The Cat Who Played Brahms by Lilian Jackson Braun Page B

door.
    Qwilleran was not ready for a dose of directives from Madame President before his morning coffee, and he shuffled to the phone reluctantly.
    A gentle voice said: "Hello, Qwill dearest. Did I get you out of bed? Guess what! I can drive up to see you if you still want me?"
    "Want you! I'm pining away, Rosemary. When can you come? How long can you stay?"
    "I should be able to leave the store after lunch today and arrive sometime tomorrow, and I can stay a week unless someone makes a firm offer for Helthy-Welthy. I'm being very nice to Max Sorrell, hoping he'll offer cash."
    Qwilleran's response was a disapproving grunt.
    There was a pause. "Are you there, dearest? Can you hear me?"
    "I'm speechless with joy, Rosemary. I sent you the directions to the cabin, didn't I?"
    "Yes, I have them."
    "Drive carefully."
    "I can hardly wait."
    "I need you."
    He missed Rosemary in more ways than one. He needed a friend who would share his pleasures and problems. He was surrounded by friendly people, yet he was lonely.
    He kept saying to the cats: "Wait till she sees the cabin! Wait till she sees the lake! Wait till she meets Aunt Fanny!" His only regret was the fishy odor wafting up from he beach. During the night the lake had deposited a bushel or more of silvery souvenirs, which began to reek in the morning sun.
    When he drove into town for breakfast he waved breezy greetings to every passing motorist. Then, fortified by buckwheat flapjacks and lumbercamp syrup, he went in search of the candle shop at Cannery Mall. He detected the thirty-seven different scents even before he saw the sign: Night's Candles.
    "Are you Sharon MacGillivray?" he asked a young woman who was arranging displays. "I'm Jim Qwilleran."
    "Oh, I'm so glad to meet you! I'm Sharon Hanstable," she said, "but I'm married to Roger MacGillivray. I've heard so much about you."
    "I like the name of your shop." He thought a moment and then declaimed: " 'Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain.'"
    "You're fabulous! No one else has ever noticed that it's a quote."
    "Maybe fishermen don't read Shakespeare. How do they feel about scented candles?"
    Sharon laughed. "Fortunately we get all kinds of tourists up here, and I carry some jewelry and woodenware and toys as well as candles."
    Qwilleran browsed through the narrow aisles of the little shop, his sensitive nose almost overcome by the thirty-seven scents. He said: "Roger has a good-looking money clip. Do you have any more of them?"
    "Sorry, they're all gone. People bought them for Father's Day, but I've placed another order.”
    "How much for the tall wooden candlesticks?"
    "Twenty dollars. They're made locally by a retired policeman, and every penny goes to charity. It was my mother's idea."
    "I met your mother on the beach yesterday. She's very likable."
    Sharon nodded. "Everyone likes Mom, even her students. She teaches in Pickax, you know. We're all teachers, except Dad. He runs the turkey farm on Pickax Road."
    "I've seen it. Interesting place."
    "Not really." Sharon wrinkled her nose in distaste. "It's smelly and messy. I took care of the poults when I was in high school, and they're so dumb! You have to teach domesticated turkeys how to eat and drink. Then they go crazy and kill each other. You have to be a little crazy yourself to raise turkeys. Mom can't stand them. Has she offered to tell your fortune?"
    "Not yet," Qwilleran said, "but I've got a few questions I'd like her to answer. And I've got one for you: Where can I find a locksmith?"
    "I never heard of a locksmith in Mooseville, but the garage mechanic might be able to help you."
    He left the store with a two-foot candlestick and a stubby green candle and drove home inhaling deep draughts of pine scent. When he placed the candlestick on a porch table, Koko sniffed every inch of it. Yum Yum was more interested in catching spiders, but Koko's nose was virtually glued to the raw wood as he explored all its shapely