“One of my neighbor’s kids won a pencil in your contest. He wrote a poem about his cats. . . . Where are your chums?”
“The little pickpocket has an eye on your wristwatch. The smart one, as you call him, is staring at you from the stairs and wondering when the law agencies are going to solve a perfectly obvious case.”
“What’s his take on the situation?” Brodie asked as seriously as if consulting Hercule Poirot.
“First, let me refresh your drink,” Qwilleran said, “and help yourself to the cheese.” He took his time before answering the question. “If you’ve never heard Koko’s death howl in the middle of the night, you don’t know what cold sweat is all about. It means murder! He howled at the precise moment when Ruff Abbey was shot. . . . and again when Cass Young was killed. But first he howled when the thousands of books were burned. Koko considers that murder. . . . and by the way, arson was ruled out, but I have a theory about that.”
“Let’s hear it!”
“Some unauthorized individual let himself in the back door, and Edd’s cat escaped, thus saving his life. Winston had never wanted to go out, but his animal instinct warned him of impending evil—the same instinct that charges Koko’s batteries.”
“Assuming that the three incidents are three felonies, is Koko prepared to finger any suspects?”
“Yow!” came a comment from the stairs, as Koko heard his name.
“There’s your answer,” Qwilleran said. “Does the name Omblower mean anything to you?”
“Nope. Odd name.”
“George Omblower was one of three bad boys at Pickax High School at one time, and I think he’s back again—with an alias. . . . What do you know about the Donex Associates?”
Brodie harrumphed. “I’m not at liberty to talk, but there may be some interesting news in your paper tomorrow.”
“Meanwhile, Omblower is coming here for a Bloody Mary at noon tomorrow, and I plan to ask him some embarrassing questions. Depending on how he reacts, a cop on the premises might be able to make an arrest.”
“You serious?”
“Never more so! But the guy lives only two doors away, so we can’t have any police vehicles at the curb.”
“We can handle that,” Brodie said.
The next morning Qwilleran phoned the concierge at the Pet Plaza. “Do you board cats by the hour?”
Lori Bamba had been his friend-in-need ever since he arrived in Moose County. “Not usually,” she said, “but . . .”
“I need to get them off the premises for a few hours—for reasons too complicated to describe.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“We’ll send our limousine over in half an hour. Your carrier or ours?”
Qwilleran lured the Siamese into the kitchen with a small treat, then stuffed them into their carrier. It was a loose fit for two sleek Siamese—unless they preferred not to travel. Then they puffed themselves up to resemble two porcupines on stilts.
“Consider this a mini-vacation at an exclusive resort,” he said. “Behave like patricians.” Two pairs of eyes glowered at him through the metal mesh of their prison.
Shortly after the limousine had whisked them away to the Pet Plaza, a plumber’s van pulled up, and a man approached Unit Four with a kit of plumber’s tools. “Got a leak?” he asked with a grin when Qwilleran opened the door.
“Come in, Pete,” he said, recognizing a deputy from the sheriff’s department.
Pete spoke a few words into his cell phone, and the plumbing van drove away. “What’s up, Mr. Q?”
“A guy is coming here to sell me some books, and he happens to be a suspect in a murder case. I intend to ask him some leading questions—not about books—and you’re here in case he gets nasty. The spare room on the balcony will be your observation post.”
“We’re supposed to tape the interrogation, so I’d better get set up.”
“Feel free to move anything around if necessary, and let me know if there’s anything you need.”
The doorbell rang again. A pizza wagon stood at the curb, and a delivery man handed him a large, square, flat box. Qwilleran recognized him as an officer from the PPD.
“Hi, Mr. Q! Brodie sent this for your party. I hear it’s gonna be fun and games today.” He mumbled into his cell phone, and the pizza wagon took off.
