{"id":1776,"date":"2026-01-03T21:49:34","date_gmt":"2026-01-03T21:49:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/the-cat-who-14-the-cat-who-wasnt-there-braun-lilian-jackson\/"},"modified":"2026-01-03T21:49:34","modified_gmt":"2026-01-03T21:49:34","slug":"the-cat-who-14-the-cat-who-wasnt-there-braun-lilian-jackson","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/the-cat-who-14-the-cat-who-wasnt-there-braun-lilian-jackson\/","title":{"rendered":"The Cat… Who 14 – The Cat Who Wasn’t There – Braun, Lilian Jackson"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Lilian Jackson Braun – The Cat Who Wasn’t There

One

In late August, sixteen residents of Moose County, a remote part of the United States 400 miles north of everywhere, traveled to Scotland for a tour of the Western Isles and Highlands, lochs and moors, castles and crofts, firths and straths, burns and braes, fens and bens and glens.

Only fifteen of them returned alive, and the survivors straggled home in various states of shock or confusion.

Among the travelers who signed up for the Bonnie Scots Tour were several prominent persons in Pickax City, the county seat. They included the owner of the department store, the superintendent of schools, a young doctor from a distinguished family, the publisher of the local newspaper, the administrator of the public library, and a good-looking, well-built, middle-aged man with a luxuriant pepper and-salt moustache and drooping eyelids, who happened to be the richest bachelor in Moose County–or in fact the entire northeast central United States. Jim Qwilleran’s wealth was not the result of his own effort but a fluke inheritance. As a journalist, he had been content to pound a beat, churn out copy, and race deadlines for large metropolitan dailies Down Below. (so Pickax folk called the urban areas to the south.) Then fate brought him to Pickax City (population 3,000) and made him heir to the Klingenschoen estate. It was more money than he really wanted. The uncounted millions hung over his head like a dark cloud until he established the Klingenschoen Foundation to dispose of the fortune philanthropic ally leaving him free to live in a barn, write a column for the Moose County Something, feed and brush his two Siamese cats, and spend pleasant weekends with Polly Duncan, head of the Pickax Public Library. When the tour to Scotland was proposed, Qwilleran and his feline companions had just returned from a brief sojourn in some distant mountains, a vacation cut short by disturbing news from Pickax. Polly Duncan, while driving home after dark, had been followed by a man in a car without lights, narrowly escaping his clutches. When Qwilleran heard the news, he had a sickening vision of attempted kidnapping; his relationship with Polly was well known in the county, and his millions made him an easy mark for a ransom demand.

Immediately he phoned the Pickax police chief to request protection for Polly. Then, canceling his vacation arrangements, he made the long drive back to Moose County at a speed that discommoded the two yowling passengers in the backseat and alerted the highway patrols of four states. He arrived home Monday noon and dropped off the Siamese and their water dish before hurrying to the Pickax Public Library. He went on foot, cutting through the woods and approaching the library from the rear. In the parking lot behind the building he recognized Polly’s small gray two-door and an elderly friend’s ancient navy blue four-door. There was also a maroon car with a Massachusetts license plate that gave him momentary qualms; he had no wish to encounter Dr. Melinda Goodwinter, who had come from Boston for her father’s funeral. He mounted the steps of the stately library in un stately leaps and found the main room aflutter with small children. There was no evidence of Melinda Goodwinter.

The youngsters were squealing and chattering and lugging picture books to the check-out desk, on which sat a rotund object about three feet high, like an egg with a cracked shell. The six-foot-two man pushed through the horde of knee-high tots, went up the stairs to the mezzanine three at a time, and barged through the reading room to the glass-enclosed office of the head librarian. None of the persons at the reading tables, he noted with relief, was the young doctor from Boston. Sooner or later he would have to face her, and he was unsure how to handle their reunion: with cool politesse? with lukewarm pleasure? with jocular nonchalance? The librarian was a dignified and pleasant-faced woman of his own age, and she was eating lunch at her desk, the aroma of tuna fish adding an earthy touch to the high-minded bookish ness of the office. Silently she reached out a hand across the desk and managed to smile her delight and surprise while chewing a carrot stick. A fervent and lingering handclasp was as amorous a greeting as they dared, since the office had the privacy of a fishbowl and Pickax had a penchant for gossip.

Their eye contact said it all.

“You’re home!” she murmured in her gentle voice after swallowing.

“Yes, I made it!” It was a dialogue unworthy of Polly’s intelligence and Qwilleran’s wit, but under the circumstances they could be excused.

He dropped into a varnished oak chair, the keys in his back pocket clanking on the hard seat.

“Is everything all right?” he asked anxiously.

“Any more scares?” “Not a thing,” she said calmly.

“No more prowlers in the neighborhood?” She shook her head. For one uncomfortable moment his suspicious nature suggested that she might have invented the prowler episode to bring him home ahead of schedule; she was inclined to be possessive. He banished the thought, however; Polly was an honorable and loving friend. She might be jealous of women younger and thinner than she, but she had absolute integrity; of that he was sure.

“Tell me again exactly what happened,” Qwilleran said.

“Your voice was shaky when you talked to me on the phone.” “Well, as I told you at the time, I was returning after dark from the library banquet,” she began quietly in her clear, considered manner of speaking.

“When I drove into Goodwinter Boulevard–where curb parking is not allowed, as you know–I noticed a car parked the wrong way in front of the Gage mansion, and I could see someone sitting behind the wheel–a man with a beard. I thought that was strange. Mrs. Gage was still in Florida, and no one was living in the main house. I decided to notify the police as soon as I reached my apartment.” “Did you feel personally threatened at this point?” “Not really. I turned into the side drive of the mansion and was driving back to the carriage house when I realized that the car was following me without lights! And then–then I was terrified! I accelerated and parked close to my doorstep with the headlights beamed on the keyhole. As I jumped out of my car, I glanced to the left. He was getting out of his car, too.

I was able to rush inside and slam the door before he reached me.” Qwilleran tapped his moustache in an expression of anxiety.

“Did you get a further look at him?” “That’s what the police wanted to know.

I have the impression that he was of medium build, and when I first pulled up to the drive my headlights picked up a bearded face behind the wheel. That’s all I can tell you.” “That narrows it down to forty percent of our male population,” Qwilleran said. In Moose County beards were favored by potato farmers, hunters, sheep ranchers, fishermen, construction workers, and newspaper reporters.

“It was a bushy beard, I would say,” she added.

“Did Brodie give you a police escort as I requested?” “He offered to drive me to and from work, but honestly, Qwill, it seemed so un nec in daylight.” “Hmmm,” he murmured, slumping in his chair in deep thought. Was it a false alarm? Or was Polly really at risk? Rather than worry her unduly, he asked, “What’s that absurd egg doing on the check-out desk?” “Don’t you recognize Humpty Dumpty? He’s the focus of our summer reading program,” she explained patiently.

“The children are helping to put him together again by checking out books. After they’ve taken home a certain number, he’ll be well and happy, and we’ll have a party… You’re invited,” she added mischievously, knowing he avoided small children.

“How do you know the kids will read the books after they get them home?

How do you know they’ll even crack them?” “Qwill, dear, you’re so cynical!” she reproved him.

“Your stay in the mountains hasn’t mellowed you in the slightest… By the way, did you see our elevator installation? We’re very grateful to the Klingenschoen Foundation. Now the elderly and infirm have access to the reading room.” “You should ask the K Foundation for some chairs with padded seats,” he suggested, squirming uncomfortably.

“Apart from Humpty Dumpty’s great fall, is there any other world-shaking news in Moose County?” “We’re still grieving over the suicide of Dr.

Halifax. Dr. Melinda returned for her father’s funeral and has decided to stay. Everyone’s pleased about that.” It was a small-town custom to use the honorific when a local son or daughter had earned it.

Melinda Goodwinter had been Polly’s predecessor in Qwilleran’s affection–as everyone in Pickax knew–and he was careful not to react visibly. Casually he asked, “Will she take over Dr. Hal’s patients?” “Yes, she’s already sent out announcements.” Polly spoke of Melinda with studied detachment.

“How about dinner tonight at the Old Stone Mill?” he asked, changing the subject to conceal his personal concern about Melinda redux.

“I was hoping you’d suggest it.

I have something exciting to discuss.” “About what?” She smiled mysteriously.

“I can’t tell you right now. It’s a wonderful surprise!” “Where shall I pick you up? And at what time?” “Shall we say seven o’clock?” Polly suggested.

“I’d like to go home to change clothes and feed Bootsie.” “Seven o’clock it is.” “Are you sure you aren’t too tired after all that driving?” “All I need is a strong cup of coffee, and I’ll be swinging from the chandeliers.” “I’ve missed you, dear. I’m so glad you’re home,” she said softly.

“I’ve missed you, too, Polly.” He started to leave her office and paused on the threshold, from which he could see the reading tables. A white-haired woman sat knitting laboriously with arthritic hands; an elderly man was bent over a stack of books; a younger man with an unruly beard was leafing idly through a magazine.

“Who’s the fellow with the beard?” Qwilleran mumbled behind his hand as he stroked his moustache.

“I don’t know. The woman is Mrs. Crawbanks; her granddaughter always drops her off here while she does errands. Now that we have an elevator we’ve become a day-care center for grandparents. Homer Tibbitt–you know him, of course–is doing research for the Historical Society. The younger man, I don’t know.” Qwilleran strode through the reading room to speak to the thin and angular Mr. Tibbitt, who was in his nineties and still active, despite creaking joints.

“I hear you’re digging into Moose County’s lurid past, Homer.” The retired school principal straightened up, his bony frame clicking in several places.

“Got to keep the old brain cells functioning,” he said in a cracked voice.

“No one’s ever recorded the history of the Goodwinters, although they founded Pickax one hundred fifty years ago. There were four branches of the family, some with good blood and some with bad blood, sorry to say.

But the clan’s dying out in these parts. Amanda’s the last of the drinking Goodwinters. Dr. Halifax had two children, but the boy was killed in an accident a few years ago, and if Dr. Melinda marries and produces sons, they won’t continue the family name. Of course,” he continued after a moment’s reflection, “she could do something unconventional; you never know what the young ones will do these days.

But at present, Junior Goodwinter is the only hope. He’s produced one son so far…” Mr. Tibbitt would have rambled on, but Qwilleran noticed that the bearded man had left the reading room, and he wanted to follow him. Excusing himself, he bolted down the stairs and out of the building, dodging preschoolers, but the car with the Massachusetts plate was pulling out of the parking lot.

From the library he took the back street to the police station, hoping to avoid acquaintances who would question his premature return from the mountains. He found Andrew Brodie, the big, broad shouldered chief of police, hunched over a computer, distrustfully poking the keys.

“Who invented these damn things?” Brodie growled.

“More trouble than they’re worth!” He leaned back in his chair.

“Well, my friend, you hightailed it back to Pickax pretty fast!

How’d you do it?” “By flying low, bribing cops, and not giving my right name,” Qwilleran retorted in the familiar bantering style that Brodie liked.

“How’s it going, Andy? Have you logged any more reports of prowlers?” “Nary a one! The incident on Goodwinter Boulevard is hard to figure.

Can’t say that I buy your theory, Qwill.

Kidnapping is something we’ve never had around here, except once when a father snatched his kid after a custody battle.” “There was a stranger loitering in the reading room outside Polly’s office a few minutes ago, a youngish man with a bushy beard and a gray sweatshirt.

He was driving a car with a Massachusetts license plate, but he pulled out of the lot before I could catch the number.” “Could it be Dr. Melinda’s car? She’s back in town.” “This was an old model, and muddy. I’m sure she drives something new and antiseptic-looking.” “If you see it again, get the number and we’ll run a check on the registration just for the hell of it. Did you get a description?” “All I can tell you is that it’s a medium-sized car in dull maroon, and it looks as if it’s been on dirt roads lately.” “Not hard to do in this neck o’ the woods.” Qwilleran looked over Brodie’s shoulder toward the coffeemaker.

“Could the taxpayers afford a cup for a weary traveler?” “Help yourself, but don’t expect anything like that liquid tar that you brew!” Qwilleran pushed open the gate into the enclosure, poured a cup of weak coffee, and sat down in another hard institutional oak chair.

“Did you play your bagpipe at Dr. Hal’s funeral, Andy?” The chief nodded soberly.

“Everybody broke up! Men, women, and children–all in tears! There’s nothing sadder than a dirge on a bagpipe. Dr. Melinda requested it.

She said her dad liked the pipes.” Switching to a confidential tone, he went on.

“She thinks she’s gonna take over his patients, but the guys around here won’t warm up to the idea of stripping and being examined by a woman doctor. I’m squeamish about it myself. I’ll find me a male doctor even if I have to go down to Lockmaster. How about you?” “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” Qwilleran said carelessly, although he knew the situation would be awkward in his own case.

“Our health care setup will improve when the Klingenschoen Professional Building is finished. We’ll be able to lure some specialists up here from Down Below. After all, it’s a good place to raise a family; you said so yourself.” His effort to divert attention from Melinda was unsuccessful. Brodie regarded him sharply.

“You and her were pretty thick, I understand, when she was here before.” “She was the first woman I met when I came to Moose County, Andy, but that’s ancient history.” “I don’t know why you and Polly don’t get hitched. It’s the only way to live, to my way of thinking.” “That’s because you’re a dedicated family man. Try to get it through your skull that some of us make rotten husbands. I found it out the hard way, to my sorrow. I lost several years of my life, and ruined another life in the process.” “But Polly’s a good woman. Damn shame to see her wasted.” “Wasted! If she knew you called her life wasted, she’d tear up your library card! Polly is living a useful and rewarding life.

She’s the lifeblood of the library. And she chooses to be independent.

She has her women friends and her bird-watching and a comfortable apartment filled with family heirlooms…” And she has Bootsie, Qwilleran said to himself as he walked from the police station to the newspaper office. He huffed into his moustache. It was his impression that Polly lavished too much maudlin affection on the two-year-old Siamese. When Bootsie was a kitten, she babied him unconscionably, but now he had outgrown kittenish ways and she still babbled precious nonsense in his ear. In Qwilleran’s household, the Siamese were sophisticated companions whom he treated as equals, and they treated him the same way. He addressed them intelligently, and they replied with expressive yips and yowls. When he discussed problems in their presence, he felt their sympathy. He regularly read aloud to them from worthwhile books, news magazines, and–on Sundays–the New York Times.

Kao K’o Kung, the male (called Koko as a handy everyday diminutive), was a gifted animal endowed with highly developed senses quite beyond those of humans and other cats.

Yum Yum was a female who hid her catly wiles under a guise of affectionate cuddling, purring and nuzzling, often extending a paw to touch Qwilleran’s moustache. From the police station it was a short walk to the office of the Moose County Something, as the local newspaper was named. (everything in mile-square Pickax was a short walk.) The publication occupied a new building made possible by financial assistance from the Klingenschoen Foundation, and the editor-and-publisher was Qwilleran’s longtime friend from Down Below, Arch Riker. In the lobby there were no security guards or hidden cameras such as those employed by the large metropolitan dailies for which Qwilleran had worked. He walked down the hall to Riker’s office and found the door open, the desk unoccupied. From the managing editor’s office across the hall Junior Goodwinter hailed him.

“Arch went to Minneapolis for a publishers’ conference. He’ll be back tomorrow. Come on in! Have a chair. Put your feet up. I don’t suppose you want a cup of coffee.” Recalling the anemic brew he had just swallowed, Qwilleran replied, “I majored in journalism and graduated with a degree in caffeine. Make it black and hot.” Junior’s boyish build, boyish countenance, and boyish enthusiasm were now tempered by a newly grown beard.

“How do you like it?” he asked as he stroked his chin.

“Does it make me look older?” “It makes you look like a young potato farmer. What’s your wife’s reaction?” “She likes it. She says it makes me look like a jolly elf.

What brings you home so soon?” he asked as he handed over a steaming cup.

“Polly was frightened by a prowler on Goodwinter Boulevard. I didn’t like the sound of it.” “How come we didn’t hear about it?” “She reported it, but there’s been no further incident, so far as anyone knows.” “They’ve got to do something about Goodwinter Boulevard, no kidding,” said Junior.

“It used to be the best street in town. Now it’s getting positively hairy with all those vacant mansions looking like haunted houses. The one where Alex and Penelope lived has been up for sale for years! The one that Van Brook rented is empty again, and it’s going begging. Who wants fifteen or twenty rooms nowadays?” “Rezoning, that’s what it needs,” Qwilleran said.

“It should be rezoned for apartments, offices, good restaurants, high-class nursing homes, and so forth. Why don’t you write an editorial?” “I’d be accused of special interest,” Junior said.

“How do you figure that?” “Grandma Gage has bought a condo in Florida and wants to deed the mansion to me while she’s still living.

What would I do with fifteen rooms? Think of the heating bills and the taxes and all those windows to wash! I’ll own just another white elephant on Goodwinter Boulevard.” Qwilleran’s eyes, known for their doleful expression and drooping lids, roamed over the clutter on the editor’s desk, the crumpled paper that had missed the wastebasket, the half-open file drawers, the stacks of out-of-town newspapers.

But he wasn’t looking; he was thinking. He was thinking that the Gage mansion occupied the property in front of Polly’s carriage house. If he lived there, he could keep a watchful eye on her. Also, it would be convenient for other purposes, like dropping in for dinner frequently.

He smoothed his moustache with satisfaction and said to Junior, “I could use a winter house in town. My barn is hard to heat and there’s too much snow to plow. Why don’t I rent your house?” “Wow! That would be great!” the young editor yelled.

“But I still think you should run that editorial.” “The city will never do anything about rezoning. Tradition dies hard in Pickax.” “How about Stephanie’s Restaurant in the old Lanspeak house? It was opened a couple of years when I first came here.” “That was the first house on the boulevard,” Junior explained.

“It faced Main Street and could be legally used for commercial purposes. Too bad it closed; the building’s still empty… No, Qwill, there are still influential families on the boulevard who’ll fight rezoning like tigers. We’ll have to wait for some more of them to die off. Dr. Hal lived on the boulevard, you know.” “Do you think Melinda will keep the house?” “No way! She has an apartment and intends to sell the house and furnishings. Off the record, her dad didn’t leave much of an estate.

He was an old-fashioned country doctor, never charging patients who couldn’t pay and never taking advantage of the insurance setup. And don’t forget the expense of round-the-clock nurses for his wife for all those years! Melinda has inherited more problems than property.. Have you seen her?” Junior asked with a searching look. He knew about Melinda’s former pursuit of the county’s most eligible bachelor. She was Junior’s cousin. All Goodwinters were cousins to a degree.

“She’s changed somehow,” he said.

“I don’t know how to pinpoint it.” “Three years on the staff of a Boston hospital can do that,” Qwilleran said.

“Yeah, they worked her pretty hard, I guess.

Well, anyway, can we expect some copy from you this week? Or are you too bushed?” “I’ll see what I can do.” Walking home, Qwilleran recalled his earlier association with Dr. Melinda Goodwinter. He had been a stranger in Moose County at the time, suffering from a fierce case of ivy poisoning. After treating his condition successfully, she offered friendship, flip conversation, and youth. She was twenty years his junior, with green eyes and long lashes and the frank sexuality of her generation. As a doctor, she had convinced him to give up smoking and take more exercise. As a woman, she had been overly aggressive for Qwilleran’s taste, and her campaign to bulldoze him into matrimony resulted in embarrassment for both of them. She moved to Boston after that, telling everyone she had no desire to be a country doctor. When he met Polly, it was he who did the pursuing–an arrangement more to his liking. She was not so thin as Melinda, nor were her lashes so long, but she was a congenial companion and a good cook, who shared his literary interests. They liked to get together and read Shakespeare, for one thing. She made no unacceptable demands, and, more and more, Qwilleran found Polly occupying his thoughts. On the way home he stopped at Toodles’ Market to buy the Siamese something to eat–always a problem because they had fickle palates. Their preferences changed just often enough to keep him perpetually on his toes. There was only one constant: no cat food! As if they could read labels, they disdained any product intended for the four-legged trade. Sometimes they were satisfied with a can of red salmon garnished with a smoked oyster or a dab of caviar, preferably sturgeon. At other times, they would kill for turkey, but he could never be sure. At Toodles’ he considered a slice of roast beef from the deli or some chicken liver pate.

Better yet would be a few ounces of tenderloin from the butcher, to serve au tartare, but he would have to hand-mince it; ground meat was somehow objectionable. He settled for the pate. From there he followed the long way home, just for the exercise, trudging along a back road, then up a gravel trail through an old orchard. He was a hundred feet from the apple barn when he heard clarion voices yowling a welcome. The nineteenth-century barn was an octagonal structure four stories high, with large windows cut into the walls at various levels, and he could see two furry bodies darting about indoors, observing him first from one window and then another. They met him at the door, prancing and waving their tails like flags. It was a ritual that gave him a leap of inner joy in spite of his unsentimental greeting.

“What have you young turks been doing since you got home?” They sensed the liver pate with quivering whiskers.

In spasms of anticipation they dashed up the ramp that spiraled around the interior of the building, connecting the three balconies and ending in narrow catwalks under the roof. Then they pounded pell-mell down the slope to the first balcony, from which they flew like squirrels, landing in the cushioned seating on the main floor.

