This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Cat Who Blew The Whistle
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1997 by Lilian Jackson Braun
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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ISBN: 978-1-1012-1425-1
A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
First edition (electronic): September 2001
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
Dedicated to Earl Bettinger,
The husband who . . .
ONE
The engineer clanged the bell. The whistle blew two shrill blasts, and the old steam locomotive—the celebrated Engine No. 9—huff-puff-puffed away from the station platform, pulling passenger cars. She was a black giant with six huge driving wheels propelled by the relentless thrust of piston rods. The engineer leaned from his cab with his left hand on the throttle and his eyes upon the rails; the fireman shoveled coal into the firebox; black cinders spewed from the funnel-shaped smokestack. It was a scene from the past.
Yet, this was a Sunday afternoon in the high-tech present. Thirty-six prominent residents of Moose County had converged on the railway station in Sawdust City to pay $500 a ticket for a ride behind old No. 9. It was the first run of the historic engine since being salvaged and overhauled, and the ticket purchase included a champagne dinner in a restored dining car plus a generous tax-deductible donation to the scholarship fund of the new community college.
When the brass bell clanged, a stern-faced conductor with a bellowing voice paced the platform, announcing, “Train leaving for Kennebeck, Pickax, Little Hope, Black Creek Junction, Lockmaster, and all points south! All abo-o-oard!” A yellow stepbox was put down, and well-dressed passengers climbed aboard the dining car, where tables were set with white cloths and sparkling crystal. White-coated waiters were filling glasses with ice water from silver-plated pitchers.
Among the passengers being seated were the mayors from surrounding towns and other civic functionaries who found it in their hearts, or politics, to pay $500 a plate. Also aboard were the publisher of the county newspaper, the publication's leading columnist, the owner of the department store in Pickax, a mysterious heiress recently arrived from Chicago, and the head of the Pickax Public Library.
The flagman signaled all clear, and No. 9 started to roll, the cars following with a gentle lurch. As the clickety-clack of the drive wheels on the rails accelerated, someone shouted, “She's rolling!” The passengers applauded, and the mayor of Sawdust City rose to propose a toast to No. 9. Glasses of ice water were raised. (The champagne would come later.)
Her black hulk and brass fittings gleamed in the sunlight as she chugged across the landscape. Steel rumbled on steel, and the mournful whistle sounded at every grade crossing.
It was the first run of the Lumbertown Party Train. . . . No one had any idea it would also be almost its last.
* * *
Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere, had a rich history, and railroads had helped to make it the wealthiest county in the state before World War I. Fortunes had been made in mining, lumbering, and transportation, and many of the old families were still there, hanging on to their inherited money or lamenting the loss of it. Only the Klingenschoen millions had escalated into billions, and then—by an ironic quirk of fate—had passed into the hands of an outsider, a middle-aged man with a luxuriant pepper-and-salt moustache and a unique distaste for money.
The heir was Jim Qwilleran, and he had been a hard-working, prize-winning journalist Down Below, as Moose County citizens called the polluted and crime-ridden centers of overpopulation. Instead of rejoicing in his good luck, however, Qwilleran considered a net worth of twelve digits to be a nuisance and an embarrassment. He promptly established the Klingenschoen Foundation to dispose of the surplus in philanthropic ways. He himself lived quietly in a converted barn and wrote the twice-weekly “Qwill Pen” column for the local paper. Friends called him “Qwill,” with affection; the rest of the county called him “Mr. Q,” with respect.
If a cross-section of the populace were to be polled, the women would say:
“I love his column! He writes as if he's talking to me!”
“Why can't my boyfriend be tall and good-looking and rich like Mr. Q?”
“His moustache is so romantic! But there's something sad about his eyes, as if he has a terrible secret.”
“He must be over fifty, you know, but he's in terrific shape. I see him walking and biking all over.”
“Imagine! All that money, and he's still a bachelor!”
“He has a wonderful head of hair for his age. It's turning gray at the temples, but I like that!”
“I sat next to him at a Red Cross luncheon once, and he listened to everything I said and made me feel important. My husband says journalists are paid to listen. I don't care. Mr. Q is a charming man!”
“You know he must be a nice person by the way he writes about cats in his column.”
And if the men of Moose County were polled, they would say:
“One thing I'll say about Mr. Q: He fits in with all kinds of people. You'd never guess he has all that dough.”
“He's a very funny guy, if you ask me. He walks into the barber shop, looking as if he's lost his last friend, and pretty soon he's got everybody in stitches with his cracks.”
“All the women like him. My wife goes around quoting his column like it was the Constitution of the United States.”
“They say he lives with a couple of cats. Can you beat that?”
“You wonder why he doesn't get married. He's always with that woman from the library.”
“People think it's strange that he lives in an apple barn, but what the heck! It's better'n a pig barn.”
