The Cat Who Smelled a Rat Audio

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Halfway through his task he suddenly stopped and listened: a boom like a cannon shot . . . a rumble like thunder! He rushed outdoors. In minutes the fire trucks could be heard—racing from various directions, converging on Pickax. A sickening thought occurred to him: It was the Mackintosh Inn—again! A year before—when it was the Pickax Hotel—it had been bombed by a psychopath from Down Below. Already a red glow was building in the black sky.

  He snatched a jacket and his keys and ran for his van.

  six

  Downtown was ablaze with flashing lights and searchlights, and a three-block area was closed to traffic. A thick column of smoke was rising where flames had been contained. Qwilleran parked and walked closer. It was not the inn; was it the post office? His press card admitted him as far as the yellow tape, where he asked an officer, “Is it the post office?”

  “No, Mr. Q. Behind the post office.”

  Incredible! Qwilleran thought. He skirted the yellow tape to the north end of Book Alley. The bookstore was a roofless shell, belching smoke. Firefighters were pouring water on the roofs of nearby buildings. Flickers of light on the pavement came from shattered glass.

  “What happened?” Qwilleran asked a firefighter with a soot-covered face who was taking a breather.

  “Explosion, Mr. Q. Roof blew off. Books went up like a bonfire. Nothing left but the stone walls.”

  It was the voice of a sheep farmer he knew. “You’re—you’re—”

  “Terence Ogilvie. Black Creek Volunteer Fire Department.”

  “Yes, of course.” Qwilleran was remembering his visit to the back room where Eddington lived and did his bookbinding. A kerosene stove for heat. A propane burner for cooking. A big box of matches. And Winston! “There was a cat!” he said in alarm.

  “Couldn’t possibly survive.”

  Two fire trucks from outlying villages were pulling away. “How long will you stay here, Terence?”

  “Some of us will stay all night, watching for hot spots.” They were standing with their backs to a vacant lot overgrown with weeds. “There’s a candidate for a fire right there! First thing we did, we hosed it down. All it would take is one spark!”

  Something made Qwilleran turn abruptly to look at the lot. “Winston!” he shouted.

  A large, black, bedraggled animal was prowling toward him through the wet weeds.

  “That’s Winston! You’d never recognize him!”

  Hearing his name, knowing the voice, associating it with a frequent can of sardines, Winston approached Qwilleran confidently.

  “He’s a mess! And if he was blown through the roof, he could be hurt. If I could get hold of him, I’d take him to the pet hospital.”

  “Cats are resilient. The question is: How did he get out? Where’s your car, Mr. Q?”

  “On Main Street, two blocks away.”

  “Bring it around. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  Shepherds empathize with animals, Qwilleran had learned, and animals trust them. In ten minutes he was backing the van up to the yellow tape, opening the tailgate, and taking out an old blanket.

  “Careful, Mr. Q! You could get scratched! And he’s covered with soot.”

  “Good cat! Good cat!” Qwilleran mumbled as he gathered Winston in the blanket. A switching tail slapped him in the face and across his newly cleaned suede jacket.

  As he drove away, his hands were black; the steering wheel was black; and he left a black smudge on the emergency bell at the pet hospital.

  The night attendant who came to the door exclaimed, “Mr. Q! What happened to your face?”

  “I have a cat in my car who survived a fire and explosion.”

  “How big?”

  “Big!”

  Using a large plastic carrier, she transported Winston to the emergency room.

  “He doesn’t look seriously injured,” she reported. “I’ll clean him up, and the doctor will examine him first thing in the morning. What’s his name?”

  “Winston Churchill.”

  Early the next morning Qwilleran phoned the attorney at home. “Sorry to wake you, Bart. Have you heard about Book Alley?”

  “What? . . . What?” was the sleepy response.

  “Explosion in the bookstore. Whole building gutted. All the books destroyed.”

  “When? . . . When?”

  “Three o’clock this morning. I heard the boom and hurried downtown. Winston is safe. He’s at the pet hospital. You might notify Cynthia she doesn’t have to feed him.”

