The Cat Who Smelled a Rat Audio

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Have you talked to Robyn?”

  “Yes, and I feel so sorry for her. She and Jeffa are the chief mourners, and it’s very touching how they’re consoling each other. Donald is probably laughing his head off, rat that he is!”

  “Yow!” came a loud comment from Koko, who was on the table in the foyer, as if to speed the parting guest.

  “Well, I must tear myself away,” Susan said. “Thanks for the coffee, and don’t forget: I’m interested in the St. Louis pitcher!”

  After she had left, Koko continued to sit on the carved oak glove box, one of his favorite perches in recent days. He treated it like a pedestal for the sculptural poses he liked to strike.

  “Vanity! Vanity!” Qwilleran observed.

  He turned his attention to the speech he was scheduled to make that evening. At the urging of his friend, Kip McDiarmid, editor of the Lockmaster Ledger, he had consented to be after-dinner speaker at a meeting of the literary club. His decision was influenced, no doubt, by the choice of meeting place, an upscale restaurant in horse country: the Palomino Paddock.

  A veteran at making such speeches, he knew what his audience would want to know:

  How he had learned his craft. (He gave credit to a tenth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Fisheye.)

  His favorite authors. (Trollope, Flaubert, Nabokov and Mark Twain.)

  What it’s like to be a twice-weekly columnist. (Rough. Fun. Challenging. Underpaid.)

  Where he gets his ideas. (I stare at my cat and he stares at me, eyeball to eyeball, and my brain goes into high gear.)

  What he enjoyed most about writing for metropolitan newspapers Down Below. (The Press Clubs.)

  Half serious and half entertaining, his talks always attracted a few more subscribers for the Moose County Something.

  The dinner meeting at the Palomino Paddock was held in a private room—really two rooms thrown together because of the number of reservations. After the medallions of beef and the strawberries with peppercorn sauce, the Lockmaster editor introduced “the notorious columnist from the barbaric county to the north.”

  Qwilleran began by saying, “Needless to mention, I took the precaution of being vaccinated before venturing on this foreign soil.”

  The question-and-answer session that followed the talk included a discussion of haiku, since most of the audience had read that day’s “Qwill Pen.” Then Kip McDiarmid closed the program with a tongue-in-cheek haiku:

  “Sick cat . . . Burnt toast . . . flat tire . . . computer down . . . business as usual.”

  It was after midnight when Qwilleran reached Indian Village. As he turned into River Road, a vehicle ahead of him pulled up to Amanda Goodwinter’s condo. A passenger hurried indoors while Amanda herself brought luggage from the trunk.

  Qwilleran was positive the guest was Maggie Sprenkle. Unfortunately it was too late to call Polly and ask if she knew what was happening.

  Several questions bothered him: What is Maggie doing here? And why the apparent secrecy? Did she come by chartered plane? It was too late for scheduled flights.

  Still without answers on Saturday morning, he chose to do some private sleuthing before involving Polly in the mystery. He went downtown for coffee and scones at the Scottish Bakery and found Burgess Campbell doing the same.

  After the usual Celtic banter Qwilleran said, as a teaser, “I hear that Henry Zoller and Maggie Sprenkle have gone out west together and plan to marry.”

  “It’ll never happen,” the other man said. “She’s a fanatic about cats, and he has an overfastidious objection to living under the same roof with an animal. Did you ever meet her late husband, Qwill? He was an easygoing fellow, famous for his rose garden. He used to invite me over to smell the roses, and he’d describe every bush as if it were a friend. All Henry’s friends are on the golf course. . . . No, whoever spread the rumor about him and Maggie doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Someday,” Qwilleran said, “I’d like to write a piece about the intelligent, well-mannered, unflappable Alexander. He’s such a well-known dog-about-town!”

  “That could be arranged,” Burgess said, “although you shouldn’t flatter him too much. I wouldn’t want him getting a swelled head.”

  . . .

  Qwilleran’s next stop was the design studio.

  Amanda was in-house, scowling at the Saturday shoppers who were “just looking.” Qwilleran hastened their departure by following them around like a store detective. It worked.

