The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

“Yes, you can request daylight or nighttime hours…. You’ll be given a detailed map of your segment. … If you don’t have a cell phone, one will be provided… . About gas? Good question. Anyone driving two or more three-hour patrols can claim gas mileage from a kitty established by the K Fund… . Yes, by all means, take a partner-neighbor, friend, family member-to help with the fire-spotting. The first three-hour patrol is your donation to the cause…. Glad you mentioned that. MCCC students who volunteer will receive credits for community service. Cars will be identified by a small white pennant on the right front fender. Smile when you see one!”

Kemple made a final reminder: “Scheduling cars for twenty-four hours a day is tricky business and allows for no last-minute cancellations or no-shows. When you volunteer, you are protecting your county and your home… . Also, bear in mind that this is not a long-term commitment. Your help is needed only until snow flies.”

Qwilleran turned off the radio and said proudly, “Only in a closely knit county like this could you facilitate a project so fast. Refresh your drink, Kirt?”

There was a shattering crash!

Nightingale jumped to his feet. “My God! What’s that?”

Qwilleran glanced upward and saw Koko on the balcony railing, staring down at the mess he had created.

Kirt followed his glance. “Sorry! Gotta get out of here. Thanks for the drink.” He rushed to the front door.

Qwilleran stroked his moustache. As a host he should feel embarrassed, and yet Nightingale’s frantic exit was not enlisting his sympathy. Nevertheless, he would write a note of apology. It was partly his own fault; he had forgotten that Koko knew how to operate a lever-type door handle. And Koko was only teasing, playing cat and mouse. The cat sensed a likely victim. Perhaps it was a mistake to let Fran Brodie put such objects on a balcony railing. The fact was: The row of five pots looked good.’ Now there were four.

Qwilleran phoned Polly and related the incident, then waited for her reaction.

She paused. “I know I should feel chagrined, but… why do I find it comic? I hope you had hidden the glove box.”

“Have no fear. What do you think about the Citizens’ Fire Watch?”

“Better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness, as the saying goes. Will you volunteer for a patrol?”

“Most likely I’ll ride shotgun with Wetherby.”

Two topics of conversation occupied downtown Pickax on Tuesday: the Citizens’ Fire Watch and the loss of Eddington Smith. Townfolk were filled with sorrow on the one hand and hope on the other as they shared their thoughts at the post office, a civic meeting place. Built in Moose County’s heyday, when Pickax expected to become a northern Chicago, its interior walls had been covered with murals in the 1930s-a federal project to give work to unemployed artists during the Great Depression. The post office and the bookstore were the city’s two tourist attractions.

Qwilleran bought some postage stamps-and listened: “The college president volunteered to take a fire patrol.”

“Those two new doctors signed up.” “In our family we have three on patrol. I just pray: Dear Lord, don’t let the wind rise!”

“The kids wanted to stay home from school so they could fire-watch with their daddy.”

“Eddington was a nice little old man, but he didn’t eat right, and I told him so.”

“Can’t be healthy-breathin’ all that dust.”

“Wonder what’ll happen to his cat.”

“Wonder what’ll happen to his books.”

Qwilleran, still astonished at the terms of Eddington’s will, walked to Book Alley to view his inheritance. The bookstore glittered in the middle of the block like a crown jewel. On either side were nineteenth-century storefronts with tall windows. On one side were Albert’s Dry Cleaning and Granny’s Sweet Shop. She knew everyone’s weakness; Mr. Q liked dark chocolate with nuts. On the other side were Gilda’s Gift Shop and Brenda’s Unisex Hair Salon. Qwilleran patronized an old-fashioned barber with a revolving barber pole in front of his shop.

A sign in the bookstore window said CLOSED. It was dark inside, but the movement of a waving tail could be glimpsed in the gloom. Winston had been fed and was doing his dusting chores as usual.

Albert saw Qwilleran and opened the door. “Mr. Q! Your pants are ready!”

Qwilleran walked across the street. “Well, Albert, what are we going to do without Eddington?”

The dry cleaner shook his head. “That store was the lifeblood of this block. People came from all over to see it. Not too long ago a real estate guy from Bixby came around and wanted to buy it. Not a chance! Then he wanted to buy the storefronts, but our landlord wouldn’t sell. No telling what they’d do-tear the whole block down, maybe, and build a strip mall.”

“Winston seems to be all right.”

“Yes, I see a girl coming to feed him.”

“We should run a sob story about Winston with his photo, and find a new home for him,” Qwilleran said.

“If you want to go in and see him,” Albert said, “Edd always left the key under the doormat at the back door.”