The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

“Assuming that the three incidents are three felonies, is Koko prepared to finger any suspects?”

“Yow!” came a comment from the stairs, as Koko heard his name.

“There’s your answer,” Qwilleran said. “Does the name Omblower mean anything to you?”

“Nope. Odd name.”

“George Omblower was one of three bad boys at Pickax High School at one time, and I think he’s back again-with an alias… . What do you know about the Donex Associates?”

Brodie harrumphed. “I’m not at liberty to talk, but there may be some interesting news in your paper tomorrow.”

“Meanwhile, Omblower is coming here for a Bloody Mary at noon tomorrow, and I plan to ask him some embarrassing questions. Depending on how he reacts, a cop on the premises might be able to make an arrest.”

“You serious?”

“Never more so! But the guy lives only two doors away, so we can’t have any police vehicles at the curb.” “We can handle that,” Brodie said.

The next morning Qwilleran phoned the concierge at the Pet Plaza. “Do you board cats by the hour?”

Lori Bamba had been his friend-in-need ever since he arrived in Moose County. “Not usually,” she said, “but …”

“I need to get them off the premises for a few hours - for reasons too complicated to describe.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“We’ll send our limousine over in half an hour. Your carrier or ours?”

Qwilleran lured the Siamese into the kitchen with a small treat, then stuffed them into their carrier. It was a loose fit for two sleek Siamese - unless they preferred not to travel. Then they puffed themselves up to resemble two porcupines on stilts.

“Consider this a mini-vacation at an exclusive resort,” he said. “Behave like patricians.” Two pairs of eyes glowered at him through the metal mesh of their prison.

Shortly after the limousine had whisked them away to the Pet Plaza, a plumber’s van pulled up, and a man approached Unit Four with a kit of plumber’s tools. “Got a leak?” he asked with a grin when Qwilleran opened the door.

“Come in, Pete,” he said, recognizing a deputy from the sheriff’s department.

Pete spoke a few words into his cell phone, and the plumbing van drove away. “What’s up, Mr. Q?”

“A guy is coming here to sell me some books, and he happens to be a suspect in a murder case. I intend to ask him some leading questions-not about books-and you’re here in case he gets nasty. The spare room on the balcony will be your observation post.”

“We’re supposed to tape the interrogation, so I’d better get set up.”

“Feel free to move anything around if necessary, and let me know if there’s anything you need.”

The doorbell rang again. A pizza wagon stood at the curb, and a delivery man handed him a large, square, flat box. Qwilleran recognized him as an officer from the PPD.

“Hi, Mr. Q! Brodie sent this for your party. I hear it’s gonna be fun and games today.” He mumbled into his cell phone, and the pizza wagon took off.

As noon approached, the pizza was in the warming oven, the two officers were upstairs, and Qwilleran was at the bar, readying tomato juice, vodka, hot sauce, and a fresh lime. He was having second thoughts about trapping the quiet, sober-faced specialist in rare books. Just because the man had given Polly his mother’s glove box, it was no proof that she was Helen Omblower. Kirt’s mother might have bought the box at a local antique shop, never guessing that a letter was hidden in a false bottom. Neither did Polly, and Qwilleran himself had not discovered it until Koko commenced sniffing and pawing.

If Nightingale were indeed Omblower, as Qwilleran suspected, body language would reveal his guilt unless … he happened to be a skilled actor; acting might be one of the things he boasted of learning while in prison. (Don’t wet lips; don’t blink; don’t scratch neck; don’t pull ear-lobe.) Qwilleran began to wish Koko were there to contribute an occasional “Yow” and “Ik ik ik.”

The doorbell rang, and the quiet, sober-faced bookseller stood there without uttering a sociable word, leaving it up to the host to say, “Good morning! Come in and have a last Last Drink.”

In the foyer Nightingale glanced about warily, then walked to the sofa. “Interesting piece of glass,” he said. “Does it have a pedigree?”

“St. Louis lead crystal, made for the French steamship lines. Weighs a ton.”

“There’s a fine book about glassmakers of the world if you’re interested: Baccarat, Steuben, Waterford, Orrefors, and so forth-absolutely the definitive work.”

“Right now I’m interested in Egypt,” Qwilleran said. “But first drink to the Big One! We’ll all be glad when snow flies and we can stop worrying about wildfires-or whatever they are. A lot of people think they’re arson.”

“Is that so?”