The Cat Who Smelled a Rat

thirteen

On Wednesday Qwilleran went downtown to pick up Polly’s groceries. In front of the Pickax People’s National Bank of America he came upon Burgess Campbell and friend, and he said heartily, “Professor Moriarty, I believe! Are you planning to rob the bank?”

There was a momentary handclasp. “Sherlock! How strange you should ask! Alexander has been sniffing out the security traps.”

“Shouldn’t you be in the lecture hall, Professor?” “Not until one o’clock. Would you like to audit Political Foibles of the Early Nineteenth Century? I have a new boffo about Congress that you probably never heard.” Opening each lecture with a joke, he maintained, put his students in a relaxed and receptive mode, and no one was ever late.

Qwilleran declined the invitation. “Only if you know the one about the preacher who thought his bicycle had been stolen… . But let me tell you that your scamadiddle scam is a gem! Of all the tales I’ve collected, it’s the only real leg-puller.”

“I hope you can credit my father. Prentis Campbell III. He was an unreconstructed joker.”

From there Qwilleran went to the library to break the news that he would not be joining Polly for leftovers that evening.

He stopped at the circulation desk to stroke Mac, one of the resident cats, and inquired about Katie.

“She had to go to the vet to have her teeth cleaned.” The clerk looked up at the glass-enclosed office on the mezzanine. “Mrs. Duncan has somebody with her.”

“Nohurry. I’ll browse.” Browsing among the catalogued, jacketed, well-bound, dustfree titles in the public library lacked the sense of adventure he had known at Edd’s Editions. A part of his life had gone up in smoke.

After a while a man walked down the stairs, and Qwilleran walked up.

“Thatwas Dr. Emerson from Black Creek,” Polly said. “He wants to donate a suitable memorial to his late mother. She was an eminent churchwoman, an enthusiastic reader, and a lifelong knitter… . Excuse me if I start my lunch… .” From her lunchbox arose the familiar whiff of tuna.

He said, “I’ll pick up your groceries, but I’m afraid I can’t have dinner tonight.”

“Oh, really?”

He paused long enough for her to imagine the worst scenario, then said, “It’s Wetherby Goode’s night off, and he’s taking me to the curling club. I’m treating to dinner.”

“Where will you go?”

“To the Nutcracker Inn-just to check it out. If the food and atmosphere are good, you and I will go-preferably before snow flies.”

He left her before she could offer him a carrot stick and drove to the art center.

The parking lot was filled to overflowing, and the manager, Barb Ogilvie, greeted him with excitement. “Qwill! Look at the response to your column about batik-printing! Standing room only! Do you want to squeeze in? It’s almost over.”

He chose to wait in the downstairs gallery until the scraping of chairs, hubbub of voices, and chugging of departing vehicles told him the program was over. Misty was thrilled with the attendance and the number who signed up for the course: eight women and one man, some of them from Lockmaster County. “This is my week!” she said to Qwilleran. “First the really super column that you wrote-then the great turnout-and then, this afternoon, I sign the contract for ten shafthouse batiks. My patron doesn’t want the commission or his identity to be known until the project is finished, but I’ll give you a sneak peek at the sketches if you’ll promise not to tell.”

The ten shafthouses were basically similar, but the artist’s eye had discerned their individuality. The structures were sketched from different angles, and wildlife was introduced: a doe with fawn, a raccoon, crows chasing a hawk, an antlered buck, a pair of squirrels.

Misty said, “I normally ask two thousand for a three-by-four, custom-designed, but I’ll have to buy extra vats and hire students to help, and Theo thinks I should ask five thousand. But that sounds rather high to me.”

Qwilleran agreed with her husband. “Your patron sounds less like an art lover and more like an investor who thinks shafthouses will disappear from the landscape and the batiks will appreciate in value.”

On the way out he had a few words with the manager. Barb Ogilvie loved her new job, was teaching a class in art-knitting, and had started dating Misty’s brother-in-law.

Walking to the parking lot, Qwilleran said, “Hi!” to a tall man who was taking long strides toward the building. The tall man made an equally expressionless response. Wait a minute! Qwilleran told himself; that was Don Exbridge! He’s going in to sign the contract for ten batiks! He has no interest in art and had no interest in shafthouses until his recent letter to the editor-and that was of questionable sincerity.

Hurrying to the cell phone in his van, Qwilleran called the building he had just left and asked to speak with Misty.

Barb said, “She’s just gone into an important conference-“

“This is more important-and confidential, Barb. Qwill speaking. Have her take the call in your office. Don’t mention my name.”

Misty came to the phone with wariness in her hello.

“This is Qwill,” he said. “I saw your patron entering the building and know who he is-a shrewd operator. Take Theo’s advice. Ask five thousand. He can afford it, and the art is worth it. Also, ask innocently what he intends to do with them. His reaction should be revealing. If he gives you an answer, it should be interesting, though not necessarily honest.”