  “How’s the campaign going, Amanda?” he asked. “If you win, I want to be appointed ambassador to Lockmaster.”

  “I’ve got you slated for Secretary of Trash Collection,” she snapped.

  “I see you have a houseguest from out of town.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t I see Maggie Sprenkle arriving last night?”

  Amanda paused for only two heartbeats. “You didn’t see her. Understand? You—did—not—see—her!”

  “If you say so,” he said, pleased at the hint of intrigue. “The person I didn’t see must have arrived by chartered plane—in order to land under cover of darkness.”

  “No comment!” Her tight-lipped, downturned mouth put an end to the conversation. But as he bowed out, she called after him, “Don’t mention this to Polly!”

  He drove home in a good mood. He now had a riddle to solve—something to stretch his wits. The sight of Koko waiting at the door suggested a solution.

  “Want to go for a walk, old boy?” Qwilleran jingled the cat’s harness and leash.

  “Yow!” was the enthusiastic response. Whenever they walked outdoors, he rode on the man’s shoulder; it gave him an elevated view and kept his paws clean. A firm hand on the leash prevented any impulsive moves.

  They made their exit through the sliding glass doors in the living room, across the open deck, and down the steps to the riverbank trail. Well carpeted with fallen leaves, it rustled crisply underfoot.

  Qwilleran headed north toward the other condo clusters, occasionally stopping to pick up a stone and hurl it across the river, or what was left of the rushing water. Drought had reduced it to a brook, conscientiously gurgling its way to the lake.

  The scene had a Saturday quiet. The career folk who lived there were at work or shopping or catching up on domestic demands. Polly, for example, was organizing for winter, laundering and storing her warm-weather clothing, and bringing her winter wardrobe out of storage. It was a semi-annual ritual that Qwilleran had learned to respect.

  When he reached the rear of The Birches, he knew that the first unit was Amanda’s. He stopped to pitch a stone, hoping that Maggie would be in the living room, looking out the wall of glass. He had a good throwing arm, left over from his college days when he had been noticed by a scout for the Chicago Cubs. He flung several stones. Koko watched with interest. Once he yowled.

  “Attaboy,” Qwilleran said as he pitched another chunk of rock.

  Koko yowled again.

  Almost immediately there was tapping on the window and the sound of a sliding glass door.

  Qwilleran looked up, feigning surprise, and saw an arm beckoning. Slowly he walked toward the deck and climbed the steps.

  Maggie was in the doorway, putting a finger to her lips, cautioning him to be silent.

  Once inside the house, with the sliding door closed, he said in a hushed voice, “Maggie! What are you doing here? Why didn’t you let us know?”

  “It’s a long story,” she said wearily, “and I’m really not . . . at liberty . . . to discuss it.”

  This was hardly the effusive, grandiose Maggie everyone knew. Noticeably absent was the hugging.

  Koko, perched on Qwilleran’s shoulder, looked down at her and gurgled a throaty purr.

  “He knows I’m a cat person,” she said. “Sit down, Qwill. May I hold him?”

  The leash was unsnapped, and Koko settled down on her lap. Though not a lapcat by temperament, he seemed to know that therapy was needed. She stroked him, and
he purred lustily. “I’ve missed my ladies so much,” she murmured.

  “They’re well and happy at the Pet Plaza,” Qwilleran assured her. “I happened to be over there and noticed their names on the nameplates. . . . Is Henry with you, Maggie?”

  Her answer was hesitant. “No, he didn’t come—this time.”

  “Are felicitations in order?” he asked cheerfully. “Have the wedding bells been ringing?”

  “No, I’m afraid they’re postponed.” She stroked the cat’s fur nervously.

  “You missed Amanda’s rally. It was very well done. Derek sang an original campaign song. People said the event had everything—except Maggie Sprenkle.” He knew that would touch a heartstring.

  “Oh, Qwill!” she said pathetically. “I’m so upset. I’m not supposed to talk to anyone—until I’ve seen Henry’s lawyer.”

  “I see . . . Well, I won’t pry into your business, but if there’s anything I can do—drive you anywhere or offer any brotherly advice—you know I’m trustworthy and sympathetic.”

