Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

Junior came to the rescue with an idea for a Christmas parade. He said, "Qwill could play Santa with a white beard and a couple of pillows stuffed under his belt and some flour on his moustache."

Qwilleran grunted a few inaudible words, but Hixie cried, "I like it! I like it! He could arrive in a dogsled pulled by fifteen huskies! Mushing is a terribly trendy winter sport, you know, and we could get national publicity! The networks are avid for weatherbites in winter."

Riker said, "I believe we're getting warm - or cold, if you prefer. Snow is what we do best up here. How can we capitalize on it?"

"A contest for snow sculpture!" suggested Mildred Hanstable, who also taught art in the public school system.

"How about a winter sports carnival?" the sports editor proposed. "Cross-country skiing, snowshoe races, ice-boating, ice-fishing, dog-sledding - "

"And a jousting match with snow blowers!" Junior added. "At least it's cleaner than mud wrestling."

Riker swiveled his chair around. "Qwill, are you asleep back there in that dark comer?"

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache before he answered. "Does anyone know about the big forest fire in 1869 that killed hundreds of Moose County pioneers? It destroyed farms, villages, forests, and wildlife. About the only thing left in Pickax was the brick courthouse."

Roger MacGillivray, general assignment reporter and history buff, said, "I've heard about it, but there's nothing in the history books. And we didn't have a newspaper of record in those days."

"Well, I've found a gold mine of information," said Qwilleran, straightening up in his chair, "and let me tell you something: We may be four hundred miles north of everywhere, but we've got a history up here that will curl your toes! It deserves to be told - not just in print - but before audiences, young and old, all over the county."

"How did you discover this?" Roger demanded.

"While snooping in closets, hunting for skeletons," Qwilleran retorted archly.

Riker said, "If we were to put together a program, what

would we do for visuals?"

"That's the problem," Qwilleran admitted. "There are no pictures."

The publisher turned off the tape recorder. "Okay, we've heard six or eight good ideas. Kick 'em around, and we'll meet again in a couple of days... Back to work!"

As the staff shuffled out of the office, Hixie grabbed Qwilleran's arm and said in a low voice, "I've got a brilliant idea for dramatizing your disaster, Qwill. C'est vrai!"

He winced inwardly, recalling other brilliant ideas of Hixie's that had bombed: the Tipsy Look-Alike Contest that ended in a riot... the cooking demonstration that set fire to her hair... the line of Frozen Foods for Fussy Felines, for which she expected Koko to make TV commercials... not to mention her aborted elopement to France. Gallantly he said, however, "Want to have lunch at Lois's and tell me about it?"

"Okay," she said. "I'll buy. I can put it on my expense account."

-2-

THE ATMOSPHERE AT Lois's Luncheonette was bleak, and the menu was ordinary, but it was the only restaurant in downtown Pickax, and the old, friendly, decrepit ambiance made the locals feel at home. A dog-eared card in the window announced the day's special. Tuesday was always hot turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy, but it was real turkey sliced from the bird; the bread was baked in Lois's kitchen by a white-haired woman who started at five A.M. every day; and the mashed potatoes had the flavor of real potatoes grown in the mineral-rich soil of Moose County.

Qwilleran and Hixie ordered the special, and she said, "I hear that you're not living in your barn this winter." He had recently converted a hundred-year-old apple barn into a spectacular residence.

"There's too much snow to plow," he explained, "so I'm renting the Gage mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard, where the city does the plowing." He neglected to mention that Polly Duncan, the chief woman in his life, lived in the carriage house at the rear of the Gage property, and he envisioned cozy winter evenings and frequent invitations to dinner and/or breakfast.

"All right. Let's get down to business," Hixie said when the plates arrived, swimming in real turkey gravy. "How did you find out about the killer fire? Or is it a professional secret?"

Qwilleran patted his moustache in self-congratulation. "'To make a long story short, one of Junior's ancestors was an amateur historian. He recorded spring floods, sawmill accidents, log jams, epidemics, and so on, based on the recollections of his elders. In his journals, written in fine script with a nib pen that blotted occasionally, there were firsthand descriptions of the

1869 forest fire in all its gruesome detail. The man was performing a valuable service for posterity, but no one knew his ac- counts existed... So what's your brilliant idea, Hixie?" Qwilleran concluded.

"What would you think of doing a one-man show?"

"Isn't a one-man show based on a three-county forest fire a trifle out of scale?"