The Cat Who Smelled a Rat Audio Read online

  Without waiting to hear the scream of the police sirens and urgent bleat of the fire truck, Qwilleran ran out to his van just as his neighbor, the weatherman, was returning from his late-evening report.

  Qwilleran rolled down the car window. “Joe! Quick! Get in!”

  Wetherby Goode was a husky, happy-go-lucky fellow, always ready for an adventure—no questions asked. Settled in the passenger seat, he asked casually, “Where to?”

  “I think there’s another fire—to the southeast. Open the window and see if you smell smoke.”

  “Not a whiff . . . but southeast would be across the river. Turn right at the gate and right again at the bridge.”

  That took them to the intersection of Sprenkle and Quarry roads. They stopped and looked in three directions and sniffed hard. There was no traffic on these back roads at this hour.

  “Go east another mile to Old Glory Road,” Wetherby said.

  “There’s a mine down there,” Qwilleran said. “Has it occurred to anyone that these fires are at minesites?”

  “Well, the theory is that these abandoned mines are bordered by secluded dirt roads that kids use as lovers’ lanes. The chances are that they smoke and throw cigarettes out the window. . . . You don’t hear of any fires starting in daylight.”

  Approaching the Old Glory Mine, they could see the taillights of a car receding in the distance.

  “See what I mean? I see a red glow just ahead!”

  Qwilleran stopped the van and used his cell phone to report a brushfire at Old Glory Mine. They waited until they heard the emergency vehicles on the way, then drove back to the Village.

  “It was my cat who smelled smoke,” Qwilleran said. “Koko sees the invisible, hears the inaudible, and smells the unsmellable.”

  “Jet Stream never smells anything unless it’s food,” Wetherby said.

  “Have you met the new guy in Unit Two?”

  “I introduced myself out on the sidewalk one day, and we had a few words. I asked what had happened to the Jaguar he drove when he came here. He said it was too conspicuous among all the vans and pickups, so he disposed of it in Lockmaster and bought a station wagon, four-wheel-drive.”

  “Has he discovered our dirty little secret?” Qwilleran asked. “If the roof leaks on his thirty-thousand-dollar books, XYZ Enterprises will get sued for plenty.”

  “The roofs have been fixed!” Wetherby said. “Just in time for the worst drought in twenty years—wouldn’t you know? But you were at the beach this summer when they reroofed the whole Village!”

  “How come? Did Don Exbridge have a near-death experience?”

  “You missed the fun, Qwill. A few of us got together and vandalized the XYZ billboard at the city limits—the one that says, ‘We stand behind our product.’ A prime example of corporate hogwash! Well, we went out after dark and pasted a twelve-foot patch over it, saying, ‘We stand under our roofs with a bucket.’ We tipped off the newspaper, of course. The sheriff’s night patrol stopped, and the deputy had a good laugh. It didn’t hurt that one of the vandals was a city council member. The roofers were on the job the next day!”

  Qwilleran said, “That story’s good enough for a drink, Joe. Do you have time?”

  “Next time, Qwill. I have to get up early tomorrow and drive to Horseradish for a family picnic—last get-together before snow flies. I hear you’re driving a limousine in the Shafthouse Motorcade.”

  “Yes, and I may live to regret it.”

  two

  It was Hixie Rice’s idea to stage a Shafthouse Motorcade. She was promotion director for the Moose County Something, and the newspaper agreed to underwrite expenses as a public service. Dwight Somers, a public relations consultant, donated his services, and the third member of the planning committee was Maggie Sprenkle, the “anonymous” donor of the ten bronze plaques.

  There were ten abandoned mines in Moose County, some dating as far back as 1850. Mining and lumbering had made it the richest county in the state before World War One. Now the minesites were expanses of barren ground enclosed in high chain-link fences and posted with red signs saying: DANGER—KEEP OUT. In the center of each site was the old shafthouse—a weathered wood tower about forty feet high. Architecturally, it looked like a lofty pile of sheds on top of sheds.

  A tourist magazine had called it “a cubist artwork—so ugly, it’s beautiful!”

