Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

Brodie looked away sadly. His disappointment was painful to witness.

"One of my daughters married a farmer," he went on, "and the other one married an electrician with his own business. Decent fellas, they are. Ambitious. Good providers, But Francesca could have married David Fitch. She used to bring him and Harley home after school to listen to that noise the kids call music. They were real gentlemen. 'Hello, Mr. Brodie' and 'How,are you, Mr. Brodie?' They liked to hear me play the pipes. Nice boys. Nothing snobbish about them at all. Full of fun, too."

"They're fine young men," Qwilleran agreed. "I've met them at the Theatre Club."

"Talk about talent! They're in all the plays. They were the twins in a musical called "The Boys from Poughkeepsie" or something like that. Nigel is lucky to have sons like those two. Francesca really passed up a good chance."

"Yow!" said Koko in a sudden irritable commentary on the conversation, as if he were bored.

"Well, to get back to my suggestion," Brodie said. "Give it a thought or two, I'd like to break up this gang before they get into something worse, like torching barns or breaking into summer cottages or stealing cars, That can happen, you know."

"Did you ever talk to Carol and Larry about their son?"

The chief threw up his hands, "Many times. They keep up a brave front, but they're heartbroken. What parent wouldn't be? The boy doesn't live at home. He drifts around, shacking up wherever he can, partying all night, Never wanted to go to college."

"What does he do for money?"

"As I understand it, his grandmother left him a trust fund, but he doesn't get his monthly check unless he goes to college or works in the family store - Larry put him in charge of sporting goods-but he goofs off half the time and goes hunting or trapping, Poaching, most likely."

"I feel bad about this," Qwilleran said. "The Lanspeaks don't deserve this kind of trouble."

"You know, Qwill, you bachelors are lucky, You don't have any problems."

"Don't be too sure."

"What's your problem?"

"Women,"

"What did I tell you!" Brodie said in triumph, "I told you they'd all be chasing after you, A fella can't inherit millions like you did and expect to live a normal life, If you don't mind some advice, I say you should get yourself a wife and get your name off the eligible list."

"I had a wife," Qwilleran said. "It didn't work out."

"So try it again! Marry a young woman and start thinking about heirs. You're not too old for that."

"When I go, I'm leaving everything to the

Klingenschoen Memorial Fund. They'll distribute it right here in Moose County, where the money was made and where it belongs."

"I suppose all kinds of people are bugging you for handouts."

"The Fund takes care of that, too. I turn everything over to them. They dole it out to charities and good causes and give me a little to live on."

"Och! You're a little daft. Did anybody ever tell you?" "I've never wanted a lot of money or possessions."

"I noticed that," said Brodie, glancing around the room. "How many millionaires or billionaires live over the garage? Did you ever see how the Fitches live? Nigel and his wife have a double condominium at Indian Village, and Francesca says it's really fixed up! Harley and his bride have the old Fitch mansion that looks like a castle. Twenty-two rooms! David and Jill have a new house that's going to be on the cover of some magazine... I tell you, Qwill, Fran really blew it when she didn't marry David Fitch. But it's too late now."

After Brodie had made his departure, maneuvering down the stairs and complaining about the narrow treads, Qwilleran mixed another cup of instant coffee in the four-by-four-foot closet that served as his kitchen. He also warmed up some two-day-old doughnuts in the miniature microwave.

Koko jumped down from the biography shelf and started prowling like a caged tiger, yikking and yowling because his breakfast was late. Yum Yum sat hunched up in a bundle of self-pity for the same reason."

"Cool it," Qwilleran told Koko, after consulting his I watch. "The chuckwagon will be here any minute."

When he and the Siamese lived up front in the mansion, they had a housekeeper who spoiled all three of them with home-cooked delicacies. Now Qwilleran took lunch and dinner in restaurants, and the cats' meals were catered by the chef at the Old Stone Mill. A busboy named Cuttlebrink made daily deliveries of poultry, meat, and seafood that needed only to be warmed with a little of the accompanying sauce.

When Derek finally arrived with the shrimp timbales in lobster puree, he apologized for being late and said, "The chef wants to know how they liked the veal blanquette yesterday."

"Okay, except for the Japanese mushrooms, Derek. They don't like Japanese mushrooms. And tell him not to send marinated artichoke hearts - only the fresh ones. Their favorite food is turkey, but it must be off-the-bird -not that rolled stuff."

He tipped the busboy and sat down to finish his coffee and watch the Siamese devouring their food. Each cat was a study in concentration - tail flat on the floor, whiskers swept back out of the way. Then they washed up fastidiously, and Yum Yum leaped into Qwilleran's lap, landing as softly as a cloud and turning around three times before settling down. Koko arranged himself on the biography shelf arid waited for the dialogue to begin.

Qwilleran made it a policy to converse with the cats; it seemed more rational than talking to himself, as he had a tendency to do after living alone so long. Koko in particular seemed to enjoy the sound of a human voice. He responded as if he understood every word.

"Well, Koko, what do you think of Brodie's ridiculous suggestion?"

"Yow," said the cat with an inflection that sounded like disdain.

"The poor guy's really disappointed that Fran didn't marry into the Fitch family. I wonder if he knows she's making a play for me."

"Nyik nyik," said Koko, shifting his position nervously. He had never been enthusiastic about any of the women in Qwilleran's life.

Qwilleran had first met Fran Brodie when he started buying furniture from Amanda's Studio of Interior Design. Amanda was middle-aged, gray-haired, dowdy, tactless and irascible, but he liked her. Her assistant was young, attractive and friendly, and he liked her also. Both women wore neutral colors that would not compete with the fabrics and wallpapers they showed to clients, but on Amanda the beige, gray, khaki and taupe looked drab; on Francesca's willowy figure they looked chic. More and more Amanda retired into the background, running the business while her vivacious assistant worked with the clients.

Fran was tall like her father, with the same gray eyes and strawberry-blond hair, but her eyes had a steely glint of ambition and determination.

"She knows I'm involved with Polly Duncan," Qwilleran said, "but it doesn't slow her down. Polly warned me about joining the Theatre Club and hiring Fran, but I thought it was just female cattiness..."

"YOW!" said Koko sternly. "Sorry. I didn't mean that. Let's say it looked like an older woman's jealousy of a young rival, and Fran is really on the make! I don't know whether she's after me or the Klingenschoen money."

"Nyik nyik," Koko said. "The aggressiveness of the new generation is hard for me to accept. I may be old-fashioned, but I like to do the chasing."

Francesca's strategy was all too transparent. She had asked for a key to his apartment, in order, she said, to supervise the workmen and the delivery of merchandise. She brought wallpaper-sample books and furniture catalogues for his perusal, entailing consultations in close proximity on the sofa, with pictures and patterns spread out on their laps and with knees accidentally touching. She timed these tˆte-…-tˆtes for the cocktail hour, when it was only polite for Qwilleran to offer a drink or two, after which a dinner invitation was almost obligatory. She suggested that they fly Down Below for a few days to select furniture and art objects at design centers and galleries. She wanted to do over his bedroom with draped walls, a fur bedcover, and mirrored ceiling.