Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

"Shall I mail these Florida snapshots back to you?"

"If it isn't too much trouble. Did anyone look familiar?"

"Well," said Hixie, "there's a man with upswept eyebrows - a middle-aged man. And there's a young woman in a yellow convertible - "

"They're the ones," he interrupted. "Who are they?"

"I'm not sure, but... do you remember the gate-crashers at the preview of our show? The woman was wearing an obvious wig."

"Thanks, Hixie. That's all I need to know. Enjoy your stay with Madame Herbert."

Qwilleran returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. The Siamese were still on the refrigerator. "What were Betty and Claude doing in Pickax?" he asked them. "And why did they attend the preview?"

-13-

QWILLERAN WAS INCLINED to discount the tales of the Big Snow. For six winters he had heard about this local bugaboo, which was never as nasty as predicted. Yet, every year the residents of Moose County prepared for war: digging in, mobilizing snowplows and blowers, enlisting snowfighters, deploying troops of volunteers, disseminating propaganda, and stockpiling supplies. Every day a virtual convoy of trucks brought necessities from Down Below: food, drink, videos, batteries, and kerosene.

Everyone had some urgent task to finish or goal to achieve before the white bomb dropped: Hixie to get out of the hospital, Jody to get into the hospital and have her baby, Lori to finish Qwilleran's correspondence, and Nick to deliver it. Qwilleran's only important business was to do three shows: for a women's group on Saturday, for the Senior Care Facility on Sunday, and for a school on Monday.

Friday morning he was drinking coffee and conversing idly with the Siamese when, suddenly, Koko heard something! The cats were always hearing something. It might be a faucet dripping, or a truck on Main Street shifting gears, or a dog barking half a mile away. This time Koko stretched his neck, swiveled his, noble head, and slanted his ears toward the foyer. Qwilleran investigated. There was a moving van across the street, backing into Amanda Goodwinter's driveway. She was Junior's elder relative, a cantankerous businesswoman, and a perennial member of the city council.

Qwilleran hurried into boots and parka and climbed over the piles of snow that the sidewalk blowers had thrown into the street and the city plows had thrown back onto the sidewalk. A truck from the Bid-a-Bit Auction House had lowered its ramp, and Amanda herself was on the porch, directing the operation. She looked dowdier than ever in her army surplus jacket, Daniel Boone hat, and unfastened galoshes.

"Amanda! What's going on here?" Qwilleran hailed her as he plunged through the drifts.

"I'm getting out before the Big Snow! I'm selling everything! I'm moving to Indian Village!"

"But what will you do with your house?"

"It's sold! Good riddance! I always hated it!"

"Who bought it?"

"Some real estate vulture from Down Below!"

He joined her on the porch and teased her by saying, "You'll be sorry! Pickax is attracting investors. Land values will go up."

"Nothing'll go up on this godforsaken street until the property owners get off their hind ends and permit re-zoning... Stop! Stop!" she screamed at the movers, who were struggling with a hundred-year-old black walnut breakfront, twelve feet wide. "You're scratching the finish! Take the drawers out! Watch the glass doors!"

At the same moment a second moving van pulled up to the Wilmot house. Qwilleran shrugged, pulled up the hood of his parka, and trudged the length of the boulevard, counting for-sale signs. There were only four left, out of a recent seven. He enjoyed walking in snow and took the opportunity to hike downtown to the church where he would present "The Big Burning" the following afternoon.

The fellowship hall in the church basement was a large room paneled in pickled pine, with a highly waxed vinyl floor and a good solid platform. The custodian told Qwilleran he could use the men's restroom for exits and entrances. Seventy-five women were expected for lunch at noon, and they'd be ready for the show at one o'clock. Everything appeared to be well organized, and Qwilleran was impressed by the facilities.

As he arrived home, Nick Bamba was pulling into the driveway. "Come on in, Nick, and have a hot drink," he said hospitably.

"Not this time," Nick declined. "I have a dozen errands to do before the Big Snow." He handed over a folder. "Here's your correspondence from Lori, and I've brought my tool kit. I'll pick the lock in the library. Are you all ready for the Big Snow?"

"Polly has been nagging me about that," Qwilleran said, "but my vast experience convinces me that it's never as big as the kerosene dealers would have us believe."