The Cat Who Sniffed Glue Read online

  The interior of the store was as dim as the feldspar exterior was dazzling. Coming in from the sunshine Qwilleran could see nothing at first, but he blinked until the scene took shape: tables loaded with haphazard piles of dingy books, floor-to-ceiling shelves jammed with grayish bindings and invisible titles, a shaky wooden stepladder, and a smoky-gray Persian cat walking across a table of old magazines, waving his plume of a tail like a feather duster. The place had a smell of old books and sardines.

  Qwilleran’s arrival had activated a tinkling bell on the front door, and soon the proprietor materialized from the shadows. Eddington Smith was a small, thin man with gray hair and a gray complexion and nondescript gray clothing. He reminded Qwilleran of someone else he had known, except for his bland smile—a permanent smile expressing utter contentment.

  “Greetings,” the man said, softly and pleasantly.

  “Morning, Edd. Nice day, isn’t it? How’s Winston?” Qwilleran stroked the cat, and Winston accepted the attention with the dignity of a prime minister. “How old is this building, Edd? It’s so hideous, it’s fascinating.”

  “It’s over a hundred years old—a blacksmith’s shop originally. They say the mason who built it was strange in the head.” He spoke gently and kindly.

  “I believe it.”

  “ ‘We shape our buildings, thereafter they shape us,’ to quote Mr. Churchill. I guess it’s true. My grandfather said the blacksmith was a regular caveman.”

  “Apparently the building hasn’t had the same effect on you,” Qwilleran said genially.

  “That’s right,” Eddington said, still smiling. “I feel like something that lives under a stone. Dr. Halifax says I spend too much time in the shop. He says I should get out and join a club and have some fun. I’m not sure I’d like fun.”

  “Dr. Hal is a wise man. You should take his advice.”

  “ ‘Work is much more fun than fun!’ That’s what Noel Coward said . . . Is there something I can do for you today? Or do you want to browse?”

  “I’m interested in finding a set of Brittanica published in 1910.”

  “The eleventh edition!” The bookseller nodded in approval. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m still searching for your Shakespeare.”

  “Remember, I want the plays in separate volumes. They’re easier to read.”

  Eddington’s smile looked roguish. “A British scholar called Shakespeare the sexiest writer in the English language.”

  “That’s why he’s been popular for four hundred years.” Qwilleran gave Winston two more strokes and started for the door.

  Eddington followed him. “You belong to the Theatre Club, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I joined recently. I’m being initiated with a role in the next play.”

  “Harley Fitch invited me to join. Do you know Harley? He’s a nice young man. Very friendly.”

  Qwilleran edged closer to the door.

  “I wouldn’t be good at acting,” said the bookseller, “but I could open and close the curtain, I suppose—something like that.”

  “Once you get up on that stage, Edd, you might discover hidden talents.” Qwilleran now had his hand on the doorhandle.

  “I don’t think so. The others in the club are all smart and well-educated. Harley Fitch and his brother went to Yale. I’ve never been to college.”

  “You may not have a degree,” Qwilleran assured him, “but you’re a very well-read man.”

  Eddington lowered his head, smiling modestly, and Qwilleran took the opportunity to escape into the sunshine. He wondered about the enigmatic little man. How did he stay in business? How did he earn enough to buy sardines for Winston? There were never any customers in the store. He sold no greeting cards or paper napkins or scented candles as a sideline. Just old, faded, dusty, musty books.

  Qwilleran also gave some thought to the celebrated Fitch family, a name that everyone mentioned with respect, if not adoration. The Fitches were “friendly . . . charming . . . clean-cut . . . a fine old family . . . real gentlemen . . . fun-loving . . . clever.” The adulation could become cloying.

  He stopped for a cup of coffee at the luncheonette and then went to the police station, where he found Brodie on the sergeant’s desk. “The kids went cruising again last night,” he said to the chief.

