Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Smelled A Rat

Qwilleran fed the Siamese and then dressed for Maggie’s dinner party.

eight

Qwilleran picked up Polly for the drive to Maggie Sprenkle’s dinner party, and as soon as they turned onto the highway, he asked, “What’s new in your exciting young life?”

“I custom-ordered a sweater from Barb Ogilvie-for my sister, for Christmas. Camel tan with sculptured texture in the knit. Did you know that Barb is dating Barry Morghan? They met through Barry’s sister-in-law, who’s an artist.”

“They sound like a likely pair,” he said.

“Barb said she saw you going into the antique shop one day.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“That all depends. Have you started collecting antiques? Or did you go to visit Susan Darling?” There had been a personality clash between the two women ever since Susan’s brief term on the library board. Susan said the head librarian had unsophisticated taste; Polly said the antique dealer had never read a book in her life. It was the kind of feud that gave Qwilleran devilish amusement. He had to bite his tongue to resist telling Polly she had Susan’s porcelain parrots.

He said, “I went in to congratulate her on being accepted for the New York show-but really to scrounge a cup of coffee. I saw a sampler I liked, and she gave it to me.”

“What kind of sampler?” Polly asked sharply.

“You’ll see, next time you come over. I also have a wall hanging over the fireplace, selected by Fran.”

“What kind of hanging?”

“Wait and see.” He was being mischievously perverse. Then to change the subject: “What’s this dinner party all about?”

“Wait and see,” Polly said smugly.

Maggie lived downtown in the Sprenkle Building on Main Street. She and her late husband had lived on a large estate famous for its rose gardens, but she had sold the house, preferring to live in an apartment with rose-patterned carpet. The ground floor of the nineteenth-century building was rented to insurance and realty firms; the two upper floors had been transformed into a Victorian palace. Qwilleran had been there once before to meet her five cats named after well-known women: Sarah, Charlotte, Carrie, Flora, and Louisa May.

As he and Polly drove up to the building, he asked, “Shall we risk our lives and take the front stairs?” They were steep and narrow in the old style, with shallow treads made shallower by thick carpeting, rose-patterned to confuse the eye.

“Let’s use the rear entrance and ride the elevator,” she said. “I’m not yet ready to break my neck.”

The elevator glided slowly and silently to the second floor and debouched the two passengers in a lavish foyer. Polly whispered, “Decorated by Amanda Goodwinter,” and he muttered, “That figures.”

The foyer was two stories high, with a carved staircase leading to the upper floor and an enormous chandelier hanging in the stairwell. It was a shower of crystal and amethyst pendants, said to have mystic powers of restoring one’s energy.

The hostess, greeting them in a black velvet dress and the famous Sprenkle torsade of diamonds and pearls, said, “I stand under the chandelier every morning for a few minutes to recharge my batteries.” It was a fact that she had an abundance of vitality and enthusiasm for her age.

At her urging Qwilleran tried it and announced facetiously that he could feel his hair standing on end and his moustache burgeoning. Polly declined, saying she had tried it before and was unable to sleep for three nights.

In the rose-patterned parlor introductions were made. The fourth member of the party was Henry Zoller, financial officer of XYZ Enterprises until his recent retirement. He had been a dentist and was still called Dr. Zoller in Moose County-but not to his face. Now he was sixtyish, distinguished-looking, well tanned, and conservative in clothing, manner, and speech.

“Please call me Henry,” he said. “Maggie tells me I may call you Polly and Qwill. I admire you both for your professionalism. And Qwill! What you said about the IRS in your recent column on acronyms gave me a hearty chuckle. Have you had much response?”

“Only to have my last tax returned audited.” It was not true, but it was a quip Qwilleran could not resist.

“To your health!” Zoller proposed when aperitifs were served.

They sat on red velvet-tufted chairs, set their drinks on the marble tops of carved tables, and looked at red walls hung with a fortune in oil paintings bought in Paris by an ancestral Sprenkle.

“Where are the ladies?” Polly asked, inquiring about the five well-fed cats that usually sat on the five parlor windowsills. Qwilleran had noticed there were no cat hairs on Maggie’s black velvet, although she was a compulsive cat-hugger.

“They’ve retired to their boudoir upstairs,” she said. Deftly she steered the conversation away from the Big One, Book Alley, the Citizens’ Fire Watch, and even the Shafthouse Initiative. Instead they talked about golf, travel, art collecting, photography, dog racing in Florida, and the best restaurants in Chicago.

The housekeeper cooked and served: lobster bisque, filet of beef with sauced broccoli, a tossed green salad, and a white chocolate mousse.

After coffee, Qwilleran and Polly waited forty-five minutes before saying goodnight.

On the way home she said, “A half hour’s grace is too short to be polite; an hour is too long to be comfortable.”

Qwilleran agreed that the evening had seemed rather lengthy. “But the food was good. What did she do to the broccoli?”

“A light cheese sauce with bacon bits.”

“Broccoli needs all the help it can get.”

“Maggie and Henry have known each other a long time. When their spouses were living, the two couples went on cruises all over the world.”

“What will he do now that he’s retired? Go back to fixing teeth?”

“Probably play golf and bet on the dogs.” “Maggie seemed a little subdued tonight,” Qwilleran said. “She hasn’t been spending enough time under the chandelier.”

As they drove through the Indian Village gates,

Polly said, “Would you like to come in for a while?”

“How’d you like to come and see the sampler I swindled from Susan?” Qwilleran asked.

She agreed readily. She had been consumed by curiosity. As soon as he unlocked the door she went directly to the kitchen and stared-or glared-at the framed piece of stained linen laboriously embroidered by a young girl a hundred years ago.

By the constrained expression on her face he could read her mind.

“Don’t you like it?” he teased. “I intended to leave it to you in my will.”

Struggling to be tactful, she asked, “May I ask… what attracted you to this… this-“

“It has sentimental significance. My mother was an advocate of celerity. Jumping over candlesticks was part of my early training.”

Polly was not fond of teasing. She walked away. “Where’s the wall hanging?”

Qwilleran switched on the living room lights, spotlighting the oversized red-breasted birds.

She gasped. “Did you choose it?”

“I can’t take credit. Fran picked it out, and I happen to like her taste. It’s perfect scale for the room. Much needed touch of color. Dynamic design. Do you like it?”

“I think it’s repulsive!” she said vehemently. “That worm! It’s like a snake!”

“It’s in proportion to the robins and the-” he began.

“How can you ask your guests to sit here, enjoying a drink while those obscenely fat robins are torturing a helpless fellow creature? Ugh!” She turned on her heel and headed for the door.

“I’ll walk you home,” he offered.

“That won’t be necessary! What did Robert Graves say? Murderous robin with breast aglow!” She slammed the door.