Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Smelled A Rat

“Only leftovers,” she said. “A ragout of last week’s chicken soup and this weekend’s cassoulet, with garlic croutons and a sprinkling of goat cheese. 1 hope you like it.”

“Polly, you could open a restaurant with your leftovers! You could call it Leftovers Inc., or Deja Vu, or Not Again!”

They savored the ragout in silence for a few minutes, and then she said, “Those were beautiful words you spoke at Eddington’s funeral.”

“Glad to see your Dear Ladies attended.” That was their private name for the white-haired, well-bred, conservative, wealthy women who served on the library board of directors.

“Yes, it was sweet of them. Who was the young woman with Mr. Barter?”

“Cynthia, the law clerk who’s feeding Winston in the interim. She asked to attend. The man in a plaid shirt was Albert, the dry cleaner.”

“I thought I recognized him. I was in Book Alley this noon, having my hair done during my lunch hour, and

Brenda told me some wild news: Don Exbridge’s wife has filed for divorce!”

“His second or third?”

“He’s had only two. She’s the mousy one we met last year when they invited us to dinner. She reminded me of my mother-in-law, who squeezed toothpaste onto her husband’s toothbrush every day for forty years. Such wifely devotion!”

“Correction! The elder Mrs. Duncan was a thrifty Scot who didn’t like to see dentifrice wasted.”

“Oh Qwill! You’re so cynical!”

“Not at all. A survey shows that men use toothpaste more lavishly than women do, and budget-conscious wives are on a cost-cutting campaign that alarms marketing specialists and interests psychologists. A fifty percent cut in toothpaste consumption could be a blow to the economy.”

“You’re inventing this, Qwill!” Polly laughed. “You’re plotting another hoax on your readers. You’ll have them measuring the toothpaste on family toothbrushes and sending their reports to the Something on postal cards.”

“You have no faith in me,” he said as he helped himself to seconds. “What’s that on the sideboard? It looks like Maggie’s French martini pitcher.”

“It’s yours now. She brought it to the library today. She wants very much for you to have it.”

He gasped. “She shouldn’t have! It’s too much! But I accept.”

Qwilleran declined dessert-stewed figs with yogurt-saying he had to take a nap before fire-watching with Wetherby. He left shortly, swinging the pitcher by its sturdy handle. “Wait till Koko and Yum Yum see it! They’ll know it came from a household with five cats.” As it turned out, the Siamese knew not only the provenance of the pitcher, but also the sex of Maggie’s cats-all females. Koko nuzzled it enthusiastically, but Yum Yum backed away and bushed her tail.

At eleven P.M. Qwilleran gave the cats their bedtime snack, then led the ceremonial march upstairs, with Koko second in line and Yum Yum trailing a lazy third. He ushered them into their room, said goodnight, turned out the light and closed the door. This was the “tucking-in” ritual.

In his boyhood his mother had tucked him in nightly-listening to his prayers, tucking the bedcovers under his chin, giving his forehead a goodnight kiss, wishing him pleasant dreams. He wondered how much of it was motherly affection and how much was a motherly prayer-check. He hated to hurt the feelings of the only parent he had, but on his tenth birthday he ventured that he was too old for tucking-in. She understood.

The Siamese had no such objections, and after they were tucked in, Qwilleran dressed for fire-watching and awaited the signal from his neighbor.

“All set to go, Joe. Would a thermos of hot coffee be appropriate?”

“Brilliant idea!”

They rode in Wetherby’s van, which had a white flag flying from a front fender, affixed by a magnet. “We’ll be cruising at a slower speed than other vehicle traffic.”

“Actually, there won’t be much traffic at this hour-on the secondary roads we’ll be traveling. The flags were borrowed from Dingleberry Funeral Home. City funerals don’t use flags anymore. The procession races to the cemetery at normal speed, with a police escort. Somehow, that doesn’t seem respectful, but I’m just a country boy from Horseradish.”

Following their map, they zigzagged through back roads and phoned “all clear” to the courthouse operator at each checkpoint. Traffic was light except for a half hour when the bars closed. Once, Wetherby stopped and shone his headlights on a new building that looked like a Swiss chalet. “The new curling club,” he said. “I don’t curl, but I’m a member, and that’s where I go to relax. We should go some night.”

“What facilities do they have?” Qwilleran asked.

“Three rinks, spectator gallery, warming room with bar, locker room …”

“I’ve seen pictures of players on the ice with large stones and little brooms. What’s it all about? In twenty-five words or less.”

“Are you counting?” Wetherby asked. “Well, the idea is to slide the stone across the ice and into the target area. A skilled player can make the stone do tricks-curl around another stone, take out an opponent’s stone. Fascinating!”

“What does a stone weigh?”

“Forty-two pounds, carved from Scottish granite.”

“Do players have their own stones and take them home like bowling balls?”

“No. Stones have to be refrigerated or they’ll melt the ice.”

Apart from the conversation, it had been a dull expedition. In the first twenty-four hours of the Fire Watch there had been only one brushfire, resulting when a truck accident knocked down a power line. There had been no smoldering or black smoke in any of the four Mine Zones. The volunteer fire departments had it easy. But the night was not over.

After saying goodnight to his neighbor, Qwilleran unlocked his front door and saw a scene of destruction. A table lamp had been toppled and was hanging upside-down from its cord. The Danish rug was bunched. Red pillows, wooden apples, magazines, and desktop papers were on the floor. Geraniums were in the kitchen sink.

It meant only one thing, Qwilleran knew: a cat fit! … a prediction of trouble … probably the Big One. Having given the warning, Koko was lying on the mantel, exhausted. Yum Yum was hiding. Methodically Qwilleran began putting the room together again.

Halfway through his task he suddenly stopped and listened: a boom like a cannon shot… a rumble like thunder! He rushed outdoors. In minutes the fire trucks could be heard-racing from various directions, converging on Pickax. A sickening thought occurred to him: It was the Mackintosh Inn-again! A year before-when it was the Pickax Hotel-it had been bombed by a psychopath from Down Below. Already a red glow was building in the black sky.

He snatched a jacket and his keys and ran for his van.

six

Downtown was ablaze with flashing lights and searchlights, and a three-block area was closed to traffic. A thick column of smoke was rising where flames had been contained. Qwilleran parked and walked closer. It was not the inn; was it the post office? His press card admitted him as far as the yellow tape, where he asked an officer, “Is it the post office?”

“No, Mr. Q. Behind the post office.”

Incredible! Qwilleran thought. He skirted the yellow tape to the north end of Book Alley. The bookstore was a roofless shell, belching smoke. Firefighters were pouring water on the roofs of nearby buildings. Flickers of light on the pavement came from shattered glass.

“What happened?” Qwilleran asked a firefighter with a soot-covered face who was taking a breather.

“Explosion, Mr. Q. Roof blew off. Books went up like a bonfire. Nothing left but the stone walls.”

It was the voice of a sheep farmer he knew. “You’re-you’re-“