The Cat Who Smelled a Rat Audio

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “What’s the dirt, you guys?” Qwilleran asked. “And why isn’t Alexander laughing?”

  Campbell’s guide dog had the unflinching stoicism of his profession.

  Kemple became suddenly serious. “Remember I wanted to put an antique mall in Otto’s old building, Qwill? I’ve just found out what’s going in there—the ‘recreation center’ that’s been advertised in a teaser campaign. It’s going to be a video palace with gambling machines on the balcony, and they’re calling it The Shafthouse!”

  “Because you’ll get the shaft!” Burgess said.

  They roared again.

  “Why are we laughing?” said Ernie. “It’s bad news!”

  “How did you find out about this?” Qwilleran asked. “It’s been the biggest secret since Hannibal crossed the Alps.”

  “My next-door neighbor has the trucking firm that delivered the equipment. The gambling machines go on the balcony.”

  “Wait a minute. I didn’t know gambling was permitted in this town.”

  “Only if you get a special permit from the city council. Previous requests have been denied, but this time somebody had the right connections or greased the right palms.”

  Burgess said, “Alexander himself could get a license to sell booze in this town if he knew the right boots to lick.”

  When Qwilleran left with his armful of newspaper, he thought, This whole concept, including the name, is too sophisticated for the simple purveyor of “tasty eats.” Is Otto one of the Donex associates? Is the mayor another? Is this one of the schemes that Zoller disapproved of? Is this one of the reasons he left town suddenly? It takes a special kind of courage to expose corruption in a small town.

  It’s easier and safer to move away.

  The prospect of visiting a hospitalized ninety-eight-year-old is not usually a joyous one, but there was never anything usual about Homer Tibbitt, and Qwilleran looked forward to it. The lobby of Pickax General was aflutter with “canaries,” the helpful volunteers in yellow smocks. One of them conducted Qwilleran to the Joint Replacement Spa on the top floor.

  In an atrium under a skylight (not the real thing but psychologically effective) patients were lounging in specially designed furniture and indulging in spurts of laughter. Rhoda made the introductions: Chaucer, Pocahontas, Mark Twain, Paul Revere, Joan of Arc . . . “And this is our beloved Mr. Q!”

  The response was instantaneous: “Love your column!” “How’s Koko?” “My daughter won one of your pencils!” “Got your recumbent bike put away in mothballs?”

  He replied, “I’m overwhelmed in the presence of so many world-renowned personages. It could only happen in Pickax. Where’s Emily Dickinson?”

  “Went home this morning. When she hears you were here, she’ll be fit to be tied!”

  “Who was telling bawdy jokes when I came in?” Qwilleran asked.

  “We were playing think-games,” Homer said. “We’re making a collection of nostalgic sounds that you never hear anymore—or hardly ever. . . . Chaucer, do your impersonation of an old car with a weak battery, trying to start on a cold morning.”

  “I remember it well,” the man said. “All over the neighborhood you’d hear rrrgh rrrgh rrrgh and then a pause. . . . rrrgh rrrgh rrrgh rrrgh. The temperature was below zero, and the driver was sweating behind the wheel. Again rrrgh rrrgh rrrgh rrrgh CHUG! Hopeful silence. Then rrrgh rrrgh rrrgh CHUG CHUG CHUG!And the car roared down the street at fifteen miles an hour!”

  There were others:

  Laundry being scrubbed on a wooden washboard.

  An officeful of manual typewriters all clattering at the same time.

  A street urchin shouting, “Shoeshines for a nickel!”

  The Sunday afternoon sound of cutting grass with a push-and-grunt lawnmower.

  A windup gramophone running down in the middle of a record.

  Then Rhoda explained that Mr. Q had come to discuss business with Homer, and the three of them retired to the privacy of a hospital room.

  Homer said, “We’ve been cudgeling our brains about the Omblower name. Twenty years ago Rhoda was still teaching; I was retired as principal but still poking my nose into everything.”

