Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Smelled A Rat

“Kirt, this is Qwilleran. I’ve decided to go whole hog-David Roberts-Napoleon-and anything else you consider a wise investment. Could you come over tomorrow, about noon, and have a Bloody Mary and give me some advice? Just call and leave a yes or no on my machine.”

When Qwilleran picked up Polly for a dinner date at the Nutcracker Inn, he was met at the door by Brutus, her self-appointed security officer, who accepted a small bribe. “The way to have a friend is to be a friend,” said Qwilleran, “and that goes double for cats.” On the way to Black Creek he announced, “I’ve solved my Christmas-shopping problem!”

“I wish I could,” she said. “What are you doing?” “Giving everyone a gift certificate for an ankle tattoo at a Bixby art studio. It’s now socially correct to declare your commitment to the environment by having a nature symbol tattooed on your ankle.”

Her peals of laughter jolted his grip on the wheel. “Who gave you that idea?”

“You could have a butterfly or a mouse or a cardinal-“

“Cardinals are overdone. You see them on greeting cards, T-shirts, pot holders, wastebaskets-everywhere,” she objected.

“You have plenty of time to decide. I visualize Arch with a bullfrog and Mildred with a white rabbit.”

His manner was so serious, she never knew when she was being teased.

She said, “I saw Derek driving into our street the other day. I wonder what that was all about?”

“He and Wetherby were probably planning the entertainment for the party. I wouldn’t be surprised if they did a tap dance.”

Polly had never seen the tall brick mansion that housed the Nutcracker Inn.

“Wait till you see the interior,” he said. “Fran Brodie was commissioned to furnish it in Stickley, like the Mackintosh Inn.”

“But the atmosphere is different,” she said as she entered. “Lighter and airier and friendlier. It’s the pale coral walls!”

When the innkeeper welcomed them, he said to Qwilleran, “The young couple you recommended as innkeepers came in and introduced themselves. They have good personalities and credentials, and I told them-“

“Mr. Knox! Mr. Knox!” cried a young woman in a housekeeping smock as she rushed down the stairs from an upper floor. “Mrs. Smith on the third floor wants her dinner sent up on a tray.”

“No problem,” he said quietly. “Give the information to the hostess. And Cathy-walk, don’t rush.” To the guests he explained, “An MCCC student. Her first day on the job.”

Polly said, “How well I remember my first day on my first job.”

“Don’t we all!”

In the dining room the tablecloths were the same pale coral. They both ordered grilled salmon-to go with the tablecloths, they said. Qwilleran grumbled that it must be the cook’s first day on the job, too, although he finished every morsel on his plate.

Polly said, “Guess who came to the library today, bearing gifts? Misty Morghan! She’s offering us two large batiks in splashy colors to brighten the reading room. I took her to lunch at Rennie’s.”

“What did you do with your trusty tuna sandwich?”

“Gave it to Mac and Katie. Misty claims to have a unique eye for hidden details, and she can tell when someone has had cosmetic surgery. She was glancing around the restaurant, and it struck me as invasion of privacy, but I reserved my opinion. She said to me, ‘Don’t look now, but the man over there has had a complete facial reconstruction.’ He must have been in a devastating accident.”

“Did you look?”

“Of course I looked! It was Kirt Nightingale! I always thought his expression was unemotional. I wonder if he’s doing well with his catalogue.”

Toward the end of the meal Qwilleran asked, “How do you feel about the Last Drink party?”

“Not strongly. How do you feel?”

“It’s April fifteenth trying to be New Year’s Eve, but we should make an appearance. I have to be home by ten; I’m expecting an important phone call.”

When they left the dining room, the innkeeper asked if they had enjoyed their dinner, and they were trying to say something tactful, when the young housekeeper came bouncing down the stairs again.

“Mr. Knox! The lady on the third floor wants to know if Nicodemus could spend the night with her! She’s lonesome for her five cats.”

Hearing his name, a sleek black cat slinked into their midst-a cat with eyes that burned like live coals.

“Certainly,” the innkeeper said. “Take him upstairs, and don’t forget his water dish and commode.”

Ah! Qwilleran thought. Maggie’s still here!

nineteen

When Qwilleran and Polly arrived at the party, they were greeted effusively by their neighbors: “We were afraid you weren’t coming! … Derek has written a new song… . What are you drinking?… Try some of the chicken liver pate.”

Wetherby Goode played a fanfare on the piano and announced, “And now the moment you have been waiting for! Derek Cuttlebrink plays his latest creation: ‘Pickax the Proud’!”

There were cheers as everyone’s favorite folksinger stepped to the microphone, strummed a few chords, and sang:

We’re the friendly folk of Pickax, U.S.A. We find each other’s puppies when they stray.

Our bosses give us raises

And we always sing their praises, And we’re getting better-looking every day.

If someone does us dirt we never sue. We lend the guy next door a buck or two.

We’re the first at paying taxes

And the last at grinding axes. And gossiping we never, never do!

When someone suggested making it the official anthem of Pickax City, the Villagers roared their approval. Derek winked broadly at Qwilleran, who left immediately with Polly-both of them murmuring excuses and regrets.

Around ten o’clock the Siamese were watching

Qwilleran prepare a tray of beverages and cheeses when their heads swiveled toward the foyer. An unearthly sound was coming from the street.

On the sidewalk stood Andrew Brodie in the fatigues he usually wore to rake leaves, and he was piping a wild Scottish dance.

When the last bouncing, heel-clicking notes had trailed off into silence, Qwilleran called out, “Andy! What’s that insane tune?”

“The Drunken Piper.”

“Then come in and sober up.”

He followed Qwilleran into the kitchen, dropping the bagpipe on the sofa. There the Siamese could sniff the strange animal and decide whether it was dead or alive.

“How did it go at the hospital?”

“I played his favorite hymns, and he was peaceful when I left.”

The refreshments were served in the living room, where there was a small fire crackling in the grate. The guest looked about appreciatively. “Pretty big robins, those … are those apples real?… That pitcher is some chunk of glass!” Then he asked, “How come you aren’t out having a Last Drink?”

“This is my Last Drink.”

“Are you one of those idiots who rush out into the street when snow starts to fly and stick out their tongues?”

“I can’t say I fit that description.”

“If a snowflake lands on your tongue, it’s supposed to be good luck. Downtown will be full of crazy fools running around with tongues hanging out like overheated dogs.”

The telephone rang. “Let it ring,” Qwilleran said. “I think they’ll leave a message.”

After a few rings, a man’s voice said, “Qwill, this is Kirt. The answer is yes. Tomorrow at twelve noon. You’re making a wise choice.”

“Are you ready for the Big One tonight?” Brodie asked.

“I don’t expect it as soon as the National Weather Service predicts. When my weather cat stages his meteorological catfit, it’ll be time to batten down the hatches.”

“One of my neighbor’s kids won a pencil in your contest. He wrote a poem about his cats… . Where are your chums?”