The Cat Who Smelled a Rat Audio

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  At her urging Qwilleran tried it and announced facetiously that he could feel his hair standing on end and his moustache burgeoning. Polly declined, saying she had tried it before and was unable to sleep for three nights.

  In the rose-patterned parlor introductions were made. The fourth member of the party was Henry Zoller, financial officer of XYZ Enterprises until his recent retirement. He had been a dentist and was still called Dr. Zoller in Moose County—but not to his face. Now he was sixtyish, distinguished-looking, well tanned, and conservative in clothing, manner, and speech.

  “Please call me Henry,” he said. “Maggie tells me I may call you Polly and Qwill. I admire you both for your professionalism. And Qwill! What you said about the IRS in your recent column on acronyms gave me a hearty chuckle. Have you had much response?”

  “Only to have my last tax returned audited.” It was not true, but it was a quip Qwilleran could not resist.

  “To your health!” Zoller proposed when apéritifs were served.

  They sat on red velvet–tufted chairs, set their drinks on the marble tops of carved tables, and looked at red walls hung with a fortune in oil paintings bought in Paris by an ancestral Sprenkle.

  “Where are the ladies?” Polly asked, inquiring about the five well-fed cats that usually sat on the five parlor windowsills. Qwilleran had noticed there were no cat hairs on Maggie’s black velvet, although she was a compulsive cat-hugger.

  “They’ve retired to their boudoir upstairs,” she said. Deftly she steered the conversation away from the Big One, Book Alley, the Citizens’ Fire Watch, and even the Shafthouse Initiative. Instead they talked about golf, travel, art collecting, photography, dog racing in Florida, and the best restaurants in Chicago.

  The housekeeper cooked and served: lobster bisque, filet of beef with sauced broccoli, a tossed green salad, and a white chocolate mousse.

  After coffee, Qwilleran and Polly waited forty-five minutes before saying goodnight.

  On the way home she said, “A half hour’s grace is too short to be polite; an hour is too long to be comfortable.”

  Qwilleran agreed that the evening had seemed rather lengthy. “But the food was good. What did she do to the broccoli?”

  “A light cheese sauce with bacon bits.”

  “Broccoli needs all the help it can get.”

  “Maggie and Henry have known each other a long time. When their spouses were living, the two couples went on cruises all over the world.”

  “What will he do now that he’s retired? Go back to fixing teeth?”

  “Probably play golf and bet on the dogs.”

  “Maggie seemed a little subdued tonight,” Qwilleran said. “She hasn’t been spending enough time under the chandelier.”

  As they drove through the Indian Village gates, Polly said, “Would you like to come in for a while?”

  “How’d you like to come and see the sampler I swindled from Susan?” Qwilleran asked.

  She agreed readily. She had been consumed by curiosity. As soon as he unlocked the door she went directly to the kitchen and stared—or glared—at the framed piece of stained linen laboriously embroidered by a young girl a hundred years ago.

  By the constrained expression on her face he could read her mind.

  “Don’t you like it?” he teased. “I intended to leave it to you in my will.”

  Struggling to be tactful, she asked, “May I ask. . . what attracted you to this . . . this—”

  “It has sentimental significance. My mother was an advocate of celerity. Jumping over candlesticks was part of my early training.”

  Polly was not fond of teasing. She walked away. “Where’s the wall hanging?”

  Qwilleran switched on the living room lights, spotlighting the oversized red-breasted birds.

  She gasped. “Did you choose it?”

  “I can’t take credit. Fran picked it out, and I happen to like her taste. It’s perfect scale for the room. Much needed touch of color. Dynamic design. Do you like it?”

  “I think it’s repulsive!” she said vehemently. “That worm! It’s like a snake!”

  “It’s in proportion to the robins and the—” he began.

  “How can you ask your guests to sit here, enjoying a drink while those obscenely fat robins are torturing a helpless fellow creature? Ugh!” She turned on her heel and headed for the door.

  “I’ll walk you home,” he offered.

  “That won’t be necessary! What did Robert Graves say? Murderous robin with breast aglow!” She slammed the door.

