“You won’t have any trouble finding a home for him, after the story gets out.”
“Very true,” he replied ruefully. How well he knew, as a journalist, how people scramble to adopt an animal with celebrity status: the kitten trapped in a sewer pipe for three days, or the stray dog that saved a family of five. Any family would want Winston, but would he want them?
He called Maggie Sprenkle for help. “Have you heard a newscast this morning?”
“Isn’t it dreadful? And the poor man hardly in his grave!”
“You’ll be glad to know his cat escaped and is okay. I’m boarding him at the hospital until we figure out what to do about adoption. He’ll be on the front page today, and he’ll get hundreds of offers.”
“I never thought of that,” she said.
“He can’t possibly have been blasted through the roof, but if someone gets the idea that he was airborne, it’ll be on TV, and then we can expect calls from all over the country. We should find him a home before he goes public.”
“Yes! I’ll make a few phone calls-“
“Bear in mind, Maggie, that he’ll be happiest in a quiet home with elderly people, no other pets, and a large library.”
Qwilleran’s next call went to Junior Goodwinter at the Something.
“Hey!” said the managing editor. “Our night man said he saw you at the fire last night! What were you doing there at three A.M.?”
“Rescuing the cat, and that’s why I’m calling. Everyone will want to adopt him. There’ll be a rumor that he was blasted through the roof, and that will add to his glamour. But it’s not true. He escaped unharmed. I don’t know how, but he did.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t go for the big story. Tell the truth. The resident cat was rescued unharmed and has been adopted.”
“Is that a fact?” the editor asked.
“It will be, by the time you go to press.”
The phone rang and rang. Good friends and casual acquaintances, aware of Qwilleran’s fondness for the bookstore, called to commiserate. The Siamese knew he was preoccupied and left him alone. Finally he stopped answering the intrusive signal, and the message-taker worked overtime. The only call he returned was the one from Maggie Sprenkle:
“Good news!” she said. “The Bethunes on Pleasant Street will be happy to have Winston. They’ll pick him up at the hospital and pay his bill. He’s a retired chemist. They were regular customers of Eddington’s. And they go to my church.”
“I could ask no better recommendation, Maggie. Thank you for expediting it. And how can I thank you enough for the pitcher? It occupies a place of honor in my living room.”
“My pleasure, I assure you.”
It had been a sleepless and emotional ordeal for Qwilleran: Koko’s catfit… the explosion … the thought of thousands of books reduced to black ash … his fear for Winston, followed by the cat’s rescue and adoption. A nap would have been in order, but Qwilleran had a tiger by the tail. He could not let go. He drove back to Pickax for a painful look at Book Alley in daylight.
Boarding was being erected around Eddington’s property, including the small backyard. The street had been cleaned of shattered glass, since mail trucks used it for access to the back door of the post office. The storefronts now had plywood where their windows had been, and the shopkeepers were moving out. The Something was not yet on the street, but hourly newscasts on WPKX ended with the usual words: Police are investigating.
It was Qwilleran’s cue to go to see his friend, the police chief, and tell what he knew. Andrew Brodie was a big Scot who looked more comfortable in a kilt than a cop’s uniform. He beckoned Qwilleran into his office.
“How come you didn’t play the bagpipe at Eddington’s funeral, Andy?”
“Nobody asked me to. Know anything about the fire?”
“This may be hearsay, Andy, but I was told that a guy from Bixby was trying to buy the whole block for redevelopment. Nobody would sell. Then Edd died, and the bookstore-the kingpin of the block-blew up! It doesn’t take much imagination to suspect arson.”
Brodie grunted.
“And that’s not all. Eddington’s cat escaped unharmed. How-and why-did he get out? He was an indoor cat. Did he sense danger when an unauthorized stranger unlocked the door and came in? Did he sneak out and hide in the weeds? The key was under the doormat. That’s where everyone puts the key, isn’t it? In Moose County, at least. No matter how much you try to educate them, people will still leave their door keys under the doormat and the car keys in the ignition. So I say the arsonist is a local and not a pyromaniac from Down Below.”
“Good!” said Brodie. “That narrows the suspects down to a few thousand.”
Qwilleran started to leave the office. “Don’t say I never gave you a tip!”
Loafing around Main Street, the coffee shops, and the post office, Qwilleran heard the man on the street:
“Downtown won’t be the same without that building!” “I remember it ever since I was a li’l tyke!” “People came from all over and took pictures of it.” “My old man said it used to be a blacksmith shop.” There was not one word about the thousands of books that had been reduced to ash.
Qwilleran managed to take a nap before dressing for dinner with the Morghans. Barry, manager of the Mackintosh Inn, was renting the apartment in the Klingenschoen carriage house. He had the careful grooming and cordial manner of his profession. His brother, Theo, the dermatologist, was a young man with a neatly clipped beard that brought to Qwilleran’s mind Polly’s theory: patients have more confidence in a doctor with a neatly clipped beard. The doctor’s wife, Misty, was all smiles and curly brown hair and mischievous brown eyes. Like Qwilleran himself, they were Chicagoans, with a city veneer that was recognizable in a small town. Qwilleran’s veneer was wearing thin.
The conversation started with the usual get-acquainted formula: “Yes, we’ve bought a big old house on Pleasant Street… . No. We haven’t any kids yet, but we want a family, and this looks like a good community for rearing them… . Yes, we have pets. Two Yorkies… . No, we’ve never lived in a town smaller than Chicago.”
“I think it’ll be fun!” said Misty.
“But we have a lot to learn,” Theo added.
“For one thing,” Qwilleran said, “you can expect your patients to call you Dr. Theo-not Dr. Morghan. It combines neighborliness with respect.”
“Everyone seems very friendly,” Misty commented.
“True. And everyone will want to know everything about you. Data will then be exchanged in the coffee shops, on the church steps, at the post office, and over the phone. It’s not gossip. It’s caring and sharing… . Got it?”
“Got it!” the couple said in unison.
“By the same token, never speak unkindly about anyone, because you may be talking to a brother-in-law, second cousin, neighbor, or golf partner.”
Barry said, “Qwill, when I first came here, you told me to keep my ears open and my mouth shut. Priceless advice! In the same class with: Look both ways before crossing the street.”
The host served cocktails, and Qwilleran had to explain Squunk water-from a local mineral spring with a believe-it-or-not history.
“Tell it!” Misty urged.
“You’ll have to wait and buy the book. It’s one of my collection of Moose County legends to be titled Short & Tall Tales.”
Then Theo asked about the mayoral election campaign. He had seen some unusual posters and newspaper ads.
“Juicy question!” Qwilleran said with relish. “In a nutshell, the incumbent was a high school principal who resigned following a scandal involving girl students-resigned without censure, because his mother was a Goodwinter! Four Goodwinter brothers founded Pickax and operated the most famous, or infamous, mine. Ancestors count heavily here.”