As noon approached, the pizza was in the warming oven, the two officers were upstairs, and Qwilleran was at the bar, readying tomato juice, vodka, hot sauce, and a fresh lime. He was having second thoughts about trapping the quiet, sober-faced specialist in rare books. Just because the man had given Polly his mother’s glove box, it was no proof that she was Helen Omblower. Kirt’s mother might have bought the box at a local antique shop, never guessing that a letter was hidden in a false bottom. Neither did Polly, and Qwilleran himself had not discovered it until Koko commenced sniffing and pawing.
If Nightingale were indeed Omblower, as Qwilleran suspected, body language would reveal his guilt unless . . . he happened to be a skilled actor; acting might be one of the things he boasted of learning while in prison. (Don’t wet lips; don’t blink; don’t scratch neck; don’t pull earlobe.) Qwilleran began to wish Koko were there to contribute an occasional “Yow” and “Ik ik ik.”
The doorbell rang, and the quiet, sober-faced bookseller stood there without uttering a sociable word, leaving it up to the host to say, “Good morning! Come in and have a last Last Drink.”
In the foyer Nightingale glanced about warily, then walked to the sofa. “Interesting piece of glass,” he said. “Does it have a pedigree?”
“St. Louis lead crystal, made for the French steamship lines. Weighs a ton.”
“There’s a fine book about glassmakers of the world if you’re interested: Baccarat, Steuben, Waterford, Orrefors, and so forth—absolutely the definitive work.”
“Right now I’m interested in Egypt,” Qwilleran said. “But first drink to the Big One! We’ll all be glad when snow flies and we can stop worrying about wildfires—or whatever they are. A lot of people think they’re arson.”
“Is that so?”
“Strange thing about arson: Property owners used to burn their buildings to collect insurance. Now arson is the most common type of vandalism. Structures are torched for thrills or just plain meanness. There’s a rumor that a land-grabber burned the bookstore in order to get an affordable site in a good location—for sale to a commercial developer. . . . As a bookman, Kirt, you must have been horrified to see thousands of books go up in flames.”
“There wasn’t much of value there,” said the bookman. “I spent several hours on the ladder and found nothing worthwhile.”
“Be that as it may, it was the pride of Pickax, and Eddington himself was a leading citizen.” Qwilleran stroked his moustache. “It hasn’t been announced as yet, but I propose to establish a Rare Book Room at the public library, as a memorial to Eddington. That’s why I asked you here today—to suggest acquisitions.”
His guest bristled with interest.
“As a centerpiece, Kirt, I would like to suggest the three-volume set of David Roberts’ lithographs. And while I refresh your drink, would you take this card and jot down other titles that a Rare Book Room should have on exhibit.”
“A pleasure!” said Nightingale.
“With the K Fund behind it, cost should be no consideration. We’d like to think that tourists who used to head for the funny old bookstore will in the future head for the Eddington Smith Memorial and its fabulous books.” Qwilleran suppressed a chuckle as he thought of the two officers on the balcony, taping the grandiose speech.
He took his time in mixing another Bloody Mary and cutting wedges of pizza for a snack, while Nightingale made his list with obvious relish.
When Qwilleran looked at this list, he nodded with satisfaction. It was written in the unique backhand of George Omblower.
Both men enjoyed the pizza, and Qwilleran explained that it came from a pizza parlor in Kennebeck that delivered. Food and drink
and the prospect of a lucrative sale had apparently mellowed Nightingale’s usual stiff formality.
It was time for Qwilleran to go to work. “You must have noticed many changes in Pickax, Kirt: medical center, airport, community college, curling club. I saw you there the other evening—the night Cass fell down the stairs. Are you a member?”
“I have a social membership, that’s all. Friendly crowd.”
“How long have you been gone from what we call God’s country?”
“Perhaps twenty-five years. Time flies.”
“I suppose you attended Pickax High School.”
The guest nodded, dismissing it as a topic worth exploring.
“They have an Olympic-size swimming pool now.”
“Is that so?”
“Did you by any chance know a student named George Omblower?” Qwilleran thought he detected a slight wince.
“Can’t say that I did.”
