The Cat Who Smelled a Rat Audio

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Qwilleran said, “Sounds as if he’s stealing your idea! Would the dealers tell you if they’ve been approached by another promoter?”

  “What good would it do? He’s got the building, and it’s perfect for an antique mall operation. It’s downtown. It has parking in the municipal lot. It’s in the traffic hub.” Kemple started to tear up the plans.

  “Not so fast, Ernie! Wait and see what happens. Success breeds success, and you’ve done a great job with the Fire Watch—”

  “Yes, but the shooting—!”

  “It’s a tribute to you. . . . and Ruff . . . and all the other volunteers that the Fire Watch will be continued till snow flies. It could have been worse—much worse—if he hadn’t put his call through to the hotline when he did.”

  “I wonder if they’ll ever find the killer,” Kemple said.

  Qwilleran drew a heavy hand over his moustache. He had a hunch they would.

  Qwilleran drove home with a desire for a large dish of ice cream to comfort his distress over Kemple’s plight. On the bright side, Otto might be opening a roller rink, disco hall, video parlor, or basketball arena. Then Ernie could have his antique village in a building designed for the purpose—perhaps a Swiss chalet like the curling club—out in the country!

  Arriving at Indian Village he stopped at the gatehouse for mail and was unlocking his mailbox when he caught a woman staring at his moustache. He recognized her hairdo.

  “Mrs. Young! We met at the rally yesterday! I’m Jim Qwilleran. I didn’t know you’re a villager.”

  “I have a unit between Amanda Goodwinter and Susan Exbridge,” she said. “I feel like an out-of-town pygmy between two local giants.”

  “May I carry that package to your car for you?”

  “I’m walking.”

  “Then let me drop you at your condo.”

  On the brief ride to River Road she said, “I didn’t get a chance to compliment you on your column, Mr. Qwilleran.”

  “Qwill, please.”

  “Then you must call me Jeffa.”

  “MacWhannell & Shaw will be pleased to have your help during the tax rush, Jeffa. Qualified accountants don’t grow on trees in Moose County.”

  She invited him in for a drink, and he accepted, mindful that he was on thin ice. This woman knew all about his life—past, present, and future—but was unaware of it.

  “Soon,” he said, “you’ll be receiving invitations to Last Drink parties—meaning the last drink before snow flies—after which you may be snowbound for up to a week. Have plenty of crossword puzzles on hand.”

  “I always have my planetary calculations to work on,” she said. “My sideline is astrology.”

  “Is that so?” he exclaimed, feigning surprise and expressing admiration.

  “It’s a fascinating science—so exact! It’s possible to chart an individual’s whole lifetime of planetary influences, given the time and place of birth. It’s the calculation that’s absorbing. It can be done faster by computer, but I find the traditional method—with mathematics—more enjoyable. What is needed is the exact hour and minute of birth, taking into consideration time zones and standard or daylight time. Also needed is the latitude and longitude of the birthplace, in degrees and minutes.”

  Soon, Qwilleran felt, she would ask if he knew his birth data. To deflect her train of thought he asked, “Have you charted the lives of your family? And do they check out as the years go by?”

  “As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here,” she said. “My son is facing a challenge, and I thought my motherly presence might give him moral support if nothing else.”

  She was eager to talk about her family, and he listened with sympathetic nods and murmurs.

  “You probably know my son as Caspar, named after a Revolutionary War hero, but we call him Cass. My father’s name was Jefferson, which explains mine. When my husband died, Cass urged me to come here. My daughter in Idaho wanted me to go there. I have grandchildren in Coeur d’Alene, a lovely resort town in the northwest part of the state. It was named by early French explorers. . . . but it was Cass’s challenge that brought me here. You know, of course, that he handled the construction for XYZ Enterprises. Even when he was a tot, I knew he was born to build. He went on to learn his craft in the East, then established himself here because of the hunting and winter sports. When a local developer took him in as a partner, Cass was in his element.”

  “Yes, when I came here, XYZ was doing schools, medical buildings, housing—everything. It was the most prestigious firm in the county—perhaps three counties.”

  “There was one thing wrong,” Jeffa said, “and you probably know what it was. The senior partner was greedy; he wanted to build fast and cut corners. Cass knew how to build with integrity, but he was overruled.”

  Qwilleran was entranced by her soft Baltimore accent, but he was surprised to hear her relating details of family affairs. He thought, She’s lonely. . . . in a strange environment . . . in need of someone to talk to. Had no one explained the dangers, large and small, of talking too much in a small town? No doubt it was Qwilleran’s sympathetic mien that encouraged her; he also had a compulsion—as a journalist and a Gemini—to hear it all.

  He said, “It was an unfortunate situation. Why did Cass compromise? Why didn’t he quit?”

  “Well, first, he was making very good money. And there was the outdoor life that meant so much to him. And he was in love with a local woman.”

  “People have compromised for a lot less.”

  Abruptly she asked, “Do you know Don Exbridge?”

  “I do.”

  “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Not by a long shot. I’ve never forgiven him for trying to ruin Breakfast Island. Fortunately, nature had the last word.”

