The Cat Who Robbed a Bank Read Online Free PDF Page A

him to Bruce's Tuxedo Rental and talked him into trimming his beard—just a trifle, not enough to crush his personality. . . . Are you ready to see the rest of the building?”
    The dining room was now the Mackintosh Room—with white tablecloths and black-lacquered Stickley chairs. They had square-spindled backs and upholstered seats covered in the Mackintosh tartan. That was red, with a dark green stripe, and the carpet was dark green. The focal point on the back wall was a large Mackintosh crest in wrought iron, said to come from a Scottish castle gate. It had a cat rampant and the clan motto: Touch not the cat bott a glove .
    The coffee shop was now called Rennie's and was done in the style of a Glasgow tea room designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh.
    There was a ballroom on the lower level that would be the scene of the opening reception, Mr. Delacamp's Tuesday Tea, and all future luncheon meetings of the Boosters Club.
    The guestrooms, furnished in Stickley, were Fran's chief pride. She said, “I've traveled extensively and stayed in luxury hotels with lavish furnishings but no place to put anything down ! That's my pet peeve, and I designed these rooms to be functional as well as attractive.”
    Qwilleran asked, “Where will Mr. Delacamp camp while he's here?”
    â€œIn the presidential suite. No president ever stayed here, but there's still an adjoining room for the Secret Service, and it'll be used for his assistant.”
    â€œI hope he likes cats.” Qwilleran pointed to a building across the street. An upstairs apartment had five windows with a cat in each, sitting on the sill and watching the flow of traffic below.
    â€œAren't they adorable?” Fran said. “They're watching pigeons on the roof of the inn.”
    â€œOr making a traffic survey. Who lives there?”
    â€œMrs. Sprenkle. The Sprenkle family owns the whole block. When her husband died, she sold their country house and moved downtown. She likes the action. He liked peace and quiet. Why does a man who can't stand noise marry a woman who can't stand silence?”
    â€œIt's the Jack Sprat law. She has unusual curtains. Is she a client of yours?”
    â€œNo. Amanda has done her work for forty years. It's all Victorian. You'd hate it, Qwill! . . . And now, would you like to meet the manager before you leave? He's from Chicago.”
    The door to the manager's office on the second floor was standing open, and a clean-cut young man in suit and tie was working at the desk.
    Fran said, “Barry, would you like to meet Mr. Q?”
    Before she could make the introductions, he jumped up with hand extended. “I'm Barry Morghan, spelled with a GH.”
    â€œI'm Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW. Welcome to—”
    â€œExcuse me, you guys. I have to run along,” Fran said. “See you both at the reception.”
    â€œHave a chair, Mr. Qwilleran,” said the manager.
    â€œCall me Qwill. It's shorter, more forceful, and saves energy. I hear you're from Chicago. So am I, a Cubs fan from birth. What brings you to the backwoods?”
    â€œWell, you see, I'd been assistant manager in a big hotel and decided this was a good career move. I'd always liked the hospitality field. My dad was a traveling man and sometimes took me along. I liked staying in different hotels, and my first ambition was to be a bellhop and wear one of those neat uniforms. I was pretty young then. Now I like the idea of being an innkeeper. I trained at Cornell.”
    â€œWould you say the inn is getting off to a good start?”
    â€œAbsolutely!” Barry consulted a calendar. “Champagne reception tomorrow night. Big family reunion on Labor Day. Formal afternoon tea Tuesday. Boosters Club luncheon Wednesday. All rooms booked for the Labor Day weekend and the Scottish weekend! And dinner reservations are going fast for the Mackintosh Room. We have this great chef from Chicago, you know.