The Cat Who Sniffed Glue (17 page)

"Oh, she's a good kitty - a real good kitty!"
"She's smarter than your plumber, Mrs. Cobb."
The tail-thumping slowed and then stopped, and Yum Yum wriggled across the floor, withdrawing her long foreleg with the prize clutched in the sharp claws of her famous right paw. Koko walked into the room and yawned. Mrs. Cobb looked at him in consternation. "Just like a man!"
Her comment took Qwilleran by surprise. It was out of character for the docile, male-worshipping widow he had known.
"Time to go home," he said, opening the picnic hamper. "It was a wonderful dinner, Mrs. Cobb, and you're to be complimented on the museum. Let me know if there's anything I can do."
With the hamper on the backseat and the two commodes on the floor, Qwilleran tooted a farewell to his hostess on the doorstep and headed the car toward Pickax. He was thankful that Yum Yum had caught her mouse at an auspicious time, saving him from an amorous slip of the tongue. He needed no more women on his trail - least of all, his former housekeeper, who was marriage oriented and tragedy prone. All three of her husbands had died violent deaths.
He drove past the Hanging Tree and across the Old Plank Bridge and then west on Ittibittiwassee Road. There was little traffic. The county had built the road - at great expense - to accommodate Exbridge's condominium development. Most motorists preferred the shorter, more commercial route, however, and the local wags called the new highway Ittibittigraft.
Darkness was falling as he passed the site of the old Buckshot Mine. It was here, he recalled, that he had suffered a serious bicycle accident a year before - a highly questionable accident.
And now... it all happened again.
-Scene Seven-
Place: A lonely stretch of
Ittibittiwassee Road
Time: Later the same evening
IT WAS LATE Sunday night, and the traffic on Ittibittiwassee Road was sparse. Westward bound, Qwilleran met no cars approaching in the opposite direction, and he drove with his country brights illuminating the yellow lines on the pavement. On either side darkness closed in over the patches of woods, abandoned mine sites and boulder-studded pastureland. Now and then a half-moon accentuated the eeriness of the landscape, then retired behind a cloud.
Eventually headlights appeared in Qwilleran's rearview mirror - country lights excessively bright until he flicked the mirror to cut the glare. The vehicle was gaining on him. Its pattern was erratic: swerving into the eastbound lane as if planning to pass - falling back into line - coming closer-swerving again to the left. It was a van, and when it came alongside, it was too close for a prudent driver's peace of mind. Qwilleran edged to the right. The van crowded closer.
He's drunk, Qwilleran thought, and he steered close to the shoulder and eased up on the pedal. The van loomed over the small car. Another inch and it would bump him off the road. He steered onto the shoulder... Easy! Loose gravel!... Skidding! Easy! Turn into the skid! Baby the brake!... And then the little car hit a boulder and flipped over... still traveling, sliding along the edge of the ditch... another jolt, another rollover, twice, before it came to a shuddering halt in the dry ditch.
There was a moment of stunned disorientation - pedals and dashboard overhead - seat cushions and roasting pans everywhere - a shower of kitty gravel.
Why was there no cry from the cats? Qwilleran unbuckled and climbed out of the door that had been thrown open by the impact. Then he crawled back into the dark car and groped for the hamper. It was lying on the upside-down ceiling, jammed under a seat cushion, its cover open, the cats gone!
"Koko!" he yelled. "Koko! Yum Yum!" There was no answer. He thought, They might have taken flight in terror! They might have been flung from the car! In panic he searched the ditch in the immediate vicinity, looking for small light-colored bodies in the darkness. He called again. Utter silence.
Then headlights illuminated the landscape as a car approached from the east, stopping on the shoulder of the road. A man jumped out and ran to the scene. "Are you okay? Anybody hurt?"
"I'm all right, but I've lost my cats. Two of them. They may have been thrown out."
The motorist turned and shouted toward his own car, "Radio the sheriff, hon, and bring the torch!" To Qwilleran he said, "Have you tried calling them? It's heavily wooded along here. They might be hiding."
"They're indoor cats. They never go out. I don't know how they'd react to the accident and unfamiliar surroundings."
"Your car's totaled."
"I don't care about the car. I'm worried about the cats." "The guy was drunk. I saw him weaving before he crowded you off the road. Seemed like a light-colored van."
The man's wife arrived with a high-powered flashlight, and Qwilleran started beaming it in the ditch and along the edge of the thicket.