  Artists painted impressions of the shafthouses in watercolors and oils. Visitors’ cameras clicked thousands of times—no, tens of thousands! Locals revered the shafthouses as monuments to the county’s distinguished past.

  On the morning of the motorcade, while Qwilleran was preparing a particularly toothsome breakfast for the Siamese, he tuned in the hourly news briefs on WPKX and heard:

  “Another wildfire in the vicinity of a minesite was reported during the night and brought under control by Kennebeck firefighters. The Old Glory Mine in Suffix Township was the scene of burning weeds and underbrush, threatening the shafthouse, one of the oldest in the county. All ten shafthouses will be honored as historic places this afternoon when the Shafthouse Motorcade winds through the back roads, dedicating the newly installed bronze markers. County commissioners will officiate.”

  Without waiting for the high school football scores, he turned the radio off. Then the doorbell rang, and the most glamorous young woman in town was standing on the doorstep. “I got your message. I’m on my way to work. What’s the problem?”

  Fran Brodie, a resident of Indian Village, was second in command at Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design. She was also the police chief’s daughter—a fact that counted for something in Qwilleran’s book.

  “Come in and look around,” he said. “This place has been in mothballs all summer and looks neglected. . . . Cup of coffee?”

  She accepted and walked around with it, studying the interior. “After snow flies,” she said, “the view from these windows will be all black and white. You could use a splash of red over the mantel, and I have a batik wall hanging, three-by-four, done by a new artist in town.” Noting the vacant look on her client’s face, she added, “As you probably know, that’s painting on fabric, using a wax-and-dye method, centuries old. We’ll repeat the red in some polished cotton toss pillows for the sofa—large plump ones. The cats will love them! And I’ll send you a bowl of red delicious apples for the coffee table. Don’t try to eat them; they’re painted wood.” She had a breezy manner with her male clients that intimidated some and entertained others. Qwilleran was always amused.

  She went on. “Where did you get that copper lamp? Not from me! The shade is all wrong.”

  It was the tall lamp on the chest in the foyer. “Don’t you like it? A local metalsmith had it in the craft show.”

  “It’s all right, but it would look a hundred percent better with a brown shade—a square pyramidal shape to complement the square base. I’ll send one over with the batik and pillows.”

  “And wooden apples,” Qwilleran reminded her.

  “Who scattered the seating pieces like this?”

  “Probably the painters when they repaired the water damage.”

  “My installer will arrange it properly when he makes the deliveries. I’ll have him group it in a U-plan, facing the fireplace. Then all you need is an important rug.” Her well-made-up face that had been frowning in concentration suddenly brightened. “I know where you can get a lush Danish rya rug—handmade—six-by-eight—vintage design, circa 1950—”

  “For only ten thousand,” he said with a smirk.

  Fran gave him a brief look of annoyance. “It’s in the silent auction tomorrow. You’ll have to bid on it. It’s a vetted sale, and I was on the selection committee. That’s how I know about it.”

  “Should I know what a silent auction is?”

  “Well, the way this one works . . . business firms and individuals have donated items to be sold, proceeds going to the Pickax animal shelter. They’ll be on display at the community hall. You buy an admission ticket, wa
lk around and look at them, drink some punch, enjoy the entertainment, and socialize. If you see an item you like, you sign your name and the amount you want to bid. Someone else can come along and raise your bid. That’s what makes it exciting.”

  “Hmmm,” Qwilleran mused. “How much do you think I should bid on the rug—that is, if I like it.”

  “The minimum acceptable bid is five hundred. You can take it from there. It’s fun to go around and see who’s bidding on what—and how much. Friends raise each other’s bids—just for deviltry.”

  “Arch Riker might like to attend,” Qwilleran said with malice aforethought.

  “I hope you get the rug,” Fran said. “The cats will love it!” On the way out she saw the carved oak glove box alongside the copper lamp. “Is that where you store your old love letters?”

  Qwilleran immediately phoned the Riker residence. Arch had been his lifelong friend, and now he was editor in chief and publisher of the Something; his wife, Mildred, was food editor.

  She answered.

  “What’s Arch doing?” Qwilleran demanded.