  “I know.”

  “I heard someone speaking very highly of your late husband this morning.”

  “Jeremy. . .yes. We spent forty happy years together. . . . Qwill! I never intended to marry Henry! It was just . . . He had to leave town. He thought it would save face. . . . You won’t breathe a word of this, will you?”

  “Of course not, Maggie. I hope Henry isn’t in any serious trouble.”

  “Did you know Cass Young?”

  “Only by reputation until Wednesday night at the curling club, just a few hours before his accident.”

  “Henry thinks it wasn’t an accident,” Maggie said in a hushed voice.

  “Yow!” said the cat on her lap.

  “Oh, my! What a loud voice you have, Koko! Does he want to go home?”

  “He’s trying to tell you someone’s coming. We’ll leave.” He grabbed Koko and headed for the sliding door. The doorbell rang.

  “It’ll be Mr. Bennett,” Maggie said. “I’ll stall until you get away.”

  Koko’s body vibrated all the way home, supercharged by the intense stroking. Qwilleran kept a tight lead on the cat lest he should feel an impulse to take wing. It had been an exhilarating adventure for both of them. The man’s strategy had worked: The cat seemed to have done all the right things on cue.

  It had been revealed that Henry “had to leave town.” It sounded as if he were involved in financial dealings that were illegal, and now his attorney was trying to make a deal with the prosecutor, with Maggie as go-between. If so, it was serious business. Bennett was senior partner of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter. Despite the death of Hasselrich, the name of the firm had been retained, at least temporarily.

  Qwilleran thought, Poor Maggie!—so outgoing, honest, and generous—still married to the memory of Jeremy and his rose garden, and lonesome for her five “ladies.” And she was cast in an unfamiliar role of secrecy and complicity, with unknown stakes. . . . How would she explain the cat hairs on her clothing?

  Back home and released from his harness, Koko sniffed noses with Yum Yum, who had come to meet him, and had a few laps of water and prowled around the house to see if anything new had been added. . . . after which he soared to the mantel and stayed there for the next two hours, stretched full length, exhausted by his adventure.

  sixteen

  Now Qwilleran had two hot news items he could not reveal—even to close friends: Henry’s reason for leaving town and Maggie’s secret return. The arrival of Jeffa’s stepdaughter and her sudden angry departure were already stale news on the Pickax grapevine.

  This was the evening for viewing the Rikers’ sofa and having a little supper. Safe topics would be: the weather, the accident at the curling club, the teaser ads that had been running in the Something, Kip McDiarmid’s haiku that convulsed the literary club, and Yum Yum’s hoarding of socks under the rya rug. There would also be comment on Friday’s alarming headline:

  P.O. MURALS . . . MUST . . . GO!

  The historic Moose County murals that have made the Pickax post office a tourist attraction and a mecca for the citizenry are doomed to disappear.

  Otherwise the building will be condemned as a public-safety hazard and permanently closed.

  Postmaster Bill Buncomb said, “This comes as a shock! We were worried about peeling paint drifting down on customers like dandruff, but had no idea it was life-threatening. But when the experts tested it, they lowered the boom.”

  The building will be closed until further notice, and post office business will be shifted to the vacant buildings on Book Alley.

  County historian Homer Tibbitt said, “When the murals were painted during the Depression, there were no artists here capable of working in heroic scale, so artists were brought in from elsewhere in the state, but they used local folks for models—miners, loggers, farmwives, and so on. Today their descendants come into the post office and see Grandma or Great-grandpa up there on the wall. She’s pedaling a spinning wheel, and he’s climbing up a ladder with coal dust on his face. It’s a shame to take this away from them, but if the murals are life-threatening, there’s no choice.”

  It was twilight when Qwilleran called for Polly, to go to see the Rikers’ new sofa. Hearing no music as he passed Wetherby Goode’s unit, he assumed his neighbor was in Horseradish with his inamorata. Kirt Nightingale’s place was dark; he was undoubtedly at the country club. Polly was feeding the cats, and he helped by changing their drinking water and policing their commode. Then they strolled to The Birches.

