The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

“It’s all right, but it would look a hundred percent better with a brown shade-a square pyramidal shape to complement the square base. I’ll send one over with the batik and pillows.”

“And wooden apples,” Qwilleran reminded her.

“Who scattered the seating pieces like this?”

“Probably the painters when they repaired the water damage.”

“My installer will arrange it properly when he makes the deliveries. I’ll have him group it in a U-plan, facing the fireplace. Then all you need is an important rug.” Her well-made-up face that had been frowning in concentration suddenly brightened. “I know where you can get a lush Danish rya rug-handmade-six-by-eight-vintage design, circa 1950-“

For only ten thousand,” he said with a smirk.

Fran gave him a brief look of annoyance. “It’s in the silent auction tomorrow. You’ll have to bid on it. It’s a vetted sale, and I was on the selection committee. That’s how I know about it.”

“Should I know what a silent auction is?”

“Well, the way this one works… business firms and individuals have donated items to be sold, proceeds going to the Pickax animal shelter. They’ll be on display at the community hall. You buy an admission ticket, walk around and look at them, drink some punch, enjoy the entertainment, and socialize. If you see an item you like, you sign your name and the amount you want to bid. Someone else can come along and raise your bid. That’s what makes it exciting.”

“Hmmm,” Qwilleran mused. “How much do you think I should bid on the rug-that is, if I like it.”

“The minimum acceptable bid is five hundred. You can take it from there. It’s fun to go around and see who’s bidding on what-and how much. Friends raise each other’s bids-just for deviltry.”

“Arch Riker might like to attend,” Qwilleran said with malice aforethought.

“I hope you get the rug,” Fran said. “The cats will love it!” On the way out she saw the carved oak glove box alongside the copper lamp. “Is that where you store your old love letters?”

Qwilleran immediately phoned the Riker residence. Arch had been his lifelong friend, and now he was editor in chief and publisher of the Something; his wife, Mildred, was food editor. She answered.

“What’s Arch doing?” Qwilleran demanded.

“Reading out-of-town newspapers.”

“Put him on.”

His friend came to the phone with the preoccupied attitude of one who is three days behind with his New York Times.

“Arch!” Qwilleran shouted to get his attention. “How would it be if the four of us went to Sunday brunch at Tipsy’s Tavern tomorrow? And then to the silent auction at the community hall? I hear they have some pretty good stuff.”

It was an irresistible invitation to a gourmand who was also a collector. “What time? Who drives? Do they take credit cards?” Arch asked.

Pleased with the arrangements, Qwilleran dressed for the motorcade and went downtown for an early lunch. Whatever time he had to kill before the push-off could be spent enjoyably at the used-book store. He had his favorite Reuben sandwich at Rennie’s in the Mackintosh Inn and was about to leave the building when he heard his name called.

“Qwill! I was just thinking about you!”

“Think of the devil… How’s everything with you, Barry?”

“Great!”

The K Fund, now owners of the inn, had sent Barry Morghan from Chicago to manage it.

“Are you ready for the Big One?” Qwilleran asked. As ready as I’ll ever be. It can’t be as bad as they say.” All that-and worse. But if you can survive the first three days, you’re home free. The county has a fleet of snow-handling equipment comparable to a Greek shipping magnate’s fleet of oil tankers-thanks to the K Fund.”

“Great! Do you have a couple of minutes to talk?”

They stepped into a reading alcove in a secluded corner of the lobby, close by the full-length lifesize portrait of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran.

“What’s on your mind?” Qwilleran asked.

“My brother and his wife are here. They wanted to get settled before snow flies… . Listen to me! I’m beginning to talk like a native!”

“Where are they living?”

“They bought one of those big old houses on Pleasant Street. Fran Brodie is fixing it up for them. And the clinic is almost ready to open: Moose County Dermatology, it’s called. My sister-in-law is an artist, you know. She does batik wall hangings, and Fran is representing her.”

“Interesting!” Qwilleran said. “Is there anything I can do to welcome them?”

“Well, yes,” Barry said. “When I first came here, you gave me some great advice about getting along with folks in a small town, and I’d appreciate it if you’d repeat it.”

“Be happy to.”

“If we could get together at my apartment for dinner some evening, Chef Wingo would cater it, and we’d have more privacy than in a restaurant.”

“Great!” Qwilleran said.