The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

“Then let’s commission a new generation of artists to depict pioneer life with understanding and historic accuracy. It’s the kind of people-friendly project that the K Fund believes in-“

Cheers interrupted, and Qwilleran took the opportunity to mop his brow.

“The art studio that painted Moose County landscapes on the bookmobile would find it a challenge to depict primitive landscapes and early settlers with their oxcarts and sailing ships and log cabins. The original murals are being professionally photographed for the historic record and for the guidance of artists who will replicate them… . and in a memorial booklet available without charge to every family in Pickax.”

A news photographer appeared. Qwilleran was mobbed by enthusiasts. Here was the “Qwill Pen” in the flesh-Koko’s godparent-Santa Claus without a beard. Eventually Brodie extricated him and drove him to the antique shop. “Who tipped off the photographer?” Qwilleran asked.

“The paper picked it up from the police radio,” said the chief. “All that guff you gave them-was that the honest truth?”

“You shoved me in front of them. I had to make up something,” Qwilleran said.

Got any coffee?” Qwilleran grumbled as he barged Susan’s shop.

“Darling! What happened? You look … frazzled!”

“Skip the compliments. Just pour the coffee.”

She led him back to her office. “What on earth have you been doing?”

“You’ll read about it in the paper. And in case you’re wondering where your customers are, they’re all down at the post office. But they’ll be here in a few minutes. Meanwhile, I’d like a hostess gift for Mildred Riker. We had dinner there the other night. You were out, whooping it up.”

Susan rolled her eyes. “A customer invited me to a birthday party at the country club, and I had to go because she’d just made a huge purchase. I sat next to the mayor, and I thought it was rather gauche of him to try to sell me some investments between the soup course and the entree.”

“What kind of investments?”

“A special package that pays enormous interest. He had the nerve to give me his card, so I gave him my card and said I buy family heirlooms.”

“Good for you! Now what do you recommend for Mildred?”

“She’d like a bone china teacup and saucer for her collection. I keep them in stock. They’re not old, but collectors come in to buy one and see a Duncan Phyfe table they can’t live without, or an original Tiffany lamp.”

“You’re a crafty one, Susan,” he said, “but you’ll never sell a Duncan Phyfe anything to me!”

“I know, darling, but I love you in spite of it. It’s your moustache! So cavalier! When Polly gets tired of you, I’ll be waiting in the wings… . Now about Mildred’s teacup,” she went on in her businesslike way. “She collects the rose pattern, and I think the yellow rose would be good. Want me to giftwrap it and drop it off at her place on my way home? What do you want on the card?”

Qwilleran was halfway home before realizing he had forgotten his prime mission: fruit for Polly and information on false bottoms. Oh, well…

The Siamese met him with a loud two-part reminder that it was half past treat time. Absently he poured out a dish of crunchies while pondering the mystery of the glove box. Once more he made an attack on the top, bottom, sides, inside, and outside-without a clue.

Then, from the kitchen came a familiar but regrettable sound. One of the cats was “sleigh-riding” or “bottom-sliding” as it was sometimes called. Qwilleran shrugged and said aloud, “Cats will be cats!”

Without stopping to figure the connection, his mind flashed to another wooden box in his life-when he was growing up. It held dominoes. It had a sliding lid, virtually invisible unless one knew about it. The glove box might have a sliding bottom!

Grasping it in both hands and pushing hard with both thumbs, he held his breath. Nothing happened. Turning the box around he pushed from the other end. Ah! A faint crack appeared! It was a tight fit, but gradually the gap opened to a few inches. He could see an envelope inside and could even pull it out without struggling further.

It was addressed to one Helen Omblower in Chipmunk, and the sender was G. Omblower in Pennsylvania; the return address was cryptic. It had been mailed twenty years before, and the envelope was yellow with

age. Both Koko and Yum Yum found it highly sniff-worthy. The enclosed note was equally cryptic. What interested Qwilleran was the unusual name. He looked it up in the phone book, but it was not listed. He would ask the Tibbitts; they knew everyone. Where had Kirt’s mother found the box? In a secondhand shop? It was a handsome piece of carving. Had she tried to open it to retrieve the letter?

His ruminations were interrupted by a phone call from Polly, exclaiming, “My hero!”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I forgot your pears and oranges.”

“They weren’t all that important. It was your performance in front of the post office that mattered!”

“Somebody had to say something.”