Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

"Don't waste any tears over that crew! They weren't as perfect as the lunkheads around here like to think."

"But they were civic leaders - active in all the service clubs and all the fund-raising drives. They served the community unselfishly." He was aware that he was baiting her.

"I'll tell you what they were up to, mister; they were polishing their egos! Fund-raising - pooh! Just try to get any money out of their own pocketbooks, and it was a different story. And were they ever slow to pay their bills! I should've charged 'em the same interest the bank charges!"

Qwilleran persisted. "The daughter of the janitor at the bank is going to art school, and Nigel Fitch personally paid her tuition."

"The Stebbins girl? Hah! Why not? Nigel's her natural father! Stebbins has been blackmailing him for years!... Well, I can't stay here all day, completing your education." She started down the stairs. Halfway down she said, "I hear you're going to Chicago with my assistant."

"We have to choose some furniture for my bedroom," Qwilleran said. "By the way, when's the wedding?"

"What wedding?" she shouted and slammed the front door.

-Scene Two-

Place: The Black Bear Cafe

Time: Evening of the same day

Introducing: GARY PRATT, barkeeper,

sailor, and friend of

Harley Fitch

QWILLERAN had three reasons for driving to the Hotel Booze in Brrr on Thursday evening. He had a yen for one of their no-holds-barred hamburgers. Also, he wanted another look at the black bear that had scared the wits out of him at his birthday party. But mostly, he wanted to talk with Gary Pratt, the barkeeper who had sailed with Harley on the Fitch Witch.

He telephoned Mildred Hanstable, who lived a few miles west of Brrr, to ask if she would like to meet him for a boozeburger. She would, indeed! Women never declined Qwilleran's invitations.

She said, "I'd like to see what Gary's done to the hotel since his father let him take over."

"I hope he hasn't cleaned it up too much," Qwilleran said. "And I hope Thumbprint Thelma hasn't quit. I wonder if they still set ant traps under all the tables."

The Hotel Booze was built on a sandhill overlooking the lakeside town of Brrr. It was an old stone inn dating back to pioneer days when there were no frills, no room service, no bathrooms, and (on the third floor) no beds. In its "Publick Room" miners and sailors and lumberjacks gathered on Saturday nights to drink red-eye, eat slumgullion, gamble away their pay, and kill each other. From those turbulent days until the present the hotel had been distinguished by its rooftop sign. Letters six feet high spelled out the message: BOOZE

ROOMS FOOD.

Most of Moose County considered the Hotel Booze a dump. Nevertheless, everyone went there for the world's best hamburgers and homemade pie.

Qwilleran and his guest met in the parking lot and walked together into the Publick Room, now renamed the Black Bear Caf‚. At the entrance the bear himself stood on his hind legs, greeting customers with outstretched paws and bared fangs.

"The room looks lighter than before," Mildred observed.

Qwilleran thought it was because they had washed the walls for the first time in fifty years. "And they repaired the torn linoleum," he said, looking at the silvery strips of duct tape crisscrossing the floor. "I wonder if they reglued the furniture."

He and Mildred seated themselves cautiously on wooden chairs at a battered, wooden table. A sign on the empty napkin dispenser read: PAPER NAPKINS ON REQUEST, 5›.

Behind the bar was a hefty man with a sailor's tan, an unruly head of black hair and a bushy black beard, lumbering back and forth with heavy grace, swinging his shoulders and hairy arms as he filled drink orders calmly and efficiently.

Mildred said, "Gary's getting to look rather formidable. I'm glad he's taking an interest in the business. He didn't show much promise in school, but he made it through two years of college and stayed out of trouble, and now that his father is ill he seems to be showing some initiative."

Towering boozeburgers were served by a young waitress in a miniskirt. "Where's Thelma?" Qwilleran asked, remembering the former waitress who ambled out in a faded housedress and bedroom slippers.

"She retired."

Thelma had always served the toppling burgers with her thumb on top of the bun; now they were skewered with cocktail picks.

Mildred said, "I hope I didn't disgrace myself at the office party Saturday night."

"They were pouring the drinks too stiff. I had three corned-beef sandwiches and two dill pickles and regretted it later."

"I liked your column on Edd Smith, Qwill. It's about time he had some recognition."

"He's amazingly well-read. He quotes Cicero and Noel Coward and Churchill as easily as others quote the stars in TV serial. But how does he make a living in that low-key operation? Does he have a sideline? Extortion? Counterfeiting?"

"I hope you're only trying to be funny, Qwill. Edd is an honest, sweet-natured, pathetic little man..."

"... who keeps a deadly weapon next to his toothbrush."

"Well, I have a handgun, too, After all, I live alone, and in summer all those batty tourists come up here."

Speaking of handguns," he said, "I was having dinner at the Old Stone Mill when we heard that Nigel had shot himself, and one of the waitresses reacted very emotionally. I hear she's an art student. Her name is Sally."

Yes, Sally Stebbins. She received a scholarship from the Fitch family, and I imagine she felt the loss deeply."

How did she rate a scholarship? Is she a good artist?"

"She shows promise," Mildred said. "Fortunately her father works at the bank, and Nigel has always taken a paternal interest in employees and their families." She regarded him sharply. "I hope you're not resurrecting the old gossip."

"Is it worth resurrecting?"

"Well, I may as well tell you, because you'll dig until you find out anyway. There was a rumor that Nigel was Sally's real father, but it was a despicable lie. Nigel's integrity has always been beyond reproach. He and Margaret - were simply wonderful people."

Qwilleran gazed at her intently and fingered his moustache. Did she believe what she was saying? Was it the truth? What could anyone believe in this northern backwoods where gossip was the major industry? He asked her, "What was your reaction to the car-train accident?"

Mildred shook her head sadly. "I regret the loss of human life, but it seems like poetic justice if they're the ones who killed Harley and Belle. Roger says the police haven't found the jewels. Did you know some valuable pieces are missing? They're hushing it up, but Roger has a friend in the sheriff's office."

The waitress in the miniskirt announced the pie of the day: strawberry. It proved to be made with whole berries and real whipped cream, and Qwilleran and his guest devoured it in enraptured silence. Then Mildred inquired about the Siamese.

"Koko's okay," he said, "but I had to take Yum Yum to the vet. I phoned him about her problem, and he told me to bring her in with a urine sample."

"Interesting! How did you manage that?"

"Not with a paper cup! I had to buy a special kit - a minuscule sponge and some tiny tweezers - and then sit in the cats' apartment for five hours, waiting for Yum Yum to cooperate. When the mission was finally accomplished I took her to the clinic with the sponge in a plastic bag the size of a Ritz cracker. I felt like a fool!"

"How did Yum Yum feel?"

"Hell hath no fury like a female Siamese who hates the vet. As soon as she saw the cold, steel table, the fur began to fly. Cat hairs everywhere! Like a snowstorm! She was probed and poked and squeezed and stuck with a thermometer. The vet was murmuring soothing words, and she was howling and struggling and snapping her jaws like a crocodile."