The Cat Who Smelled a Rat Audio

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Definitely! Talk to G. Allen Barter.”

  After that, Qwilleran went downtown to observe and listen. Crowds had turned out of their homes; friends were commiserating with friends, and strangers were talking to strangers. There was a wreath on the door at Amanda’s studio, and a sign stated “CLOSED until Tuesday—in mourning for our valued colleague, Ruff Abbey.”

  At the post office, patrons bought stamps but lingered to talk, and it was surprising what they found to say to each other.

  “He didn’t like to be called Ralph.”

  “His family goes to our church. We’re going to have a hymn-sing to raise money for them.”

  “He was a football hero in high school.”

  “He never said much, but he had opinions.”

  “He bagged an eight-point buck last year in huntin’ season. Got his picture in the paper.”

  “His mother does sewing for people in her home, but she doesn’t make much.”

  “He hung my draperies and did an expert job.”

  “The county should give him an official funeral.”

  “I used to date him; he was a real sweet guy.”

  In the background were the murals, showing the ancestors of these people, working in the mines, tilling fields with hand plows, driving oxcarts, spinning yarn from sheep’s wool.

  One elderly gentleman said, “You’re Mr. Q, aren’t you? When I don’t like the way things are going, I come in here and see how my ancestors lived.”

  Qwilleran went to the police station to see Brodie, but the chief was attending a summit meeting at the courthouse. Roger MacGillivray was there, waiting for a newsbreak. “It’s getting the whole front page Monday.”

  “Any chance the Fire Watch will be discontinued?”

  “No way! The sheriff took a telephone poll of volunteers this morning, and the vote was unanimous to continue. It won’t be long before snow flies, and the problem will be over.”

  Qwilleran asked, “Feel like lunch? I’m buying. We could go to Rennie’s.”

  The Mackintosh Inn’s colorful coffee shop was still new enough to be a special attraction.

  They ordered Reuben sandwiches, and Roger said, “Ruff was in my history classes when I was teaching. Allright guy!”

  “Do you know exactly what happened last night?”

  “Well, he was on patrol midnight to three and saw something irregular at the Big B Mine—a car parked in the side lane and a brushfire creeping toward the shafthouse. Instead of reporting it from the highway, he drove into the lane behind the car, apparently to get the license number. That’s where he was found, behind the wheel, but he’d already reported the fire and the number on the tag. The hotline operator heard the shot on the phone and heard it drop. Two shots were heard. Fire and police vehicles were already on the way. The suspect got away by driving around the back of the minesite.”

  Both then gulped their sandwiches in silence. Then Qwilleran said, “The suspect must have been a local, if he knew about the perimeter road.”

  “His car had an out-of-state plate. The state and local police are having a summit meeting at the courthouse. . . . which reminds me: I’ve got to get back on my beat. Thanks for lunch, Qwill.”

  Qwilleran sat for a while, thinking about the shooting and lingering over a slice of coconut cream pie, too sweet for his taste.

  Then Susan Exbridge walked past his table and asked him conspiratorially, “What—do you—think about it?”

  He rose politely. “Too sweet. They have a new pastry chef.”

  “Please sit down,” she murmured. “I was referring to Ronald’s natal chart.”

  He continued to stand. “Ronald sends his compliments to Mrs. Young.”

  “Please sit down, Qwill,” she said firmly.

  “I don’t want to sit down!” he replied testily. “I want to pay for my lunch and get out of here and go home to my cats.”

  “Oh!” she said in surprise.

  “Are you coming in or going out?”

  “I’ve come to have lunch with two of my customers.” She spoke with unusual meekness.

  “Then enjoy your lunch, and don’t order the pie.”

  He signed the tab at the cash register, and the cashier said, “I heard that, Mr. Q. It was really funny.”

  “It’s an old comic routine,” he explained. “I couldn’t resist. I like to tease Mrs. Exbridge once in a while. . . . I’ll buy lunch for her party. Put it on my tab.”

  . . .

  “What a pleasant surprise!” Polly said when she discovered they were dining at the Mackintosh Room. “I hear it’s impossible to get a reservation on Saturday night.”

