The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “And who would write these humorous skits and witty parodies?” he demanded.

  “You!” There was that tantalizing smile again.

  Qwilleran growled a protest. “That would take a lot of time and thought, and you know I’m writing a novel, Fran.”

  She looked at her watch. “Well, think about it. Now I’ve got to go home. I’m expecting a long-distance call from Mother. She’s visiting my aunt Down Below. Thanks for your input, Qwill. See you tomorrow night at seven sharp.”

  Qwilleran walked home slowly, enjoying the soft breezes of a spring evening. On Monday nights the downtown area was always deserted, and an eerie silence fell upon Main Street. His footsteps echoed in the canyon created by the stone buildings.

  The idea of an original revue began to appeal to him. He had written student shows in college. It might be fun to write parodies of well-known songs, one for each town in Moose County. The early settlers had given them outlandish names: Sawdust City, Chipmunk, Squunk Corners, Middle Hummock, West Middle Hummock, Wildcat, Smith’s Folly, Mooseville, even a village named Brrr. (It was the coldest spot in the county.)

  The parodies would be easy, he thought. He tried a few opening lines, and his rich baritone reverberated in the stone canyon:

  “Everything’s out of date in Sawdust City . . .”

  “Way down upon the Ittibittiwassee . . .”

  “Mid-dle Hum-mock, here I come! . . .”

  “April in Chipmunk; ragweed in blossom . . .”

  “When it’s Big Mosquito time in Mooseville . . .”

  “I’m just wild about Wildcat . . .”

  All too soon he reached the Park Circle. Here Main Street divided and circled a small park, on the perimeter of which were two churches, the courthouse, the public library, and the future theater. There was a nightlight in the construction shed, but the long driveway to the carriage house was in darkness. The moon had ducked behind a cloud, and he had forgotten to turn on the exterior lights at the corners of the carriage house.

  He unlocked the door leading to the upstairs apartment and reached inside to flick the wall switch. The light fixture did not respond; neither did the light at the top of the stairs. A power outage, he supposed. The local joke was that Pickax blacked out if the weatherman even predicted a thunder storm. He started to mount the stairs in the dark. Brodie was right; they were steep, and the treads were narrow. They seemed narrower and steeper in total darkness. Slowly and carefully he went up, gripping the handrail.

  Halfway to the top Qwilleran stopped. There was a strong odor in the stairwell—almost like coffee—or something burning. Electrical wires? He had a fear of fire when the cats were home alone.

  At that moment he heard a sound he could not identify. He listened hard. The cats were locked in their apartment at the far end of the building, and it was not an animal sound; it was a scraping, like metal on wood. He remembered the wrought-iron coat of arms leaning against the wall in the upper hallway. If it came crashing down the stairs, it would send him flying to the bottom of the flight. He flattened himself against the wall and slid upward, one cautious step at a time.

  In the upper hall he paused and listened. He felt a presence. There was no sound, but someone was there—breathing. The living-room door was open, and he was sure he had closed it before leaving. The total darkness indicated that the blinds were closed, and he was sure he had left them open. Now he was positive he could hear breathing, and he saw two red eyes glowing in the blacked-out room.

  Stealthily he groped for the light switch inside the door, hoping it was operative. His hand touched something hairy.

  From his throat came a horrendous roar—like a trapped lion, a wounded elephant, and a sick camel. It was a curse he had learned in North Africa.

  Instantly there was light, and a chorus of tremulous voices managed a weak “Happy birthday!”

  There were two dozen persons in the room, looking either shaken or sheepish or guilty.

  “Dammit, you knuckleheads!” Qwilleran bellowed. “You could give a guy a heart attack! . . . What’s this?”

  Towering above him was a black bear with glass eyes and gaping jaws, rearing on hind legs, one paw over the light switch.

  The two glowing spots of red were lights on a small machine. It stood on the travertine card table, plugged in and bubbling.

  “I’m sorry,” said Francesca. “It was my idea. We used the key you gave me.”

  Harley Fitch said, “My clone gets credit for the dramatic staging.”

  “My clone unscrewed the lightbulbs,” said his brother, David, the one with a moustache. “He stood on my shoulders and ruined my golf swing permanently.”

