The Cat Who Smelled a Rat Audio

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Gee, thanks, Qwill. How’d you like Winston’s portrait? Ironically I got that shot the day before the explosion, for the new adopt-a-pet feature.”

  “That’s one reason I’m calling. When you went to the back door, did Winston make any attempt to get out of the store?”

  “If he had, I would’ve run a mile. You know how I am about cats. No, in fact he didn’t make an appearance for a while. It turned out he was in his sandbox.”

  “Well, your broadside shot of him was perfect—from his bold whiskers to his flamboyant tail.”

  “Yeah, I was glad to see they ran it three columns.”

  Qwilleran said, “He’s already been adopted by a couple living on Pleasant Street.”

  “Who?”

  “The Bethunes.”

  “Sure. I know their son. Swell people . . . Thanks for calling. I’ve gotta run. There’s a nine-thirty on the board.”

  Qwilleran’s next call went to the law office, where he talked to Cynthia. “Have you heard that Winston has a new home?”

  “I’m so glad,” she said. “He’s a gorgeous cat! If I had a place of my own, I would’ve adopted him in a minute.”

  “I take it that you two got along.”

  “I only knew he was glad to see me at mealtime,” she said. “Who’s taking him, Mr. Q?”

  “The Bethunes on Pleasant Street.”

  “Really? She’s my boyfriend’s aunt! Very nice woman. Hope she doesn’t spoil him.”

  “One question, Cynthia. When you went to feed him, did he ever try to run out the back door?”

  “Never! I always opened the door cautiously, though—just in case—but he was a very cool cat.”

  Qwilleran went downtown for breakfast at Rennie’s and eavesdropped on conversations:

  “Too bad! It was our biggest tourist attraction. . . . It was feldspar, you know. It shatters like eggshells. . . . It’s a blessing the old man wasn’t here to see it. . . They should do something about those kerosene heaters!”

  Only at the library, where he went next, were they mourning the loss of the books. Clerks and volunteers were always glad to see him—the “Qwill Pen” columnist, Klingenschoen heir, boss’s boyfriend. “She’s not here,” they said. “She had a dental appointment.”

  They lavished attention on him: Showed him Mr. Smith’s last bookbinding project for the library. Demonstrated the new gadget for checking out books. Inquired about Koko and Yum Yum. Pointed out the new exhibit of antique inkwells. Asked who was his favorite author. Brought the feline mascots, Mac and Katie, to say hello.

  He responded with amiable nods and quips and murmurs of approval. He said his housemates had stopped shedding—in preparation for the Big One. To two gray-haired volunteers who were fussing over old photographs for an exhibit, he said lightly, “Need any help, ladies?”

  “Yes!” they replied in unison and proceeded to talk at once. “The men in this photo . . . there’s no identification. . . except for the one in front. He’s Governor Witherspoon. . . . It was taken in 1928.”

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t around then,” Qwilleran said with good humor.

  Without blinking they went on. “People like to know who’s in these old photos. It may be an ancestor. . . . Their great-grandpa may have been a friend of the governor. . . . They can bring the kids to the library to see a picture of their great-great-grandpa, photographed with the governor.”

  “I see.” Qwilleran began to realize the seriousness of the matter. “I’ll bet Homer Tibbitt would recognize them.” One man was carrying a ledger; two were in sheriff’s uniforms; another had a hunting dog.

  “Mr. Tibbitt used to come to the library every day, doing research, you know. Now that he’s moved to Ittibittiwassee Estates, we never see him—do we, Dora? . . . No. I thought he’d passed away. He’s almost a hundred.”

  Qwilleran said, “I’m going out that way this afternoon. Do you want me to take the photo along?”

  “That would be wonderful! We’ll put it in an envelope.”

  Homer, the nonagenarian historian, and Rhoda, ten years his junior, had married late. Both had been educators. Neither had been married before. For visitors they always staged a comic act of marital banter. Everyone knew they were a devoted couple.