  Qwilleran looked at Koko, who had been auditing the conversation. “Women!” he said.

  Koko squeezed his eyes.

  The next morning, about eight-thirty, Qwilleran was thinking about coffee, and the cats were thinking about breakfast, and Polly (he knew) would be thinking about driving to work. At that moment the doorbell rang.

  Through the sidelight he could see her on the doorstep. He thought, She’s here to make up after her tantrum last night, in which case, I’ll apologize for teasing her. Opening the door, he said graciously, “Good morning! What an unexpected pleasure!”

  She looked alarmingly wide-eyed. “Qwill! I’ve just had a strange phone call!”

  “Come in!” he said, putting a hand to his unshaved jaw.

  She stepped into the foyer. “I’m on my way to work, but I simply had to tell you!”

  “Sit down. Who called you?”

  She took one of the two pull-up chairs in the foyer, perching on the front edge of the seat. “Mrs. Stebbins, Maggie’s housekeeper! She reported for work this morning and found the house empty. No Maggie . . . no cats! Her bed hadn’t been slept in; her luggage was gone; and a lot of her clothing was gone. She was bewildered!”

  “I’m bewildered, too,” he said.

  “And then she went into the kitchen and found an envelope containing a month’s wages and instructions to empty the refrigerator, take away the fresh flowers, and tell Mrs. Duncan she’d miss the board meeting. What do you make out of that, Qwill?”

  He hesitated only a moment. “She’s eloping with Henry.”

  “I doubt it. She values her independence, and Henry doesn’t like cats.”

  “What did she do with them? Traveling with five cats is somewhat of a problem.”

  “She’d never send them back to the animal shelter, but she might leave them with the new boarding kennel in Kennebeck.”

  Qwilleran said, “Last night Henry mentioned that he’d sold his house and was living at the Mackintosh Inn until his new place is ready. Let me phone to see if he’s checked out. It’ll take only a minute.”

  He returned from the phone with the information that Henry Zoller had checked out last evening, leaving no forwarding instructions. “It appears he drives a Land Rover; that’s what was parked next to Maggie’s car last night. If it were a Missing Persons case, the police could put a check on it, but it’s really none of our business, is it?”

  “Yow-ow-ow!” was Koko’s contribution to the discussion.

  Polly said, “He wants me to get out and go to work.”

  While preparing the cats’ breakfast, Qwilleran asked himself: Why did Zoller choose to have dinner at Maggie’s last night instead of attending the reception for the dermatologists at the country club—where he was president? . . . Why did he show no interest in the loss of the bookstore or the arrival of a rare-book dealer selling ten-thousand-dollar books? According to Polly, he had given generously to the library in the past, but only because Maggie twisted his arm. . . . And why was there no discussion of the mayoral race? Probably because Amanda was Maggie’s longtime friend and Mayor Blythe was Zoller’s golf buddy. . . . And why had they found it appropriate to sneak away like a pair of juvenile lovebirds? Maggie might enjoy fooling her friends, but there was no nonsense about Henry Zoller. . . . And did they drive to Florida in his Land Rover, or fly? And if they went by plane, did they fly from the Moose County or Lockmaster airport?

  Qwilleran’s fina
l question was: Why do I bother my head about these two characters? I’m turning into a genuine Pickax busybody! Still, he was haunted by unanswered questions.

  It was Friday, and he met his noon deadline for the “Qwill Pen” column, grabbed a burger for lunch, and stopped at Amanda’s studio to exchange his robin batik. Fran was out making calls.

  “What’s the matter? Are you squeamish?” Amanda said in her usual brusque manner.

  “No, but Polly is, and I aim to keep everyone happy,” Qwilleran replied. “Is it cheaper without the worm?”

  “We’ll deduct fifty cents from your bill.”

  “I met a friend of yours last night.”

  “Who?”

  “The famous Dr. Zoller.”

  “He’s no friend of mine!”

  “We had dinner in Maggie’s apartment, and I must compliment you on cramming so much stuff into the parlor without suffocating the guests.”

  Amanda growled. “I give the customers what they want!”