  Qwilleran confronted Francesca. “So that’s why you kept me overtime. I wondered why you looked at your watch every five minutes.”

  Larry Lanspeak said, “We needed a half hour to get set up. We had to park our cars out of sight and hike over here and wrestle the bear up those damn stairs and then hide Wally’s van.”

  Wally Toddwhistle, a young taxidermist, said, “I happened to have the bear in my van. I’m delivering it to a customer.”

  “How did you guys know it’s my birthday?”

  Fran said, “Dad ran a check on your driver’s registration.”

  “And what’s that thing?” He pointed to the machine with the two red lights.

  “That’s a gift from all of us,” said David’s wife. “A protest against the lethal coffee you serve. You set it for the number of cups you want and the strength you prefer. A timer turns it on.”

  Then someone produced paper plates and cups, and someone else unveiled a sheet cake decorated with a bugle and the theater’s traditional wish: “Break a leg, darling!”

  As Qwilleran began to simmer down, the cast and crew of Arsenic and Old Lace relaxed. They were all there: Carol Lanspeak and Susan Exbridge, who were playing the wacky old sisters; Larry Lanspeak, a versatile character actor; Harley and David Fitch, who liked to do drunks, weirdos, and monsters; David’s clever wife, Jill, who designed sets and costumes; Wally Toddwhistle, a genius at building sets out of orange crates, baling wire, and glue; Derek Cuttlebrink, who was attempting his first role; Eddington Smith, painfully ill at ease; and other members of the troupe whom Qwilleran knew only slightly. They were all talking at once:

  Susan: “Darling, your entrance in the second act was marvelous!”

  Fran: “An integrated actor thinks with his whole body, Derek.”

  Carol: “How’s your wife, Harley?”

  Harley: “Okay, but kind of grouchy. The doctor told her to quit smoking till after the baby comes.”

  Wally: “What’s that big round iron thing in the hallway?”

  Qwilleran: “It came from a castle in Scotland. Part of a gate, I think.”

  Larry: “At every performance she went up, and I had to ad-lib the whole scene. I could have killed her!”

  David: “I grew a moustache to play the villain in The Drunkard because I’m allergic to spirit gum, and then I decided to keep it. Jill likes it.”

  Derek: “Where are the cats?”

  Qwilleran: “In their apartment, watching the tube. Shall I let them out?”

  Koko and Yum Yum made their entrance walking shoulder to shoulder like a team of horses. In the doorway they stopped abruptly, their ears, whiskers, noses, and blue eyes sensing the situation: noisy strangers, eating and dropping crumbs. In the next instant they sensed the black bear looming above them. Yum Yum bushed her tail, humped her back, sleeked her ears and whiskers, slanted her eyes, and made a wicked display of fangs. Koko crept cautiously toward the beast with his belly dragging the floor until convinced that it was harmless. Then he bravely sniffed its hind legs and rose up to paw the stiff-haired pelt. Next he turned his attention to the taxidermist, who was nervously guarding his handiwork. Koko subjected Wally Toddwhistle to a thorough inspection with his wet nose.

  “He knows you work with animals,” Qwilleran explained, by way of excusing Koko’s imp
olite nuzzling.

  Wally was flattered, however. “If a cat likes you,” he said earnestly, “it means you have a princely character. That’s what my mother always says.”

  Harley Fitch raised his right hand in affirmation. “If Wally’s mother says so, it’s gospel truth, believe me!”

  “Amen,” said David.

  “Who’s buying the bear?” Qwilleran asked the young taxidermist.

  “Gary Pratt—for his bar at the Hotel Booze. I have to deliver it tonight when I leave here. Do you know Gary? My mother says he looks more like a bear than the bear does.”

  “Hear! Hear!” said Harley.

  Next, Koko discovered that some of the noisy strangers were sitting on the floor, which was his domain by divine right. He stalked them and scolded, “Nyik nyik nyik!”

  Meanwhile, Yum Yum had calmed down and was checking out sandals, western boots, and double-tied running shoes, none of which interested her. Then she discovered Eddington Smith’s laced oxfords. The bookseller stood shyly apart from the others, and Qwilleran went over to speak to him.