Qwilleran did indeed live in a converted apple barn, and he spent many hours in the company of Polly Duncan, head librarian. As for the cats, they were a pair of pampered Siamese with extraordinary intelligence and epicurean tastes in food.
The barn, octagonal in shape and a hundred years old, had a fieldstone foundation two feet thick and as high as Qwilleran's head. Framing of twelve-by-twelve timbers rose to a roof three stories overhead. Once upon a time a wagonload of apples could go through the barn door, and bushels of apples were stored in the lofts. Now the interior was a series of balconies connected by ramps, surrounding a central cube of pristine white. There were fireplaces on th
ree sides, and three cylindrical white flues rose to the octagonal roof. It was a lofty perch for cats who enjoyed high places. As for the spiraling ramps, the Siamese considered them an indoor race track, and they could do the hundred-meter dash in half the time required by a human athlete.
One evening in early summer Qwilleran and his two friends had just returned from a brief vacation on Breakfast Island, and he was reading aloud to them when the telephone rang. He excused himself and went to the phone on the writing desk.
“I got it, Qwill!” shouted an excited voice. “I got the job!”
“Congratulations, Dwight! I want to hear about it. Where are you?”
“At the theatre. We've just had a board meeting.”
“Come on over. The gate's open.”
The home of the Pickax Theatre Club had been carved out of the former Klingenschoen mansion on the Park Circle. Behind the theatre a fenced parking lot had a gate leading to a patch of dense evergreen woods that Qwilleran called the Black Forest. It was a buffer between the traffic on the Park Circle and the apple barn. Within minutes Dwight's car had negotiated the rough track through the woods.
“Glad everything worked out so well,” Qwilleran said in greeting. “How about a glass of wine to celebrate?”
“Just a soft drink,” said the young man. “I'm so high on good news that anything stronger would launch me into space. How do you like my new facade?” He stroked his smooth chin. “My new bosses don't go for beards. I feel suddenly naked. How would you feel without your moustache?”
“Destitute,” Qwilleran said truthfully. His moustache was more than a facial adornment, more than a trademark at the top of the “Qwill Pen” column.
As Qwilleran carried the tray of drinks and snacks into the lounge area, Dwight pointed to the top of the fireplace cube. “I see you've got your ducks all in a row.”
“I haven't heard that expression since the Army. How do you like them? They're hand-painted, hand-carved decoys from Oregon. Polly brought them back from her vacation.”
“What did she think about Oregon? I hear it's a beautiful state.”
“I doubt that she saw much of the landscape,” Qwilleran said. “She was visiting a former college roommate, who's now a residential architect, and it seems they spent the whole time designing a house for Polly. She's going to build on a couple of acres at the east end of my orchard.”
“I thought she wanted to keep her apartment on Goodwinter Boulevard.”
“That was her original idea when they started converting the boulevard into a college campus. She thought she'd enjoy living among students. But when they began paving gardens for parking lots, she changed her mind.”
“They should've made one large parking lot at the entrance and kept a grassy look on campus,” Dwight said.
“God forbid anyone would have to walk a block from his car, Dwight. Rural communities live on wheels. Only city types like you and me know how to use their legs. . . . But tell me about the new job.”
Dwight Somers, a publicity man from Down Below, had come north to work for a prosperous Moose County developer. Unfortunately the job fizzled, and the community that had benefited from his creativity and vitality was in fear of losing him.
“Okay,” he began. “I told you I was having an interview with a PR firm in Lockmaster, didn't I? They want me to open a branch for them in Pickax, and we have a highly promising client for starters. Do you know Floyd Trevelyan in Sawdust City?”
He referred to an industrial town that was considered unprogressive and undesirable by Pickax standards, although it had a larger population and a thriving economy.
“I'm not acquainted with anyone in Sawdust City,” Qwilleran said, “but I know the phone book is full of Trevelyans. This barn was part of the Trevelyan Apple Orchard a hundred years ago.”
“Well, this guy is president of the Lumbertown Credit Union in Sawdust City—good name, what?—and it's a really going institution. He and his family have a big house in West Middle Hummock with acreage. He also happens to be a railroad nut, and he has a model train layout that's worth half a mil. That's not all! Now he's into rolling stock—a steam locomotive and some old passenger cars. He intends to use them for charter excursions.”
“What will he use for tracks?”
“The old SC&L Line still hauls slow freight up from Down Below. No problem there. Floyd's idea is to rent his train out for dinners, cocktail parties, business functions, weddings, tourist excursions—whatever. We're calling it the Lumbertown Party Train. The civic leaders in Sawdust City are hot for tourism, like everyone else around here, and they've given him a few perks—helped him get a liquor license, for one thing.”
“Does he expect to make any money on this venture?” Qwilleran asked, remembering the dashed hopes of Dwight's previous employer.
