Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Smelled A Rat

“What are those?” asked the surprised customer.

“Plants. She said to put them up there on the top railing.”

“On the balcony?”

“That’s what she said.”

The pots were placed at intervals of about a foot. Fran always insisted that four are better than three, and five are better than four. She never stated her reasoning; anyone as attractive and talented as Fran needed no reasons.

Finally came the wall hanging, measuring three-by-four. It covered much of the brick chimney breast-a stylized nature study of two red-breasted robins tugging a worm out of a lawn. Everything was superscale: the robins in the foreground as big as turkeys, the green leaves in the background as big as a pizza, and the worm as big as a salami.

After hanging it and checking it with a small level, the installer stood back to survey it. “Cool!” he said to Qwilleran. “They’re robins.”

“They’re big enough to be turkeys,” Qwilleran observed.

“Yeah. Artists do crazy things like that.”

Qwilleran did his puttering at the office of the Moose County Something, when he handed in copy

for the obituary. He scanned page proofs, and checked photos and final drafts. There were photos of ten mines and five direct descendants…. Coverage on the silent auction included shots of Derek Cuttlebrink and the two G-dogs, as well as a satisfied customer carrying away a rocking chair….. Eddington Smith’s farewell ran on the obituary page with a photo of the store and a photo-file shot of the late bookseller.

Only Qwilleran knew the story behind the story of the motorcade: the politicians’ speeches getting shorter and shorter, dignitaries refusing to leave the limousines, the county historian asleep on a backseat, nine wreaths for ten mines, and a direct descendant taking potshots at everyone with his index finger. Ping! And more!

In the column of news briefs on the business page Qwilleran found three items of note:

The Pickax shop of Exbridge & Cobb, Fine Antiques, has achieved the longtime goal of Susan Exbridge: acceptance as an exhibitor at the Eastside Settlement House Antique Show in New York, one of the most prestigious in the country.

Theo Morghan, M.D., and David Todd, M.D., both of Chicago, have arrived here to open the Moose County Dermatology Clinic in the medical center. Specialties are skin diseases, plastic surgery, and liposuction.

Donald Exbridge, CEO of XYZ Enterprises, announces the dissolution of the eight-year-old corporation and the formation of a new enterprise: Donex &. Associates. The move coincides with the resignation of two principals: Henry Zoller is retiring, and Caspar Young will establish his own construction business. The flagship development of XYZ, Indian Village, will continue under the management of Donex.

The new Pet Plaza in Kennebeck is booked to capacity for October. According to a spokesperson, it is “designed for pet owners who feel guilty about leaving their loved ones in a boarding kennel while they take luxury cruises.” Reservations are being accepted for November.

Qwilleran enjoyed a few chuckles over the news briefs. They had been slyly edited with Don Exbridge’s ex-wife as the lead item, while Don’s new firm was sandwiched between skin diseases and animal hospitality. Had the billboard prank caused the upheaval? Who were the unnamed associates?

It was a good excuse to visit Susan Exbridge’s shop on Main Street.

“Darling! How wonderful to see you!” she exclaimed in the dramatic manner she affected. “Did you come to spend money or scrounge a cup of coffee?”

“The latter. I’m honest to a fault… . Also I want to congratulate you on making the New York show. Your late partner would be proud of you.”

“Thank you. The show is too grand for words.” He followed her to the office, through an aisle of polished mahogany and brass.

“Do you want your coffee black?”

“Please … There was another interesting item on the business page today. What do you suppose Donex & Associates have up their corporate sleeve?”

“Nothing entirely honorable, I’m sure.”

Qwilleran said, “I’ve never met the Y and Z part of the firm.”

“They’re well rid of the connection, if you ask me. Cass Young is a nice young man; Dr. Zoller is a nice older man. He gave up his dental practice because he couldn’t bear to hurt his patients. Besides, he was better at playing the stock market than filling teeth, and he had family money to play with. … Is it true that you’ve moved to the Village for the winter? You and Polly must attend the rally in the clubhouse-to support Amanda’s candidacy, you know. Bring that new neighbor of yours. I’d like to meet a rare-book dealer. What’s his name?”

“Kirtwell Nightingale.”

“I like him already. I have a new neighbor, too-an older woman from Baltimore, recently retired. She has some fabulous eighteenth-century Americana that I’d like to buy.”

“What is she doing 400 miles north of everywhere?” Qwilleran inquired.

“She lost her husband, and her son thought she should come here.”

Qwilleran said, “I hope she likes snowshoeing and ice fishing. What did she do before she retired?”

“Accounting, but her hobby is astrology-serious astrology. She’s highly regarded on the East Coast, according to her son, and I’d like to see her get established here.

She’s giving a lecture at the clubhouse, and I’ve commissioned her to do my natal chart.”

Qwilleran thought, The woman probably owns a priceless Hepplewhite sideboard that Susan wants to take to the New York show.

Susan suggested, “Why don’t you have Mrs. Young do your chart, Qwill?”

“You mean, my horoscope?”

“I’m not talking about the silly things your paper prints to fill space on the comic page, darling! Simply provide the place, date, and hour of your birth, and Mrs. Young will chart the effect of the planets on your past, present, and future.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He knew his past and present and preferred not to know his future. On impulse he asked, “Who’s her son?”

“The Y in XYZ Enterprises, but he’s going out on his own. Do you happen to know the hour of your birth, Qwill? Not too many persons do.”

“Seven minutes after eleven P.M.-a lucky number, my mother said.”

“I’d say you were lucky, darling.”

“Off and on. Could I have my … chart done anonymously?”

“You can use an assumed name, and I won’t reveal anything about you. That way, the chart will be a demonstration of the integrity of the science-and Mrs. Young’s skill.”

He wrote down the data required and the name Ronald Frobnitz. “How much is this little charade going to cost?”

“No more than you can afford … another cup?”

“No thanks, but it’s good! What brand of instant decaf do you buy?”

“Get out!” she screamed.

He started to wander out through the empty store. “Customers aren’t breaking down your doors today.”

“It’s Monday.”

He sauntered past Chippendale, Queen Anne, chi-noiserie, then stopped before a framed piece of needlework. The embroidery threads were faded, and the linen was dark with age. Alphabet blocks were stitched to make a border, and in the center was a boy jumping over a lighted candlestick. The inscription read: Jack be nimble … Jack be quick.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“A sampler, late nineteenth century,” Susan said. “Not what I usually have in my shop, but it came in a box of quite good engravings.”

“I wish I had a buck for every time that nursery rhyme was recited to me. In our house the rule was: Be quick but never in a hurry. The last time I was in a hurry, I was rushing out to play baseball with the kids, and I fell down some concrete steps. Had twelve stitches taken in my upper lip.” He patted his moustache.