Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Smelled A Rat

“Your mother must have been a saint, Qwill, to make a responsible adult out of a brat like you. I’m sure you were a brat.”

“Yes, but a decent one. How much for the sampler?”

“Take it!” she said. “I’ll never sell it.”

On the way home Qwilleran tuned in to WPKX on his car radio to catch the hourly news and heard Derek Cuttlebrink singing in his country western twang, “I found my puppy in Pickax….” That rogue, he thought, has been to the station and taped it, and they’ll play it ad nauseam until Christmas! A lot of puppies and kittens might be adopted, but it’ll drive the radio audience up the wall!

The broadcast news was merely a condensation of that day’s Moose County Something, with the exception of a bulletin: “Moose County is in dire crisis! Tune in to WPKX tonight at eight o’clock as civic leaders confront the threat of widespread fire throughout the countryside, forests and small villages. Drastic action is needed! Every citizen should tune in tonight at eight. Alert your friends and neighbors!”

While Qwilleran was downtown, the Siamese were acquainting themselves with the new acquisitions. Returning home he found a corner of the deep-pile rug turned up and two of his yellow pencils hidden underneath - Yum Yum’s doing. In the foyer the new shade on the copper lamp had been twisted out of square with the base - Koko’s doing. That cat enjoyed rubbing his jaw against the bottom edge of the shades. Otherwise, all was well: The red apples were in their bowl on the coffee table; the red geraniums were lined up on the balcony railing; and the red robins were still tugging at their worm over the fireplace.

Qwilleran said to them, “I’ve brought something else for you to inspect,” and he hung the Jack Be Nimble sampler over a kitchen counter.

The eight o’clock newscast, with all its urgency and disturbing import, was a good excuse for Qwilleran to invite his new neighbor in for a drink, but when he phoned, Nightingale hesitated. “I’m an ailurophobe.”

“Have no qualms. The cats will be confined to their quarters on the balcony,” Qwilleran assured him. “What do you like to drink?”

“Just a little vodka on the rocks.”

In preparation Qwilleran filled two bowls with mixed nuts and hid the glove box he was not supposed to have. The Siamese were given an extra snack and ushered upstairs.

Kirt Nightingale arrived a quarter-hour before the program was due to start. As he entered, he darted glances into corners and shadows as if expecting to be ambushed. Once reassured, he took a seat on the sofa. Of course, he noticed the book on the coffee table. “Are you interested in Egypt? I can get you The Journals of Bonaparte in Egypt in 1779 to 1801. Ten volumes in half-leather. With scientific translations in Arabic.”

“Sounds interesting,” Qwilleran said, more politely than honestly. “How much?”

“Only seven hundred.”

“That’s something to think about, definitely.”

“Do you know David Roberts?”

It seemed like an abrupt change of subject. Qwilleran knew two men by that name: the sports editor at the paper and the mechanic at Gippel’s Garage. Fortunately he had the good sense to ask, “Which one?”

“The eighteenth-century artist who painted Egyptian deserts and architecture. There are three volumes that you’d appreciate-with more than a hundred hand-colored lithographs. Published in 1846. The color is not the original, you understand, but it’s early.”

Qwilleran nodded. “Yes, of course. What’s being asked?”

“You could have the three volumes, large format, for under sixty thousand.”

“We’ll have to talk about that,” Qwilleran said as he looked at his watch and tuned in to the eight o’clock program. Music was abruptly interrupted, heightening the sense of urgency. Then the station announcer said, “Tens of thousands of county residents will hear this program and realize the need for action.” He introduced the president of the county commissioners, who had lauded the shafthouses in flowery terms and now seemed solemnly concerned: “Dry conditions, subterranean fires creeping to the surface, and the chance that high winds could sweep across the landscape and destroy two hundred square miles of farms, forests, and towns, converting this fair county of ours into charcoal overnight! It happened in the nineteenth century and could happen again. Routine patrols are not enough. Our only defense is constant surveillance around the clock. We have fifteen volunteer fire departments on the alert, equipped to put down small fires before they become big fires, but they must know their location.

“To the rescue comes the Citizens’ Fire Watch, ready to swing into action at midnight. Chairman Ernie Kemple will describe the operation.

“First let me remind you, folks, that this idea was proposed by Burgess Campbells American history students at MCCC, who have been working industriously to plan the operation.”

Kemple’s booming voice was well known. Since selling his insurance agency and retiring, he had played roles in theatre club productions and had been named Volunteer of the Year.

“Briefly,” he said, “private citizens will drive their own cars through the back roads around mines-looking for wildfires and reporting them to a hotline by cell phone. They will drive in three-hour patrols, around an area divided into four segments. Some of our civic leaders, upon hearing the plan, volunteered immediately. Many more are needed. Additional phone lines have been hooked up here at the station, and committee members are waiting to sign you up and answer your questions.”

He mentioned Amanda Goodwinter, Derek Cuttlebrink, Dr. Diane Lanspeak, Whannell MacWhannell, Scott Gippel, and others. The roster of prominent names inspired action, and new names were broadcast as fast as they volunteered. Kemple answered questions:

“Yes, you can request daylight or nighttime hours…. You’ll be given a detailed map of your segment. … If you don’t have a cell phone, one will be provided… . About gas? Good question. Anyone driving two or more three-hour patrols can claim gas mileage from a kitty established by the K Fund… . Yes, by all means, take a partner-neighbor, friend, family member-to help with the fire-spotting. The first three-hour patrol is your donation to the cause…. Glad you mentioned that. MCCC students who volunteer will receive credits for community service. Cars will be identified by a small white pennant on the right front fender. Smile when you see one!”

Kemple made a final reminder: “Scheduling cars for twenty-four hours a day is tricky business and allows for no last-minute cancellations or no-shows. When you volunteer, you are protecting your county and your home… . Also, bear in mind that this is not a long-term commitment. Your help is needed only until snow flies.”

Qwilleran turned off the radio and said proudly, “Only in a closely knit county like this could you facilitate a project so fast. Refresh your drink, Kirt?”

There was a shattering crash!

Nightingale jumped to his feet. “My God! What’s that?”

Qwilleran glanced upward and saw Koko on the balcony railing, staring down at the mess he had created.

Kirt followed his glance. “Sorry! Gotta get out of here. Thanks for the drink.” He rushed to the front door.

Qwilleran stroked his moustache. As a host he should feel embarrassed, and yet Nightingale’s frantic exit was not enlisting his sympathy. Nevertheless, he would write a note of apology. It was partly his own fault; he had forgotten that Koko knew how to operate a lever-type door handle. And Koko was only teasing, playing cat and mouse. The cat sensed a likely victim. Perhaps it was a mistake to let Fran Brodie put such objects on a balcony railing. The fact was: The row of five pots looked good.’ Now there were four.