There they washed their paws and whiskers before dinner. When Qwilleran spread the pate on a plate and placed it on the floor, he watched them with fascination as they devoured it. They were masterpieces of design: sleek fawn bodies on long brown legs; incredibly blue eyes in seal-brown masks; expressive brown tails tapered like rapiers. To Qwilleran they seemed to have more elegance than Bootsie, who was being overfed to compensate for the loneliness of his solitary life. At seven o’clock he called for Polly at her carriage-house apartment behind the Gage mansion, and as he climbed the narrow staircase, Bootsie was waiting at the top with ears back and fangs bared.

“Greetings, thou paragon of animals,” Qwilleran said, thinking a phrase from Shakespeare would please Polly. Bootsie hissed.

“You must forgive him,” she apologized.

“He sensed danger when the prowler was outside, and he’s been edgy ever since.” After a warm, silent, meaningful embrace that would have astonished the library patrons and started the Pickax grapevine sizzling, Qwilleran presented Polly with a tissue-wrapped bundle.

“Sorry it isn’t giftwrapped,” he said.

“I brought it from the mountains. It looked like your shade of blue.” Polly was thrilled.

“It’s a batwing cape! It’s handwoven! Who did it?” “One of the mountaineers,” he said, shrugging off the question.

“They’re all weavers and potters and woodworkers in the mountains.” He avoided mentioning that the weaver was an interesting young woman whom he had taken to dinner and who had rescued him twice when he was in trouble on mountain passes.

Polly had shed the drab suit she wore at the library and was looking festive in a summer dress of mixed polka dots, red-on-white and white-on-red.

“You’re sure it isn’t too bold for me?” she asked when Qwilleran complimented her.

“Irma Hasselrich helped me choose it.” They drove to the restaurant in the rental car that had brought him from the mountains.

“My own car broke down,” he explained, “and I left it there.” The tale was loosely true; the car had bogged down in mud, and he had given it to the young mountain woman, who would be able to haul it out with her swamp buggy. The restaurant called the Old Stone Mill occupied a historic gristmill. There was enough affluence in Pickax–and there were enough educated palates–to support one good eatery, and it was owned by a syndicate of businessmen who needed an unprofitable venture for tax purposes. It paid its chefs handsomely and offered a menu worldly enough for local residents who had dined in San Francisco, New Orleans, and Paris. After Qwilleran and Polly were greeted and seated at their usual table, a six-foot-seven busboy, who towered above customers and staff alike, shuffled up to the table with a water pitcher and basket of garlic toast. His name was Derek Cuttlebrink.

“Hi, Mr. Q,” he said in friendly fashion.

“I thought you were going away for the summer.” “I came back,” Qwilleran explained succinctly.

“I’m taking two weeks in August to go camping.” “Good for you!” “Yeah, I met this girl, and she has a tent. Blue nylon, seven-by-eight, with aluminum frame. Sets up in five minutes.” “Take plenty of mosquito repellent,” Qwilleran advised.

“Stay away from poison ivy. Watch out for ticks.” Polly asked, “Have you given any more thought to college, Derek?” “Well, you know, it’s like this, Mrs. Duncan. I’ve decided to stay in the food business. I’m getting promoted to the kitchen, end of the month–in charge of French fries and garlic toast.” “Congratulations!” said Qwilleran. When the busboy had sauntered away, Polly wondered, “Do you think Derek will ever amount to anything?” “Don’t give up hope,” Qwilleran said.

“One of these days he’ll meet the right girl, and he’ll become a famous brain surgeon.

I’ve seen it happen.” He ordered dry sherry for Polly and, for himself, a local product called Squunk water–from a flowing well in Squunk Corners. He always drank it on the rocks with a twist. Polly raised her glass.

“Slainte!” “Ditto,” Qwilleran said.

“What does it mean?” “I don’t know exactly. It’s a toast in Gaelic that Irma Hasselrich always uses.” Polly often quoted her new friend.

Personally, Qwilleran had his doubts about Irma Hasselrich. In her forties, she still lived at home with her parents, her father being senior partner in the law firm of Hasselrich, Bennett and Barter.

She was the chief volunteer at the Senior Care Facility, and Qwilleran had met her while interviewing an aged patient. At that time, he thought her a handsome woman. She had a Junoesque figure, a polished appearance, and a charming manner. Since Polly was spending the summer in England, he tried to take Irma to dinner, but his invitation was pointedly avoided. He was not accustomed to being rejected, and his reaction was distinctly negative. Recently the two women had discovered a mutual interest: They often went birdwatching with binoculars and notebooks on the banks of the Ittibittiwassee River or in the wetlands near Purple Point.

Furthermore, the well-groomed, well-dressed Irma was influencing Polly to wear brighter colors and touch up her graying hair.

“You’re looking especially young and attractive tonight,” he remarked as they sipped their aperitifs.

“Soon you’ll be joining the Theatre Club and playing ingenue roles.” “Not likely,” she said with her musical laugh.

“But did you hear that the club is doing Macbeth in September?” “That’s a surprise!” “Why? It’s a highly dramatic play with witches, ghosts, swordplay, a sleepwalker, and some ghastly murders, and it has plenty to say about temptation, human failure, spiritual evil, and compulsive ambition.” “But according to superstition, it brings bad luck to the company that stages it.” “No one around here is aware of that, so don’t enlighten them,” Polly advised.

“Of course, it’s almost certain that Larry will play the title role.” “He’ll have to grow a beard again. He won’t like that.

Who’s directing?” “A new man in town, Dwight Somers, who’s taken a position with XYZ Enterprises. He’s had theatre experience and is said to be very nice.

Auditions have been announced, and it’s rumored that Dr. Melinda is going to read for Lady Macbeth.” The Pickax library was a major listening post in the local grapevine.

Qwilleran wanted to ask: Have you seen Melinda? … How does she look?

… They say she’s changed a lot. He deemed it wise, however, not to exhibit that much interest, so he asked casually, “Would she be any good in that role?” “Quite possibly. I saw her at Dr. Hal’s funeral and thought she was looking… much older. The Goodwinter face–long and narrow, you know–has a tendency to look haggard. It doesn’t age well.” They ordered jellied watercress consomme and grilled swordfish with pineapple-jalapeno salsa, and Qwilleran asked, “What’s the surprise you have for me tonight?” “Well!” she began with evident relish.

“Irma and I had dinner one night while you were away, and we were talking about Scotland. She went to art school there and still has connections, whom she visits frequently.

I mentioned that I’ve always wanted to see Macbeth country, and that started a train of thought. Why not organize a group tour of Scottish Isles and Highlands, with a percentage of the tour cost going to the Senior Care Facility, tax deductible?” “Sounds okay.

Who’d manage it?” “Irma is plotting the itinerary, and she’ll make the reservations and act as tour guide.” “Is she experienced at handling group tours?” “No. But she’s in charge of the volunteer program at the facility, and she’s a natural leader, well organized, and certainly knowledgeable about Scotland, especially the Western Isles and Highlands.” “How will you travel in Scotland?” “By chartered minibus. The Lanspeaks and the Comptons have signed up, and Irma and I will share a room. The price of the tour is based on double occupancy, but singles are available.” Qwilleran said to himself, It’s a good idea for Polly to leave the country until the prowler threat blows over.

“You’ll like the Highlands. I spent my honeymoon there. As I recall, the food wasn’t very good, but that was quite a long time ago, and when you’re a newlywed, who cares? … Would you like me to feed Bootsie while you’re away?” She regarded him hopefully.

“We were thinking… that you might… join the tour.” The suggestion caught him off-guard, and he stared into space for a few moments before answering.

“How long is the trip? I’ve never left the cats for more than a couple of days. Who’d take care of them?” “Is there someone you could trust to move into your barn for two weeks?

My sister-in-law is going to stay with Bootsie.” Qwilleran stroked his moustache with uncertainty.

“I don’t know.

I’ll have to think about it. But whatever I decide, the K Foundation will match whatever you raise for the Senior Facility. Will it be advertised?” “Irma says it’s better to make it invitational to ensure a compatible group. We’ll go in late August when the heather is in bloom. The tour will start in Glasgow and end in Edinburgh.” “Glasgow?” Qwilleran echoed with interest.

“I’ve been reading about the Charles Rennie Mackintosh revival in Glasgow. My mother was a Mackintosh, you know.” Polly knew, having heard it a hundred times, but she asked sweetly, “Do you think you might be related to him?” “I know nothing about my maternal ancestors except that one of them was either a stagecoach driver who was killed by a highwayman, or a highwayman who was hanged for murdering a stagecoach driver. As for Charles Rennie Mackintosh, I know only that he pioneered modern design a hundred years ago, and he sounds like an interesting character.” “If you wish to extend your time in Glasgow, you can do that,” Polly said encouragingly.

“Carol and Larry will go early and see a few plays in London.” “Okay, sign me up for a single,” he said.

“I’ll find a cat-sitter. Lori Bamba would be perfect, but she has kids, and they’d fall off the balconies. The barn was designed for cats and adults.” The soup course arrived, and they savored it in silence as they thought about the forthcoming adventure. When the swordfish was served, Qwilleran said, “I’ve heard a rumor about Irma Hasselrich, although not from a reliable source. Perhaps you could set me straight.” Polly stiffened noticeably.

“What have you heard?

And from whom?” “I protect my sources,” he said, “but the story is that she shot a man twenty-odd years ago and was charged with murder, but the Hasselriches bribed the judge to let her off without a sentence.” Drawing a deep breath of exasperation, Polly replied, “Like most gossip in Pickax, it’s only ten percent accurate. The motive for the shooting was what we now call date rape. In court, Hasselrich defended his daughter brilliantly. The jury found her guilty of manslaughter but recommended leniency, and the judge was more understanding than most jurists at that time; he gave her probation, plus an order to do three years of community service… Does that answer your question?” Detecting annoyance in the curt explanation, he said, “I’m sorry. I simply repeated what I had heard.

” More softly Polly said, “After completing her community service, Irma went on to devote her life to volunteer work. She’ll do anything for charity! She’s raised tons of money for good causes.” “Quite admirable,” Qwilleran murmured, but it crossed his mind that “anything” was a strong and suspect word. He ordered strawberry pie for dessert, and Polly toyed with a small dish of lime sorbet. She had eaten only half of everything that was served.

“I’m watching my diet,” she explained.

“I’ve lost a few pounds. Does it show?” “You’re looking healthy and beautiful,” he replied.

“Don’t get too skinny.” After dessert they went to her apartment for coffee, and then did some reading aloud. They read two acts of Macbeth while Bootsie sniffed Qwilleran’s trouser legs with distaste. It was late when Qwilleran returned to the apple barn, and two indignant Siamese met him at the door. Sensing that he had been associating with another cat, they walked away with a lofty display of superiority.

“Come off it, you guys!” he rebuked them.

“I have news for you. I’m taking a trip to Scotland, and you’re not going!” “Yowl” Koko scolded him.

“That’s right. You’re staying here!” “Not-not-now!” shrieked Yum Yum.

“And you’re not going, either!”

Two

The day following his evening with Polly, Qwilleran regretted his impulsive decision to go to Scotland and leave the Siamese for two weeks. As he brushed their silky coats– Yum Yum with hindlegs splayed like a Duncan Phyfe table, and Koko with tail in a stiff Hogarth curve–he thought of canceling his reservation, but an inner voice deterred him, saying: You’re a two-hundred-pound man, and you’re allowing yourself to be enslaved by eighteen pounds of cat!

That evening he was reading aloud with the female cuddling contentedly on his lap and the male perched on the arm of his chair, when the telephone rang.

“Excuse me, sweetheart,” he said, lifting Yum Yum gently and placing her on the warm seat cushion he had just vacated. It was Irma Hasselrich on the line, speaking with the syrupy, formal charm that was her style. She said, “Mr. Qwilleran, I learn with a great deal of pleasure that you wish to join the Bonnie Scots Tour.” “Yes, it strikes me as an interesting adventure. My mother was a Mackintosh. And by the way, please call me Qwill.” “Needless to say, Mr. Qwilleran,” she continued as if she had not heard, “we’re delighted that the Klingenschoen Foundation is offering a matching grant. We want to create a park for the patients at the facility, with flower beds, winding paths for wheelchairs, and a pavilion with tables for picnic lunches and games.” “Very commendable,” Qwilleran murmured.

“How many persons do you expect to enlist for the tour?” “Our goal is sixteen. That number will fill a minibus.” “Did Polly tell you I want to spend some time in Glasgow?” “Yes. Several participants want to extend their stay abroad, so I suggest that we all make our own flight arrangements and meet on Day One at a prescribed location in Glasgow.” “How many have signed up so far?” “Eleven. Perhaps you can suggest other compatible travelers that we might contact.” Qwilleran thought for a few seconds.

“How about John and Vicki Bushland? They have a summer place in Mooseville, although they’re residents of Lockmaster, where he has a commercial photography studio.” “We would love to have a professional photographer along! May I call them and use your name?” “By all means.” “As soon as it was known that you were joining the tour, Mr. Qwilleran, I was able to sign up three others: Mr. and Mrs.

MacWhannell–he’s the CPA, you know–and Dr. Melinda Goodwinter.

Aren’t we fortunate to have a doctor with us?” Qwilleran cringed inwardly and combed his moustache with his fingertips. He had visions of the importunate Melinda tapping on his hotel door at a late hour and inviting herself in for a chat. She was a persistent young woman, and, according to Arch Riker, who had met her after her father’s funeral, she was still carrying the torch for him, Polly or no Polly. Qwilleran veiled his distress by inquiring about the weather in Scotland, and Irma assured him that she would send all pertinent travel information in the mail. When the conversation ended, he immediately phoned Arch Riker at the office of the Moose County Something. The two men had grown up together in Chicago and had pursued separate careers in journalism Down Below. Now they were reunited in Pickax, where Riker was realizing his dream of publishing a small-town newspaper.

“Arch, how would you like to knock off for a couple of weeks and go to Scotland with a local group?” Qwilleran proposed.

“We could save a few bucks by sharing accommodations.” He added a few details and dropped some important names: Hasselrich, Lanspeak, Compton, Goodwinter, MacWhannell. Riker liked the idea, saying that he’d always wanted to play the seventeenth hole at St. Andrews.

“And now the bad news,” Qwilleran said.

“Melinda Goodwinter is going.” “The plot thickens,” said Riker with a chuckle. He was amused by his friend’s problems with women.

“Does Polly know?” “If she doesn’t, she’ll soon find out!” Complimenting himself on a successful maneuver, Qwilleran called Irma Hasselrich and changed his reservation to double occupancy. The next day it was his turn to chuckle when Riker telephoned.

“Hey, listen to this, Qwill,” he said.

“I took Amanda to dinner last night and told her about the Scottish tour, and she wants to join! How do you like that kettle of fish?” “She’ll have to pay the single supplement. No one will be willing to room with Amanda–not even her cousin Melinda.” Amanda Goodwinter was a cranky, outspoken woman of indefinite age who “drank a little,” as Pickax natives liked to say.

Yet, she operated a successful studio of interior design and was repeatedly elected to the city council, where she minced no words, spared no feelings, played no politics. Riker, with a journalist’s taste for oddballs, found her entertaining, and fora while the Pickax grapevine linked them as potential mates, but Amanda’s prickly personality guaranteed that she would remain single for life. Now he was enjoying the prospect of Amanda disrupting the harmony of a group tour.

“I hope everyone has a sense of humor,” he said to Qwilleran on the phone.

“What’s so absurd is that she hates bagpipes, mountains, bus travel, and Irma Hasselrich.” “Then why is she going?

Surely not only to be with you, old chum!” “No, I can’t take the credit. She’s excited about visiting whiskey distilleries. She’s heard they give free samples.” While Qwilleran was relishing this news, Chief Brodie phoned to report that state troopers had spotted a Massachusetts license plate on a maroon car headed south near the county line.

“Probably leaving the area,” he said.

“We ran a check, and it’s registered to one Charles Edward Martin of Charlestown, Massachusetts.” “What was he doing here?” Qwilleran asked sharply, a rhetorical question.

“In five years I’ve never seen a Massachusetts car in Moose County.

Those New Englanders don’t even know it exists!” “Could be a friend of Dr. Melinda’s. Could be he came for her dad’s funeral. There were lots of beards there,” Brodie said.

“Tell you what, Qwill: If he shows up again and we get a complaint, we’ll know who he is, at least. For now, we’re stepping up the night patrols on Goodwinter Boulevard, and you tell Polly not to go out alone after dark.” Qwilleran’s moustache bristled. Whenever he thought of that maroon car, he felt a distinct tremor on his upper lip. His luxuriant moustache was more than a prominent facial feature; it had long been the source of his hunches and suspicions, bristling and tingling to get his attention, and experience had taught him to trust the signals. This peculiar sensitivity was a matter he was loath to discuss with any but his intimate friends, and even they were disinclined to believe it. Nevertheless, it was a fact. He was not alone in his ability to sense trouble. Kao K’o Kung possessed a unique faculty for exposing evil deeds and evildoers, in the same way that he sniffed a microscopic spot on the rug, or detected a stereo control turned to “on” when the power should be off. When Koko’s ears pointed and his whiskers twitched, when he scratched industriously and sniffed juicily, he was on the scent of something that was-not–as–it-comshd–but every After the phone conversation with Brodie, Qwilleran turned to Koko, who always perched nearby to monitor calls.

“Well, old boy,” he said, “the Boulevard Prowler seems to have left town.” “Yow,” said Koko, scratching his ear.

“So far, so good. Now, how do we find you a suitable cat-sitter?” Koko jumped to the floor with a grunt and trotted to the pantry, where he stared pointedly at his empty plate.

Yum Yum was not far behind. It was time for their mid-day snack.

Qwilleran gave them a handful of crunchy cereal concocted by the food writer of the Moose County Something, Mildred Hanstable. It was the only dry food the Siamese would deign to eat. As he watched them munching and waving their tails in rapture, an idea struck him.

“I’ve got it!” he said aloud.

“Mildred Hanstable!” Besides writing the food column for the newspaper, she taught home economics in the Pickax schools, and she enjoyed cooking for cats, dogs, and humans.

Widowed, she lived alone. Plump and pretty, she had a kind heart, a lively imagination, and an ample lap.

“Perfect!” Qwilleran yelped, so loudly that the Siamese turned to look at him in alarm before finishing the last morsel on the plate. Mildred Hanstable was the mother-in-law of his friend Roger MacGillivray, and he tracked down the young reporter at Lois’s Luncheonette.

“What do you think of the idea, Roger? She likes the cats, and they like her.” “It would do her a lot of good–help get her mind off the past,” said Roger.

“She thinks your barn is sensational, and the chance to live there for a couple of weeks would be like halfway to heaven!” “One thing I must ask: Is she still drinking heavily?” “Well, she went through a twisted kind of alcoholic mourning for that no-good husband of hers, but she snapped out of it. Now she’s overeating instead. Basically she’s lonely. I wish she could meet a decent guy.” “We’ll have to work on that, Roger… Where are you headed now?” “I have an assignment in Kennebeck. The Tuesday Afternoon Women’s Club is planting a tree in the village park.” It so happened that Qwilleran had brought several handwoven batwing capes from the mountains, and he presented one to Mildred after a staff meeting at the newspaper.

It was the kind of voluminous garment that she liked for camouflaging her excess poundage, and the invitation to cat-sit and barn-sit for two weeks thrilled her beyond words. With that worrisome matter concluded, he now applied himself to other matters.

He gave batwing capes to his part-time secretary, the young interior designer who had helped him furnish the barn, and the advertising manager of the Moose County Something, making three women deliriously happy. Next, to replace the car that was left mired in the mountains, he found a white four-door on the used-car lot; he never wasted money on new models. All the while, he was cleverly managing to avoid Dr.

Melinda Goodwinter, ignoring the reminder that he was due for his annual checkup according to the records of the late Halifax Goodwinter, M.D. Irma Hasselrich was prompt in mailing tour participants a detailed itinerary as well as information on Scottish weather and appropriate clothing: “Sweaters and jackets are a must, because evenings can be cool, and we’ll be traveling to windswept islands and mountaintops. Be sure to include a light raincoat, umbrella, and waterproof shoes or boots.” The last was underlined in red. Then: “For special evenings, men are requested to pack a blazer or sports coat with shirt and tie, and women are advised to have a dress and heels for such occasions.

Luggage must be limited to one bag per person, plus a small carry-on.

There will be no smoking on the bus or in restaurants as a matter of courtesy, and no smoking in country inns because of the fire hazard.” Enclosed was a brief glossary of Highland and Lowland terms: loch… lake moor… treeless hill glen… secluded valley fen.

marsh ben… mountain firth… arm of the sea burn… creek strath… wide river valley =yle… strait croft… farmhouse crofter.

farmer bothy… farmhands’ barracks nee ps… turnips tat ties.

potatoes haggis… meat pudding toilet… restroom usquebaugh.

whiskey (spelled “whisky” in Scotland) Included was a suggested reading list: Boswell, Dr. Johnson, Sir Walter Scott, and the like, most of which were in Qwilleran’s growing collection of secondhand books. Nevertheless, he went to Eddington Smith’s used-book store and picked up an old travel book with a yellowed fold-out map of Scotland. The bookseller also suggested Memoirs of an Eighteenth Century Footman. He said, “It’s about Scotland. It was published in 1790 and reprinted in 1927. It’s not in bad condition for a sixty-year-old book.” Qwilleran bought it and was on his way out of the store when Eddington mentioned, “Dr.

