The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare by Lilian Jackson Braun Page B

place for a fatal “accident.” It was well known to be hazardous. Senior was a cautious, sober man – not one of the Friday-night drunks or speeding youths who usually came to grief at the bridge.
    Qwilleran felt a tingling sensation on his upper lip, and he knew his suspicion was valid. There was something uncanny about his upper lip. A tingling, a tremor, or simply a vague uneasiness in the roots of his moustache told him when he was on the right scent. And now he was getting the signal.
    If Senior had intended to take his own life, a staged “accident” would avoid the suicide clause, provided the insurance policy had been in effect long enough. Didn’t Junior mention that Grandma Gage had been paying the premiums for years?
    An “accident” might pay double indemnity to the widow, or even triple indemnity, although that would be a gamble: There would be a thorough investigation. Insurance companies objected to being fooled.
    Perhaps Senior feared something worse than losing the newspaper. He had taken desperate measures to keep the Picayune afloat – selling the farmland, mortgaging the farmhouse, begging from his mother-in-law. Did his desperation lead him into something illegal? Did he fear exposure? How about the man in the black raincoat? What was he doing in Pickax? Senior’s death had occurred only a few hours before the stranger arrived on the plane. Did Senior know he was coming? And why was the visitor hanging around? Were others implicated?
    And now the Picayune offices had been destroyed. It was curious timing for such a disaster. Was there something in the basement of the building besides presses and back-copy files? Was it incriminating evidence that had to be eliminated? Who knew what was there? And who threw the match?
    Qwilleran roused himself from his reverie and flexed the leg that was going to sleep. He was getting some weird notions. What had Mrs. Cobb put in that cocoa?
    From the cats’ parlor down the hall came a muffled but recognizable sound: thlunk! It was followed by another thlunk – then again thlunk thlunk thlunk in rapid succession. It was the sound of books falling on a carpeted floor. Koko was bumping his private collection.

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    WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER, THIRTEENTH. “Continued cold, with overcast skies and snow showers accumulating to three to four inches.
    “Overcast!” Qwilleran bellowed at the radio on his desk. “Why don’t you look out the window? The sun’s shining like the Fourth of July!”
    He turned his attention back to Tuesday’s Daily Fluxion, which had given good space to the story about the Pickax Picayune. It was not entirely accurate, but small towns were glad of any attention at all in the metropolitan press. Then he tried to read about the disasters, terrorism, crime, and graft Down Below, but his mind kept drifting back to Moose County.
    Snow or now snow, he wanted to drive out in the country, look at the old plank bridge, visit the Goodwinter farmhouse, meet the widow. He would take flowers, offer condolences, and ask a few polite questions. It was an approach he had always handled well on the newsbeat. Sad eyes and drooping moustache gave him a mournful demeanor that passed for deep sympathy.
    In the county telephone book he found Senior Goodwinter listed on Black Creek Lane in North Middle Hummock. On the county map he could find neither. He found Middle Hummock and West Middle Hummock. He found Mooseville, Smith’s Folly, Squunk Corners, Chipmunk, and Brrr, which was not a misprint; the town was the coldest spot in the county. But North Middle Hummock was not to be found. He took his problem to Mr. O’Dell, who knew all the answers.
    Mrs. Fulgrove and Mr. O’Dell were the day help at the K Mansion. The woman scrubbed and polished six days a week with almost religious fervor; the houseman handled the heavy jobs. Mr. O’Dell had been a school janitor for forty years and had shepherded thousands of students through adolescence – answering their