Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 15 Who Went Into the Closet

Climactic music burst from the speakers; the audience applauded wildly; and the mayor of Pickax jumped to his feet, saying, "We owe a debt of gratitude to these talented folks from Down Below who have made us see and hear and feel this forgotten chapter in our history."

The presenters bowed: Hixie with her buoyant smile and Qwilleran with his usual morose expression. Then, as the ballroom emptied, they packed the props and mechanical equipment into carrying cases.

"We did it!" Hixie exulted. "We've got a smash hit!"

"Yes, it went pretty well," Qwilleran agreed modestly. "Your timing was perfect, Hixie. Congratulations!"

A small boy in large eyeglasses and a red sweater, who had been in the audience with his father, stayed behind to watch the striking of the set. "What's that yellow wire for?" he asked.

Qwilleran replied with overblown pomposity, "That, young man, happens to be the major power conduit used by our engineer for operating our computerized sound and light system."

"Oh," the boy said. Then, after a moment's puzzled contemplation, he asked, "Why wasn't it connected?"

"Why don't you go upstairs and have some cookies?" Qwilleran countered. To Hixie he muttered, "Kids! Always asking questions! Not only that, but they're notorious carriers of the common cold. If we're taking this show on the road, I can't afford to be laid up."

"I predict we'll be swamped with bookings," she said.

"Undoubtedly. Moose County can't resist anything that's free."

"Should we extend our territory to Lockmaster County?"

"Only if they pay for it... Now let's go upstairs and get some of that free grub." After the excitement of a first night and after forty-five minutes of intense concentration on his role, Qwilleran felt empty and parched.

On the main floor the guests were milling about the large, empty rooms, admiring the coffered paneling of the high ceiling and the lavishly carved fireplaces. They carried plates of hors d'oeuvres and glass cups of amber punch. The Siamese were milling about, too, dodging feet and hunting for dropped crumbs. Koko sniffed certain trousered legs and nylon-clad ankles; Yum Yum eluded the clutches of a young boy in a red sweater.

Qwilleran pushed through the crowd to the dining room, where a caterer's long table was draped in a white cloth and laden with warming trays of stuffed mushrooms, bacon-wrapped olives, cheese puffs, and other morsels too dainty for a hungry actor. There were two punch bowls, and he headed for the end of the table where Mildred Hanstable was ladling amber punch into glass cups.

"Cider?" he asked.

"No, this is Fish House punch made with two kinds of rum and two kinds of brandy," she warned him. "I think you'll want the other punch, Qwill. It's cranberry juice and Chinese tea with lemon grass."

"Sounds delicious," he grumbled. "How come no one is drinking it?"

Polly Duncan, looking radiant in a pink mohair sweater, was presiding over the unpopular bowl of pink punch. "Qwill, dear, you were splendid!" she said in her mellow voice that always gave him a frisson of pleasure. "Now I know why you were so totally preoccupied for the last two weeks. It was time well invested."

"Sorry to be so asocial," he apologized, "but we'll make up for it. We'll do something special this weekend, like bird watching." This was a gesture of abject penitence on his part. He loathed birding.

"It's too late," she said. "They've gone south, and snow is predicted. But I'm going to do roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and I have a new Brahms cassette."

"Say no more. I'm available for the entire weekend."

They were interrupted by a cracked, high-pitched voice. "Excellent job, my boy!" Homer Tibbitt, official historian for the county, was in his nineties but still active in spite of loudly creaking joints. He was pushing a wheelchair occupied by Adam Dingleberry, the ancient and indestructible patriarch of the mortuary that had lent the folding chairs.

Homer said to Qwilleran, "Just want to congratulate you before going home to my lovely young bride. Adam's great-grandson is on the way over to pick us up."

"Yep, he's bringin' the hearse," said old Dingleberry with a wicked laugh.

Homer delivered a feeble poke to Qwilleran's ribs. "You son-of-a-grasshopper! I've been scrabbling for information on that blasted fire for thirty years! Where'd you find it?"

"In some files that belonged to Euphonia Gage's father-in-law," Qwilleran replied. He neglected to say that Koko pried his way into a certain closet and dragged forth a scrap of yellowed manuscript. It was a clue to a cache of hundred-year-old documents.

A valet was paging them. "Car for Mr. Dingleberry! Mr. Tibbitt!"

As the elderly pair headed for the carriage entrance, Qwilleran was approached by a cordial man in a black cashmere sweater. "Good show, Mr. Q!" he said in a smooth, professional voice.

"Thank you."

"I'm Pender Wilmot, your next-door neighbor and Mrs. Gage's attorney."

"Too bad she couldn't be here tonight," Qwilleran said.