Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Smelled A Rat

Got any coffee?” Qwilleran grumbled as he barged Susan’s shop.

“Darling! What happened? You look … frazzled!”

“Skip the compliments. Just pour the coffee.”

She led him back to her office. “What on earth have you been doing?”

“You’ll read about it in the paper. And in case you’re wondering where your customers are, they’re all down at the post office. But they’ll be here in a few minutes. Meanwhile, I’d like a hostess gift for Mildred Riker. We had dinner there the other night. You were out, whooping it up.”

Susan rolled her eyes. “A customer invited me to a birthday party at the country club, and I had to go because she’d just made a huge purchase. I sat next to the mayor, and I thought it was rather gauche of him to try to sell me some investments between the soup course and the entree.”

“What kind of investments?”

“A special package that pays enormous interest. He had the nerve to give me his card, so I gave him my card and said I buy family heirlooms.”

“Good for you! Now what do you recommend for Mildred?”

“She’d like a bone china teacup and saucer for her collection. I keep them in stock. They’re not old, but collectors come in to buy one and see a Duncan Phyfe table they can’t live without, or an original Tiffany lamp.”

“You’re a crafty one, Susan,” he said, “but you’ll never sell a Duncan Phyfe anything to me!”

“I know, darling, but I love you in spite of it. It’s your moustache! So cavalier! When Polly gets tired of you, I’ll be waiting in the wings… . Now about Mildred’s teacup,” she went on in her businesslike way. “She collects the rose pattern, and I think the yellow rose would be good. Want me to giftwrap it and drop it off at her place on my way home? What do you want on the card?”

Qwilleran was halfway home before realizing he had forgotten his prime mission: fruit for Polly and information on false bottoms. Oh, well…

The Siamese met him with a loud two-part reminder that it was half past treat time. Absently he poured out a dish of crunchies while pondering the mystery of the glove box. Once more he made an attack on the top, bottom, sides, inside, and outside-without a clue.

Then, from the kitchen came a familiar but regrettable sound. One of the cats was “sleigh-riding” or “bottom-sliding” as it was sometimes called. Qwilleran shrugged and said aloud, “Cats will be cats!”

Without stopping to figure the connection, his mind flashed to another wooden box in his life-when he was growing up. It held dominoes. It had a sliding lid, virtually invisible unless one knew about it. The glove box might have a sliding bottom!

Grasping it in both hands and pushing hard with both thumbs, he held his breath. Nothing happened. Turning the box around he pushed from the other end. Ah! A faint crack appeared! It was a tight fit, but gradually the gap opened to a few inches. He could see an envelope inside and could even pull it out without struggling further.

It was addressed to one Helen Omblower in Chipmunk, and the sender was G. Omblower in Pennsylvania; the return address was cryptic. It had been mailed twenty years before, and the envelope was yellow with

age. Both Koko and Yum Yum found it highly sniff-worthy. The enclosed note was equally cryptic. What interested Qwilleran was the unusual name. He looked it up in the phone book, but it was not listed. He would ask the Tibbitts; they knew everyone. Where had Kirt’s mother found the box? In a secondhand shop? It was a handsome piece of carving. Had she tried to open it to retrieve the letter?

His ruminations were interrupted by a phone call from Polly, exclaiming, “My hero!”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I forgot your pears and oranges.”

“They weren’t all that important. It was your performance in front of the post office that mattered!”

“Somebody had to say something.”

“Don’t be modest. You saved the day! Everyone who walked into the library today was raving about your speech! You stole the show from the Big One! Do you know the Last Drink flags are going up all over the county? The Village party will be held tonight-at the clubhouse as usual-Open House from five till midnight, with cash bar, snacks, informal entertainment, and card games. It’s very casual. Just drop in.”

Qwilleran said, “We could have dinner at the Nutcracker Inn first. It may close after snow flies. And I want to visit Homer before the Big One.”

He tracked down Rhoda Tibbitt at the Friendship Inn on the medical campus. “How is your indomitable spouse?”

“Just fine, Qwill. He’s in the Joint Replacement Spa

and having the time of his life, telling stories and keeping the other patients in stitches! They’ve given themselves nicknames. One old gentleman said, ‘If you can be Homer, I want to be Chaucer.’ And that started it. One woman wanted to be Emily Dickinson, and so forth.”

“Do they welcome visitors?”

“By all means! Come before snow flies.”

“As longtime residents of Moose County, Rhoda, have you ever known anyone by the name of Helen Omblower? She lived in Chipmunk twenty years ago. That’s all I know.”

There was a thoughtful pause. “It’s ringing a distant bell. I’ll ask Homer.”

“You do that, and I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

eighteen

Tuesday was a sunny day with blue sky and puffy, white clouds, yet it was the official countdown before the Big One, and all Moose County was in a frenzy of stocking up on … everything. Qwilleran had asked the drugstore to save him a Sunday New York Times, which would keep him busy during the three-day blizzard. As he approached the store he recognized two men standing on the sidewalk. Ernie Kemple’s booming voice said, “The shafthouse!” Then Burgess Campbell said something, and they both roared with laughter.

“What’s the dirt, you guys?” Qwilleran asked. “And why isn’t Alexander laughing?”

Campbell’s guide dog had the unflinching stoicism of his profession.

Kemple became suddenly serious. “Remember I wanted to put an antique mall in Otto’s old building, Qwill? I’ve just found out what’s going in there-the ‘recreation center’ that’s been advertised in a teaser campaign. It’s going to be a video palace with gambling machines on the balcony, and they’re calling it The Shafthouse!”

“Because you’ll get the shaft!” Burgess said.

They roared again.

“Why are we laughing?” said Ernie. “It’s bad news!”

“How did you find out about this?” Qwilleran asked. “It’s been the biggest secret since Hannibal crossed the Alps.”

“My next-door neighbor has the trucking firm that delivered the equipment. The gambling machines go on the balcony.”

“Wait a minute. I didn’t know gambling was permitted in this town.”

“Only if you get a special permit from the city council. Previous requests have been denied, but this time somebody had the right connections or greased the right palms.”

Burgess said, “Alexander himself could get a license to sell booze in this town if he knew the right boots to lick.”

When Qwilleran left with his armful of newspaper, he thought, This whole concept, including the name, is too sophisticated for the simple purveyor of “tasty eats.” Is Otto one of the Donex associates? Is the mayor another? Is this one of the schemes that Zoller disapproved of? Is this one of the reasons he left town suddenly? It takes a special kind of courage to expose corruption in a small town.

It’s easier and safer to move away.

The prospect of visiting a hospitalized ninety-eight-year-old is not usually a joyous one, but there was never anything usual about Homer Tibbitt, and Qwilleran looked forward to it. The lobby of Pickax General was aflutter with “canaries,” the helpful volunteers in yellow smocks. One of them conducted Qwilleran to the Joint Replacement Spa on the top floor.