The Cat Who Smelled a Rat Audio Read online

  “To the rescue comes the Citizens’ Fire Watch, ready to swing into action at midnight. Chairman Ernie Kemple will describe the operation.

  “First let me remind you, folks, that this idea was proposed by Burgess Campbell’s American history students at MCCC, who have been working industriously to plan the operation.”

  Kemple’s booming voice was well known. Since selling his insurance agency and retiring, he had played roles in theatre club productions and had been named Volunteer of the Year.

  “Briefly,” he said, “private citizens will drive their own cars through the back roads around mines—looking for wildfires and reporting them to a hotline by cell phone. They will drive in three-hour patrols, around an area divided into four segments. Some of our civic leaders, upon hearing the plan, volunteered immediately. Many more are needed. Additional phone lines have been hooked up here at the station, and committee members are waiting to sign you up and answer your questions.”

  He mentioned Amanda Goodwinter, Derek Cuttlebrink, Dr. Diane Lanspeak, Whannell MacWhannell, Scott Gippel, and others. The roster of prominent names inspired action, and new names were broadcast as fast as they volunteered. Kemple answered questions:

  “Yes, you can request daylight or nighttime hours. . . . You’ll be given a detailed map of your segment. . . . If you don’t have a cell phone, one will be provided. . . . About gas? Good question. Anyone driving two or more three-hour patrols can claim gas mileage from a kitty established by the K Fund. . . . Yes, by all means, take a partner—neighbor, friend, family member—to help with the fire-spotting. The first three-hour patrol is your donation to the cause. . . . Glad you mentioned that. MCCC students who volunteer will receive credits for community service. Cars will be identified by a small white pennant on the right front fender. Smile when you see one!”

  Kemple made a final reminder: “Scheduling cars for twenty-four hours a day is tricky business and allows for no last-minute cancellations or no-shows. When you volunteer, you are protecting your county and your home. . . . Also, bear in mind that this is not a long-term commitment. Your help is needed only until snow flies.”

  Qwilleran turned off the radio and said proudly, “Only in a closely knit county like this could you facilitate a project so fast. Refresh your drink, Kirt?”

  There was a shattering crash!

  Nightingale jumped to his feet. “My God! What’s that?”

  Qwilleran glanced upward and saw Koko on the balcony railing, staring down at the mess he had created.

  Kirt followed his glance. “Sorry! Gotta get out of here. Thanks for the drink.” He rushed to the front door.

  Qwilleran stroked his moustache. As a host he should feel embarrassed, and yet Nightingale’s frantic exit was not enlisting his sympathy. Nevertheless, he would write a note of apology. It was partly his own fault; he had forgotten that Koko knew how to operate a lever-type door handle. And Koko was only teasing, playing cat and mouse. The cat sensed a likely victim. Perhaps it was a mistake to let Fran Brodie put such objects on a balcony railing. The fact was: The row of five pots looked good! Now there were four.

  Qwilleran phoned Polly and related the incident, then waited for her reaction.

  She paused. “I know I should feel chagrined, but . . . why do I find it comic? I hope you had hidden the glove box.”

  “Have no fear. What do you think about the Citizens’ Fire Watch?”

  “Better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness, as the saying goes. Will you volunteer for a patrol?”

  “Most likely I’ll ride shotgun with Wetherby.”

  five

  Two topics of conversation occupied downtown Pickax on Tuesday: the Citizens’ Fire Watch and the loss of Eddington Smith. Townfolk were filled with sorrow on the one hand and hope on the other as they shared their thoughts at the post office, a civic meeting place. Built in Moose County’s heyday, when Pickax expected to become a northern Chicago, its interior walls had been covered with murals in the 1930s—a federal project to give work to unemployed artists during the Great Depression. The post office and the bookstore were the city’s two tourist attractions.

  Qwilleran bought some postage stamps—and listened:

  “The college president volunteered to take a fire patrol.”

