Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Smelled A Rat

Once a pair of orange wings alighted on my finger, and I smiled for days!

A student in her senior year in high school submitted this moody reverie:

Listen

The wet sounds of a rainy day …

Why do they make me feel so wistful?

A man wrote, “I’m the dad of a two-year-old and a four-year-old who are both bursting with energy. Can I submit two poems?”

Rocking Horse

Hurry, child!

Ask your questions. Tomorrow there may be no answers.

Tricycle

Hurry, child!

Find your answers. Tomorrow there may be no questions.

Only one entry was submitted anonymously.

Lost Love

Too warm … too kind …

too good … too near … too much!

When Qwilleran handed in his copy to Junior, the managing editor-who was a father of two-said that his favorite verses were submitted by the father of two.

“That figures,” Qwilleran said. “My favorite was a non-winner. Apparently a fifth-grade teacher in Sawdust City assigned her class to enter the contest-or else. One rebellious youth submitted: ‘My teacher wears thick glasses … and makes us do things … we don’t want to do.’ I think I’ll send him a yellow pencil for honesty and bravery.”

“What’s your topic for next Tuesday?”

“I haven’t decided. That’s four days away. The way things are going in this town, someone might bomb the Moose County Something.”

Before leaving the building, he went into the Ready Room and found Roger MacGillivray sitting with his feet on the table, waiting for another assignment-and probably hoping he could get home to dinner. It had been his byline on the banner story.

“Compliments on your Cass Young coverage. It was very thorough.”

“My coverage is always thorough,” Roger said. “It’s the editors who cut it down.”

“Is there a story behind the story?”

“Only that Cass had a slider on his left foot that should have been covered with a gripper-a rash oversight for someone known for preaching safety.”

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. “Unless someone removed the gripper after the so-called accident.”

“Hey! That’s an interesting angle! Stick around for a while. There’s some coffee left,” Roger said with sudden animation.

“I can’t. I’m picking up his sister at the airport.”

When the shuttle flight arrived from Minneapolis, Qwilleran scanned the passengers in search of a tall, straight, dark-haired counterpart of Jeffa Young. No one fitted the description. There were business day-trippers with briefcases or laptops, hikers with backpacks, shoppers with tote bags from the best stores. One woman disembarked slowly, casting disapproving glances left and right.

“Mrs. Parsons?” he guessed.

She nodded.

“I’m to drive you to your mother’s house. I’m Jim Qwilleran, a neighbor of hers. Do you have luggage?”

“A black zipper overnight.”

She was shorter than her mother and of less striking appearance. “How far is it?” she asked, as if it mattered.

“About a fifteen-minute ride. You’re not seeing us at our best, because you’re too late for the autumn color and too early for the winter wonderland. We’re expecting the storm called the Big One any day now. How long do you plan to stay?”

“Just long enough to convince her to move to Idaho. She should have come to us in the first place. We can offer a more congenial environment, you know-a family situation with grandchildren, birthday cakes, Thanksgiving dinners, and all that.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “In the short time Mrs. Young has been here she seems to have enjoyed making friends, pursuing her hobby, and finding an outlet for her professional skills.”

“She can do all that in Idaho.”

He cleared his throat. “I met your brother for the first time at the curling club last night and was shocked to hear about his accident. You have my deepest sympathy.”

“What do they say caused the accident?” she asked coolly.

“A fall down a flight of stone stairs after everyone else had left. He had graciously offered to wait for a technician who was traveling a long distance to make emergency repairs. The man found Cass at the foot of the stairs.”

“Did they say whether he’d been drinking?” she asked sharply.

“It wasn’t a consideration, apparently … . How many grandchildren does Jeffa have, Mrs. Parsons?”

“We have two girls and a boy, between four and eight. They’re all excited about meeting their grandmother for the first time.” •’.’

“What attracted you to Idaho? I presume you’re a native of Maryland.”

“I’m interested in the preservation of the environment, and I went vacationing in the northwest part of the state and fell in love with it! You should visit the area. If you like it around here, you’ll like Idaho ten times more.”

“Thank you for the suggestion. It’s something to keep in mind.”

When they arrived in Jeffa’s driveway, he told her to go in and he would bring the luggage. Mother and daughter were embracing in the doorway when he pulled away.

“I didn’t see any tears,” Qwilleran told Polly when he reported to her condo later in the evening. She had invited him to a soup supper and had

prepared his favorite baked potato soup-a cream base flavored with cheese and bacon bits and loaded with chunks of yesterday’s baked potatoes, skins and all. It was another of Polly’s leftover masterpieces.

“What was the daughter like?” she asked.

“Not as handsome or sophisticated as Jeffa. She doesn’t expect to stay long, judging by the size of her overnight bag. She didn’t show any signs of mourning for her brother. I wonder what the funeral arrangements will be.”

“My spies at the library know all the particulars,” Polly said. “Mac MacWhannell is taking care of everything according to Jeffa’s wishes: cremation, no funeral, but a memorial service to be planned by the two curling clubs. … I hope Jeffa stays here. Big Mac is depending on her help with the tax rush. He was being very solicitous at Amanda’s rally. One can’t help wondering … You know, his wife is terminally ill.”

Qwilleran said, “I’ll be willing to bet that Jeffa stays here.”

fifteen

When Qwilleran was preparing the cats’ breakfast, they sat watching him intently, Koko looking intelligent and Yum Yum looking hungry. Speak to them on your own intellectual level, he believed, and they will respond accordingly. He said to Koko, “Will you reiterate your recent midnight message? If you still suspect foul play, slap the floor three times with your tail.”

Koko’s tail remained virtually glued to the vinyl, but the doorbell rang, and Susan Exbridge was on the doorstep. “Darling, I’m on my way to the shop, but I have news.”

“Come in!” he said. “Have a cup of coffee.” “Your coffee is wonderful, but don’t let me stay. I’m meeting a fabulously affluent customer.” She went directly to the loungy sofa. “Love this rug! It’s not my taste, but it’s so sensually correct with your furniture.”

He served coffee. She recognized his Jensen tray. He admired her earrings. She said they were hallmarked English silver buttons. He said, “Excuse me while I finish feeding the cats.” They were on the kitchen counter and had finished feeding themselves.

Finally he joined his guest with a coffee mug and said, “Well, I delivered Angela to her mother’s house, as requested.”

“What did you think of her?”

“To tell the truth, she seemed cold and calculating and not at all concerned about her brother’s death. She doesn’t have her mother’s commanding stature, I noticed.”

“She’s a stepdaughter,” Susan told him. “When Jeffa married Mr. Young, he was a widower with a daughter. Then they had a son together.”