  “Did you ever stand under the chandelier and get a treatment?”

  “Did Maggie feed you that hogwash? What else did she feed you?”

  “A delicious bisque l’homard, filet de boeuf, and mousse chocolat blanc.”

  “No wonder it’s good! Stebbins has been making that for dinner parties for the last ten years!”

  The Morghans lived on Pleasant Street, a historic neighborhood in Pickax. Large frame houses in Carpenter Gothic style were lavished with gingerbread trim around porches, doors, windows, and gables, giving the street a festive appearance and enhancing property values.

  When Qwilleran rang the old-fashioned jangling doorbell at one o’clock, the door opened promptly and he was confronted by two frisky little dogs and a bright yellow sunflower, four times lifesize. It was on the person of the bright-eyed Misty.

  “Nice shirt,” he said.

  “Batik,” she said. “Come in, and welcome to the doghouse. . . . Go back!” she ordered them, and they trotted away.

  “Good dogs,” Qwilleran said. “What are their names?”

  “Harold and Maude.”

  “Yorkshire terriers?” They were tiny things shrouded in long straight hair down to the floor. Ribbons tied the hair back out of their large, bright eyes.

  “Yes, they were developed two hundred years ago by Yorkshire miners who wanted a dog small enough to fit in a pocket—for killing rats! Now they’re just wonderful companions and full of pep.”

  Qwilleran said, “I was here when MacMurchie had the place. He retired from plumbing and heating and moved to an apartment.”

  “Yes, I know. The house has fabulous plumbing. I believe that’s why we bought it.”

  “Where’s your studio? Let’s see where you work.”

  He had never seen a batik studio before. He was familiar with the weaver’s loom, the potter’s wheel, the metalsmith’s anvil, and the painter’s easel, but . . . this! “What are those large, flat pans?” he asked, turning on his tape recorder.

  “Those are vats for the dye baths,” she said. “The batik technique is a process of repeated tub dying. Using melted wax, you paint out the areas you don’t want to be dyed, and you repeat the process over and over until you have all the colors you want—where you want them.”

  “Complicated!” he said.

  “Fascinating! It takes an understanding of color mixing and overdying.” She showed him several squares of fabric like pillow tops, illustrating the development of the design from vat to vat. “I’ll use these in my demo at the art center.”

  Qwilleran said, “Where has this art been all my life?”

  “It’s been around for centuries, originally in the South Pacific, Asia, and parts of Africa.”

  “My wall hanging has an allover crackled effect that makes it look antique.”

  “That happens when the wax cracks in the dye bath. I do it intentionally. Are you enjoying your batik?”

  “I must make a confession. In response to public demand I exchanged the one with worm for the one without worm.”

  She shrugged. “That’s all right. That’s why I made two. Will you have coffee?”

  They sat in large wicker chairs built close to the floor. He wondered how he would get out when the time came.

  “You weren’t at the reception last night,” Misty said.

  “I wasn’t invited. How was it?”

  “Well . . . you know those affairs.” She fluttered her hand. “But they did one nice thing. They invited me to hang some of my batiks in the foyer of the club, and as a result I got a nice commission. I’m not supposed to talk about it, but it’s so exciting—and I know you won’t blab. They want large hangings of the ten shafthouses!”

  “Sensational!” Qwilleran said. “Do you think you’ll join the club?”

  “Theo’s partner will, but we’re more interested in the curling club. And the theatre club. We met the Lanspeaks—wonderful people. And a big man in a Scottish kilt who’s going to handle the accounting for the clinic. And the mayor—very handsome, but he’s had cosmetic surgery. And one poor man must have had a terrible accident; I can tell his whole face has been reconstructed. I can’t help it, I have an artist’s eye that sees more than it should see. Theo says it’s scary. Funny thing, though. All the men at the reception said they liked my artwork, and all the women said they liked my husband.”

  When it was time to leave, Harold and Maude appeared to escort Qwilleran to the door, and Misty said, “Who sings the puppy song on WPKX?”

  “Derek Cuttlebrink. It’s not his normal voice. He’s played many roles for the theatre club.”

