The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

Qwilleran said, “The problem is to distinguish between pranksters and criminals. The new wildlife museum consists of two buildings filled with millions of dollars’ worth of mounted animals and art. How do we protect it against these irresponsible marauders? And should we be obliged, in the twenty-first century, to protect our heritage against malicious neighbors?”

It was a solemn foursome that arrived at the Willows.

That night the Siamese sensed his feelings; they slept in his bed.

The next morning, Qwilleran walked downtown to the city hall and climbed the back stairs to the police department. Chief Brodie was at his desk, muttering over a stack of papers.

“Well, Andy,” the newsman said, “it looks as if we’ve had our last friendly nightcap at the barn!”

“Ach!” was the dour reply.

“Were they the Bixby vandals again?”

“There was more to it than that! We’ll talk about it later.” He gave Qwilleran a sour look and waved him away.

Qwilleran walked to the auditorium building and climbed the stairs to Daisy’s office.

“Qwill! You’ll never believe it!” (Daisy still had her contacts at the Old Manse.) “A van with a Lockmaster license plate drove away from the Old Manse last night, loaded with Nathan’s treasures!”

“That’s stealing from a city museum!” Qwilleran said.

Daisy said, “The good part is that Alma went with them! I hope they catch her.”

Back at the Willows, Koko was waiting with that look of catly disapproval: Where have you been? Was the trip necessary? Did you bring me something?

Koko had known from the beginning that Alma was up to no good. Qwilleran gave the cats a snack and then read to them from the bookshelf. They had finishedThe Portrait of a Lady.

In the days that followed the barn burning, there was no such thing as business as usual in Pickax. The jollity of the coffee shops was reduced to a subdued murmur, and shoppers clustered in twos and threes on street corners, putting their heads together in serious conversation. Even the bankers were more serious than usual.

At the supermarket, customers filled their shopping carts hurriedly and left the store without exchanging chitchat. Qwilleran and his friends felt the same vague uneasiness.

TheMoose County Something printed editorials, and preachers addressed the subject from the pulpit.

At home, Qwilleran tried to write a trenchant entry for his private journal and was unsuccessful. Strangely, even Koko stalked around on stiff legs, looking nervously over his shoulder.

Reference was often made to “The Bad Boys of Bixby.” This nebulous group of ill-doers had for years—probably generations—been blamed for anything that went wrong in Moose County. It was a joke and sounded like a showbiz act. A few years ago, one of them had sneaked across the county line and painted pictures on the Pickax city hall wall, after which he was dumb enough to sign his name.

One day while Kip MacDiarmid, editor in chief of theLockmaster Ledger, was lunching with Qwilleran, he claimed to have found what was wrong with Bixby.

“Moira was trying to sell a marmalade cat to a respectable family in Bixby, when she discovered that indoor cats are prohibited by law in that county. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I think that explains their whole problem.”

“Moose County gave the country trees, gold mines, and fish. Lockmaster gave the country politicians, movie stars, and racehorses. Bixby County gave us a pain in the…esophagus!”

TWENTY

Following the fire, the arson was the talk of the town, and Qwilleran’s phone rang constantly as townsfolk called to commiserate. They meant well, but—in self-defense—Qwilleran stopped answering and let the message service take over.

He welcomed Barbara’s call and phoned her back.

She said, “Qwill, I’ve been meaning to ask you: Could you help me start a private journal like yours? I think it would be rewarding.”

“It would be a pleasure!” he said. “We can have supper at a new restaurant I’ve discovered—if you like to live dangerously!”

She accepted, and he made another convert to his favorite hobby. He took two of his filled notebooks as examples—plus a new one to get her started.

After being seated, Qwilleran told Barbara that the restaurant had been started by a member of the Senior Health Club and younger members of her family. It was named the Magic Pebble as a joke, because it was across the highway from the Boulder House Inn.

He said, “The latter, as you know, is the grotesque pile of boulders as big as bathtubs, which has been famous since Prohibition days.”