The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

The ten shafthouses were basically similar, but the artist’s eye had discerned their individuality. The structures were sketched from different angles, and wildlife was introduced: a doe with fawn, a raccoon, crows chasing a hawk, an antlered buck, a pair of squirrels.

Misty said, “I normally ask two thousand for a three-by-four, custom-designed, but I’ll have to buy extra vats and hire students to help, and Theo thinks I should ask five thousand. But that sounds rather high to me.”

Qwilleran agreed with her husband. “Your patron sounds less like an art lover and more like an investor who thinks shafthouses will disappear from the landscape and the batiks will appreciate in value.”

On the way out he had a few words with the manager. Barb Ogilvie loved her new job, was teaching a class in art-knitting, and had started dating Misty’s brother-in-law.

Walking to the parking lot, Qwilleran said, “Hi!” to a tall man who was taking long strides toward the building. The tall man made an equally expressionless response. Wait a minute! Qwilleran told himself; that was Don Exbridge! He’s going in to sign the contract for ten batiks! He has no interest in art and had no interest in shafthouses until his recent letter to the editor-and that was of questionable sincerity.

Hurrying to the cell phone in his van, Qwilleran called the building he had just left and asked to speak with Misty.

Barb said, “She’s just gone into an important conference-“

“This is more important-and confidential, Barb. Qwill speaking. Have her take the call in your office. Don’t mention my name.”

Misty came to the phone with wariness in her hello.

“This is Qwill,” he said. “I saw your patron entering the building and know who he is-a shrewd operator. Take Theo’s advice. Ask five thousand. He can afford it, and the art is worth it. Also, ask innocently what he intends to do with them. His reaction should be revealing. If he gives you an answer, it should be interesting, though not necessarily honest.”

“You drive!” the weatherman said to Qwilleran when they met at six P.M. “I’ve got the jitters.” As they headed for the Nutcracker Inn, he explained. “I just got a bummer of a letter from my ex-wife - first one since the divorce five years ago. She wants us to get together again! How do I handle it? Ignore it? Tell her to drop dead? There’s no point in trying to explain reasonably; she’s like a bulldog - won’t let go. I like my lifestyle, my job, my friends, the idea of having relatives in Horseradish. Also, there’s a girl down there that I like a lot - nothing serious.”

Qwilleran said, “I suspected you didn’t go down there to visit your sisters and your cousins and your aunts. Why did your marriage break up, if I may ask?”

“She wanted me to go back to school, get another degree, and become a serious scientist. Let’s face it, I’m an entertainer, and weather is my gimmick! But she nagged and nagged and nagged. Why did your marriage break up, Qwill?”

“In-law trouble. She married me without her parents’ permission. In the first place they scorned the media, and I was a gypsy-journalist, working for a different paper every two years, taking assignments all over the globe. They talked her into divorcing me, saying I wasn’t good enough for her - I’d never amount to anything - I drank. Soon after, she had a nervous breakdown, for which I was blamed, of course. Her parents were loaded, but they sent me her hospital bills. After that I really hit the bottle. Couldn’t hold a job. Almost killed myself before I came to my senses and got help. … I usually don’t go into these details.”

“How would you feel, Qwill, if she suddenly suggested a reconciliation?”

“She died a few years ago-in an institution.”

For a while there was nothing to say, until Qwilleran remarked, “With so many failed marriages, one forgets how many are successful: the Lanspeaks, the MacWhannells, Junior and Jody Goodwinter, Fran Brodie’s parents, the MacGillivrays, Lori and Nick Bamba, the Buster Ogilvies, Homer Tibbitt and Rhoda-“

“The Tibbitts are practically newlyweds,” Wetherby said.

“At their age, every year counts ten… . What about the mayor? I never hear anything about his home life.”

“He has a wife, no kids. Betty’s a homebody; hizzoner goes out selling stocks and bonds, playing golf, and pressing the flesh. His wife runs a mail-order business for her handcrafts. Have you heard of Betty Blythe’s Bunwarm-ers?”

“No! And I’m gripping the steering wheel to avoid falling off the seat. What are they?”

“Handmade baskets with handwoven napkins for keeping dinner rolls warm. She advertises in craft magazines and does very well.”

Only one old building remained in Black Creek, which had been a thriving town on a busy water—