The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

“Three o’clock this morning. I heard the boom and hurried downtown. Winston is safe. He’s at the pet hospital. You might notify Cynthia she doesn’t have to feed him.”

“Yes … Yes.”

“Shall I take the initiative in finding him a new home?”

“Please … Please.”

Barter was not at his best when rudely awakened.

“I’ll get back to you if problems arise,” Qwilleran said, and then returned to his own concerns and responsibilities. The explosion and fire would be front-page news in that day’s paper, and it would be well to write a sidebar on Winston. He reflected that, ironically, the disaster solved the problem of what to do with the bookstore. He wondered, skeptically, about the Bixby real estate agent who wanted to buy the premises. He pondered, in amazement, Koko’s cat fit preceding the explosion by a few minutes.

At nine o’clock he reached the veterinarian.

“Miraculously,” she said, “he has no injuries, not even singed fur. Are you sure he was in the building?”

“Winston never went out. He doesn’t know what ‘out’ means.”

“And his vital signs are normal. You can pick him up any time.”

Qwilleran cleared his throat while doing some quick thinking. He said, “I’d like to board him with you for twenty-four hours, doctor, for observation, and while we arrange for adoption.”

“You won’t have any trouble finding a home for him, after the story gets out.”

“Very true,” he replied ruefully. How well he knew, as a journalist, how people scramble to adopt an animal with celebrity status: the kitten trapped in a sewer pipe for three days, or the stray dog that saved a family of five. Any family would want Winston, but would he want them?

He called Maggie Sprenkle for help. “Have you heard a newscast this morning?”

“Isn’t it dreadful? And the poor man hardly in his grave!”

“You’ll be glad to know his cat escaped and is okay. I’m boarding him at the hospital until we figure out what to do about adoption. He’ll be on the front page today, and he’ll get hundreds of offers.”

“I never thought of that,” she said.

“He can’t possibly have been blasted through the roof, but if someone gets the idea that he was airborne, it’ll be on TV, and then we can expect calls from all over the country. We should find him a home before he goes public.”

“Yes! I’ll make a few phone calls-“

“Bear in mind, Maggie, that he’ll be happiest in a quiet home with elderly people, no other pets, and a large library.”

Qwilleran’s next call went to Junior Goodwinter at the Something.

“Hey!” said the managing editor. “Our night man said he saw you at the fire last night! What were you doing there at three A.M.?”

“Rescuing the cat, and that’s why I’m calling. Everyone will want to adopt him. There’ll be a rumor that he was blasted through the roof, and that will add to his glamour. But it’s not true. He escaped unharmed. I don’t know how, but he did.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Don’t go for the big story. Tell the truth. The resident cat was rescued unharmed and has been adopted.”

“Is that a fact?” the editor asked.

“It will be, by the time you go to press.”

The phone rang and rang. Good friends and casual acquaintances, aware of Qwilleran’s fondness for the bookstore, called to commiserate. The Siamese knew he was preoccupied and left him alone. Finally he stopped answering the intrusive signal, and the message-taker worked overtime. The only call he returned was the one from Maggie Sprenkle:

“Good news!” she said. “The Bethunes on Pleasant Street will be happy to have Winston. They’ll pick him up at the hospital and pay his bill. He’s a retired chemist. They were regular customers of Eddington’s. And they go to my church.”

“I could ask no better recommendation, Maggie. Thank you for expediting it. And how can I thank you enough for the pitcher? It occupies a place of honor in my living room.”

“My pleasure, I assure you.”

It had been a sleepless and emotional ordeal for Qwilleran: Koko’s catfit… the explosion … the thought of thousands of books reduced to black ash … his fear for Winston, followed by the cat’s rescue and adoption. A nap would have been in order, but Qwilleran had a tiger by the tail. He could not let go. He drove back to Pickax for a painful look at Book Alley in daylight.

Boarding was being erected around Eddington’s property, including the small backyard. The street had been cleaned of shattered glass, since mail trucks used it for access to the back door of the post office. The storefronts now had plywood where their windows had been, and the shopkeepers were moving out. The Something was not yet on the street, but hourly newscasts on WPKX ended with the usual words: Police are investigating.

It was Qwilleran’s cue to go to see his friend, the police chief, and tell what he knew. Andrew Brodie was a big Scot who looked more comfortable in a kilt than a cop’s uniform. He beckoned Qwilleran into his office.

“How come you didn’t play the bagpipe at Eddington’s funeral, Andy?”

“Nobody asked me to. Know anything about the fire?”