The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

So far, so good, he told himself. And then he had a phone call from Steve Bestover in Lockmaster…the attorney who was Shirley’s son.

“Mr. Qwilleran. I hope I’m not calling too early.” It sounded urgent.

“Not at all. It sounds important.”

“The girls have been in an accident. It could be worse, but they’re hospitalized, and it changes their plans. They were due to fly home this weekend.”

“What happened?”

“They were in a taxi that was hit by a car exceeding the speed limit. Polly has a few bumps and cuts, but Mother has a neck injury that causes back pain. She says they’re getting the best of care and not to worry, but they can’t leave as planned. I will fly over when I get the signal and accompany them home.”

“Do you have a number I can call?”

“Polly says it will be better if she calls you. She’ll phone collect when she has some information. The odd thing is that it happened in the Pont d’Alma tunnel, where Princess Diana was killed.”

“Yow!” came a blast in Qwilleran’s free ear.

“Was that your Koko?”

“He knows bad news when he hears it. Thanks for calling, Steve. Sorry we’ve never met. Keep in touch.”

Then Qwilleran regarded the cat strangely. He had been jumping on and off the desk. It was only when he heard about the tunnel accident that he responded—did he know that was where Princess Diana was killed…or what?

FOURTEEN

In most communities, half the citizens like a change once in a while; the other half likes everything the way it is. It was no different 400 miles north of everywhere. The proposed beautification of community hall was considered either a calamity or a delight. The town’s leading designer was offering her expertise. Without charge. She was the daughter of Andrew Brodie, Pickax police chief, and Qwilleran found it an excuse to invite his chum to the barn for a nightcap.

Qwilleran refrained from using the the old cliché “long time no see,” but the first words the chief said were “long time no see.”

Andy took a seat at the bar, and his host reached for the Scotch bottle. “The usual?”

“Still drinking that stuff?” the chief said in disdain as Qwilleran poured Squunk water for himself.

“What do you hear about the new community hall, Andy?” Qwilleran asked, although he knew the answer.

“I hear they’re changing the name. Keeping it secret. I hear they’re using wallpaper and fancy things like that.”

“Whatever your daughter suggests will be in good taste,” Qwilleran ventured. “It’s generous of the stores to donate the paint—and some of our foremost loafers to donate their labor…. What are you buying your wife for Christmas, Andy?”

Daisy Babcock, the new county coordinator, had been busy coordinating the details of the event: The building itself had a face-lift. Qwilleran would preview his new biography of Homer Tibbitt. Rhoda, his widow, would come in from Ittibittiwassee Estates with two busloads of her neighbors and would be presented with flowers. A baritone from their church choir would sing “He’s a Grand Old Man” to the tune of “It’s a Grand Old Flag.” Longtime friends would tell amusing tales from Homer’s later years, including the Brown Paper Bag Mystery. A delegation of notables would christen the old hall the Homer Tibbitt Auditorium. It would be filmed.

Daisy Babcock, working with Fran Brodie, had planned a decorative scheme based on the Pickax High School colors: gray, black, and gold. The building was gray stone; the athletic team was the Gray Panthers. Rhoda Tibbitt’s flowers were yellow roses. The commemorative programs with Homer’s photo on the cover were also yellow.

The weatherbeaten sign across the top of the entrance had been replaced withHOMER TIBBITT AUDITORIUM in crisp black letters touched with gold. And the shabby wooden doors in the wide entrance were now shiny black with brass hardware.

Qwilleran had interviewed countless citizens in writing the biography and planning the celebration, but nowhere did he reveal the secret of the Brown Paper Bag!

In his private journal that night, Qwilleran reported:

Homer came from a family of teetotalers and throughout his life he was never known to take a drink, but he delighted in teasing folks. In his adult life and well into his nineties, he carried a brown paper bag in his pocket, and it contained a flask of amber liquid from which he was known to take a swig occasionally. Even his closest friends were never allowed to share the secret. When, at the age of ninety, he finally married, it was expected that Rhoda would track down the truth. She never did. He managed to keep his secret to the end. He had a great sense of humor and kept on laughing at folks.

During Polly’s absence, Qwilleran received many invitations to dinner. One of them was from Lyle and Lisa Compton in their condo. For a fourth they invited a neighbor, Barbara Honiger. He knew the name. She contributed regularly to the Qwill Pen column and boasted to the Comptons that she had received enough yellow pencils from the Qwill Pen to build the foundation of a log cabin.