  “Reading out-of-town newspapers.”

  “Put him on.”

  His friend came to the phone with the preoccupied attitude of one who is three days behind with his New York Times.

  “Arch!” Qwilleran shouted to get his attention. “How would it be if the four of us went to Sunday brunch at Tipsy’s Tavern tomorrow? And then to the silent auction at the community hall? I hear they have some pretty good stuff.”

  It was an irresistible invitation to a gourmand who was also a collector. “What time? Who drives? Do they take credit cards?” Arch asked.

  Pleased with the arrangements, Qwilleran dressed for the motorcade and went downtown for an early lunch. Whatever time he had to kill before the push-off could be spent enjoyably at the used-book store. He had his favorite Reuben sandwich at Rennie’s in the Mackintosh Inn and was about to leave the building when he heard his name called.

  “Qwill! I was just thinking about you!”

  “Think of the devil . . . How’s everything with you, Barry?”

  “Great!”

  The K Fund, now owners of the inn, had sent Barry Morghan from Chicago to manage it.

  “Are you ready for the Big One?” Qwilleran asked.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be. It can’t be as bad as they say.”

  “All that—and worse. But if you can survive the first three days, you’re home free. The county has a fleet of snow-handling equipment comparable to a Greek shipping magnate’s fleet of oil tankers—thanks to the K Fund.”

  “Great! Do you have a couple of minutes to talk?”

  They stepped into a reading alcove in a secluded corner of the lobby, close by the full-length lifesize portrait of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran.

  “What’s on your mind?” Qwilleran asked.

  “My brother and his wife are here. They wanted to get settled before snow flies. . . . Listen to me! I’m beginning to talk like a native!”

  “Where are they living?”

  “They bought one of those big old houses on Pleasant Street. Fran Brodie is fixing it up for them. And the clinic is almost ready to open: Moose County Dermatology, it’s called. My sister-in-law is an artist, you know. She does batik wall hangings, and Fran is representing her.”

  “Interesting!” Qwilleran said. “Is there anything I can do to welcome them?”

  “Well, yes,” Barry said. “When I first came here, you gave me some great advice about getting along with folks in a small town, and I’d appreciate it if you’d repeat it.”

  “Be happy to.”

  “If we could get together at my apartment for dinner some evening, Chef Wingo would cater it, and we’d have more privacy than in a restaurant.”

  “Great!” Qwilleran said.

  It was still too early to report to the courthouse, so he strolled to the used-book store. It was located behind the post office—on a back street that the city’s founding fathers, in their wisdom, had named Back Street. It was hardly more than an alley and only a block long, being dead-ended at north and south by busy thoroughfares. In the middle of the block huddled a stone edifice resembling a grotto, built of feldspar that sparkled in the sunlight. No wonder it was Number One on every tourist’s sightseeing list. It was originally a smithy, but the blacksmith’s grandson had operated it as a used-book store for more than fifty years, and to celebrate its golden jubilee the city of Pickax renamed the block Book Alley.

  Edd’s Editions, it was called. Entering the shop and blinking to adjust from exterior sunshine to interior gloom, Qwilleran stood still and inhaled the familiar aroma of old books from damp basements, clam chowder being heated for the bookseller’s lunch, and leftover sardines in the cat’s dish. A large dust-colored longhair patrolled the premises, dusting the books with his plumed tail. He knew Qwilleran.

  “Good morning, Winston,” he said. “I bet I know what you had for breakfast!”

  Eddington Smith heard the voice and came from the back room, where he had his bookbinding equipment and living quarters. Qwilleran had been back there when he was writing a column on bookbinding, and he remembered the man’s narrow cot, the cracked mirror over the washbowl, old-fashioned shaving tackle, a two-burner gas stove, a large box of matches—and a small handgun.

  Eddington had a slight build that was shrinking with age. His hair was gray; his skin had a gray pallor; and his drab clothing blended in with the gray covers of old books that were stacked on tables, shelves, and floor.

  “My best customer!” he said when he had adjusted his glasses and recognized Qwilleran. “I’ve found something special for you!” He hurried back into the inner sanctum.

