The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

“Well, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m late. Would you be good enough to run over and feed the cats?” “Yellow package or green package?” “Yellow. Thanks. Talk to you later.” Qwilleran said, “I’ll be right back” to Koko and Yum Yum and hurried to Unit One. He had done this service for Polly’s cats many times before, but they always regarded him like a burglar, or a bill-collector at best.

“Are you two gourmands ready for a big bowl of health?” he asked jovially as he poured dry food from the yellow package. They looked at the bowl and looked questioningly at him, as if expecting the green package. “That’s what she ordered, and that’s what you’re getting,” he said as he hurried out the front door.

He arrived home in time to grab the telephone and hear the cheerful voice of the young managing editor saying, “Hi, Qwill! Have you heard that there’s an astrologer in town? You could get her to do your horoscope and then write a column about her.”

Brusquely he replied, “Jill Handley could have her horoscope done and then write a column on it.” “I thought you were hard up for material.” “Not that hard up.”

The snappish tone was nothing new; the two men enjoyed bickering.

Junior said, “This is Tuesday. May I ask when you expect to file your copy for today’s paper?”

“Have I ever missed a deadline?… Is there any news in today’s newspaper?”

“Amanda had a scrap with the mayor at the council meeting last night.”

“That’s not news. They’ve been scrapping for ten years.”

“Homer Tibbitt is in the hospital getting his knees fixed.”

“It’s about time! His bones are very loosely connected.”

“When you’re his age, Qwill, you’ll be loosely connected, too.”

“I’ll rust out long before I’m ninety-eight… . Any suspects in the shooting?”

“Nope.”

“Any inside information on the Big One?”

“It must be on the way,” Junior said. “Cats are getting nervous, and men over fifty are getting crotchety.” There came a long, loud yowl from the foyer that could be heard in downtown Pickax. “I heard your master’s voice, Qwill. Talk to you later.”

Then came an unusual sound from the living room: Shhh … shhh … sshhh… followed by a thud.

Koko was crouched on the coffee table, looking over the edge. The three red apples, along with their overturned wood bowl, were nestled in the deep pile of the Danish rug.

That’s a new wrinkle, Qwilleran thought… . What’s the reason? Where’s the thrill? “No!” he said loudly. “That’s forbidden fruit!”

Nonchalantly the cat jumped to the floor and walked casually to the utility room, where he could be heard scratching in his commode. Could he possibly associate the apples with the delivery man who had brought them? He had howled at the moment of the man’s murder! Even for a cat with Koko’s paranormal propensities, this was too much to expect. Perhaps he sensed that the apples were artificial, and that fact disturbed him. Perhaps he was simply curious. How would a smooth-as-porcelain wooden bowl slide across a smooth-as-glass wooden table? Or he might have been testing the rug; the thud was less satisfying than the thunk of a book on a carpeted floor-or the crash of a clay plant pot dropping thirteen feet.

Qwilleran reflected that the Siamese were living in fairly snug quarters, compared to their domain in the converted apple barn; Koko might be making a subtle suggestion… . Apple barn! Was something wrong at their summer address?

Taking his thousand words for the “Qwill Pen,” he drove first to the hundred-year-old barn on the outskirts of Pickax. He inspected the premises, inside and out. Everything was in order, except for a small mouse, starved to death on the kitchen floor. Had that been Koko’s chief concern?

I’m a fool, Qwilleran told himself. I’m trying to read messages where none exist! Koko pushed that bowl of apples off the table because he felt like pushing a bowl of apples off the table!

He handed in his copy on Misty Morghan’s batiks in time to make the noon deadline. Passing the feature department he was beckoned by Mildred Riker.

“Could you and Polly come over some night to see our new sofa and have a little supper?”

“How little?” he asked. “If it’s too little, I’m not interested.”

“You can have seconds-and thirds,” she said. “This weekend I made my famous Old Shoe Soup, and we’ll have it with crusty bread and a cheese board, then an avocado salad, then pumpkin pie.”

“It all sounds good except the soup,” he said.

“Did you never hear how I got the recipe?” She asked the department secretary to take her calls for a few minutes, and then she told her story: