"Braun, Lilian Jackson - The Cat Who 014 - The Cat Who Wasn't There (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Braun Lillian Jackson)

"I was hoping you'd suggest it.

I have something exciting to discuss."

"About what?" She smiled mysteriously.

"I can't tell you right now. It's a wonderful surprise!"

"Where shall I pick you up? And at what time?"

"Shall we say seven o'clock?" Polly suggested.

"I'd like to go home to change clothes and feed Bootsie."

"Seven o'clock it is."

"Are you sure you aren't too tired after all that driving?"

"All I need is a strong cup of coffee, and I'll be swinging from the chandeliers."

"I've missed you, dear. I'm so glad you're home," she said softly.

"I've missed you, too, Polly." He started to leave her office and paused on the threshold, from which he could see the reading tables. A white-haired woman sat knitting laboriously with arthritic hands; an elderly man was bent over a stack of books; a younger man with an unruly beard was leafing idly through a magazine.

"Who's the fellow with the beard?" Qwilleran mumbled behind his hand as he stroked his moustache.

"I don't know. The woman is Mrs. Crawbanks; her granddaughter always drops her off here while she does errands. Now that we have an elevator we've become a day-care center for grandparents. Homer Tibbitt, you know him, of course, is doing research for the Historical Society. The younger man, I don't know."

Qwilleran strode through the reading room to speak to the thin and angular Mr. Tibbitt, who was in his nineties and still active, despite creaking joints.

"I hear you're digging into Moose County's lurid past, Homer." The retired school principal straightened up, his bony frame clicking in several places.

"Got to keep the old brain cells functioning," he said in a cracked voice.

"No one's ever recorded the history of the Goodwinters, although they founded Pickax one hundred fifty years ago. There were four branches of the family, some with good blood and some with bad blood, sorry to say.

But the clan's dying out in these parts. Amanda's the last of the drinking Goodwinters. Dr. Halifax had two children, but the boy was killed in an accident a few years ago, and if Dr. Melinda marries and produces sons, they won't continue the family name. Of course," he continued after a moment's reflection, "she could do something unconventional; you never know what the young ones will do these days.

But at present, Junior Goodwinter is the only hope. He's produced one son so far ..." Mr. Tibbitt would have rambled on, but Qwilleran noticed that the bearded man had left the reading room, and he wanted to follow him. Excusing himself, he bolted down the stairs and out of the building, dodging preschoolers, but the car with the Massachusetts plate was pulling out of the parking lot.

From the library he took the back street to the police station, hoping to avoid acquaintances who would question his premature return from the mountains. He found Andrew Brodie, the big, broad shouldered chief of police, hunched over a computer, distrustfully poking the keys.

"Who invented these damn things?" Brodie growled.

"More trouble than they're worth!" He leaned back in his chair.

"Well, my friend, you hightailed it back to Pickax pretty fast!

How'd you do it?"