Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Smelled A Rat

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It was late October, and Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere, was in danger of being wiped off the map. In the grip of a record-breaking drought, towns and farms and forests could be reduced to ashes overnight-given a single spark and a high wind. Volunteer firefighters were on round-the-clock alert, and the congregations of fourteen churches prayed for snow. Not rain. Snow! Winter always began with a three-day blizzard, called the Big One, that buried everything under snow drifting to ten feet. So the good folk of Moose County waxed their snow shovels, bought antifreeze and earmuffs, stockpiled bottled water and flashlight batteries-and prayed.

Late one evening, in a condominium northeast of Pickax City, the county seat, a cat sat on a windowsill, stretching his neck, raising his nose, and sniffing. The man watching him thought, He smells a skunk. They had recently moved to the wooded area with its new sights, new sounds, new smells.

He went outdoors to investigate and found no sign of a skunk. It was a calm, quiet night-until the whoop of a police siren shattered the silence, followed by the honk-honk of a fire truck speeding south on a distant highway. The noise stopped abruptly as the emergency vehicles reached their destination. Reassured that another wildfire was under control, he went back indoors.

The cat was lapping water from his bowl. It was remarkable that he had smelled smoke three miles away, on a night without a breeze, and with the window closed. But Kao K’o Kung was a remarkable cat! They had moved to a condominium in Indian Village for the winter: two Siamese and their personal valet, Jim Qwilleran. He also wrote a twice-weekly column for the local paper, the Moose County Something. Now middle-aged, he had been a prize-winning crime reporter for metropolitan newspapers Down Below, as the rest of the United States was known to Moose County. Odd circumstances had brought him to the north country with his two housemates, both adopted after crises in their nine lives.

Kao K’o Kung, familiarly known as Koko, was a sleek, stalwart male with amazing intelligence and intuition. Yum Yum was smaller, softer, and sweeter. Both had the pale fawn fur with seal brown “points” typical of the breed, and their brown masks were accented with shockingly blue eyes. While the female was adored for her dainty walk and kittenish ways, the male was admired for his masterful whiskers-sixty instead of the usual forty-eight.

By coincidence, Qwilleran was noted for his luxuriant pepper-and-salt moustache. It appeared at the head of his “Qwill Pen” column every Tuesday and Friday and was recognized everywhere he went. A well-built six-foot-two, he was seen walking around town, riding a bicycle, dining in restaurants, and covering his beat. But he had claims to fame other than the unorthodox spelling of his name and the magnificence of his moustache. Fate had made him the heir to the vast Klingenschoen fortune, and he was the richest man in the northeast central United States. Turning his wealth over to a foundation for philanthropic purposes had helped to endear him to the citizens of Moose County.

After the smoke-sniffing episode, Qwilleran gave the Siamese their bedtime treat and conducted them to their comfortable room on the balcony, turning on their TV without the sound, to lull them to sleep. Then he sprawled in a large chair and read news magazines until it was time for the midnight news on WPKX: “A brushfire on Chipmunk Road near the Big B minesite has been extinguished by volunteer firelighters from Kennebeck. When they arrived on the scene, the flames were creeping toward the shafthouse, one of ten in the county recently designated as historic places. ‘Motorists driving on country roads are once more reminded not to toss cigarettes out the car window,’ said a spokesman for the sheriff’s department. ‘Roadside weeds and forest underbrush are dry as tinder.’ This is the third such fire in a week.”

Qwilleran tamped his moustache, as he often did when harboring suspicions; strangely, it seemed to be the source °f his hunches. He thought, Arson for purposes of vandalism is on the increase nationwide. In Moose County any black-hearted arsonist who wanted to infuriate the populace could torch a shafthouse. Yet locals were reluctant to admit that “it can happen here.” Nevertheless, he had been glad to desert the centers of overpopulation, crime, traffic jams and pollution-and accept the quirks of small-town living. He himself was not inclined to gossip, but he was willing to listen to the neighborly exchange of information that flourished in coffee shops, on street corners and through the Pickax grapevine.

At Toodle’s Market the next day, where he bought groceries, the three brushfires were the chief topic of conversation. Everyone had a theory. No one believed the sheriff. It was a cover-up. The authorities were trying to avert panic. The groceries were for Polly Duncan, director of the public library. Qwilleran had an arrangement with her. He shopped for her groceries while she slaved in the work place. Then she invited him to dinner. It was more than a practical proposition; Polly was the chief woman in his life-charming, intelligent, and his own age.

The dinner deal was especially convenient in the winter, when he closed his summer place-a converted apple barn-and moved his household to Indian Village. There he owned a condo, a few doors from Polly’s. He liked a periodic change of address; it satisfied the wanderlust that had made him a successful journalist Down Below.

Indian Village was an upscale residential development in Suffix Township (which had been annexed by Pickax City after years of wrangling). It extended along the west bank of the Ittibittiwassee River. Rustic cedar-sided buildings were scattered among the trees: condominiums in clusters of four, multiplex apartments, a clubhouse, and a gatehouse. Qwilleran had Unit Four in the cluster called The Willows. Unit Three was occupied by the WPKX meteorologist, Wetherby Goode (real name, Joe Bunker). There was a new neighbor in Unit Two; Kirt Nightingale was a rare-book dealer from Boston, returning to his hometown in middle age. (“What do you suppose is his real name?” the village wags whispered.) Polly Duncan, in Unit One, was impressed by his erudition and said, “If we can accept Qwilleran with a QW and a weatherman named Wetherby Goode, we shouldn’t flinch at a Nightingale. And he’s going to be a nice quiet neighbor.”

That was important. The walls of the contiguous units were thin, and there were other construction details that were flawed. But it was a good address with a wonderful location and many amenities for residents.

Arriving at Unit One with bags of groceries, Qwilleran let himself in with his own key (Polly was at the library), greeted her two cats, and refrigerated perishable purchases. All the units had the same layout: a foyer, a two-story living room with a wall of glass overlooking the river, two bedrooms on the balcony, and a kitchen and dining alcove beneath. A garage with space for one vehicle was under the house.

There the similarity ended. Polly’s unit was furnished-even overfurnished-with antiques inherited from her inlaws. Qwilleran preferred the stark simplicity of contemporary design, with two or three antique objects for decorative accent. When friends asked, “Why don’t you and Polly get married?” he would reply, “Our cats are incompatible.” The truth was that he would find it suffocating to live with the appurtenances of the nineteenth century. Polly felt the same way about “modern.” They stayed single.

Before leaving, Qwilleran said a few friendly words to Brutus, a muscular, well-fed Siamese, and looked about for Catta, who was younger and smaller. A flicker of movement overhead revealed her perched on a drapery rod. She had the Siamese taste for heights.