Melinda came in yesterday. She wants me to buy Dr. Hal’s library, but she’s asking too much money.” That evening, as Qwilleran sat in his favorite lounge chair with Memoirs, the cats arranged themselves for a read: Koko on the wide upholstered arm of the chair and Yum Yum on his lap with forelegs extended and paws crossed prettily.

Sixty years of assorted household odors made the book fascinating to the Siamese. Qwilleran was enthralled by the incredible account of four motherless children–ages two, four, seven, and fourteen-setting out to find their father, who had left to fight for Prince Charlie.

After walking 150 miles, being on the road for three months, begging for food and shelter, they learned that he had fallen in battle at Culloden. Absorbed in their predicament, Qwilleran was almost too stunned to answer when the telephone rang, until Koko yowled in his ear.

“Uh… hello,” he said vaguely.

“Hello, lover.

Is that you? You sound far away. Do you recognize a voice from your high-flying past?” “Who is this?” he asked in a flat voice, although he knew.

“Melinda!” “Oh… hello.” “Am I interrupting something important?” “No. I was reading a book.” “It must be pretty good.

What’s the title?” “It’s… uh… Memoirs of an Eighteenth Century Footman by John Macdonald.” “Sounds like hot stuff. Someone told me you’re collecting old books now.” “I have a few.” He was trying to sound like a poor prospect, not to mention a dull and uninteresting person.

“I’m selling my father’s library. Are you interested?” “I’m afraid not. I pick up one book at a time, here and there.” “Why don’t you meet me at the house for a look at Dad’s library. You might see-something–you like. I’m living at Indian Village, but I could run into town.” “That’s a good idea,” he said with misleading enthusiasm.

“I’ll see when Polly Duncan’s available, and we’ll make an appointment with you. She’s my guru when it comes to old books.” There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“Okay. I’ll get in touch with you later, if the books are still available… I hear we’re going to Scotland on the same tour, lover.” “Yes, Polly talked me into x.” “Well, don’t let me keep you away from your exciting book.” “Thanks for calling,” he said in a routine voice.

“Nightynight.” Melinda never called back about the books, for which Qwilleran was thankful, but her name was frequently mentioned around town. One afternoon he dropped into Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design to scrounge a cup of coffee and use the telephone, as he often did when Fran Brodie was in-house. Fran was assistant to Amanda Goodwinter but younger, more glamorous, and betterdispositioned. As a member of the Theatre Club and daughter of the police chief, she had still another attraction: She could always be relied upon for the latest gossip–or local information, as Qwilleran preferred to call it. Fran greeted him with welcome news: “You’ve just missed Melinda! She came in to try to sell us her father’s books. I don’t know what she thought we could do with them.

Cup of coffee?” She served it in a mug stenciled with the letter Q, a mischievous reference to his habitual freeloading.

“I’m glad you dropped in, Qwill. I’ve found something that you simply must have! It’s you!” “I should know the free coffee is never free,” he said.

“What is it?” She opened a flat box with exaggerated care.

“This is an acid-free box, and this is acid-free tissue,” she explained, as she unwrapped a drab fragment of cloth.

“What the devil is that?” “It’s a Scottish relic–a fragment of a Mackintosh kilt that was worn by a Jacobite rebel at the Battle of Culloden in 1746!” “How do you know it is? It looks like a reject from a trash can.” “It’s documented. It belonged to an old family in Lockmaster, who came here from Canada. Their ancestors were exiled to the New World during the Scottish Clearances.” “And what am I supposed to do with this faded rag? It wouldn’t even be good enough to wash the car!” “We’d preserve it in a protective frame for you, as they do in museums, and you could put it on display. Of course, we’d have to pick a location without much daylight or artificial light.” “That limits us to the broom closet and the cats’ bathroom,” he said.

“How much is it worth?” “It’s expensive, but you can afford it, considering all the money you save on coffee and phone calls.” “I’ll kick it around.” “Do that,” Fran said, refilling his coffee mug.

“So you’re going to Scotland with my boss! I hear they’re having trouble filling all the seats. Is that because Amanda is one of the passengers? Or because Irma Hasselrich is the tour director?” “Doesn’t Irma have much of a fan club?” Qwilleran asked.

“I’m afraid people think she’s snobbish and bossy, and her perfect grooming frightens some of the casual types around town. Amanda says she looks like a peeled egg… One thing I’d like to know: Why did Irma schedule the tour to overlap our rehearsals of Macbeth? Our three most important people are taking the trip: the two leads and the director!” “Is Melinda playing Lady Macbeth?” Fran nodded with disapproval.

“Several women read for it, and Carol was my choice, but Dwight Somers wanted Melinda. He’s sort of goggle-eyed about Melinda. She’s probably the reason he signed up for the Scottish tour.” Qwilleran thought, Good! I hope he monopolizes her and keeps her out of my hair.

One evening shortly after that, when he and Polly were dining at Tipsy’s Tavern in North Kennebeck, Melinda was seated at a table in the same room. He avoided looking in her direction but was aware that her escort was a man with a neat beard.

Polly said it was Dwight Somers.

“They’re both going on the Bonnie Scots Tour. Melinda is a longtime friend of Irma, you know.” “Is that so?” Qwilleran remarked inanely, wincing at the prick of his vanity; he thought that he himself was Melinda’s reason for signing up.

Polly was saying, “I had a physical at her office today. I remember her fifteen years ago when she brought her high school assignments to the library, and it’s difficult to relate to her as a doctor, but Irma says we women must be supportive. My sister-in-law works in the office at the Goodwinter clinic, and I’ve learned that Dr. Hal’s male patients are transferring their records to a man in Lockmaster, an internist and urologist.” Qwilleran said, “If you want my guess, it’s their wives who don’t want them going to a young woman doctor.” He was going to say “young attractive woman doctor” but edited his own dialogue. As if on cue, Melinda passed their table on the way to the restroom.

“Hi, lover,” she said breezily, pausing for a moment that seemed too long. Qwilleran rose from his chair and said something trite.

“Dr. Goodwinter, I presume.

” He rose courteously, but he kept one hand on the back of his chair and stood in a semi crouch ready to sit down again when she moved on, which he hoped would be soon.

“Are you all excited about our trip together?” she asked with a sly glance, addressing him directly.

“Polly and I are both looking forward to it.” He nodded graciously to his guest.

“Then I’ll see you on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, lover,” Melinda said as she sauntered away, drawing a manicured hand suggestively across their tabletop. The whiff of fragrance that she left behind was the same she had worn three years before.

“Indeed!” Polly said with raised eyebrows.

“What was the significance of that pretty performance?” “She’s half-bombed,” Qwilleran said with a sense of relief. He had feared he might find Melinda as appealing as before, but the impudent manner that formerly enchanted him now annoyed him; her hair was done in a trendy style he disliked; and she was too thin. His taste had changed. Lest his silence be misconstrued, he quickly said to Polly, “I don’t know about you, but I’ve never traveled with a group, except for a bunch of hyper reporters on a press junket, so I’m hoping for the best and expecting the worst on this excursion.” “We’ll enjoy it,” she assured him and then said, “Do you remember the bronchitis I had when I spent the summer in England? On this trip I’m taking vitamin C as a preventive. The pharmacist told me about a high-potency capsule, and I respect his advice.” “Did you discuss it with–your doctor?” Qwilleran was dubious of vitamins, broccoli, and anything else said to be salubrious.

“I mentioned it to Melinda, and she said it wouldn’t do any harm but probably wouldn’t do any good, either.

Nevertheless, I intend to try it… Have you made your packing list, Qwill?” “I never make a list. I just throw stuff into my suitcase.” “You’re singularly offhand, dear! I make a list and take only basic colors, double-duty garments, minimal accessories, and just enough toothpaste, face cream, and shampoo for fourteen days.” “You’re singularly efficient,” he retorted dryly.

“No wonder the library operates so smoothly.” “Have you done any of Irma’s suggested reading?” “No, but Edd Smith sold me a book with a fold-out map of Scotland. As soon as I opened the map, both cats came running and pounced in the middle of it, tearing it along the old yellowed creases and making a horrible muddle, as Old Possum would say. I hope it was not a prediction that our trip is going to be a horrible muddle.” “With Irma in charge, have no fear!” Polly assured him.

During the summer, following that accidental meeting with Melinda at Tipsy’s Tavern, Qwilleran received several phone calls from her, making unacceptable suggestions that he found annoying. He solved that problem by screening calls through his answering machine, but the proximity of two weeks in a minibus could lead to murder, he reflected with testy humor. Eventually the final orders came from Sergeant Hasselrich, as Lyle Compton called her: “The evening before Day One we shall gather in a private parlor at our Glasgow hotel (see itinerary) for a Happy Hour from six to seven o’clock, after which you will be on your own for dinner. The tour will depart the next morning after a lavish Scottish breakfast (included in your tour package).” There followed a list of participants in alphabetical order: John Bushland Ms. Zella Chisholm Mr. and Mrs. Lyle Compton (lisa) Mrs. Polly Duncan Ms. Amanda Goodwinter Dr. Melinda Goodwinter Ms.

Irma Hasselrich Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Lanspeak (carol) Mr. and Mrs.

Whannell MacWhannell glen da James Qwilleran Archibald Riker Dwight Somers Mrs. Grace Chisholm Utley Qwilleran showed the list to Mildred Hanstable when she arrived at the barn for her briefing prior to cat-sitting with their Royal Highnesses.

She arrived in a cloud of fluttering gauze garments that did nothing to minimize her corpulence but gave her the majesty of a clipper ship in full sail. The Siamese greeted her with enthusiasm, knowing her as the source of their crunchy treats. Mildred perused the list of names and predicted, “Interesting group! Lyle is a certified sourpuss, but nice… Amanda has foot-in-mouth disease, which can be very funny at times… Irma is so fastidious, she’ll probably inspect everyone’s fingernails before breakfast… Let me know how you like the Chisholm sisters.” “Do they sing?” “You don’t know them, Qwill, because you don’t belong to the country club.

Grace is a rich widow, and her unmarried sister lives with her on Goodwinter Boulevard. They collect teddy bears.” “May I offer you a drink, Mildred?” “Make it coffee,” she said.

“I’ve brought some cookies. But first show me the ropes.” As he conducted her up the ramp to the three balconies, they were followed by two inquisitive cats with stiffly vertical tails and stiffly horizontal whiskers. He explained, “My bedroom and studio are on the first balcony. The door is closed to keep the cats out, because Koko licks postage stamps and gummed envelopes… The guest room is on the second balcony. I suggest you lock up your toothbrush. Yum Yum has a brush fetish; she’d steal my moustache if it weren’t firmly attached… I regret that the only television is in the cats’ loft on the top balcony.” “Don’t apologize. I’ll just set up my quilting frame on the main floor and listen to radio,” she said.

“How often are the cats fed?” “Morning and evening, plus a handful of your crunchy cereal at noon and bedtime. You’ll find canned and frozen delicacies for them in the kitchen.” “To tell the truth, I’d rather cook for them,” Mildred said.

“I really would! I miss having someone to cook for. What other care do they require?” “They appreciate brushing once a day, and intelligent conversation, and a little entertainment. Koko prefers activities that challenge his intellect; he’s a very cerebral animal.

” As they both turned to look at him in admiration, Kao K’o Kung rolled over and groomed the base of his tail.

“Forget I said that,” Qwilleran added.

“That scoundrel likes to make a fool of me.” Mildred picked up the female cat, who was now rubbing against her ankles. They were slender and shapely, he noted, for a woman of her weight.

“Yum Yum is so hug gable she said.

“Yes, propinquity is her middle name… And now let me demonstrate the fine art of policing their commode.” After the briefing they sat in the lounge area with coffee and Mildred’s date-nut bars. Massive, square-cut, deep cushioned chairs and sofas were arranged around a large square coffee table, facing the fireplace cube–a large white monolith with fireplaces on two sides and bookshelves on a third. It was high enough for two Siamese cats to perch like Olympian deities, looking down on the mere mortals below.

“Now, is there anything else I should know?” Mildred asked.

“Mrs. Fulgrove comes in once a week for light cleaning. Mr. O’Dell is our handyman. We have a colony of fruit flies that came with the apple barn, and they come out of hibernation at this time of year. Koko catches them on the wing and munches them as hors d’oeuvres…. I guess that’s about all.” “And tell me what you’re going to do in Scotland.” “Listen to bagpipes, stay in country inns, visit castles, eat haggis–all the usual, I imagine.” “Ugh! Haggis is the innards of sheep, boiled and cut up and mixed with oatmeal and spices, then sewn into a sheep’s stomach.

” “Sounds delicious.” Mildred’s attitude turned suddenly sober.

“Before coming over here,” she said, “I read the tarot cards for you, and I think you ought to know what they revealed.” “It doesn’t sound propitious, but let’s hear it.” Qwilleran was skeptical about card reading, palmistry, and all the occult sciences that interested his plump friend, but she was sincere, and he always humored her.

“Do you mind if I tape this, Mildred?” “Not at all. I wish you would.” He had already turned on his pocket-size recorder.

“What did you learn?” “Strangely, when I asked the cards about you,” she began, “the answers concerned someone else-someone in danger.” “Man or woman?” “A mature woman. A woman with strict habits and upright values.” That’s Polly, Qwilleran thought; someone has told Mildred about the prowler.

“What kind of danger?” he asked.

“Well, the cards were rather vague, so I brought the pack with me, and I’d like to do another reading-in your presence.” With mental reservations, he agreed, and they moved to the card table, Qwilleran politely averting his eyes as Mildred struggled to get out of the deep-seated lounge chair. When she asked him to shuffle the pack, Koko hopped to the table with an excited “Yowl” “Want me to lock him up, Mildred?” Qwilleran suggested.

“No, let him watch.” She was laying out a certain number of cards in a certain pattern.

“I’m using the Celtic pattern for this reading. This card is the significat or They were colorful cards in fanciful designs, and as she manipulated them she mumbled to herself. There was a thoughtful pause.

Then she said, “I see a journey… a journey across water… with stormy weather ahead.” “Glad I packed my raincoat,” he said lightly.

“Stormy weather could stand for dissension, mistakes, accidents, or whatever.

” “Too bad I didn’t know before I paid my money.” “You’re not taking this seriously, Qwill.” “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound flippant.” “This final card… is not auspicious… You might consider it a warning.” The card showed a scene in a grape arbor, with a woman in flowing robes, a bird perched on her wrist, and a scattering of gold coins.

“Looks like a happy card to me,” Qwilleran observed.

“But it’s reversed.” “Meaning…” “Some kind of fraud… or treachery.” “Yowl” said Koko.

“In conclusion… I urge you to be prepared… for the unexpected.” Mildred always became short of breath toward the end of a reading, and her energy flagged, so Qwilleran thought it best not to pursue the subject.

“Very interesting. Thank you,” he said as he turned off the tape recorder. Mildred walked away from the table and took a few deep breaths. When she recovered, she said, “I’ll look forward to hearing the outcome.” “So will I!” Qwilleran admitted.

“When do you leave?” “I catch the shuttle to Chicago tomorrow noon, and the international flight leaves at six P.M. After changing planes at Heathrow and going through the formalities, I should arrive in Glasgow at ten A.M.” their time. I’m leaving a list of telephone numbers where we can be reached, and don’t hesitate to call if there’s an emergency. Mildred, you don’t realize how much this is appreciated by all three of us.” “The pleasure is all mine.

We’ll have a ball, won’t we, cats?” “Yowl” said Koko, squeezing his eyes as if visions of shrimp Newburgh danced in his head.

The next morning Qwilleran said a regretful goodbye to the cats and looked back as he walked out the door to see two pairs of large blue eyes filled with concern. He would have wished for a more cheerful send-off. And when he drove away he was aware of two tiny creatures watching him from an upper level of the huge barn. At the Moose County Airport he parked his car in the new indoor facility, and the shuttle plane departed without requiring the usual last-minute repairs. The connection in Chicago went smoothly, perhaps too smoothly. Three meals and several magazines later, he arrived in Glasgow on schedule. His luggage was flown, unfortunately, to another city in Western Europe. So began the Bonnie Scots Tour.

Three

By the time the participants in the Bonnie Scots Tour gathered for the Happy Hour on the eve of Day One, Qwilleran had recovered from jet lag, retrieved his luggage, and paid homage to Charles Rennie Mackintosh.

Throughout the day other travelers from Moose County had been straggling wearily into the centrally located hotel selected for the jumping-off place. At six o’clock Qwilleran–dressed in blazer, shirt, and tie according to instructions from Sergeant Hasselrich–reported to the hotel lobby and found it bright with kilts worn by males of all ages; there was a wedding reception in the banquet hall. The Bonnie Scots party was scheduled for the Robert Burns parlor, which was no different from the Sir Walter Scott Parlor or the Bonnie Prince Charlie Parlor or the Robert Louis Stevenson Parlor, except for a portrait of the poet hanging above the bar. When Qwilleran entered, a white-coated young man with red hair was circulating with a tray of champagne and orange juice.

Among the guests already on hand were Larry and Carol Lanspeak, the most likable couple in Pickax. They were civic leaders, owners of the Lanspeak Department Store, and mainstays in the Theatre Club.

Qwilleran approached them, saying, “All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!” “Dammit! It means growing a beard again,” said the actor ruefully, rubbing his chin.

“First it’s Henry VIII, then Abe Lincoln, and now this. How come I never get a chance to play Peter Pan?” He was a mild-mannered man, difficult to imagine as the murderous Macbeth. Carol said, “Qwill, this is Dwight Somers, who’s directing Macbeth. I don’t think you two have met… Dwight, Jim Qwilleran is better known as Qwill. You’ve seen his column, “Straight from the Qwill Pen,” in the paper.” “I’ve heard a lot about you,” said the man with the neatly clipped beard, “and I enjoy your column. It’s always right on.” “Thanks. You’re new in Moose County. Where do you hail from?” “Most recently, from Iowa. Should I read that line with pride or apology?” “There’s nothing wrong with Iowa that couldn’t be fixed with a few Wisconsin lakes and Pennsylvania mountains,” Qwilleran said encouragingly. He liked Dwight Somers on sight; the man exuded an inner energy characteristic of theatre people. And his compliments did not go unnoticed; Qwilleran was vain about his writing. The foursome was joined by the other couple, the Comptons. Lyle was the tall, lanky, saturnine superintendent of schools; Lisa, who worked for Social Services, had dancing eyes and a sense of humor that contrasted with her husband’s dour demeanor. She asked, “Who’s taking care of your cats, Qwill?” “Mildred Hanstable. I hope she doesn’t overfeed them.

They’re con artists when it comes to food… Are you two ready for a happy adventure in the Highlands?” With his usual scowl Lyle said, “I’m going to be happy if it kills me!” A young man with thinning hair walked into the parlor, a camera slung over his shoulder, and Qwilleran introduced him as the photographer from Lockmaster, John Bushland.

“Call me Bushy,” he said congenially, stroking his nearly bald head.

“How come you brought your camera and not your wife, Bushy?” “Well, you see, Vicki started a catering service this summer, and she has bookings she can’t cancel. What did you do about the cats, Qwill?” “They’re holding the fort in Pickax, with a live-in cook to cater their meals. I hated to leave them. I left some of my old sweaters lying around, so they can sit on them and not feel abandoned.” “That’s thoughtful of you,” said Carol Lanspeak, “but I suspect you’ll miss the cats more than they’ll miss you.” “You don’t need to tell me that, Carol. I’ve been bluffed and bullied by those two opportunists long enough to know.” Gradually the others arrived-the women in skirts and heels, the men in coats and ties. Mr.

and Mrs. MacWhannell were a quiet couple, stiffly formal–a tall, portly man and a tiny birdlike woman. Arch Riker and Amanda Goodwinter had obviously had a head start at a pub. Irma and Polly arrived with a large map of Scotland, which the red-haired waiter hung on the wall.

Irma was, indeed, meticulously dressed and groomed, and her statuesque figure had a polished perfection that put the other women at a disadvantage. The map was an instant attraction, especially the west coast, fringed with firths, lochs, ky les and isles.

“Caused by glacial movement in the Ice Age,” the leader explained with authority. Someone asked, “How big is Scotland?” Before Irma could answer, a man’s voice came from the rear of the group–the chesty voice that goes with a portly figure.

“The country is 30,414 square miles, smaller than South Carolina.” Everyone turned to gaze in speechless wonder at Whannell MacWhannell, accountant. In a small, fearful voice his wife asked him, “Do we have to drive over any mountains, Daddy?” “Not big ones, Mother,” he assured her. Amanda whispered, “Aren’t they a sweet couple? I may throw up!” The map brought forth a variety of comments: “Look! There’s the famous Loch Lomond!” “Hope we see the Loch Ness monster.” “Where are the distilleries?” The deep voice in the rear said, “There’s a famous railway bridge over the Firth of Forth, with two spans of 1,710 feet each and two of 690 feet. The tracks are 157 feet above the water.” Amanda groaned.

“Big Mac is going to be the official bore on this trip.” Someone said quietly, “Put on your sunglasses, everybody.

Here come the Chisholm sisters.” The two women who entered the parlor were older than the others in the group, both having white hair. One walked a few steps behind the other. In the lead was a short, stocky woman wearing a dazzling array of jewelry, her bosomy figure displaying it like a jeweler’s velvet tray. Carol confided to Qwilleran in a whisper, “It’s all the real thing! You should see her on Saturday night at the country club! She and Zella also collect teddy bears on a large scale.” He was no connoisseur of jewelry, but he was impressed by the strands of pearls twisted with chunky gold chains and clasped at the left collarbone with a spray of diamonds.

