Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

"Hmmm," Qwilleran said politely. He was skeptical of tarot cards. "May I replenish your drink, Mildred?"

When he returned with her Scotch and his ginger ale, he inquired casually about Harley's scholastic record.

"Both boys were good students-and so talented!" she said. "David did excellent pen-and-ink sketches, and Harley built model ships with exquisite detail. They were both in school plays, and I guess they became quite serious about drama in college. You may not know this, Qwill," she said, stepping closer, "but Harley disappeared for a year!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Both boys were expected to come home after graduating from Yale - to work in the bank. Harley didn't show up."

At that moment Junior Goodwinter interrupted. "Don't you guys want any food? We've got turkey and corned-beef sandwiches."

"We'll be right there," Qwilleran assured him. "Mildred is divulging some cooking secrets."

"I always put a teaspoon of bitters in my lime pie," she said, picking up her cue, and when Junior moved away she said to Qwilleran, "No one really knows what happened to Harley. The family said he was traveling for a year, but of course there were many rumors."

There was another intrusion. Mildred's son-in-law said, "What are you two subversives plotting?"

"We're helping the police solve the Fitch case," Qwilleran informed him.

"Excuse me," Mildred said, "I'm going to get another drink."

Roger said, "I heard something interesting this afternoon, Qwill. A few hours before Nigel shot himself, he dictated letters of resignation from the bank - for David as well as himself. His suicide was evidently premeditated."

"But why would David have to resign?" Qwilleran asked.

Before Roger could think of an answer, Hixie breezed into their midst with her usual breathless enthusiasm. "You'll never believe what happened this afternoon. I was having my hair done at Delphine's, and a huge deer crashed through the front window. He ran right through the shop and out the back window. Broken glass everywhere! And utter panic!"

Qwilleran looked doubtful. "Do you have this story copyrighted, Hixie?"

"It's true! Ask Delphine! The windows are boarded up now, and a sign says, THE BUCK STOPPED HERE. I can't understand why he didn't gore a couple of customers."

Roger said, "Why don't these things happen on our deadline? All we get is a flock of wild turkeys."

Arch Riker was circulating and playing the genial host. Amanda was there, too, drinking bourbon and scowling and complaining. She was wearing a conspicuous diamond ring on her left hand.

Riker, beaming, took Qwilleran aside. "We're taking the plunge, old sock. She may be cantankerous, but I admire her. She ran a successful business for twenty-five years and served on the city council for the last ten. And she doesn't take guff from anyone!"

"She's a remarkable woman," Qwilleran said.

Amanda stepped forward, frowning. "Who called me a remarkable woman?" She demanded belligerently. "You never hear of a remarkable man! He's successful or intelligent or witty, but if a woman is any of those things, she's 'a remarkable woman' like some kind of female freak."

"I apologize," Qwilleran said. "You're absolutely right, Amanda. It's a lazy cliche, and I'm guilty. You're not a remarkable woman. You're successful and intelligent and witty."

"And you're a liar!" she growled. Riker grinned and dragged her away, confiscating her glass of bourbon.

Qwilleran looked around for Mildred. He wanted to hear the rest of her story about Harley's disappearance, but she' was in earnest conversation with the stringer from Mooseville, so he went to the buffet. While he was eating his second corned-beef sandwich, he spotted Homer Tibbitt, official historian for the Something, leaving the city room. "Homer! Where are you going? The party's only begun!"

"I'm going home. It's 8:30 - past my bedtime," said the ninety-four-year-old retired school principal in a high-pitched reedy voice. "My days keep getting shorter. When I'm a hundred, I'll be going to bed before I get up."

"I just wanted to know how well you knew the Fitch family."

"The Fitches? The boys came along after I retired, but I had Nigel in math and history when I was teaching. I knew Nigel's father, too. Cyrus was a character!"

"Is he the one who built the big house in Middle Hummock?"

"Cyrus? Yes indeed! He was a big spender, a big-game hunter, a big collector, a big bootlegger, a big everything."

"Did you say bootlegger?"

"That was something he did on the side," Homer explained plausibly. "The family money came from mining. Cyrus built his house in West Middle Hummock so he could see the big lake from the top of one of the hills. Rumrunners brought the stuff over from Canada and landed on his beach."

"How did he get away with it?"

"Get away with it? One night he didn't get away with it! The sheriff confiscated the whole shipment and poured it on the dump in Squunk Corners. That's why Squunk water is so good for you!... Well, it's past my bedtime. Good night."

Qwilleran watched the old man making his exit with vigorous maneuvers of angular arms and legs. Then he caught Mildred alone at the bar. "You were telling me something interesting about Harley when we were interrupted," he said.

"Was I?" She paused to think. "I've had a few drinks... Was it about the tarot cards?"

"No, Mildred. It was something about Harley's disappearance after his graduation from Yale."

"Oh!... Yes... He was traveling... That's what the family said... Nobody believed it."

"Why didn't they believe it?"

"Well... you know... people around here... gossipy."

"Where did they think he was?"

"Who?"

"Harley."

"Oh!... Let's see... Ask Roger... I've got to sit down."

Qwilleran guided her to a chair and offered to bring her a sandwich and coffee. "How do you like it?"

"What?"

"The coffee."

"Oh!... Black."

When he returned with the food, someone told him that Mildred had gone to lie down in the staff lounge, so he ate the sandwich himself and sought out her son-in-law. "Better look after Mildred, chum. She's had too much to drink."

"Where is she?"

"Lying down for a while. She was mentioning Harley's mysterious disappearance a couple of years ago. Know anything about that?"

"Oh, sure. The family said he was traveling, but you know how we are up here. We get bored with the truth and have to invent something. Some people thought he was doing undercover work for the government. I thought he shipped out as a deckhand on a tramp steamer. He liked boats, and that's the kind of offbeat thing he'd do - probably grow a beard, wear a patch over one eye and stomp around like Deadeye Dick."

"He married Belle in Las Vegas. Was he a gambler?"

"I've never heard anything to that effect. If he had one consuming passion, it was sailing. The Fitch Witch was a neat boat-twenty-seven feet. He and Gary Pratt used to sail her in races and win trophies."

"Hmmm," Qwilleran said, as suspicion tickled the roots of his moustache. In the last few days-since Harley's murder, to be exact - Koko had taken a sudden interest in things nautical. Several times he had tilted the gunboat picture that hung over the sofa, sometimes violently. And the titles he had started sniffing on the bookshelves were sea stories. First it was Moby-Dick and then Two Years Before the Mast. Most recently it was Mutiny on the Bounty. Qwilleran had explained to himself and others that all cats tilt and sniff; they like to rub a jaw on the sharp comers of picture frames and smell the glue used in bookbinding.

Nevertheless, the nautical connection was a curious coincidence, he thought. And there was another mystifying detail: Koko had been excessively attentive to Harley at the birthday party... less than twenty-four hours before his murder - almost as if he knew something was going to happen.