  “It helps if your middle name is Mackintosh.”

  “Did you hear anything about the commotion last night, around midnight?”

  “What kind of commotion?”

  “In Kirt’s condo. I thought Wetherby might have heard it and mentioned it.”

  “Wetherby was probably off on one of his mysterious weekends in Horseradish. What was the commotion?”

  “Kirt was having a terrible row with another man. I looked out the bedroom window, but there was no car in the visitors’ slot.”

  “Have you talked to him lately?” Qwilleran asked.

  “No, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable with him. He mistook my small-town neighborliness for something else. Have you talked with him?”

  “Not since Koko scared him out of his wits with a pot of geraniums.”

  When they arrived at the Mackintosh Room, the maître d’ showed them to the best table in the house, and Qwilleran slipped him a little something.

  “May we bring you Scotch eggs—with our compliments?” Derek asked.

  The traditional appetizer was a whole hard-cooked egg encased in well-flavored sausage meat—served in lengthwise quarters with mustard and a garnish.

  “I could live on these,” Qwilleran told Polly. “Are you going to eat all of yours?”

  “Of course! Is my name Duncan? What did you do today?”

  Be careful, he told himself; don’t mention Susan and the natal chart; don’t mention Amanda’s campaign song. Even Ronald Frobnitz was a secret.

  “Nothing much,” he said. “Just moseyed around downtown.”

  “Mosey! That’s the first time I’ve heard you use that word. I must admit it sounds like what it means.”

  They could talk for hours about words. There was a game they played at dinner. The word “delicious” was out of bounds. On this occasion the eggs were robust, the grilled salmon was succulent, the salad had verve, Polly’s blackberry cobbler had zest, and Qwilleran’s seven-layer chocolate cake had a certain nobility.

  “Have you had any more crazy dreams?” she asked.

  “Yes, I dreamed that Koko and Yum Yum gave a party for Brutus and Catta. And they invited Toulouse and Jet Stream because a successful party always has more male guests than female guests.”

  Between her laughter she said, “I don’t know anyone who dreams as fancifully and creatively as you do!”

  The truth was that he invented dreams to amuse her; there were so many things they could not discuss, despite their intimacy: his hunches that began as twitches in his moustache; Koko’s remarkable intuition; the unofficial investigations that interested both cat and man. Polly did not understand and would not believe. Arch Riker, his lifelong friend, was the same way, saying, “It’s none of your business. Don’t waste your time.”

  Whether Qwilleran admitted it or not, there was a kind of loneliness in his life. About the cats he would say, “They’re all the family I’ve got.” There was his alias, Ronald Frobnitz, of course. But if I ever start conversing with him, Qwilleran told himself, I’m sick!

  On Sunday afternoon the residents of Indian Village swarmed out of their condos on River Road and apartments on Woodland Trail and converged on the clubhouse for the rally. Carloads of Amanda’s supporters also arrived from Pickax.

  The event was held in the great hall, which had the feeling o
f a ski lodge, with its imposing stone fireplace, high ceiling crisscrossed with log rafters, and bright red carpet. For the occasion a large banner with the candidate’s slogan spanned the fireplace wall.

  It was a well-dressed crowd. There were no jeans, T-shirts, or running shoes.

  Qwilleran and Polly had walked over with the Rikers. Just inside the door Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers were selling large lapel buttons—yellow, with Amanda’s frizzy-haired caricature and her campaign slogan. She needed no financial support and stipulated that proceeds should go to the Ruff Abbey Trust. Everyone was wearing a button, and a large glass apothecary jar was filling with personal checks and currency of large denomination.

  Amanda herself was not there. She would make an entrance at a dramatic moment. Meanwhile, Wetherby Goode was at the piano, playing show tunes, ballads, and a little Strauss. The crowd was circulating, drinking wine punch or fruit punch, and wondering why Maggie Sprenkle was not there; she and Amanda were longtime friends.

