The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

"I appreciate watching a parade from a comfortable chair - behind glass - but I wonder if we missed some of the sound effects: the farmer playing his harmonica to his cow, for example." Polly said, "And the three choir singers in the Sunday-meeting scene told me they were going to sing hymns in three-part harmony."

Qwilleran scribbled a limerick on an index card - anonymously - and slipped it to Hixie:

Old folks all remember how

Every family had a cow.

Life was slow

And prices were low,

But I'd rather live in Pickax now.

After the parade, Qwilleran and Polly went to the barn for some classical music. Polly had wanted to pack a picnic lunch, but he knew what it would comprise, and he insisted on ordering from the caterer. When they arrived at the barn, Celia Robinson had delivered roast beef and cheddar sandwiches on rye, avocado and papaya salad, and lemon bars.

Polly was politely enthusiastic over the picnic fare; Qwilleran felt she really preferred that other stuff, but he pretended to be pleased that she was pleased. To take her mind off the calories he said, "I overheard spectators at the parade talking about ?Shooting and Poisoning.' Is that some lurid TV special that I'm missing?" (At the barn, the only TV was in the cats' quarters, and they watched only wildlife features.)

Polly explained that they were talking about the Kennebeck woman who has second sight and had predicted shooting and poisoning during Pickax Now. This was the first time that she had predicted a crime - man against man.

"The poisoning I can understand," he said. "All those family reunions, all those picnics, all that potato salad."

"Oh, Qwill . . ." she chided and changed the subject.

The day after the parade, it was back to work for Qwilleran.

The families scheduling reunions in Pickax during the summer may have suggested ideas for his twice-weekly column, but his real interest was pure curiosity: He had never been a member of a family.

In Chicago he grew up with only a mother, his father having died before he was born. No brothers or sisters, no grandparents, no aunts and uncles. Arch Riker was his best friend, and Mr. Riker did fatherly service for both boys: advice, sandlot baseball, trips to the zoo. Even now, the only members of Qwilleran's "family" were two Siamese cats.

In Pickax the host families of reunions were exhorted to register their plans and receive help with accommodations, entertainment reservations, and restaurant availabilities.

Qwilleran went downtown to ask some questions and picked up a copy of the newspaper in the dispenser outside the store. Across the bottom of the front page was a two-line heading:

THE LAUGH'S ON YOU,FELLAS !

YOU STOLE A FAKE PICKAX!

The police chief had been right: Maxine Pratt had been right. Qwilleran shrugged it off and went to the desk in the store lobby, where Thornton Haggis was on duty as registrar, asking, "Do you accept registrations for families of three?"

Without missing a beat Thorn asked, "Are they interested in sports, plays, music, art shows, antiques? How about a dog show? How about a cat fashion show?"

"What! Are we having one of those abominations here?" Qwilleran's shock was genuine.

"They say they're very popular all over - with cat clubs, pet owners, and the general public. You're dragging your feet, Qwill!"

"Let's change the subject, Thorn, before I burst a blood vessel."

"Well . . . I'm organizing a tour of old cemeteries that might interest you: forgotten graveyards, old tombstones, a few raunchy inscriptions. I have them all catalogued, and the old account books of Haggis Monument Works can tell visitors how much their ancestors paid for their grave markers. At one time in history, five dollars was a lot to pay for a tombstone."

"One question, Thorn. What is it that draws so many relatives together - from such great distances? It must be an emotion I've never felt."

"I daresay. It all boils down to family feeling, a consuming interest in your own flesh and blood - their successes, exploits, travels, even setbacks - a chance to see how the kids have grown, who has dyed her hair, who is gaining weight. It seems to be a middle-class phenomenon."

"How many families have signed up, Thorn? Could I spend a morning or afternoon with one group - just to see what they do, what they talk about, what they eat, how far they've traveled to be part of Pickax Now ?"

"Take your pick!" said the registrar. "Any one of them would think it an honor. Here's the list."

There were names he had never heard before, and names that were too well known, but "Ogilvie-Fugtree" sounded inviting. He had known Mitch Ogilvie when the young bachelor was managing the Farmhouse Museum and later when he married a descendant of Captain Fugtree. She was a goat farmer, and Mitch was learning to make cheese. They lived in the captain's historic farmhouse - a tall, stately, Victorian mansion.