  Eddington said, “I’ve found some Shakespeare comedies for you. An old lady in Squunk Corners had them in her attic. They’re in good condition.” He spoke softly, smiled blandly.

  “I didn’t know . . . the Bard had a following . . . in Squunk Corners,” Qwilleran said absently as he kept an eye on the cats. Yum Yum was gleefully untying the man’s shoelaces. Koko was exploring his socks and trouser legs with intent nose, forward whiskers, and a wild gleam in his eye.

  “People up here,” Eddington explained, “used to collect rare books, fine bindings, and first editions. Rich people, I mean. It was the thing to do.”

  “When the newspaper starts publishing they ought to send a reporter to your shop to get an interview.”

  “I don’t think I’d be very good for an interview,” said the bookseller. “I bought an ad, though—just a quarter page. I never advertised before, but a nice young lady came in and told me I should.” Guiltily he added, “ ‘Advertising is . . . a campaign of subversion against intellectual honesty and moral integrity.’ Somebody said that. I think it was Toynbee.”

  “Your character won’t be compromised by a quarter page,” Qwilleran assured him.

  At that moment Harley Fitch walked up with the cake tray, and Koko transferred his attention to the bank vice president, rubbing his ankles, nipping his jeans, and purring hoarsely.

  “Have some cake, Edd,” said Harley in his heartiest voice, as if the bookseller were deaf.

  “I’ve had two pieces already. ‘Reason should direct and appetite obey.’ ”

  “Who said that, Edd?”

  “Cicero.”

  “Cicero would want you to have another piece of cake. How often do you go to a birthday party?”

  Wistfully Eddington said, “I’ve never been to a birthday party before.”

  “Not even your own?”

  The little man shook his head and smiled his bland all-purpose smile.

  “Okay! For your birthday we’ll have a party on the stage of the new theater, with a ten-foot sheet cake. You can blow out the candles before an audience of three hundred.”

  Pleasure fought with disbelief in the bookseller’s gray face.

  “We’ll have it proclaimed Eddington Smith Day in Pickax.”

  David, hearing the commotion, joined the act. “We’ll have a parade with floats and the high-school band, and fireworks in the evening.”

  Jill Fitch drew Qwilleran aside. “Aren’t they crazy?” she said. “But they’ll do it! They’ll have the parade, the fireworks, and a proclamation from the mayor—or even the governor. That’s the way they are.” She lowered her voice. “Want to come to a surprise housewarming for Harley and Belle on Saturday night? They’ve moved into the old Fitch mansion, you know. Bring your own bottle.”

  “How about a gift?”

  “No gifts. God knows they don’t need anything. Have you seen Grandpa Fitch’s house? It’s loaded with stuff. I don’t know how Harley can live with all those mounted animals and marble nymphs.”

  “I’ve never met Belle,” Qwilleran said. “Doesn’t she ever come to rehearsals?”

  Jill shrugged. “She doesn’t feel comfortable with this crowd. I guess we come on a little strong. And now that she’s pregnant, Harley says she feels self-conscious.”

  It was a noisy party, with twenty-four club members crowded into a room designed for one man and two cats. Carol Lanspeak laughed a lot. Larry did impersonations of his more eccentric customers. Susan Exbridge, a fortyish divorcée, invited Qwilleran to a dance at the country club, but he pleaded another engagement; she served on the library board, and he feared Polly would hear about it. Eddington Smith said he’d never had such a good time in his life. Harley Fitch was flattered by Koko’s advances and asked if he could take him home.

  After the crowd had departed, Qwilleran made another cup of coffee in the machine and finished the cake. Yum Yum curled up on his lap, and Koko disposed of the crumbs on the carpet. Sirens sounded, speeding north on Main Street, and Qwilleran automatically glanced at his watch. It was 1:35 A.M.

  The next morning he remembered the sirens when he tuned in the headline news on WPKX: “All dental appointments at the Zoller Clinic are cancelled today due to a fire that broke out sometime after one o’clock this morning. Arson is suspected, and police are investigating. Patients may call to reschedule.”

