The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

He served coffee. She recognized his Jensen tray. He admired her earrings. She said they were hallmarked English silver buttons. He said, “Excuse me while I finish feeding the cats.” They were on the kitchen counter and had finished feeding themselves.

Finally he joined his guest with a coffee mug and said, “Well, I delivered Angela to her mother’s house, as requested.”

“What did you think of her?”

“To tell the truth, she seemed cold and calculating and not at all concerned about her brother’s death. She doesn’t have her mother’s commanding stature, I noticed.”

“She’s a stepdaughter,” Susan told him. “When Jeffa married Mr. Young, he was a widower with a daughter. Then they had a son together.”

Qwilleran nodded. “Understandable. And what’s your news?”

“Darling, I don’t need to tell you how thin the walls are in this development! Last night I heard an awful row next door between the two women. It was embarrassing!”

“But not so embarrassing that you didn’t listen, I hope.”

“Actually, I couldn’t catch a word, but I heard a door slam, and then all was quiet… . But this morning the airport limousine came for Angela! She’s gone! I think Jeffa is staying here! Big Mac will have his help during the tax rush, and I may get my hands on that Hepplewhite sideboard for the New York show!”

“Hmff!” was Qwilleran’s only comment.

“Mac has come to the rescue like a big brother, making all arrangements. He’s treasurer of the curling club, you know, so he has a double interest in the case.”

“Have you talked to Robyn?”

“Yes, and I feel so sorry for her. She and Jeffa are the

chief mourners, and it’s very touching how they’re consoling each other. Donald is probably laughing his head off, rat that he is!”

“Yow!” came a loud comment from Koko, who was on the table in the foyer, as if to speed the parting guest.

“Well, I must tear myself away,” Susan said. “Thanks for the coffee, and don’t forget: I’m interested in the St. Louis pitcher!”

After she had left, Koko continued to sit on the carved oak glove box, one of his favorite perches in recent days. He treated it like a pedestal for the sculptural poses he liked to strike.

“Vanity! Vanity!” Qwilleran observed.

He turned his attention to the speech he was scheduled to make that evening. At the urging of his friend, Kip McDiarmid, editor of the Lockmaster Ledger, he had consented to be after-dinner speaker at a meeting of the literary club. His decision was influenced, no doubt, by the choice of meeting place, an upscale restaurant in horse country: the Palomino Paddock.

A veteran at making such speeches, he knew what his audience would want to know:

1. How he had learned his craft. (He gave credit to a tenth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Fisheye.)

2. His favorite authors. (Trollope, Flaubert, Nabokov and Mark Twain.)

3. What it’s like to be a twice-weekly columnist. (Rough. Fun. Challenging. Underpaid.)

4. Where he gets his ideas. (I stare at my cat and he stares at me, eyeball to eyeball, and my brain goes into high gear.)

5. What he enjoyed most about writing for metropolitan newspapers Down Below. (The Press Clubs.)

Half serious and half entertaining, his talks always attracted a few more subscribers for the Moose County Something,

The dinner meeting at the Palomino Paddock was held in a private room-really two rooms thrown together because of the number of reservations. After the medallions of beef and the strawberries with peppercorn sauce, the Lockmaster editor introduced “the notorious columnist from the barbaric county to the north.”

Qwilleran began by saying, “Needless to mention, I took the precaution of being vaccinated before venturing on this foreign soil.”

The question-and-answer session that followed the talk included a discussion of haiku, since most of the audience had read that day’s “Qwill Pen.” Then Kip McDiarmid closed the program with a tongue-in-cheek haiku:

“Sick cat… Burnt toast… flat tire … computer down … business as usual.”

It was after midnight when Qwilleran reached

Indian Village. As he turned into River Road, a vehicle ahead of him pulled up to Amanda Goodwinter’s condo. A passenger hurried indoors while Amanda herself brought luggage from the trunk.

Qwilleran was positive the guest was Maggie Sprenkle. Unfortunately it was too late to call Polly and ask if she knew what was happening.

Several questions bothered him: What is Maggie doing here? And why the apparent secrecy? Did she come by chartered plane? It was too late for scheduled flights.

Still without answers on Saturday morning, he chose to do some private sleuthing before involving Polly in the mystery. He went downtown for coffee and scones at the Scottish Bakery and found Burgess Campbell doing the same.

After the usual Celtic banter Qwilleran said, as a teaser, “I hear that Henry Zoller and Maggie Sprenkle have gone out west together and plan to marry.”