Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

"Thank you," she said again. "Now I have to go back to work. I just ran over from the clinic."

She left, lugging a shoulder bag half her size. Qwilleran watched her go, smoothing his moustache like the villain in an old melodrama, but the gesture meant something else. It meant that he sensed an element of intrigue in this country tale. The reaction started with a tingle on his upper lip - in the roots of his moustache - and he had learned to respect the sensation.

Gary returned with the coffee server.

"Please! Not again! It's good coffee, but I'm driving."

"Nice little girl, isn't she?" the barkeeper remarked. "I don't visualize her racing with a pack of sled dogs. She looks too delicate."

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

"It bears a closer look."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you know a guy named Gil Inchpot?"

"Potato farmer. Brrr Township."

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

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

"She talked to a deputy named Dan Fincher."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-6-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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