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

Polly was thrilled.

"It's a batwing cape! It's handwoven! Who did it?"

"One of the mountaineers," he said, shrugging off the question.

"They're all weavers and potters and woodworkers in the mountains." He avoided mentioning that the weaver was an interesting young woman whom he had taken to dinner and who had rescued him twice when he was in trouble on mountain passes.

Polly had shed the drab suit she wore at the library and was looking festive in a summer dress of mixed polka dots, red-on-white and white-on-red.

"You're sure it isn't too bold for me?" she asked when Qwilleran complimented her.

"Irma Hasselrich helped me choose it."

They drove to the restaurant in the rental car that had brought him from the mountains.

"My own car broke down," he explained, "and I left it there." The tale was loosely true; the car had bogged down in mud, and he had given it to the young mountain woman, who would be able to haul it out with her swamp buggy. The restaurant called the Old Stone Mill occupied a historic gristmill. There was enough affluence in Pickax, and there were enough educated palates, to support one good eatery, and it was owned by a syndicate of businessmen who needed an unprofitable venture for tax purposes. It paid its chefs handsomely and offered a menu worldly enough for local residents who had dined in San Francisco, New Orleans, and Paris. After Qwilleran and Polly were greeted and seated at their usual table, a six-foot-seven busboy, who towered above customers and staff alike, shuffled up to the table with a water pitcher and basket of garlic toast. His name was Derek Cuttlebrink.

"Hi, Mr. Q," he said in friendly fashion.

"I thought you were going away for the summer."

"I came back," Qwilleran explained succinctly.

"I'm taking two weeks in August to go camping."

"Good for you!"

"Yeah, I met this girl, and she has a tent. Blue nylon, seven-by-eight, with aluminum frame. Sets up in five minutes."

"Take plenty of mosquito repellent," Qwilleran advised.

"Stay away from poison ivy. Watch out for ticks." Polly asked, "Have you given any more thought to college, Derek?"

"Well, you know, it's like this, Mrs. Duncan. I've decided to stay in the food business. I'm getting promoted to the kitchen, end of the month, in charge of French fries and garlic toast."

"Congratulations!" said Qwilleran. When the busboy had sauntered away, Polly wondered, "Do you think Derek will ever amount to anything?"

"Don't give up hope," Qwilleran said.

"One of these days he'll meet the right girl, and he'll become a famous brain surgeon.

I've seen it happen." He ordered dry sherry for Polly and, for himself, a local product called Squunk water, from a flowing well in Squunk Corners. He always drank it on the rocks with a twist. Polly raised her glass.

"Slainte!"

"Ditto," Qwilleran said.

"What does it mean?"