The Cat Who Smelled a Rat Audio

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Derek loped off the stage with the lazy, long-legged gait that his groupies adored.

  “You know, Qwill, Maggie Sprenkle commissioned him to write it for the occasion, but he wouldn’t take money for it.”

  “And rightly so,” Qwilleran said as he looked at his watch. “Excuse me while I check the bidding.” No one but him and the fictitious Ronald Frobnitz had placed a bid on the Danish rug. He raised the bid to a thousand under his own name, telling himself it was a good cause. Then he checked the porcelain parrots. Bidders had been active. A minute before the deadline, he raised the bid under his name.

  A bell rang, and bidders flocked to the display tables. There were groans of disappointment and cries of success. He wrote checks for the rug and the parrots and presented the latter to Polly. “This is your Christmas gift.”

  “You’ve already given me my Christmas gift,” she protested, showing a handsome cameo ring, “and it’s only October.”

  “This is your Christmas gift for next year.”

  Arch paid for his tin matchbox, and Mildred asked him to write a check for a Chinese porcelain bowl she had bought.

  Qwilleran said to Maggie Sprenkle, “I was hoping you’d donate the French crystal pitcher I admired at your house when I was there. I would have bid high on it.”

  “You have good taste, Qwill. That’s a St. Louis lead crystal martini pitcher from the steamship Liberté. It’s documented. Mr. Sprenkle and I crossed the Atlantic many times on the French liners.”

  The foursome drove back to Indian Village, saying, “Good haul! Lots of laughs!. . . Wasn’t Derek a scream! . . . Maggie says a lot of kittens and puppies were adopted.” They laid Qwilleran’s new rug and said, “Not my taste, but gorgeous! . . . Absolutely wild! . . . Why, it’s in Siamese colors!”

  When the guests had gone, the Siamese emerged from nowhere, cautiously, to confront the wonder that had been added to their world. Yum Yum never walked across an area rug of any size or composition, always taking the long way around to reach her destination, and the new obstacle was six by eight, with deep pile. Even Koko was dubious about the wild tumble of yarns. With ears and whiskers back, he sniffed the edge and put forth a trembling paw to test it—dead or alive? They both jumped when the phone rang. It was the attorney, G. Allen Barter.

  “What’s up, Bart?” Qwilleran asked briskly. Such a call on a Sunday sounded urgent.

  “I just had a call from the hospital. Eddington Smith died this afternoon. Heart attack. He’d had a history of heart trouble, you know. He was able to press the medical-alert button, but they couldn’t save him. He was one of our pro bono clients, so they called me. He has no family.”

  “This is astounding!” Qwilleran said. “I saw him in the store yesterday, and he was in a playful mood, although he never looked healthy. . . . Well, what can I say? A lot of us will miss him. . . . And wait a minute, Bart! What about Winston?”

  “We’ll find a good home for him.”

  “Meanwhile, someone should feed him.”

  “We’ll send one of our clerks over.”

  “He eats only sardines.”

  “Cynthia knows that. She fed Winston last year while Edd was hospitalized.”

  Qwilleran said, “I’ll write an obit for tomorrow’s paper. I probably knew him as well as anyone did.”

  “Yes, he considered you more of a friend than a customer. You may know that his will makes you heir to the bookstore, building and all.”

  “What! He used to joke about it, but—”

  “It was no joke, but we can talk about that later. Meanwhile, yes—you’re the right one to do the obituary.”

  four

  Qwilleran knew what time she would be leaving for work on Monday morning. He waited on his doorstep until her small car backed out of its underground slot, then went to meet her.

  She lowered the car window. “Qwill! You can’t imagine how perfect the parrots are on my mantel. Beautiful glaze! Wonderful shade of green! And so tasteful! I can’t help wondering who donated them.”

  “I’m curious about the Danish rug. No one in this neck of the woods has any contemporary. Where has it been for the last fifty years? It accomplishes what Fran wanted; it sparks the whole room. She’s sending over a few more items with decorative pizzazz.”

  “Have the cats pronounced their verdict about the rug?” Polly asked.

  “The jury is still out. They’ll have to deliberate for a couple of days. . . . But on a serious note, Polly, have you heard about Eddington Smith? It was on the air.”