“He was an all-A student and considered quite a brain. Unfortunately he got into trouble and dropped out. A friend of mine knew his mother. She lived in Chipmunk. George had a girlfriend here who moped over him for years and then finally jumped off the Bloody Creek bridge.” This was a fictional touch of Qwilleran’s, but it stirred no emotion in his listener. “Mrs. Omblower said her son ran afoul of the law in the East and spent five years in prison.”
Although Nightingale did not wet his lips or pull his earlobe, a flush came to his neck.
“There was another notoriously bad boy at the high school, named . . .” Qwilleran looked at the ceiling as if trying to recall the name, and he saw the guest room door open slowly and noiselessly. “I believe the name was Gideon Blake.”
“No recollection. Is there a point to all this?” The man’s temper was rising.
“Gideon got in trouble, too, but changed his name and became mayor of our fair city.”
Nightingale took a gulp of his Bloody Mary.
“The only reason I’m boring you with this local gossip is to acquaint you with a rumor that Omblower is back in town under an alias and is wanted on charges of arson and murder.”
Nightingale, clearly disturbed, set down his glass with a crash, and Qwilleran moved casually to the fireplace to stir the small blaze in the grate—and to get his hand on the poker. He turned just in time to see something flying in his direction. He dodged, and the missile sailed past his ear and crashed into the sliding glass door. At the same time there were thundering commands from the balcony and clattering boots on the stairs. Outside the shattered door, the martini pitcher landed unharmed on its solid bottom—on the cedar deck.
The vehicles that had moved quietly into River Road on a signal from the balcony now sped out of the Village with the suspect in the sheriff’s car and the leftover pizza in the PPD car. Qwilleran, before calling the Pet Plaza, notified the maintenance crew to remove the broken glass and board up the sliding door.
When the Siamese arrived, they knew something monstrous had happened, even without visible evidence, and they were disinclined to leave the carrier. Only smoked oysters tempted them to return to the real world. Even so, they approached the treat with bellies to the floor and frequent glances over the shoulder.
Eventually Koko—but not timid Yum Yum—prowled about the scene of the crime. Amazingly, he first inspected the martini pitcher, now posed in the center of the coffee table as if nothing had happened. If the condo had been built according to code, with safety glass, it would have lost a handle.
“Any comment?” Qwilleran asked Koko. “You won’t be quoted.”
The cat was speechless.
The telephone rang, and it was Arch Riker’s urgent voice.
“Have you heard the news? We have a bulletin on the front page. The mayor’s been arrested.”
“On what grounds?”
“Operating an illegal investment scheme, called a Ponzi scheme. . . . Amanda will be taking off her clothes and dancing in the street!”
“So will Homer Tibbitt.”
“Amanda will win the election unopposed.”
Qwilleran asked, “Exactly what is a Ponzi scheme?”
“Well, as I understand it,” Arch said, “a broker takes a client’s dough to invest in some promising business that needs cash to get started and will pay big interest. The deal sounds so good that the client’s friends and relatives rush to invest their kids’ college funds and retirement nest eggs. On paper it looks great. They give the broker more dough. . . . Of course, the crunch is that he never invested it—just used it for his own purposes. It’s sometimes called pyramiding.”
“Pyramiding!” Qwilleran repeated with a look of wonderment. Was that why Koko was always twisting the brown lampshade. Or was he doing it because cats like to twist lampshades?
Qwilleran had a great desire to go downtown, mingle with the crowd, take the public pulse. Driving his van, he thought, Zoller blew the whistle. It takes a special kind of nerve to expose corruption in a small town. He took Maggie along under the guise of an elopement. He sent her back with the documents or whatever evidence he had. She lay low, delivering the papers to Zoller’s attorney, who worked with the prosecutor.
Was it the barometric pressure of the approaching storm? Or was it relief at seeing a dubious character exposed? Hordes of people poured out into the downtown streets—some of them inebriated, all of them giddy with the news. The PPD was keeping an eye on them, although the officers were smiling as broadly as the celebrating citizens. In the post office, the bank, the stores—it was the same.