  “Those two new doctors signed up.”

  “In our family we have three on patrol. I just pray: Dear Lord, don’t let the wind rise!”

  “The kids wanted to stay home from school so they could fire-watch with their daddy.”

  “Eddington was a nice little old man, but he didn’t eat right, and I told him so.”

  “Can’t be healthy—breathin’ all that dust.”

  “Wonder what’ll happen to his cat.”

  “Wonder what’ll happen to his books.”

  Qwilleran, still astonished at the terms of Eddington’s will, walked to Book Alley to view his inheritance. The bookstore glittered in the middle of the block like a crown jewel. On either side were nineteenth-century storefronts with tall windows. On one side were Albert’s Dry Cleaning and Granny’s Sweet Shop. She knew everyone’s weakness; Mr. Q liked dark chocolate with nuts. On the other side were Gilda’s Gift Shop and Brenda’s Unisex Hair Salon. Qwilleran patronized an old-fashioned barber with a revolving barber pole in front of his shop.

  A sign in the bookstore window said CLOSED. It was dark inside, but the movement of a waving tail could be glimpsed in the gloom. Winston had been fed and was doing his dusting chores as usual.

  Albert saw Qwilleran and opened the door. “Mr. Q! Your pants are ready!”

  Qwilleran walked across the street. “Well, Albert, what are we going to do without Eddington?”

  The dry cleaner shook his head. “That store was the lifeblood of this block. People came from all over to see it. Not too long ago a real estate guy from Bixby came around and wanted to buy it. Not a chance! Then he wanted to buy the storefronts, but our landlord wouldn’t sell. No telling what they’d do—tear the whole block down, maybe, and build a strip mall.”

  “Winston seems to be all right.”

  “Yes, I see a girl coming to feed him.”

  “We should run a sob story about Winston with his photo, and find a new home for him,” Qwilleran said.

  “If you want to go in and see him,” Albert said, “Edd always left the key under the doormat at the back door.”

  “May I use your phone?” Qwilleran called the photo lab at the Something and requested a shot of Eddington Smith’s cat for the next day’s deadline. “Not a mug shot,” he stipulated. “He looks too ferocious. Preferably broadside, showing the plumed tail. The key is under the doormat at the rear, and be sure the cat doesn’t run out.”

  Before leaving the block Qwilleran had a last look at the bookstore, wondering if—possibly—the college would accept the property and set up a work-and-learn project for students. Not a bad idea! Polly could give the benefit of her library science training, and Kirt could lecture on rare books. There was plenty of time to consider it. How long the estate would be in probate was anyone’s guess.

  The bookseller’s funeral was a small one, as the modest old man would wish. Eddington Smith was laid to rest in a hilltop cemetery beyond the city limits—alongside his father. The elder Smith had been a door-to-door book salesman, bringing dictionaries and encyclopedias to countryfolk who had little schooling. Years later their purchases turned up in estate sales and then Eddington’s shop, many of them as good as new.

  The pastor of the Little Stone Church officiated at the funeral, and Qwilleran said a few words:

  “Books were Eddington’s life. Although he was not a reader himself, his mission was to supply books to readers and find readers for books. His building on Book Alley had been his grandfather’s blacksmith shop, and it was a long leap from shoeing horses to binding books, but it was part of Edd’s passion for books—to make an old book new again.

  “As a person he was more of a friend than a businessman—
always generous, steadfast, and kind. Whenever one of his customers passed on, he would say, ‘There is a better land—far, far away.’ And his seamy face would radiate a moment’s joy as if he heard the song of angels. As we say farewell to Eddington, let us bid him godspeed to a better land—far, far away.”

  The few mourners walked quietly down the hill to their cars.