The man said to her, "He had two cats in the car. They escaped or were thrown out."
"They'll be all right," she said. "We had a cat fall from a third-floor window."
"Quiet!" Qwilleran said. "I thought I heard a cry." The wail came again.
"That's some kind of night bird," the woman said. "Quiet!... while I call them and listen for an answer."
Headlights and a flashing red rooflight appeared in the distance, and a sheriff's car pulled up. The deputy in a brown uniform said, "May I see your operator's license?" He nodded when Qwilleran handed it over. "How did it happen, Mr. Qwilleran?"
The other motorist said, "I saw it all. A drunk driver. Crowded him off the road, and then skipped."
Qwilleran said, "I had two cats in the car, and I can't find them."
The deputy flashed a light around the wreck. "Could be underneath."
The woman said, "We'd better go, honey. The babysitter has to leave at 11:30."
"Well, thanks," Qwilleran said. "Here's your flashlight."
"Keep it," the man said. "You can get it back to me where I work. Smitty's Refrigeration on South Main."
The deputy wrote his report and offered Qwilleran a ride into Pickax.
"I can't leave until I find them."
"You could be out here all night, sir."
"I don't care. After you leave they may come crawling out of the bushes. I've got to be here when they do."
"I'll check back with you on my next round. We're watching this road. I nabbed four DWIs last night."
He left, and Qwilleran resumed his search, calling at intervals and hearing nothing except the night noises of the woods, as some small animal scurried through the underbrush or an owl hooted or a loon cackled his insane laugh.
He extracted the wicker hamper from the wreckage - out of shape but intact. He found the two commodes, also. The roasting pans had fared better than the body of his car. He was grateful for the flashlight.
Another vehicle stopped. "Anybody hurt?" asked the driver, walking over to view the car in the ditch. "Anyone call the police?"
Qwilleran went through the same script. "No one hurt... The sheriff's been here... No, thanks, I don't need a ride. I've lost two cats and I have to wait..."
"Lots of luck," the man said. "There are coyotes out there and foxes, and an owl can carry off a cat at night."
"Just go on your way, please," Qwilleran said firmly "When it's quiet, they'll come back."
The car left the scene, but the Siamese did not appear He snapped off the torch. It was totally dark now - totally dark with the moon behind a cloud. He called again in desperation. "Koko! Yum Yum! Turkey! Turkey! Come and get it!"... There was absolute silence. Once more he combed the ditch with the beam of the flashlight, each time venturing a few yards farther from the wreck. After half an hour of fruitless searching and calling, he groaned as another car pulled up.
"Qwill! Qwill, what are you doing out here?" a woman's voice called out. She left her car and hurried toward him. "Is that your car? What happened? Has anyone called the sheriff? I have a CB." It was Polly Duncan.
"That's not the worst," he said, shining the torch on the wreck. "The cats are lost. They may be hiding in the woods. I'm not leaving here till I find them, dead or aIive."
"Oh, Qwill, I'm so sorry. I know how much they mean to you." It was the quiet, soothing voice that had appealed to him during their happier days.
He recounted the entire story.
"But you can't stay here like this all night."
"I'm not leaving," he repeated stubbornly.
"Then I'll stay with you. At least you'll have some shelter and a place to sit. I'll turn my lights off. Maybe they'll sense your presence and come out..."
"If they're still alive," he interrupted. "The sheriff thought they might be pinned under the car. They don't answer when I call their names. Another guy said there are predators out there."
"Don't listen to those alarmists. I'll pull my car farther off the highway, and we'll sit and wait... No! I won't listen to any protests. There's a blanket in my trunk. It gets chilly after midnight at this time of year. Put those things in the backseat, Qwill." He put the commodes and hamper in her car, and then he and Polly settled in the front seat of the car he had given her for Christmas. His gloom was palpable. "I don't mind telling you, Polly, how much those two characters have meant to me. They were my family! Yum Yum was getting more lovable and loving every year. And Koko's intelligence was incredible. I could talk to him like a human, and he seemed to understand every word I said. He even replied in his own way."
"You're speaking in the past tense," Polly rebuked him. "They're still alive and well - somewhere. I have enough faith in Koko to know he'll be able to take care of himself and Yum Yum. Cats are too agile to let themselves get trapped under the car. Flight is their forte, and their best defense."
