The Cat Who Smelled a Rat

eleven

The day after the rally, when rain would have been appreciated by the parched county, another morning sun flooded Qwilleran’s living room through the large glass areas overlooking the riverbank. Where was the Big One? Water was being rationed. Farmers worried about their flocks and herds. Wetherby Goode talked about going into hiding if the Big One continued to stall over Canada.

When Qwilleran opened his bedroom door and stepped out onto the balcony, he looked down at a dazzling light on the coffee table-enough to alarm him for a moment until he realized it was the French pitcher, reflecting and multiplying the sun’s rays. It was a remarkable example of optic lead crystal, chunky and heavy; he estimated it weighed five pounds, empty. Nine deep vertical cuts faceted the spherical base, which was topped with a narrow neck, a perfect pouring spout, and a gracefully well-balanced handle. Even without sunlight the crystal had a life of its own, playing optic tricks with interior shapes and shadows. Koko recognized it as something special and tried to get his sleek head into the pitcher’s neck.

“No!” Qwilleran shouted, and the cat withdrew quickly.

“You guys missed a good party yesterday,” he told the cats as he was preparing their food. “There was a nice dog there-quiet, intelligent, well-mannered. Your kind of dog. His name was Alexander.”

As if some kind of mental telepathy were at work, the phone rang at that moment, and Burgess Campbell was on the line. “I was just talking about Alexander,” Qwilleran said. “How did he like the rally yesterday?”

“He takes everything in his stride,” Burgess said. “We could all take lessons from Alexander… . Why I’m calling, Qwill-Ernie was telling us about your book, Short & Tall Tales, and I wondered if you had room for one more.”

“Yes, if it has a legendary quality and a Moose County connection.”

“I think it qualifies. My father used to tell about this feed-and-seed supplier in Brrr Township in the 1920s. He called it Phineas Ford’s Fabulous Collection.”

“Are there any Fords still around? I haven’t run into that name.”

“Dad said the last ones went Down Below during World War Two, to work in the defense industry. If you’re interested, I could dictate it to my computer and mail you a printout. Then you can edit it as you see fit.” ;

“Sounds good to me!” Qwilleran said.

Ruff Abbey was given a hero’s funeral-on Monday, not Tuesday, because of the threat of the Big One. The service was held in the high school auditorium because so many mourners wanted to attend. Burial was in Sawdust City because the Mudville Curlers insisted.

After the service Qwilleran was cashing a check in the bank when he bumped into someone and said, “Sorry.”

The other man said, “Sorry,” and then looked up. “Qwill!”

“Ernie! If I’d known it was you, I’d have bumped harder!”

“Story of my life.” He lowered his booming voice to a mutter. “Gotta couple of minutes? If we could sit down somewhere and spread this thing out…” There was a roll of drafting paper under his arm.

Qwilleran used his influence, and they went into a small conference room.

Ernie Kemple, former insurance agent and enthusiastic volunteer, was not in his usual jovial mood. In the last year he had surmounted family problems and carried on with bravado, throwing himself into community service.

But now he looked discouraged as he unrolled a large drawing of a floor plan. “Did you hear about my idea for an antique village?”

“Sketchily. Fill me in. It sounds interesting.”

“The idea was flying high… . and then the wings fell off. I suppose you know that Otto’s Tasty Eats went out of business.”

“Good riddance!”

“Yeah … well… His building was for sale by owner, and I thought it would be perfect for an antiques cooperative, where dealers rent spaces and take turns minding the store.”

Qwilleran asked, “Would this area have enough dealers to make it work?”

“Oh, sure! Collectors all over the county are selling from their barns and basements, and they’d welcome the opportunity to ‘go pro,’ you know, without a big investment. Also, dealers in surrounding counties could have a branch in Pickax and cash in on the tourist trade. I’d have exhibit booths around the walls of the main floor and balcony, and have a courtyard in the middle for serving lunches and snacks. The K Fund was standing by, ready to give me a low-interest business loan… . and then I made Otto an offer for the building, and crash! He said he was planning a business venture of his own!”

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?”

“Ido.”

“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 PS. 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.