The Cat Who Sniffed Glue (5 page)

"No gifts. God knows they don't need anything. Have you seen Grandpa Fitch's house? It's loaded with stuff. I don't know how Harley can live with all those mounted animals and marble nymphs."
"I've never met Belle," Qwilleran said. "Doesn't she ever come to rehearsals?"
Jill shrugged. "She doesn't feel comfortable with this crowd. I guess we come on a little strong. And now that she's pregnant, Harley says she feels self-conscious."
It was a noisy party, with twenty-four club members crowded into a room designed for one man and two cats. Carol Lanspeak laughed a lot. Larry did impersonations of his more eccentric customers. Susan Exbridge, a fortyish divorcee, invited Qwilleran to a dance at the country club, but he pleaded another engagement; she served on the library board, and he feared Polly would hear about it. Eddington Smith said he'd never had such a good time in his life. Harley Fitch was flattered by Koko's advances and asked if he could take him home.
After the crowd had departed, Qwilleran made another cup of coffee in the machine and finished the cake. Yum Yum curled up on his lap, and Koko disposed of the crumbs on the carpet. Sirens sounded, speeding north on Main Street, and Qwilleran automatically glanced at his watch. It was 1:35 A.M.
The next morning he remembered the sirens when he tuned in the headline news on WPKX: "All dental appointments at the Zoller Clinic are cancelled today due to a fire that broke out sometime after one o'clock this morning. Arson is suspected, and police are investigating. Patients may call to reschedule."
-Scene Four-
Place: Qwilleran's apartment; later, the rehearsal hall
Time: Tuesday evening
Featuring: CHAD LANSPEAK
THE LANSPEAK department store closed at 5:30, and Qwilleran wondered if Chad Lanspeak would appear as promised. If he were as irresponsible as Brodie thought, he would have forgotten about the appointment and gone fishing. At 5:45 there was no sign of the reputed black sheep. Qwilleran peered out the window toward Main Street and saw only the construction workers driving away in their trucks.
Finally at 6:15 a battered pickup turned into the driveway, coughing and shuddering as it came up to the carriage house, where it stopped with an explosive jerk. A young man jumped out and collected an armful of snowshoes from the truck bed. Qwilleran pressed the buzzer that released the door, and Chad Lanspeak struggled up the stairs with his load-gracefully shaped, honey-colored wood frames with a varnished sheen, laced with natural leather thongs in an intricate pattern.
"I brought 'em all," he said. "I didn't know I had so many. Hey, what's that iron thing?" He was staring at the Mackintosh insignia with the curious motto circling the rampant cats: TOUCH NOT THE CATT BOT A GLOVE.
"It came from the gate of a Scottish castle," Qwilleran said. "It's three hundred years old."
"It must be valuable."
"It has sentimental value. My grandparents came from Scotland."
Chad was hardly recognizable as the bored salesclerk at his father's store. He still sported the hirsute flourishes that made him conspicuous in Pickax, but he was as affable as any of the teens Qwilleran had met in that salutary environment. Country-bred youths, he had observed, possessed an easygoing, outgoing manner that bridged generation gaps.
"Line up the snowshoes on the living-room floor," Qwilleran suggested, "so I can compare styles and sizes."
"I've never seen a place like this," said Chad, appraising the suede sofa, square-cut lounge chairs, chromium lamps and glass-topped tables.
"I like contemporary," said Qwilleran, "although it doesn't seem to be popular in Pickax."
"That's an interesting picture. What is it?"
"A print of an 1805 gunboat that sailed the Great Lakes."
"It has sails and cannon and oars! That's funny! A gunboat with oars! Where'd you get it?"
"From an antique shop."
"Is it valuable?"
"An antique is worth only what someone is willing to pay for it."
Next Chad admired the state-of-the-art stereo components on the open bookshelves, and Qwilleran began to think he'd made a mistake in bringing the fellow to the apartment. He thought, Dammit! He's casing the joint! The cats were present, quietly washing up after their evening meal, and Qwilleran spirited them away to their own apartment. Strangers often admired them less for their beauty than for their obvious monetary value, and it was his constant fear that they might be stolen.
"Now let's get down to business," he said. "I have a rehearsal at seven o'clock."
Chad was still attracted to the gunboat print. "There's a guy around here that makes model ships like that. He's really good. He could sell them for a lot of money if he wanted to."
"No doubt," said Qwilleran. "Now which style would you recommend for a beginner?"
