Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

-Scene Thirteen-

Place: Qwilleran's apartment

Time: Early Monday morning... and

TOO early Tuesday morning

Introducing: PETE PARROTT, a

paperhanger from Brrr

THE PHONE RANG early. It was Francesca. "Is Pete there yet?" she inquired.

"Who?"

"Pete, the paperhanger. He has the wallcovering for your studio, and he's going to deliver it this morning. He can install it today or hold off for a couple of days if you wish."

"The sooner the better," Qwilleran decided. "I'll be needing to use my studio the rest of the week. What's Pete's last name?"

"Parrott. Pete Parrott. He's the one who did your living room when you were out of town. He's the best in the county."

"And the most expensive, I suppose."

"You can afford it," she said, with a flippancy that irritated him. He had always disliked being told what to do with his money, whether he had much or little.

Quickly he started tidying his studio, stuffing papers into desk drawers and removing the debris of bachelor living: two coffee mugs, a tie, waste paper that had missed the basket, a pair of shoes, old newspapers, another coffee mug, a sticky plate, a sweater. He also locked up the cats in their apartment despite their vociferous objections; the busboy had not yet delivered their breakfast.

Then Qwilleran sat down to listen for the doorbell. When it finally rang at 9 A.M., it ushered in Derek Cuttlebrink, delivering chicken liver pate and two boned frog-legs for the howling Siamese. The busboy was in no hurry to return to his place of employment; he wanted to talk about the Theatre Club.

"Too bad they canceled the show just because Harley wasn't in it any more," he said. "I had a pretty good part-the policeman, you know. I even had my cop's uniform fitted. They had to lengthen the pants and sleeves."

"There'll be another play in the fall, and you can audition again," Qwilleran informed him.

"I'm thinking of going back to school in the fall and getting into law enforcement. It's a whole lot better than stacking dirty dishes. Wearing a uniform and riding around in a car all day - that's for me!"

"There's more to police work than wearing a uniform and riding around in a car, Derek, but it would be a good idea to complete your education in any event. By the way, how's our nervous waitress who dropped the tray of cheesecake Friday night?"

"Sally? She's okay. She's getting the hang of the job. But she's going to school in the fall - art school - somewhere Down Below. I wish I had her luck. Her tuition's all paid for - by Mr. Fitch."

"Harley Fitch?" Qwilleran asked with sudden interest.

"No, his father. That's why she was all shook up when he shot himself, although she's already got the money."

In his mind Qwilleran was matching up the suave, sophisticated, handsome banker with the timid, scrawny, stuttering waitress, and trying to imagine some kind of illicit connection.

As if reading his mind, the busboy explained, "Sally's dad is janitor at the bank."

"That's a unique fringe benefit," Qwilleran said. "Perhaps you should consider being a janitor instead of a cop." At 10 A.M. the paperhanger had still not arrived..

..

Eleven o'clock... One o'clock... Not until 2:30 did the white commercial van pull up to the carriage house. The driver was a burly young man in white coveralls and white visored cap, with thick blond hair bushing out beneath it. Healthy-looking young men with blond hair were in good supply in this north country.

"Sorry I'm late," he shouted from the bottom of the stairs. "Something came up, and I had to take care of it."

"I wish you had phoned."

"Tell the truth, I didn't even think of it. I was sort of messed up in an emergency."

At least he's honest, Qwilleran thought, and he has an honest face.

"Well, I'd better bring up my gear," he said. The Siamese, released from their apartment hours before, watched with interest as stepladders, a folding table, buckets, and boxes of tools came up the stairs.

Qwilleran said, "I was out of town when you papered the walls in the living room. You did a first-rate job."

"Yeah, I do good work."

"How long will it take you to do my studio?"

Pete appraised the room with a brief, professional glance. "Not long. Just short strips above the dado, and the plaster's in good shape. A little touch-up with spackle.

Pete wielded yardsticks, shears, knives, brushes, and rollers with swift assurance.

"You seem to know what you're doing," Qwilleran said in admiration. "I'm a confirmed don't-do-it-yourselfer."

"Been hanging wallpaper since I was fourteen," said Pete. "I papered some of the best houses in the county. Never had a complaint."

"That's a good track record. Did you ever paper the Fitch mansion in the Hummocks?"

Pete stopped abruptly and laid down his shears. The expression on his face was difficult to interpret. "Yeah, I been there, three or four times."

"That was a shocking incident Tuesday night."

"Yeah." Qwilleran noticed that he gulped.

"The police haven't made any arrests, but I understand they're questioning suspects."

"Yeah, they're doing their job." Pete went back to work but not as energetically as before.

"I've never seen the Fitch house," Qwilleran said. "What kind of wallpaper did they like?"

"Raw silk-very plain. I hung a lot of raw silk when Mr. and Mrs. Fitch lived there. Then they moved to Indian Village and wanted the same thing in their condo. They're got some spread!"

"Did you do any work for Harley and his wife when they moved in?"

"Yeah, I did the breakfast room in a crazy pattern with pink elephants. She liked everything jazzy. I did their bedroom, too- all red velvet."

"Would you like a cup of coffee or a cold drink or beer?" Qwilleran asked.

"I wouldn't mind something to drink. Coffee, I guess. Gotta stay sober on this job, even if it isn't all stripes."

Qwilleran thawed some frozen coffee cake in the microwave, pressed buttons on the computerized coffeemaker, and served the repast in the studio, among the ladders and paste buckets. Pete sat on the floor with the plate between his legs. Koko watched him with whiskers curled forward and then applied his nose to the man's shoes and pantlegs with the concentration of a bloodhound on a hot scent.

"Shove him away," said Qwilleran, who was also sitting on the floor with his coffee.

"He's okay. I like animals. This is good coffee cake."

" A friend of mine made it. Iris Cobb. She manages the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum."

"Yeah, I know her. I did some work for the museum. She's a good cook. I gained about ten pounds before the job was done.'"

"I wonder if they'll make the Fitch mansion into a museum now," said Qwilleran, edging back into the topic that interested him. "I doubt whether David Fitch wants to live there."

"Yeah, he has that crazy house up on the hill. I can't figure it out, but I guess they like it. They don't go in for wallpaper."

"Harley will be missed at the Theatre Club. He was a good actor and always high-spirited. I never met his wife. What was she like?"

Pete shook his head slowly in silent awe. "She had everything!" When Qwilleran registered surprise, he added, "She used to be my girl." There was another gulp.

Qwilleran waited for details, but none was forthcoming, so he said, "You knew her for quite a while?"

"Ever since she went to work for the Fitches - housework, you know. She lived there at the house. That's when I was I hanging the raw silk."

"Then you have a personal reason to resent this crime."

"Yeah," he said moodily.

"Why did you let her get away?"

"She didn't want a paperhanger, although I make good money. She wanted a rich man-someone to take her to Vegas and Hawaii and places like that. Well, she got him, but it didn't do her any good."