The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

At Toodle’s Market the next day, where he bought groceries, the three brushfires were the chief topic of conversation. Everyone had a theory. No one believed the sheriff. It was a cover-up. The authorities were trying to avert panic. The groceries were for Polly Duncan, director of the public library. Qwilleran had an arrangement with her. He shopped for her groceries while she slaved in the work place. Then she invited him to dinner. It was more than a practical proposition; Polly was the chief woman in his life-charming, intelligent, and his own age.

The dinner deal was especially convenient in the winter, when he closed his summer place-a converted apple barn-and moved his household to Indian Village. There he owned a condo, a few doors from Polly’s. He liked a periodic change of address; it satisfied the wanderlust that had made him a successful journalist Down Below.

Indian Village was an upscale residential development in Suffix Township (which had been annexed by Pickax City after years of wrangling). It extended along the west bank of the Ittibittiwassee River. Rustic cedar-sided buildings were scattered among the trees: condominiums in clusters of four, multiplex apartments, a clubhouse, and a gatehouse. Qwilleran had Unit Four in the cluster called The Willows. Unit Three was occupied by the WPKX meteorologist, Wetherby Goode (real name, Joe Bunker). There was a new neighbor in Unit Two; Kirt Nightingale was a rare-book dealer from Boston, returning to his hometown in middle age. (“What do you suppose is his real name?” the village wags whispered.) Polly Duncan, in Unit One, was impressed by his erudition and said, “If we can accept Qwilleran with a QW and a weatherman named Wetherby Goode, we shouldn’t flinch at a Nightingale. And he’s going to be a nice quiet neighbor.”

That was important. The walls of the contiguous units were thin, and there were other construction details that were flawed. But it was a good address with a wonderful location and many amenities for residents.

Arriving at Unit One with bags of groceries, Qwilleran let himself in with his own key (Polly was at the library), greeted her two cats, and refrigerated perishable purchases. All the units had the same layout: a foyer, a two-story living room with a wall of glass overlooking the river, two bedrooms on the balcony, and a kitchen and dining alcove beneath. A garage with space for one vehicle was under the house.

There the similarity ended. Polly’s unit was furnished-even overfurnished-with antiques inherited from her inlaws. Qwilleran preferred the stark simplicity of contemporary design, with two or three antique objects for decorative accent. When friends asked, “Why don’t you and Polly get married?” he would reply, “Our cats are incompatible.” The truth was that he would find it suffocating to live with the appurtenances of the nineteenth century. Polly felt the same way about “modern.” They stayed single.

Before leaving, Qwilleran said a few friendly words to Brutus, a muscular, well-fed Siamese, and looked about for Catta, who was younger and smaller. A flicker of movement overhead revealed her perched on a drapery rod. She had the Siamese taste for heights.

“Are you guys all set for the Big One?” he asked. “It won’t be long before snow flies!”

There was no answer, but he could read their minds. They sensed that he had cats of his own. They knew he had been there before, even feeding them when she was away. But was he to be trusted? What was that large brush on his face?

When Qwilleran returned for dinner at six-thirty, Brutus rubbed against his ankles; Catta squealed and hopped about. They knew he had a treat in his pocket.

Polly’s harried voice came from the kitchen. “Qwill, I’m running a little late. Would you be good enough to feed the cats? Open a can of the Special Diet for him and the salmon in cream gravy for her… . And you might put a CD on the stereo. Not Mozart.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Minestrone and lasagna.”

“How about mandolin music?”

Polly had put a butterfly table and two ladderback chairs in one of the large windows, setting it with Regency silver and Wedgwood.

After adding a plentiful garnish of Parmesan to the soup, Qwilleran asked, “What’s the latest news in the stacks?” He knew that the library was the unofficial hub of the Pickax grapevine.

“Everyone’s concerned about the brushfires,” she said. “The Big B Mine was owned by Maggie Sprenkle’s great-grandmother, you know, and if anything happened to the shafthouse, she’d have a heart attack!”

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. “Has there ever been a threat to a shafthouse in the past?”

“Not that I know, and I’ve lived here since college.”

“It’s ironic that last night’s incident should coincide with the dedication of the plaques.” Ten bronze plaques, donated anonymously, had been installed at the historic minesites.

“That’s exactly what Maggie said. She was the donor, you know, although she doesn’t want it known. You won’t mention it, will you?”