  “Yes . . . Yes.”

  “Shall I take the initiative in finding him a new home?”

  “Please . . . Please.”

  Barter was not at his best when rudely awakened.

  “I’ll get back to you if problems arise,” Qwilleran said, and then returned to his own concerns and responsibilities. The explosion and fire would be front-page news in that day’s paper, and it would be well to write a sidebar on Winston. He reflected that, ironically, the disaster solved the problem of what to do with the bookstore. He wondered, skeptically, about the Bixby real estate agent who wanted to buy the premises. He pondered, in amazement, Koko’s cat fit preceding the explosion by a few minutes.

  At nine o’clock he reached the veterinarian.

  “Miraculously,” she said, “he has no injuries, not even singed fur. Are you sure he was in the building?”

  “Winston never went out. He doesn’t know what ‘out’ means.”

  “And his vital signs are normal. You can pick him up any time.”

  Qwilleran cleared his throat while doing some quick thinking. He said, “I’d like to board him with you for twenty-four hours, doctor, for observation, and while we arrange for adoption.”

  “You won’t have any trouble finding a home for him, after the story gets out.”

  “Very true,” he replied ruefully. How well he knew, as a journalist, how people scramble to adopt an animal with celebrity status: the kitten trapped in a sewer pipe for three days, or the stray dog that saved a family of five. Any family would want Winston, but would he want them?

  He called Maggie Sprenkle for help. “Have you heard a newscast this morning?”

  “Isn’t it dreadful? And the poor man hardly in his grave!”

  “You’ll be glad to know his cat escaped and is okay. I’m boarding him at the hospital until we figure out what to do about adoption. He’ll be on the front page today, and he’ll get hundreds of offers.”

  “I never thought of that,” she said.

  “He can’t possibly have been blasted through the roof, but if someone gets the idea that he was airborne, it’ll be on TV, and then we can expect calls from all over the country. We should find him a home before he goes public.”

  “Yes! I’ll make a few phone calls—”

  “Bear in mind, Maggie, that he’ll be happiest in a quiet home with elderly people, no other pets, and a large library.”

  Qwilleran’s next call went to Junior Goodwinter at the Something.

  “Hey!” said the managing editor. “Our night man said he saw you at the fire last night! What were you doing there at three A.M.?”

  “Rescuing the cat, and that’s why I’m calling. Everyone will want to adopt him. There’ll be a rumor that he was blasted through the roof, and that will add to his glamour. But it’s not true. He escaped unharmed. I don’t know how, but he did.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Don’t go for the big story. Tell the truth. The resident cat was rescued unharmed and has been adopted.”

  “Is that a fact?” the editor asked.

  “It will be, by the time you go to press.”

  The phone rang and rang. Good friends and casual acquaintances, aware of Qwilleran’s fondness for the bookstore, called to commiserate. The Siamese knew he was preoccupied and left him alone. Finally he stopped answering the intrusive signal, and the message-taker worked overtime. The only call he returned was the one from Maggie Sprenkle:

  “Good news!” she sai
d. “The Bethunes on Pleasant Street will be happy to have Winston. They’ll pick him up at the hospital and pay his bill. He’s a retired chemist. They were regular customers of Eddington’s. And they go to my church.”

  “I could ask no better recommendation, Maggie. Thank you for expediting it. And how can I thank you enough for the pitcher? It occupies a place of honor in my living room.”

  “My pleasure, I assure you.”

  It had been a sleepless and emotional ordeal for Qwilleran: Koko’s catfit . . . the explosion . . . the thought of thousands of books reduced to black ash . . . his fear for Winston, followed by the cat’s rescue and adoption. A nap would have been in order, but Qwilleran had a tiger by the tail. He could not let go. He drove back to Pickax for a painful look at Book Alley in daylight.

  Boarding was being erected around Eddington’s property, including the small backyard. The street had been cleaned of shattered glass, since mail trucks used it for access to the back door of the post office. The storefronts now had plywood where their windows had been, and the shopkeepers were moving out. The Something was not yet on the street, but hourly newscasts on WPKX ended with the usual words: Police are investigating.