  The retirement village where they now lived was out in the country—a four-story building with steeply pitched roof, looking somewhat like a Swiss resort hotel. When Qwilleran arrived with Gov. Witherspoon’s photo and a bunch of flowers for Rhoda, he parked in the visitors’ lot and was approaching the building when he saw Mayor Gregory Blythe coming out.

  “Good afternoon, Mayor,” he said. “Have you been rallying your constituents?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to keep the home fires burning,” said the impeccably groomed candidate.

  Blythe, during his three terms, had promoted the annexation of surrounding townships for various reasons, one of which was to add voting districts.

  “Met hizzoner in the parking lot,” Qwilleran said when Rhoda admitted him to their apartment. “Was he scrounging votes or selling stocks and bonds?”

  “I tell you one thing: He won’t get a nickel of my money,” Homer railed in his high-pitched voice. “He comes here to charm the widows out of their pensions and their husbands’ life insurance.”

  “Don’t get excited, Homer,” his wife said. “We’ll all have a nice cup of chamomile tea.”

  “She’s trying to poison me with that stuff!” he said.

  “That being the case,” Qwilleran said, “don’t drink it until you answer a question for the Pickax library. They miss your daily visits.” He explained the situation and showed the photo of Gov. Witherspoon and friends.

  “That’s the Guv, all right. No mistaking those big ears! I know all these others, too. Can’t think of their names. Rhoda’s good at names; I recognize faces. Rhoda!”

  She came hurrying from the kitchen. “Yes, that’s Gov. Witherspoon. My friends and I thought he was terribly romantic-looking. The two men on the second step I know very well. They’re the Brown brothers—”

  “Which Brown brothers?” Qwilleran interrupted.

  “There was only one Brown family,” she explained sweetly. “The one with the rifle and the dog is . . . It’s on the tip of my tongue: Fred Bryce—or Brook—or Broom—”

  “Or Brown,” Qwilleran suggested.

  “The funny thing is—I know the name of his dog! Diana! Goddess of the Hunt!”

  “Makes sense.”

  Homer had lost interest and was dozing off.

  In a loud voice Qwilleran said, “But all this is ancient history. Let us talk about Eddington Smith.”

  “Dear Eddington! A gentle soul!” Rhoda said softly.

  “He wasn’t a reader, but he knew and loved books,” her husband added in a voice less strident than usual. “In his heyday he traveled all over the map. Certain estate liquidators used to save cartons of the best books for him. But he was getting old and tired, and so was his truck.”

  “He’d come and have dinner with us and talk about his family,” she said.

  “Worshiped his father, a door-to-door book salesman.”

  “His mother died early, and he was raised by his grandmother. Her husband was a blacksmith, and he built the feldspar building for them to live in. The smithy was in the backyard.”

  “Under a spreading chestnut tree?” Qwilleran asked.

  “It happened to be a mighty oak,” Homer said. “It was cut down when Edd asphalted the yard as a parking lot. He rented a few spaces for parking.”

  “You mentioned on the phone that you had some information—”

  “Something his grandmother told him on her deathbed,” Rhoda said. “We thought it might be a story for your collection of Moose County legends.”

  “I won’t know till I hear it. Do you remember the details?”

  “Between the two of us, I think we can remember how it went, but you’ll have to write it in your own narrative style, Qwill.”


  He turned on his tape recorder.

  On the way back to town he began dry-writing the story in his head. First he dropped off the photo of Gov. Witherspoon at the library.

  “Sorry to be unsuccessful,” he apologized to the volunteers. “But here’s what I suggest: Feature it as a mystery photo. Invite the townfolk to bring their family albums to the library and see if they can match up any of the faces. I’ll mention it in my column.”

  His idea was received with delight. Polly was back from the dentist, but he had no time to go up to her office. He wanted to go home and write Secrets of the Blacksmith’s Wife, as told to Eddington Smith by his grandmother.

  When Pickax was named the county seat—because of its central location—it was only a hamlet, but a building boom started almost overnight. The blacksmith, who made nails as well as horseshoes, could hardly keep up with the demand as ambitious settlers built dwellings and shops. Then one day he was kicked in the head by a horse and died on the spot. There was panic in Pickax! No blacksmith! No nails!