Her sister–taller and thinner and plainer–wore a small gold teddy bear with ruby eyes. The pair headed directly toward him, and the bejeweled sister said in a raspy voice, “You’re Mr. Qwilleran! I recognized the moustache from your picture in the paper. We always read your column.” She looked up at him brightly.

“I’m Grace Utley, and this is my sister, Zella. We’re Chisholms. You must have heard of the Chisholms. Our grandfather built the Moose County courthouse. yes!” “How do you do,” he said with a gracious bow.

“My mother was a Mackintosh.” “We collect teddy bears!” she said, eagerly awaiting a newsman’s reaction to this newsworthy credential.

“Very interesting,” he said stolidly.

“Yes… We have a button-in-ear Steiff that’s very rare.” At that moment he was aware that Melinda Goodwinter was entering the parlor; he caught a whiff of her familiar perfume. As a doctor and a Goodwinter she was being greeted with suitable respect, but her eyes wandered around the room until she spotted Qwilleran. Within seconds she was at his side.

“Hello, lover,” she said coolly.

“Melinda, have you met Grace Utley and Zella Chisholm?” he asked.

“Ladies, do you know Dr. Melinda Goodwinter?” “We do indeed… yes!” said Mrs. Utley.

“How are you, dear heart? We were distressed to hear about your father. You have our deepest sympathy.” The waiter reappeared with his tray of champagne and orange juice, and while the older women were momentarily distracted, Melinda managed to draw Qwilleran aside, saying, “Alone at last! You’re looking great, lover!” “How did you like Boston?” he asked, avoiding any lingering eye contact.

“It’s good of you to come back and take over your father’s clinic.” “Boston served its purpose, but I’m glad to be home. I heard you’ve converted the Klingenschoen barn, and you’re living in it.” “For a while, at any rate.” “Do you still have the cats?” “I provide their bed and board.” Koko, he recalled, had not cared for Melinda, always telling her to go home in his subtle, catly way. Trying to keep the conversation impersonal, Qwilleran asked, “How do you like Moose County’s new newspaper?” “Big improvement.” Melinda gulped the rest of her champagne.

“Aren’t you the one who’s financing it?” “The Klingenschoen Foundation is behind it,” he corrected her.

“Arch Riker is editor-and-publisher. Have you met him? He and I are old friends, and we’re sharing accommodations on this tour… Arch!

Come over here!” The publisher caught the significance of the situation and rose to the occasion.

“We met at the funeral,” he said when Qwilleran introduced him.

“I’m glad you’re taking over your father’s practice, Melinda. We need all the doctors we can get. They keep inventing new diseases. I hope you brought your little black bag on this trip, in case anyone chokes on the porridge or gets bitten by a haggis…” Good old Arch!

Qwilleran thought.

“May I bring you some champagne, Melinda?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he slipped away toward the bar and before he could complete his mission, Irma clapped hands for attention, and the group gathered around the map.

“Welcome to Scotland,” she said.

“I hope you will have a joyous time on the Bonnie Scots Tour. We’ll be traveling in Bonnie Prince Charlie country, a region brimming with history and romance.” Qwilleran heard a veiled grunt of protest from Lyle Compton.

“Some of the places we’ll visit,” Irma went on, “are not open to the average tourist, and most of the inns are off the beaten path, but because of my connections we’ll be made welcome. I would like to make one suggestion at this time. For two weeks we’ll be traveling as one big happy family, and it would be friendly to alternate seats in the bus and at the table when we stop for meals.

Is that agreed?” There was a vague murmur among the group.

“Day One starts tomorrow morning at seven o’clock when we meet in the hotel coffee shop for breakfast. Your bags should be packed and outside the door of your room not later than six-thirty. I suggest you request wake-up calls for five-thirty to give you ample time.” Fivethirty! Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Irma concluded her speech to polite applause, and Qwilleran grabbed Riker’s arm.

“Round up Amanda and Polly, and let’s go to dinner,” he said.

“I’ve found a good Indian restaurant. I’ll meet you in a taxi in front of the hotel.” He made a quick escape. The restaurant, in true Anglo-Indian style, had white tile floors, tinkling fountains, hanging brass lamps, an assertive aroma of curry, and a background of raga music played on the sarod, tabla, and tamboura. The plucked strings, rhythmic percussion, and hypnotic drone of the instruments provided a soothing background for conversation. Polly was looking handsome in her blue batwing cape, but Amanda–noto matter how carefully she tried to dress–always looked as if she had just washed the car or cleaned the basement. Riker, with his bent sense of humor, thought it was part of her attraction.

“What would it take,” she grumbled, “to get them to turn off the music and the fountains?” “Quiet, Amanda,” he said with amusement suffusing his ruddy face.

“When in Glasgow, do as the Glaswegians do.” Qwilleran suggested ordering samos as with the drinks, saying they were meat-filled pastries. Then he recommended mulligatawny soup and a main course of tandoori murghi and pulao, with a side order of dal.

“All spicy dishes, I don’t need to tell you,” he warned.

“Why, this is nothing but roast chicken with rice and lentils,” Amanda announced when the entree was served. Riker nudged her.

“Just enjoy it, and don’t editorialize.

” As conversation focused on the forthcoming tour, he remarked, “Compton really knows his Scottish history. He gave a talk at the Boosters Club last month.” “I hope he won’t be too argumentative,” Polly said with concern.

“Irma accepts the romantic version of Scots history, but Lyle is a militant revisionist.” “I like the idea of having a historian on board,” Riker said.

“Not to mention a professional photographer and a physician.” “Don’t you think Melinda is looking rather world-weary?” Polly asked.

“Her eyes look strange.

” “She’s stopped wearing green contacts and three sets of false eyelashes,” said her cousin Amanda with tart authority.

“Will someone explain the Chisholm sisters?” Qwilleran asked. Amanda had the whole story. The Chisholms and the Utleys represented “old money” in Moose County, the former having rebuilt most of Pickax following the fire of 1869. The Utleys, as owners of fisheries, were several rungs down the social ladder but grew rich on trout and whitefish. Grace’s late husband invested the family fortune cleverly and, it was rumored, illegally, returning from mysterious business trips with lavish gifts of jewelry for his wife. Amanda grumbled, “You could buy a fifty-foot yacht with what she’s wearing around her neck, but she’s slow in paying her decorating bills… Yes!” she added mockingly. Over a dessert of ga jar hal va which Amanda insisted was nothing but carrot pudding, the conversation turned to Charles Rennie Mackintosh.

“He wore flowing silk ties and had a prominent moustache,” Qwilleran reported, preening his own, “and he liked cats.” “How do you know?” “There was one small clue in the Mackintosh house, which has been reconstructed by the university.

The designer and his wife lived there in the early 1900’s, and he had the guts to transform a Victorian townhouse into light, airy living spaces! In the drawing room everything is white–walls, carpet, fireplace, furniture, everything–except for two gray cushions on the hearth, for their two Persian cats.” “How charming!” Polly said.

“Irma attended the art school he designed.” “I think his most daring innovation was a narrow chair with an extremely high back. He liked to use a grid pattern in wallpaper and furniture-also a small oval shape said to represent the eye of a peacock feather.” Amanda said, “Peacock feathers are bad luck. I wouldn’t have one in the house!” Too bad about that, Qwilleran thought. He had bought several silver brooches based on the Mackintosh peacock feather, to take home as gifts. The evening ended early; Day One would start at five-thirty.

When the telephones jangled in certain hotel rooms at that hour, disgruntled travelers from Moose County got out of bed and stumbled about their rooms, making tea with their tea-makers. They dressed, packed, put their luggage out in the hall, and reported for breakfast at seven o’clock. No one was really hungry, and they were dismayed by the array of oatmeal, eggs, meat, fish, fruit, pancakes, scones, currant buns, oatcakes, bannocks, jams, marmalade, and more.

“No waffles?” Amanda was heard to complain. Irma assured them that a full Scottish breakfast would be included with all their over nights “So take advantage of it,” she advised.

“For lunch we’ll just have a bowl of soup in a pub.” Amanda’s grim expression brightened. At eight o’clock the minibus was waiting in front of the hotel, with the luggage partly loaded in the baggage bins underneath. A redhaired man in a chauffeur’s cap was speaking angrily to Irma in a tongue that appeared to be Gaelic, the gist of his argument being that there was too much luggage to fit in the bins. A reassessment of the load indicated that Grace Utley, ignoring the limit on personal luggage, was traveling with three alligator bags plus an alligator carry-on. To make matters worse, she was half an hour late, a fact resented by passengers who had been up since five-thirty.

“There’s one on every tour,” said Carol Lanspeak philosophically.

Space was found in the passenger compartment for the surplus cases at the expense of rider comfort, and the culprit finally arrived, saying a blithe good-morning to everyone. She was wearing, with her sweater and slacks, some ropes of twisted gold from which dangled a fringe of gold and enamel baubles. The driver, a sullen man of about forty, was introduced as Bruce, and the bus pulled away from the hotel with Irma sitting on a cramped jumpseat at the front. Using a microphone, she described points of interest as they drove out of the city and into the countryside, while the passengers looked dutifully to right and to left until their necks ached.

“In the distance is Ben Nevis, Britain’s highest mountain,” she would say, and Big Mac’s voice would come from the back of the bus: “Elevation 4,406 feet.” By the time they stopped for their bowl of soup, they were stunned into silence by the abundance of scenery and commentary.

After lunch, their leader clapped hands for attention.

“We shall soon be in Bonnie Prince Charlie country,” she told them.

“For six months the handsome young prince was trapped like a fox pursued by hounds. After the defeat at Culloden he fled for his life, sometimes betrayed by treacherous friends and sometimes harbored by unexpected supporters attracted by his charisma.” “Charisma? Bunk!” Lyle Compton muttered to Qwilleran.

“It was all politics!” “With a price on his head,” Irma went on, “he was trying desperately to escape to France. He slept in the bracken by day and traveled by night, stumbling across moors and through glens. Weary, tattered, and obviously defeated, he kept up his good spirits. After all, he was a prince, and the lovely Flora Macdonald fell in love with him and risked her life to smuggle him out of enemy territory.” Lyle spoke up, his voice crisp with exasperation.

“Irma, you’ve been reading romantic novels and watching old movies!

Charles was a liar, an alcoholic, and a fool! He made all kinds of tactical mistakes and had a talent for trusting the wrong aides and taking the advice of idiots. Flora Macdonald had no use for him, but she was pressured into the plot to rescue him–was He stopped abruptly and threw a sharp glance at his wife as if she had kicked him under the table.

Irma’s face flushed and her eyes flashed, and Polly rushed in to fill the awkward silence.

“What was the date of Culloden?” she asked, although she knew.

“April 16, 1746,” Irma said, and big Mac rattled off some statistics.

Later, Amanda said to Qwilleran, “Lyle had better watch his step. She’s already shot one man.” On that day, and the next, and the next, Irma herded the group through fishing villages, among ruins, aboard ferries, around rocky islands, across moors covered with purple heather, past granite quarries and peat bogs.

“Where are the people? Where are the farmhouses?” Carol complained.

“All we see is sheep!” Flocks of them grazed on the hillsides or crossed the road in front of the bus. Compton snorted and said to Qwilleran, “I could tell you what happened to the people, but Irma wouldn’t like it, and my wife would give me hell again.” At each rest stop the driver assisted women passengers off the bus in solemn silence, then wandered away for a cigarette while the travelers used the facilities and explored the gift shops. Qwilleran bought a tie in the Mackintosh tartan; Larry bought a staghorn cane that he said he might use in the play; Dwight Somers bought a tin whistle. The family-type seating on the bus and at meals, as suggested by Irma, became a discordant game of musical chairs.

Qwilleran avoided sitting with Melinda. No one wanted to sit with Grace Utley or Glenda MacWhannell. Arch Riker was always getting stuck with Zella Chisholm. Both Dwight and Bushy had a desire to sit with Melinda. Melinda kept trying to sit with Qwilleran. And Amanda often ended up with Big Mac. The bus traveled on single-track roads most of the time, so passengers worried about meeting another vehicle head-on, but Bruce wheeled the bus up and down hills and around endless curves with reckless abandon, causing Glenda MacWhannell to scream at the roller-coaster effect and Zella Chisholm to complain of car sickness.

Hour after hour Irma talked into the microphone, and the monotony of her voice put the riders to sleep, especially after lunch. In the afternoon they would wake up for tea and shortbread at some modest cottage that advertised “Teas” on a modest signboard. Then, at the end of the day, everyone would stumble off the bus, stiff and sore, to check into a quaint inn tucked into a glen or overlooking a loch. In this way Day One, Day Two, and Day Three became a blur. Qwilleran said to Riker, “I can’t remember what we saw yesterday or what we had for dinner last night.

If I weren’t recording some of this on tape, I’d get home and never know I’d been here.” “I’m not even sure where we are,” said his roommate. The inns, adapted from old stone stables and ruined abbeys, were cozy and rustic, and since there were no room keys–only bolts inside the bedroom doors–Grace Utley had to entrust her jewel cases to the innkeeper’s safe. Amanda complained that there were no ice machines, no telephones or TV in the bedrooms, and no washcloths in the bathrooms. Glenda MacWhannell worried about fire. At the dinner hour, the women reported in skirts and heels, the men in coats and ties, while Mrs. Utley outshone them all with four strands of sapphire beads accented with a chunk of carved white jade, or a necklace of black onyx and gold, clasped at the collarbone with lapis lazuli. Thus arrayed, they dined on fresh salmon or roast lamb with nee ps and tat ties served by the jovial innkeeper and his rosy-cheeked daughters. Come morning, the group would be herded aboard the bus once again, only to wait for the late Grace Utley. There was usually a misty rain at the start of each day, but the afternoon sun made the waters of the lochs and ky les sparkle like acres of diamonds. On one wet morning they visited a damp and chilly castle with a moat and a drawbridge, a massive gate and a stone courtyard, and a Great Hall hung with armor and ancestral portraits. Here a guide recited a catalogue of battles, conquering heroes, scandals, ghosts, and assassinations, after which the visitors were free to explore regal apartments, dungeons, and staircases carved out of solid rock. Windows were small, passages were narrow, and doorways were low.

“The early Scots must have been pygmies,” Qwilleran said as he stooped to maneuver his six-feet-two through a low doorway.

“Look out!” someone yelled. Turning to check the danger, Qwilleran straightened up and struck his head on the stone lintel above. The blow knocked him to his knees, and he saw blinding flashes of light and heard distant screams and calls for help. Next he was being seated on a bench, and Melinda was checking his pulse and lifting his eyelids, all the while asking questions: “Do you know your name? What day is it?… Do you know where you are?” At this point, Qwilleran was feeling more anger than pain, and he snapped, “Shakespeare wrote Macbeth. Moose County is north of the equator.

Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to go outside and sit in the bus while you people finish your sightseeing and buy your postcards.” Dwight Somers volunteered to go with him.

“I’ve had enough castle for one day,” Qwilleran told him.

“Same here. How did they exist in that damp, gloomy environment?” “They didn’t. If they weren’t murdered in their twenties, they died of pneumonia in their thirties.” “I’ve been wanting to ask you, Qwill: Have you done any theatre?” “Only in college. At one time I was planning to be an actor, until a wise professor steered me into journalism, and I must admit that a little acting experience doesn’t hurt in my profession.” “I was sure you had training. You have a very good voice. I wish you’d take a role in Macbeth.” “What did you have in mind for me?” Qwilleran asked.

“Banquo’s ghost? One of the three witches? Lady Macbeth?” “You’re not too far off base. In Shakespeare’s time she was played by an actor in drag, but he didn’t have a moustache. How about doing Macduff? He has a couple of great scenes, and I don’t think the guy we’ve cast is going to work out.” “That’s a sizable part,” Qwilleran objected.

“It would be tough to learn lines after so many years away from the stage… No, Dwight, I’d better stick to my role as theatre reviewer for the paper. Have you cast Lady Macbeth?” “Yes, I gave the role to Melinda. She has a certain quality for Lady Macbeth. She brought a script with her on the trip, and she’s been working on her lines.” Members of the party were emerging from the castle and sauntering across the drawbridge.

“Melinda’s an interesting woman,” Dwight went on. He paused, waiting for an affirmative comment. When none was forthcoming, he said, “We both have apartments at Indian Village, and I’ve been seeing her quite often but not getting very far.” There was another pause.

“I’m getting the impression I might be trespassing on your territory.” “No problem,” Qwilleran assured him.

“This is the first time I’ve lived in a town as small as Pickax, and I don’t want to violate any codes.” “No problem,” Qwilleran said. When the group started climbing into the bus, everyone expressed concern about his condition, but Melinda examined the bump on his head and announced there was no bleeding.

Their destination that night was a picturesque inn converted from a bothy, with numerous additions, confusing levels, and angled hallways.

The beds were comfortable, however, and the furnishings were engagingly old, with a homey clutter of doilies, knickknacks, vases of heather, baskets of fruit, and the ubiquitous tea-maker. Coils of rope were provided under the windows for escape in case of fire. The Bonnie Scots tourists were booked for two nights, and Irma had promised them a free day, absolutely unstructured, after several days of hurtling around in the bus. They could enjoy the luxury of unpacking their luggage, putting their belongings away in bureau drawers, and hanging clothes in the wardrobes that served as closets. After a dinner of sheep’s head broth, rabbit casserole, and clootie dumplings, Qwilleran excused himself, saying he had a headache and wished to retire early, although the chief reason was a desire to get away from his fellow travelers. From the main hall he went up half a flight of stairs, turned left into a narrow passage, then to the right and three steps down, through a glass door and up a ramp, and finally to the left, where he bumped into a bewildered Grace Utley, clutching her necklace in panic.

“Are you lost?” he asked.

“It isn’t hard to do.” “I took the wrong turn somewhere, dear heart,” she said.

“We’re in Number Eight.” “Then you should be in the other wing. Follow me.” After he had conducted her to the hallway leading to Number Eight, she seemed reluctant to let him go.

“Mr. Qwilleran,” she began in her grating voice, “I shouldn’t mention this, but… do you think Ms. Hasselrich is carrying on with that bus driver?” “What do you mean by carrying on?” he asked.

“It’s the way she looks at him, and they have secret conversations in a foreign language. Last night, when I looked out my window, I could see them on the moor in the moonlight… yes!” “Could have been ghosts,” he said archly.

“They haunt the moors all the time. Pay no attention, Mrs. Utley.” “Please call me Grace,” she said.

“How do you feel after your accident, dear heart?” “Just a slight headache. I’m retiring early.” Other women in the group had raised eyebrows over Irma’s secret nightlife, but Lyle had said, “The woman works sixteen hours a day! She’s entitled to some R and R, and ours not to question where or with whom.” Qwilleran returned to his room and changed into the red pajamas that Polly had given him for a Valentine, hoping for a few hours of solitude. The others were sipping Drambuie in front of the fire, or playing cards, or watching TV in the keeping room. Lounging in a passably comfortable chair, he began to dictate the day’s experiences into his tape recorder: “Today we visited the island where Macbeth was buried in 1057…” He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Now, who the devil is that?” he muttered. He hoped it was not Grace Utley. Worse yet, it was Melinda.

Four

“How do you feel, lover?” Melinda asked as she stood in the passage outside Qwilleran’s room.

“You seemed rather quiet during dinner.” “After conversing with the same crowd for five days, I’m running out of things to say and also the patience to listen,” he said.

“May I come in? I want to check your pulse and temperature. Sit down over there, please.” She entered in a cloud of scent that had enchanted him three years ago; now it seemed too sweet, too musky. She inserted a thermometer in his mouth, counted his pulse, raised his eyelids, and looked at his eyeballs.

“You’re still legally alive,” she said as she drew a flask from her official black bag.

“Would you like a little nip for medicinal purposes?” “You’ve forgotten I can’t have alcohol, Melinda.” “Where’s your tea-maker? We’ll have a nice cup of tea, as they say over here.” She filled the pot with water from the bathroom tap.

“How do you like the tour so far?” “There’s too much of everything. Too much food, too much conversation, too much bus travel, too many tourists.” Melinda sauntered around the room in familiar fashion.

“Your room looks comfortable. The doubles are better than the singles.

I’m at the end of the hall in Number Nine–for your future reference -comandthe furnishings give me gastro-intestinal burbulence. I have a wonderful view of the loch, though. Perhaps Arch would like to exchange with me,” she said with a mischievous glance.

“Does anyone know the name of this loch? They all look alike to me,” said Qwilleran, an expert at ignoring hints.

“Well, tell me about you, Qwill. What have you been doing for the last three years?” “Sometimes I wonder. The years speed by.” He was in no mood to socialize or particularize.

“Apparently you’re not married yet.” “It’s fairly well accepted in Moose County that I’m not suitable grist for the matrimonial mill.” Melinda poured two cups of tea and splashed something from the flask into her own cup.

“I was hoping we could pick up where we left off.” “I’ll say it again, what I’ve said before, Melinda. You belong with a man of your own age-your own generation.” “I like older men.” “And I like older women,” he said with brutal candor.

“Ouch!” she said and then added impishly, “Wouldn’t you like a second-string girlfriend for your youthful moments?” “This is good tea,” he said, although he disliked tea.