  Elizabeth Hart, an heiress from Down Below who had discovered Moose County and Derek Cuttlebrink at the same time, said to Qwilleran, “I’m so glad my rya rug went to you. I inherited it from my father; he had such good taste. Someone was bidding against you, but you topped him at the last minute.”

  “I’m glad to know its provenance,” he said. “If we find any diamond rings in the deep pile, we’ll know where to return them.”

  Ernie Kemple, majordomo of the Citizens’ Fire Watch, was there with some of his Pleasant Street neighbors: Theo and Misty Morghan, and Burgess Campbell with Alexander, his guide dog.

  Whannell MacWhannell was there with an attractive middle-aged woman who wore her dark hair drawn back into a chignon. Polly whispered, “I wonder who she is? Her hair is a little too dark for her age. Mac’s wife is very ill, you know. She requires round-the-clock care.”

  Most of the women were wearing maroon or grape or burgundy, proclaimed the colors of choice for that particular season. “Precisely why I bought a brown suit,” Polly said. “I love my houndstooth scarf, Qwill. You have such good taste!”

  Gradually they moved over to the vicinity of Big Mac and his new friend. Introductions were made.

  MacWhannell said, “Mrs. Young is from Baltimore. She’s joining our firm after the first of the year. She’s a certified accountant.”

  Qwilleran said, “From Baltimore to Pickax is a giant step—forward, I hope.”

  “I think so,” she said. “My son lives here and speaks highly of it. You probably know him. Cass Young.”

  So this was Jeffa Young, astrologer. Little did she know he was the talented, generous, trustworthy Gemini whose life she had just charted.

  The music stopped abruptly to grab everyone’s attention, before Wetherby swung into the old Al Jolson hit “Mandy.” The big doors opened, and Amanda entered, followed by her bodyguard, Susan Exbridge. Amid applause the candidate marched to the fireplace and faced the crowd. She was wearing a tan gabardine shirtdress with four pockets. All one could say for it was that it was neat and clean. Her hair still looked uncombed, and her face wore a scowl of grim determination.

  She waited until the music and applause ended and then said, “I have no intention of making a long speech.” She paused for laughter; Mayor Blythe was noted for his boring oratory. “If elected, I will pursue issues to a conclusion instead of tabling them for three years.” More laughter. The reference was obvious. “And I guarantee the city hall roof will not leak.” This brought whoops of mirth from listeners who knew how to put two and two together.

  Immediately Derek Cuttlebrink appeared by her side with his guitar and played her campaign song to the tune of “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain When She Comes.”

  We’d rather have Amanda run our city! She isn’t very sweet or very pretty

  But she always sticks to biz

  And tells it like it is!

  And she’s not afraid to face the nitty-gritty.

  He strummed a few chords and flashed the smile that always made his groupies howl. The audience shouted for more.

  She’d rather wear a helmet than a crown.

  She never reads the lawbooks upside-down.

  She’s got a lot of clout And hey! She finally dried out!

  We’d rather have Amanda run our town.

  The audience exploded with cheers and laughter, and even Amanda managed a faint smile.

  Qwilleran said, “If elected, she should appoint Derek as court jester.”

  “Do you think he wrote that himself?” Mildred asked dubiously.

  “It sounds more like Hixie Rice,” Polly said. “What do you think, Qwill?”

  “It could have been Burgess Campbell. He has a sense of humor.”

  “Or Alexander,” said Arch.

  A crowd was gathering around the apothecary jar. Anyone who dropped a dollar bill into the jar would receive a photocopy of the lyrics. Dwight Somers had a portable copier and was cranking them out as fast as he could. Some enthusiasts wanted five or ten copies, and the Ruff Abbey Fund grew accordingly.

  As Qwilleran and Polly walked home, she said, “How Maggie would have loved this turnout for Amanda! Why do you suppose they left so suddenly? And why did Maggie have us to dinner without mentioning a word about their plans? It’s all very strange to me.”

  Qwilleran said, “Her cats were already lodged at the Pet Plaza, so she fibbed when she said they were upstairs, sleeping.”

  “How do you know they’re there?” she asked sharply.

