The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare by Lilian Jackson Braun

the managing editor?”
    “Yes, the man who promised him a job. He said they’d just hired three new women reporters and there was no opening at the present time, but they’d keep him in mind.”
    “Typical!” Qwillran muttered. “Typical of that guy.”
    “Juney tried the Morning Rampage, too, but they’re cutting down their staff. He’s terribly depressed. He got in late last night and didn’t sleep at all.”
    “With his academic record he’ll have no trouble getting located, Jody. Newspapers send scouts to college campuses every spring to recruit top students. He’s tried only one city. He should start cranking out résumés to mail around the country.”
    “That’s what I told him, but he wouldn’t listen. He left early this morning and said he was going hunting. He said he’d go to the farmhouse and pick up his brother’s rifle – if his mother hasn’t sold it already. That’s why I’m worried. Juney isn’t much of a woodsman, and he isn’t crazy about hunting.”
    “Just getting out in the woods will be good therapy, Jody. It’ll sharpen his perspective. And the weather’s not bad. Don’t worry about him.”
    “Well, I don’t know…”
    “When Junior gets back, we’ll get together and have a talk.”
    Qwilleran had made an afternoon appointment with Junior’s Grandma Gage for an oral history interview, but he had an hour to kill, and he felt restless. Mrs. Cobb’s announcement had distressed him, and Junior’s disappointment made him vaguely uncomfortable, so he took his own advice: He drove out into the country.
    It was a gray day, not likely to cheer one up, and without snow the terrain looked dreary. Traveling north to Mooseville, through good hunting country, he glanced down side roads, looking for Junior’s car. Here and there a hunter’s car or pickup was parked well off the shoulder in a desolate wooded area, but there was no sign of a red Jaguar. He caught glimpses of a blaze-orange figure crouching in a cornfield or entering the woods, and he heard rifle shots. He was glad he had worn his own blaze-orange cap.
    Arriving at his property on the lakeshore, he followed the winding dirt road that led to the cabin. He saw the tire tracks where the camper had parked. Then he went up to the log cabin overlooking the lake. With the windows shuttered, power turned off, and water system drained, it was colder inside than out. On the beach the snow fences were in position. The lake looked grim and ready to freeze. Altogether the scene was bleak and lonely. He heard rifle shots in the woods and hurried back to his car.
    On the way to his appointment with Euphonia Gage he took a detour down MacGregor Road, looking for the cottage where Polly claimed to be living under the watchful eye of her elderly landlord. There were no habitations on this country road – just open fields interspersed with patches of woods. There was no traffic except for one car with a buck tied to the roof. The driver gave Qwilleran a happy grin and a V sign.
    Suddenly there was a jog in the road, and the pavement gave way to gravel. A little farther on, two mailboxes on cedar posts marked a long driveway bordered with shrubs. It led to a cluster of buildings: a substantial stone farmhouse, a tiny frame cottage in the rear, some sheds, and a weathered barn sagging limply to the ground. The names on the mailboxes were MacGregor and Duncan.
    No car was in sight. No farm machinery. No barking dog. But a goose rounded a comer of the main house and honked in a menacing manner. With extreme caution and with one eye on the bird, Qwilleran stepped out of the car and moved toward the side door of the farmhouse. There was no need to knock. He had already been announced.
    “What do you want?” screamed a querulous voice. An old man, frail and stooped, appeared in the doorway, wearing three sweaters and some knitted leg warmers over his trousers.
    “Mr. MacGregor? I’m Jim Qwilleran. Just want to ask you a question,