“You must have used two tea bags “Are you as… uh.. compatible with your present inamorata as you were with me?” “What is this? The third degree? I think you’re exceeding your privilege as a medical practitioner.” She was not easily deterred.

“Didn’t you ever think you’d like to have sons, Qwill? Polly is a little old for that.” “Frankly, no!” he said, irritated at her intrusion into his privacy.

“Nor daughters. I’m a bachelor by chance, choice, and temperament, and offspring are outside my frame of reference.” “With all your money you should have heirs.” “The Klingenschoen Foundation is my sole beneficiary, and they’ll distribute my estate for the benefit of the county, the population of which is 11,279, according to Big Mac. So I have 11,279 heirs–a respectable heirship, I’d say.

” “You’re not drinking your tea.” “Furthermore, I resent suggestions for the disposition of my financial assets.” “Qwill, you’re getting to be a grouchy old bachelor. I think marriage would be good for you.

I speak as your medical adviser.” She transferred to the arm of his chair.

“Don’t move! I want to check the bump on your head.” “Excuse me,” he said and went into the bathroom, where he counted to ten… and then a hundred and ten before facing her again. She had kicked off her shoes and was now lounging on the bed against a bank of pillows.

“Won’t you join me?” she invited playfully.

“I like red pajamas.” He made a point of pacing the floor and saying nothing.

“Let me explain something, Qwill,” said Melinda in a reasonable tone.

“Three years ago I wanted us to marry because I thought we’d have a lot of fun together. Now I have a couple of other reasons. The Goodwinter clan is dying out, and I want sons to carry on the name.

I’m very proud of the Goodwinter name. So I’ll make you a proposition–since one has to be conventional in Moose County. If you will marry me, you can have your freedom at the end of three years, and our children will resume the name of Goodwinter. We might even have a go-o-od time together.” “You’re out of your mind,” he said, suddenly suspecting that the strange look in her eyes was insanity.

“The second reason is… I’m broke!” she said with the impudent frankness that he had once found attractive.

“All I’m inheriting from my dad is obligations and an obsolete mansion.” “The K Foundation can help you over the rough spots. They’re committed to promoting health care in the community.” “I don’t want institutional support. I want you!” “To put it bluntly, Melinda, the answer is no!” “Why don’t you think about it? Let the idea gel for a while?” Qwilleran walked to the door and, with his hand on the knob, said, “Let me tell you something, and this is final. If I marry anyone, it will be Polly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need some rest… Don’t forget your shoes.” If Melinda felt the hellish fury of a woman scorned, the Goodwinter pride prevented her from showing it.

“Take a couple of aspirin and call me in the morning, lover,” she said with an insolent wink as she brushed past him, carrying her loafers.

Huffing angrily into his moustache, Qwilleran dictated a few choice words into the tape recorder before snapping it off. He was reading a booklet about the Mackintosh clan when Arch Riker walked into the room at eleven o’clock.

“You’re awake, Qwill! Did you get any rest?” “Melinda dropped in to take my pulse, and I couldn’t get rid of her.

The girl is getting to be a nuisance.” “I guessed that would happen.

You may have to marry Polly in self-defense. If Polly doesn’t want you, how about Amanda? I’ll let you have the lovely Amanda.” “This is no joke, Arch.” “Well, I’m ready to hit the sack. How about you?

Polly’s with the Lanspeaks and the Comptons, playing Twenty Questions.

Amanda’s winning at cards with the MacWhannells and Bushy; no doubt she’s cheating. Dwight is out on the terrace practicing the tin whistle; he’ll be lucky if someone doesn’t shoot him.” “Once a reporter, always a reporter,” Qwilleran commented.

“I haven’t seen Irma. Her voice was very hoarse at the dinner table.

Too much chatter on that blasted microphone! And her evenings in the damp night air can’t do anything for her vocal cords… How’s the bump on your head, Qwill?” “It’s subsiding, but I’d like to know who yelled “Look out” and why!” That was the end of Day Five. Day Six began at dawn when Qwilleran was awakened by screams in the hall and frantic banging on someone’s door.

Riker was sitting up in the other bed, saying, “What’s that? Are we on fire?” There were sounds of running feet, and Qwilleran looked out in the hall as other heads appeared in other doorways. The innkeeper rushed past them and disappeared into ationumber Eleven, occupied by Polly and Irma.

“Oh, my God!” Qwilleran shouted over his shoulder.

“Something’s happened to the girls!” As he started down the passageway, the innkeeper’s wife was ahead of him. Her husband shouted to her, “Ring up the constable! One o’ the lassies had an attack! Ring up the constable!” Qwilleran hurried to the room at the end of the hall and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Polly standing there in her nightgown.

She was weeping in her hands. Melinda, in pajamas, was bending over the bed. He threw his arms around Polly.

“What happened?” “I think she’s dead!” she sobbed.

“I woke up suddenly a few minutes ago and felt that ghastly sense of death. I called Melinda.” Polly burst into a fresh torrent of tears.

Still holding her, Qwilleran said to Melinda, “Is there anything I can do?” Others were crowding into the room in their nightclothes.

“Get everyone out of the room–and out of the hall-until the authorities have been here. Out! Out! I’ll talk to all of you downstairs, later.” The concerned bystanders wandered back to their rooms, whispering: “Is Irma dead?” “What was it? Does anyone know what happened?” “This is terrible! Who’ll notify her parents?” “It’ll kill them! She’s their only child, and they’re getting on in years.” “She was only forty-two last birthday.

” Lyle Compton nudged Qwilleran.

“Do you think something happened out on the moor?” Quickly they dressed and gathered downstairs in the small parlor, and the innkeeper’s wife served hot tea, murmuring sympathetic phrases that no one understood or really heard. In everyone’s mind the question was nagging: What do we do now? They were aware of vehicles arriving in the courtyard and then departing, and eventually Melinda walked into the parlor in robe and slippers, with uncombed hair and no makeup. She looked wan and troubled. The group fell silent as she faced them and said in a hollow voice, “Irma was the first patient to walk into my clinic–and the real reason for my coming on this trip. And I’ve lost her!” When someone asked the cause of death, Qwilleran turned on his tape recorder. At this moment he could feel only compassion for this young doctor; she was so distraught.

“Cardiac arrest,” Melinda said wearily.

“With her heart condition she should never have undertaken this project. She had this driving ambition, you know, and she was such a perfectionist.” Polly said, “I didn’t know she had a bad heart. She never mentioned her symptoms, and we were the best of friends.” “She was too proud to admit to any frailty, and too independent to take my advice or even medication. It could have saved her.” Carol said, “But, Irma, of all people! Who would think–his She was always so cool and collected. She never hurried or panicked like the rest of us.” Melinda explained, “She internalized her emotions–not a healthy thing to do.” “What was the time of death?” Qwilleran asked.

“About three A.M.” I would say. Does anyone know what time she came in?” Polly said, “I don’t know. I never waited up for her. She told me not to.” “What happens now?” Larry asked.

“I’m not allowed to sign the death certificate over here,” Melinda said.

“A local doctor will have to do that. I’ll notify Irma’s parents and make whatever arrangements are necessary.” Qwilleran offered to call the Hasselriches, since he knew the father well.

“Thanks, but I feel I should do it. I can explain exactly what happened.” “We’re certainly grateful that you’re here, Melinda. Is there anything we can do for you–anything at all?” “You might talk it over among you rvs and decide how to handle the rest of the tour. I’ll fly back with the body. There’ll be some red tape before they release it, the constable said, but they don’t anticipate any problem… So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go up and get dressed.

You can stay here and talk.” When Amanda arrived from the other bedroom wing and heard the news, she said, “I move to cancel the tour and fly home. Anybody second it? Let’s cut our losses.” Polly spoke up with conviction.

“Irma would want us to continue, I’m sure.” “But do we know what to do and where to go?” Lisa asked.

“Everything is in her briefcase-itinerary, confirmations, maps, and so forth. I’m sure we can follow her plan to the letter. Since we have an extra day here, we’ll have time to work it out.” Riker said, “What time is it in Pickax? I want to call Junior and get him started on the obituary. It’ll take some digging, because she was a very private person–would never let us do a feature on her volunteer work.” Guests from the other wing straggled into the parlor, and Bushy said, “Why so glum, kids? Did somebody die around here?” At the breakfast table the members of the Bonnie Scots Tour halfheartedly discussed their options for the day: Go shopping in the village… Watch the fishing boats come in… Take the ferry to one of the islands… Loll around the inn. Larry said he would wander in the hills and study his lines for the play. Amanda thought she would go back to bed. The MacWhannells announced they were leaving the tour and would hire a car to drive to Edinburgh. They gave no reasons for cutting out, and no one bothered to ask why.

After breakfast, Qwilleran and the school superintendent strolled down the winding road to the village below.

“Don’t forget, Lyle.

What goes down must come up,” Qwilleran warned.

“We have to climb this hill again.” Compton said, “I hope I didn’t contribute to Irma’s stress by blowing off steam about Scottish history and challenging her statements. Lisa said I should have kept my big mouth shut, but–dammit–Irma drove me up the wall with her sentimental claptrap about the romantic Jacobite Rebellion and her beloved Prince Charlie.” “Don’t worry. She was a tough one. She didn’t earn the name of Sergeant for nothing. They say she ran the volunteer crew at the Senior Facility like an army battalion.” They stopped awhile to admire the view: the patchwork of rooftops down below, the curve of the harbor crowded with boats, the islands beyond, floating placidly in a silver sea. Behind them the hills rose like Alpine meadows, dotted with sheep and the ruins of stone buildings.

“Lyle, you promised to tell me how the sheep took over the Highlands,” Qwilleran said.

“Don’t blame the sheep. Have you heard about the Highland Clearances?” “Only superficially. Okay if I tape this?” “Go ahead… Well, you know,” he began, “when the Rebellion failed, the clan system was deliberately destroyed, and Highlanders were forbidden by law to wear kilts or play bagpipes.

Instead of clan chieftains they now had rich landlords renting small bits of land to crofters, who shared their one-room huts with the livestock. Then, with the growing demand for meat, the big landowners found it easier and more profitable to raise sheep than to collect rents from poor crofters. Also, sheep could make money for investors in Edinburgh and London.” “Agribusiness, eighteenthcentury style,” Qwilleran remarked.

“Exactly! To be fair, though, I should say that not all the landlords were villains; some of the old families tried their best to help their people, but overpopulation and old-fashioned farming methods combined to keep the crofters in a state of near-starvation.” “What happened to them when the sheep took over?” “They were driven off the land and forbidden to hunt, fish, or graze livestock. Their pitiful crofts were burned before their eyes.” “Where did they go?” “They were sent to live in destitution in big-city slums or in poor coastal villages. Many were transported to North America, and that’s another story! They were exploited by ship owners and sent to sea in leaky tubs overcrowded and without sufficient food and water… I shouldn’t be telling you this; it shoots up my blood pressure.” The two men wandered around the waterfront and watched the fishing boats coming in, surrounded by screaming seagulls. Crewmen in yellow slickers were slinging prawn traps onto the wharf, laughing and joking.

Facing the docks were freshly painted, steep-roofed cottages huddled in a row, with flowers around the doorsteps and seagulls on the chimney pots. Some of the cottage windows had cut-off curtains that allowed cats to sit on the window-sills. Lyle said, “The Scots today are nice people–sociable, hospitable, and slyly witty–but they have a bloody history of cutting throats and pouring molten lead on their enemies.

” They lunched at a pub before returning to the inn. There they learned that Melinda had checked out and was on her way to Glasgow in a hired car, leaving a message: “Don’t feel bad about my giving up the rest of the tour. This is my responsibility as Irma’s friend and physician.” Lisa reported to Qwilleran, “Polly and I packed Irma’s belongings to ship home. Polly’s all broken up. She’s in her room, saying she doesn’t want to be disturbed by anyone.” “I guess that means me,” he said. For him the death of their leader was an excuse to phone Mildred Hanstable and inquire about the Siamese.

They were often on his mind, although he refrained from talking about them to anyone except Polly. Grace Utley showed pictures of her teddy bears to anyone who sat next to her on the bus.

Nevertheless, Qwilleran often looked at his watch, deducted five hours, and visualized the cats having their breakfast or taking an afternoon nap in a certain patch of sun on the rug. He wondered how they were hitting it off with Mildred. He wondered if they were getting fat on her cooking. He wondered if they missed him. When he telephoned Pickax, it was eight o’clock in the morning, their time, and Mildred had heard the news of Irma’s death on the radio.

“They didn’t give any details on the air,” she said.

“There’ll be more in the paper when it comes out, I hope.” “It was a heart attack. She’d been under a lot of stress. Conducting a tour is a big job for an amateur guide–with a bunch of Moose County individualists in tow.

The obituary will probably be in today’s paper. Please save it for me… How are the cats behaving?” “We get along just fine! Yum Yum is adorable. When I’m quilting she sits on the frame and watches the needle go in and out. Koko helps me read the tarot cards.” “If the Siamese were humans,” Qwilleran explained, “Yum Yum would win prizes at the county fair, and Koko would discover a cure for the common cold… Is he there? Put him on.” Mildred could be heard talking to the cats. There was a faint yowl, then some coaxing, and then a louder response.

“Hello, Koko!” Qwilleran shouted.

“How’s everything? Are you taking care of Yum Yum?” It took the cat a while to understand that the voice he knew so well was coming out of the instrument held to his ear, but then he wanted to do all the talking, delivering a series of ear-splitting yowls and even biting the receiver. Wincing, Qwilleran shouted, “That’s enough! Take him away!” There were sounds of scuffling and arguing, and then Mildred returned to the line.

“There’s one unusual thing I’d like to report, ” she said.

“Last night while I was quilting, I heard an unearthly howl coming from one of the balconies. Koko was in my bathroom, howling in the shower.

It made my blood run cold. I went up and talked to him, and finally he stopped, but it really gave me a scare.

” “What time did it happen?” “Between nine-thirty and ten, when that crazy DJ was on WPKX. I turned off the radio, thinking Koko objected to the program.” “I don’t blame him,” Qwilleran said.

“That guy makes me howl with pain, too.” After hanging up the phone, he realized that Koko had howled between two-thirty and three, Scottish time. That cat knew the moment that Irma died! … He had a sense of death that spanned the ocean! Only eleven of the original sixteen travelers reported for dinner that evening, and they were quieter than usual. The meal started with cock-a-leekie soup served with small meat-filled pastries called bridies, followed by lamb stew with barley and nee ps as well as a dish of tat ties and onions called stovies.

Lyle Compton asked, “Has anyone seen Bruce today?” No one had seen the bus driver. They all agreed he deserved a day off, and they wondered if he even knew about Irma’s death. Lisa said, “According to the Bonnie Scots game plan in Irma’s briefcase, Bruce is not to smoke on the job or mix with the passengers, and he must be clean and presentable at all times. For this he’s getting $1,000, plus meals and lodging and whatever tips we give him. He was paid $100 up front.” “We should tip him generously when the tour ends,” Larry said.

“He’s an excellent driver. He picks up the luggage unobtrusively while we’re at breakfast and has the bus packed for departure on time. He’s not friendly, but he’s courteous in a businesslike way.” Everyone agreed. After dinner, Lisa said to Qwilleran, “Polly and I decided that Larry should manage the tour.” “Why? You two are completely capable, and you’ve studied the contents of the briefcase.” “That’s the problem,” she said.

“If a man is in charge, he’ll be considered well informed, well organized, and a good leader. Because Irma was a woman, she was called fussy, bossy and a know-it-all.” “That’s preposterous, Lisa!” “Of course it’s preposterous, but that’s the way it is in Moose County, and it’ll take a couple of generations to change the attitude. I just wanted you to know why Larry will be calling the plays.” The next morning, Amanda was absent from the breakfast table, and Riker explained to Qwilleran, “She has a dental problem. She broke her upper denture, and she’s too embarrassed to open her mouth.

Until we reach Edinburgh and get it repaired, she’ll have to live on a soft diet, like porridge and Scotch.” Arch Riker was wrong. At that moment, Amanda was arranging for transportation to Glasgow; she was canceling the rest of her tour. Carol said, “We’re like the Ten Little Indians. Who’s next?” After breakfasting on a compote of dried apple slices, prunes, and figs, followed by creamed finnan haddie and oatcakes, the group shook hands with the innkeeper and his wife and prepared to board the bus in the courtyard of the inn.

The baggage was loaded in the bin, but Bruce was not there to help the women aboard. Neither could he be found smoking a cigarette on the grounds, nor passing the time with a cup of coffee in the kitchen. At nine o’clock there was still no driver. In fact, they never saw Bruce again.

Five

The events of the last twenty-four hours bewildered the members of the Bonnie Scots Tour as they switched from sadness at the loss of their leader to indignation at the loss of their driver. Obviously Bruce had been there earlier, picking up the luggage in the hall and loading it properly in the waiting bus. The assistant cook said she had given him his breakfast in the kitchen at six o’clock. Some of the passengers sat in the bus waiting hopefully for his return, while others trooped back into the inn for another cup of coffee.

Mrs. Utley, who had been late in rising as usual, reported that she looked out her bedroom window while everyone was at breakfast and saw a car pull into the courtyard. It left again immediately and went downhill in a cloud of dust. No one paid any attention to her.

Eventually the innkeeper called the constable, and Larry gave the constable a rough description of the missing driver. No one knew his last name, and a quick check of Irma’s briefcase failed to fill in the blank. The nearest hospital also was called, but no red-haired forty-year-old male had been admitted. Larry addressed the group seriously.

“How long do we sit here, wondering if he’ll show? We have a reservation at another inn tonight and a lot of traveling to do in the meantime.” “Let’s not hang around any longer,” Riker advised.

“It’s our bus, not his. Let’s hit the trail.” “That is,” said Larry, “if anyone is comfortable with driving on the wrong side of the road.” Qwilleran volunteered to drive, if someone else would navigate, and Dwight was elected. Larry offered to read Irma’s travel notes en route, and Lyle said he would fill in the historical facts. With this arrangement in effect, the bus pulled away from the inn for Day Seven: another castle, another loch, another stately garden, another pub lunch, another four o’clock tea with shortbread.

Qwilleran was a good driver. Everyone said he was better than Bruce.

“Cheaper, too,” he boasted. At lunchtime, Carol said to him privately, “I feel terribly sorry for Melinda. My father was a surgeon, and even after thirty years in the operating room he was absolutely crushed if he lost a patient. So Irma’s death was a terrible blow for Melinda, coming right on top of her father’s suicide and the rumors about her mother’s death. She has no immediate family now. She lost her only brother while she was in med school. She and Emory were only a year apart and grew up like twins.

His birth was a difficult one, and that’s what started Mrs.

Goodwinter’s decline in!-plete helplessness.” Why is she telling me this family history? Qwilleran wondered.

“You know, Qwill, it’s none of my business, but I wish you and Melinda had gotten together. You always say you’re not good husband material, but the right woman makes a difference, and you don’t know what you’re missing by not having children. Forgive me for saying so.” “No offense,” he said, but he suspected that Melinda had coached her.

“All aboard!” came the commanding voice of their leader. The mild-mannered Larry Lanspeak could project like King Lear on the stormy moor. During the afternoon drive through Glencoe, with its wild and rugged mountain scenery, Lyle entertained the passengers with the story of the Glencoe Massacre in the late 1600’s.

“King James had fled,” he began, “and the Scottish chieftains were forced to pledge allegiance to William of Orange–by a certain date.

There was one chief who missed the deadline: Macdonald of Glencoe. When his oath finally arrived at government headquarters–late–a high official suppressed it and gave orders to exterminate the clan. A Captain Campbell was dispatched to the glen with 128 soldiers, and they lived there for a while on friendly terms with the Macdonalds, presumably accepting the chief’s hospitality. Suddenly, one day at dawn, the treacherous attack took place. Campbell’s men put more than forty members of the clan to the sword, including women, children, and servants… I never trust a Campbell,” Lyle concluded.

“Don’t forget, dear,” said his wife, “you married one.” “That’s what I mean. They make great apple pie, but I don’t trust ’em.” Then he went on.

“The order for the attack was supposedly written on a playing card, and ever since that time, the nine of diamonds has been called the Curse of Scotland.” That night they checked into a rustic inn that had been a private hunting and fishing lodge in the days when upper-class sportsmen came up from London for grouse-shooting and fly-casting.

The Bonnie Scots group entered through massive oak doors, iron strapped and green with mold, and walked into a lobby hung with hunting trophies. An ancient leather-bound journal recorded the names of sporting notables who had bagged 86 grouse and 33 pheasant on a certain weekend in 1838. Larry picked up the room keys and distributed them.

“Hey, look! We have locks on our doors!” he announced.

“We’re back in the civilized world!” Then, while the other men unloaded the bus, he telephoned the previous inn to inquire about the missing driver. There was still no clue to his defection. When the luggage was marshaled in the center of the lobby, Bushy announced, “Grab your own bags, folks, and if you can’t lug ’em upstairs yourself, we’ll help you.” Piece by piece the luggage was identified and removed.

“Where’s mine?” Mrs. Utley demanded.

“You left it on the bus!” A quick check proved that the baggage bin was empty. Qwilleran said, “Are you sure you placed it outside your room this morning, Mrs. Utley?” “My sister took care of it while I was in the shower! Where is she?

Somebody go and get her! Bring her down here!” The shy Zella, acting as if under arrest and stammering in self-defense, insisted she had put the bags in the hall along with her own suitcase. Hers had arrived safely.

