Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

Qwilleran returned to the living room, followed by his two housemates, their body language demanding food. Two lean, fawn-colored bodies stretched to their longest; two brown masks with brown ears followed two brown noses uplifted in anticipation; two brown tails extended horizontally with a slight upcurve at the tip. They had the same kind of long, slender brown legs, but Koko walked with a resolute step while Yum Yum minced along daintily, a few paces behind him. At the living room entrance both animals stopped as if on cue and surveyed the stranger.

"They have blue eyes!" Brodie said. "I didn't know you had two. Are they from the same litter?"

"No, I adopted them from different sources," Qwilleran said. "Each one was left homeless under circumstances that Lieutenant Hames would probably remember."

The larger of the two sauntered into the room with a matter-of-fact gait and examined the visitor from a civil distance.

Qwilleran made the introductions. "Chief, this is Koko, the inspector general. He insists on screening everyone for security reasons. Koko, this is Chief Brodie of the Pickax police department."

The police chief and the cat stared at each other, the lawman with a puzzled frown. Then Koko leaped lightly to a bookshelf six feet off the floor. Squeezing between Benjamin Franklin's Autobiography and Boswell's Life of Johnson, he settled down to monitor the newcomer from an aerial vantage point.

Brodie said, "He looks like an ordinary cat! I mean, you can tell he's purebred and all that, but..."

"Did you expect him to have green fur and electronic eyes and rotating antennae? I told you, Brodie, he's just a pet who happens to be normally inquisitive and unusually intelligent."

Brodie relaxed and turned his attention to the smaller Siamese, who was slowly approaching with graceful, pigeon-toed steps, all the while concentrating on his shoes.

"Meet Yum Yum the Paw," Qwilleran said. "She looks fragile, but she has a lightning-fast paw like a steel hook. She opens doors, unties shoelaces, and steals anything small and shiny. Watch out for your badge."

"We used to have cats on the farm," Brodie said, "but they never came indoors."

"These never go outdoors."

"Then how do they find anything to eat? You don't buy that expensive stuff in little cans, do you?"

"To tell the truth, Brodie, Koko refuses to eat anything labeled 'catfood.' He wants his meals freshly cooked."

The chief shook his head in disbelief or disapproval. "Hames told me you spoiled your cat rotten, and I guess he wasn't just beating his gums."

"Did you learn anything about drug-related violence at the conference?"

"Like I told Hames, drugs and violence aren't our problem up here. He didn't believe me."

"Neither do I, although I've heard you say it before." "Sure, we've pulled up some funny plants in a couple of backyards, and a few years back the kids were sniffing this here airplane glue, but we don't have drug rings or drug pushers. Not yet, anyway."

"How do you account for it?"

"We're isolated-400 miles north of everywhere, like ! it says on the sign at city limits. Crackpot ideas are slow in reaching us. Hell, the fast-food chains haven't even discovered Moose County yet." Brodie took another swallow of coffee with a grim expression. "Another thing: we have good family life up here. We have a lot of church activities and organized sports and healthy outdoor hobbies like camping and hunting and fishing. It's a good place to bring up kids."

"If drugs and violence aren't the problem, what do you do to keep so busy? Write parking tickets?"

The chief scowled at him. "Drunk drivers! Underage drinking! Vandalism! That's what runs us ragged. When my girls were in high school, them and my wife and I were always going to funerals - you know, the funerals of their classmates - kids getting themselves killed in car accidents. They'd be driving fast, horsing around in a moving vehicle, drinking beer illegally, hitting a patch of loose gravel, losing control. But now we've got another headache: vandalism in on the increase."

"I noticed that someone made power turns on the courthouse lawn last week."

"That's what I mean. There's a certain element - a few crazies - that don't have anything to do. They shot out two streetlights on Goodwinter Boulevard last night. When I was a kid we smashed pumpkins and strung trees with toilet paper on Halloween, but this new generation does it all year round. They pull up the flowers in front of city hall. They bash rural mailboxes with baseball bats. I don't understand it!"

"I haven't seen any graffiti."

"Not yet, but they poured a can of paint on the fountain in the park. We know the punks that are doing it, but we never catch 'em in the act." Brodie paused. He was looking hopefully at Qwilleran.

"Do you have a plan?"

"Well... after talking to Hames... I wondered if your cat... could tip us off to where they're going to strike next, so we could stake it out."

Qwilleran eyed him askance. "What were you guys smoking at that conference?"

"All I know is what Hames told me. He said your cat has ESP or something."

"Listen, Brodie. Suppose that little animal who is sitting on the bookshelf licking his tail - suppose he knew that vandals were going to heave a brick through the school window on June second at 2:45 A.M. Just how would he communicate this information? You're nuts, Brodie. I admit that Koko occasionally senses danger, but what you're suggesting is preposterous!"

"Out in California they're using cats to predict earthquakes."

"That's a whole different ballgame... How about more coffee? Your cup's empty."

"If I drank another cup of this battery acid, I'd be paralyzed from the neck down."

"After the suggestion you just made, I think you're paralyzed from the neck up. Who's the leader of this gang of hoodlums? Isn't there usually a leader? How old is he?"

"Nineteen and just out of high school. He comes from a good family, but he runs with a pack from Chipmunk. That's the slummiest town in the county, I guess you know. They get a few cans of beer and go cruising in their broken-down crates."

"What's his name?" Brodie seemed reluctant to reveal it. "Well, I'm sorry to say... it's Chad Lanspeak."

"Not the department-store heir! Not the son of Carol and Larry!"

The chief nodded regretfully. "He's been in trouble ever since junior high."

"That's really bad news! His parents are just about the finest people in town! Community leaders! Their older son is studying for the ministry, and their daughter is pre-med!"

"You're not telling me anything I don't know. Lanspeak is a good name. It's hard to figure out how Chad got off the track. People say the third child is always an oddball, and it may be true. Take my three girls, for instance. The two older ones got married right after school and started families. I've got four grandkids, and I'm not fifty yet. But Francesca! She was the third, She was determined to go away to college and have a career."

"But she returned to Pickax to work. You haven't lost her."

"Yes, she's a good girl, and she still lives at home, That's something we're thankful for. The family is still together, But she's all wrapped up in decorating and acting in plays."

"She has talent, Brodie. She's directing the next play at the Theatre Club, You should be proud of her."

"That's what my wife says."

"Francesca is twenty-four, and she has to make her own choices."

The police chief seemed unconvinced, "She could have married into the Fitch family. She dated David Fitch when they were in high school. That's another fine old family. David's great-grandfather struck it rich in the 1880s - in mining or lumbering, I forget which, David and Harley went to Yale, and now they're vice presidents at the bank. Their dad is bank president. Fine man, Nigel Fitch! I thought sure I was going to have one of the boys for a son-in-law."