  Amanda’s unit was dark; she might be dining with clients in Purple Point, who would be plotting her political career: first, mayor; then, county commissioner; then—?

  Jeffa was home, and Robyn’s car was there; there was a small robin painted on the driver’s door.

  Susan’s place was dark. Her bridge club would be meeting at the clubhouse and having a catered dinner. Some kind of chicken.

  At the Rikers’ condo the foursome assembled with the warm pleasure of old friends who see each other often. There were cries of, “Where’s the sofa?”

  It was admired from all angles, sat upon, and compared to the old one. The fabric, Mildred said, was an abstract jacquard weave treated to resist soil. The color, Arch said, was the color of good Scotch.

  With Mildred’s casserole of moussaka, Arch was serving a local wine from the Windy Cliff Vineyard in Brrr Township. For Qwilleran he had a white grapejuice imported from Ohio. He kept waving his hand over the top of the open bottles. “Fruit flies,” he explained.

  “In November?” Qwilleran asked.

  Arch clapped his hands smartly together. “Got him!”

  He looked at his palms. “The little devil got away!”

  Mildred said, “They’re not fruit flies, Arch. I’m afraid you have floaters.”

  “What? What?”

  “Do you mean you reached middle-age without seeing small specks dancing in front of your eyes?”

  “According to my ophthalmologist,” Polly said, “the vitreous gel in the eye thickens or shrinks, forming clumps or strands that throw shadows on the retina.”

  “Frankly,” Arch said, “I’d rather have fruit flies.”

  Qwilleran proposed a toast: “May you never be judged by the company you keep!” Then he entertained them with a story about Burgess Campbell’s guide dog:

  “Eddington Smith used to search for out-of-print titles for Burgess, and Alexander developed a platonic romance with Edd’s cat. Winston would sit on the top step of the ladder, and meaningful glances would be exchanged between the two animals. After the disaster it seemed like the end of a beautiful friendship. . . . until Winston went to live with the Bethunes, next door to the Campbells! And now they commune silently between the side windows.”

  “Isn’t that touching!” Mildred cried.

  “Any excitement at the paper?” Qwilleran asked.

  Arch said, “Our phones rang nonstop yesterday after the paper came out. Readers were
mad as hornets about the post office story, as if it were our doing. People always want to shoot the messenger who brings bad news.”

  “The headline was . . . rather brutal,” Polly said. “If the news could have been broken more gently . . . The quote from Homer Tibbitt was a good idea. Do you know he’s in the hospital?”

  “Oh, dear! At his age? It doesn’t sound good.”

  “It’s not as bad as you think,” Polly said. “He’s having a knee replacement in the Joint Replacement Spa on the top floor. They don’t treat patients as if they’re sick. It’s like taking your car in for a brake relining. I phoned Rhoda, and she said he’s having a wonderful time. He’s not stuck in a hospital room, in a hospital gown. The patients get together in a large pleasant room, and family members can visit them there.”

  “Then I don’t have to send him a cheer-up card,” Arch said. “He can send me a cheer-up card.”

  Everyone was relaxed. Conversation flowed easily. Dessert was a chocolate sundae with a topping of pistachio nuts.

  The party ended early, and Polly invited Qwilleran in for music.

  When he finally returned to Unit Four, the Siamese were waiting politely for their tuck-in ritual. . . . but the living room was a mess. Koko had been on a paper-shredding binge and had reduced the Something to ticker tape and confetti. That smart cat had discovered that newsprint tears more successfully lengthwise than crosswise! What was on his mind? He had oblique ways of communicating. He might be suggesting that he preferred torn paper in his commode—and not the expensive dustproof, scatterproof litter. Or was he editorializing on the post office story, the haiku, or the big teaser ad promising fun for the whole family? What kind of fun?

  The next afternoon all was quiet in Unit Four. Qwilleran was reading, and the Siamese were catnapping, when Koko suddenly bolted out of his lethargy as if shot and started racing around the house: over tables, around the kitchen, up the stairs, down to the living room sofa like a flying squirrel, toppling a lamp, scattering everything else.