Qwilleran went to the police station, and Brodie waved him into his office. “What’d I tell ya? Have a cup of coffee.”
“Well, you trapped the rat,” Qwilleran said, “with all due respect to the mayoral office.”
“And we’re charging Nightingale with arson and murder. How did you get the idea he was Omblower?”
“Koko found the evidence. He also suspected Don Exbridge’s letter in praise of shafthouses and the follow-up letters in opposition—not to mention the leader ads for the video palace.”
“It would do me a lot of good to confiscate the gambling machines. Our people don’t need those. Let them play bingo.”
Qwilleran asked, “How about Don Exbridge? He’s always working against the public good and getting away with it.”
“He’ll be accused as accomplice-before-the-fact, you can be sure. Everything was his idea. Omblower did the dirty work, and he won’t let Exbridge go scot-free. . . . What was the crash I heard on the tape?”
“Nightingale picked up the martini pitcher by the handle and aimed it at my head like a hammer-throw. I ducked, and it sailed through Exbridge’s cheap glass door, landing rightside-up on the soft cedar deck.”
Brodie said, “A foolish man, Exbridge—using arson as a shortcut to acquiring land for development.”
“No doubt about it, Andy: He wanted Book Alley for a strip mall downtown, and he wanted ten minesites for country estates and high-density condominiums.”
Before leaving downtown Qwilleran visited the library to break the news to Polly. She already knew—through the grapevine.
“It’s hard to believe,” she said, “that Kirt would be involved like that. He seemed like a decent sort, and he loved books.”
“He sold books,” he corrected her.
. . .
As he drove to Indian Village, the sky became leaden, and dusk was falling early. He was not surprised to see the interior of Unit Four in a state of confusion. Everything that was not nailed down had been knocked to the floor—almost everything. Strangely, the martini pitcher, bowl of wooden apples and glove box were untouched. But Qwilleran’s desktop was swept clean, two lamps were toppled, and the Danish rug was crumpled like an unmade bed. This was a catfit at its worst—or best, depending on one’s point of view.
Koko was obviously pleased with his performance. He lounged full-length on the mantel and surveyed the clutter with satisfaction. And where was Yum Yum? Huddled in the spectator gallery on the
stairs, guarding a treasure that the police had left behind: a stick of chewing gum, probably the first she had ever seen.
Qwilleran had survived enough catfits to know what to do: Stay calm; don’t scold; clean up.
As he worked, he considered the status quo. The catfit marked the advent of the Big One—but also the closure of the Three Bad Apples case. He knew by experience that Koko would now lose interest in apples, robins, carved boxes, and letters to the editor. It proved one of two theories: Either Koko was consciously exposing evil . . . or he was just a cat, briefly interested in this or that, and the connections were all coincidental. There were no absolute answers. Scientists, having heard of the cat’s aptitudes through a police lieutenant Down Below, had wanted to study Koko’s brain, but Qwilleran flatly refused. He preferred to attribute Koko’s gifts to his sixty whiskers.
For the cats’ dinner Qwilleran diced turkey from Toodle’s deli; for himself he opened a can of soup. Then he read aloud, with Yum Yum curled on his lap and Koko sitting tall on the arm of the chair. At one point, both small bodies tensed, and heads turned toward the front windows. Then both cats raced to the kitchen window. All was silent outdoors, and the night was dark, but light from the kitchen revealed the first few snowflakes fluttering lazily to the parched earth.
A deep gurgling sound came from Koko, and a faint mewing from Yum Yum. It was the prelude to the Big One!
Qwilleran grabbed his jacket and wool hat and went out the front door. The flakes meandered earthward like a gentle blessing. No neighbor was around to share the magical moment. Two delicate snowflakes came to rest on his moustache. And then—why not? He stuck out his tongue.
The Cat Who Smelled a Rat Audio Page 17