  There was another customer in the store—a stranger with a flashlight, risking his life on the rickety wooden stepladder. Qwilleran thought, He’s a book scout, hunting for buried treasure.

  When Eddington returned, he was clutching a large-format book to his chest. “You’re interested in Egypt, Mr. Q. Here’s a beautiful volume—not terribly old, good condition, scholarly text, well illustrated. Mysteries of the Egyptian Pyramids.”

  Qwilleran glanced at the stepladder; the stranger was listening. He was looking for a book he could buy for three dollars and sell to an antiquarian bookseller for fifteen, after which it would go into the catalogue for two hundred—or two thousand.

  “I’ll take it, sight unseen,” Qwilleran said. “How much?”

  “How about twenty-five cents?” Edd said with a twinkle in his eye; he had playful moods.

  The stranger dropped his flashlight.

  “Isn’t that a little high, Edd?” Qwilleran was playing the game. “I’ll give you twenty cents,” he said. He slipped twenty-five dollars into the bookseller’s hand.

  “You’re my best customer,” Eddington said. “I’m leaving my store to you in my will.” He always said that.

  “Does the bequest include Winston?” Qwilleran asked. “I’m not sure I could afford to feed him.”

  They were walking toward the door. Obviously the stranger was still listening.

  Eddington said, “He’s an old cat and doesn’t eat much, but he likes to go out to dinner once in a while—at a good restaurant.” Edd had never been in such a giddy mood.

  Qwilleran took the handsome book, gave Edd the okay sign, and went on his way to another adventure.

  The Shafthouse Motorcade lined up around Park Circle in front of the courthouse: a sheriff’s car, three limousines for dignitaries, an airport rental vehicle for the TV crew from Down Below, three cars for news photographers, and a florist’s van.

  Qwilleran, Hixie Rice, and Dwight Somers would be chauffeuring the limousines borrowed from the local funeral home. Their distinguished passengers would include three county commissioners, the president of the historical society, the county historian and his wife, five direct descendants of the original mine owners, and a fairly large dog.

  The five direct descendants were Maggie Sprenkl
e, the rich widow; the elderly Jess Povey, who called himself a gentleman farmer, although Maggie said he was no gentleman; Amanda Goodwinter, businesswoman and council member; Leslie Bates Harding, age six; and Burgess Campbell, a lecturer on American history at the college. Blind from birth, he was always accompanied by his guide dog, and both were well known in Pickax—Burgess for his sense of humor, and Alexander for his good manners. On this occasion the proud Scot was wearing Highland dress: kilt, sporran, shoulder plaid, and glengarry bonnet.

  “Burgess, you look splendid!” Qwilleran complimented him.

  “So do you,” he quipped.

  There was confusion about who would ride with whom. Maggie refused to ride in the same limousine with Jess Povey. Leslie wanted to ride with the dog. Amanda shouted above the hubbub, “I don’t care if I ride on the hood! Let’s get this show on the road!”

  It was decided that Qwilleran’s passengers would be Maggie, Leslie, and the ninety-eight-year-old historian Homer Tibbitt, with his wife.

  Leslie’s mother straightened his tie and combed his hair, saying, “You’ll have your picture taken, and it’ll be in the newspaper! Grandma will be so proud of you! I’ll be here to pick you up when it’s over. You’ll be riding with that nice man with the big moustache, and he’ll take good care of you.”

  Qwilleran looked askance at the youngster squirming in his little long-pant suit, white shirt, and bow tie. Huffing into his moustache, he said to Maggie, “No one told me I’d have to baby-sit.”

  She and Leslie took the seat behind the driver, leaving the roomier backseat for the Tibbitts: Homer and his attentive wife, Rhoda. She had brought pillows to make a nest for his bony frame. Leslie, who had never seen anyone so old, knelt on the seat and rode backwards, staring at the furrowed, fretful face.

  After a while he pointed a finger at the old gentleman, pulled an imaginary trigger and said, “Ping!”

  Maggie said, “Turn around and sit down, Leslie, and fasten your seatbelt. We’re going to start moving.”