  “Yes, and I remember a Mrs. Omblower,” she said. “It was my year to do parent-liaison, and she was a pathetic little creature—single mother struggling to support herself and her son. She did housecleaning, but it was difficult without a car. And her son got into trouble at school. He was a bright boy—an all-A student—but he had a lawbreaking streak.”

  “What laws did he break?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Thou shalt not do homework for other students. . . . or sign parents’ names to report cards . . . or write false absence excuses.”

  “Assuming he did it for money,” Qwilleran said, “was he helping out at home?”

  “That gives it a hint of nobility,” Homer said, “but he was part of a white-collar crime ring—with two accomplices from affluent families. They were all smart kids who could have used their intelligence for leadership and creative purposes. They were just three bad apples in a barrel of good ones. That happens, you know.”

  Qwilleran’s moustache bristled, and he fingered the letter in his pocket. “What measures did the school take?”

  “The two students from good families were privately reprimanded and allowed to finish their senior year. Omblower dropped out.”

  “It was the kind of thing that the school suppressed,” said Rhoda.

  Qwilleran said, “Was his name George? I found a letter he wrote to his mother in Chipmunk twenty years ago. The return address on the envelope looks like that of a state prison.” He read it to them.

  Hi, Mom!

  Just a note to let you know I’ll be out soon, but if Denise is still around, tell her I’m dead. I’m getting a new identity—new occupation, new lifestyle, new everything!

  I’ve learned a lot in five years. The trick is to live by your wits and not by the rules. So don’t waste any prayers on me, Mom. I’ll always be your bad apple.

  George

  Qwilleran said, “The handwriting is good, with a back-slant that’s quite distinctive, and my proofreader’s eye notes perfect spelling and punctuation.”

  There were murmured comments—from two listeners who knew not quite what to say.

  Qwilleran asked, “Who were the affluent families? How did they get their wealth?”

  “One from railroading, one from bootlegging,” Homer said, adding quickly, “You’re not going to write about this, are you?”

  His wife said, “Homer, Qwill wouldn’t waste his talent on muckraking.”

  Thinking fast, Qwilleran said, “I’ve found an old wood carving that would have sentimental value for Mrs. Omblower, if I could find her. I thought her son’s two confederates might know her whereabouts.”

  Rhoda jumped up, consulting her watch. “Homer, it’s time for your therapy. Sorry, Qwill. Would you excuse us? I’ll walk you to the elevator.” As soon as they were out of her husband’s hearing, she said, “I don’t want him to have a stroke. His blood pressure erupts when anyone mentions Gideon Blake. He’s the ‘bad apple’ who earned two college degrees and returned under the name of Gregory Blythe. When Homer retired, the man became principal, wriggled out of a scandal, was elected mayor three times—oh! It’s all too much for Homer!”

  “I understand,” Qwilleran said. “Take good care of our civic treasure!”

  On the way to his van in the parking lot, Qwilleran came face to face with a large fierce-looking Scot in kilt and bonnet, with a bagpipe under his arm—a rare sight approaching a hospital building.

  “Andy! What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “My old uncle is in there,” the police chief said gloomily. “His dying wish is to hear the bagpipe once more. Sad business! When I’ve finished I’ll be ready for a swig of the good stuff.”

  “I have a bottle of very good stuff,” said Qwilleran, “if you don’t mind driving out to Indian Village.”

  �
��I’ll do that, but it’ll be late—after ten. I take my wife out to dinner on my day off.”

  Qwilleran drove home with a happy foot on the pedal. He had missed his confabs with the chief—exchanging suspicions, private theories, and sometimes inside information.

  At home he was met by a highly nervous Yum Yum. She frisked about, not in anticipation of a treat but in disapproval of a misdemeanor.

  “What’s bugging you, sweetheart?” he asked, trying to pick her up for comforting, but she darted away and ran to the coffee table. There he found that a cat had up-chucked on his book about Egypt with its fine jacket illustration of pyramids in the desert. Fortunately the cover was protected by a heavy polyurethane slipjacket. Even so, why had the cat elected that particular spot for an indiscretion?