  It was Qwilleran’s cue to go to see his friend, the police chief, and tell what he knew. Andrew Brodie was a big Scot who looked more comfortable in a kilt than a cop’s uniform. He beckoned Qwilleran into his office.

  “How come you didn’t play the bagpipe at Eddington’s funeral, Andy?”

  “Nobody asked me to. Know anything about the fire?”

  “This may be hearsay, Andy, but I was told that a guy from Bixby was trying to buy the whole block for redevelopment. Nobody would sell. Then Edd died, and the bookstore—the kingpin of the block—blew up! It doesn’t take much imagination to suspect arson.”

  Brodie grunted.

  “And that’s not all. Eddington’s cat escaped unharmed. How—and why—did he get out? He was an indoor cat. Did he sense danger when an unauthorized stranger unlocked the door and came in? Did he sneak out and hide in the weeds? The key was under the doormat. That’s where everyone puts the key, isn’t it? In Moose County, at least. No matter how much you try to educate them, people will still leave their door keys under the doormat and the car keys in the ignition. So I say the arsonist is a local and not a pyromaniac from Down Below.”

  “Good!” said Brodie. “That narrows the suspects down to a few thousand.”

  Qwilleran started to leave the office. “Don’t say I never gave you a tip!”

  Loafing around Main Street, the coffee shops, and the post office, Qwilleran heard the man on the street:

  “Downtown won’t be the same without that building!”

  “I remember it ever since I was a li’l tyke!”

  “People came from all over and took pictures of it.”

  “My old man said it used to be a blacksmith shop.”

  There was not one word about the thousands of books that had been reduced to ash.

  Qwilleran managed to take a nap before dressing for dinner with the Morghans. Barry, manager of the Mackintosh Inn, was renting the apartment in the Klingenschoen carriage house. He had the careful grooming and cordial manner of his profession. His brother, Theo, the dermatologist, was a young man with a neatly clipped beard that brought to Qwilleran’s mind Polly’s theory: patients have more confidence in a doctor with a neatly clipped beard. The doctor’s wife, Misty, was all smiles and curly brown hair and mischievous brown eyes. Like Qwilleran himself, they were Chicagoans, with a city veneer that was recognizable in a small town. Qwilleran’s veneer was wearing thin.

  The conversation started with the usual get-acquainted formula: “Yes, we’ve bought a big old house on Pleasant Street. . . . No. We haven’t any kids yet, but we want a family, and this looks like a good community for rearing them. . . . Yes, we have pets. Two Yorkies. . . . No, we’ve never lived in a town smaller than Chicago.”

  “I think it’ll be fun!” said Misty.

  “But we have a lot to learn,” Theo added.

  “For one thing,” Qwilleran said, “you can expect your patients to call you Dr. Theo—not Dr. Morghan. It combines neighborliness with respect.”

  “Everyone seems very friendly,” Misty commented.

  “True. And everyone will want to know everything about you. Data will then be exchanged in the coffee shops, on the church steps, at the post office, and over the phone. It’s not gossip. It’s caring and sharing. . . . Got it?”

  “Got it!” the couple said in unison.

  “By the same token, never speak unkindly about anyone, because you may be talking to a brother-in-law, second cousin, neighbor, or golf partner.”

  Barry said, “Qwill, when I first came here, you told me to keep my ears open and my mouth shut. Priceless advice! In the same class with: Look both ways before crossing the street.”

  The host served cocktails, and Qwilleran had to explain Squunk water—from a local mineral spring with a believe-it-or-not history.

  “Tell it!” Misty urged.

  “You’ll have to wait and buy the book. It’s one of my collection of Moose County legends to be titled Short & Tall Tales.”

  Then Theo asked about the mayoral election campaign. He had seen some unusual posters and newspaper ads.

  “Juicy question!” Qwilleran said with relish. “In a nutshell, the incumbent was a high school principal who resigned following a scandal involving girl students—resigned without censure, because his mother was a Goodwinter! Four Goodwinter brothers founded Pickax and operated the most famous, or infamous, mine. Ancestors count heavily here.”