"But the Siamese have lived a sheltered life. Their world is bounded by carpets, cushions, windowsills, and laps."
"You're not giving them credit for their natural instincts. They might even walk back to Pickax. I read about a cat whose family took him to Oklahoma for the winter, and he walked back to his home in Michigan - over 700 miles."
"But he was accustomed to the outdoors," Qwilleran said.
The sheriff's deputy stopped again, and when he saw Qwilleran's companion, he said, "Do you need any potatoes, Mrs. Duncan?" They both laughed. To Qwilleran he said, "Glad you've got company. I'll keep an eye on you two."
As he drove away Polly said, "I've known Kevin ever since he was in junior high, bringing his homework assignments to the library. His family had a potato farm."
Gradually she talked him out of his pessimistic mood by introducing other subjects. Nevertheless, every ten minutes Qwilleran left the car and walked up and down the roadside, calling... calling.
Returning from one disappointing expedition he said to Polly, "You were out late tonight."
"There was a party at Indian Village," she explained. "I usually go home early when I'm driving alone, but I was having such a good time!"
Qwilleran considered that statement in silence. Don Exbridge had a condo in Indian Village.
"The party was given," she went on, "by Mr. and Mrs. Hasselrich, honoring the library board. They're charming hosts."
"I hear Margaret Fitch's place on the board will be filled by Don Exbridge," he said glumly.
"Oh, no! Susan Exbridge is a trustee, and it would hardly be appropriate to have her ex-husband on the board. Where did you hear that?"
"I don't recall," he lied, "but I noticed you were dining with him at Stephanie's, and I assumed you were briefing him on his new duties."
Polly laughed softly. "Wrong! The library needs a new roof, and I was trying to charm him into donating the services of his construction crew. But since you bring up the subject, I saw you dining with a strange woman after you told me you were dining with your architect from Cincinnati."
"That strange woman," Qwilleran said, "happens to be the architect from Cincinnati. You get two black marks for assuming the profession is limited to males."
"Guilty!" she laughed.
The sheriff's car was coming down the highway again, and it stopped on the opposite shoulder. When the deputy stepped out, he was carrying something small and light-colored. He was carrying it with care.
"Oh my God!" Qwilleran said and tumbled out of the car, hurrying across the pavement to meet him. "Brought you some coffee," the deputy said, handing over a brown paper bag. "From the Dimsdale Diner. Not the best in the world, but it's hot. Temperature's dropping to fifty tonight. Couple of doughnuts, too, but they look kinda stale."
"It's greatly appreciated," Qwilleran said with a sigh of relief as he pulled out his bill clip.
"Put that away," the officer said. "The cook at the diner sent it."
The kindness of Polly and the deputy and the cook at the diner and the motorist with the flashlight did much to relieve Qwilleran's depression, although he still felt a numbness in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to talk about the cats. He said to Polly, "They're always inventing games. Now their hobby is posing like bookends."
"Does Koko still recommend reading material for you?"
"He was pushing biographies until a few days ago. Now he's into sea stories."
"Has he lost interest in Shakespeare?"
"Not entirely. I saw him nuzzling The Comedy of Errors and Two Gentlemen of Verona the other day."
"Both of those plays involve sea voyages," Polly reminded him.
"I'm sure it's the glue he's sniffing. The subject matter is coincidental. But you have to admit it's uncanny."
"There are more things in Koko's head than are dreamt of in your philosophy," said Polly, taking liberties with one of Qwilleran's favorite quotations. And so they talked the night away.
Qwilleran said, "Now that I'm dropping out of the Theatre Club, Polly, I'm going to review plays for the paper."
"You'll make a wonderful drama critic."
"It means two passes to every opening night, fifth row, center. I hope you'll be my steady theatre date."
"I'll be happy to accept. You know, Qwill, your columns have been very good. I'm sorry I scolded you about your journalism. I especially liked your profile on Eddington Smith."
"Incidentally, when Edd and I were discussing the Fitch case, I mentioned the possibility of rare-book thieves, and he hemmed and hawed - never would say what was on his mind."
"Well, it's a possibility," she said. "I've heard that Cyrus Fitch owned some pornographic books that certain collectors would commit any crime to possess. They're said to be locked up in a small climate-controlled room along with George Washington's Farewell Address and Gould's Birds of Great Britain."
"If Edd lets me go to the mansion to. help him dust books, I'll check out the hot stuff," Qwilleran said.