  Obviously Koko was the culprit. Cats never covered for each other. The innocent one always circled and sniffed the scene of the crime. And where was the perpetrator? He was not hiding in guilt or shame or embarrassment; he was sitting complacently on his cushion atop the refrigerator.

  Silently Qwilleran did what had to be done. There was nothing to be gained by scolding. Perhaps Koko had an upset stomach, but he could have selected a more appropriate target.

  Qwilleran stayed calm. And Koko was certainly calm. Only sweet little Yum Yum with her housekeeperly instincts suffered the stigma of it all. Qwilleran picked her up and carried her around the room several times, kneading her fur and murmuring in her ear—until she purred.

  And as he walked, he pondered the remarkable creature named Kao K’o Kung, trying to communicate and failing to get through. . . . No wonder he tossed his cookies! And on my best book! What does he want to tell me?

  A moment later Qwilleran had a brilliant idea. Putting Yum Yum down—gently—he phoned Kirt Nightingale and left a message on the machine.

  “Kirt, this is Qwilleran. I’ve decided to go whole hog—David Roberts—Napoleon—and anything else you consider a wise investment. Could you come over tomorrow, about noon, and have a Bloody Mary and give me some advice? Just call and leave a yes or no on my machine.”

  When Qwilleran picked up Polly for a dinner date at the Nutcracker Inn, he was met at the door by Brutus, her self-appointed security officer, who accepted a small bribe. “The way to have a friend is to be a friend,” said Qwilleran, “and that goes double for cats.”

  On the way to Black Creek he announced, “I’ve solved my Christmas-shopping problem!”

  “I wish I could,” she said. “What are you doing?”

  “Giving everyone a gift certificate for an ankle tattoo at a Bixby art studio. It’s now socially correct to declare your commitment to the environment by having a nature symbol tattooed on your ankle.”

  Her peals of laughter jolted his grip on the wheel. “Who gave you that idea?”

  “You could have a butterfly or a mouse or a cardinal—”

  “Cardinals are overdone. You see them on greeting cards, T-shirts, pot holders, wastebaskets—everywhere,” she objected.

  “You have plenty of time to decide. I visualize Arch with a bullfrog and Mildred with a white rabbit.”

  His manner was so serious, she never knew when she was being teased.

  She said, “I saw Derek driving into our street the other day. I wonder what that was all about?”

  “He and Wetherby were probably planning the entertainment for the party. I wouldn’t be surprised if they did a tap dance.”

  Polly had never seen the tall brick mansion that housed the Nutcracker Inn.

  “Wait till you see the interior,” he said. “Fran Brodie was commissioned to furnish it in Stickley, like the Mackintosh Inn.”

  “But the atmosphere is different,” she said as she entered. “Lighter and airier and friendlier. It’s the pale coral walls!”

  When the innkeeper welcomed them, he said to Qwilleran, “The young couple you recommended as innkeepers came in and introduced themselves. They have good personalities and credentials, and I told them—”

  “Mr. Knox! Mr. Knox!” cried a young woman in a housekeeping smock as she rushed down the stairs from an upper floor. “Mrs. Smith on the third floor wants her dinner sent up on a tray.”

  “No problem,” he said quietly. “Give the information to the hostess. And Cathy—walk, don’t rush.” To the guests he explained, “An MCCC student. Her first day on the job.”

  Polly said, “How well I remember my first day on my first job.”

  “Don’t we all!”

  In the dining room the tablecloths were the same pale coral. They both ordered grilled salmon—to go with the tablecloths, they said. Qwilleran grumbled that it must be the cook’s first day on the job, too, although he finished every morsel on his plate.

  Polly said, “Guess who came to the library today, bearing gifts? Misty Morghan! She’s offering us two large batiks in splashy colors to brighten the reading room. I took her to lunch at Rennie’s.”

  “What did you do with your trusty tuna sandwich?”