  Qwilleran did Polly’s grocery shopping, ensuring himself an invitation to dinner, and then went home to read his newspaper. On the editorial page he found a letter that surprised him:

  To the Editor—Compliments to the Shafthouse Preservation Initiative on their success in having the abandoned mines declared historic places. We should all cheer Saturday’s ceremony that dedicated the bronze plaques. Our mining heritage is unique. Let us not forget the miners’ villages that surrounded the mines—the miners lining up at dawn to climb down a ladder into the lower depths—working like dogs for ten hours—climbing back up a thousand feet of ladder with blackened faces and empty stomachs—sometimes perishing in mine explosions that left whole villages fatherless. When we admire the cubistic architecture of the shafthouses, let us not forget the human sacrifice that allowed vast fortunes to be made for a few.

  It was the signature that took him by surprise: Don Exbridge of Suffix Township. To dramatize the moment, another pot of geraniums fell from the balcony railing and crashed on the living room floor. He looked up to see a boldly impudent Koko enjoying his mischief.

  There was no point in scolding; it had been folly to put the plants there in the first place. It was one of those “decorator touches” that Qwilleran succumbed to once in a while simply because Fran was glib, glamorous, and Brodie’s daughter.

  He swept up the debris and returned to his newspaper, only to discover the editorial page torn into shreds. What’s more, Koko was right there, waiting to take credit for his depredations. The cat had oblique ways of communicating, and this could mean one of two things: Either he wanted shredded paper in his commode instead of the expensive dustproof litter that came in large bags . . . or he was saying that Don Exbridge’s letter was a fake.

  Qwilleran agreed with the latter. The sentimentality, the caring about heritage, even the word “cubistic” were all out of character for the bottom-liner who couldn’t care less about history, environment, and the arts. Who was his ghostwriter? And what was it all about?

  Qwilleran discussed the matter with Polly when he reported for dinner.

  “I’ll read a letter to the editor, and you guess who wrote it.”

  She guessed several members of the historical society and the genealogy club.

  “Don Exbridge!” he announced.

  “What’s happened to him?” Polly gasped.

  “Either he’s been hit on the head, or he’s going to be a father for the first time, or he’s hired a spin doctor to give Donex & Associates a new corporate image. What’s on the menu tonight?”

  “Only leftovers,” she said. “A ragout of last week’s chicken soup and this weekend’s cassoulet, with garlic croutons and a sprinkling of goat cheese. I hope you like it.”

  “Polly, you could open a restaurant with your leftovers! You could call it Leftovers Inc., or Deja Vu, or Not Again!”

  They savored the ragout in silence for a few minutes, and then she said, “Those were beautiful words you spoke at Eddington’s funeral.”

  “Glad to see your Dear Ladies attended.” That was their private name for the white-haired, well-bred, conservative, wealthy women who served on the library board of directors.

  “Yes, it was sweet of them. Who was the young woman with Mr. Barter?”

  “Cynthia, the law clerk who’s feeding Winston in the interim. She asked to attend. The man in a plaid shirt was Albert, the dry cleaner.”

  “I thought I recognized him. I was in Book Alley this noon, having my hair done during my lunch hour, and Brenda told me some wild news: Don Exbridge’s wife has filed for divorce!”

  “His second or third?”

  “He’s had only two. She’s the mousy one we met last year when they invited us to dinner. She reminded me of my mother-in-law, who squeezed toothpaste onto her husband’s toothbrush every day for forty years. Such wifely devotion!”

  “Correction! The elder Mrs. Duncan was a thrifty Scot who didn’t like to see dentifrice wasted.”

  “Oh Qwill! You’re so cynical!”

  “Not at all. A survey shows that men use toothpaste more lavishly than women do, and budget-conscious wives are on a cost-cutting campaign that alarms marketing specialists and interests psychologists. A fifty percent cut in toothpaste consumption could be a blow to the economy.”

  “You’re inventing this, Qwill!” Polly laughed. “You’re plotting another hoax on your readers. You’ll have them measuring the toothpaste on family toothbrushes and sending their reports to the Something on postal cards.”

