Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Smelled A Rat

Arch clapped his hands smartly together. “Got him!”

He looked at his palms. “The little devil got away!”

Mildred said, “They’re not fruit flies, Arch. I’m afraid you have floaters.”

“What? What?”

“Do you mean you reached middle-age without seeing small specks dancing in front of your eyes?”

“According to my ophthalmologist,” Polly said, “the vitreous gel in the eye thickens or shrinks, forming clumps or strands that throw shadows on the retina.”

“Frankly,” Arch said, “I’d rather have fruit flies.”

Qwilleran proposed a toast: “May you never be judged by the company you keep!” Then he entertained them with a story about Burgess Campbell’s guide dog:

“Eddington Smith used to search for out-of-print titles for Burgess, and Alexander developed a platonic romance with Edd’s cat. Winston would sit on the top step of the ladder, and meaningful glances would be exchanged between the two animals. After the disaster it seemed like the end of a beautiful friendship… . until Winston went to live with the Bethunes, next door to the Campbells! And now they commune silently between the side windows.”

“Isn’t that touching!” Mildred cried.

“Any excitement at the paper?” Qwilleran asked.

Arch said, “Our phones rang nonstop yesterday after the paper came out. Readers were mad as hornets about the post office story, as if it were our doing. People always want to shoot the messenger who brings bad news.”

“The headline was… rather brutal,” Polly said. “If the news could have been broken more gently … The quote from Homer Tibbitt was a good idea. Do you know he’s in the hospital?”

“Oh, dear! At his age? It doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Polly said. “He’s having a knee replacement in the Joint Replacement Spa on the top floor. They don’t treat patients as if they’re sick. It’s like taking your car in for a brake relining. I phoned Rhoda, and she said he’s having a wonderful time. He’s not stuck in a hospital room, in a hospital gown. The patients get together in a large pleasant room, and family members can visit them there.”

“Then I don’t have to send him a cheer-up card,” Arch said. “He can send me a cheer-up card.”

Everyone was relaxed. Conversation flowed easily. Dessert was a chocolate sundae with a topping of pistachio nuts.

The party ended early, and Polly invited Qwilleran in for music.

When he finally returned to Unit Four, the Siamese were waiting politely for their tuck-in ritual… . but the living room was a mess. Koko had been on a paper-shredding binge and had reduced the Something to ticker tape and confetti. That smart cat had discovered that newsprint tears more successfully lengthwise than crosswise! What was on his mind? He had oblique ways of communicating. He might be suggesting that he preferred torn paper in his commode-and not the expensive dustproof, scatterproof litter. Or was he editorializing on the post office story, the haiku, or the big teaser ad promising fun for the whole family? What kind of fun?

The next afternoon all was quiet in Unit Four.

Qwilleran was reading, and the Siamese were catnapping, when Koko suddenly bolted out of his lethargy as if shot and started racing around the house: over tables, around the kitchen, up the stairs, down to the living room sofa like a flying squirrel, toppling a lamp, scattering everything else.

It was a first-class catfit. The Big One’s coming, Qwilleran thought.

The insane chase ended on the fireplace mantel, where Koko stood on his hind legs and pawed the batik-pawed the red patches of dye that were robins.

Something twitched on Qwilleran’s upper lip, and something clicked in his brain. He phoned Unit Two at The Birches. “Susan, is there such a thing as an emergency manicure?”

“No, darling. Are your fingernails falling off? Robyn is right next door with Jeffa. Shall I send her over?”

“I’ll be much in your debt, Susan.”

“How about selling me the martini pitcher?”

“Not that much in your debt.”

In a few minutes the manicurist arrived with her businesslike black kit. “Susan says you have a problem, Mr. Q.”

“Yes. It’s very good of you to come on short notice.”

“Where shall we work? At the kitchen table?”

Sitting across from her, he first grasped her hands and said with sincerity, “Before we begin, let me extend my deep sympathy to you and Mrs. Young.”

She lowered her eyes. “Thank you. I feel so sorry for Jeffa-losing her husband, moving to a strange town to be with her son, then losing him so tragically.”

They observed a moment of respectful silence. Then she said, “You have spatulate fingers, Mr. Q. They make a strong hand for a man.”

In a flashback he recalled acting in college plays and gloating over critics’ praise of his “strong gestures.” Was it only a matter of spatulate fingers?

“Now what’s the problem, Mr. Q?” H

“My problem, Robyn, is in accepting Cass’s death as an accident. I feel strongly about it.”

She looked up hopefully. “I do, too! I don’t know what to do.”

“Did he have enemies?”

“Well… Don blamed Cass for breaking up our marriage, but it was doomed long before I met Cass.”

“How did you meet him?”

“Well… XYZ executive meetings were held at our house, and I was supposed to serve the drinks and then disappear, but Cass liked to talk to me about nature and the environment. I love the outdoors…. After what happened at Breakfast Island, Cass and Doctor Zoller disagreed with Don a lot. I knew about their fights because the walls of these condos are thin. They had a violent argument over the payday loan company that Don wanted XYZ to start. Don said it was legal, and he could get a permit. Dr. Zoller said it was unethical and immoral, it exploited working people. That’s when he and Cass resigned.”

“Who are Don’s new associates? Do you know?”

“No. I’d checked out by then. But strange things are happening. The doctor told Cass they should both get out of town while they were still healthy. Cass didn’t take him seriously.”

“Before you leave,” he said, “look at the wall hanging over the fireplace.”

“Robins!” she cried. She pulled up a pantleg to show a small robin tattoo on her ankle. “An artist in Bixby does butterflies, squirrels, anything you want. It’s a permanent symbol of your commitment to the environment. As soon as I filed for divorce, I got this tattoo and dyed my hair the reddest red there is! I’ll give you the artist’s number, if you’re interested.”

She left, and the Siamese jumped down from the refrigerator. They had been listening, concerned about what she was doing to him.

Qwilleran hoped Polly was not looking out the window when the striking redhead walked past. He hoped she was still putting away summer cottons and getting out winter tweeds. If she saw Robyn, she would not recognize her as the colorless Mrs. Exbridge.

Polly would ask, “Who was that striking redhead?” If he said, “My manicurist,” she would not believe it. He would say, “She was collecting for homeless cats and dogs, and when you didn’t answer your doorbell, I gave her a generous donation in your name.” That she would believe.

seventeen

Koko was a cat of many interests-most of them short-lived, all of them intense. Now it was the glove box! Earlier he had spent hours investigating the highlights and shadows within the crystal martini pitcher. He had played fast and loose with a bowl of wooden apples, as if pointing out that they were not the real thing: that cat knew right from wrong. He had rubbed his jaw on the sharp corners of the pyramid lampshade tilting it or twisting it. Why? Only a cat would know… . Now his obsession was the glove box.