  “I’m writing a column on the facility, and there they were!”

  eleven

  The day after the rally, when rain would have been appreciated by the parched county, another morning sun flooded Qwilleran’s living room through the large glass areas overlooking the riverbank. Where was the Big One? Water was being rationed. Farmers worried about their flocks and herds. Wetherby Goode talked about going into hiding if the Big One continued to stall over Canada.

  When Qwilleran opened his bedroom door and stepped out onto the balcony, he looked down at a dazzling light on the coffee table—enough to alarm him for a moment until he realized it was the French pitcher, reflecting and multiplying the sun’s rays. It was a remarkable example of optic lead crystal, chunky and heavy; he estimated it weighed five pounds, empty. Nine deep verticle cuts faceted the spherical base, which was topped with a narrow neck, a perfect pouring spout, and a gracefully well-balanced handle. Even without sunlight the crystal had a life of its own, playing optic tricks with interior shapes and shadows. Koko recognized it as something special and tried to get his sleek head into the pitcher’s neck.

  “No!” Qwilleran shouted, and the cat withdrew quickly.

  “You guys missed a good party yesterday,” he told the cats as he was preparing their food. “There was a nice dog there—quiet, intelligent, well-mannered. Your kind of dog. His name was Alexander.”

  As if some kind of mental telepathy were at work, the phone rang at that moment, and Burgess Campbell was on the line. “I was just talking about Alexander,” Qwilleran said. “How did he like the rally yesterday?”

  “He takes everything in his stride,” Burgess said. “We could all take lessons from Alexander. . . . Why I’m calling, Qwill—Ernie was telling us about your book, Short & Tall Tales, and I wondered if you had room for one more.”

  “Yes, if it has a legendary quality and a Moose County connection.”

  “I think it qualifies. My father used to tell about this feed-and-seed supplier in Brrr Township in the 1920s. He called it Phineas Ford’s Fabulous Collection.”

  “Are there any Fords still around? I haven’t run into that name.”

  “Dad said the last ones went Down Below during World War Two, to work in the defense industry. If you’re interested, I could dictate it to my computer and mail you a printout. Then you can edit it as you see fit.”

  “Sounds good to me!” Qwilleran said.

  . . .

  Ruff Abbey was given a hero’s
funeral—on Monday, not Tuesday, because of the threat of the Big One. The service was held in the high school auditorium because so many mourners wanted to attend. Burial was in Sawdust City because the Mudville Curlers insisted.

  After the service Qwilleran was cashing a check in the bank when he bumped into someone and said, “Sorry.”

  The other man said, “Sorry,” and then looked up. “Qwill!”

  “Ernie! If I’d known it was you, I’d have bumped harder!”

  “Story of my life.” He lowered his booming voice to a mutter. “Gotta couple of minutes? If we could sit down somewhere and spread this thing out . . .” There was a roll of drafting paper under his arm.

  Qwilleran used his influence, and they went into a small conference room.

  Ernie Kemple, former insurance agent and enthusiastic volunteer, was not in his usual jovial mood. In the last year he had surmounted family problems and carried on with bravado, throwing himself into community service.

  But now he looked discouraged as he unrolled a large drawing of a floor plan. “Did you hear about my idea for an antique village?”

  “Sketchily. Fill me in. It sounds interesting.”

  “The idea was flying high. . . . and then the wings fell off. I suppose you know that Otto’s Tasty Eats went out of business.”

  “Good riddance!”

  “Yeah . . . well . . . His building was for sale by owner, and I thought it would be perfect for an antiques cooperative, where dealers rent spaces and take turns minding the store.”

  Qwilleran asked, “Would this area have enough dealers to make it work?”

  “Oh, sure! Collectors all over the county are selling from their barns and basements, and they’d welcome the opportunity to ‘go pro,’ you know, without a big investment. Also, dealers in surrounding counties could have a branch in Pickax and cash in on the tourist trade. I’d have exhibit booths around the walls of the main floor and balcony, and have a courtyard in the middle for serving lunches and snacks. The K Fund was standing by, ready to give me a low-interest business loan. . . . and then I made Otto an offer for the building, and crash! He said he was planning a business venture of his own!”