The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

Susan’s place was dark. Her bridge club would be meeting at the clubhouse and having a catered dinner. Some kind of chicken.

At the Rikers’ condo the foursome assembled with the warm pleasure of old friends who see each other often. There were cries of, “Where’s the sofa?”

It was admired from all angles, sat upon, and compared to the old one. The fabric, Mildred said, was an abstract jacquard weave treated to resist soil. The color, Arch said, was the color of good Scotch.

With Mildred’s casserole of moussaka, Arch was serving a local wine from the Windy Cliff Vineyard in Brrr Township. For Qwilleran he had a white grapejuice imported from Ohio. He kept waving his hand over the top of the open bottles. “Fruit flies,” he explained.

“In November?” Qwilleran asked.

Arch clapped his hands smartly together. “Got him!”

He looked at his palms. “The little devil got away!”

Mildred said, “They’re not fruit flies, Arch. I’m afraid you have floaters.”

“What? What?”

“Do you mean you reached middle-age without seeing small specks dancing in front of your eyes?”

“According to my ophthalmologist,” Polly said, “the vitreous gel in the eye thickens or shrinks, forming clumps or strands that throw shadows on the retina.”

“Frankly,” Arch said, “I’d rather have fruit flies.”

Qwilleran proposed a toast: “May you never be judged by the company you keep!” Then he entertained them with a story about Burgess Campbell’s guide dog:

“Eddington Smith used to search for out-of-print titles for Burgess, and Alexander developed a platonic romance with Edd’s cat. Winston would sit on the top step of the ladder, and meaningful glances would be exchanged between the two animals. After the disaster it seemed like the end of a beautiful friendship… . until Winston went to live with the Bethunes, next door to the Campbells! And now they commune silently between the side windows.”

“Isn’t that touching!” Mildred cried.

“Any excitement at the paper?” Qwilleran asked.

Arch said, “Our phones rang nonstop yesterday after the paper came out. Readers were mad as hornets about the post office story, as if it were our doing. People always want to shoot the messenger who brings bad news.”

“The headline was… rather brutal,” Polly said. “If the news could have been broken more gently … The quote from Homer Tibbitt was a good idea. Do you know he’s in the hospital?”

“Oh, dear! At his age? It doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Polly said. “He’s having a knee replacement in the Joint Replacement Spa on the top floor. They don’t treat patients as if they’re sick. It’s like taking your car in for a brake relining. I phoned Rhoda, and she said he’s having a wonderful time. He’s not stuck in a hospital room, in a hospital gown. The patients get together in a large pleasant room, and family members can visit them there.”

“Then I don’t have to send him a cheer-up card,” Arch said. “He can send me a cheer-up card.”

Everyone was relaxed. Conversation flowed easily. Dessert was a chocolate sundae with a topping of pistachio nuts.

The party ended early, and Polly invited Qwilleran in for music.

When he finally returned to Unit Four, the Siamese were waiting politely for their tuck-in ritual… . but the living room was a mess. Koko had been on a paper-shredding binge and had reduced the Something to ticker tape and confetti. That smart cat had discovered that newsprint tears more successfully lengthwise than crosswise! What was on his mind? He had oblique ways of communicating. He might be suggesting that he preferred torn paper in his commode-and not the expensive dustproof, scatterproof litter. Or was he editorializing on the post office story, the haiku, or the big teaser ad promising fun for the whole family? What kind of fun?

The next afternoon all was quiet in Unit Four.

Qwilleran was reading, and the Siamese were catnapping, when Koko suddenly bolted out of his lethargy as if shot and started racing around the house: over tables, around the kitchen, up the stairs, down to the living room sofa like a flying squirrel, toppling a lamp, scattering everything else.

It was a first-class catfit. The Big One’s coming, Qwilleran thought.

The insane chase ended on the fireplace mantel, where Koko stood on his hind legs and pawed the batik-pawed the red patches of dye that were robins.

Something twitched on Qwilleran’s upper lip, and something clicked in his brain. He phoned Unit Two at The Birches. “Susan, is there such a thing as an emergency manicure?”

“No, darling. Are your fingernails falling off? Robyn is right next door with Jeffa. Shall I send her over?”

“I’ll be much in your debt, Susan.”

“How about selling me the martini pitcher?”

“Not that much in your debt.”

In a few minutes the manicurist arrived with her businesslike black kit. “Susan says you have a problem, Mr. Q.”

“Yes. It’s very good of you to come on short notice.”

“Where shall we work? At the kitchen table?”