Brodie was a tough cop who resented civilian interference, and yet he had learned to appreciate the newsman's tips and opinions that sometimes helped crack a case. On the job he had old-fashioned ideas of law and order and a gruff manner to match. Off duty, he was a genial Scot who played the bagpipe and strutted in a kilt at civic functions.
Qwilleran, placing his jacket carefully on a chair seat and sliding into another, said, "I see you got your name in the paper again, Andy. Who's your press agent? Planning to run for mayor? I'll campaign for you."
With a fierce scowl usually reserved for the computer, Brodie shot back, "If I had an overgrown moustache like yours, I'd get my picture in the paper, too. What's on your mind?"
"I want to know if you believe what you said in the paper."
"It's a known fact! Let the hoods urinate in public and - next thing you now - they're spray-painting the courthouse, and after that they're pushing drugs, and then robbing banks, and then killing cops."
"Any suspects in the pilfering?"
The chief leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Could be punks from Chipmunk. Could be a roving gang from Lockmaster. Could be the kids that hang around George Breze's dump. We're investigating."
"Do you see any pattern developing? There should be a pattern by now."
"Well, for one thing, there's a pattern in what they don't do. They don't steal Social Security checks from mailboxes, or rip out car radios, or break into doctors' offices. It's all piddlin' stuff, so far. Another thing: There's n two incidents alike, and locations are scattered. It always happens after dark, too. They avoid shoplifting in stores with bright lights and wide-awake clerks."
Qwilleran said, "I've been thinking it could be a game, like a treasure hunt - perhaps initiation rites for a juvenile cult."
"We've talked to school principals and Dr. Prelligate at the college. They say there's no sign of suspicious activity."
"They'd be the last to know," Qwilleran muttered.
"There's another possibility. I predicted something like this after the financial bust in Sawdust City. The town's had a lot of hardship cases this winter, and it's rough to be hardup at Christmastime, especially if you've got kids."
"But the organized charities have raised record sums for the Christmas Fund, and the K Foundation is matching their efforts, dollar for dollar."
"I know, but some cases always fall through the cracks, or they panic and try to take things in their own hands." He indulged in a bitter chuckle. "Perhaps they hit on the secret: how to do Christmas shopping without money and without crowds."
Qwilleran said, "If the thefts are scattered, as you say, someone' buying a lot of gas to drive around and swipe trivial items. It must be a group effort."
Brodie threw up his hands. "The whole thing's crazy!"
"Okay, let me add an incident to your list. This is the reason I'm here." Qwilleran paused until he had the man's curiosity aroused. "We all know the Old Stone Church is collecting warm clothing for needy families. There's a drop-off box behind the building. Every Wednesday the volunteers show up for sorting and mending. I told them I'd drop off a bundle Tuesday night - which I did - a plastic bag full of things in good condition: jackets, sweaters, gloves, etc. But when they opened the box the next morning, it wasn't there. They phoned me to see if I'd forgotten."
The chief grunted. "No lock on the box?"
"Who thinks about locks in this neck of the woods? That was the thrust of our editorial! We nagged out readers into buckling up; now we'll nag them into locking up."
Brodie chuckled again. "If you spot a guy walking around town in your rags, follow him and take his picture."
"Sure. And ask for his name and address."
"My old grandmother in Scotland could tail a thief with scissors, a piece of string, and a witch's chant. Too bad she died before I got into law enforcement." Then he grinned. "Why don't you assign your smart cat to the case?" The chief was the only person in the north country who knew about the remarkable talents of Qwilleran's male Siamese. The cat did indeed have gifts that set him apart, and Qwilleran tried to conceal the fact, for various reasons. Yet it had leaked to Brodie from a source Down Below, and now the two men bantered about "that smart cat" whose highly developed senses gave him an edge over most humans.
"Koko doesn't accept assignments," Qwilleran said with a straight face. "He conducts his own investigations. Right now he has a gang of wild rabbits under surveillance." Then he added in a serious tone, "But last night, Andy, he jumped on my bookshelf and knocked down a Russian novel titled The Thief. Was that a coincidence, or what?"
"Does he read Russian?" Brodie asked, only half in jest.
"Mine is an English translation."
The chief grunted ambiguously and changed the subject. "I hear you and your smart cat aren't living in the barn this winter. How come?" There was disappointment in the question. He often visited the converted apple barn after hours, dropping in for a nightcap and some shoptalk. Qwilleran, though not a drinker himself, stocked the best brands for his guests.
"It's like this, Andy," he explained. "With four stories of wide-open space, it's impossible to heat evenly. The top balcony is like a sauna while the main floor is chilly. The cats used to go to the top level to get warm, and they'd end up half-cooked. They were so groggy from the heat, they couldn't walk straight. So I bought a condo in Indian Village for the cold months. I can rent it to vacationers in summer. It's nowhere near the size of the barn, of course, but it's adequate, and the county snowplows keep the access roads open, for the simple reason that so many politicos live out there... By the way, I had my condo furnished by your talented daughter."
The chief nodded a grudging acknowledgement of the family compliment. In spite of Fran Brodie's success as an interior designer, her father considered it a frivolous choice of career.
Standing up and presenting the brown paper bag, Qwilleran said, "Here's wee dram of Christmas cheer, Andy. See you after the holidays."
In earlier days Qwilleran had been frugal by nature and by necessity - while growing up with a single parent, earning his way through college, and working as an underpaid reporter Down Below. His new financial status had introduced him to the luxury of largesse, however. He still practiced certain economics, such as buying used cars for himself, but he enjoyed giving presents, buying drinks, sending flowers, treating companions to dinner, and tipping generously.
When he finally tackled his Christmas shopping on December 23, his list was a long one. Fortunately, he was a speedy shopper who made quick decisions and never had to ask prices. For his shopping spree he left his car in the municipal parking lot, then zipped up his padded jacket, yanked down his wool earflaps, pulled on his lined gloves, and trudged around downtown in snowboots.
Main Street was thronged with shoppers weaving merrily between head- high walls of snow. There was a wintry sun, just bright enough to make the flecks of mica sparkle in the stone facades of store and office buildings, and garlands of greens festooned from rooftops and looped across the street between lightpoles. The babbles of voices and rumble of slow-moving vehicles were hushed by the tons of snow piled everywhere and packed hard between the curbs. (Roadways were not salted in Moose County.) Yet, strangely, the acoustical phenomenon emphasized the bursts of Christmas music, the occasional jingle of sleigh bells, and the brassy clang of Santa's handbell on the street corner.
First Qwilleran went to Lanspeaks' Department Store to buy something for Polly Duncan, the main name on his gift list. Carol Lanspeak herself waited on him. She and her husband were an admirable pair: good business heads, civic leaders, and major talents in the Pickax Theatre Club. If they had not come home to Pickax to run the family business, Qwilleran believed, Larry and Carol could have been another Cronyn and Tandy, or Lunt and Fontanne.