THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

On the way to the newspaper office to hand in his Friday copy, Qwilleran stopped at the library to drop off the butterfly guidebook. The parking lot was fairly well filled, and he assumed the patrons were gathering to commiserate over the death of the Butterfly Girl. At that time, the public assumed it was another accident at a dangerous bridge. They would be saying that something should be done about it; people should write letters to the paper; people should complain to the county commissioners; her parents must feel terrible; she was their only child; she painted those beautiful pictures.

That was what Qwilleran expected to hear, but such was not the case. There was an atmosphere of jollity in the library. Patrons were all smiles. Two volunteers who had been on the picket line were wheeling bookcarts and replenishing shelves. They waved and said, “Hi, Mr. Q!” Just then he stepped on a toy mouse.

He looked around and saw an orange cat lounging on the circulation desk with plumed tail drooping languidly over the edge. His fur was fluffy, and his large, gold, almond-shaped eyes brimmed with catly bliss. As Qwilleran approached the desk, a woman lifted a small boy up to drop pennies in a bowl already half filled with nickels, dimes, and quarters. She looked at Qwilleran and said, “He took these pennies out of his own bank to help feed the kitties.”

Other patrons were scribbling on small slips of paper and dropping them in a pair of gift boxes with slots cut in the lids. One of the clerks behind the desk said, “Would you like to help name he-cat and she-cat, Mr. Q? They’re our new mascots. That’s her up on the stairs. She likes to supervise.”

Polly, coming down the stairs, stopped to stroke the brown-and-black fluffy fur with tortoiseshell markings. She said to Qwilleran, “This is the best thing that’s happened since the Dewey decimal system! One of the local veterinarians is going to give them a health check without charge. They seem completely happy here. When I came in today, they were playing tag among the stacks. The female is such a flirt! She flops down and looks at people upside down, and they’re absolutely smitten. One man is going to construct an eight-foot carpeted cat-perch.”

“Did you call the paper?” Qwilleran asked.

“First thing! And Roger was here to take pictures.”

“I’ll call Bushy. He might be able to get them on a cat calendar.”

“Be sure to drop some names for them in the boxes,” Polly reminded him. “Have you found out who left them on your doorstep?”

“Not a thing! I predict it will go down in Moose County history as an unsolved mystery, like the fate of the lighthouse keepers on Breakfast Island.”

Qwilleran left the library without telling her that the Bloody Creek “accident” was really murder. She would hear the shocking news soon enough.

It was aired by WPKX on the six o’clock news: “The body found in a wrecked car in Bloody Creek early this morning was a victim of homicide, according to the medical examiner. He stated that Phoebe Sloan was killed about twenty-four hours before the car went into the gorge. A suspect has been arrested and will face arraignment tomorrow.”

In the late evening Qwilleran phoned the police chief at home and said, “Andy, if you haven’t gone on the wagon, how about putting on your shoes and coming over for a nightcap?”

Brodie lived conveniently close by, and in five min utes the headlights of his car came bouncing through the evergreen wood, monitored by Koko, standing on his hind legs in the kitchen window. The chief strode into the barn with the swagger of a bagpiper and the roaming eye of a law enforcement professional. The first thing he saw was the recumbent bicycle, leaning against the stone wall in the lounge area. “What do you expect to do with that weird contraption?” he demanded. “If you ride it on Main Street, motorists will be running up on the sidewalk and killing pedestrians!” He took a seat at the snack bar, where his glass of Scotch and a wedge of cheese were waiting. He raised his glass and said, “Cheers!”

Qwilleran raised his glass of Squunk water. “Same to you… Okay, Andy, what happened today after the, prosecutor was alerted?”

“The medical examiner had already ruled it death by a blow on the head some twenty-four hours before the car went into the gorge. When Barter came up with the name of a suspect, the investigators hotfooted it to Indian Village, but the suspect’s van had already left. Roadblocks had already been set up in three counties. They stopped him in Lockmaster, south of Flapjack. He’ll be charged tomorrow with arson and two counts of homicide. Amanda Goodwinter heard screams Tuesday night, followed by sudden silence. Mandy doesn’t miss a thing!”

“How about the Ramsbottom connection?”

“It’s a safe bet the suspect will implicate him in the Coggin incident. He’d be crazy not to.”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaa” came a comment from Koko.

“What kind of noise is that? Sounds like a dirty old ram!”

Qwilleran asked, “Would you say Chet’s glory trip is over?”