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Qwilleran, a collector of old books, had asked a question about Dickens, and the dealer said, "If you're interested, I can get you three volumes of Sketches by Boz for thirty thousand. Two were printed in 1836 and the third a year later."
Qwilleran nodded seriously. He never paid more than three or five dollars for a preowned classic at the used book store in Pickax.
When he and Polly recalled the incident over dinner at the butterfly table, she said, "Don't you think it gives us a certain éclat to have a rare book dealer in our midst?"
"How much éclat do you want?" he asked. "We already have you and me and the WPKX meteorologist and the publisher of the newspaper and a city councilmember—and the Indian Village developer himself!" The last name was added with sarcasm; Don Exbridge was not highly admired by the residents. They blamed him for the thin walls, leaking roofs, rattling windows, and bouncing floors. But it was, they told themselves, a good address.
After the dessert—fresh pears and gorgonzola—Qwilleran built a fire in the fireplace, and they had their beverages in front of the comforting blaze: tea for her, coffee for him. He knew her so well but not well enough to ask, "What kind of coffee do you use? How long has it been in the house? How do you store it? What brewing method do you use?"
She asked, "How's the coffee, dear?" She knew he was a connoisseur.
"Not bad," he replied, meaning it was drinkable.
"I'm glad you like it. It's only instant decaf."
Later, when he was leaving, he noticed a carved wooden box on the foyer table. It was long compared to its other dimensions, and the hinged lid was carved with vines and leaves surrounding the words LOVE BOX.
"Where did you get the box?" asked.
"Oh, that!" she said with a shrug. "On the day the moving van came, I thought it would be neighborly to invite Kirt in for a simple supper, and the box was a thank-you, I suppose."
She had shortened the man's splendiferous name to a single syllable. "What is its purpose?" he asked crisply.
"It's for gloves. The first letter is half-hidden by the leaves. It had belonged to his mother, and he wanted me to have it. It seemed like a rather touching gesture."
"Hmff," he muttered.
"Actually I don't care for the light oak and stylized carving. It seems rather mannish, and I have a lovely needlepoint glove box that my sister made.... I wish you'd take it, Qwill."
"How old is it?"
"Early twentieth century, I'd guess ... But whatever you do, don't let Kirt know I gave it away! We'll put it in a large plastic bag, in case he's looking out the window when you carry it home."
The glove box looked good on the sleek modern chest of drawers in Qwilleran's foyer—old enough to be interesting but not old enough to look fussy. He immediately filled it with his winter gloves: wool knit, leather, fur-lined. It stood alongside a handmade lamp from the craft exhibit—a tall square column of hammered copper. The Siamese sensed something new and came to investigate. Koko's nose traced the letters on the lid from right to left. "He reads backwards," Qwilleran always said.
Then—abruptly—the cat's attention was distracted. He jumped down from the chest and went to a southeast window, where he stretched his neck, raised his head, and sniffed, while his tail switched nervously.
Without waiting to hear the scream of the police sirens and urgent bleat of the fire truck, Qwilleran ran out to his van just as his neighbor, the weatherman, was returning from his late-evening report.
Qwilleran rolled down the car window. "Joe! Quick! Get in!"
From The Cat Who Smelled a Rat, by Lilian Jackson Braun, Lillian Jackson Braun. © January 29, 2001 , Lilian Jackson Braun, Lillian Jackson Braun used by permission.
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