housemates. “What’s that tree on your file cabinet?” “It was Wilfred’s idea,” Riker said almost apologetically. “He made the ornaments with newsprint and gold spray.” Wilfred Sugbury was secretary to the executives—a quiet, hardworking young man who had not only amazed the staff by winning a seventy-mile bike race but was now taking an origami course at the community college. Qwilleran, on his way out, complimented Wilfred on his handiwork. “I’d be glad to make one for you, Mr. Q,” he said. “It wouldn’t last five minutes, Wilfred. The cats would reduce it to confetti. They have no appreciation of art. Thanks just the same.” To fortify himself for the task of gift-shopping, Qwilleran drove to Lois’s Luncheonette, a primitive side-street hole-in-the-wall that had been serving comfort food to downtown workers and shoppers for thirty years. Lois Inchpot was an imposing woman, who dispensed pancakes and opinions with the authority of a celebrity. Indeed, the city had recently celebrated Lois Inchpot Day, by mayoral proclamation. When Qwilleran entered, she was banging the old-fashioned cash register and holding forth in a throaty voice: “If we have a mild winter, like the caterpillars said, we’ll — 4: 84-95