  The next day, by a strange coincidence, a stranger walked into town—a big brawny man carrying a stick over his shoulder with a bundle tied on the end. He wore his hair longer than was the custom in Moose County, and at first he was viewed with suspicion. When he said he was a blacksmith, however, the townfolk changed their attitude.

  Could he make nails?

  Yes, he could make nails.

  What was his name?

  John.

  John what?

  He said, “Just John. That’s all the name you need to make nails.”

  This was somewhat irregular, but they needed nails, so the local officials put their heads together and listed him on the town rolls as John B. Smith, the middle initial standing for “Black.”

  When Longfellow wrote “The smith a mighty man is he,” he might have been writing about John B. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with large and sinewy hands, and his muscles were strong as iron bands. No one dared criticize his long hair. Furthermore, he was twenty-two and good-looking, and all the young women in town were after him. It was not long before he married Emma, who could read and write. They had six children, although only three reached adulthood—not an unusual situation in those days. He built them a house of quarry stone with a front of feldspar that sparkled like diamonds on a sunny day. It was much admired by the other settlers, who liked novelty.

  The smithy was in the backyard, and there John worked industriously, turning out tools, wagon wheels, cookpots, horseshoes, and nails. He was a good provider and went to chapel with his family twice a week. Emma was the envy of most women in town.

  Once in a while he told her he had to visit his old mother in Lockmaster, and he would get on his horse and ride south, staying a week or more. The local gossips said he had another wife down there, but Emma trusted him, and he always brought her a pretty shawl or a nice piece of cloth to make into a dress.

  Then came a time when he failed to return. There was no way of tracing his whereabouts, but Emma was sure he had been killed by highwaymen who wanted to steal his horse and gold watch. Lockmaster—with its fur-trading and gold-mining—offered rich pickings for robbers. Someone from the next town wanted to buy John’s anvil and tools, but Emma refused to sell.

  Yet, as time went on and she thought about his past behavior, she remembered how he used to go out into the yard in the middle of the night without a lantern. She never asked questions, and he never explained, but she could hear the sound of digging. That was not so unusual; there were no banks, and valuables were often buried. Then she recalled that it always happened after a visit to his old mother.

  Emma was fired by curiosity, and she went out to the smithy with a shovel. It was dark, but she went without a lantern rather than arouse further gossip. Most of the yard was trampled hard as a rock. There was one spot near the big tree where she tried digging. There were tree roots. She found another spot.

  Then, just as she was about to give up, her shovel struck metal. She dropped to her knees and began scraping the soil furiously with her bare hands, gradually exposing an iron chest. With her hands trembling and heart pounding, she opened the lid. The chest was filled with gold coins! Frightened by the sight, she closed the lid and knelt there, hugging her arms in thought—deep thought. . . . There had been a dark rag on top of the gold. Once more she opened the lid—just a few inches—and reached in stealthily as if afraid to touch the coins. Pulling out the rag, she took it indoors to examine by lamplight.

  It was bright red. It was the red bandanna that a pirate tied around his head.

  She went back to the yard, covered the chest with soil, stamping it down with her feet. The next day she had the yard paved with cobblestones.

  Emma had always wondered where her husband had acquired his gold watch.

  And Qwilleran wondered, as he wrote the last sentence, how freely had Eddington chatted with the strangers who spent hours on his ladders? Had he told them his grandmother’s tale?

  The Siamese seemed to be spending many of their waking hours on the coffee table, mesmerized by the French martini pitcher. While Yum Yum hung back warily, Koko gave it a nearsighted, nose-twitching examination. No doubt he thought he saw movement inside. The thick glass, its voluptuous shape, the ever-changing quality and direction of the light source, and his own shifting position—all produced an effect of activity inside the innocent jug.