  “Och! It’s no laughing matter,” Brodie said. “It’ll cost the city a few hundred in water revenue, and a family on the west side saw their house burn down to the ground for lack of water pressure.”

  “How many hydrants did the vandals open?”

  “Eight. They used pipe wrenches, so there’s no damage to the hydrants themselves. I suppose we should be grateful to the delinquents for being so considerate.”

  “Where were the hydrants located?”

  “East Township Line—industrial area—deserted at night. It happened about three or four in the morning, judging by the amount of water wasted. Senseless! Senseless!”

  “When was it discovered?”

  “About six o’clock this morning. The low pressure set off a sprinkler alarm at the plastics factory, and that alerted the fire department. Right after that the call came in from the west side.”

  “Whose house burned down?”

  “Young couple with three kids and no insurance. There wasn’t enough water in the tank to put the fire down. Mind you, two hundred and fifty thousand gallons lost! What gets me is this—we have plenty of floods and forest fires and tornadoes and hurricanes and droughts. We don’t need man-made disasters as well.”

  “How come the prowl car didn’t spot the gushing water during the night?”

  Brodie leaned back in his chair wearily. “Listen. We have a force of six men, including me and the sergeant. There are seven days in the week and twenty-four hours in the day—and all this damned paperwork! That spreads us pretty thin. On Friday nights we have two cars out on the beat. That’s payday, you know; the boozers whoop it up and sleep it off on Saturday. So we concentrate on the bars and party stores and school parking lot. There was a big dance at the school last night, and after that the kids went partying in the neighborhoods—making noise, raising hell, all the usual. We logged I don’t know how many DPs. There were two brawls at taverns and three car accidents, and that’s just within the city limits! Drivers and passengers all sloshed! Then there was a minor fire in a foster home for the elderly—some old geezer smoking in bed. No damage, but enough panic for a major earthquake! I tell you, Qwill, Friday night is hell-night in Pickax, especially in spring—just like it was a hundred years ago when the lumberjacks used to come into town and mix it up with the miners.”

  “I can see you had your hands full,” Qwilleran said. “What were the state troopers doing all this time?”

  “Oh, they assisted—when they weren’t chasing drunk drivers all over the county. One high-speed chase ended up with the guy in the Ittibittiwassee River.”

  “It looks as if the vandalism is escalating, as you predicted.”

  “When they get tired of pulling up flowers, they look for bigger kicks. This is Saturday. They’ll be out again tonight.” Brodie looked at Qwilleran inquiringly. “There should be some way to outguess them.”

  “Forget about cat power, Brodie. It won’t work.” Qwilleran saluted the chief and went on his way. He wanted to make one more stop before lunch. He wanted to meet the black sheep of the Lanspeak family.

  The department store was the largest commercial building on Main Street—a Byzantine palace with banners flying from the battlements. That was the kind of dramatic touch that would appeal to Larry Lanspeak. He and his wife, Carol, were the lifeblood of the Theatre Club. Their energy and enthusiasm were legendary in Pickax; so was their store. In the 1880s it had served Moose County as a small general store, selling kerosene, gun powder, harnesses, crackers, cheese, and calico by the yard. Now the inventory included perfume and satin chemises, microwave ovens and television sets, fishing rods, and sweat shirts.

  Sweat shirts! That was Qwilleran’s cue. He hea
ded for the men’s casual wear in the rear of the store. It meant zigzagging through the women’s department with their seductive aromas and silky displays. Clerks who had sold him sweaters, robes, and blouses in Polly Duncan’s size brightened when they saw him.

  “Morning, Mr. Q.”

  “Help you, Mr. Q? We just received some lovely silk scarfs. Real silk!”

  In the sporting goods department a young man was leaning on a glass showcase, poring over a gun catalogue. His pigtail and Fu-Manchu moustache looked ludicrous for a conservative town like Pickax.

  “Do you have any sweat shirts?” Qwilleran asked him.

  “On the rack.” The clerk jerked his head toward the casual wear with a look of boredom.

  “Do you have any in green?”

