The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

Qwilleran said, “Frank Lloyd Wright had the same image but came out smelling like a rose. Cass needs to meet Dwight Somers, an expert at building favorable images. And it wouldn’t hurt in a community like this, if Cass married that woman of his and started a family.”

Jeffa hesitated. “She’s married… . She’s currently married to Don Exbridge.”

Qwilleran stood up. “Then tell your son, Jeffa, that he really needs Dwight Somers. … Thanks for the refreshments. I’ve enjoyed the chat. I hope you’re very happy here. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

,* Arriving home he found a recorded message from Polly, calling from the library: “Come over at six o’clock if you’d like a surprise.”

He envisioned beef stew or fried chicken from a library volunteer; they often brought their beloved director home-cooked food, knowing she had little time to cook. He showered and dressed, wearing the royal blue madras shirt that she liked and the Scottish scent she had brought him from Canada.

At six o’clock sharp he let himself into her condo and was promptly confronted by Brutus and Catta. They seemed to be perturbed. “Everything okay with you guys?” he asked. “Did you pass your feline enteritis tests?” They seemed to be thinking, What is he doing here?… She’s getting ready to go out… . She fed us early.

Polly heard him and appeared on the balcony, putting on her best gold earrings. “I’m on my way to a dinner meeting of the bird club. I told you about it, didn’t I? I’m sure I did. But first I want you to read the letter on the foyer table.”

The envelope was hotel stationery, postmarked Phoenix, Arizona. He read:

Dear Polly,

Forgive me for leaving in such a rude fashion. Henry seemed to think secrecy was advisable. We’re being married tomorrow! You know how I have been feeling about living my own life. Well, Henry has convinced me that his Florence and my Harold (God rest their souls) would want us to look after each other in our remaining years. I don’t know where we’ll be living, so don’t try to reach us here. And please don’t mention that you’ve heard from us. I’ll write again.

Fondly, Maggie PS. My ladies are being well taken care of.

“We’ll talk about it when I get home,” Polly said as she rushed off to the bird club.

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He believed not a word of Maggie’s letter.

He shuffled home. What now? He was in the mood for a good dinner. He was still wearing his royal blue madras shirt.

As soon as he reached Unit Four, he phoned Jeffa Young.

“This is Qwill,” he said in a businesslike way. “It occurred to me that there are things you should know about political correctness and self-preservation in a small town. Are you free for dinner? Do you know Tipsy’s Tavern?”

“I’ve heard about the restaurant, and I’d love to meet her royal highness. I was just about to thaw some soup, but I’ll put it back in the freezer. How nice of you to think of me.”

Koko was sitting on the desk, eavesdropping. “Well, I’m batting five hundred,” Qwilleran told him with satisfaction.

It was a successful evening. She was delighted with the log cabin, the Tipsy myth, the honest food, and the grandmotherly service. He asked her about Baltimore and Coeur d’Alene, her grandchildren and her late husband’s import business. He also gave her the Qwilleran Orientation Lecture, for which she was grateful.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked as the evening was coming to a close. The restaurant was emptying. They were lingering over coffee.

“Yes!” she said. “What is a pasty?” She pronounced it wrong, of course.

With her education completed, they drove back to Indian Village, and he dropped her at her doorstep. At his own condo Koko was waiting excitedly; there was a message on the machine. It was a responsibility Koko took seriously.

Polly’s voice said, “Call me when you come home, Qwill. I have things to tell you.”

He suspected she had startling information about the migration of certain species of birds. He decided to wait until morning.

twelve

Qwilleran phoned Polly Tuesday morning at about eight-thirty, when she was preparing to leave for the library. “Good morning! You called last night,” he said with the genial voice of one who has slept well after a good dinner.

Her reply had the frantic tone of one who is a little late for work. “Where were you? I called three times before leaving a message.”

“I took our new neighbor, Jeffa Young, to dinner at Tipsy’s.”

“Oh, really? How did that happen?”

“I ran into her earlier in the day, and she invited me in for a drink.”

“Oh, really? Is she interesting?”

“Very. How was the bird club dinner? Did you have four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie?”

She ignored the quip. “Last night I called to tell you what one of our members heard from a sheriff’s deputy.

The license plate on the killer’s car was not only out-of-state but it was stolen!”

“It could have been stolen by a local boy. Or girl.” Residents of Moose County liked to think that wrongdoers came from somewhere else.