  Koko was hanging over it as if it were a crystal ball, and Qwilleran wondered whimsically if the cat could read the future. He had to guard against taking the cat’s prescience too seriously, so he said heartily, “Any excitement today? Did any river rats come up for a drink of water? I hope you didn’t invite them in.”

  Koko and Yum Yum acted totally deaf.

  As always, on acquiring another legend for his collection, Qwilleran was exhilarated—until he thought, How can I publish this? It’ll bring a horde of opportunists with jackhammers!

  Membership in the Honorable Society of Treasure Hunters had been growing since a few had struck it rich. Old-timers in Moose County would rather bury their money in a coffee can in the backyard than entrust it to a bank. The sites of former outhouses were said to be particular treasure troves. The diggers went out after dark. It was a wholesome hobby, they said, affording fresh air, exercise, excitement, and sometimes rewards. Their enthusiasm was not shared, however, by property owners whose lawns, pastures, and fields of soy beans had been excavated.

  Then Qwilleran thought, The Bixby realty agent (if that’s what he was) may have had something in mind other than a strip mall. “Yow!” came a loud clear comment from Koko—either to corroborate Qwilleran’s theory or remind him that dinner was overdue.

  Qwilleran fed the Siamese and then dressed for Maggie’s dinner party.

  eight

  Qwilleran picked up Polly for the drive to Maggie Sprenkle’s dinner party, and as soon as they turned onto the highway, he asked, “What’s new in your exciting young life?”

  “I custom-ordered a sweater from Barb Ogilvie—for my sister, for Christmas. Camel tan with sculptured texture in the knit. Did you know that Barb is dating Barry Morghan? They met through Barry’s sister-in-law, who’s an artist.”

  “They sound like a likely pair,” he said.

  “Barb said she saw you going into the antique shop one day.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “That all depends. Have you started collecting antiques? Or did you go to visit Susan Darling?” There had been a personality clash between the two women ever since Susan’s brief term on the library board. Susan said the head librarian had unsophisticated taste; Polly said the antique dealer had never read a book in her life. It was the kind of feud that gave Qwilleran devilish amusement. He had to bite his tongue to resist telling Polly she had Susan’s porcelain parrots.

  He said, “I went in to congratulate her on being accepted for the New York show—but really to scrounge a cup of coffee. I saw a sampler I liked, and she gave it t
o me.”

  “What kind of sampler?” Polly asked sharply.

  “You’ll see, next time you come over. I also have a wall hanging over the fireplace, selected by Fran.”

  “What kind of hanging?”

  “Wait and see.” He was being mischievously perverse. Then to change the subject: “What’s this dinner party all about?”

  “Wait and see,” Polly said smugly.

  Maggie lived downtown in the Sprenkle Building on Main Street. She and her late husband had lived on a large estate famous for its rose gardens, but she had sold the house, preferring to live in an apartment with rose-patterned carpet. The ground floor of the nineteenth-century building was rented to insurance and realty firms; the two upper floors had been transformed into a Victorian palace. Qwilleran had been there once before to meet her five cats named after well-known women: Sarah, Charlotte, Carrie, Flora, and Louisa May.

  As he and Polly drove up to the building, he asked, “Shall we risk our lives and take the front stairs?” They were steep and narrow in the old style, with shallow treads made shallower by thick carpeting, rose-patterned to confuse the eye.

  “Let’s use the rear entrance and ride the elevator,” she said. “I’m not yet ready to break my neck.”

  The elevator glided slowly and silently to the second floor and debouched the two passengers in a lavish foyer. Polly whispered, “Decorated by Amanda Goodwinter,” and he muttered, “That figures.”

  The foyer was two stories high, with a carved staircase leading to the upper floor and an enormous chandelier hanging in the stairwell. It was a shower of crystal and amethyst pendants, said to have mystic powers of restoring one’s energy.

  The hostess, greeting them in a black velvet dress and the famous Sprenkle torsade of diamonds and pearls, said, “I stand under the chandelier every morning for a few minutes to recharge my batteries.” It was a fact that she had an abundance of vitality and enthusiasm for her age.