Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

When Gary Pratt took over the Hotel Booze from his ailing father, the bar was a popular eatery, but the upper floors violated every building regulation in the book. Yet, the banks refused to lend money to bring it up to code, possibly because of Gary's shaggy black beard and wild head of hair, or because he had been a troublesome student in high school. Qwilleran had a hunch about Gary's potential, however, and the Klingenschoen Foundation obliged with a low-interest economic development loan. With the addition of elevators, indoor plumbing, and beds in the sleeping rooms, the Hotel Booze became the flagship of Brrr's burgeoning tourist trade, and Gary became president of the chamber of commerce. Wisely he maintained the seedy atmosphere that appealed to sportsmen. The mirror over the backbar still had the radiating cracks where a bottle had been flung by a drunken patron during the 1913 mine strike.

When Qwilleran arrived on that Friday afternoon he slid cautiously onto a wobbly barstool, and Gary, behind the carved black walnut bar, asked, "Squunk water on the rocks?"

"Not this time. I'll take coffee if you have it. How's business?"

"It'll pick up when the hunting season opens. I hope we get some snow. The hunters like a little snow for tracking."

"They say we're in for a lot of it this winter." It was one of the trite remarks Qwilleran had learned to make; local etiquette called for three minutes of weatherspeak before any purposeful conversation.

"I like snow," said Gary. "I've been dog-sledding the last couple of winters."

"Sounds like an interesting sport," Qwilleran said, although the idea of being transported by dogpower had no appeal for him.

"You should try it! Come out with me some Sunday!"

"That's an idea," was Qwilleran's carefully ambiguous response.

"Say, I've been meaning to ask you about the different characters in your show. It must have been hard to change your voice like that. I sure couldn't do it."

"I've always had a fairly good ear for different kinds of speech," Qwilleran said with a humble shrug. "The big problem was recording the voices. When I played them back, the tape was punctuated with the yowling of cats. So I locked them out of the room and tried again. This time the mike picked up a trash impactor and the sheriff's helicopter. I finally recorded at three o'clock in the morning and hoped no one in my neighborhood would require an ambulance."

"Well, it sure was impressive. Where did you get all your information? Or did you make some of it up?"

"Every statement is documented," Qwilleran said. "Do you know anything about the Gage family? One of them was an amateur historian."

"All I know is that this woman who just died - her husband used to hang around the bar when my father was running it. Dad said he was quite a boozer. Liked to swap stories with the hunters and fishermen. Never put on airs. Just one of the guys."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"No, he died before I took over-struck by lightning. He was horseback riding when a storm broke, and he made the mistake of sheltering under a tree. Killed instantly!"

"What about the horse?" Qwilleran asked.

"Funny, nobody ever mentioned the horse... Another cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks. Let's go and see where we're going to present our show."

"Okay. Just a sec." Gary picked up the bar telephone and called a number. "Nancy, he's here," he said in a low voice. "Okay, Qwill, let's go. The meeting room's across the lobby." He led the way to a large room that was barren except for a low platform and helter-skelter rows of folding chairs. "Here it is! What do you need? We can get you anything you want."

Qwilleran stepped up on the platform and found it solid. "We need a couple of small tables, preferably noncollapsible, and a couple of plain chairs... I see you have plenty of electric outlets... What's behind that door?"

"Just a hall leading to the restrooms and the emergency exit."

"Good! I'll use it for entrances and exits. Hixie says there'll be families attending, so I suggest seating the kids in the front rows. They'll have better sight lines and be less fidgety, I hope... And now I'll take that second cup of coffee."

Back in the bar Gary said, "Hey, there's Nancy, the girl I want you to meet."

Seated on one of the tilt-top barstools was a young woman in jeans, farm jacket, and field boots. She was slightly built, and her delicate features were half hidden by a cascade of dark, wavy hair. In dress and stature she might have been a seventh grader on the way home from school, but her large brown eyes were those of a grown woman with problems. She turned her eyes beseechingly on Qwilleran's moustache.

"Nancy, this is Mr. Q," Gary said. "Nancy's a good customer of ours. Burgers, not beer, eh, Nancy?"

She nodded shyly, clutching her bottle of cola.

"How do you do," Qwilleran said with a degree of reserve.

"Nice to meet you. I've seen your column in the paper."

"Good!" he said coolly. Had she read it? Did she like it? Or had she just seen it?