Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

"After a sleepless night, Pickax can see daylight. The smoke is lifting, but the acrid smell of burning is everywhere, and the scene is one of desolation in every direction. Only this brick courthouse is left standing, a haven for hundreds of refugees. Fortunately a sudden wind from the lake turned back the flames, and Mooseville and Brrr have been saved."

Qwilleran had not seen the last of the white legs, however. Halfway through Scene Two he was interviewing the Irish innkeeper by phone: "Sir, what news do you hear from Sawdust City?"

A thick Irish brogue came from the speakers: "It's gone! All gone! Every stick of it, they're tellin'. And there's plenty of sad tales this mornin'. One poor chap from Sawdust City walked into town carryin' the remains of his wife and little boy in a pail - a ten-quart pail! Wouldja believe it, now?"

At that tense moment, Qwilleran's peripheral vision picked up a pair of white legs walking toward the stage. What the devil is she doing? he thought.

The girl climbed onto the stage, crossed to the exit door at the rear, and went to the restroom.

The radio announcer went on. "Many tales of heroism and fortitude have been reported. In West Kirk thirteen persons went down a well and stood in three feet of water for five hours. In Dimsdale a mother saved her three children by burying them in a plowed field until the danger had passed..."

The white legs returned, taking a shortcut across the stage. It didn't faze the audience. At the end of the show they applauded wildly, and the president of the Outdoor Club made Qwilleran and Hixie honorary members. Then she fielded questions while he packed the gear, surrounded by the under-ten crowd. They were fascinated by the tape player, lights, cables, and other equipment being folded into compact carrying cases.

"I liked it when you talked on the telephone," one said.

"How do you know all that stuff?" another asked.

"Why didn't everybody get in a bus and drive to Mooseville or Brrr to be saved?"

"How could he get his wife and little boy in a pail?"

"I liked the red light."

One three-year-old girl stood silently sucking her thumb and staring at Qwilleran's moustache.

"Did you like the show?" he asked her.

She nodded soberly before taking the thumb from her mouth. "What was it about?" she asked earnestly. He was relieved when Nancy Fincher came to the stage. "Mr. Qwilleran, it was wonderful! I never liked history before, but you made it so real, I cried."

"Thank you," he said. "As soon as I put these cases in my car, may I invite you for a drink in the caf‚?"

"Let me carry one," she said, grabbing the largest of the three. Delicate though she seemed, she handled the heavy case like a trifle. When they were established on the wobbly barstools, he asked, "Will you have something to eat? I'm always famished after the show. 'The Big Burning' burns up a lot of energy."

"Just a cola for me," she said. "I had supper here, and half of my burger is in a doggie bag in my truck."

Qwilleran ordered a boozeburger with fries. "You mentioned that potatoes are a complicated crop to raise," he said to Nancy. "I always thought they'd be a cinch."

Nancy shook her head soberly. "That's what

everybody thinks. But first you have to know what kind to

plant - for the conditions you're working with and the

market you're selling to. Different markets want large or

small, white skins or redskins, bakers or boilers or

fryers."

"You seem to know a lot about the subject."

"I grew up with potatoes."

"Don't stop. Tell me more." He was concentrating on the burger, which was enormously thick.

"Well, first you have to have the right kind of soil, and it has to be well drained. Then you have to know the right time to plant and the right kind of fertilizer. Then you worry about crop diseases and weeds and insects and rain. You need enough rain but not too much. And then you have to gamble on the right time to harvest."

"I have a new respect for potato farmers... and potatoes," he said.

A soft look suffused Nancy's face. "When Mom was alive, we used to dig down with our fingers and take out the small new tubers very carefully, so as not to interfere with the others. Then we'd have creamed new potatoes with new peas."

Gary Pratt shuffled up to them. "Are you folks ready for another drink or anything?"

"Not for me," she said. "I have to stop and check Pop's mailbox and then go home and take care of my dogs. I've been working at the clinic all day."

The two men watched her go, lugging her oversized shoulderbag.

"Quite a gal," Gary said. "She has that tiny little voice, and you think she doesn't have much on the ball, but the thing of it is, she's a terrific racer, and she really knows dogs. I tried to date her when she came back from Alaska, but her old man didn't like my haircut. So what? I didn't like the dirt under his fingernails. Anyway, Nancy still had a thing for Dan Fincher. Women think he's the strong, silent type, but I think he's a klutz."