  “Does he write his own songs?”

  “Uh . . . it would appear so.”

  “Would he write a song about Harold and Maude and record it? I’d like to give it to Theo for his birthday.”

  “Well . . . no harm in asking, but I happen to know he’s very busy—attending classes at MCCC and working evenings as maître d’ in the Mackintosh Room.”

  “I’ll work on it,” Misty said. “What did you say his name is. Derek . . . Cuttlebrink?”

  Having collected inspiration for his next column, Qwilleran turned his attention to unanswered questions. The first led him to Lanspeaks’ department store, where he hoped to see Carol or Larry. He found Carol setting up a scarf display in the accessory department.

  “Good-looking scarfs,” he said. “I’d like to buy one for Polly. What would she like?”

  “Well . . . she has that new brown suit, and I have a silk scarf that would give it snap—an oversized houndstooth check in brown and white.”

  “Sold!”

  “You’re my favorite customer, Qwill. Gift-wrapped?”

  “Please . . . How was the reception last night? I’ve just interviewed Misty Morghan, and she was quite enthusiastic.”

  “The Morghans are a lovely couple! We hope to get them into the theatre club.”

  Qwilleran said casually, “I thought the officers of the club usually attended those affairs, and yet last night I met Henry Zoller having fun at a private dinner party.”

  Carol lowered her voice. “He resigned the presidency when he left XYZ. I’m afraid there’s some bad feeling.”

  Qwilleran left the store with his purchase and the answer to one question.

  His next objective: a piece of apple pie at Lois’s Luncheonette, a good source of local information and comfort food. The lunch crowd had left, and Lenny Inchpot was clearing tables. He helped his mother afternoons, attended morning classes at MCCC, and worked the registration desk at the Mackintosh Inn in the evening.

  “Too late for the luncheon special!” Lois Inchpot yelled through the kitchen pass-through.

  “I’ll settle for apple pie and coffee!” Qwilleran shouted in her direction.

  Lenny asked, “Will it bug you, Mr. Q, if I sweep up?”

  “Not if you split with me any money you find. . . . By the way, congratulations on winning the last race before snow flies.”

  “Thanks
. I did it for Mom. But don’t tell her.”

  “Would she let you sit down and have a cup of coffee with me? Or is she cracking the whip today?”

  “Who’s talkin’ about me behind my back?” came the gruff challenge through the pass-through.

  Qwilleran chuckled; Lenny grinned and sat down; and the conversation began:

  “Last night I met Dr. Zoller for the first time.”

  “Nice guy. He’s been staying at the Inn. Big tipper.”

  “I tried to reach him this morning, but he’d checked out.”

  “Yeah. Funny time to be checking out—eleven-thirty P.M.”

  “Unless he was catching a plane.”

  “No flights at that hour. Could’ve been driving somewhere.”

  “I believe he drives a Land Rover.”

  “That’s what it says on the register. Not many of those around here.”

  “Did he look happy? He might have been eloping.”

  “Nah. He never showed his emotions.”

  “Lenny! Stop gabbin’ and peel some potatoes,” came the order from the kitchen.

  He jumped to his feet. “Gotta go, or she’ll be out here with the rolling pin.”

  . . .

  Qwilleran’s quest for answers next took him to an establishment new to Moose County—a nationally franchised luxury-class boarding kennel.

  The Pet Plaza occupied the former premises of Chet’s Barbecue, closed after its owner found himself in bad trouble. Qwilleran assumed that lingering aromas of roasting meat might add to its success as a boarding kennel. For whatever reason, it was said to be a howling success in spite of the high daily rates. That was understandable; Moose County had plenty of affluent families descended from mining tycoons, lumber barons, and early twentieth-century bootleggers. They traveled frequently and had thoroughbred pets who deserved the best.

  The plain two-story building of concrete block had been given a tongue-in-cheek facelift. Classic columns, a pediment, and low-relief sculptures of mythical gods and goddesses had been painted on the flat surface. It looked quite grand until one noticed that the robed figures had the heads of cats and dogs.