“You drive!” the weatherman said to Qwilleran when they met at six P.M. “I’ve got the jitters.” As they headed for the Nutcracker Inn, he explained. “I just got a bummer of a letter from my ex-wife - first one since the divorce five years ago. She wants us to get together again! How do I handle it? Ignore it? Tell her to drop dead? There’s no point in trying to explain reasonably; she’s like a bulldog - won’t let go. I like my lifestyle, my job, my friends, the idea of having relatives in Horseradish. Also, there’s a girl down there that I like a lot - nothing serious.”

Qwilleran said, “I suspected you didn’t go down there to visit your sisters and your cousins and your aunts. Why did your marriage break up, if I may ask?”

“She wanted me to go back to school, get another degree, and become a serious scientist. Let’s face it, I’m an entertainer, and weather is my gimmick! But she nagged and nagged and nagged. Why did your marriage break up, Qwill?”

“In-law trouble. She married me without her parents’ permission. In the first place they scorned the media, and I was a gypsy-journalist, working for a different paper every two years, taking assignments all over the globe. They talked her into divorcing me, saying I wasn’t good enough for her - I’d never amount to anything - I drank. Soon after, she had a nervous breakdown, for which I was blamed, of course. Her parents were loaded, but they sent me her hospital bills. After that I really hit the bottle. Couldn’t hold a job. Almost killed myself before I came to my senses and got help. … I usually don’t go into these details.”

“How would you feel, Qwill, if she suddenly suggested a reconciliation?”

“She died a few years ago-in an institution.”

For a while there was nothing to say, until Qwilleran remarked, “With so many failed marriages, one forgets how many are successful: the Lanspeaks, the MacWhannells, Junior and Jody Goodwinter, Fran Brodie’s parents, the MacGillivrays, Lori and Nick Bamba, the Buster Ogilvies, Homer Tibbitt and Rhoda-“

“The Tibbitts are practically newlyweds,” Wetherby said.

“At their age, every year counts ten… . What about the mayor? I never hear anything about his home life.”

“He has a wife, no kids. Betty’s a homebody; hizzoner goes out selling stocks and bonds, playing golf, and pressing the flesh. His wife runs a mail-order business for her handcrafts. Have you heard of Betty Blythe’s Bunwarm-ers?”

“No! And I’m gripping the steering wheel to avoid falling off the seat. What are they?”

“Handmade baskets with handwoven napkins for keeping dinner rolls warm. She advertises in craft magazines and does very well.”

Only one old building remained in Black Creek, which had been a thriving town on a busy water—

way in the nineteenth century. The Limburger mansion had been purchased by the Klingenschoen Foundation and was now making its debut as a country inn. There had been magnificent black walnut trees in the vicinity, and the mansion had the treasured black walnut woodwork. Hence the name: the Nutcracker Inn.

Qwilleran said to Wetherby, “I was in this house when the old man was alive-an eccentric old geezer. There was a cuckoo clock in the front hall. It’s gone.”

“A good thing, too!” was the reply. “It would have driven the guests crazy. Or perhaps I should say: cuckoo.”

When the innkeeper welcomed them, Qwilleran asked about facilities for lodging and was told there were four large rooms on the second floor, two suites on the third floor, and five semi-housekeeping cabins down by the creek.

“Open all year round?”

“That depends what happens after snow flies. The K Foundation will make the decision. I’m Chicago-based, under contract to train staff and get the place running, then hire permanent innkeepers from the locality.”

“I know the ideal couple,” Qwilleran said. “Lori and Nick Bamba have the personality for innkeeping and a certain amount of experience.”

“Good! Tell them to apply to the K Foundation.”

When they were seated in the dining room, Wetherby said, “I remember the Bambas. They had a B&B at Breakfast Island. What happened?”

“The weather didn’t cooperate. Lori is working at the Pet Plaza now.”

“Kennebeck is having its annual roundup of stray cats before the Big One moves in. Any stray that’s adopted will be spayed or neutered-with Tipsy’s Tavern paying for it.”

“Tipsy herself was a stray, seventy years ago,” Qwilleran said.

“Did you see that teaser ad for a new recreation center in Pickax? What do you suppose it is?”

“Who knows? They promise fun for the whole family.”

“And did you see the letters to the editor in Monday’s paper? They’re all nuts! Did you hear that we have a professional astrologer living in the Village? I’m thinking of having my horoscope done. She does it in depth. Why don’t you have yours done, Qwill? I’m a Scorpio, sexy and talkative. What are you?”

“A Gemini-talented, likable, sensitive, kind, generous-“

“Sure,” Wetherby said.

“How about filling me in on curling-before we go to the club? How many on a team?”

“Four and a captain, called a skip.”

“How big is the rink?”

“A little wider than a bowling alley-and longer. The target, called the ‘house,’ is a circle of concentric rings, and the bull’s-eye is called the ‘tee.’”

“And what are the stones and brooms called?”

“Stones and brooms.”

“What does the skip do?”

“He reads the ice. There’s fast ice and slow ice. He calls the plays: when to sweep, when to take out an opponent’s stone, how much weight to put into the throw. A lot of strategy and a lot of skill go into the game. Also a lot of suspense for the watchers. It won’t be crowded tonight, but you should see it when they have a tournament-called a bonspiel.”

