cheerful—used to working with people. And she doesn’t want to earn much money; it might affect her Social Security.”
“Who is she?”
“Celia Robinson. You wouldn’t be disappointed. Why don’t I tell her to apply for the job?”
“She’s got it! She’s got it already!. . . Sure you don’t want to come over for a drink?”
Feeling smug, Qwilleran hung up the phone and called Celia at her apartment in town.
“Hi, Chief!” she greeted him. “Happy New Year! Or is it too late?”
“It’s never too late. Happy New Year! Happy Mother’s Day!”
She screamed with laughter, a chronic overreactor to his quips.
“Seriously, Celia, have you heard about Lenny Inchpot’s trouble?”
“Have I? It’s all over town. His mother must be out of her mind.”
“We’re all concerned, and I personally suspect dirty work.”
“Do I smell something cooking, Chief?” she asked eagerly.
“Just this: Lenny’s position at Indian Village needs to be filled, quickly, by a temporary substitute. It’s part-time, managing the social rooms at the clubhouse. I suggest you apply. Don Exbridge is expecting your call. I’ll explain later. It’s your kind of job, Celia.”
“Gotcha, Chief!” she said knowingly and with a final peal of laughter.
Two cats were watching Qwilleran closely when he replaced the receiver, as if to say, What about those meatballs? He crumbled one, and they gobbled it with gusto, spitting out the onion fastidiously. Then, while he was watching them do their ablutions, Koko deliberately walked over to Yum Yum and rapped her on the nose. She cowered.
“Koko! Stop that! Bad cat!” Qwilleran scolded as he picked up the little one and nuzzled her head under his chin. “What’s that monster doing to my beautiful little girl? Why don’t you hiss at him—scare the daylights out of him?”
To Koko he said, sharply, “I don’t like your behavior, young man! What’s wrong with you? If this continues, we’ll have to find a cat shrink.”
He reported the incident to Polly that evening when he went to her place for dinner. The Siamese were curled up blissfully together when he left. Polly thought Koko was frustrated by some new development in his life. It might have something to do with hormones. The veterinarian could prescribe something. Bootsie was taking pink pills.
Once a week Polly invited Qwilleran to what she laughingly called a “chicken dinner.” The dietician at the hospital had given her seventeen low-calorie, low-cholesterol recipes for glamorizing a flattened chicken breast: with lemon and toasted almonds, with artichoke hearts and garlic, and so forth.
“Think of it as scaloppine di pollo appetito,” Polly suggested. To Qwilleran it was still flattened chicken breast—in fact, half a flattened chicken breast. He always thawed a burger for himself when he went home. On this occasion the week’s special was FCB with mushrooms and walnuts.
Upon arrival, Qwilleran had first checked the whereabouts of Polly’s Siamese. Now he noticed that Bootsie was watching him and crouched as if ready to spring.
Qwilleran inquired, “Why doesn’t he lay comfortably on his brisket, the way other cats do?”
“He’s not relaxed in your presence, dear,” she explained.
“Bootsie ’s not relaxed?” he exploded. “What about Qwilleran? Did I ever pounce on his back and refuse to get off? Did I ever ambush him from underneath a table?”
“I’ll put him upstairs in his room,” she said, “or all three of us will have indigestion.”
They had much to talk about. Qwilleran described his forthcoming book: a compilation of Moose County legends, anecdotes, and scandals, to be titled Short and Tall Tales. All would be collected on tape, and it might be possible to produce a recorded book, as well as a print edition. Homer Tibbitt would kick off with the story of the Dimsdale Jinx. Suggestions would be welcome.
“Try Wetherby Goode,” she said. “He has stories about lake
“Who is she?”
“Celia Robinson. You wouldn’t be disappointed. Why don’t I tell her to apply for the job?”
“She’s got it! She’s got it already!. . . Sure you don’t want to come over for a drink?”
Feeling smug, Qwilleran hung up the phone and called Celia at her apartment in town.
“Hi, Chief!” she greeted him. “Happy New Year! Or is it too late?”
“It’s never too late. Happy New Year! Happy Mother’s Day!”
She screamed with laughter, a chronic overreactor to his quips.
“Seriously, Celia, have you heard about Lenny Inchpot’s trouble?”
“Have I? It’s all over town. His mother must be out of her mind.”
“We’re all concerned, and I personally suspect dirty work.”
“Do I smell something cooking, Chief?” she asked eagerly.
“Just this: Lenny’s position at Indian Village needs to be filled, quickly, by a temporary substitute. It’s part-time, managing the social rooms at the clubhouse. I suggest you apply. Don Exbridge is expecting your call. I’ll explain later. It’s your kind of job, Celia.”
“Gotcha, Chief!” she said knowingly and with a final peal of laughter.
Two cats were watching Qwilleran closely when he replaced the receiver, as if to say, What about those meatballs? He crumbled one, and they gobbled it with gusto, spitting out the onion fastidiously. Then, while he was watching them do their ablutions, Koko deliberately walked over to Yum Yum and rapped her on the nose. She cowered.
“Koko! Stop that! Bad cat!” Qwilleran scolded as he picked up the little one and nuzzled her head under his chin. “What’s that monster doing to my beautiful little girl? Why don’t you hiss at him—scare the daylights out of him?”
To Koko he said, sharply, “I don’t like your behavior, young man! What’s wrong with you? If this continues, we’ll have to find a cat shrink.”
He reported the incident to Polly that evening when he went to her place for dinner. The Siamese were curled up blissfully together when he left. Polly thought Koko was frustrated by some new development in his life. It might have something to do with hormones. The veterinarian could prescribe something. Bootsie was taking pink pills.
Once a week Polly invited Qwilleran to what she laughingly called a “chicken dinner.” The dietician at the hospital had given her seventeen low-calorie, low-cholesterol recipes for glamorizing a flattened chicken breast: with lemon and toasted almonds, with artichoke hearts and garlic, and so forth.
“Think of it as scaloppine di pollo appetito,” Polly suggested. To Qwilleran it was still flattened chicken breast—in fact, half a flattened chicken breast. He always thawed a burger for himself when he went home. On this occasion the week’s special was FCB with mushrooms and walnuts.
Upon arrival, Qwilleran had first checked the whereabouts of Polly’s Siamese. Now he noticed that Bootsie was watching him and crouched as if ready to spring.
Qwilleran inquired, “Why doesn’t he lay comfortably on his brisket, the way other cats do?”
“He’s not relaxed in your presence, dear,” she explained.
“Bootsie ’s not relaxed?” he exploded. “What about Qwilleran? Did I ever pounce on his back and refuse to get off? Did I ever ambush him from underneath a table?”
“I’ll put him upstairs in his room,” she said, “or all three of us will have indigestion.”
They had much to talk about. Qwilleran described his forthcoming book: a compilation of Moose County legends, anecdotes, and scandals, to be titled Short and Tall Tales. All would be collected on tape, and it might be possible to produce a recorded book, as well as a print edition. Homer Tibbitt would kick off with the story of the Dimsdale Jinx. Suggestions would be welcome.
“Try Wetherby Goode,” she said. “He has stories about lake
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