Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

"The consensus is that he did something unconventional during his year of freedom."

"Stupid gossip!" she said testily.

"Did he travel by plane, motorcycle, or camel?"

"Frankly, I never thought it important to ask."

"Did he discuss his itinerary?"

"The Fitches would consider it tacky to bore people with their travels. And he didn't bring home any color slides or French postcards or plastic replicas of the Taj Mahal.... What am I getting? The third degree?"

"Sorry... How's David? Have you seen him, or talked with him?"

"I talk to Jill on the phone every day," Fran said, relaxing after her brief flurry of annoyance. "She thinks David's on the verge of a breakdown. They're going away for a few weeks-to a quiet place in South America where they spent their honeymoon."

"I suppose David will inherit everything."

"I really don't know." She looked at her watch. "The restaurant stops serving at nine o'clock."

"Okay, let's go... as soon as I feed the cats."

"Did you ever find my cigarette lighter?"

"No, but Mr. O'Dell has been alerted to look for it when he cleans."

The Siamese had retired to their apartment and were studiously watching birds from the windowsill. Qwilleran put a plate of tenderloin tips on a placemat in their bathroom, turned on the TV without the audio, and quietly shut the door to their apartment.

On the drive to Stephanie's he said, "Is it true that Harley's grandfather was a bootlegger?" He expected another indignant rebuttal.

"Yes!" she said with delight. "He believed people were-going to drink anyway, and if he smuggled in good stuff from Canada, they wouldn't go blind from drinking rotgut. He didn't believe in Prohibition, income tax, or corsets for women."

The draped tables at Stephanie's were placed in the original rooms of the old house, and Qwilleran and his guest were seated in the second parlor. The late sun was still beaming through the stained-glass windows, turning the beveled mirrors and wine glasses into rainbows. Over dinner they discussed the new theater.

Qwilleran said, "They're installing the seats this week. It should be available for rehearsals in August. Do you still want to open with an original revue?"

"Well..." Fran said indecisively, "under the circumstances we thought of doing a serious play and asking David to take a role. Something challenging and worthwhile might renew his interest in life. He's so depressed that Jill is afraid he'll follow his father's example."

Qwilleran thought, If David is involved in the situation that led to Harley's execution, he has good reason to be depressed. He could be the next victim. To Fran he said, "Do you have any particular play in mind? Nothing Russian, I hope; it would push him over the brink."

"And nothing too bloody," she said. "And nothing about two brothers."

A mellifluous voice could be heard in the front parlor, where there were four or five tables for diners. It was a man's voice, talking earnestly, then laughing heartily.

"I recognize that voice," Qwilleran said. "But I can't place it."

Fran peered over his shoulder. "It's Don Exbridge!" she said brightly. "And he's with a woman. I think it's Polly Duncan! They seem to be having a go-o-od time."

She.looked teasingly smug. "Aren't you going to send drinks over to their table?"

Qwilleran scowled as a ripple of pleasant laughter came from the front parlor. It was Polly's gentle voice. After that he was impatient with the rest of the dinner: the salad was limp; the hazelnut torte was soggy; the coffee was weak. He was impatient with Fran's conversation. He was impatient to send her on her way, impatient to get home to the sympathetic Siamese. Not once, he recalled, had she mentioned Koko and Yum Yum during the evening; he doubted whether she even knew their names. Not once had she remarked about the new newspaper or commented on the column he was writing. On the whole he was sorry he had agreed to fly Down Below to look at a stainless-steel bed and some neo-Bauhaus chests. There was nothing wrong with his present bedroom furniture. He felt comfortable with it. He had always felt comfortable with Polly, too. He had never felt entirely comfortable with Francesca.

On arriving home he went first to the cats' apartment to check on possible drafts from an open window and to turn off the TV. They were both asleep in one of the baskets, curled up like yin and yang. Then he flicked on the light in the bathroom to see if they had finished their dinner, and to give them fresh water.

The scene was one of havoc Yum Yum's commode was overturned, and its contents had been flung about the room. A shiny object, half-buried in a damp mound of kitty gravel, proved to be a silver cigarette lighter.

Something, Qwilleran thought, is radically wrong with that cat! She used to be so fastidious! Tomorrow she goes to the doctor!

-Scene Two-

Place: Qwilleran's apartment

Time: The morning after Yum Yum's demonstration

Featuring: AMANDA GOODWINTER

As HE DIALED the animal clinic to make an appointment for Yum Yum, Qwilleran thought, It was stupid of me to buy her a plastic dishpan; she wanted equal rights! She wanted an oval roasting pan like Koko's.

He was explaining the situation to the receptionist at the clinic when the doorbell rang-three insistent rings. Only one person in Pickax rang doorbells like that. Amanda Goodwinter clomped up the stairway complaining about the weather, the truckdrivers on the construction site, and the design of the stairs - too steep and too narrow. The love of a good newspaperman had done nothing to improve her disposition or her appearance.

Wisps of gray hair made a spiky fringe under the brim of her battered golf hat, and her washed-out khaki suit looked unfitted and unpressed.

"I came to see if my free-loading assistant is making any progress," she said, "or is she just taking long lunch hours with clients?"

"I think you'll be pleased with what she's done," Qwilleran said.

"I'm never pleased with anything, and you know it!" She trudged around the apartment, glaring at the wallcoverings and built-ins and accessories, mumbling and grumbling to herself.

"Francesca plans to design some enclosures for the radiators," he said.

"Planning it is one thing; doing it is another." She straightened the gunboat picture, which Koko had tilted again. "Where did you get this print?"

"From an antique shop in Mooseville that's run by an old sea captain."

"It's run by an old flimflam artist! He never went farther than the end of the Mooseville pier! There are ten copies of this picture floating around the county-all cheap reproductions, not original prints. The only original is in the Fitch mansion, and it's there because I sold it to Nigel as a birthday present for Harley. Never did pay me for it!"

"I understand you helped the family with their decorating," Qwilleran said.

"There's nothing anyone could do with that place except burn it down. Did you ever see the junk old Cyrus collected? They're supposed to be treasures. Half of it's fake!"

"The paperhanger told me they have some pretty wild wallpapers."

"Arrgh! That tramp Harley married! I gave her what she wanted, but I made sure it's peelable wallpaper. I hope somebody has the sense to peel it off! They should go in with a backhoe and shovel out all the crap! All those mangy stuffed animals and molting birds and phony antiques! Don't know what they'll do with the old mausoleum now. Might as well dynamite the whole thing and build condos."

"Would you like to sit down, Amanda, and have a cup of coffee?"

"No time for coffee! No time to sit down!" She was still tramping back and forth like a nervous lioness. "Besides, that stuff you call coffee tastes like varnish remover."

"With the Fitch family virtually wiped out," Qwilleran said, "this community has suffered a great loss."