“Well, in Floyd's case it's a hobby or maybe a calculated loss for tax purposes. He's spent a mint on equipment, but he seems to have it to spend, so why not? It all started when he stumbled across this SC&L engine in mothballs. Steam locomotives are almost impossible to find, he says, and here was one with local connections. A great find! He's spent hundreds of thousands to restore it, starting with the removal of pigeon droppings. After that he bought a dining car, and then an Art Deco club car, and then a private railcar that had belonged to a textile magnate. The PV had fabulous appointments, but everything was in bad shape, and he spent a fortune to renovate the three cars. Amanda's Studio of Design supervised the renovation. How's that for a plummy contract? Maybe Amanda will retire now, and Fran Brodie can take over.”
“Is it old family money he's sinking into this project?” Qwilleran asked. “I know there are some well-heeled Trevelyans as well as some on public assistance.”
“No way! Floyd came up from a working class branch of the Trevelyan clan, but he inherited upwardly mobile genes from his pioneer ancestors. He started out as a carpenter and parlayed his toolbox into the largest construction firm in the county. Luckily he got in on the ground floor of the Moose County revival when federal funds were pouring in.”
“Do you mean to say that a builder in Sawdust City was doing more business than XYZ Enterprises?” Qwilleran asked in astonishment.
“Believe it or not, XYZ didn't even exist until Exbridge, Young and Zoller formed a syndicate and bought out Trevelyan Construction. Floyd took their millions and opened the Lumbertown Credit Union. He was tired of the blue-collar image, and this move made him a white-collar VIP in his hometown—sort of a local hero. For offices he built a building that looks like an old-fashioned depot. The interior is paneled with narrow boards, highly varnished, and he even got a couple of old, uncomfortable waiting-room benches. To cap it all, he has model trains running around the lobby. The depositors love it! They call it the Choo-Choo Credit Union, and the president is affectionately called F.T. . . . How do you feel about model trains, Qwill?”
“At the risk of sounding un-American, I must say I never caught the fever. As a kid I received an oval track and four cars for Christmas. What I really wanted was a baseball mitt. After the cars went around the track six or eight times, I was a very bored first baseman. Let's assume that my whole life has been colored by that one disappointment. . . . Still, I wouldn't object to writing a column on toy trains, if your client will cooperate.”
“We call them model trains,” Dwight informed him. “The adult hobbyists outnumber the kids, if my statistics are accurate.”
“I stand corrected,” said Qwilleran, who had a journalist's respect for the right word.
“Do you realize, Qwill, that serious collectors will fight for vintage models? Floyd paid over a thousand dollars for a ten-inch locomotive in the original box.”
“Would he be interested in an interview?”
“Well, he's not exactly comfortable with the media, but I'll coach him. Give me a couple of days, and then you can call him at the Lumbertown office. His home in West Middle Hummock is called The Roundhouse, and it's two miles beyond the
fork, where Hummock Road splits off from Ittibittiwassee. You can't miss it. His mailbox is a locomotive. Don't use his address; he's antsy about theft. You should see his security system!”
“When does the Party Train make its debut?”
“In a couple of weeks. Three weeks max. What I'm planning is a blastoff that'll attract the best people in the county and get publicity around the state. How would you react to a trial run at $500 a ticket, with proceeds going to charity? Everything would be first-class: champagne dinner with Chateaubriand, fresh flowers, live music—”
Qwilleran interrupted. “Give the proceeds to the scholarship fund of the new college, and I'll buy two tickets. I'll also twist Arch's arm until he buys a couple . . . Refresh your drink, Dwight?”
“No, thanks. I'll coast along with what I have . . . Hey, these snacks are good! What are they? They look like dry dog food.”
“A friend sent them from Down Below—her own invention. She calls them Kabibbles.”
“She should package these and sell them.”
As he spoke, two slinky fawn-colored bodies with brown extremities were creeping silently toward the coffee table and the bowl of Kabibbles. Eyes that were celestial blue in daytime glistened like jet in the artificial light. Their concentration on their goal was absolute.
“No!” Qwilleran thundered, and they rose vertically on legs like springs before running away to contemplate their next maneuver. Their names were Koko and Yum Yum. The male, whose real name was Kao K'o Kung, had a lean, strong body with musculature that rippled beneath his silky fur; he also had a determination that was invincible. Yum Yum was daintier in size and deportment, but she knew how to get what she wanted.
“How did the cats like Breakfast Island?” Dwight asked.
“They don't care where they are,” Qwilleran replied, “as long as they get three squares a day and a soft place to sleep.”
“What's going to be done about the mess on Breakfast Island?”
“It hasn't been officially announced, but XYZ Enterprises will forfeit their equity in the resort, and the Klingenschoen Foundation will restore the south end of the island to its natural state. That includes reforestation and beach nourishment. Mother Nature is expected to do the rest.”
The Cat Who Blew the Whistle Page 1