The Pickax Curling Club had been built out in the country where land was affordable, and there was plenty of space for parking during a bonspiel. It looked, everyone said, like a Swiss chalet, and the interior expressed friendliness, the essence of the sport of curling.

Qwilleran later described his reactions in his personal journal:

Joe and I started in the warming room, where I saw a few persons I knew: Theo and Misty Morghan … Fran Brodie and Dr. Prelligate … Hixie Rice and Dwight Somers… Jeffa Young with (of all people!) Kirt Nightingale. Was he trying to sell her some books? Or was she lining him up for a natal chart? Dwight thanked me for recommending him to Cass Young and said he could do the builder a lot of good.

While chatting with the Morghans, I heard something enlightening. Misty’s secret patron (I happen to know he’s Don Exbridge) dropped in at her studio to inquire if she could meet a certain deadline. He said they’re for use in a large restaurant with balconies, and the batiks would hang from the balcony railings. The restaurant wanted to open before snow flies. It would help if she could deliver a few of the batiks, if not the whole order.

So that explained why Ernie Kemple’s offer for the building was rejected! Exbridge is going into business with the former owner of Otto’s Tasty Eats!

Joe pointed out Cass Young-a good-looking man, tall and straight like his mother. Cass and the members of the ice committee were dealing with a problem, so we didn’t intrude. It appeared that the new compressor machine was not maintaining the ice properly, and there was a bonspiel scheduled for Saturday. The technician had to come from Bixby, and he had a prior emergency, but he would come late if someone would promise to let him in.

Mechanical equipment, restrooms and lockers were on a lower level, but we could see a small trophy area at the foot of the stairs. There was a commemorative curling stone on a pedestal and a pair of crossed pickaxes on the wall-the same insigne that appears in the small pin worn by members.

In the warming room a chalkboard listed the evening’s matches. Through a plate-glass window the rinks could be seen. Someone was planing the ice, which would then be sprayed with water to provide a pebbled effect; if the ice was too slick, the stones would fly off into the next county. During the game, players would sweep the ice with brooms to get the “ice dust” and water out of the path of the moving stones.

When the matches began and we went to the spectators’ gallery, I discovered what a civilized sport this was! No fights on the ice … no abusive shouts from the onlookers!

“Who casts the first stone?” I asked Joe.

The first player approached the hack-the foot-board that keeps a curler from flying down the ice with the stone. There was a moment of concentration-then a crouch and a lunge, and the stone went gliding serenely down the rink. To me that dynamic lunge created a moment of suspense like the baseball pitcher’s windup, the discus-thrower’s spin, or the caber-tosser’s stagger with towering pole.

I found the whole experience hypnotic: watching the stone as it journeyed across the ice, curling around an obstacle, traveling not too far but far enough. How do they do it? With a twist of the wrist? Or with sheer will power? Meanwhile cries from players and spectators fill the arena. “Sweep! … Take it out! Good rock! Lay it up! … Off the broom! … We got the hammer! … Good weight!”

Later, in the warming room, I met Cass Young and said I’d like to join the club. He signaled to a young red-haired woman. “New member! Grab him before he gets away!”

She brought an application card and asked if I’d like to sign up for instruction.

Then a wild-eyed member of the ice committee rushed up and said, “I can’t wait for the technician! Gotta take my wife to the hospital! She’s due!”

“I’ll stay,” said Cass. “Go home! Don’t worry.… I hope it’s a boy!” he called after the disappearing figure.

“I hope it’s a girl!” said the redhead.

On the way home Wetherby said, “Do you know who the redhead is? Don Exbridge’s second wife. She’s in the process of divorcing him.”

“I heard about that,” Qwilleran said, “but when I met her last year at a dinner party, she seemed like a mousy little creature.”

“Don likes mousy,” Wetherby said. “He wants to be the whole cheese. Actually, Robyn-that’s spelled with a Y-has a good personality. The red hair is something new.”

Qwilleran said, “When Susan divorced Don, she started calling everyone ‘darling’ and opened a posh antique shop. What do you suppose Robyn will do with her divorce settlement?”

“She’s already resumed her former occupation: freelance manicurist. House calls only … Do you think you’ll take curling instruction?”

“Ithinknot. I’m a professional spectator, and my hobby is people-watching… . Would you come in for a nightcap? I have some especially good Scotch.”

“That seems like an appropriate cap on the evening.”

When they reached The Willows and let themselves into Unit Four, a horrendous sound met their ears.

“My God! What’s that?” Wetherby gasped.

A gut-wrenching growl ended in an ear-splitting shriek.

Qwilleran groaned, dreading the message and fearing another volunteer had been struck down. “It’s Koko,” he said hoarsely.

“I heard it the other night, through the wall, and thought the wolves were back in Moose County. … Is it something he ate?”

“It’s a mystery.” Qwilleran chose not to reveal the family secret. “Let’s have that nightcap.”

After Wetherby had his nip of Scotch and returned to Unit Three to take a shower-audible through the thin walls-Qwilleran phoned the night desk at the Something… . No, they said, there had been no incident on the police beat.