Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

Polly nodded knowingly, being familiar with his ambitious writing projects that never materialized.

He went on. "No one has come up with an acceptable motive for her suicide. Junior thinks it has to do with her belief in reincarnation, but I don't buy that explanation."

"Nor I... May I fill your cup, Qwill?"

"It's superlative today. What did you do to it?" he asked.

"Just a touch of cinnamon."

They sipped in contented silence, as close friends can do, Qwilleran wondering whether to tell her about Koko's latest salvage operations. Besides the purple hair ribbon and purple bedroom slipper, there had been an empty vial of violet perfume, an English lavender sachet, and a lipstick tube labeled "Grape Delish." Koko had chosen these mementoes out of an estimated 1.5 million pieces of junk. Why? Could he sense Euphonia's innate energy in purpleness? Or was he trying to communicate some catly message?

"What are you reading these days?" Polly asked.

"For myself, a biography of Sir Wilfred Grenfell, but the cats and I are going through Robinson Crusoe. That was Koko's choice. The opening sentence has 105 words - a maze of principal and subordinate clauses. It's interesting to compare with the staccato effect of simple declarative clauses in Tale of Two Cities, which opens with 120."

Polly smiled and nodded and asked if he would like to hear a Mozart concerto for flute, oboe, and viola. Qwilleran had always preferred a hundred-piece symphony orchestra or thousand-voice choir, but he was learning to appreciate chamber music. All in all, it was a cozy Sunday afternoon until he excused himself, saying he had to interview a breeder of Siberian huskies.

He avoided mentioning that the breeder was a woman - a young woman - a slender young woman with appealing brown eyes and a mass of dark, wavy hair and a little-girl voice.

Half an hour later, when he arrived at the address in Brrr Township, he knew he was in the right place. A twenty-seven-dog chorus could be heard behind the mobile home. The excited huskies were chained to a line-up of individual posts in front of individual shelters. Nancy's truck was not in the yard, and when he knocked on the door there was no answer, except from Corky within. He strode about the yard for a while, saying "Good dogs!" to the frenzied animals, but it only increased the clamor. He was preparing to leave when a pickup with a boxy superstructure steered recklessly into the yard, and Nancy jumped out.

"Sorry I'm late," she said excitedly. "The police came to Pop's house while I was there. They checked the airline, and he never bought a ticket!"

Or, Qwilleran thought, he bought a ticket without giving his right name.

"I don't understand it!" she went on. "Why would he leave his truck there? I was worried about the potatoes, but now I'm worried that something has happened to Pop!"

Sympathetically Qwilleran asked, "Was he having trouble of any kind? Financial problems? Enemies he was trying to avoid?"

"I don't know... I don't see how... He was well liked by the other farmers - always helping them out. When I lived at home, I remember how stranded motorists would come to the house to use the phone. They were out of gas, or their car had broken down. Pop had his own gas pump, and he'd give them a gallon or stick his head under the hood of their car and fix what was wrong. He could fix anything mechanical and was proud of it... So now I'm worrying that he was helping someone out and they took advantage of him. You never know who's driving on these country roads nowadays. It used to be so safe! Everyone was honest. But now... someone could come along and stun my dogs and make off with the whole pack. They stole a big black walnut tree from a farm near here."

The dogs were still barking until she silenced them with a command.

"How old is your father?" Qwilleran asked.

"Fifty-seven."

"When did your mother die?"

"She passed away three - no, four years ago. Pop changed a lot after that."

"Could there be anything new in his lifestyle that you don't know about?"

"You mean... like women? Or drugs?" She hesitated.

A reassuring manner was his stock in trade. "You can tell me, Nancy. I may be able to help."

"Well... he used to be very tight-fisted, but lately he's spending a lot of money."

"Extravagance can be a way of coping with grief. How is he spending the money?" Qwilleran asked.

"On farm Improvements. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but" - she turned frightened eyes to him - "where is he getting it?"

-7-

QWILLERAN AND THE dog-handler were standing in the farmyard. "Well, you don't want to listen to my troubles all day," Nancy said with a gulp. "Do you want to go and see the dogs?"

"First, let's sit down and talk for a while. I've seen them, and I've heard them," he said dryly.

"You should hear them before a race! They love to hit the trail, and they go wild when they're waiting for the starting flag."