“I always packed for Grace while she was dressing,” she explained in a tremulous voice.

“I brought up the jewel cases from the safe and packed them. Then I stayed in the hall with the luggage until it was picked up.” “And Bruce picked it up?” Qwilleran asked.

“I saw him.” He exchanged knowing glances with Bushy, who was now official baggage handler as well as official photographer.

“They’ve been stolen!” Mrs. Utley screamed.

“That man! That driver! He stole them! That’s why he ran off!

Somebody picked him up in a car! I saw them speed away from the inn!” Other members of the group, hearing the commotion, came down to the lobby, and the hysterical Mrs. Utley was assisted to her room.

“Does anyone have a tranquilizer for the poor woman?” Carol asked.

“At least she has her carry-on bag, so she can brush her teeth,” said Lisa, “and I imagine she’s well covered with insurance.” “Where did Irma hire that guy?” Compton kept saying. Larry phoned the previous inn, describing the missing luggage, and after a search the innkeeper called back to say that no alligator bags could be found anywhere. Larry also phoned the constable in the fishing village and learned that a report of the missing articles would have to be filed in person. Larry said, “We’ll hire a car and drive tomorrow. I’ll go back there with Grace.” “That’s really noble of you,” said Lisa.

Qwilleran asked Bushy, “Do you think you may have taken a picture of Bruce?” “No, he’d never let me shoot him–always turned his back. I thought he was camera-shy, but now I’m beginning to wonder…” The Chisholm sisters had a tray sent up to their room, while the others gathered in the dining room for a five-course dinner of smoked salmon, lentil soup, brown trout, venison, and a dessert flavored with Scotch whiskey–or whisky, as it said on the menu card.

Afterward they assembled in the lounge, where hot coals were glowing in the fireplace, and the Lanspeaks organized an impromptu revue to bolster morale. Carol and Lisa harmonized “Annie Laurie” and Larry read Robert Burns’s poem “To a Mouse,” with a passable Scots accent.

Then Dwight played “The Muckin’ o’ Georgie’s Byre” on the tin whistle, one of the Scottish tunes in the booklet that came with his purchase.

“It didn’t take you long to become a virtuoso,” Polly remarked.

“I’ve been playing since I was a kid,” Dwight explained.

“I won second place in an amateur contest when I was ten.” “Amanda says a tin whistle sounds like a sick locomotive,” said Riker.

“It’s weird, all right. I’m thinking of using it in Macbeth whenever the witches are on stage.” Lisa asked, “Are any of you fellows going to buy kilts? We’re scheduled to visit a woolen mill tomorrow.” “Not I, ,” said Qwilleran promptly, although secretly he thought he would look good in one.

“I think men look sexy in kilts… but they’ve got to have sturdy, good-looking legs,” she added with a telling look at her lanky husband.

Bushy said, “I heard a good story from the innkeeper this morning.

There was this newspaper woman from the states, attending some Highland games over here. Men were swinging battle axes and tossing the caber, which is something like a telephone pole, and half the male spectators were wearing kilts.

This was her chance, she thought, to get an honest answer to the old question: Is it true they don’t wear anything underneath? So she went up to a congenial-looking Scot with red hair, who wore his kilt with a swagger.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said.

“I’m from an American newspaper. Would you mind if I asked a bold question? Is it true that–ah-nothing is worn under your kilt?” He answered without hesitation.

“Yes, indeed, ma’am, it’s true. Everything is in perfect working order.”” Lyle grunted, and his wife giggled. He said, “When the English Redcoats ridiculed the Scots for fighting in “short skirts” during the Rebellion, they didn’t know the reason for the national costume. It was for walking through a dense growth of heather. When the English soldiers tried it in full uniform, they bogged down.” Larry said, “Tomorrow we visit the battlefield at Culloden. Why don’t you brief us, Lyle?” “How much do you want to know? It was one of the bloodiest military mistakes ever made!” “Go ahead,” everyone insisted.

“Well… Prince Charlie wanted to put his father back on the throne, and the English marched north to put down the uprising. They had 9,000 well-equipped, well-trained professional soldiers in scarlet coats.

They had competent officers in powdered wigs, as well as a full complement of cannon, muskets, horses, and supply wagons. The Rebels were 5,000 hastily assembled, poorly commanded Scots with broadswords, daggers, and axes.” Qwilleran had turned on his recorder.

“It wasn’t just Scots against the English. There were Highlanders against Lowlanders, Rebels against Loyalists, clans against clans, brothers against brothers.

“When the Rebels fought at Culloden, several mistakes had already been made by their commanders. They chose a battlefield that gave the advantage to the enemy; their food had run out; they had marched their troops all night in a maneuver that didn’t work; the men were exhausted from hunger and lack of sleep; even their horses had died of starvation.

“Then the battle started, and they received no order to advance but stood in ranks while the enemy cannon mowed them down.

Desperate at the delay, some of the clans broke through in rage, blinded by smoke, screaming and leaping over the rows of their dead.

Then the cannon changed to grapeshot, and there was more slaughter.

Still they attacked like hungry wolves. The muskets fired at them point blank, and they rushed in and hacked at the bayonets with swords.

Some discarded their weapons and threw stones like savages.

When the battle was lost, the survivors fled in panic, only to be chased down by the dragoons and butchered.” Lyle stopped, and no one spoke.

“Well, you asked for it,” he said. Dwight put another shovelful of coal in the grate. Then members of the group started drifting away, saying they’d step outside for a breath of air, or they’d go up to bed, or they needed a drink.

It rained on Day Eight when they visited the battlefield at Culloden, and they found it depressing. It still rained when they visited a distillery, and even the wee dram served at the conclusion of the guided tour failed to cheer them. The Bonnie Scots Tour was winding down fast. Polly blamed it on the loss of their leader. Qwilleran thought it was a let-down after the enchantment of the Western Isles and Highlands. On the bus, Bushy grabbed the microphone and tried to elevate the general mood with stories that fell flat.

“Did you hear about the Scotsman who went to visit a sick friend with a bottle of Scotch in his pocket? It was a dark night, and on the way he tripped and fell on a sharp rock, but he picked himself up and went on his way. Soon he felt a trickle of something running down the outside of his leg. It was too dark to see, but he dabbled his fingers in it and tasted it.

“Thank God! It’s only blood!” he said.” Later that evening, when Larry and the Chisholm sisters returned from the scene of the crime, he said to Qwilleran, “That woman is impossible, but we got everything taken care of. What did I miss?” “Not much. A historic battlefield is all in your head. There’s not much to see.” “And the distillery?” “Everything was spic-and-span and absolutely sterile. Too bad Amanda wasn’t there for the wee dram… Tell me, Larry, how valuable was the stuff stolen from Grace Utley?” “According to her, one necklace alone was worth $150,000. Some of the stone-set brooches and bracelets were estate stuff, valued up to $50,000 apiece. It was a nice haul for someone. Do you suppose the theft was impromptu on Bruce’s part… or what?” Day Nine was devoted to museums and shopping. Mrs. Utley bought clothing and luggage enough to see her back to Pickax. The other women shopped for sweaters and kilts. Even Arch Riker found a cashmere cardigan that he considered a bargain. And then they checked into their the last inn before Edinburgh, a stately, ivy-covered mansion on extensive landscaped grounds, furnished with antiques and chintz.

The bedrooms were large, with ornate plaster ceilings, lace curtains, and telephones!

“I’m expecting Junior to phone,” Riker said. He was trying on his new sweater when there was a knock at the door.

Qwilleran opened it to fend a young man with a tea tray.

“You’ve got the wrong room. We didn’t order tea,” he said.

“Compliments of the house, sir.” The waiter marched into the room and set the tray on a lace-covered tea table in front of a stiff little settee. The tray was laden with porcelain cups and saucers, a rosebud-patterned china teapot, a silver milk and sugar service, a plate of shortbread, and dainty embroidered napkins in silver rings.

“Just what I wanted.

More shortbread,” Riker remarked as he sat on the settee and awkwardly poured tea into the eggshell-thin cups. Qwilleran pulled up a small chair opposite. At that moment the telephone rang.

“That’s Junior!” said the editor, jumping to his feet.

“He’s really on the ball!” As he started toward the phone, a button of his sweater caught on the lace cloth and dragged it off the table along with the tea, milk, sugar, shortbread, and china. With the table cover trailing from his sweater button, he answered the phone with the composure of a veteran news editor. Then he turned to Qwilleran.

“It’s the desk clerk downstairs. Wants to know if everything’s all right.” “Tell him to send up a mop and a shovel,” Qwilleran said. It was the final calamity of the Bonnie Scots Tour, but there was one more surprise in store for Qwilleran. The telephone rang in the middle of the night, and he jumped to a sitting position before his eyes were open. He turned on the bedside lamp. It was three o’clock.

“Something’s happened to the cats–or the barn!” he said to Riker, who showed signs of stirring. As he expected, it was an overseas call, and Mildred Hanstable was on the line.

“Hope I didn’t take you away from your dinner, Qwill.” “Dinner! It’s three o’clock in the morning!” “Oh, forgive me!” she cried in chagrin.

“I deducted five hours instead of adding. I’m so sorry!” “Is anything wrong? Are the cats all right?” “They’re fine. We’ve just had a little snack.” “When is Irma’s funeral? How are the Hasselriches taking it? Have you heard?” “That’s why I’m calling, Qwill. The funeral’s been postponed–for family reasons, it said in the paper. Actually, the body hasn’t arrived yet.” “Hasn’t arrived! It left here with Melinda four days ago!” “Yes, Melinda is home. She said the body was flown cargo… but it’s lost.” “How do you know?” “Roger was at the funeral home, asking why there were so many flowers and no body, and the Dingleberry brothers told him it had gone astray.” “Is there any trace of it?” “Oh, yes. It arrived from Scotland and went to Chicago all right, but then it was shipped to Moose Jaw in Canada, instead of the Moose County Airport.” “Is that where it is now?” “No, it’s been traced to Denver, and they think it’s on the way back to Chicago, by way of Atlanta.” Qwilleran groaned.

“This is absurd, Mildred. Does Junior know what’s happened?” “Roger told him, but it’s being suppressed to keep from upsetting Irma’s parents.” “Hold the line,” Qwilleran told her. Turning to Riker, he said, “Irma’s body hasn’t arrived. It’s being shipped all over North America.

Junior is withholding the news.” The two men stared at each other, both thinking what a headline it would make. All their training and experience and instincts as newsmen told them to go for the headline, but Pickax was a small town, and the Moose County Something was a small-town newspaper, and attitudes were different. Riker nodded assent.

“Well, thank you, Mildred,” said Qwilleran.

“Is everything else okay? How about the cats?” “One of them has been chewing holes in your old sweaters and throwing up.” “That’s probably Koko. He hasn’t done that for years! He’s lonely.” “I’m terribly sorry I disturbed you, Qwill.” “That’s all right. I’m glad you called. I’ll be home soon–perhaps sooner than I planned.”

Six

On the morning of Day Ten the members of the Bonnie Scots Tour placed their luggage in the corridor at seven-thirty instead of six thirty having voted unanimously to amend Irma’s orders and start sleeping an extra hour. Qwilleran walked down the hall to Polly’s room and knocked on the door.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Good morning, dear. I was about to plug in the tea-maker. Would you like a cup?” “No, thanks. I simply want you to know I’m leaving the tour as soon as we reach Edinburgh.” “Has something happened at home?” she asked anxiously.

“No. I simply have a strong desire to get back to Pickax, that’s all.” He fingered his moustache significantly.

“I’m changing my flight.” “Would you like company, Qwill?” “Don’t you want to see Edinburgh? It’s a magnificent city. I’ve had many newspaper assignments there.” “Frankly, my heart isn’t in this tour since Irma died, and it may seem foolish, but… I’m lonesome for Bootsie.” “Give me your ticket and I’ll phone the airline,” he said.

In changing their flights, he also upgraded their reservations to first class. Even though he was reluctant to spend money on transportation, he needed the extra space for his long legs and wide shoulders, and–after ten days of small talk with the heterogeneous Bonnie Scots family-he wanted privacy for a sustained conversation with Polly.

Twenty-four hours later they had said goodbye to their traveling companions and were airborne– Qwilleran stretching his legs luxuriously, Polly sipping champagne, and both of them enjoying the pampering of VIP’S.

“I wonder if Bootsie has missed me,” Polly said.

“I’ve never left him for more than a weekend. My sister-in-law takes good care of him, but there isn’t the rapport that he has with me.” “Mildred says Koko’s been chewing my sweaters. That means he’s lonely, even though she’s feeding him haute cuisine and perverting him with dubious diversions, like tarot cards.” The champagne bottle made the rounds again, and delectable hors d’oeuvres were served, prompting Polly to say, “Do you realize we were never offered any haggis in Scotland?” “We never heard any bagpipes, either,” he added.

“Or saw anyone dancing the hornpipe.” “In fact, we never really met any Scots. We were always with our own group, a little bit of Moose County on foreign soil.” This was followed by a regretful silence until Polly said, “On the credit side, I survived the trip without bronchitis, although I decided not to take my vitamin C. The capsules were too large and hard to swallow.” “Your bronchitis in England last year was all psychological, because I wasn’t with you.” “What a sweep of vanity comes this way!” she said, quoting Shakespeare with glee.

“A little vanity is a good thing,” he retorted.

“That’s a questionable aphorism, if I ever heard one! Who said that?” she demanded.

“I did.” Polly lapsed into a sentimental reverie induced by the champagne. At length she said, “I’ve missed you, darling. We haven’t had any time to ourselves on this trip.” “I’ve missed you, too, Polly.” “I feel so sad about Irma, and I couldn’t even attend her funeral. She was probably buried two days ago.” “I don’t think so,” Qwilleran said slowly and soberly.

“There’s been a complication.” “What do you mean?” Polly snapped out of her brooding mood, then gasped as he reported the bizarre odyssey of Irma’s casket.

“Well,” she said after a while, “I have something surprising to report, too.” “Let’s hear it.” Polly hesitated, as if pondering where to begin.

“Well… when I turned over Irma’s briefcase to Larry, I withheld one small personal file and put it in my luggage, thinking to give it to her parents. Then Bruce disappeared, and no one knew his last name, so I searched this file without finding a clue. But there was one letter that I think you should see.” She rummaged in her carry-on bag and extracted a document envelope tied with tape. In it was a folded sheet of notepaper that she handed to Qwilleran.

“Read this.” Dear Irma, Thank you from the bottom of my heart! Bruce will do a good job for you. He’s an excellent driver, no mistake. He’s had an awful time finding work since he got out, but he’s promised to stay clean now. Do give him a proper talking to. He’ll listen to you. I know you two meant a lot to each other when we were young. My brother is a good sort really, and I expect he’s quite learned his lesson. Bless you! Don’t forget to ring me when you reach Edinburgh.

For auld langsyne Katie Qwilleran read the note twice. So that was the way it was! he thought. Irma and Bruce were–which at Youthful sweethearts? Former lovers? And Bruce had been in prison, for what? Larceny? A narcotics violation? Irma apparently knew about his record. Did she hire him in spite of it? Or because of it? Qwilleran’s cynicism was close to the surface where Irma was concerned. There was more to this story, he suspected. Polly was waiting to hear his reaction to the letter.

“What do you think, Qwill?” “Did the envelope have her full name and return address?” he asked.

“There was no envelope.” “There was gossip throughout the tour about Irma’s nightly excursions with Bruce. Did she ever explain to you?” “Not a word, and I was determined not to mention it. She was a responsible adult, and it was none of my business. She always came in after I was asleep, apparently creeping around in the dark without turning on the lights or making a sound. It was considerate of her, I thought.” “If Bruce stole Mrs. Utley’s luggage, he wasn’t as “clean” as Irma was led to believe.” “It would seem so,” Polly agreed.

“Did she ever mention this Katie person to you?” “No, she was secretive about her Scottish connections, but that was characteristic of her. We never knew how much was bottled up in that cool exterior.” Qwilleran said, “If we could identify Katie, the police would have something to work with, at least. One would expect Irma to carry an address book in her briefcase–or a list of phone numbers if she planned to call friends in Scotland.” “Perhaps it was in her handbag,” Polly suggested.

“I packed it without examining the contents and sent it home in her luggage. Melinda was to turn everything over to the Hasselriches.” “Her parents might know Katie’s name and whereabouts.

If not, you could ask them for the address book on the pretext of notifying Irma’s Scottish friends about her death… In fact,” he added, “Bruce might be listed.” There were signs that dinner was about to be served. Individual tables were unfolded from the chair arms, and white tablecloths were whisked across them, followed by linen napkins, wineglasses, tiny vases of fresh flowers, and four page menu presentations. Qwilleran said, “We can assume that turbulence is not in their flight plan.” They ordered vichyssoise, tournedos of beef, and Caesar salad. After a while he asked, “What will happen at the Senior Care Facility? Will they be able to replace Irma?” “The administrators always said they’d have to hire a professional if Irma retired. Lisa wants to apply for the job.” “She’d be pretty good, I think.” “Before we left for Scotland,” Polly said, “Irma was working on a project called Pets for Patients, with volunteers bringing their cats and dogs to the facility on certain days to boost morale. If it goes through, I’d be willing to take Bootsie. How about you, Qwill?” “I’d take Yum Yum, but I doubt whether Koko would cooperate. He has his own ideas and doesn’t always do what cats are supposed to do.” They ordered creme caramel for dessert, and after coffee Qwilleran presented Polly with a small white box bearing a monogram: CRM. It was a handmade silver brooch in the form of a peacock feather, combined with blue-green enamel and a smoky quartz crystal mounted in the eye of the feather.

“It’s beautiful!” she cried.

“I love peacock feathers! What is the stone?” “A cairngorm from the Cairngorm mountains in Scotland. This is one of the designs being made in the Charles Rennie Mackintosh style.” “It will be perfect on my batwing cape. Thank you so much, dear.” “Are you going to watch the movie?” he asked. The screen was being lowered at the front of the cabin.

“I’d rather take a nap,” she said.

“I’m going to look at this magazine, if my reading light won’t disturb you.” Window shades were drawn to shut out the brilliant sunlight, while passengers either put on their earphones to watch the film, or went to sleep, or both. He held the magazine open to a feature on Tlingit art, but he was thinking rather than reading. If he could discover the bus driver’s identity, he would turn the information over to the Pickax police chief and let him follow through. Reviewing the Scottish tour in his mind, Qwilleran searched for clues in the behavior of Irma as well as Bruce. The tapes he had recorded might reveal forgotten details. Their content was intended as material for “Straight from the Qwill Pen,” but it could serve another purpose now… His magazine dropped to his lap, and he fell asleep until the cabin was again flooded with light and another meal was served. By the time the plane landed in Chicago, and by the time they claimed their baggage and went through Customs and Immigration, it was too late to continue to Moose County. They stayed overnight at an airport inn and caught the shuttle flight in the morning. At the Moose County Airport Qwilleran’s white four-door was waiting in the long-term parking structure, a new building made possible by a grant from the K Foundation. Polly said, “I remember when the terminal was a shack without chairs or indoor plumbing.” “I remember when we had to park our cars in a cow pasture and be very careful,” Qwilleran said, “and that was only five years ago.” “I can hardly wait to see Bootsie,” she said on the way to Pickax.

“I’m looking forward to seeing my two rascals also.” When they arrived at Polly’s carriage-house apartment, she ran up the stairs while Qwilleran followed with her luggage.

“Bootsie!” she cried.

“How’s my little boy? Did you miss me?” The husky Siamese approached with curiosity, appraised her coolly, then turned abruptly and walked away, leaving his adoring human crushed. Qwilleran said, “That’s your punishment for abandoning him. After he thinks you’ve suffered enough, he’ll smother you with affection. I expect the same treatment when I get home.” After two weeks of picturesque inns and impressive castles, he had forgotten that the converted apple barn was such a wondrous bit of architecture. The octagonal structure had a rough stone foundation that looked like thirteenth-century Scotland, and the weathered shingle siding was crowned by a slate roof. There were no furry creatures spying on him from the windows, however. They were in the kitchen, sitting contentedly on top of the refrigerator, watching Mildred Hanstable as she slid a casserole into the oven.

They looked down on Qwilleran with condescension.

“Welcome home!” she greeted him.

“How was the trip?” “No one ever said traveling is easy.” “How about a cup of coffee?” “As soon as I dump this luggage.

I’ve been living out of it for two weeks.” He carried his bags up the ramp to the balcony, and when he returned he had a small white box in his pocket, with CRM on the cover. The Siamese were still sitting sphinxlike on the refrigerator.

“Did they ever find Irma?” he asked as he slid onto a seat at the snack bar. Mildred poured two mugs of coffee.

“Yes, she finally arrived, and they buried her yesterday, although there was some further unpleasantness. The Dingleberry brothers told Roger–off the record, of course–that the Hasselriches disagreed violently about burial versus cremation.” “Did the obit run?” “Yes. On the front page. I left it on the coffee table. It’s a lovely write-up… Well, apart from the tragedy, Qwill, how was your adventure?” “I’ll know better after I’ve spent a night in my own bed and recovered from tour trauma.” “Did you buy yourself a kilt?” “No, just a couple of ties in the Mackintosh tartan. Speaking of Mackintosh, here’s a memento of Glasgow.” He pushed the small white box across the bar.

