The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

“It’ll never happen,” the other man said. “She’s a fanatic about cats, and he has an overfastidious objection to living under the same roof with an animal. Did you ever meet her late husband, Qwill? He was an easygoing fellow, famous for his rose garden. He used to invite me over to smell the roses, and he’d describe every bush as if it were a friend. All Henry’s friends are on the golf course… . No, whoever spread the rumor about him and Maggie doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Someday,” Qwilleran said, “I’d like to write a piece about the intelligent, well-mannered, unflappable Alexander. He’s such a well-known dog-about-town!”

“That could be arranged,” Burgess said, “although you shouldn’t flatter him too much. I wouldn’t want him getting a swelled head.”

Qwilleran’s next stop was the design studio.

Amanda was in-house, scowling at the Saturday shoppers who were “just looking.” Qwilleran hastened their departure by following them around like a store detective. It worked.

“How’s the campaign going, Amanda?” he asked. “If you win, I want to be appointed ambassador to Locktnaster.”

“I’ve got you slated for Secretary of Trash Collection,” she snapped.

“I see you have a houseguest from out of town.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t I see Maggie Sprenkle arriving last night?”

Amanda paused for only two heartbeats. “You didn’t see her. Understand? You-did-not-see-her!”

“If you say so,” he said, pleased at the hint of intrigue. “The person I didn’t see must have arrived by chartered plane-in order to land under cover of darkness.”

“No comment!” Her tight-lipped, downturned mouth put an end to the conversation. But as he bowed out, she called after him, “Don’t mention this to Polly!”

He drove home in a good mood. He now had a riddle to solve-something to stretch his wits. The sight of Koko waiting at the door suggested a solution.

“Want to go for a walk, old boy?” Qwilleran jingled the cat’s harness and leash.

“Yow!” was the enthusiastic response. Whenever they walked outdoors, he rode on the man’s shoulder; it gave him an elevated view and kept his paws clean. A firm hand on the leash prevented any impulsive moves.

They made their exit through the sliding glass doors in the living room, across the open deck, and down the steps to the riverbank trail. Well carpeted with fallen leaves, it rustled crisply underfoot.

Qwilleran headed north toward the other condo clusters, occasionally stopping to pick up a stone and hurl it across the river, or what was left of the rushing water. Drought had reduced it to a brook, conscientiously gurgling its way to the lake.

The scene had a Saturday quiet. The career folk who lived there were at work or shopping or catching up on domestic demands. Polly, for example, was organizing for winter, laundering and storing her warm-weather clothing, and bringing her winter wardrobe out of storage. It was a semi-annual ritual that Qwilleran had learned to respect.

When he reached the rear of The Birches, he knew that the first unit was Amanda’s. He stopped to pitch a stone, hoping that Maggie would be in the living room, looking out the wall of glass. He had a good throwing arm, left over from his college days when he had been noticed by a scout for the Chicago Cubs. He flung several stones. Koko watched with interest. Once he yowled.

“Attaboy,” Qwilleran said as he pitched another chunk of rock.

Koko yowled again.

Almost immediately there was tapping on the window and the sound of a sliding glass door.

Qwilleran looked up, feigning surprise, and saw an arm beckoning. Slowly he walked toward the deck and climbed the steps.

Maggie was in the doorway, putting a finger to her lips, cautioning him to be silent.

Once inside the house, with the sliding door closed, he said in a hushed voice, “Maggie! What are you doing here? Why didn’t you let us know?”

“It’s a long story,” she said wearily, “and I’m really not… at liberty … to discuss it.”

This was hardly the effusive, grandiose Maggie everyone knew. Noticeably absent was the hugging.

Koko, perched on Qwilleran’s shoulder, looked down at her and gurgled a throaty purr.

“He knows I’m a cat person,” she said. “Sit down, Qwill. May I hold him?”

The leash was unsnapped, and Koko settled down on her lap. Though not a lapcat by temperament, he seemed to know that therapy was needed. She stroked him, and he purred lustily. “I’ve missed my ladies so much,” she murmured.

“They’re well and happy at the Pet Plaza,” Qwilleran assured her. “I happened to be over there and noticed their names on the nameplates. … Is Henry with you, Maggie?”

Her answer was hesitant. “No, he didn’t come-this time.”

“Are felicitations in order?” he asked cheerfully. “Have the wedding bells been ringing?”

“No, I’m afraid they’re postponed.” She stroked the cat’s fur nervously.

“You missed Amanda’s rally. It was very well done. Derek sang an original campaign song. People said the event had everything-except Maggie Sprenkle.” He knew that would touch a heartstring.