The Rules and The Cat Who Smelled a Rat

If you're a little confused by the intent of these exercises, please read the introduction to the 2/7/99 C-Pad.

1. In a book that hops around and hardly dwells on any part of its plot, gauging the emotional impact of crimes and events seldom allowed to develop to the point of achieving true potency is a difficult task indeed. The loss of Eddington Smith was dismaying, and the book seemed to feel the loss at first, but by the end, it had forgotten even to provide a consistent explanation of the reasons for his death (see Rule #2). I was disappointed with sudden removal of the dumbly amusing Ruff Abbey (whose role in the mystery, again, could've been filled by any faceless victim), but no great attachment could be formed to the character, since he popped for the first and only time in just one scene in this book; only the loss of great potential could really be mourned. Cass Young's semi-Capanean story was rife with tragedy, but it was explored not a bit.

   There was an attempt to drum up reader support by casting the villains as vandals willing to sack and pillage Moose County's history for their personal gain, but this was somewhat nullified by the fact that the heroes seem to nurse a (un)healthy disrespect for the past as well. More on this in Rule #5.

   A lot of half-realized, half-hearted passes, yet the sheer volume of incidents do work to the book's advantage in piquing the reader's interest as to how all of it is interconnected. And I can't claim to be totally unmoved by Edd's death or a potentially engaging new supporting character (something in such short supply these days...) slipping through the series's fingers. And, hey, I'm all for prosecuting anyone who starts up one of those of payday loan companies. Living in Montana, that idea is very appealing to me. (Do you know that they don't even sell the cars they repossess for nonpayment? I learned from a tow garage-owner friend of mine that they just leave them in the junkyards to rot, because the businesses are supposed to be money-losing tax-write-offs for the big coastal corporations that own them.) Anyhow, for that, I can give Smelled a Rat half-credit for Rule #1.

2. Um. This is tough to judge. I can't remember Qwill knocking himself out, but I don't recall him exactly slacking off, either. Then again, it's difficult to piece together a mystery that the book doesn't care to piece together itself.

   Consider: who killed Edd? Nightingale, I suppose, considering his interest in Edd's rare books and how he did all the Bad Apples' dirty work, but it'd be nice to get some confirmation of the fact. How was the bookseller snuffed - poison, smothering, what? Or did he truly die of a heartattack, as speculated earlier? It doesn't really matter, but it's rather strange for a mystery novel not to reveal its killer's choice of weapon. Provided that Nightingale did murder Edd, did he really he have an ulterior motive other than the Exbridge's development plans - namely, of stealing some rare books? His behavior in Edd's shop indicated that he was astounded at the value of its stock; surely, considering his cover gig, it would've made sense for him to nip a few titles after the murder or before the arson. And, for that matter, why didn't the arson and murder take place at the same time, so as not to arouse excessive suspicion? Argh, argh. (Actually, the reason why we don't get a resolution on many of these matters might lie with the book seemingly having two separate versions of the relevant events - a distinct window of time between Edd's death and the burning of his shop at the beginning of the book, and the two events pretty much happening at the same time at the end of the book (which would not allow for many, if any, books to be stolen/retrieved by Nightingale). I'm sticking to the first version - which, incidentally, means that the danger from which Winston was fleeing was the fire (hence his charred, stained fur), not, as asserted later on the book, his master's death, so the cat's integrity is intact. (Winston and Edd were pretty much each other's only friends; I can't see Winston abandoning him that "easily".))

   Similarly (but not as complex), who killed Ruff Abbey? Again, it seems we're supposed to assume Nightingale, but the book forgets to tell us. The Bad Apples didn't really get their bullet's worth in that instance, though - they didn't succeed in burning down the shafthouse, and they didn't stop Ruff from reporting that the short-lived fire was the result of arson, not an accident. (Kirt would've stopped Ruff from identifying the arsonist, if that was a potential problem, but if Kirt went out there undisguised/unmasked, he's a moron and deserves to get caught.)

   Why did Exbridge target the shafthouses, anyway? Are we to believe that the only undeveloped land available in Moose County were the plots sitting under those shafthouses which had achieved near state-park status? (And what made Exbridge assume that the land would be available even if the shafthouses were destroyed?)

   But Qwilleran was...passable. I don't think he was disinterested, but his sleuthing was still a bit stuck in his recent method of strolling about and talking to people when the chance arises - but he at least took care to speak to all of the right people, and that counts for a lot. His efforts, however, seem less than they actually were, and I think I know why - we hardly ever see Qwill mentally dissecting the information he gathers. Such brainstorming interludes advance the mystery plot and build tension as the complexity and scope of the crimes are speculated upon or revealed. Getting the right pieces to the puzzle is only half of the equation - knowing how to piece them together is paramount, and Qwill didn't prove that he knew how to do that - he just sat on his info. But this all hearkens back to the problem of loose ends expressed at the start of this Rule.