  “I can see that!”

  “So Mrs. Goodwinter’s little boy grew up to be mayor, elected and re-elected because . . . all together now!”

  “His mother was a Goodwinter!” the other three chimed.

  “He earns his living as an investment counselor.”

  “A handsome dog,” Barry said. “Every time he comes into the inn, people fawn over him.”

  “Although they whisper about his integrity when they’re in safe company.”

  “This is great!” said Barry with a roguish grin.

  “Now we come to the good part,” Qwilleran went on. “For a long time we’ve had a spunky, outspoken woman on the city council. She could challenge the mayor with impunity because her father was a Goodwinter. That gave her an edge by local standards.”

  Misty asked, “Is she the Amanda Goodwinter who has the design studio? I’ve only met her assistant, but they’re handling my artwork.”

  “She’s the one! Her friends have finally convinced her to run for the mayor’s office. It’s a joke! He’s good-looking, suave, and well dressed; Amanda looks grouchy and dresses like a scarecrow. That’s the kind of individuality the locals enjoy. Do you have today’s paper, Barry?”

  Qwilleran showed them two campaign ads: a photo of a handsome man with the slogan Re-elect Mayor Blythe!, and a caricature of a witch with the slogan We’d Rather Have Amanda!

  Misty clapped her hands, and Theo said, “I hope it’s not too late to register to vote.”

  The doorbell rang. Chef Wingo was sending over a paella—a dish of chicken, rice, shrimp, and the Spanish sausage called chorizo. During dinner, conversation touched on many topics.

  Barry said that the country club was giving a reception for the two doctors and their wives. Theo’s partner was an avid golfer.

  Theo said that he and Misty preferred curling as a sport. “I discovered it while in med school in Michigan. We want to join the curling club.”

  Misty remarked about the spectacular murals in the Pickax post office, and Qwilleran explained, “They were painted during the Great Depression, as part of the federal works project, depicting Moose County’s history: mining, lumbering, quarrying, shipbuilding, and farming.”

  Barry was amazed at the huge number of volunteers signing up for the Citizens’ Fire Watch. An editorial in the Something had said, “The blood of pioneers
still flows in the veins of their descendants, giving them a sense of community responsibility.”

  Misty said that the art center had invited her to give a demonstration lecture on batik painting.

  “I have one of your wall hangings,” Qwilleran told her. “Fran Brodie sent it over to give the living room a splash of color.”

  “Are they robins? I did two hangings on that theme, titled ‘Two Robins with Worm’ and ‘Two Robins without Worm.’ Which do you have?”

  “With,” he said.

  “That’s my favorite. It’s more dynamic.”

  After one of Chef Wingo’s simple desserts—melon cubes with lime sorbet and mango sauce—the party broke up in a flurry of handshakes and pleasant words, and Qwilleran hurried home for a dish of ice cream with chocolate sauce and redskin peanuts.

  As he unlocked the front door he could hear the urgent baritone yowling in the foyer. Koko was telling him that there was a message on the answering machine.

  It was from Rhoda Tibbitt. “Homer and I were shocked to hear about the bookstore, Qwill. Eddington had told us he was leaving it to you. Do you have time to drop in for tea tomorrow afternoon? We have some information that Homer thinks you ought to know.”

  It was too late to return the call. The Tibbitts retired at eight o’clock.

  There was another message, too. Polly’s voice said, “Are you free tomorrow evening? Maggie wants us to have dinner with her. Dr. Zoller will be there. She apologizes for the short notice. Her housekeeper, by the way, is an excellent cook.” Qwilleran was available. He had always wanted to meet Dr. Zoller . . . and he was always interested in a free dinner.

  seven

  How did Winston escape from the doomed building? Unanswered questions always irked Qwilleran, and he spent a restless night. At nine A.M., when Roger MacGillivray would be reporting for work, he phoned the photo lab at the Something.

  “Roger, compliments on your morning-after photo in yesterday’s paper. It was not only graphic but heartbreaking!”