"Let's see... the Bear Paw is easiest to start with, but it doesn't have any tail, and the tail helps in tracking, you know. I brought some bindings so you can see how they work. What kind of boots do you have?"
Qwilleran produced a pair of logger boots and was duly strapped onto a pair of Bear Paws. Awkwardly he attempted to maneuver them down the long hallway.
"You don't have to lift your feet so high," Chad called out after him. "Lean forward... Swing your arms... Your feet are too wide apart."
Qwilleran said. "I like the look of the others better. These remind me of fruit baskets."
"Well, there's this Michigan style; it's larger and has a heavier tail for tracking. The arctic is the fastest; it's long and narrow. All depends what kind of snow you have and how much brush. You should start with something smaller than those. Maybe you should try the thirty-six inch Beavertail."
Strapped onto Beavertails, Qwilleran clomped uncertainly down the hall again.
"Drag your tail!" Chad called out. "Your feet are too far apart. You'll get sore legs."
"It's like walking on tennis rackets."
"You'll get used to it when you get out in the snow."
"How much for the Beavertails?" Qwilleran asked, "I'll write you a check."
"It's hard to get a check cashed, Do you have the... uh..."
"I don't keep money in the house, but if you'll drive me to the east-side drug store, they'll cash a check for me. Then you can drop me off at the rehearsal hall."
He helped Chad carry the snowshoes down the narrow stairs and into the decrepit truck, It was a terrain vehicle, riding high on huge tires, As they started off, he remarked, "There's nothing wrong with this truck that couldn't be improved with a muffler, some springs, a coat of paint, and a new motor."
"It's okay," Chad explained. "It's what I need when I go setting my traps, Ever do any trapping?"
"I'm a city boy," Qwilleran said, "I don't trap or hunt or fish, but I know they're popular sports around Moose County."
"You can earn good money trapping. You can go shoeing with me when snow flies, if you want, and I'll show you how to use your Beavertails, Maybe you'd like to see my traps."
The idea of trapping wild animals repelled Qwilleran. He had heard that a beaver caught in the jaws of a trap would chew off its own leg to get free. Since he had shared living quarters with the Siamese he had become highly sensitive about cruelty to animals, Even the thought of hooking a fish disturbed him, although he enjoyed trout almandine at the Old Stone Mill.
"I'd appreciate a lesson in shoeing in actual snow," he said, trying to speak the lingo, "but I'm not sure I could warm up to the idea of trapping. Where do you go?"
"I get rabbits and squirrels in the Hummocks, and foxes out Ittibittiwassee Road, I use live traps mostly, That way the pelts aren't damaged."
Qwilleran stared ahead through the dirty windshield and said nothing. He didn't want to know what happened to the animals after they were trapped live.
"I got a skunk a couple of weeks ago. They're the trickiest. The safest thing is to drown them."
Qwilleran was glad when they arrived at the drug store. After the check was cashed and the Beavertails were paid for, they started off for the rehearsal hall with a rumble, a jolt, and a backfire, and he said casually, "What do you think of the vandalism in Pickax, Chad? It's getting pretty bad."
They had reached the main intersection and stopped for the traffic light - it was the only one in town - and Chad leaned out of the window and yelled "Hiya!" to the occupants of a noisy rustmobile. He didn't answer the question.
"When I was young," Qwilleran went on, "we used to overturn garbage cans in Chicago. For some strange reason that I can't remember at this stage of my life, we thought it was fun. What fun do they get out of breaking into the school and clobbering a computer?"
"I guess they didn't like school, and they're getting even," Chad said.
"And they didn't like having a tooth drilled so they set fire to the dental clinic. Is that the way it works?" Qwilleran asked him. "I don't understand it. You're young; maybe you can explain it to me."
"I wasn't anywhere near that place when it happened," Chad said defensively. "I was at a party in Chipmunk." He pulled up in front of the community center, jamming on the brakes hard.
"Thanks for the lift, fella. I'll get in touch with you when snow flies."
Chad nodded in sulky silence. Qwilleran glanced at his watch; he was a half-hour late for rehearsal. The transaction had taken longer than he expected, and the detour to the drug store had wasted another twenty minutes. Francesca was strong on punctuality; she would not be happy.
When he walked into the rehearsal hall, the situation was worse than he expected. Several of the cast were absent without phoning in an excuse. Several, besides Qwilleran, had been tardy. Fran was vexed, and the general mood was tense. Reacting to her irritation the actors lost their concentration and missed their cues or fluffed their lines. In Qwilleran's vital scene he oozed up the stairway instead of charging like a madman. Eddington spoke his lines in a terrified stage whisper. The propman had forgotten to bring a sword, and Harley Fitch had never arrived with his grandfather's World War I bugle.