  “Did you see the item in the paper about XYZ? They’ve dissolved, and Cass is striking out on his own as a house builder. . . . The challenge will be, I think, overcoming his past reputation as a builder of leaky roofs.”

  Qwilleran said, “Frank Lloyd Wright had the same image but came out smelling like a rose. Cass needs to meet Dwight Somers, an expert at building favorable images. And it wouldn’t hurt in a community like this, if Cass married that woman of his and started a family.”

  Jeffa hesitated. “She’s married. . . . She’s currently married to Don Exbridge.”

  Qwilleran stood up. “Then tell your son, Jeffa, that he really needs Dwight Somers. . . . Thanks for the refreshments. I’ve enjoyed the chat. I hope you’re very happy here. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  Arriving home he found a recorded message from Polly, calling from the library: “Come over at six o’clock if you’d like a surprise.”

  He envisioned beef stew or fried chicken from a library volunteer; they often brought their beloved director home-cooked food, knowing she had little time to cook. He showered and dressed, wearing the royal blue madras shirt that she liked and the Scottish scent she had brought him from Canada.

  At six o’clock sharp he let himself into her condo and was promptly confronted by Brutus and Catta. They seemed to be perturbed. “Everything okay with you guys?” he asked. “Did you pass your feline enteritis tests?” They seemed to be thinking, What is he doing here? . . . She’s getting ready to go out. . . . She fed us early.

  Polly heard him and appeared on the balcony, putting on her best gold earrings. “I’m on my way to a dinner meeting of the bird club. I told you about it, didn’t I? I’m sure I did. But first I want you to read the letter on the foyer table.”

  The envelope was hotel stationery, postmarked Phoenix, Arizona. He read:

  Dear Polly,

  Forgive me for leaving in such a rude fashion. Henry seemed to think secrecy was advisable. We’re being married tomorrow! You know how I have been feeling about living my own life. Well, Henry has convinced me that his Florence and my Harold (God rest their souls) would want us to look after each other in our remaining years. I don’t know where we’ll be living,
so don’t try to reach us here. And please don’t mention that you’ve heard from us. I’ll write again.

  Fondly, Maggie

  P.S.

  My ladies are being well taken care of.

  “We’ll talk about it when I get home,” Polly said as she rushed off to the bird club.

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He believed not a word of Maggie’s letter.

  He shuffled home. What now? He was in the mood for a good dinner. He was still wearing his royal blue madras shirt.

  As soon as he reached Unit Four, he phoned Jeffa Young.

  “This is Qwill,” he said in a businesslike way. “It occurred to me that there are things you should know about political correctness and self-preservation in a small town. Are you free for dinner? Do you know Tipsy’s Tavern?”

  “I’ve heard about the restaurant, and I’d love to meet her royal highness. I was just about to thaw some soup, but I’ll put it back in the freezer. How nice of you to think of me.”

  Koko was sitting on the desk, eavesdropping. “Well, I’m batting five hundred,” Qwilleran told him with satisfaction.

  It was a successful evening. She was delighted with the log cabin, the Tipsy myth, the honest food, and the grandmotherly service. He asked her about Baltimore and Coeur d’Alene, her grandchildren and her late husband’s import business. He also gave her the Qwilleran Orientation Lecture, for which she was grateful.

  “Do you have any questions?” he asked as the evening was coming to a close. The restaurant was emptying. They were lingering over coffee.

  “Yes!” she said. “What is a pasty?” She pronounced it wrong, of course.

  . . .

  With her education completed, they drove back to Indian Village, and he dropped her at her doorstep. At his own condo Koko was waiting excitedly; there was a message on the machine. It was a responsibility Koko took seriously.

  Polly’s voice said, “Call me when you come home, Qwill. I have things to tell you.”

  He suspected she had startling information about the migration of certain species of birds. He decided to wait until morning.

  twelve

  Qwilleran phoned Polly Tuesday morning at about eight-thirty, when she was preparing to leave for the library. “Good morning! You called last night,” he said with the genial voice of one who has slept well after a good dinner.

  Her reply had the frantic tone of one who is a little late for work. “Where were you? I called three times before leaving a message.”

  “I took our new neighbor, Jeffa Young, to dinner at Tipsy’s.”

  “Oh, really? How did that happen?”

  “I ran into her earlier in the day, and she invited me in for a drink.”

  “Oh, really? Is she interesting?”

  “Very. How was the bird club dinner? Did you have four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie?”

  She ignored the quip. “Last night I called to tell you what one of our members heard from a sheriff’s deputy. The license plate on the killer’s car was not only out-of-state but it was stolen!”

  “It could have been stolen by a local boy. Or girl.” Residents of Moose County liked to think that wrongdoers came from somewhere else.

  “Well, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m late. Would you be good enough to run over and feed the cats?”

  “Yellow package or green package?”

  “Yellow. Thanks. Talk to you later.”

  Qwilleran said, “I’ll be right back” to Koko and Yum Yum and hurried to Unit One. He had done this service for Polly’s cats many times before, but they always regarded him like a burglar, or a bill-collector at best.

