The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

They began to travel farther afield, into adjoining counties, and to Phineas’s delight there was an occasional scamadiddle to be found. The shopkeepers, knowing his interest, kept their eyes open and produced an occasional treasure. He was paying two dollars now-and no dickering. He built a room onto their house, lined with shelves and one glass case for choice examples.

The breakthrough came when another collector died, and Phineas bought his entire collection. A magazine called him the Scamadiddle King. He built another, larger room and paid the high dollar for the few remaining scamadiddles. Three museums were bidding to buy the Phineas Ford Collection posthumously.

Then tragedy struck! One fateful night his house was struck by lightning and burned to the ground, reducing the entire scamadiddle collection to ashes.

And that’s why-today-there’s not a single scamadiddle to be found in the United States.

Qwilleran chuckled long and lustily before phoning the antique shop. “Susan,” he said seriously, “do you ever run across any scamadiddles in your travels?”

“Any what?”

He repeated it and spelled it.

“I see whirligigs and niddy-noddies, but I’ve never seen a scamadiddle-but then folk things aren’t my specialty. Iris Cobb would know, if she were here.”

“Well, when you go to that big show in New York, will you inquire around?”

“How high are you willing to go?” she asked.

“Not over a thousand.”

thirteen

On Wednesday Qwilleran went downtown to pick up Polly’s groceries. In front of the Pickax People’s National Bank of America he came upon Burgess Campbell and friend, and he said heartily, “Professor Moriarty, I believe! Are you planning to rob the bank?”

There was a momentary handclasp. “Sherlock! How strange you should ask! Alexander has been sniffing out the security traps.”

“Shouldn’t you be in the lecture hall, Professor?” “Not until one o’clock. Would you like to audit Political Foibles of the Early Nineteenth Century? I have a new boffo about Congress that you probably never heard.” Opening each lecture with a joke, he maintained, put his students in a relaxed and receptive mode, and no one was ever late.

Qwilleran declined the invitation. “Only if you know the one about the preacher who thought his bicycle had been stolen… . But let me tell you that your scamadiddle scam is a gem! Of all the tales I’ve collected, it’s the only real leg-puller.”

“I hope you can credit my father. Prentis Campbell III. He was an unreconstructed joker.”

From there Qwilleran went to the library to break the news that he would not be joining Polly for leftovers that evening.

He stopped at the circulation desk to stroke Mac, one of the resident cats, and inquired about Katie.

“She had to go to the vet to have her teeth cleaned.” The clerk looked up at the glass-enclosed office on the mezzanine. “Mrs. Duncan has somebody with her.”

“No hurry. I’ll browse.” Browsing among the catalogued, jacketed, well-bound, dustfree titles in the public library lacked the sense of adventure he had known at Edd’s Editions. A part of his life had gone up in smoke.

After a while a man walked down the stairs, and Qwilleran walked up.

“That was Dr. Emerson from Black Creek,” Polly said. “He wants to donate a suitable memorial to his late mother. She was an eminent churchwoman, an enthusiastic reader, and a lifelong knitter… . Excuse me if I start my lunch… .” From her lunchbox arose the familiar whiff of tuna.

He said, “I’ll pick up your groceries, but I’m afraid I can’t have dinner tonight.”

“Oh, really?”

He paused long enough for her to imagine the worst scenario, then said, “It’s Wetherby Goode’s night off, and he’s taking me to the curling club. I’m treating to dinner.”

“Where will you go?”

“To the Nutcracker Inn-just to check it out. If the food and atmosphere are good, you and I will go-preferably before snow flies.”

He left her before she could offer him a carrot stick and drove to the art center.

The parking lot was filled to overflowing, and the manager, Barb Ogilvie, greeted him with excitement. “Qwill! Look at the response to your column about batik-printing! Standing room only! Do you want to squeeze in? It’s almost over.”

He chose to wait in the downstairs gallery until the scraping of chairs, hubbub of voices, and chugging of departing vehicles told him the program was over. Misty was thrilled with the attendance and the number who signed up for the course: eight women and one man, some of them from Lockmaster County. “This is my week!” she said to Qwilleran. “First the really super column that you wrote-then the great turnout-and then, this afternoon, I sign the contract for ten shafthouse batiks. My patron doesn’t want the commission or his identity to be known until the project is finished, but I’ll give you a sneak peek at the sketches if you’ll promise not to tell.”