  “I haven’t been listening.”

  “He died yesterday. Heart attack.”

  “Oh, that dear man!” Polly said. “He was approaching eighty and was never healthy, but he did all the repairs and bookbinding for the library—in that stuffy back room. We shall miss him.”

  “I stayed up half the night writing his obituary,” Qwilleran said, “and I must admit it’s one of my better pieces of funerary prose. Would your board of directors consider a memorial to Eddington—an annual scholarship or essay contest for the lower grades, or both? The K Fund would go fifty-fifty.”

  “Definitely. I’ll call a special meeting tonight.”

  “Be sure to send a release to the newspaper.”

  “I will. . . . What are you doing today, Qwill?”

  “Just puttering around.”

  When the black commercial van came slowly down River Road, Yum Yum disappeared, but Koko hopped on and off the windowsill in excitement, as if he knew this was an authorized delivery. The door of the van was tastefully lettered in gold: Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design. The driver was a big, blond fellow in a black nylon jacket lettered on the back: MUDVILLE CURLERS.

  Qwilleran went out to meet him. “Are you on the curling team in Sawdust City?”

  “Yep,” said the young man as he started to unload.

  “I hear that’s quite an interesting sport.”

  “Yep.”

  First he brought in the square brown lampshade for the square-based copper lamp. It was obviously ten times better than the former shade, which was round and ivory-colored.

  Next came the bowl of shiny red apples and the pair of red pillows for the sofa, followed by a crate of five plant pots filled with red geraniums.

  “What are those?” asked the surprised customer.

  “Plants. She said to put them up there on the top railing.”

  “On the balcony?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  The pots were placed at intervals of about a foot. Fran always insisted that four are better than three, and five are better than four. She never stated her reasoning; anyone as attractive and talented as Fran needed no reasons.

  Finally came the wall hanging, measuring three-by-four. It covered much of the brick chimney breast—a stylized nature study of two red-breasted robins tugging a worm out of a lawn. Everything was superscale: the robins in the foreground as big as turkeys, the green leaves in the background as big as a pizza, and the worm as big as a salami.

  After hanging it and checking it with a small level, the installer stood back to survey it. “Cool!” he said to Qwilleran. “They’re robins.”

  “They’re big enough to be turkeys,” Qwilleran observed.

  “Yeah. Artists do crazy things like that.”

  Qwilleran did his puttering at the office of the Moose County Something, when he handed in copy for the obituary. He scanned page proofs, and checked photos and final drafts. There were photos of ten mines and five direct descendants. . . . Coverage on the silent auction included shots of Derek Cuttlebrink and the two G-dogs, as well as a satisfied customer carrying away a rocking chair. . . . Eddington Smith’s farewell ran on the obituary page with a photo of the store and a photo-file shot of the late bookseller.

  Only Qwilleran knew the story behind the story of the motorcade: the politicians’ speeches getting shorter and shorter, dignitaries refusing to leave the limousines, the county historian asleep on a backseat, n
ine wreaths for ten mines, and a direct descendant taking potshots at everyone with his index finger. Ping! And more!

  In the column of news briefs on the business page Qwilleran found three items of note:

  The Pickax shop of Exbridge & Cobb, Fine Antiques, has achieved the longtime goal of Susan Exbridge: acceptance as an exhibitor at the Eastside Settlement House Antique Show in New York, one of the most prestigious in the country.

  Theo Morghan, M.D., and David Todd, M.D., both of Chicago, have arrived here to open the Moose County Dermatology Clinic in the medical center. Specialties are skin diseases, plastic surgery, and liposuction.

  Donald Exbridge, CEO of XYZ Enterprises, announces the dissolution of the eight-year-old corporation and the formation of a new enterprise: Donex & Associates. The move coincides with the resignation of two principals: Henry Zoller is retiring, and Caspar Young will establish his own construction business. The flagship development of XYZ, Indian Village, will continue under the management of Donex.

  The new Pet Plaza in Kennebeck is booked to capacity for October. According to a spokesperson, it is “designed for pet owners who feel guilty about leaving their loved ones in a boarding kennel while they take luxury cruises.” Reservations are being accepted for November.