“Oh, Qwill! Thank you so much!” she exclaimed when she saw the peacock feather pin in silver and enamel.

“What’s the name of this stone?” “It’s a cairngorm, found only in Scotland, I believe.” “It was sweet of you to think of me.” “It was generous of you to take care of the Siamese, Mildred.” “Not a bit! It was a thrill to live in this barn, and the cats were enjoyable company. I wouldn’t mind having one just like Koko.” “There’s no such thing as just-like-Koko,” he informed her.

“He’s the Shakespeare of cats, the Beethoven of cats, the Leonardo of cats!” Hearing his name mentioned favorably, Koko rose and stretched his rear chassis, then extended his forelegs with spreading toes, after which he jumped down from the refrigerator with a thump and an involuntary grunt and ambled over to Qwilleran to sniff the foreign aromas. Who could say what scents were registered by that twitching nose? Old castles? Heather? Scotch broth? Fishing villages? Sheep?

A distillery? The bones of ancient kings? A battlefield soaked with blood 250 years ago?

“Did the cats misbehave in any way?” Qwilleran asked.

“Well, one of them stole my emery boards– a whole pack of them, one at a time.” “Petty larceny is Yum Yum’s department. I owe you a pack. I’ll take it out of her allowance. How about Koko?” “He did one naughty thing that gave me a scare,” Mildred said.

“I was getting ready to take my diet pill, and he swooped in and snatched it. I was afraid he’d eat it and get sick, but he just punctured the capsule with his fangs.” “Yes, he likes to sink them in soft, gummy things, like jelly beans,” Qwilleran explained.

“Do I smell macaroni and cheese in the oven? All the time I was eating nettle broth, mutton pie, boiled sheep’s tongue, and tripe and onions, I was dreaming about macaroni and cheese.” “That’s for our lunch,” she said.

“I’m leaving some left-overs in the refrigerator for the cats- meatloaf, codfish cakes, terrine of turkey, and there’s beef stew for you in the freezer. I’ve been cooking up a storm while you were away and having a wonderful time.” After lunch, Mildred packed and moved out, and Qwilleran shut himself in his balcony suite until an operatic chorus outside his door reminded him it was time for dinner. The three of them snacked informally on the leftovers, and then he sprawled listlessly in his favorite lounge chair with no desire to read the newspaper or play the stereo or write a letter or take a walk or call anyone on the telephone. It was post-vacation lethargy. When the Siamese crowded around, having forgiven him for his unexplained absence, he stroked Yum Yum halfheartedly and told Koko without much conviction that he was a handsome fellow.

Impulsively, Koko jumped from the arm of the chair and walked deliberately to the large square coffee table, where Mildred had left a copy of the Moose County Something. Hopping to the tabletop, he stared down at the newsprint with a nearsighted gaze. Then, arching his back and bushing his tail and sweeping his ears back, he commenced a slow prance around the lead item on the front page. He circled it again and again in a hair-raising ritual that Qwilleran had seen before. It meant that Koko’s extra senses were detecting a discrepancy that escaped human perception. Qwilleran felt the familiar crawling sensation in the roots of his moustache. There on page one was the three-column photo of Irma Hasselrich and the half page obituary.

Koko, he remembered, had howled at the exact moment of her death.

Without benefit of satellite he had known what was happening in a remote Scottish hamlet. Was it possible that the cat sensed more than that? Was Koko the source of the subliminal message urging him to return home early? Polly thought she had a remarkable rapport with Bootsie, but it was nothing compared to the mutual understanding that existed between Qwilleran and Koko. But no, he finally decided; it was all absurd imagining.

“I’m punchy from jet lag,” he said to the Siamese.

“Let’s turn out the lights and call it a day.”

Seven

Back home in his own bed Qwilleran enjoyed a good night’s sleep, but in the morning he was disoriented. He didn’t know what day it was.

He knew only that it was Day Thirteen. After living in a tour induced limbo, where days had numbers instead of names, he had not adjusted to the standard calendar week. Consequently, the morning after Koko’s macabre dance around Irma’s obituary was Day Thirteen in Qwilleran’s book. The sound of church bells ringing on Park Circle suggested that Day Thirteen might be translated into Sunday.

On the other hand, it might be Saturday if the bells were celebrating a wedding. He thought of phoning the city desk at the Moose County Something and asking, “Is this Saturday or Sunday?” He had answered stranger questions than that when he worked for metropolitan newspapers Down Below. The local radio station was of no help; the announcer gave the time, the temperature, the wind velocity, and the relative humidity, but not the day of the week. As for the WPKX brand of daily news casting it was a half hour of what Qwilleran called mushy news–noto less mushy on Saturday than on Sunday. If the day proved to be Saturday, that meant he had arrived home on Friday. Yet, would Mildred Hanstable have been there on a Friday morning? She taught school and would have been in the classroom unless, of course, it was a Teacher-Optional Workday, in which case she might have opted to stay home and prepare macaroni and cheese, although that was extremely unlikely for one as conscientious as Mildred. Ergo, this had to be Sunday, and the church bells were calling the faithful to worship. That was Qwilleran’s cue to walk to the drug store and pick up the out-of town Sunday papers. The cats were relaxing in a patch of sunlight on the rug without a thought in their sleek brown heads. What matter to them that it was Sunday–or even Thursday? Every day was Today in their scheme of things, and there was no such thing as Yesterday or Tomorrow.

“I’m going downtown,” he announced to them.

“Is there anything you want from the drug store?” They looked at him as if he were demented. Or daft, as they said in Scotland. (qwilleran had bought a glossary of Scottish terms at the Edinburgh airport.) The Siamese knew very well when he was talking nonsense. Or blethering, as they said in Scotland. A brisk walk downtown had the effect of clearing the stupefied brain he had brought home from the Bonnie Scots Tour. He did his best thinking while walking alone. Now he resumed his ruminations begun on the plane: Irma knew about Bruce’s past record… She might have relived her youthful passion on the moor… She might have vented some hidden bitterness caused by her own conviction for manslaughter… She might have been Bruce’s accomplice in the jewel theft! This wild scenario brought forth not so much as a tickle on Qwilleran’s upper lip, but when he tried another avenue of brainstorming, his moustache bristled slightly: Irma might have been Bruce’s victim. If he planned to steal the jewels, wouldn’t it be logical to eliminate the one person who knew his identity? Could he have slipped her some kind of drug that would stop her heart? This was a technical detail he would have to check with Dr.

Melinda-an undertaking he hardly relished. To phone her on a Sunday afternoon would give rise to sociable invitations, such as, “Come over for a drink, and we’ll discuss it,” or “Let’s have dinner.” To visit her clinic on Monday would lead to other undesirable developments, such as, “Remove everything except your socks and shoes, and the doctor will be right with you.” No, he decided, it would be safer to meet her “accidentally” in some crowded or busy place, where they could exchange a few words without getting involved in anything personal. Qwilleran found himself walking with clenched teeth. It annoyed him to be in this awkward position with Melinda after three years of an easy relationship with Polly. He resented being hounded by an overzealous female. He had terminated other liaisons without embarrassment, and he had been jilted himself without creating a rumpus. Somehow he had to get rid of that woman! Koko had never liked her. Did the cat’s uncanny prescience foretell this course of events? It was not beyond the realm of imagination. At the drug store, Qwilleran picked up several out-of-town newspapers–his way of keeping in touch with the turmoil Down Below.

“How was Scotland, Mr. Q?” asked the cashier.

“Okay.” “I heard about Ms. Hasselrich.” “Yes, it was too bad.” “Did you see the Loch Ness monster?” “No, we were there on his day off.” On the way home Qwilleran’s mind turned to the subject of Irma’s address book.

If he could learn the whereabouts and\/or phone number of the pivotal Katie, he could turn the whole matter over to Andrew Brodie and let him make a case of it, if he wished. Andy would be interested in Koko’s startling reaction to the obituary, being one of the few who knew about the cat’s sensitivity to the scent of crime. A detective from Down Below had told him about it in all seriousness. To the Pickax police chief, Koko was the town psychic. Qwilleran walked home with his newspapers via the back road, hoping to avoid questions from well-meaning townsfolk. There was little traffic on Trevelyan Road, but eventually a car stopped and the driver called to him, “Want a lift, Qwill?” It was Scott Gippel, the used-car dealer.

“No, thanks. I’m walking for my health,” Qwilleran said with a comradely salute.

“How was Scotland?” “Fine.” “Sorry about Irma Hasselrich.” “Very unfortunate.” “Bring back any Scotch?” Arriving home with several pounds of newsprint under his arm, Qwilleran all but stumbled over a moving hump in the foyer rug. It was a familiar occurrence, meaning that a cat had hidden stolen goods and was trying to retrieve the loot. He threw back a corner of the rug and exposed Yum Yum huddled over a playing card. It was face down, and when he turned it over, he recognized a card from Mildred’s tarot deck. He also recognized the two perforations in the corner. Koko had been the thief; he always left his mark, like the Black Hand.

The picture on the card was a pleasant scene: a grape arbor with a woman in flowing robes, a bird perched on her wrist. They were surrounded by nine gold circles, each with a five-pointed star in the center. Qwilleran remembered the card from Mildred’s reading prior to the Scottish venture. Dropping his stack of newspapers, he found his recording of the episode and slipped it into a player. The following familiar dialogue unreeled: “Do you mind if I tape this, Mildred?” “Not at all. I wish you would.

” “What did you learn?” “Strangely, when I asked the cards about you, the answers concerned someone else–someone in danger.” “Man or woman?” “A mature woman. A woman with strict habits and upright values.” “What kind of danger?” “Well, the cards were rather vague, so I brought the pack with me, and I’d like to do another reading-in your presence.” (pause.) “Yowl” “Want me to lock him up, Mildred?” “No, let him watch. (pause.) I’m using the Celtic pattern for this reading. This card is the significat or (pause.) I see a journey.

a journey across water… with stormy weather ahead.” “Glad I packed my raincoat.” “Stormy weather could stand for dissension, mistakes, accidents, or whatever.” “Too bad I didn’t know before I paid my money.” “You’re not taking this seriously, Qwill.” “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound flippant.” “This final card.. is not auspicious… You might consider it a warning.” “Looks like a happy card to me.” “But it’s reversed.” “Meaning…” “Some kind of fraud… or treachery.” “Yowl” “In conclusion… I urge you to be prepared… for the unexpected.” (pause.) “Very interesting. Thank you.” Click.

As the tape slowly unreeled, the Siamese were alerted, having heard another cat inside the black box, and both of them circled the player with curiosity. Perhaps they also recognized the voices of Qwilleran and Mildred. It was significant that Koko had yowled at her mention of treachery. At the time of the reading, Qwilleran had thought the cards referred to Polly. Now it was obvious that Irma was the woman in danger; it was she who would be the victim of treachery… That is, Qwilleran reminded himself skeptically, if one took the cards seriously. He looked up Mildred Hanstable’s number. It was Sunday morning, and she would probably be at home, cooking or quilting.

“Good morning,” he said.

“The meatloaf was delicious. The Siamese let me have some of it for dinner last night.

” “There’s beef stew in the freezer for you, don’t forget,” she said.

“I feel twice blessed. I’m calling, Mildred, to ask if you’ve lost one of your tarot cards. I’d hate to see you playing with a short deck.” “I don’t know. Let me check.” In a moment she returned to the phone.

“You’re right. There are only seventy-seven.” “I’m afraid Koko stole one. He left his fang marks in it. I hope that doesn’t affect the–ah–authority of the deck.” “Where did you find it?” “Hidden under a rug. It’s a card I remember from your reading before I left for Scotland.” He described the woman in the grape arbor.

“Yes, I recall. It was reversed when I read for you, and I predicted treachery.” “And you were right! Grace Utley’s jewels were stolen by a trusted bus driver.” He avoided mentioning his suspicions about Irma’s death.

“Grace was crazy to take them on the trip,” Mildred said, “but no one ever said that woman was in her right mind.” “Shall I mail the card to you?” he asked.

“Or shall we have dinner some evening–soon.” “I’d love it!” Her voice rang with pleased surprise.

“We’ll include Polly and Arch,” he added hastily, “and the three of us will tell you all about Scotland.” “Say when. I’m always free. Just hang on to the nine of pentacles until then.” “What is the significance of pentacles?” he asked.

“They correspond to diamonds in regular playing cards.” An odd coincidence, Qwilleran thought as he hung up. The nine of diamonds!

The Curse of Scotland!

Now he was impatient to talk with Polly about the address book. He waited until he thought she would be home from church, but there was no answer when he called. She might have gone to Sunday brunch with her sister-in-law, or she might be visiting the Hasselriches. A few hours later Polly called in great excitement.

“I have it! I have the address book!” she cried.

“How did the family react to your request?” “When I phoned about it, they were most appreciative and invited me to dinner after church. It was a painful occasion, but we talked about Irma lovingly, and they said they consider me their surrogate daughter now. I was deeply touched.” “Did they know anything about Katie?” “Only that she and Irma had been in art school at the same time. When I brought the book home, I searched it for a Katie with an Edinburgh address and discovered one Kathryn Gow Mac Bean It looks as if Mac Bean might be her married name, in which case Bruce would be a Gow.” Polly sounded excited about her first attempt at detection and deduction.

“Good work, Polly!” Qwilleran said.

“Give me the Edinburgh phone number, and I’ll see what I can find out.” He avoided mentioning Koko’s death dance around the obituary or his own murder theory. She said, “I’d invite you over for coffee or something, but I need to do some laundry and get myself together for work tomorrow. Let me know what luck you have.” After hanging up, Qwilleran checked his watch. It was too late to call Edinburgh, but the next morning he took his first cup of coffee to the telephone desk, locked the meddlesome Koko in the loft, and placed a call to Katie. He said, “This is Jim Qwilleran, a friend of Irma Hasselrich.” He used a sincere and cordial tone of voice intended to inspire confidence.

“Yes?” the woman replied warily.

“I’d like to speak to Kathryn Gow. Or is it Kathryn Mac Bean “I’m Mrs. Mac Bean “I’m phoning from the States–from Irma’s hometown of Pickax.” “Where is she?” came a sharp reply.

“I mean, I expected her to ring me up.” “She never reached Edinburgh, I’m sorry to say,” Qwilleran said, introducing a grieved note to prepare his listener for bad news.

“I was a member of her Scots Tour, and while we were still in the Western Highlands, she suffered a heart attack and died.

” “Died! … That’s perfectly awful!” “It pains me to break the news, but her family felt you’d want to know.” There was a blank silence.

“Hello? Hello?” he said. In a softer voice Katie said, “I do declare, this is a bit of a shock! I mean, she was fairly young.” “Her body was flown back here, and she was buried two days ago. We’re notifying a list of her friends.” “Was the rest of the tour canceled? My brother was the driver. Odd that he didn’t notify me.” “Bruce Gow! Is he your brother?” “Ah… yes.” “He’s an excellent driver, and he was very courteous to a busload of crotchety American tourists.” “Yes, he’s… very good. What is your name, did you say?” “Jim Qwilleran. My mother was a Mackintosh. We’re branches of the same clan. There was a Mac Bean a giant of a man, who fought at Culloden and killed thirteen English with his broadsword, fighting with his back to a wall.” This was intended to proclaim his Scottish sympathies and win her good will.

“Ah… yes… there’s a fair number of Mackintoshes about.” Her attention was wandering as if she were concerned about her brother.

“When did it happen?” “Almost a week ago.” “Honestly, I’m in a state! I’m not sure I know quite what to say, Mr…. Mr….” “Qwilleran. It would help to console Irma’s parents if you would write them a note. How long had you known her?” “More than twenty years. We met in art school. In Glasgow.” She seemed to be speaking in a guarded way.

“Do you have any snapshots or other memorabilia that you could part with? I’m sure her parents would welcome any little memento.” “I expect that’s the least I can do, isn’t it?” “Do you have the address?” “Goodwinter Boulevard? Yes, of course.” “I’ll send you a clip of the obituary that ran in the local newspaper.

It has a very good photo of Irma.” “That would be kind of you. If you could spare two cuttings…” “Glad to do it, Mrs. Mac Bean “And thank you for calling, Mr….” “Qwilleran.” He verified her address before concluding the conversation and hung up with a strong feeling of satisfaction. Now he was ready to talk with Chief Brodie. He walked briskly downtown to the police station, and the sergeant at the desk nodded him into the inner office before a word was spoken. Brodie looked up in surprise.

“When did you get back, laddie?” “Saturday. Did you hear the bad news?” The chief nodded.

“I played the bagpipe at her funeral.” “You probably heard that she had a fatal heart attack, but there’s more to the story than that, and I’d like your advice.” Qwilleran glanced toward the outer office and closed the door.

“Pour a cup of coffee and sit down.

How was Scotland, apart from that?” “Beautiful!” “Get your fill of bagpipes?” “Believe it or not, Andy, we didn’t hear so much as a squeal, all the time we were there.” “You went to the wrong places, mon. You should come to Scottish Night at my lodge. We’ll show you what piping is all about… So, what’s buggin’ you?” Qwilleran pulled up a chair.

“Well, there were sixteen of us on the bus traveling around Scotland,” he began, “and our driver was a Scot named Bruce, a sullen fellow with red hair who spoke only to Irma.

They conversed, I believe, in Gaelic.” “She knew Gaelic? That’s a tough language.” “They seemed to communicate all right. Then one morning she was found dead in bed by her roommate, Polly Duncan.

Cause of death: cardiac arrest, according to Dr. Melinda, who was traveling with us. The next day the bus driver disappeared, and so did Grace Utley’s luggage, containing a small fortune in jewels. I suppose you know about her spectacular jewelry–and the way she flaunts it.” “That I do! She’s a walking Christmas tree!” “We notified the village constable and gave a description of Bruce, but no one knew the guy’s last name except Irma, and she was dead!” “And Scotland is full of redheads by the name of Bruce. So what’s the advice you want?” “I have reason to believe,” and here Qwilleran smoothed his moustache proudly, “that the heart stoppage was drug induced We hear of young athletes dropping dead because of substance abuse. If it can happen to them, it can happen to a forty year-old woman with an existing heart condition.” “You can’t tell me that Irma was doing drugs. Not her! Not that woman!” “Listen, Andy.

Every night after dinner she went out with Bruce. There was a lot of gossip about it.” “Why would a classy dame like her hang around with a bus driver?” “We’ve since found out–from correspondence in her briefcase–that he was an old flame. Also, it appears, an ex-con. If he was plotting a jewel heist, wouldn’t he get rid of the one person who could identify him? I suspect he slipped her some kind of drug.” Brodie grunted.

“Do the police over there know that you suspect homicide?” “No, it’s a new development. But here’s the good news, Andy.” Qwilleran waved a slip of paper.

“We’ve found the name, address, and phone number of Bruce’s sister in Edinburgh, and through her we learned his last name is Gow.” “Give it here,” said the chief, reaching across the desk.

“Also the name of the town where you reported the larceny. Do you know what we’re getting into?

They’ll want to exhume the body!” Then he added, partly in jest and partly because he believed in Koko’s extraordinary gifts, “If Scotland Yard can’t find the suspect, we’ll assign your smart cat to the case.” “Yes,” said Qwilleran, going along with the gag.

“Too bad Koko wasn’t there!” He left the police station with a light step, knowing he had contributed vital information to the investigation, and he treated himself to a good American breakfast of ham and eggs at Lois’s Luncheonette, with a double order of her famous country fries. His elation was short-lived, however. When he returned home, the barn was a scene of havoc: torn newspapers everywhere, books on the floor, the telephone knocked off its cradle, and the rest of Qwilleran’s morning coffee spilled on the desk and floor, while Koko was in the throes of a cat fit He raced around and around the main floor, almost faster than the eye could see, then up the circular ramp to the catwalk under the roof, where he screamed like a banshee before pelting down the ramp again, rolling on the floor, and fighting an imaginary adversary. Qwilleran watched in helpless astonishment until the cat, having made his point, sat down on the coffee table and licked himself all over. He had staged cat fits before, and it was always a desperate attempt to communicate.

“What’s it all about, Koko?” Qwilleran asked as he cleaned up the mess.

“What are you trying to say?” It was Irma’s obituary that had been shredded, and he was trying to convey that she had not died of natural causes; of that Qwilleran was sure. He had learned to read Koko’s body language and the nuances of his yowling. The varying inflections and degrees of intensity–like the subtleties of Oriental speech–registered affirmation or negation, approval or disapproval, excitement or indifference, imperious demand or urgent warning. Now, as Qwilleran watched that rippling pink tongue grooming that snowy white breast, an idea flashed through his head.

It was a wild shot but worth trying. He would interrogate Koko! He waited patiently until the fastidious toilette was finished, then sprawled in the roomy lounge chair where the three of them always gathered for enjoyment of quality time. Yum Yum hopped onto his lap, landing weightlessly like a squirt of whipped cream, while Koko settled on the wide arm of the upholstered chair with perfect composure.

Solemnly, Qwilleran began, “This is a serious discussion, Koko, and I want you to give it your personal best.” “Yow,” the cat replied, squeezing his eyes agreeably. The man turned on the tape recorder, which was never far from his trigger finger.

“Are you aware of the death of Irma Hasselrich?” “Yowl” came the prompt reply, an obvious affirmative.

“Was she murdered?” Koko hesitated before saying “Yowl” in a positive way.

“Hmmm,” Qwilleran said, patting his moustache.

“Did the bus driver cause her to ingest a substance that stopped her heart?” Koko gazed into space.

