Qwilleran packed the green car for the trek north: two suitcases, his typewriter, the thirteen-pound dictionary, five hundred sheets of typing paper, and two boxes of books.

Because Koko refused to eat any commercial product intended for cats, there were twenty- four cans of boned chicken, red salmon, corned beef, solid pack white tuna, cocktail shrimp, and Alaska crabmeat. On the back seat was the blue cushion favored by the Siamese, and on the floor was an oval roasting pan with the handles sawed off in order to fit between the drive-shaft and the rocker-panel. It contained an inch-thick layer of kitty gravel. This was the cats' commode. After their previous commode of hand-painted tole had rusted out, Robert Maus had donated the roasting pan from his well-stocked kitchen.

The furniture in Qwilleran's apartment belonged to an earlier tenant, and his few personal possessions — such as the antique scale and a cast-iron coat of arms were now stored for the summer in Arch Riker's basement. Thus unencumbered, the newsman started for the I north country with a light heart.

His passengers in the back seat reacted otherwise. The little female howled in strident tones whenever the car turned a corner, rounded a curve, crossed a bridge, passed under a viaduct, encountered a truck, or exceeded fifty miles an hour. Koko scolded her and bit her hind leg, adding snarls and hisses to the orchestrated uproar.

Qwilleran drove with clenched jaw, enduring the stares and glares of motorists who passed him, their fretful horn-honking and hostile tailgating.

The route passed through a string of suburbs and then the winding roads of horse country. Beyond that came cooler temperatures, taller pine trees, deer-crossing signs, and more pickup trucks. Pickax City was still a hundred miles ahead when Qwilleran's jangled nerves convinced him to stop for the night. The travelers checked into a tourist camp, where rickety cabins of pre-motel vintage were isolated in a wooded area. All three of them were in a state of exhaustion, and Koko and Yum Yum immediately fell asleep in the exact center of the bed.

The next day's journey was marked by fewer protests from the back seat. The temperature dropped still further, and deer-crossings became elk-crossings. The highway gradually ascended into hilly country and then plunged into a valley to become the main thoroughfare of Pickax City. Here majestic old houses reflecting the wealth of the mining and lumbering pioneers lined both sides of Main Street, which divided in the center of town and circled a little park. Facing the park were several impressive buildings: a nineteenth century courthouse, a library with the columns of a Greek temple, two churches, and a stately residence with a polished brass house number that was Aunt Fanny's.

It was a large square mansion of fieldstone, with a carriage house in the rear. A blue pickup truck stood in the driveway, and a gardener was working on the shrubs. He stared pointedly at Qwilleran with an expression the newsman could not identify. In the front door there was an old-fashioned mail slot framed in brass and engraved with the family name: Klingenschoen.

The little old lady who answered the doorbell was undoubtedly Aunt Fanny: a vigorous eighty-nine, tiny but taut with energy. Her white, powdery, wrinkled face wore two slashes of orange lipstick and glasses that magnified her eyes. She gazed at her visitor and, after focusing through the thick lenses, flung her arms wide in a dramatic gesture of welcome. Then from that little woman came a deep chesty growl: "Bless my soul! How you have grown!" "I should hope so," Qwilleran said genially. "The last time you saw me I was seven years old. How are you, Francesca? You're looking great!" Her exotic name was in keeping with her flamboyant garb: an orange satin tunic embroidered with peacocks and worn over slim black trousers. A scarf, also orange, was tied around her head and knotted on top in a way that added height to her four-feet- three.

"Come in, come in," she growled pleasantly. "My, how glad I am to see you!… Yes, you look just like your picture in the Fluxion. If only your dear mother could see you now, rest her soul. She would adore your moustache. Are you ready for a cup of coffee? I know you journalists drink a lot of coffee. We'll have it in the sun parlor." Aunt Fanny led the way through a high-ceilinged hallway with a grand staircase, past a formal drawing room and ornate dining room, past a paneled library and a breakfast room smothered in chintz, into an airy room with French windows, wicker furniture, and ancient rubber plants.

In her chety voice she said: "I have some divine cinnamon buns. Tom picked them up from the bakery this morning. You adored cinnamon buns when you were a little boy." While Qwilleran relaxed on a wicker settee his hostess trotted away in little black Chinese slippers, disappearing into a distant part of the house, continuing a monologue that he could only half-hear. She returned carrying a large tray.

Qwilleran sprang to his feet. "Here, let me take that, Francesca." "Thank you, dear," she barked. "You were always such a thoughtful little boy. Now you must put cream in your coffee. Tom picked it up from the dairy farm this morning. You don't get cream like this in the city, my dear." Qwilleran preferred his coffee black, but he accepted cream, and as he bit into a doughy cinnamon bun his gaze wandered to the French windows. The gardener was leaning on his rake and peering into the room.

"Now you're going to stay for lunch," Aunt Fanny said from the depths of a huge wicker rocking chair that swallowed her tiny figure. "Tom will go to the butcher to pick up a steak. Do you like porterhouse or Delmonico? We have a marvelous butcher. Would you like a baked potato with sour cream?" "No! No! Thank you, Francesca, but I have two nervous animals in the car, and I want to get them up to the cabin as soon as possible. I appreciate the invitation, but I'll have to take a rain check." "Or maybe you'd prefer pork chops," Aunt Fanny went on. "I'll make you a big salad.

What kind of dressing do you like? We'll have cr?pes suzette for dessert. I always made them for gentlemen callers when I was in college." Qwilleran thought: Is she deaf? Or doesn't she bother to listen? The trick is to get her attention. "Aunt Fanny!" he shouted.

She looked startled at the name and the tone. "Yes, dear?" "After we're settled," he said in a normal voice, "I'll come back and have lunch with you, or you can drive up to the lake and I'll take you to dinner. Do you have transportation, Francesca?" "Yes, of course! Tom drives me. I lost my license a few years ago after a little accident. The chief of police was a very disagreeable person, but we got rid of him, and now we have a charming man. He named his youngest daughter after me…" "Aunt Fanny!" "Yes, dear?" "Will you tell me how to reach the cabin?" "Of course. It's very easy. Go north to the lake and turn left. Watch for the ruins of a stone chimney; that's all that's left of an old log schoolhouse. Then you'll see the letter K on a post. Turn into the gravel driveway and follow it through the woods. That's all my property. The wild cherries and sugarplums should be in blossom now. Mooseville is only three miles farther on, You can drive into town for restaurants and shopping. They have a charming postmistress, but don't get any ideas! She's married…" "Aunt Fanny!" "Yes, dear?" "Do I need a key?" "Goodness, no! I don't believe I've ever seen a key to the place. It's just a little old log cabin with two bunkrooms, but you'll be comfortable. It will be nice and quiet for writing. It was too quiet for my taste. I was in clubwork in New Jersey, you know, and I had scads of people around all the time. I'm so happy you're writing a book, dear.

What is the title? Your dear mother would be so proud of you." Qwilleran was travel-weary and eager to reach his destination. It required all his wiles to disengage himself from Aunt Fanny's overwhelming hospitality. As he left the house the gardener was doing something to the bed of tulips around the front steps. The man stared, and Qwilleran gave him a mock salute.