Then, as the chief left, he said, “Let me know if your smart cat has any clues about this crime.”
Brodie left, and Qwilleran realized that Koko’s ghastly howl the previous afternoon really had been a death howl, and it signified wrongful death. It was happening thirty miles away! How did he know?
Qwilleran shook his head. One could go mad trying to figure out that cat! Was there a connection with something else? It was usually the case.
TWO
The town of Brrr was not only the oldest in Moose County but also the coldest. (Visitors were warned not to go swimming or fall out of their boats.) It was also the most glamorous, in natural beauty and antiquity. There was a natural harbor, at the head of which soared a noble cliff, and on the cliff was a historic building with the unlikely name of Hotel Booze. Across its roof was a sign in letters that could be seen a mile into the lake: FOOD . . . ROOMS . . . BOOZE.
The Black Bear Café in the hotel served the best burgers in the county. At the entrance was a mounted bear rising menacingly on hind legs, and the proprietor had an ursine appearance himself, with his shuffling gait and shaggy black hair and beard.
On Monday morning Qwilleran phoned the innkeeper, Gary Pratt, to talk about Brrr’s birthday party, and was not surprised to be invited to lunch. The café had a down-to-earth shabbiness that appealed to boaters, fishermen, and campers, and the high stools at the long bar were appropriately rickety.
Gary was behind the bar. “Want to have your burger at the bar, Qwill? Then we can talk.”
“It’s smart of you to call it a birthday party instead of a bicentennial,” Qwilleran said. “It’s in keeping with the personality of the town and will appeal to your kind of tourists.”
“It’s crazy, but we can get away with it because we’re fifty years older than Pickax. Their shindig’ll be pretty grand, I hear. We can do things they can’t—like a parade of two hundred cabin cruisers, each flying an American flag. It’s gonna be a fantastic spectacle. The TV crews will be up here from Down Below.”
“Do you have that many cabin cruisers?”
“Sure do! They’re signing up already—from towns all along the beach. And for the kids, we’re building a ten-foot wooden birthday cake with two hundred electric candles—make a wish and blow, and the candles go out! Thing of it is, we can do stunts like this that would be too crazy for Pickax.”
For a while Gary left to tend bar, and Qwilleran enjoyed the burger called “bear burger” by the regulars. Then they discussed the show on the Great Storm. It would be staged in the hotel ballroom, same as the show on the Big Burning.
“You may remember, Gary, that I had an assistant to handle the tape recorder and bring in music or voices on cue. Can we get Nancy Fincher to do it again? She was very good.”
“Too bad,” Gary said. “Nancy married a dog-sledder who races in the Iditarod, and she moved to Minnesota with her thirty Siberian huskies. But I know a guy who could do a good job for you.”
“A woman is better, Gary—for visual balance and interest. She’d have to be available for rehearsals—to get the timing down pat. Timing is everything.”
“Excuse me a minute.” Gary moved down the bar and served an early luncher and two early drinkers.
Qwilleran was drinking Squunk water, a mineral water from a local spring.
When Gary shuffled back with a plate of apple pie, he said, “Did you ever happen to meet Lish Carroll? I think she left town before you came up here.”
Qwilleran said, “I can safely say I’ve never in my life met anyone called Lish.”
“Short for Alicia,” the barkeeper said. “She’s my age. I knew her in high school. A sharp cookie—into science, math, computers—all A’s. I steered clear of that type.”
Gary said, “Funny thing, I remember that she had very small feet, and when the guys teased her about it, she said that people with small feet have large brains, and she looked pointedly at the gunboats they were wearing. Lish was never subtle!
“She left town after high school, but she’s back now, visiting her grandmother. Don’t know how long she’ll be here, but she’d be the right one to press buttons on cue for your show.”
“Where does she live?”
“Milwaukee, I think.”
“Milwaukee?” Qwilleran had a suppressed desire to talk with a Milwaukeean and ask some questions—just to satisfy his curiosity. Nothing serious.
“What is this smart cookie’s profession, may I ask?”
“I don’t know exactly. There’s always been a lot of gossip about her. Excuse me.” Gary signaled to a waitress who was setting up tables and pointed to the customers at the bar. Then he said to Qwilleran, “Let’s go into my office.”
Qwilleran’s interest was piqued. Lish sounded promising.
Gary shut the door and poured two mugs of coffee from his personal carafe. It proved to be somewhat better than the brew served in the restaurant. In Qwilleran’s book “stronger” meant “better.”
