Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Smelled A Rat

Qwilleran nodded. “Understandable. And what’s your news?”

“Darling, I don’t need to tell you how thin the walls are in this development! Last night I heard an awful row next door between the two women. It was embarrassing!”

“But not so embarrassing that you didn’t listen, I hope.”

“Actually, I couldn’t catch a word, but I heard a door slam, and then all was quiet… . But this morning the airport limousine came for Angela! She’s gone! I think Jeffa is staying here! Big Mac will have his help during the tax rush, and I may get my hands on that Hepplewhite sideboard for the New York show!”

“Hmff!” was Qwilleran’s only comment.

“Mac has come to the rescue like a big brother, making all arrangements. He’s treasurer of the curling club, you know, so he has a double interest in the case.”

“Have you talked to Robyn?”

“Yes, and I feel so sorry for her. She and Jeffa are the

chief mourners, and it’s very touching how they’re consoling each other. Donald is probably laughing his head off, rat that he is!”

“Yow!” came a loud comment from Koko, who was on the table in the foyer, as if to speed the parting guest.

“Well, I must tear myself away,” Susan said. “Thanks for the coffee, and don’t forget: I’m interested in the St. Louis pitcher!”

After she had left, Koko continued to sit on the carved oak glove box, one of his favorite perches in recent days. He treated it like a pedestal for the sculptural poses he liked to strike.

“Vanity! Vanity!” Qwilleran observed.

He turned his attention to the speech he was scheduled to make that evening. At the urging of his friend, Kip McDiarmid, editor of the Lockmaster Ledger, he had consented to be after-dinner speaker at a meeting of the literary club. His decision was influenced, no doubt, by the choice of meeting place, an upscale restaurant in horse country: the Palomino Paddock.

A veteran at making such speeches, he knew what his audience would want to know:

1. How he had learned his craft. (He gave credit to a tenth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Fisheye.)

2. His favorite authors. (Trollope, Flaubert, Nabokov and Mark Twain.)

3. What it’s like to be a twice-weekly columnist. (Rough. Fun. Challenging. Underpaid.)

4. Where he gets his ideas. (I stare at my cat and he stares at me, eyeball to eyeball, and my brain goes into high gear.)

5. What he enjoyed most about writing for metropolitan newspapers Down Below. (The Press Clubs.)

Half serious and half entertaining, his talks always attracted a few more subscribers for the Moose County Something,

The dinner meeting at the Palomino Paddock was held in a private room-really two rooms thrown together because of the number of reservations. After the medallions of beef and the strawberries with peppercorn sauce, the Lockmaster editor introduced “the notorious columnist from the barbaric county to the north.”

Qwilleran began by saying, “Needless to mention, I took the precaution of being vaccinated before venturing on this foreign soil.”

The question-and-answer session that followed the talk included a discussion of haiku, since most of the audience had read that day’s “Qwill Pen.” Then Kip McDiarmid closed the program with a tongue-in-cheek haiku:

“Sick cat… Burnt toast… flat tire … computer down … business as usual.”

It was after midnight when Qwilleran reached

Indian Village. As he turned into River Road, a vehicle ahead of him pulled up to Amanda Goodwinter’s condo. A passenger hurried indoors while Amanda herself brought luggage from the trunk.

Qwilleran was positive the guest was Maggie Sprenkle. Unfortunately it was too late to call Polly and ask if she knew what was happening.

Several questions bothered him: What is Maggie doing here? And why the apparent secrecy? Did she come by chartered plane? It was too late for scheduled flights.

Still without answers on Saturday morning, he chose to do some private sleuthing before involving Polly in the mystery. He went downtown for coffee and scones at the Scottish Bakery and found Burgess Campbell doing the same.

After the usual Celtic banter Qwilleran said, as a teaser, “I hear that Henry Zoller and Maggie Sprenkle have gone out west together and plan to marry.”

“It’ll never happen,” the other man said. “She’s a fanatic about cats, and he has an overfastidious objection to living under the same roof with an animal. Did you ever meet her late husband, Qwill? He was an easygoing fellow, famous for his rose garden. He used to invite me over to smell the roses, and he’d describe every bush as if it were a friend. All Henry’s friends are on the golf course… . No, whoever spread the rumor about him and Maggie doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Someday,” Qwilleran said, “I’d like to write a piece about the intelligent, well-mannered, unflappable Alexander. He’s such a well-known dog-about-town!”

“That could be arranged,” Burgess said, “although you shouldn’t flatter him too much. I wouldn’t want him getting a swelled head.”

Qwilleran’s next stop was the design studio.

Amanda was in-house, scowling at the Saturday shoppers who were “just looking.” Qwilleran hastened their departure by following them around like a store detective. It worked.

“How’s the campaign going, Amanda?” he asked. “If you win, I want to be appointed ambassador to Locktnaster.”

“I’ve got you slated for Secretary of Trash Collection,” she snapped.

“I see you have a houseguest from out of town.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t I see Maggie Sprenkle arriving last night?”

Amanda paused for only two heartbeats. “You didn’t see her. Understand? You-did-not-see-her!”

“If you say so,” he said, pleased at the hint of intrigue. “The person I didn’t see must have arrived by chartered plane-in order to land under cover of darkness.”

“No comment!” Her tight-lipped, downturned mouth put an end to the conversation. But as he bowed out, she called after him, “Don’t mention this to Polly!”

He drove home in a good mood. He now had a riddle to solve-something to stretch his wits. The sight of Koko waiting at the door suggested a solution.

“Want to go for a walk, old boy?” Qwilleran jingled the cat’s harness and leash.

“Yow!” was the enthusiastic response. Whenever they walked outdoors, he rode on the man’s shoulder; it gave him an elevated view and kept his paws clean. A firm hand on the leash prevented any impulsive moves.

They made their exit through the sliding glass doors in the living room, across the open deck, and down the steps to the riverbank trail. Well carpeted with fallen leaves, it rustled crisply underfoot.

Qwilleran headed north toward the other condo clusters, occasionally stopping to pick up a stone and hurl it across the river, or what was left of the rushing water. Drought had reduced it to a brook, conscientiously gurgling its way to the lake.

The scene had a Saturday quiet. The career folk who lived there were at work or shopping or catching up on domestic demands. Polly, for example, was organizing for winter, laundering and storing her warm-weather clothing, and bringing her winter wardrobe out of storage. It was a semi-annual ritual that Qwilleran had learned to respect.

When he reached the rear of The Birches, he knew that the first unit was Amanda’s. He stopped to pitch a stone, hoping that Maggie would be in the living room, looking out the wall of glass. He had a good throwing arm, left over from his college days when he had been noticed by a scout for the Chicago Cubs. He flung several stones. Koko watched with interest. Once he yowled.