At one point the exasperated director waved them off the stage and tried coaching Eddington. The Lanspeaks took this opportunity to chat with Qwilleran. Larry said, "Our prodigal son paid us a surprise visit last weekend - in that truck he holds together with Band-Aids. He picked up all his snowshoes and said you wanted to buy a pair. He seemed almost human in spite of his alien genes."
Carol said, "And at the store today he was actually civil to customers. Everyone thought he must be sick."
It was the first time the Lanspeaks had ever mentioned their youngest, although they frequently boasted about the other two, who won math prizes, played the saxophone, captained the tennis team, and edited the yearbook.
Qwilleran said, "Chad brought the whole caboodle to my apartment and gave me a crash course in snowshoeing. I bought a pair of Beavertails."
"Quiet back there!" Fran shouted. "We're trying to rehearse." Later, when Carol got the hiccups and Susan got the giggles, she called out, "Break! That's all for tonight. We'll try again tomorrow, and if everyone isn't here at seven sharp, and if you don't know your lines and take the rehearsal seriously, there'll be no show!"
Qwilleran had never seen her so perturbed, and he mentioned the fact to Wally as they left the building.
"My mother would say it's because there's a full moon," said the taxidermist.
-Scene Five-
Place: Office of the new Moose County newspaper
Time: Later the same evening
Cast: ARCH RIKER, publisher and editor in chief
JUNIOR GOODWINTER, managing editor
HIXIE RICE, advertising manager
ROGER MACGILLIVRAY, reporter
THE STONE BUILDINGS of downtown Pickax gleamed blue-white in the light of the full moon. Following the disastrous rehearsal, Qwilleran started to walk home but detoured by way of the newspaper office. It was the eve of the publication of the first issue, and he was as nervous as a prospective father. At his suggestion the Klingenschoen Fund had made the venture possible. At his urging his; longtime friend, Arch Riker, had come up from Down Below to run the operation. Eventually a printing plant and office complex would be built; meanwhile, the paper was being job-printed, and the editorial and business functions were housed in a rented warehouse.
Qwilleran knew the staff had been working twelve or more hours a day, and he had stayed out of their way, but now it was the countdown; the new publication would be in the hands of readers Wednesday afternoon. He felt envious. It was a moment of excitement and tension, and he was an outsider.
As he expected, the lights were still on in the building, a former meat-packing warehouse, and he found Riker and Junior Goodwinter in the office they shared - with beer cans in their hands and with their feet propped on their desks. It was nothing like the slick, color-coordinated, acoustically engineered, electronically equipped work-station environment Riker and Qwilleran had known at the Daily Fluxion. In this temporary situation executives and cub reporters alike sat at secondhand desks and poked old manual typewriters in a barnlike workplace that still smelled of bacon, although Junior enjoyed the distinction of a rolltop desk that had been his great-grandfather's.
"The coffee's still hot," Riker said. "Grab a cup, Qwill, and find a chair. Put your feet up."
"Are you getting antsy?" Qwilleran asked.
"Everything's locked up except page one; we're still hoping for a banner headline for the kick-off. After the radio spots we got eighteen thousand subscriptions, and we've given a print order of thirty thousand. Hixie and her crew sold so many ads that we're going to forty-eight pages, twice what we expected."
Qwilleran had never seen him so animated. At the Fluxion Riker was the epitome of the jaded editor - a little paunchy, a little bored. Here, his ruddy face glowed with satisfaction and excitement.
The young, fresh-faced managing editor said, "We've got a lot of copy in type. Stories poured in from the stringers, but we still needed boilerplate to fill the holes. Roger MacGillivray quit his teaching job, and he's covering city hall, police, and general assignment. His mother-in-law is handling the food page; she teaches home ec, you know."
"I'm blissfully aware of her blueberry pies," Qwilleran said.
"Kevin Doone is writing a garden column for us. Do you know Kevin? He runs a landscape service."
"I know Kevin well. 'Call Doone to Prune!' I could live for a year on what he charged to prune a few apple trees on my property. Are you doing anything about the vandalism issue?"
"We're running a tough editorial," Riker said, "with a strong pitch for community involvement, parental responsibility, and more prowl cars after dark, even if they have to hire part-time officers. And the sheriff's got to keep an eye on those kids in Chipmunk. They think Pickax is a shooting gallery. It's time to turn off the indulgent grin and the sentimental attitude that boys will be boys."