  “You have no faith in me,” he said as he helped himself to seconds. “What’s that on the sideboard? It looks like Maggie’s French martini pitcher.”

  “It’s yours now. She brought it to the library today. She wants very much for you to have it.”

  He gasped. “She shouldn’t have! It’s too much! But I accept.”

  Qwilleran declined dessert—stewed figs with yogurt—saying he had to take a nap before fire-watching with Wetherby. He left shortly, swinging the pitcher by its sturdy handle. “Wait till Koko and Yum Yum see it! They’ll know it came from a household with five cats.”

  As it turned out, the Siamese knew not only the provenance of the pitcher, but also the sex of Maggie’s cats—all females. Koko nuzzled it enthusiastically, but Yum Yum backed away and bushed her tail.

  At eleven P.M. Qwilleran gave the cats their bedtime snack, then led the ceremonial march upstairs, with Koko second in line and Yum Yum trailing a lazy third. He ushered them into their room, said goodnight, turned out the light and closed the door. This was the “tucking-in” ritual.

  In his boyhood his mother had tucked him in nightly—listening to his prayers, tucking the bedcovers under his chin, giving his forehead a goodnight kiss, wishing him pleasant dreams. He wondered how much of it was motherly affection and how much was a motherly prayer-check. He hated to hurt the feelings of the only parent he had, but on his tenth birthday he ventured that he was too old for tucking-in. She understood.

  The Siamese had no such objections, and after they were tucked in, Qwilleran dressed for fire-watching and awaited the signal from his neighbor.

  “All set to go, Joe. Would a thermos of hot coffee be appropriate?”

  “Brilliant idea!”

  They rode in Wetherby’s van, which had a white flag flying from a front fender, affixed by a magnet. “We’ll be cruising at a slower speed than other vehicle traffic.”

  “Actually, there won’t be much traffic at this hour—on the secondary roads we’ll be traveling. The flags were borrowed from Dingleberry Funeral Home. City funerals don’t use flags anymore. The procession races to the cemetery at normal speed, with a police escort. Somehow, that doesn’t seem respectful, but I’m just a country boy from Horseradish.”

  Following their map, they zigzagged through back roads and phoned “all clear” to the courthouse operator at each checkpoint. Traffic was light except for a half hour when the bars closed. Once, Wetherby stopped and shone his headlights on a new building that looked like a Swiss chalet. “The new curling club,” he said. “I don’t curl, but I’m a member, and that’s where I go to relax. We should go some night.”

  “What facilities do they have?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Three rinks, spectator gallery, warming room with bar, locker room . . .”

  “I’ve seen pictures of players on the ice with large stones and little brooms. What’s it all about? In twenty-five words or less.”

  “Are you counting?” Wetherby asked. “Well, the idea is to slide the stone across the ice and into the target area. A skilled player can make the stone do tricks—curl aro
und another stone, take out an opponent’s stone. Fascinating!”

  “What does a stone weigh?”

  “Forty-two pounds, carved from Scottish granite.”

  “Do players have their own stones and take them home like bowling balls?”

  “No. Stones have to be refrigerated or they’ll melt the ice.”

  Apart from the conversation, it had been a dull expedition. In the first twenty-four hours of the Fire Watch there had been only one brushfire, resulting when a truck accident knocked down a power line. There had been no smoldering or black smoke in any of the four Mine Zones. The volunteer fire departments had it easy.

  But the night was not over.

  After saying goodnight to his neighbor, Qwilleran unlocked his front door and saw a scene of destruction. A table lamp had been toppled and was hanging upside-down from its cord. The Danish rug was bunched. Red pillows, wooden apples, magazines, and desktop papers were on the floor. Geraniums were in the kitchen sink.

  It meant only one thing, Qwilleran knew: a cat fit! . . . a prediction of trouble . . . probably the Big One. Having given the warning, Koko was lying on the mantel, exhausted. Yum Yum was hiding. Methodically Qwilleran began putting the room together again.