  “Gave it to Mac and Katie. Misty claims to have a unique eye for hidden details, and she can tell when someone has had cosmetic surgery. She was glancing around the restaurant, and it struck me as invasion of privacy, but I reserved my opinion. She said to me, ‘Don’t look now, but the man over there has had a complete facial reconstruction.’ He must have been in a devastating accident.”

  “Did you look?”

  “Of course I looked! It was Kirt Nightingale! I always thought his expression was unemotional. I wonder if he’s doing well with his catalogue.”

  Toward the end of the meal Qwilleran asked, “How do you feel about the Last Drink party?”

  “Not strongly. How do you feel?”

  “It’s April fifteenth trying to be New Year’s Eve, but we should make an appearance. I have to be home by ten; I’m expecting an important phone call.”

  When they left the dining room, the innkeeper asked if they had enjoyed their dinner, and they were trying to say something tactful, when the young housekeeper came bouncing down the stairs again.

  “Mr. Knox! The lady on the third floor wants to know if Nicodemus could spend the night with her! She’s lonesome for her five cats.”

  Hearing his name, a sleek black cat slinked into their midst—a cat with eyes that burned like live coals.

  “Certainly,” the innkeeper said. “Take him upstairs, and don’t forget his water dish and commode.”

  Ah! Qwilleran thought. Maggie’s still here!

  nineteen

  When Qwilleran and Polly arrived at the party, they were greeted effusively by their neighbors: “We were afraid you weren’t coming! . . . Derek has written a new song. . . . What are you drinking? . . . Try some of the chicken liver pâté.”

  Wetherby Goode played a fanfare on the piano and announced, “And now the moment you have been waiting for! Derek Cuttlebrink plays his latest creation: ‘Pickax the Proud’!”

  There were cheers as everyone’s favorite folksinger stepped to the microphone, strummed a few chords, and sang:

  We’re the friendly folk of Pickax, U.S.A.

  We find each other’s puppies when they stray.

  Our bosses give us raises

  And we always sing their praises,

  And we’re getting better-looking every day.

  If someone does us dirt we never sue.

  We lend the guy next door a buck or two.

  We’re the first at paying taxes

  And the last at grinding axes.

  And gossiping we never, never do!

  When someone suggested making it the official anthem of Pickax City, the Villagers roared their approval. Derek winked broadly at Qwilleran, who left immediately with Polly—both of them murmuring excuses and regrets.

  Around ten o’clock the Siamese were watching Qwilleran prepare a tray of beverages and cheeses when their heads swiveled toward the foyer. An unearthly sound was coming from the street.

  On the sidewalk stood Andrew Brodie in the fatigue
s he usually wore to rake leaves, and he was piping a wild Scottish dance.

  When the last bouncing, heel-clicking notes had trailed off into silence, Qwilleran called out, “Andy! What’s that insane tune?”

  “The Drunken Piper.”

  “Then come in and sober up.”

  He followed Qwilleran into the kitchen, dropping the bagpipe on the sofa. There the Siamese could sniff the strange animal and decide whether it was dead or alive.

  “How did it go at the hospital?”

  “I played his favorite hymns, and he was peaceful when I left.”

  The refreshments were served in the living room, where there was a small fire crackling in the grate. The guest looked about appreciatively. “Pretty big robins, those . . . are those apples real? . . . That pitcher is some chunk of glass!” Then he asked, “How come you aren’t out having a Last Drink?”

  “This is my Last Drink.”

  “Are you one of those idiots who rush out into the street when snow starts to fly and stick out their tongues?”

  “I can’t say I fit that description.”

  “If a snowflake lands on your tongue, it’s supposed to be good luck. Downtown will be full of crazy fools running around with tongues hanging out like overheated dogs.”

  The telephone rang. “Let it ring,” Qwilleran said. “I think they’ll leave a message.”

  After a few rings, a man’s voice said, “Qwill, this is Kirt. The answer is yes. Tomorrow at twelve noon. You’re making a wise choice.”

  “Are you ready for the Big One tonight?” Brodie asked.

  “I don’t expect it as soon as the National Weather Service predicts. When my weather cat stages his meteorological catfit, it’ll be time to batten down the hatches.”