The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

Then-abruptly-the cat’s attention was distracted. He jumped down from the chest and went to a southeast window, where he stretched his neck, raised his head, and sniffed, while his tail switched nervously.

Without waiting to hear the scream of the police sirens and urgent bleat of the fire truck, Qwilleran ran out to his van just as his neighbor, the weatherman, was returning from his late-evening report.

Qwilleran rolled down the car window. “Joe! Quick! Get in!”

Wetherby Goode was a husky, happy-go-lucky fellow, always ready for an adventure-no questions asked. Settled in the passenger seat, he asked casually, “Where to?”

“I think there’s another fire-to the southeast. Open the window and see if you smell smoke.”

“Not a whiff… but southeast would be across the river. Turn right at the gate and right again at the bridge.”

That took them to the intersection of Sprenkle and Quarry roads. They stopped and looked in three directions and sniffed hard. There was no traffic on these back roads at this hour.

“Go east another mile to Old Glory Road,” Wetherby said.

“There’s a mine down there,” Qwilleran said. “Has it occurred to anyone that these fires are at minesites?”

“Well, the theory is that these abandoned mines are bordered by secluded dirt roads that kids use as lovers’ lanes. The chances are that they smoke and throw cigarettes out the window… . You don’t hear of any fires starting in daylight.”

Approaching the Old Glory Mine, they could see the taillights of a car receding in the distance.

two

It was Hixie Rice’s idea to stage a Shafthouse Motorcade. She was promotion director for the Moose County Something, and the newspaper agreed to underwrite expenses as a public service. Dwight Somers, a public relations consultant, donated his services, and the third member of the planning committee was Maggie Sprenkle, the “anonymous” donor of the ten bronze plaques.

There were ten abandoned mines in Moose County, some dating as far back as 1850. Mining and lumbering had made it the richest county in the state before World War One. Now the minesites were expanses of barren ground enclosed in high chain-link fences and posted with red signs saying: DANGER-KEEP OUT. In the center of each site was the old shafthouse-a weathered wood tower about forty feet high. Architecturally, it looked like a lofty pile of sheds on top of sheds.

A tourist magazine had called it “a cubist artwork-so ugly, it’s beautiful!”

Artists painted impressions of the shafthouses in watercolors and oils. Visitors’ cameras clicked thousands of times-no, tens of thousands! Locals revered the shafthouses as monuments to the county’s distinguished past.

On the morning of the motorcade, while Qwilleran was preparing a particularly toothsome breakfast for the Siamese, he tuned in the hourly news briefs on WPKX and heard:

“Another wildfire in the vicinity of a minesite was reported during the night and brought under control by Kennebeck firefighters. The Old Glory Mine in Suffix Township was the scene of burning weeds and underbrush, threatening the shafthouse, one of the oldest in the county. All ten shafthouses will be honored as historic places this afternoon when the Shafthouse Motorcade winds through the back roads, dedicating the newly installed bronze markers. County commissioners will officiate.”

Without waiting for the high school football scores, he turned the radio off. Then the doorbell rang, and the most glamorous young woman in town was standing on the doorstep. “I got your message. I’m on my way to work. What’s the problem?”

Fran Brodie, a resident of Indian Village, was second in command at Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design. She was also the police chief’s daughter-a fact that counted for something in Qwilleran’s book.

“Come in and look around,” he said. “This place has been in mothballs all summer and looks neglected… . Cup of coffee?”

She accepted and walked around with it, studying the interior. “After snow flies,” she said, “the view from these windows will be all black and white. You could use a splash of red over the mantel, and I have a batik wall hanging, three-by-four, done by a new artist in town.” Noting the vacant look on her client’s face, she added, “As you probably know, that’s painting on fabric, using a wax-and-dye method, centuries old. We’ll repeat the red in some polished cotton toss pillows for the sofa-large plump ones. The cats will love them! And I’ll send you a bowl of red delicious apples for the coffee table. Don’t try to eat them; they’re painted wood.” She had a breezy manner with her male clients that intimidated some and entertained others. Qwilleran was always amused.

She went on. “Where did you get that copper lamp? Not from me! The shade is all wrong.”

It was the tall lamp on the chest in the foyer. “Don’t you like it? A local metalsmith had it in the craft show.”