Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

"You sound like my father," Fran said. "At least let me design an enclosure for the radiators - just a shelf on top and grillework in front. My carpenter can build them."

"Will it impair their efficiency?"

"Not at all. I also think we should shop for new bedroom furniture for you when we go to Chicago. The new lines are coming out, and I have some wonderful sources... Ouch!... The cat grabbed my ankle."

"I'm sorry, Fran. Are your stockings torn?"

She smoothed her leg experimentally. "I don't think so, but those claws are like needles. Which one did it?"

Qwilleran watched Yum Yum the Paw slinking guiltily from the room. "Let's go to dinner," he said.

He gathered up Fran's wallpaper samples, and she dropped her cigarette pack into her handbag. "Where's my lighter?"

"Where did you leave it?"

"I thought I put it on the coffee table."

She rummaged in her handbag, and Qwilleran searched the floor and looked behind the sofa cushions.

"It can't have wandered very far," he said. "It'll turn up, and I'll give it back to you. Meanwhile, this would be a good time to give up smoking."

"You're sounding like my father again," she said with a frown.

They drove to Stephanie's, one of the best restaurants in the county. It occupied an old stone mansion in an old residential section of Pickax, and although the exterior was forbidding, the interior had a hospitable ambience created by soft colors, soft textures, and soft lighting. Qwilleran always liked walking into a restaurant with Francesca. On this occasion, heads turned to admire the young woman with gray eyes, gray suit, gray paisley blouse, gray hose, and high-heeled gray sandals.

Perusing the menu, he suggested the herbed trout with wine sauce.

"I'd rather have the spare ribs," she said. "The trout is better for you."

"Will you stop sounding like my dad, Qwill?"

They talked about her father's virtuosity on the bagpipe, Qwilleran's fondness for things Scottish, Edd Smith's esoteric enterprise, and the future of the Theatre Club without Harley.

Qwilleran asked, "Do you know how David is reacting?"

"I talked to Jill on the phone, and she said he's a basket case. Nigel, too. I wonder if they're resilient enough to cope. They'll need counseling, that's for sure. To lose someone through illness or accident is traumatic, but murder is so evil!"

"Are you a good friend of Jill's?" He had observed a remarkable similarity between the two young women - their figures, their manner of walking and talking, their stagey Theatre Club gestures and attitudes.

"We were clubby in high school," she said. "We double-dated, played basketball, went in for art. She's very clever. I'm smart, I think, but Jill is clever."

"Is her family well-heeled?"

"Not any more. They lost everything in 1929. Her great- great-grandfather owned a string of sawmills. Her great- grandfather was a Civil War hero. Her grandfather was mayor of Pickax for twelve years. Her maternal grandmother..."

As Francesca related Jill's family history, a scenario began to take shape in Qwilleran's mind. He waited a suitable interval before saying, "That was bad news about Harley's mother. Have you heard any more details?"

"No." The brevity of reply confirmed what he was thinking.

"If Mrs. Fitch doesn't pull through, it will be a great loss to the community. She's done so much for the public library, the hospital, the school, and other good causes."

Francesca's attention suddenly centered on her dinner plate.

"I've met Mrs. Fitch at library board meetings, and she impresses me as a very gracious woman - certainly generous with her time and cooperation."

Francesca raised her wrist and tapped her watch. "Do you realize what time it is? I've got to go back to the studio and write up some orders."

"And I have to buckle down to work on the Edd Smith profile." Later, as they said good night and she gave him a theatrical kiss, he presented her with the gift-wrapped silk scarf he had bought for Polly. "I know I'm a difficult client," he apologized, "but here's a small thank-you for your patience. And I'll have a good look for your cigarette lighter."

Upstairs in his apartment he found that the few remaining cashew nuts had been fished out of the bowl and batted around the room. "Is this your work, madame?" he asked Yum Yum, who was licking her right paw. "And do you know anything about a missing cigarette lighter?"

To Koko he said, "Fran wouldn't comment on Margaret Fitch, and she didn't want to talk about her relationship with David. Put two and two together and what do you get? A manipulative mother who stopped her son from marrying a policeman's daughter?"

"Yow!" Koko replied.

-Scene Ten-

Place: Qwilleran's apartment; later, the newspaper office

Time: The day of the Fitch funeral

IT WAS A PRIVATE FUNERAL in accordance with the wishes of the family. The obsequies were held in the Old Stone Church across the park from Qwilleran's property, and the police kept traffic moving and discouraged loitering in the vicinity. There were no photographers waiting on the sideiwalk or lurking in the trees with their telephoto lenses.

Riker had wanted to give the event coverage, saying that Fitch was an important name in the county, the deaths were shocking, and the funeral was newsworthy.

Junior Goodwinter disagreed. "It's different in a town like this. We respect their feelings."

Riker insisted, and the argument became heated until Qwilleran was asked to mediate.

He agreed with Junior. "The public's right to be nosey won't be violated. Within an hour of the burial all the details of the funeral will be common knowledge. Telephones will be busy; the coffee shops will be buzzing. The Pickax grapevine is more efficient than any newspaper that publishes twice a week. So cool it, Arch."

On the morning of the funeral Qwilleran was typing the last paragraph of the Eddington Smith story and the Siamese were sitting on his desk when the telephone rang.

Yum Yum flew away to parts unknown, while Koko jumped to the phone table and scolded the instrument. "Qwill, this is Cokey," said the voice on the phone. Alacoque Wright, the young architect, sounded more mature than she had been during their brief fling Down

Below. "I'm phoning from the construction shed on your front lawn."

"Good to hear your voice, Cokey. When did you arrive? How does the theater look?" Koko was now standing with his hind feet on the table and his forepaws on Qwilleran's shoulder, and he was snarling into the mouthpiece. Qwilleran pushed him away.

"The job is looking good. They've been following the specs more closely this time. Only one problem: the wall color in the dressing rooms doesn't match the sample. It was supposed to be a rose ochre of low saturation to flatter the actors and elevate their mood. It will have to be repainted at the contractor's expense."

"How long are you going to be here, Cokey?" Koko was biting the phone cord, and Qwilleran gave him another shove.

"Until tomorrow noon. I'm staying at the Pickax Hotel. It's not exactly the Plaza, but my room has a bed and indoor plumbing, for which I'm grateful."

"Let's have dinner tonight. Come to my apartment over the garage whenever you're through with your work. We'll have a drink, and you can say hello to Koko. He's making an unholy fuss at the moment for some obscure reason."

"See you later," she said.

Qwilleran turned to the cat sitting on the phone table just beyond arm's reach. "Now, what was that all about, young man? If you must monitor my phone calls, try to act with civility." Koko scratched his ear with infuriating nonchalance. Qwilleran returned to his typing, only to be interrupted by a phone call from Polly Duncan. The dulcet quality of her voice indicated that she had recovered from her peevishness, and his hopes soared.