The Cat Who Tailed a Thief by Lilian Jackson Braun Read Free Book Online Page B

it an old wives’ tale.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Folklore. . . superstition. Yet proponents of dowsing say it works, in spite of the controversy.”
    Pleasant Street was an old neighborhood of Victorian frame houses ornamented with quantities of jigsaw trim around windows, porches, rooflines, and gables. The large residences had been built by successful families like the MacMurchies and Duncans in the heyday of Moose County.
    “This street looks like Disneyland,” said Clayton. “It doesn’t look real.”
    “There may be no other street in the United States with so much gingerbread trim still intact. Right now there’s a proposal to restore all the houses and have it recognized as a historic neighborhood.”
    Qwilleran parked in front of a neat two-tone gray house that still had a stone carriage step at the curb. The sidewalk and the steps of the house had been recently broomed, showing the streak marks of the broom straw in the snow.
    As they walked up the front steps, Clayton asked, “What kind of pictures shall I take?”
    “Close-ups of Mr. MacMurchie and his dowsing stick, plus anything else that looks interesting. If you get some good shots, the paper might do a picture spread and give you a credit line.”
    Clayton had never seen a doorbell in the middle of the door, and he snapped a picture of it. He had never heard the raucous clang it made, either.
    “Remember, Doc,” Qwilleran said. “I ask the questions; you click the camera, but do it unobtrusively.”
    “Do you tape the interview?”
    “If he gives permission; that’s our paper’s policy. But I take notes, whether we tape or not. When I was younger, I could commit a whole interview to memory, and it would be printed verbatim without error. But that was just showing off.”
    The man who responded to the bell was a leathery-faced Scot whose red hair was turning sandy with age. “Come in! Come in, Qwill” was his hearty welcome.
    “Gil, this is my photographer, Clayton Robinson.”
    “Hiya, there! Let’s go right back to the kitchen. There’s some folks from the bank working in the front rooms. All my dowsing gear is laid out on the kitchen table.”
    A long hall extended through to the rear, similar to that in the Duncan house. Lynette’s furnishings were stubbornly Victorian, however; this collection represented the taste of passing generations and the fads of recent decades: a little William Morris, a little Art Deco, a little Swedish modern, a little French provincial, a little Mediterranean.
    As the trio walked down the hall, Qwilleran glimpsed antique weapons in a glass-topped curio table. . . a small black dog asleep on the carpeted stairs. . . a man and a woman examining one of the parlors and making notes.
    “Excuse the mess,” the dowser apologized when they reached the kitchen. “My wife passed away last year, and I’m no good at housekeeping. I’m getting ready to move into a retirement complex, and I’m selling the house and most of my goods. Willard Carmichael at the bank said I can get more for the house if I fix it up so that it’s historic. You know Willard, don’t you? He sent this out-of-town expert over here today to figure out what needs to be done and what it’ll cost. Sounds pretty good to me!. . . Pull up a couple of chairs. Do you want me to explain this gear? Or do you want to ask questions?”
    Laid out on the table was an array of forked twigs, L-shaped rods, barbed wire, string, even a wire coat hanger.
    “Let’s talk first,” Qwilleran suggested, setting up his tape recorder. “How long have you been dowsing, Gil?. . . I’ll tape this, if you don’t mind.”
    “Ever since I was a kid and my granddad showed me how to hold the forked stick. He found good water for folks, and also veins of iron ore and copper. The mines closed a long time ago, but folks always need good drinking water. When there’s a drought, some wells run dry. When a new building’s going up, they have to know if