The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare Read Online Free PDF Page B

garage has just winterized my car. How do you like your new front-wheel drive, Qwill?”
    “I’ll know better when snow flies.” In the library the lamps were lighted, logs were blazing in the fireplace, and the table was laid with a dazzling display of porcelain, crystal, and silver. The four walls of books were accented by marble busts of Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare.
    “Did the Klingenschoens read these books?” Polly asked.
    “I think they were primarily for show, except for a few racy novels from the 1920s. In the attic I found boxes of paperback mysteries and romances.”
    “At least someone was reading. There is still hope for the printed word.” She handed him a book with worn and faded cover. “Here’s something that might interest you – Picturesque Pickax, published by the Boosters Club before World War One. On the page with the bookmark there’s a picture of the Picayune building with employees standing on the sidewalk.”
    Qwilleran found the photo of anxious-faced men with walrus moustaches, high collars, leather aprons, eyeshades, arm garters, and plastered hair parted in the middle. “They look as if they’re facing a firing squad,” he said. “Thanks. This will be useful.”
    He poured an aperitif for his guest. Dry sherry was her choice; one glass was her limit. For himself he poured white grape juice.
    “Votre santé!” he toasted, meeting her eyes.
    “Santé!” she replied with a guarded gaze.
    She was wearing the somber gray suit, white blouse, and maroon loafers that seemed to be her library uniform, but she had tried to perk it up with a paisley scarf. Fashion was not one of her pursuits, and her severe haircut was not in the latest style, but her voice… ! It was ever soft, gentle, and low, and she knew Shakespeare forward and backward.
    After a moment of silence during which Qwilleran wondered what Polly was thinking, he said, “Do you remember that so-called historian in your reading room? He had a pile of books on old mining operations. I doubt that he’s telling the truth.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “His relaxed posture. The way he held his book. He didn’t show a researcher’s avid thirst for information, and he wasn’t taking notes. He was reading idly to kill time.”
    “Then who is he? Why should he disguise his identity?”
    “I think he’s an investigator. Narcotics – FBI – something like that.”
    Polly looked skeptical. “In Pickax?”
    “I’m sure there are several skeletons in local closets, Polly, and most of the locals know all about them. You have some world-class gossips here.”
    “I wouldn’t call them gossips,” she said defensively. “In small towns people share information. It’s a way of caring.”
    Qwilleran raised a cynical eyebrow. “Well, the mysterious stranger had better complete his mission before snow flies, or he’ll be cluttering up your reading room until spring thaw… Another question. What will happen to the Picayune now that Senior’s gone? Any guesses?”
    “It will probably die a quiet death – an idea that has outlived its time.”
    “How well have you known Junior’s parents?”
    “Only casually. Senior was a workaholic – an agreeable man, but not at all social. Gritty likes the country club life – golf, cards, dinner dances. I wanted her to serve on my board of trustees, but it was too dull for her taste.”
    “Gritty? Is that Mrs. Goodwinter’s name?”
    “Gertrude, actually, but there’s a certain clique here that clings to their adolescent nicknames: Muffy, Buffy, Bunky, Dodo. I must admit that Mrs. Goodwinter has an abundance of grit, for good or ill. She’s like her mother. Euphonia Gage is a spunky woman.”
    A distant buzzer sounded, and Qwilleran lighted the candles, dropped a Fauré cassette in the player, and served dinner.
    “You obviously know everyone in Pickax,” he remarked.
    “For a newcomer I don’t do badly. I’ve been here only… twenty-five years.”
    “I had a hunch you