  Qwilleran enjoyed a few chuckles over the news briefs. They had been slyly edited with Don Exbridge’s ex-wife as the lead item, while Don’s new firm was sandwiched between skin diseases and animal hospitality. Had the billboard prank caused the upheaval? Who were the unnamed associates?

  It was a good excuse to visit Susan Exbridge’s shop on Main Street.

  “Darling! How wonderful to see you!” she exclaimed in the dramatic manner she affected. “Did you come to spend money or scrounge a cup of coffee?”

  “The latter. I’m honest to a fault. . . . Also I want to congratulate you on making the New York show. Your late partner would be proud of you.”

  “Thank you. The show is too grand for words.”

  He followed her to the office, through an aisle of polished mahogany and brass.

  “Do you want your coffee black?”

  “Please . . . There was another interesting item on the business page today. What do you suppose Donex & Associates have up their corporate sleeve?”

  “Nothing entirely honorable, I’m sure.”

  Qwilleran said, “I’ve never met the Y and Z part of the firm.”

  “They’re well rid of the connection, if you ask me. Cass Young is a nice young man; Dr. Zoller is a nice older man. He gave up his dental practice because he couldn’t bear to hurt his patients. Besides, he was better at playing the stock market than filling teeth, and he had family money to play with. . . . Is it true that you’ve moved to the Village for the winter? You and Polly must attend the rally in the clubhouse—to support Amanda’s candidacy, you know. Bring that new neighbor of yours. I’d like to meet a rare-book dealer. What’s his name?”

  “Kirtwell Nightingale.”

  “I like him already. I have a new neighbor, too—an older woman from Baltimore, recently retired. She has some fabulous eighteenth-century Americana that I’d like to buy.”

  “What is she doing 400 miles north of everywhere?” Qwilleran inquired.

  “She lost her husband, and her son thought she should come here.”

  Qwilleran said, “I hope she likes snowshoeing and ice fishing. What did she do before she retired?”

  “Accounting, but her hobby is astrology—serious astrology. She’s highly regarded on the East Coast, according to her son, and I’d like to see her get established here. She’s giving a lecture at the clubhouse, and I’ve commissioned her to do my natal chart.”

  Qwilleran thought, The woman probably owns a priceless Hepplewhite sideboard that Susan wants to take to the New York show.

  Susan suggested, “Why don’t you have Mrs. Young do your chart, Qwill?”

  “You mean, my horoscope?”

  “I’m not talking about the silly things your paper prints to fill space on the comic page, darling! Simply provide the place, date, and hour of your birth, and Mrs. Young will chart the effect of the planets on your past, present, and future.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He knew his past and present and preferred not to know his future. On impulse he asked, “Who’s her son?”

  “The Y in XYZ Enterprises, but he’s going out on his own. Do you happen to know the hour of your birth, Qwill? Not too many persons do.”

  “Seven minutes after eleven P.M.—a lucky number, my mother said.”

  “I’d say you were lucky, darling.”

  “Off and on. Could I have my . . . chart done anonymously?”

  “You can use an assumed name, and I won’t reveal anything about you. That way, the chart will be a demonstration of the integrity of the science—and Mrs. Young’s skill.”

  He wrote down the data required and the name Ronald Frobnitz. “How much is this little charade going to cost?”

  “No more than you can afford . . . another cup?”

  “No thanks, but it’s good! What brand of instant decaf do you buy?”

  “Get out!” she screamed.

  He started to wander out through the empty store. “Customers aren’t breaking down your doors today.”

  “It’s Monday.”

  He sauntered past Chippendale, Queen Anne, chinoiserie, then stopped before a framed piece of needlework. The embroidery threads were faded, and the linen was dark with age. Alphabet blocks were stitched to make a border, and in the center was a boy jumping over a lighted candlestick. The inscription read: Jack be nimble . . . Jack be quick.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “A sampler, late nineteenth century,” Susan said. “Not what I usually have in my shop, but it came in a box of quite good engravings.”

  “I wish I had a buck for every time that nursery rhyme was recited to me. In our house the rule was: Be quick but never in a hurry. The last time I was in a hurry, I was rushing out to play baseball with the kids, and I fell down some concrete steps. Had twelve stitches taken in my upper lip.” He patted his moustache.

