The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

It was still too early to report to the courthouse, so he strolled to the used-book store. It was located behind the post office-on a back street that the city’s founding fathers, in their wisdom, had named Back Street. It was hardly more than an alley and only a block long, being dead-ended at north and south by busy thoroughfares. In the middle of the block huddled a stone edifice resembling a grotto, built of feldspar that sparkled in the sunlight. No wonder it was Number One on every tourist’s sightseeing list. It was originally a smithy, but the blacksmith’s grandson had operated it as a used-book store for more than fifty years, and to celebrate its golden jubilee the city of Pickax renamed the block Book Alley.

Edd’s Editions, it was called. Entering the shop and blinking to adjust from exterior sunshine to interior gloom, Qwilleran stood still and inhaled the familiar aroma of old books from damp basements, clam chowder being heated for the bookseller’s lunch, and leftover sardines in the cat’s dish. A large dust-colored longhair patrolled the premises, dusting the books with his plumed tail. He knew Qwilleran.

“Good morning, Winston,” he said. “I bet I know what you had for breakfast!”

Eddington Smith heard the voice and came from the back room, where he had his bookbinding equipment and living quarters. Qwilleran had been back there when he was writing a column on bookbinding, and he remembered the man’s narrow cot, the cracked mirror over the washbowl, old-fashioned shaving tackle, a two-burner gas stove, a large box of matches-and a small handgun.

Eddington had a slight build that was shrinking with age. His hair was gray; his skin had a gray pallor; and his drab clothing blended in with the gray covers of old books that were stacked on tables, shelves, and floor.

“My best customer!” he said when he had adjusted his glasses and recognized Qwilleran. “I’ve found something special for you!” He hurried back into the inner sanctum. There was another customer in the store-a stranger with a flashlight, risking his life on the rickety wooden stepladder. Qwilleran thought, He’s a book scout, hunting for buried treasure.

When Eddington returned, he was clutching a large-format book to his chest. “You’re interested in Egypt, Mr. Q. Here’s a beautiful volume-not terribly old, good condition, scholarly text, well illustrated. Mysteries of the Egyptian Pyramids.”

Qwilleran glanced at the stepladder; the stranger was listening. He was looking for a book he could buy for three dollars and sell to an antiquarian bookseller for fifteen, after which it would go into the catalogue for two hundred-or two thousand.

“I’ll take it, sight unseen,” Qwilleran said. “How much?”

“How about twenty-five cents?” Edd said with a twinkle in his eye; he had playful moods. The stranger dropped his flashlight. “Isn’t that a little high, Edd?” Qwilleran was playing the game. “I’ll give you twenty cents,” he said. He slipped twenty-five dollars into the bookseller’s hand.

“You’re my best customer,” Eddington said. “I’m leaving my store to you in my will.” He always said that.

“Does the bequest include Winston?” Qwilleran asked. “I’m not sure I could afford to feed him.”

They were walking toward the door. Obviously the stranger was still listening.

Eddington said, “He’s an old cat and doesn’t eat much,

but he likes to go out to dinner once in a while-at a good restaurant.” Edd had never been in such a giddy mood.

Qwilleran took the handsome book, gave Edd the okay sign, and went on his way to another adventure.

The Shafthouse Motorcade lined up around Park

Circle in front of the courthouse: a sheriff’s car, three limousines for dignitaries, an airport rental vehicle for the TV crew from Down Below, three cars for news photographers, and a florist’s van.

Qwilleran, Hixie Rice, and Dwight Somers would be chauffeuring the limousines borrowed from the local funeral home. Their distinguished passengers would include three county commissioners, the president of the historical society, the county historian and his wife, five direct descendants of the original mine owners, and a fairly large dog.

The five direct descendants were Maggie Sprenkle, the rich widow; the elderly Jess Povey, who called himself a gentleman farmer, although Maggie said he was no gentleman; Amanda Goodwinter, businesswoman and council member; Leslie Bates Harding, age six; and Burgess Campbell, a lecturer on American history at the college. Blind from birth, he was always accompanied by his guide dog, and both were well known in Pickax-Burgess for his sense of humor, and Alexander for his good manners. On this occasion the proud Scot was wearing Highland dress: kilt, sporran, shoulder plaid, and glengarry bonnet.

“Burgess, you look splendid!” Qwilleran complimented him.

“So do you,” he quipped.