Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Smelled A Rat

“Attaboy,” Qwilleran said as he pitched another chunk of rock.

Koko yowled again.

Almost immediately there was tapping on the window and the sound of a sliding glass door.

Qwilleran looked up, feigning surprise, and saw an arm beckoning. Slowly he walked toward the deck and climbed the steps.

Maggie was in the doorway, putting a finger to her lips, cautioning him to be silent.

Once inside the house, with the sliding door closed, he said in a hushed voice, “Maggie! What are you doing here? Why didn’t you let us know?”

“It’s a long story,” she said wearily, “and I’m really not… at liberty … to discuss it.”

This was hardly the effusive, grandiose Maggie everyone knew. Noticeably absent was the hugging.

Koko, perched on Qwilleran’s shoulder, looked down at her and gurgled a throaty purr.

“He knows I’m a cat person,” she said. “Sit down, Qwill. May I hold him?”

The leash was unsnapped, and Koko settled down on her lap. Though not a lapcat by temperament, he seemed to know that therapy was needed. She stroked him, and he purred lustily. “I’ve missed my ladies so much,” she murmured.

“They’re well and happy at the Pet Plaza,” Qwilleran assured her. “I happened to be over there and noticed their names on the nameplates. … Is Henry with you, Maggie?”

Her answer was hesitant. “No, he didn’t come-this time.”

“Are felicitations in order?” he asked cheerfully. “Have the wedding bells been ringing?”

“No, I’m afraid they’re postponed.” She stroked the cat’s fur nervously.

“You missed Amanda’s rally. It was very well done. Derek sang an original campaign song. People said the event had everything-except Maggie Sprenkle.” He knew that would touch a heartstring.

“Oh, Qwill!” she said pathetically. “I’m so upset. I’m not supposed to talk to anyone-until I’ve seen Henry’s lawyer.”

“I see … Well, I won’t pry into your business, but if there’s anything I can do-drive you anywhere or offer any brotherly advice-you know I’m trustworthy and sympathetic.”

“I know.”

“I heard someone speaking very highly of your late husband this morning.”

“Jeremy… yes. We spent forty happy years together… . Qwill! I never intended to marry Henry! It was just… He had to leave town. He thought it would save face… . You won’t breathe a word of this, will you?”

“Of course not, Maggie. I hope Henry isn’t in any serious trouble.”

“Did you know Cass Young?”

“Only by reputation until Wednesday night at the curling club, just a few hours before his accident.”

“Henry thinks it wasn’t an accident,” Maggie said in a hushed voice.

“Yow!” said the cat on her lap.

“Oh, my! What a loud voice you have, Koko! Does he want to go home?”

“He’s trying to tell you someone’s coming. We’ll leave.” He grabbed Koko and headed for the sliding door. The doorbell rang.

“It’ll be Mr. Bennett,” Maggie said. “I’ll stall until you get away.”

Koko’s body vibrated all the way home, supercharged by the intense stroking. Qwilleran kept a tight lead on the cat lest he should feel an impulse to take wing. It had been an exhilarating adventure for both of them. The man’s strategy had worked: The cat seemed to have done all the right things on cue.

It had been revealed that Henry “had to leave town.” It sounded as if he were involved in financial dealings that were illegal, and now his attorney was trying to make a deal with the prosecutor, with Maggie as go-between. If so, it was serious business. Bennett was senior partner of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter. Despite the death of Hasselrich, the name of the firm had been retained, at least temporarily.

Qwilleran thought, Poor Maggie!-so outgoing, honest, and generous-still married to the memory of Jeremy and his rose garden, and lonesome for her five “ladies.” And she was cast in an unfamiliar role of secrecy and complicity, with unknown stakes…. How would she explain the cat hairs on her clothing?

Back home and released from his harness, Koko sniffed noses with Yum Yum, who had come to meet him, and had a few laps of water and prowled around the house to see if anything new had been added… . after which he soared to the mantel and stayed there for the next two hours, stretched full length, exhausted by his adventure.

sixteen

Now Qwilleran had two hot news items he could not reveal-even to close friends: Henry’s reason for leaving town and Maggie’s secret return. The arrival of Jeffa’s stepdaughter and her sudden angry departure were already stale news on the Pickax grapevine.

This was the evening for viewing the Hikers’ sofa and having a little supper. Safe topics would be: the weather, the accident at the curling club, the teaser ads that had been running in the Something, Kip McDiarmid’s haiku that convulsed the literary club, and Yum Yum’s hoarding of socks under the rya rug. There would also be comment on Friday’s alarming headline:

P.O. MURALS … MUST … GO!

The historic Moose County murals that have made the Pickax post office a tourist attraction and a mecca for the citizenry are doomed to disappear.

Otherwise the building will be condemned as a public-safety hazard and permanently closed.

Postmaster Bill Buncomb said, “This comes as a shock! We were worried about peeling paint drifting down on customers like dandruff, but had no idea it was life-threatening. But when the experts tested it, they lowered the boom.”

The building will be closed until further notice, and post office business will be shifted to the vacant buildings on Book Alley.

County historian Homer Tibbitt said, “When the murals were painted during the Depression, there were no artists here capable of working in heroic scale, so artists were brought in from elsewhere in the state, but they used local folks for models-miners, loggers, farmwives, and so on. Today their descendants come into the post office and see Grandma or Great-grandpa up there on the wall. She’s pedaling a spinning wheel, and he’s climbing up a ladder with coal dust on his face. It’s a shame to take this away from them, but if the murals are life-threatening, there’s no choice.”

It was twilight when Qwilleran called for Polly, to go to see the Rikers’ new sofa. Hearing no music as he passed Wetherby Goode’s unit, he assumed his neighbor was in Horseradish with his inamorata. Kirt Nightingale’s place was dark; he was undoubtedly at the country club. Polly was feeding the cats, and he helped by changing their drinking water and policing their commode. Then they strolled to The Birches.

Amanda’s unit was dark; she might be dining with clients in Purple Point, who would be plotting her political career: first, mayor; then, county commissioner; then-?

Jeffa was home, and Robyn’s car was there; there was a small robin painted on the driver’s door.

Susan’s place was dark. Her bridge club would be meeting at the clubhouse and having a catered dinner. Some kind of chicken.

At the Rikers’ condo the foursome assembled with the warm pleasure of old friends who see each other often. There were cries of, “Where’s the sofa?”

It was admired from all angles, sat upon, and compared to the old one. The fabric, Mildred said, was an abstract jacquard weave treated to resist soil. The color, Arch said, was the color of good Scotch.

With Mildred’s casserole of moussaka, Arch was serving a local wine from the Windy Cliff Vineyard in Brrr Township. For Qwilleran he had a white grapejuice imported from Ohio. He kept waving his hand over the top of the open bottles. “Fruit flies,” he explained.

“In November?” Qwilleran asked.