  “Are you two gourmands ready for a big bowl of health?” he asked jovially as he poured dry food from the yellow package. They looked at the bowl and looked questioningly at him, as if expecting the green package.

  “That’s what she ordered, and that’s what you’re getting,” he said as he hurried out the front door.

  He arrived home in time to grab the telephone and hear the cheerful voice of the young managing editor saying, “Hi, Qwill! Have you heard that there’s an astrologer in town? You could get her to do your horoscope and then write a column about her.”

  Brusquely he replied, “Jill Handley could have her horoscope done and then write a column on it.”

  “I thought you were hard up for material.”

  “Not that hard up.”

  The snappish tone was nothing new; the two men enjoyed bickering.

  Junior said, “This is Tuesday. May I ask when you expect to file your copy for today’s paper?”

  “Have I ever missed a deadline? . . . Is there any news in today’s newspaper?”

  “Amanda had a scrap with the mayor at the council meeting last night.”

  “That’s not news. They’ve been scrapping for ten years.”

  “Homer Tibbitt is in the hospital getting his knees fixed.”

  “It’s about time! His bones are very loosely connected.”

  “When you’re his age, Qwill, you’ll be loosely connected, too.”

  “I’ll rust out long before I’m ninety-eight. . . . Any suspects in the shooting?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any inside information on the Big One?”

  “It must be on the way,” Junior said. “Cats are getting nervous, and men over fifty are getting crotchety.” There came a long, loud yowl from the foyer that could be heard in downtown Pickax. “I heard your master’s voice, Qwill. Talk to you later.”

  Then came an unusual sound from the living room: Shhh . . . shhh . . . sshhh . . . followed by a thud.

  Koko was crouched on the coffee table, looking over the edge. The three red apples, along with their overturned wood bowl, were nestled in the deep pile of the Danish rug.

  That’s a new wrinkle, Qwilleran thought. . . . What’s the reason? Where’s the thrill? “No!” he said loudly. “That’s forbidden fruit!”

  Nonchalantly the cat jumped to the floor and walked casually to the utility room, where he could be heard scratching in his commode. Could he possibly associate the apples with the delivery man who had brought them? He had howled at the moment of the man’s murder! Even for a cat with Koko’s paranormal propensities, this was too much to expect. Perhaps he sensed that the apples were artificial, and that fact disturbed him. Perhaps he was simply curious. How would a smooth-as-porcelain wooden bowl slide across a smooth-as-glass wooden table? Or he might have been testing the rug; the thud was less satisfying than the thunk of a book on a carpeted floor—or the crash of a clay plant pot dropping thirteen feet.

  Qwilleran reflected that the Siamese were living in fairly snug quarters, compared to their domain in the converted apple barn; Koko might be making a subtle suggestion. . . . Apple barn! Was something wrong at their summer address?

  Taking his thousand words for the “Qwill Pen,” he drove first to the hundred-year-old barn on the outskirts of Pickax. He inspected the premises, inside and out. Everything was in order, except for a small mouse, starved to death on the kitchen floor. Had that been Koko’s chief concern?

  I’m a fool, Qwilleran told himself. I’m trying to read messages where none exist! Koko pushed that bowl of apples off the table because he felt like pushing a bowl of apples off the table!

  He handed in his copy on Misty Morghan’s batiks in time to make the noon deadline. Passing the feature department he was beckoned by Mildred Riker. “Could you and Polly come over some night to see our new sofa and have a little supper?”

  “How little?” he asked. “If it’s too little, I’m not interested.”

  “You can have seconds—and thirds,” she said. “This weekend I made my famous Old Shoe Soup, and we’ll have it with crusty bread and a cheese board, then an avocado salad, then pumpkin pie.”

  “It all sounds good except the soup,” he said.

  “Did you never hear how I got the recipe?” She asked the department secretary to take her calls for a few minutes, and then she told
her story:

  “When I was very small, I used to visit my grandparents’ farm south of Trawnto. That was before Moose County had tractors. We were always thirty years behind the times. They had horse-drawn farm equipment and lots of hired hands who had to be fed an enormous dinner in the middle of the day. Once a week my grandmother would make bean soup in a big washtub. It was full of carrots, onions, potatoes, and celery, and it smelled so good when it was cooking. My grandmother said it was because she always put an old shoe in with the beans and stuff. She let me stand on a chair and see for myself as she stirred it with a long-handled wooden spoon. Sure enough! There it was! An old farm boot. I asked her if she had to have a different boot each week, and she said yes. All the farmers and farmhands in the community saved their old boots for Grandma’s soup!

  “When I went home, I told my mother, and I suffered the first disenchantment of my life. She said it was a large ham bone. I insisted I could see the shoestrings. She said there was a lot of meat left on the bone. Some kids were disenchanted when they learned the truth about Santa Claus, but I was disenchanted when I learned the truth about the old shoe. And I still think of my grandmother every time I make bean soup.”

  Qwilleran said, “I dare you to print the recipe on the food page.”

  “Someone would fail to get the joke,” Mildred said, “and I’d be arrested by the Board of Health.”

  On the way to the municipal parking lot, Qwilleran met MacWhannell. “How’d you like the rally, Mac?”