  “What’s on the rack, that’s what we’ve got.”

  “How much are they?”

  “Different prices. Whatever it says on the tag.”

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t bring my reading glasses,” Qwilleran said. “Would you be good enough to help me?” It was a lie, but he enjoyed irritating clerks who irritated him.

  Reluctantly the young man left his gun catalogue and found a green sweat shirt in a large size and at a price that seemed fair. While the sale was being written up, Qwilleran looked at fishing rods and reels, bows and arrows, hunting knives, lifebelts, backpacks, and other gear that had nothing to do with his lifestyle. He spotted one item, however, that would be most inconvenient for a lazy clerk to reach: a pair of snowshoes hung high on the wall.

  “Are those the only snowshoes you have?” he inquired.

  “We don’t stock snowshoes in spring.”

  “What are they made of?”

  “Aluminum.”

  “I’d like to examine them.”

  “I’ll have to get a ladder.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Qwilleran said, enjoying his script and performance.

  After some exertion and disgruntled muttering the young man brought down the snowshoes, and Qwilleran studied them leisurely.

  “How do you keep them on your feet?”

  “Bindings.”

  “Which is the back and which is the front?”

  “The tail is the back.”

  “That makes sense,” Qwilleran said. “Is this the only kind you ever carry?”

  “In winter we have some with wood frames and cowhide lacing.”

  “Do you do any snowshoeing yourself?”

  “When I check my traps.”

  “Do you use aluminum or wood?”

  “Wood, but I make my own.”

  “You make your own snowshoes? How do you do that?” There was a note of sincere amazement in the question.

  The clerk showed some slight signs of life. “Cut down a white ash to make the frames. Kill a deer to get the hide for lacing.”

  “Incredible! How did you learn to do it?”

  The fellow shrugged and looked half-pleased. “Just found out, that’s all.”

  “How do you make a curved frame out of a tree?”

  “Cut it to the right size, steam it and bend it, that’s all.”

  “Amazing! I’m new in the north country,” Qwilleran said, “but snowshoeing is something I’d like to try next winter. Is it hard to do?”

  “Just put one foot in front of the other. And don’t be in a hurry.”

  “How fast do you go?”

  “Depends on the snow—hardpack or soft—and whether you’re in underbrush. Four miles an hour is pretty fast.”

  “Do they come in different sizes?”

  “Different sizes and different styles. I’ve made all kinds—Michigan, Bear Paw, arctic—all kinds.”

  “Do you make them to sell?”

  “Never did, but . . .”

  “I’d like to buy a handmade pair, if I could see a selection.”

  “I have some at my folks’ house. I guess I could get ahold of them next week.”

  “Would you bring some samples to my apartment?”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Behind the Klingenschoen mansion, over the garage. My name is Qwilleran.” He observed a spark of recognition in the clerk’s hooded eyes. “And what’s your name?”

  “Chad.”

  “When could you bring the samples?”

  “Tuesday, maybe. After work.”

  “What time do you quit?”

  “Five-thirty.”

  “I have a Theatre Club rehearsal at seven. Could you get to my place not later than six?”

  “I guess.”

  Qwilleran left the store in a good frame of mind. He didn’t really want a pair of snowshoes or even a green sweat shirt; he wanted to satisfy his curiosity about Chad Lanspeak.

  That was Saturday morning.

  Late Saturday night or early Sunday, vandals broke into the Pickax high school and destroyed a computer.

  SCENE THREE

  Place:

  The rehearsal hall at the Pickax community center

  Time:

  Late Monday evening

  Cast:

  Members of the Theatre Club, rehearsing for Arsenic and Old Lace

  “So long, kids. See you tomorrow night.”

  “G’night y’all. Anybody need a ride home?”

  “Good night, Harley. Don’t forget to bring your grandfather’s bugle tomorrow night.”

  “Hope I can find it.”

  “Anyone want to stop at Bud’s for a beer?”

  “Darling, I’d love a beer . . . if you’re buying.”

