Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

Like all the buildings on downtown Main Street, it was solidly built of stone that had survived fire, tornado, and even a minor earthquake. The windows of all three floors were shattered, however. On the second floor, wood sash had been blown out. Fragments of draperies and clothing hung from projections on the outside of the building. The arm of an upholstered chair lay on the sidewalk.

"Lucky it's only the arm of a chair," the installer said with a sly leer.

Amanda, cranky as usual, said, "Old Gus probably bombed it himself to collect the insurance, or had that creepy helper of his do the dirty work."

"He ain't creepy! He's an all-right guy!" the installer said belligerently. He was one of the big young blond men indigenous to Moose County, and he contradicted his employer with the confidence of an indispensable muscleman in a furniture business run by two women.

"Shut up and get some tape on that cracked glass!" Amanda shouted.

"Hi, Qwill!" said Fran Brodie, her assistant. "Are you covering this for the paper, or just nosing around?" She was not only a good designer and one of the most attractive young women in town; she was the daughter of the police chief and, as such, had semiofficial status. She said, "Dad always complains that nothing big ever happens on his turf, but this should keep him quiet for a while."

The chief was swaggering about the scene, towering over the other officers, giving orders, running the show. The state police were assisting.

"I was buying groceries and heard the blast," Qwilleran said. "Does anyone know what happened?"

In a confidential tone, Fran said, "They think it was a homemade bomb. They say room 203 is really trashed. Everyone's wondering about the mystery woman."

Qwilleran thought of Onoosh; hadn't the desk clerk given her a big room at the front? "Any injuries?" he asked. "Your dad was wearing his doomsday expression when he took the coroner into the building."

"Oh, he always looks like that when he's on duty. So far, it doesn't look serious. Leonard Inchpot came out with a bandage on his head, and he and some others were hustled away in a police car - to the hospital, no doubt. Someone said a chandelier fell on his head."

Outside the yellow-tape, bystanders were making guesses; a reporter was maneuvering to get camera shots; a WPKX newswoman was thrusting a microphone in front of officials and eyewitnesses. Inside the tape, an ambulance with open doors had backed up to the front steps. Then the coroner came out, and silence fell on the crowd. He was followed by medics carrying a body bag on a stretcher. A sorrowful moan arose from onlookers, and the question was repeated: Who was it? Guest or employee? No one knew. "I can't hang around," Qwilleran told the designer. "I'm due back in Mooseville. I'll tune in my car radio to hear the rest."

He wanted to break the news to Onoosh, gently, and he wanted to observe her reaction. It would reveal whether she was really a cook looking for a job in a restaurant, or the intended victim of a murderous plot.

As he drove back to the cabin, he heard the bleat-bleat-bleat of a helicopter. That would be the bomb squad from the SBI - the State Bureau of Investigation. His radio was tuned in, with the volume turned down to muffle the country music favored by the locals. He turned it up when an announcer broke in with a news bulletin:

"An explosion in downtown Pickax at four-twenty this afternoon claimed the life of one victim, injured others, and caused extensive property damage. Thought to be caused by a homemade bomb, the blast wrecked several front rooms of the New Pickax Hotel. A member of the staff was killed instantly. Others were thrown to the floor and injured by falling debris. All windows facing Main Street were shattered, and those in nearby buildings were cracked. The hotel has been evacuated, and Main Street is closed to traffic between Church and Depot Streets. Police have not released the name of the victim, pending notification of relatives, nor the name of the guest registered in the room that received the brunt of the blast. Police Chief Andrew Brodie said, 'There aren't many guests around on Friday afternoon, or the casualties would have been greater.' Stay tuned for further details."

Qwilleran stepped on the accelerator. A quarter-mile from the letter K on a post, he rounded the last curve in the road in time to see a car leaving the K driveway in a cloud of dust. It turned onto the highway without stopping, heading west. As he approached from the east, it picked up speed.