THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

It had been the landscaper’s idea to introduce a bird garden to the scrubby barnyard.

“We don’t have many birds around here,” Qwilleran had told him, questioning the proposal.

“Start an avian garden, and they will come!” the enthusiastic young man assured him. “The cats will flip their whiskers! What they like best is the movement of the birds-the flitting, swooping, hopping, and tail-twitching.”

. . So Qwilleran gave the okay, and Kevin Doone brought in selected trees and shrubs, some tall grasses, three birdfeeders, and two birdbaths, one on a pedestal and the other at ground level. The birds came. The Siamese were ecstatic.

Qwilleran reported the success of the gazebo to Polly Duncan when they talked on the phone in the early evening. She thanked him for the groceries and complimented him on his choice of produce.

“Mrs. Toodle gets all the credit,” he said. “I don’t know a zucchini from a cucumber.”

“What did you have for dinner, dear?” Polly asked, always concerned about his casual eating habits.

“I thawed some macaroni and cheese.”

“You should have a salad.”

“I leave the salads to you and the rabbits.” His tone became stem. “Did you take your twenty-minute walk today, Polly?”

“I didn’t have time, but my bird club meets at the clubhouse tonight, and I’ll go early and use the treadmill in the gym.”

Her voice was soft and low, and she had a gentle laugh that he found both soothing and stimulating. He liked to keep her talking. “Any excitement at the library today?” he asked. “Any anticomputer demonstrations? Any riots?”

Under Polly’s direction, the library had recently been automated, thanks to a Klingenschoen grant, but many subscribers disliked the electronic catalogue. They preferred to make inquiries at the desk and be escorted to the card catalogue by a friendly clerk, who probably attended their church and might even be engaged to marry the son of someone they knew. That was Pickax style.

The bar code scanner and the mouse were alien and suspect.

On the phone, Polly said to Qwilleran, “We need to schedule some hands-on workshops for subscribers, especially the older ones.”

“What did you do with the old card catalogue?” he asked.

“It’s in the basement. I suppose we’ll

- “

“Don’t throw it out,” he interrupted. “Come the revolution, you can move it back upstairs. Someday the pencil-pushers will rise up and overthrow the computerheads, and sanity will return.”

“Oh, Qwill.” She laughed. “You’re on your soapbox again! What did you do today when you weren’t pushing a pencil?” She knew he drafted his twice-weekly column in longhand, while sitting in a lounge chair with his feet propped on an ottoman.

“I picked up an old copy of The Day of the Locust in mint condition. If you’re in the mood for scathing comedy, we might read a portion aloud this weekend. Where would you like to have dinner Saturday night?”

“How about Onoosh’s? I’m hungry for Mediterranean.” Changing her tone, she said, “I heard something bizarre today. You know the old Coggin farmhouse on Trevelyan Road? Someone painted the front of it with the word witch.”

“Yes, I know. The editor thought it wise to keep it out of the paper. How did you find out?” he asked, as if he didn’t know. The library was - and always had been - the central intelligence agency of the community.

“My assistant’s daughter belongs to the Handy Helpers, and they were called in to obliterate the graffiti. The sheriff spotted it on his early morning patrol and alerted them. The paint was gone, I believe, before Mrs. Coggin knew it was there.”

Qwilleran had once written a column about the enthusiastic band of volunteers recruited through all the churches. Some had technical skills; others were simply young people with energy and strong backs. When household emergencies confronted the poor, the aged, or the infirm, this crisis squad was geared to respond on the double.

“Have you ever met Mrs. Coggin?” Polly asked.

“No, but I’ve caught a glimpse of her in her backyard. Not many signs of life around there, except for chickens and dogs.”

“She’s in her nineties, but smart and spunky, they say. I suppose she’s considered eccentric, but the nature of the vandalism was scurrilous!”

As Qwilleran listened, he was stroking his moustache slowly, a gesture meaning his suspicions were being alerted. There might be more to the accusatory epithet than met the eye. His career in journalism had taught him one thing: there’s always a story behind the story.

Polly said, “But I must stop babbling and go to the clubhouse, although I find walking on that treadmill a colossal bore.”

“It’s good for you,” he reminded her. “And salads are good for you, dear! Ŕ bientôt!”

Ŕ bientôt!”