  “Listen, everybody, before you go! Have your lines tomorrow night. No excuses! We start work on the timing.”

  “Nighty-night, Francesca. You’re a slave driver, but we love ya.”

  “Good night, David . . . Good night, Edd. Don’t worry about anything. You’re going to be just fine. Glad to have you in the company.”

  “Good night, Fran,” said Qwilleran. “You’re doing a good job of handling these clowns.”

  “Don’t go yet, Qwill. I want to talk to you.” She was watching the others leave—young and not so young, talented or simply stagestruck, affluent or working for the minimum wage—but they all looked alike in their nondescript rehearsal clothes: mismatched pants and tops, illfitting, well-worn, purposely ugly. Qwilleran felt too well-dressed in his new green sweat shirt. Even Fran, who was meticulously chic on the job, looked sloppy in faded tights, running shoes, and her father’s old shirt. Eddington Smith was the only one who had reported for rehearsal in suit, white shirt, and tie.

  Fran sat down next to Qwilleran and said, “Qwill, you’re going to be the hit of the show when you roar ‘Bully!’ and ‘Charge!’ with your thundering voice. But I’d like to see a burst of energy when you gallop upstairs with an imaginary sword. Remember, you think you’re Teddy Roosevelt charging up San Juan Hill.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking, Fran. I’m laid-back by choice and by temperament, and getting more so every year.”

  “Make an adjustment,” she said with the sweet smile she always employed to get what she wanted. “You’ll be able to practice with the bugle tomorrow night if Harley remembers to bring it.”

  Qwilleran said, “The Fitch twins are the ones who’ll steal the show—Harley in his Boris Karloff makeup, and David playing that slimy doctor like a perfect creep.”

  “They’re two talented boys,” Fran said, “and such good sports. They’re really wasted on banking.” She glanced at her watch, yet seemed in no hurry to leave.

  “I’m glad you gave Eddington a part to play, even though he’s terrified.”

  “He’ll be perfect for old Mr. Gibbs, won’t he? But I hope he learns to project. He speaks in a whisper.”

  “No one ever shouts in a bookstore, and that’s where he’s spent his whole life.”

  “Anyway, here’s what I wanted to discuss, Qwill. We want to do Bell, Book and Candle for our summer show, and we’ll need a cat to play Pyewacket. Do you think . . .”

  “No, I do
n’t think Koko would care for the role. He’s extremely independent. He doesn’t take direction. And he prefers his own script.”

  “Maybe we should announce a public audition and invite people to bring their cats.”

  “You’d have a riot!” Qwilleran said. “You’d have three hundred cat lovers with three hundred cats, all wailing and spitting and fighting and climbing up the curtain. And the humans would be even worse—pushy, indignant, belligerent. A company tried it Down Below, and they had to call the police.”

  “But it would generate publicity. When the newspaper starts publishing, we’ll get all kinds of coverage. They’ve promised to review our productions.”

  “They’re dreaming! Who’ll qualify as a drama critic in Moose County?”

  “You,” she said with her sweet smile.

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “How can I sit in the fifth row, center, taking notes at the same time I’m onstage blowing the bugle and charging up San Juan Hill?”

  “You’ll figure it out.” She could be infuriatingly illogical one minute and a frighteningly straight thinker the next. “Will the theater be ready on schedule?”

  “They’ve promised, but anything can happen in the building trades: electricians are electrocuted; plumbers drown; painters inhale toxic fumes; carpenters bleed to death.”

  “What would you think of an original revue for the grand opening, instead of a Broadway play?”

  “What kind of material?”

  “Humorous skits . . . witty parodies . . . a chorus line . . . comic acts. Harley and David have a funny twin act that they do. Susan danced in college; she can do choreography.”

  “Do you have a theme in mind?”

  “It should be a spoof of contemporary life, don’t you think? I mean—politics, television, fashion, pop music, the IRS—anything. Preferably tied in with Moose County.”