Read The Cat Who Tailed a Thief for Free Online

account of the Cratchits’ Christmas dinner. She read Whittier’s Snow-Bound. In every way it was an enjoyable evening, unmarred by any hostility from Bootsie. (The husky male Siamese, who considered Qwilleran a rival for Polly’s affection, had been sequestered in the basement.) Perhaps the occasion was made more poignant by Polly’s recent crisis, when they feared they might never have another Christmas Eve together. The blissful evening ended only when the banging on the basement door became insufferable.
    * * *
    On Christmas morning Qwilleran’s telephone rang frequently as friends called to thank him for their gift baskets. One of them was a fun-loving, gray-haired grandmother: Celia Robinson. She was his neighbor when he lived in the barn and she supplied meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, and other home-cooked fare that he could keep in the freezer.
    “Merry Christmas, Chief! Thank you for the goodies! And Wrigley thanks you for the gourmet sardines. He sends greetings to Koko and Yum Yum. Are they having a good Christmas?”
    “They had some of your meatloaf, and that made their day.” This mild quip occasioned a burst of merry laughter.
    “Guess what, Chief!” She called him “Chief” for reasons that only he and she understood. “My grandson is here for the holidays.”
    “Clayton?” He knew about the fourteen-year-old science and math whiz who lived on a farm in Illinois.
    “I picked him up at the airport yesterday afternoon. Mr. O’Dell came to supper, and we all opened presents and had a good time. Then we floodlighted the yard and built a big snowman. Today Clayton went to your barn on snowshoes and checked it out. Everything’s okay. No damage. Today we’re having dinner with Virginia Alstock’s family. Her kids are about Clayton’s age.”
    While she was talking, Qwilleran was thinking. He had never met the fourteen-year-old science and math whiz who had helped solve the Euphonia Gage case in Florida, and he felt obliged to extend some form of hospitality, although he was not fond of the underage bracket. He said, “Would your grandson like to go along with me on an assignment for the paper?”
    “Oh, Chief! He’d love it! He’s outside now, using the snowblower, but I’ll tell him when he comes in. He’ll be thrilled! It might change his life! He might decide to be a newspaperman!”
    “Tell him to stick with cybernetics. It pays better. Does he have a camera?”
    “Yes. A new one his dad gave him for Christmas. And he has the little tape recorder he used in Florida.”
    “Good! He can pose as my photographer. Tell him to pick up a roll of film, and I’ll pay for it. Meanwhile, I’ll set up an interview and call you back.”
    “Shall I cut his hair?” Celia asked.
    “Not necessary,” Qwilleran said. “Photographers aren’t expected to look too civilized.”
    Her laughter was still resounding as they hung up.
    Then Polly called to discuss how they should dress for dinner.
    “Arch will be wearing his twenty-year-old red wool shirt,” Qwilleran said, “so I suggest we go in sweaters.”
    Polly’s staff had given her a white sweater embroidered with red cardinals and green holly—livelier than her usual garb, but Polly herself was livelier since her surgery. Qwilleran had a new sweater, ordered from Chicago, that looked like an Oriental rug—high style for a man whose peers Down Below used to call a lovable slob.
    “I’ll pick you up at one o’clock,” he said. “Bundle up, and we’ll walk. It isn’t windy.”
    “Do you know who’s just moved into the unit next to you, Qwill?”
    “A husky man. Drives a large van.”
    “That’s Wetherby Goode!”
    “No! What did I do to deserve that clown for a neighbor?”
    “Do I detect inter-media jealousy?” she said, teasing gently. “Most radio listeners think he’s entertaining. It’s not all about dew point and barometric pressure. One windy day he sang ‘Rockabye Baby.’ After an ice storm he quoted from The Rime