  “Your mother must have been a saint, Qwill, to make a responsible adult out of a brat like you. I’m sure you were a brat.”

  “Yes, but a decent one. How much for the sampler?”

  “Take it!” she said. “I’ll never sell it.”

  On the way home Qwilleran tuned in to WPKX on his car radio to catch the hourly news and

  heard Derek Cuttlebrink singing in his country western twang, “I found my puppy in Pickax. . . .” That rogue, he thought, has been to the station and taped it, and they’ll play it ad nauseam until Christmas! A lot of puppies and kittens might be adopted, but it’ll drive the radio audience up the wall!

  The broadcast news was merely a condensation of that day’s Moose County Something, with the exception of a bulletin: “Moose County is in dire crisis! Tune in to WPKX tonight at eight o’clock as civic leaders confront the threat of widespread fire throughout the countryside, forests and small villages. Drastic action is needed! Every citizen should tune in tonight at eight. Alert your friends and neighbors!”

  While Qwilleran was downtown, the Siamese were acquainting themselves with the new acquisitions. Returning home he found a corner of the deep-pile rug turned up and two of his yellow pencils hidden underneath—Yum Yum’s doing. In the foyer the new shade on the copper lamp had been twisted out of square with the base—Koko’s doing. That cat enjoyed rubbing his jaw against the bottom edge of the shades. Otherwise, all was well: The red apples were in their bowl on the coffee table; the red geraniums were lined up on the balcony railing; and the red robins were still tugging at their worm over the fireplace.

  Qwilleran said to them, “I’ve brought something else for you to inspect,” and he hung the Jack Be Nimble sampler over a kitchen counter.

  The eight o’clock newscast, with all its urgency and disturbing import, was a good excuse for Qwilleran to invite hi
s new neighbor in for a drink, but when he phoned, Nightingale hesitated. “I’m an ailurophobe.”

  “Have no qualms. The cats will be confined to their quarters on the balcony,” Qwilleran assured him. “What do you like to drink?”

  “Just a little vodka on the rocks.”

  In preparation Qwilleran filled two bowls with mixed nuts and hid the glove box he was not supposed to have. The Siamese were given an extra snack and ushered upstairs.

  Kirt Nightingale arrived a quarter-hour before the program was due to start. As he entered, he darted glances into corners and shadows as if expecting to be ambushed. Once reassured, he took a seat on the sofa. Of course, he noticed the book on the coffee table. “Are you interested in Egypt? I can get you The Journals of Bonaparte in Egypt in 1779 to 1801. Ten volumes in half-leather. With scientific translations in Arabic.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Qwilleran said, more politely than honestly. “How much?”

  “Only seven hundred.”

  “That’s something to think about, definitely.”

  “Do you know David Roberts?”

  It seemed like an abrupt change of subject. Qwilleran knew two men by that name: the sports editor at the paper and the mechanic at Gippel’s Garage. Fortunately he had the good sense to ask, “Which one?”

  “The eighteenth-century artist who painted Egyptian deserts and architecture. There are three volumes that you’d appreciate—with more than a hundred hand-colored lithographs. Published in 1846. The color is not the original, you understand, but it’s early.”

  Qwilleran nodded. “Yes, of course. What’s being asked?”

  “You could have the three volumes, large format, for under sixty thousand.”

  “We’ll have to talk about that,” Qwilleran said as he looked at his watch and tuned in to the eight o’clock program. Music was abruptly interrupted, heightening the sense of urgency. Then the station announcer said, “Tens of thousands of county residents will hear this program and realize the need for action.” He introduced the president of the county commissioners, who had lauded the shafthouses in flowery terms and now seemed solemnly concerned: “Dry conditions, subterranean fires creeping to the surface, and the chance that high winds could sweep across the landscape and destroy two hundred square miles of farms, forests, and towns, converting this fair county of ours into charcoal overnight! It happened in the nineteenth century and could happen again. Routine patrols are not enough. Our only defense is constant surveillance around the clock. We have fifteen volunteer fire departments on the alert, equipped to put down small fires before they become big fires, but they must know their location.