an adult. In all cases, two or more children should go together. The police department makes the following recommendations in the interest of safety:

"Stay on the sidewalk; don't run into the street. Don't go into houses if invited. Avoid wearing long costumes that could cause tripping. Don't eat treats until they have been inspected by a parent or other responsible person. Discard unwrapped cookies and candies immediately. Happy Halloween!"

Qwilleran turned to the cats, who were washing up. "Did you hear that? It would be more fun to stay home and do homework."

Saturday morning, after he had heard the announcement for the third time, he went back to Toodle's Market and bought a bushel of apples. When he arrived home, his phone was ringing, and Koko was announcing the fact by racing back and forth and jumping on and off the desk.

"Okay, okay!" Qwilleran yelled at him. "I can hear it, and I know where it is!"

Junior's voice said, "Where've you been so early? Did you stay out all night? I've been trying to reach you."

"I was buying apples for trick-or-treat."

"Apples! Are you nuts? They'll throw 'em at you! They'll soap your windows!"

"We'll see about that," Qwilleran said grimly. "What's on your mind? Are you at the office?"

"I'm going in later, but first: How would you like to take a little ride?"

"Where?"

"To the Hilltop Cemetery. Grandma was buried there yesterday - privately."

"How come?"

"Her last wishes, on file in Wilmot's office, specified no funeral, no mourners, no flowers, and no bagpipes."

"That will break Andy Brodie's heart," Qwilleran said. The police chief prided himself on his piping at weddings and funerals.

"It was Grandma's revenge on the police for all the traffic tickets she got, not that she ever paid them."

"Then why are you going to the cemetery this morning?"

"Somehow," said her grandson, "it isn't decent to let her be buried with only the Dingleberry brothers and a backhoe operator in attendance. Want to come along? I'll pick you up."

"I'll bring a couple of apples," Qwilleran offered. The Hilltop Cemetery dated back to pioneer days when the Gages, Goodwinters, Fugtrees, Trevelyans, and other settlers were buried across the crest of a ridge. Their tombstones could be seen silhouetted against the sky as one approached.

On the way to the cemetery Junior said, "Pickax lost to Lockmaster again last night, fourteen to zip."