Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Smelled A Rat

It was too late to return the call. The Tibbitts retired at eight o’clock.

There was another message, too. Polly’s voice said, “Are you free tomorrow evening? Maggie wants us to have dinner with her. Dr. Zoller will be there. She apologizes for the short notice. Her housekeeper, by the way, is an excellent cook.” Qwilleran was available. He had always wanted to meet Dr. Zoller… and he was always interested in a free dinner.

seven

How did Winston escape from the doomed building? Unanswered questions always irked Qwilleran, and he spent a restless night. At nine A.M., when Roger MacGillivray would be reporting for work, he phoned the photo lab at the Something.

“Roger, compliments on your morning-after photo in yesterday’s paper. It was not only graphic but heartbreaking!”

“Gee, thanks, Qwill. How’d you like Winston’s portrait? Ironically I got that shot the day before the explosion, for the new adopt-a-pet feature.”

“That’s one reason I’m calling. When you went to the back door, did Winston make any attempt to get out of the store?”

“If he had, I would’ve run a mile. You know how I am about cats. No, in fact he didn’t make an appearance for a while. It turned out he was in his sandbox.”

“Well, your broadside shot of him was perfect-from his bold whiskers to his flamboyant tail.”

“Yeah, I was glad to see they ran it three columns.”

Qwilleran said, “He’s already been adopted by a couple living on Pleasant Street.”

“Who?”

“The Bethunes.”

“Sure. I know their son. Swell people … Thanks for calling. I’ve gotta run. There’s a nine-thirty on the board.”

Qwilleran’s next call went to the law office, where he talked to Cynthia. “Have you heard that Winston has a new home?”

“I’m so glad,” she said. “He’s a gorgeous cat! If I had a place of my own, I would’ve adopted him in a minute.”

“I take it that you two got along.”

“I only knew he was glad to see me at mealtime,” she said. “Who’s taking him, Mr. Q?”

“The Bethunes on Pleasant Street.”

“Really? She’s my boyfriend’s aunt! Very nice woman. Hope she doesn’t spoil him.”

“One question, Cynthia. When you went to feed him, did he ever try to run out the back door?”

“Never! I always opened the door cautiously, though-just in case-but he was a very cool cat.”

Qwilleran went downtown for breakfast at Rennie’s and eavesdropped on conversations: “Too bad! It was our biggest tourist attraction. … It was feldspar, you know. It shatters like eggshells… . It’s a blessing the old man wasn’t here to see it… They should do something about those kerosene heaters!” Only at the library, where he went next, were they mourning the loss of the books. Clerks and volunteers were always glad to see him-the “Qwill Pen” columnist, Klingenschoen heir, boss’s boyfriend. “She’s not here,” they said. “She had a dental appointment.”

They lavished attention on him: Showed him Mr. Smith’s last bookbinding project for the library. Demonstrated the new gadget for checking out books. Inquired about Koko and Yum Yum. Pointed out the new exhibit of antique inkwells. Asked who was his favorite author. Brought the feline mascots, Mac and Katie, to say hello.

He responded with amiable nods and quips and murmurs of approval. He said his housemates had stopped shedding-in preparation for the Big One. To two gray-haired volunteers who were fussing over old photographs for an exhibit, he said lightly, “Need any help, ladies?”

“Yes!” they replied in unison and proceeded to talk at once. “The men in this photo… there’s no identification … except for the one in front. He’s Governor Witherspoon. … It was taken in 1928.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t around then,” Qwilleran said with good humor.

Without blinking they went on. “People like to know who’s in these old photos. It may be an ancestor… . Their great-grandpa may have been a friend of the governor… . They can bring the kids to the library to see a picture of their great-great-grandpa, photographed with the governor.”

“I see.” Qwilleran began to realize the seriousness of the matter. “I’ll bet Homer Tibbitt would recognize them.” One man was carrying a ledger; two were in sheriff’s uniforms; another had a hunting dog.

“Mr. Tibbitt used to come to the library every day, doing research, you know. Now that he’s moved to Ittibittiwassee Estates, we never see him-do we, Dora?… No. I thought he’d passed away. He’s almost a hundred.”

Qwilleran said, “I’m going out that way this afternoon. Do you want me to take the photo along?”

“That would be wonderful! We’ll put it in an envelope.”

Homer, the nonagenarian historian, and Rhoda, ten years his junior, had married late. Both had been educators. Neither had been married before. For visitors they always staged a comic act of marital banter. Everyone knew they were a devoted couple.

The retirement village where they now lived was out in the country-a four-story building with steeply pitched roof, looking somewhat like a Swiss resort hotel. When Qwilleran arrived with Gov. Witherspoon’s photo and a bunch of flowers for Rhoda, he parked in the visitors’ lot and was approaching the building when he saw Mayor Gregory Blythe coming out.

“Good afternoon, Mayor,” he said. “Have you been rallying your constituents?”

“It doesn’t hurt to keep the home fires burning,” said the impeccably groomed candidate.

Blythe, during his three terms, had promoted the annexation of surrounding townships for various reasons, one of which was to add voting districts.

“Met hizzoner in the parking lot,” Qwilleran said when Rhoda admitted him to their apartment. “Was he scrounging votes or selling stocks and bonds?”

“I tell you one thing: He won’t get a nickel of my money,” Homer railed in his high-pitched voice. “He comes here to charm the widows out of their pensions and their husbands’ life insurance.”

“Don’t get excited, Homer,” his wife said. “We’ll all have a nice cup of chamomile tea.”

“She’s trying to poison me with that stuff!” he said.

“That being the case,” Qwilleran said, “don’t drink it until you answer a question for the Pickax library. They miss your daily visits.” He explained the situation and showed the photo of Gov. Witherspoon and friends.

“That’s the Guv, all right. No mistaking those big ears! I know all these others, too. Can’t think of their names. Rhoda’s good at names; I recognize faces. Rhoda!”

She came hurrying from the kitchen. “Yes, that’s Gov. Witherspoon. My friends and I thought he was terribly romantic-looking. The two men on the second step I know very well. They’re the Brown brothers-“

“Which Brown brothers?” Qwilleran interrupted.

“There was only one Brown family,” she explained sweetly. “The one with the rifle and the dog is… It’s on the tip of my tongue: Fred Bryce-or Brook-or Broom-“

“Or Brown,” Qwilleran suggested.

“The funny thing is-I know the name of his dog! Diana! Goddess of the Hunt!”

“Makes sense.”

Homer had lost interest and was dozing off.

In a loud voice Qwilleran said, “But all this is ancient history. Let us talk about Eddington Smith.”

“Dear Eddington! A gentle soul!” Rhoda said softly.

“He wasn’t a reader, but he knew and loved books,” her husband added in a voice less strident than usual. “In his heyday he traveled all over the map. Certain estate liquidators used to save cartons of the best books for him. But he was getting old and tired, and so was his truck.”

“He’d come and have dinner with us and talk about his family,” she said.