Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where?"

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

"How come?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We should give up football and stick to growing potatoes," Qwilleran remarked.

"How's everything at the house?"

"Koko just came out of a closet with a man's spat. I haven't seen one of those since the last Fred Astaire movie. He was dragging it conscientiously to the collection site in the kitchen, staggering and stumbling. His aim in life is to empty the closets, ounce by ounce."

"They'll have to be cleaned out sooner or later."

"Watch it!" Qwilleran snapped. Junior had a friendly way of facing his passenger squarely as he spoke, and they narrowly missed hitting a deer bounding out of a cornfield. "Keep your eyes on the road, Junior, or we'll be residents of Hilltop ourselves." They were passing through farm country, and he asked Junior if he knew a potato farmer named Gil Inchpot.

"Not personally, but his daughter was my date for the senior prom in high school. She was the only girl short enough for me."

"You're no longer short, Junior. You're what they call vertically challenged."

"Gee, thanks! That makes me feel nine feet tall."

They parked the car and walked up the hill to a granite obelisk chiseled with the name Gage. Small headstones surrounded it, and there was one rectangle of freshly turned earth, not yet sodded or marked.