  SCENE FOUR

  Place:

  Qwilleran’s apartment; later, the rehearsal hall

  Time:

  Tuesday evening

  Featuring:

  CHAD LANSPEAK

  The Lanspeak department store closed at 5:30, and Qwilleran wondered if Chad Lanspeak would appear as promised. If he were as irresponsible as Brodie thought, he would have forgotten about the appointment and gone fishing. At 5:45 there was no sign of the reputed black sheep. Qwilleran peered out the window toward Main Street and saw only the construction workers driving away in their trucks.

  Finally at 6:15 a battered pickup turned into the driveway, coughing and shuddering as it came up to the carriage house, where it stopped with an explosive jerk. A young man jumped out and collected an armful of snowshoes from the truck bed. Qwilleran pressed the buzzer that released the door, and Chad Lanspeak struggled up the stairs with his load—gracefully shaped, honey-colored wood frames with a varnished sheen, laced with natural leather thongs in an intricate pattern.

  “I brought ’em all,” he said. “I didn’t know I had so many. Hey, what’s that iron thing?” He was staring at the Mackintosh insignia with the curious motto circling the rampant cats: TOUCH NOT THE CATT BOT A GLOVE.

  “It came from the gate of a Scottish castle,” Qwilleran said. “It’s three hundred years old.”

  “It must be valuable.”

  “It has sentimental value. My grandparents came from Scotland.”

  Chad was hardly recognizable as the bored salesclerk at his father’s store. He still sported the hirsute flourishes that made him conspicuous in Pickax, but he was as affable as any of the teens Qwilleran had met in that salutary environment. Country-bred youths, he had observed, possessed an easygoing, outgoing manner that bridged generation gaps.

  “Line up the snowshoes on the living-room floor,” Qwilleran suggested, “so I can compare styles and sizes.”

  “I’ve never seen a place like this,” said Chad, appraising the suede sofa, square-cut lounge chairs, chromium lamps and glass-topped tables.

  “I like contemporary,” said Qwilleran, “although it doesn’t seem to be popular in Pickax.”

  “That’s an interesting picture. What is it?”

  “A print of an 1805 gunboat that sailed the Great Lakes.”

  “It has sails and cannon and oars! That’s funny! A gunboat with oars! Where’d you get it?”

  “From an antique shop.”

  “Is it valuable?”

  “An antique is worth only what someone is willing
to pay for it.”

  Next Chad admired the state-of-the-art stereo components on the open bookshelves, and Qwilleran began to think he’d made a mistake in bringing the fellow to the apartment. He thought, Dammit! He’s casing the joint! The cats were present, quietly washing up after their evening meal, and Qwilleran spirited them away to their own apartment. Strangers often admired them less for their beauty than for their obvious monetary value, and it was his constant fear that they might be stolen.

  “Now let’s get down to business,” he said. “I have a rehearsal at seven o’clock.”

  Chad was still attracted to the gunboat print. “There’s a guy around here that makes model ships like that. He’s really good. He could sell them for a lot of money if he wanted to.”

  “No doubt,” said Qwilleran. “Now which style would you recommend for a beginner?”

  “Let’s see . . . the Bear Paw is easiest to start with, but it doesn’t have any tail, and the tail helps in tracking, you know. I brought some bindings so you can see how they work. What kind of boots do you have?”

  Qwilleran produced a pair of logger boots and was duly strapped onto a pair of Bear Paws. Awkwardly he attempted to maneuver them down the long hallway.

  “You don’t have to lift your feet so high,” Chad called out after him. “Lean forward . . . Swing your arms . . . Your feet are too wide apart.”

  Qwilleran said. “I like the look of the others better. These remind me of fruit baskets.”

  “Well, there’s this Michigan style; it’s larger and has a heavier tail for tracking. The arctic is the fastest; it’s long and narrow. All depends what kind of snow you have and how much brush. You should start with something smaller than those. Maybe you should try the thirty-six inch Beavertail.”

  Strapped onto Beavertails, Qwilleran clomped uncertainly down the hall again.

  “Drag your tail!” Chad called out. “Your feet are too far apart. You’ll get sore legs.”

  “It’s like walking on tennis rackets.”

  “You’ll get used to it when you get out in the snow.”