The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

In the warming room a chalkboard listed the evening’s matches. Through a plate-glass window the rinks could be seen. Someone was planing the ice, which would then be sprayed with water to provide a pebbled effect; if the ice was too slick, the stones would fly off into the next county. During the game, players would sweep the ice with brooms to get the “ice dust” and water out of the path of the moving stones.

When the matches began and we went to the spectators’ gallery, I discovered what a civilized sport this was! No fights on the ice … no abusive shouts from the onlookers!

“Who casts the first stone?” I asked Joe.

The first player approached the hack-the foot-board that keeps a curler from flying down the ice with the stone. There was a moment of concentration-then a crouch and a lunge, and the stone went gliding serenely down the rink. To me that dynamic lunge created a moment of suspense like the baseball pitcher’s windup, the discus-thrower’s spin, or the caber-tosser’s stagger with towering pole.

I found the whole experience hypnotic: watching the stone as it journeyed across the ice, curling around an obstacle, traveling not too far but far enough. How do they do it? With a twist of the wrist? Or with sheer will power? Meanwhile cries from players and spectators fill the arena. “Sweep! … Take it out! Good rock! Lay it up! … Off the broom! … We got the hammer! … Good weight!”

Later, in the warming room, I met Cass Young and said I’d like to join the club. He signaled to a young red-haired woman. “New member! Grab him before he gets away!”

She brought an application card and asked if I’d like to sign up for instruction.

Then a wild-eyed member of the ice committee rushed up and said, “I can’t wait for the technician! Gotta take my wife to the hospital! She’s due!”

“I’ll stay,” said Cass. “Go home! Don’t worry.… I hope it’s a boy!” he called after the disappearing figure.

“I hope it’s a girl!” said the redhead.

On the way home Wetherby said, “Do you know who the redhead is? Don Exbridge’s second wife. She’s in the process of divorcing him.”

“I heard about that,” Qwilleran said, “but when I met her last year at a dinner party, she seemed like a mousy little creature.”

“Don likes mousy,” Wetherby said. “He wants to be the whole cheese. Actually, Robyn-that’s spelled with a Y-has a good personality. The red hair is something new.”

Qwilleran said, “When Susan divorced Don, she started calling everyone ‘darling’ and opened a posh antique shop. What do you suppose Robyn will do with her divorce settlement?”

“She’s already resumed her former occupation: freelance manicurist. House calls only … Do you think you’ll take curling instruction?”

“I think not. I’m a professional spectator, and my hobby is people-watching… . Would you come in for a nightcap? I have some especially good Scotch.”

“That seems like an appropriate cap on the evening.”

When they reached The Willows and let themselves into Unit Four, a horrendous sound met their ears.

“My God! What’s that?” Wetherby gasped.

A gut-wrenching growl ended in an ear-splitting shriek.

Qwilleran groaned, dreading the message and fearing another volunteer had been struck down. “It’s Koko,” he said hoarsely.

“I heard it the other night, through the wall, and thought the wolves were back in Moose County. … Is it something he ate?”

“It’s a mystery.” Qwilleran chose not to reveal the family secret. “Let’s have that nightcap.”

After Wetherby had his nip of Scotch and returned to Unit Three to take a shower-audible through the thin walls-Qwilleran phoned the night desk at the Something… . No, they said, there had been no incident on the police beat.

fourteen

Qwilleran was roused early by a phone call from his next-door neighbor. “Bad news, Qwill! A guy at the station who belongs to the curling club and knows I do-he just phoned to say that Cass Young fell down those stone steps to the lower level and killed himself! May have hit his head on that curling stone on display … He was waiting for the technician, you remember. Could have been passing the time with a beer. Could have been in too much of a hurry to get to the restroom … Are you there? Are you awake?”

“I’m listening,” Qwilleran said. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It’ll be on the next hourly news. Just thought I’d alert you. … Had a good time last night.”

“So did I.”

It was too late to go back to bed and too early to get up, and as Qwilleran pushed the button on the coffee-rnaker, he thought, forget the beer… . Forget the restroom. His moustache was twitching, and he tamped it with his knuckles. Koko knew something murderous had happened, and Koko was never wrong. The public would prefer to think it an accident: Crime was something they wanted to think “did not happen here.” How soon they forgot the unsavory incidents of the past!