“I’ll rephrase that. Did the bus driver slip her a drug that killed her?” Koko was mute. He looked from side to side, and up and down, with convulsive movements of his head.

“Pay attention!” Qwilleran rebuked him, and he repeated the question.

“Did the bus driver–was “Yow,” Koko interrupted but without conviction. It was not the definitive response that Qwilleran had hoped for, and he thought it wise to ask a test question: “Koko, is my name Ronald Frobnitz?” “Yowl” said the town psychic as he leaped to catch the fruit fly he’d been tracking.

Eight

After the unsatisfactory interrogation of the redoubtable Koko, Qwilleran decided that the cat was a charlatan. Or he was a practical joker who delighted in deluding the man who gave him food, shelter, respect, and admiration. Despite Koko’s past record, there were moments when Qwilleran seriously doubted that he was anything but an ordinary animal, and his so-called insights were all a matter of coincidence. The telephone rang, and Koko raced him to the instrument, but Qwilleran grabbed the handset first.

“Qwill! You’re home!” said the pleasant voice of Lori Bamba, his part-time secretary.

“How was Scotland?” “Magnificent! How’s everything in Mooseville?” “Same as always. We’re all very sorry about Irma Hasselrich. She was a wonderful woman.” “Yes, that was a sad happening… Did you have any problems with my correspondence?” “Nothing that I couldn’t handle. Did it rain a lot while you were there?” “Mornings were misty. That’s what keeps the Scottish complexion so fresh and the Scottish landscape so verdant–just the way it looks in the whiskey ads.” “Do you think the cats missed you while you were away?” Lori asked.

“Not much. Mildred Hanstable cat sat so they ate well.” “There are several letters for you to sign, Qwill, and Nick can drop them off this afternoon. Will you be home around three-thirty?” “I’ll make it a point to be here,” Qwilleran said. He found the Bambas an attractive young couple–Lori with her long, golden braids, Nick with his dark, curly hair and alert, black eyes. The best of the next generation, Qwilleran called them. Lori had been Mooseville postmaster before retiring to raise a family and work out of her home. Her husband, trained as an engineer, worked for the state prison near Mooseville, and since Nick shared his interest in crime, Qwilleran looked forward to seeing him and relating the case of the missing bus driver. Meanwhile, he had a cup of coffee and listened to one of the tapes he had recorded during the tour. The Siamese listened, too, with Koko making an occasional comment from the top of the fireplace cube.

“Tonight we are comfortably lodged and extremely well fed in another historic inn. I suspect Bonnie Prince Charlie slept here 250 years ago. One can hardly buy anything without his picture on it. Irma likes to talk about the heroic women who aided the prince’s cause.

Flora Macdonald dressed him in women’s clothing and passed him off as her maid as they traveled through enemy lines. And then there was Lady Ann Mackintosh, who raised regiments to fight for the prince, while her husband was off fighting for the other side.” Koko responded to the sound of a familiar voice with a happy gurgling sound, but as the tape unreeled he seemed to hear something else.

“Bushy is taking hundreds of pictures on this trip. At first, when Irma stopped the bus for a spectacular view, we all piled out with our cameras, but now Bushy and Big Mac are the only ones who take pictures.

The rest of us, jaded with spectacular views, remain in our seats.

Occasionally Bushy photographs members of our group in different settings, especially Melinda. He seems to think she’s a good model.” Koko jumped on and off the desk when he heard this segment, and Qwilleran recalled Lori Bamba’s theory–that cats respond to the palatal shhhh sound. (her own cats, for that reason, were named Sheba, Shoo-Shoo, Natasha, Trish, Pushkin, and Sherman.) Evidently “Bushy” was the trigger sound here.

“Today I was talking to Lyle Compton about the famous medical school at Glasgow University, and he mentioned that the infamous Dr. Cream was a Glaswegian. He was the nineteenth-century psychopath who became a serial killer in England, Canada, and the United States-not as legendary as Jack the Ripper but noted for “pink pills for pale prostitutes,” as his M.O. was described.” Koko reacted excitedly to this reference, leading Qwilleran to assume that he heard the word “serial” and confused it with the crunchy “cereal” that was his favorite treat. In mid-afternoon Qwilleran walked downtown to the offices of the Moose County Something, to pick up a few more copies of Irma’s obituary. He also left a small white box with a CRM monogram on the desk of Hixie Rice, the advertising manager, who had been his friend and neighbor Down Below. Then he dropped into Junior Goodwinter’s office.

“You’re back early,” the managing editor said.

“We don’t expect Arch till tomorrow or Wednesday. Tell me about Scotland. What did you like best?” “The islands,” Qwilleran answered promptly.

“There’s something wild and mystic and ageless about them. You feel it in the stones under your feet–the ancient presence of Picts, Romans, Saxons, Gaels, Angles, Vikings–all that crowd.” “Wow! Write it up for the “Qwill Pen” column!” Junior suggested with his boyish enthusiasm.

“That’s my intention eventually, after I’ve had a chance to sort out my impressions. But I came in to compliment you on the obit, Junior. A beautiful piece of copy! We’re sending clips to Irma’s friends in Scotland… How about the local scene? Any momentous news in Moose County?” “Well, we’re carrying a series of ads on the liquidation of Dr. Hal’s estate. Melinda’s selling everything in a tag sale. I hope she rakes in some dough, because she needs it. After that, the house will go up for sale, and we’ll have another empty mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard.” “Did you attend Irma’s funeral?” Qwilleran asked.

“Roger covered it, but I didn’t go.

The cortege watchers counted forty-eight cars in the procession to the cemetery.” “I hear there was some kind of argument about the disposition of the remains.” “Oh, you heard about that? Melinda said they’d had a doctorstpatient discussion about living wills. She said Irma preferred cremation and no funeral. Mrs. Hasselrich wanted to go along with her daughter’s wishes, but her husband-with his legal mind-set, you know–said it wasn’t in writing. So Irma was buried in the family plot with full obsequies–eulogies, bagpipe, tenor soloist, and marching band. You know how Pickax loves a big funeral production!” Qwilleran said, “I ought to write a column on living wills.” “Can you rip off a piece on Scotland for Wednesday?

Your devoted readers are waiting to hear about your trip.” “We saw a lot of castles. I’ll see if I can write a thousand words on castles without having to think too much,” Qwilleran promised as he started out the door. Walking home from the newspaper office, he let his mind wander from castles to the baronial mansions on Goodwinter Boulevard. The only solution to the local problem, as he envisioned it, would be rezoning… or a bomb… or an earthquake, and the old-timers in Pickax would prefer either of the latter to rezoning.

He was walking along Main Street toward Park Circle when a car in a southbound lane caught his attention. It had what he thought was a Massachusetts license plate, its light color like a white flag among the dusky, dusty local plates. But it was not the old maroon car he had seen and suspected at the time of the prowler scare. It was a tan car, and it was soon lost in traffic. He thought, It could be the same guy in a new car; it could be the same car with a new paint job.

Qwilleran felt it wise to alert Polly, if he could do so without alarming her, and when he reached the library he went in, nodded to the friendly clerks, and climbed the stairs to the mezzanines. She was sitting in her glass-enclosed office, listening sympathetically to a young clerk who was pregnant. The young woman left immediately when her boss’s special friend appeared in the doorway.

“Anything new?” Polly asked eagerly.

“I had a long telephone conversation with Katie,” Qwilleran said, “and it appears her brother’s name is in fact Gow. She was surprised he hadn’t notified her of Irma’s death–or so she said… By the way, did you and Irma ever discuss living wills? Or last wishes? Or anything like that?” “No. She never mentioned death or illness. Why do you ask?” “I thought I might write a column on living wills. It’s a hot topic right now. When you two got together, what did you talk about, anyway?

Besides me,” he added to give the discussion a light touch.

Her smile was mocking, but her reply was serious.

“We talked about my problems at the library… and her work at the facility… and clothes. She had a great interest in fashion. And naturally we talked about birds. Irma’s life list included the Kirtland’s warbler, the red-necked grebe, and the white-winged scoter.

She had traveled around the country on bird-counts.” Polly stopped and regarded him wistfully, and he squirmed in his chair, knowing she would expect him to go birding in Irma’s place. Clearing his throat to signal a change of subject, he asked casually, “Have you noticed any more suspicious characters around town since we returned?” “Well… no.. I haven’t really been looking.” “In times like these a woman should keep her eyes open and her wits about her, no matter where she is.” “Oh, dear! I suppose you’re right, but it sounds so threatening!” He avoided pursuing the unpleasant subject but tossed off a parting reminder to be careful, with no mention of the tan car with a Massachusetts plate. Later in the afternoon he reported it to Nick Bamba, however. Nick had an eagle eye for anything automotive: car makes and models, license plates, bumper stickers, drivers, and even the driving habits of individual motorists. When Nick arrived to deliver his wife’s typing, his first words were, “I see you’ve got a new car.” “Not new, just different,” Qwilleran said.

“My old one conked out, and I hate to let Gippel skin me on a new model. The prices are outrageous. My first car, when I was sixteen, was $150.” “How come you got a white one?” “Does it look like a diaper service?

It’s all they had on Gippel’s lot–that is, the only car where the floor of the backseat would accommodate the cats’ commode… Nick, how would you like a wee dram of Scotch, hand-carried from the distillery for a moment such as this?” “Sure would, but don’t make it too wee.” They sat in the lounge area, Nick sipping Scotch on the rocks, Qwilleran sipping white grape juice, and both of them dipping into bowls of Mildred Hanstable’s homemade sesame sticks. Then the Siamese started parading in front of them.

Whenever the Bambas visited the barn, Koko and Yum Yum made themselves highly visible, walking back and forth languorously, pivoting and posing like models on a fashion-show runway.

“So what did you think of Scotland?” Nick asked.

“The Western Isles and Highlands are fascinating,” Qwilleran told him.

“The landscape is almost spooky, with a haunting melancholy in spite of all the tourists and backpackers.” “How were the country inns?” “Pleasant, hospitable, comfortable. The food was different, but good.

Have you and Lori given any more thought to opening a bed-and-breakfast?” “We talk about it all the time. With the tourist business increasing, we think we should act now and get in on the ground floor, but it’ll take a lot of nerve to quit my good job with the state.” “Is the tourist season long enough to make it worthwhile?” “Right now there’s a seven-month season for boating, camping, hunting, and fishing, and there’s talk about developing a winter sports program.” “May I touch up your drink, Nick?” “No, thanks. One’s enough. It’s really smooth. Did you see them making it?” “Not exactly. This stuff has been lying around in a cask for fifteen years.” The Siamese were still making themselves conspicuous, and Yum Yum carried something in her jaws and laid it at Nick’s feet.

“Hey, what’s this?” he asked. Qwilleran said, “It’s an emery board.

She was stealing them from our cat-sitter, and I keep finding them around the house. You should be flattered that she’s parting with one of her treasures.” “Thanks, baby,” Nick said, leaning over to scratch her ears.

“If we open a country inn, Qwill, we’re going to permit pets. I don’t know how practical it’ll be, but we’ll work it out somehow.” “Good for you! When I drove to the mountains earlier this year, I stopped at a motel that actually provides an overnight cat for guests who don’t have their own. They do a brisk business at two dollars per cat, per night.” “Lori and I never knew why you canceled that trip,” Nick said.

Confidentially, Qwilleran explained the prowler episode.

“I don’t want this to go any further,” he said, “but I had reason to believe he wanted to grab Polly and hold her for ransom.” “No! You don’t mean it! Did the police do anything about it?” “Brodie offered her protection, and I came home immediately. The prowler had a wild beard, and I saw a young man of that description at the library, acting suspiciously. He drove an old maroon car with a Massachusetts plate. Later, the state police saw him leaving the county, and there’s been no further sighting-until today.” “What happened today?” “I saw a car with a Massachusetts plate, and they’re rare around here, if not virtually unknown.” “You’re right about that,” said Nick.

“I hardly ever see a New England car. Funny, isn’t it?” “This was not the original maroon car, but it had the original bushy beard behind the wheel. I didn’t catch the license number.” “I’ll watch for it.” Nick’s eye had been sharpened by his job at the prison.

“It’s a tan car. Try to get the number. Brodie ran a check on the previous vehicle. It’s registered to one Charles Edward Martin.” “Will do, Qwill. Now I’ve got to get home to dinner. Here are your letters to sign. Anything to go?” “Only this.” Qwilleran handed him a small white box with CRM on the cover.

“A souvenir of Scotland for Lori.” “Gee, thanks. She really likes that cape you brought her from the mountains.” Nick had to wade through a tangle of legs, tails, and undulating bodies on his way to the door.

“And thanks for the Scotch. It’s good stuff!” Qwilleran had still another gift to deliver that day, and he walked downtown for the third time. The three commercial blocks of Main Street constituted a stone canyon. In the nineteenth century, the surrounding countryside had been quarried to pave Main Street and build the stores and civic buildings. Squeezed between the imitation forts, temples, and castles was the Old English storefront housing Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design. When he walked into the studio, he was greeted by Fran Brodie, who was always as chic and personable as her boss was dowdy and cranky.

“How’s Amanda?” he `=5
“Did she recover from the tour?” “Oh, yes,” Fran replied with an airy wave of the hand.

“Dr. Zoller repaired her denture, and she’s once more her old, sweet, smiling self. She left on a buying trip this morning.

What did you think of Scotland?” “Ask me what I think of tourists!

We travel to a foreign country and never really leave home. We take our own egos, preferences, hobbies, dislikes, and conversation and never really appreciate what we see and experience. In Glasgow I went exploring at my own pace and enjoyed it more. You’d like the Charles Rennie Mackintosh exhibits, Fran.” He handed her a small white box.

“Here’s what the contemporary artists are doing in the Mackintosh tradition. I thought you’d like it.” “It’s lovely! It’s Art Nouveau! What is this unusual stone?” “A Scottish cairngorm.” She pinned it on the lapel of her bronze-toned suit and gave him a theatrical kiss.

“You’re a darling! Will you have coffee?” “Not this time, thanks. It’s late, and you’re probably ready to close up. I just wanted to ask when you start rehearsals for Macbeth. How are you going to get the show on the boards by the last week in September?” “We’re used to chaos in community theatre, Qwill, but it always works out by opening night. Dwight did the casting and blocking before he left, and I worked with the supporting cast while you were away, the witches, the bleeding captain, the porter, and so forth. Derek Cuttlebrink is doing the porter in act two, scene three. Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there? He’ll provide our comic relief.” Before leaving, Qwilleran said, “About that fragment of the Mackintosh kilt–I’ll take it. Now that I’ve seen the battlefield at Culloden, it has some meaning. Go ahead and have it framed… and I may see you at one of the rehearsals,” he said as he left the studio. On the sidewalk he stopped abruptly. Parked at the curb was a tan car that had not been in evidence when he arrived a few minutes before. He walked behind it and wrote down the license number. Then, hurrying back into the studio just as Fran was preparing to lock the door, he demanded, “What’s that tan car parked out in front?” “Is he there again?” she said indignantly.

“He’s supposed to park in the rear. I’m going to complain to the hotel.” “Who is he?” “The new chef they’ve just hired. God knows they needed one! The menu hadn’t been changed for forty years.” “Where did they get him? Where’s he from?” “Fall River.” “Fall River, Massachusetts? That’s not exactly the gourmet capital of the east coast!” “No, but he’s offering things like chicken cordon bleu instead of pig hocks and sauerkraut, and that’s an improvement.” “Does he have a beard?” Qwilleran asked.

“Yes, a shaggy one. He wears it in a hairnet to cook.” “What does he give as his name, do you know?” Fran said hesitantly, “I think it’s Carl. I’m not sure. You seem unusually curious about him.” “May I use your phone?” “Sure. Go ahead. We’ll put it on your bill,” she said archly.

“As we say in Scotland,” he admonished her, “don’t be paw ky He called the police station.

Nine

The telephone at the apple barn rang constantly Tuesday morning, keeping Koko in a frenzy; he considered it his responsibility to monitor all calls. The barrage started with thank-yous from Lori Bamba and Hixie Rice, each of whom had to be told the significance of CRM, the Art Nouveau background of the peacock feather, and the name of the semiprecious stone. Then came a report from Chief Brodie: The tan car with the Massachusetts license was registered to one Karl Oskar Klaus of Fall River. He spelled the name. Klaus was the new chef at the hotel, he said.

“Do you know anything about him?” Qwilleran’s attitude was challenging.

“Only that he hasn’t robbed the bank yet,” Brodie quipped.

“What do you have against Massachusetts?” “Nothing. In fact, my mother was born there. I’m a second-generation codfish.” Next, a weary traveler phoned from Lockmaster.

“Welcome home, Bushy,” Qwilleran said.

“How was your flight?” “Not too bad. As soon as I catch up on my sleep, I’ll start developing my black-and-white film. I think I’ve got some good shots.

” “Hear any news about the jewel theft before you left?” “Nope.

Nobody was feeling too sorry for Grace Utley. It’s hard to shed tears over lost diamonds when all you have is a $50 watch.” Qwilleran said, “I’m looking forward to seeing your pictures, Bushy.

When will you have prints? Bring them up here and I’ll buy lunch.” “In a couple of days, okay? And Qwill… I’ll be wanting to talk to you about a problem.” “What kind of problem?” “Personal.” He sounded discouraged for a young man who was usually so exuberant. The next call came from Arch Riker.

“When did you get in?” Qwilleran asked him.

“Three o’clock this morning! How long have you been home? Three days?

And you haven’t written a line of copy!” “Sounds as if you’re at the office. Go home and go to bed, Arch.

Everything’s under control. Junior’s saving me a hole on page two for tomorrow. Have I ever missed a deadline?” “Another thing!” Riker shouted into the phone.

“I came home on the same flight with Grace Utley–in the same row, for God’s sake! And I wish you’d call her and get her off my back.” For a veteran deskman, usually so placid, this was a surprising outburst.

“What does she want?” “She wants to publish a book about her teddy bear collection, and she wants someone to do the writing and editing. You could do it. You don’t have anything else to do.” “You must be kidding, Arch.” “She’ll pay. You could pick up a few bucks.” “Sure. Just what I need,” Qwilleran said.

“Go home and sleep it off, chum. You’re pooped after that long flight, or ramfeezled, as the Scots say.” “At least talk to her and get me off the hook. I’ve got a paper to publish.” Qwilleran muttered a protest but agreed to follow through, after giving her a day to recover from jet lag. He promised to get rid of her in one way or another.

“Try murder!” Riker said and slammed down the receiver.

Before writing his column on castles, Qwilleran refreshed his memory by listening to a tape that he recorded after bumping his head on a stone lintel.

“There are said to be more than a thousand castles in Scotland, some with very low doorways. They were first built in medieval times by conquerors of Scotland, as fortresses from which to rule the rebellious natives. A livable castle consisted of an impregnable wall as much as fourteen feet thick, a ditch or moat, a tower called a keep, an iron gate called a yett, an inner courtyard, and housing for the conqueror’s family, retainers, and soldiery. This stronghold also had a pit for prisoners, and gun-loops and battlements from which defenders could hold the fort, as the saying goes, and pour boiling oil on attackers.

“Many of these historic castles now lie in ruins. What is more stirring to the imagination than a noble ruin on a mountaintop, silhouetted against the sky… or on a cliff overlooking the sea.

or on a lonely island, reflected in the silvery water of a loch? Other castles have been restored as museums or palatial residences whose owners admit the public for a fee.

“Today we visited the island where Macbeth was buried in 105?” .

(sound of knocking.) “Now who the devil is that?” (pause.) “How do you feel, lover? You seemed rather quiet during dinner.” “After conversing with the same crowd for five days, I’m running out of things to say and also the patience to listen.” “May I come in? I want to check your pulse and temperature. Sit down over there, please.” As soon as Melinda’s voice issued from the player, Koko began protesting in a piercing monotone. After three years’ absence, she still aroused his antagonism, the cause of which had never been clear.

Had he objected to her perfume? Did he detect her hospital connection?

Anything associated with a hospital was on Koko’s hate list. No, more likely he had sensed her motives; Koko was dedicated to keeping Qwilleran single. Qwilleran retired to his studio to write a thousand words on castles, and the Siamese retired to some secret hideaway.

Before he left the barn to deliver his copy, however, he made a routine check. He never left home without knowing their whereabouts. This time they were not sleeping on the chairs in the lounge area, not huddled on the fireplace cube or the refrigerator, not hiding under a rug or behind the books on the shelves. They were in one of those voids in another time warp into wh cats are able to vanish at will. It happened frequently, and the only way to rout them out was to shout the secret password: Treat!

Then they would materialize from nowhere to claim their handful of crunchy cereal or morsel of cheese. It was the only guaranteed method, and to ensure its efficacy he never used the T word unless he meant to deliver. So Qwilleran yelled “Treat!” and they suddenly appeared in the kitchen.

“I’m going out,” he told them as he dispensed their snack.
<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Book Preview Lilian Jackson Braun – The Cat Who Wasn’t ThereOneIn late August, sixteen residents of Moose County, a remote part of the United States 400 miles north of everywhere, traveled to Scotland for a tour of the Western Isles and Highlands, lochs and moors, castles and crofts, firths and straths, burns and braes, fens … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1775,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[90],"class_list":["post-1776","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-lilian-jackson-braun"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1776","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1776"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1776\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1775"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1776"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1776"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1776"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}