   The other problem was that Qwilleran seemed to lack drive in a scenario that screamed for it - an old friend dying under suspicious circumstances, a great (at least in this book) part of Moose County's history under siege, and (a good motive for this Qwill, at least), a large inheritance lost. The lack of these two elements, paired with the attention-deficit narrative, made the investigation seem rather meandering.

   But Qwilleran did try, even though I'm a bit loathe to give him full credit for it. Half-credit seems more appropriate.

3. Negative. The exact significance of Koko's "three bad apples" clue is tough to infer until we're given the nickname and its history at the very end of the story, and by that time, the identities of the crooks are self-evident, so it doesn't matter. (Yeah, the "three" is still applicable, but the relevancy of the apples part of the clue is unfathomable until the end.) The pyramid clues (which, with good reason, are really confusing some fans) are almost red herrings in their obliqueness; few people (not even Qwilleran before Brodie explained the terms to him, in fact) have even heard of "pyramiding" in the Ponzi-scheme meaning it is used here; the word association in a crime context would most immediately bring to mind a traditional pyramid scheme, which was nowhere to be found in this book. Neither, really, was pyramiding itself, which was hardly at all explored here as a crime of Exbridge's, and even then as a peripheral crime wedged into the denouement.

   Rule #3 disobeyed already, but I probably should mention here the fan objections to Koko being removed from the premises before Qwilleran's climactic confrontation with Nightingale after all the times the cat has saved his human's neck in such situations. Conscientious, but dumb on Qwill's part in view of all the times Koko's saved his neck.

4. Bad. Virtually the entire Moose County supporting cast popped up - but each only for half-a-page or so before Qwilleran shoved off (half the time tossing off an offhand insult to them before moving on).

   Save for a few folks, most of the regulars were shafted in favor of the lackluster new additions - Misty Morghan, who is my pick for the most relentlessly grating supporting character ever introduced in the series; Jeffa Young, striking in physical appearance but not in personality, encroaching on Mildred's character territory as the county's resident expert in the occult; Burgess Campbell, unremarkable except for the fact that he is blind, which is itself little remarked-upon or explored.

   Susan Exbridge probably popped up most frequently (next to Polly), but she wasn't really an active participant in the proceedings; Qwill just used her for reference. (It'd actually be quite interesting if she got out "in the field" once...) Wetherby was present semi-frequently, but he didn't have any substantial, memorable scenes. Only Polly came off well, in my opinion; as noted in my review, I thought she nimbly provided a refreshing, down-to-earth counterpoint to Qwilleran's smart-aleckness and pettyness this time around.

   The pleasant Maggie Sprenkle, who I think is the most worthwhile and distinctive, and therefore welcome, of the relatively new characters, deserved some more page time, especially in view of the crucial role she played in the plot. And, as I said before, I think a length chat with Jeffa's daughter could've yielded some interesting conversation. But nothing developed on either front, and thus that's neither here nor there, Rule #4 disobeyed.

5. To me, a very clear theme emerged in the course of the story - the destruction of the old in favor of the new. The incineration of Edd's Editions, and Edd's age, never before specified or emphasized, becoming a big issue. The villains casting away old identities for new. Homer and his health-spa friends' reminisces of once-everyday sounds you don't hear anymore. Old friends in the cast being shoved aside in favor of vapid newcomers. The post office murals, introduced only to be destroyed. Destroyed for a completely unconvincing reason, I might add - having had experience with lead-paint poisoning myself, I must say that a couple chips falling down onto a wood or tile floor is no reason to break out the containment suits. The lead in the chips has to have a way to dissolve and permeate the atmosphere in considerable quantities to pose a health risk - say, by a construction crew scraping an entire side of a lead-painted house, allowing all the chips to fall on and completely cover a neighbor's postage-stamp lawn and not cleaning them up for a (rainy, snowy) month until the property owner calls the EPA, resulting in grass hardly growing on said lawn for the entire year and, as far as the porperty owner knows, possibly the next as well. (If you couldn't tell, yes, I am the property owner in that story. I actually got off rather easily with just the grass and soil being affected.) The only danger I can see in the post-office scenario - which was never mentioned in the story - is the fear of stupid kids coming in and eating the fallen chips if they weren't swept away, and there's a lot more obvious trouble kids can get into in post offices (getting their arms caught in the mailboxes! crawling into and down the package drops!) to worry about. (Moreover, if the paint was peeling off so prodigiously to the point of it becoming a public concern, then the murals must have been horribly ill-maintained for being such supposedly heavy tourist draws - in which case the debate's focus would've been turned to a Lived High-esque deliberation on whether the murals were in good enough condition to save, or if neglect had definitively done them in (which probably would've been more interesting to explore, actually).)

   The only conflict in which old prevailed was the battle to save the shafthouses - which're really new additions to the series and thus don't fully count. (Well, there also was antique dealer Susan versus her developer ex-husband, which was a very clever but ultimately minor contrast. And Susan's driven more by profits than a true love of the past, anyway.)

   Was this intended? The book seems to think it's crusading for protection of the artifacts of the past, but the opposing undercurrents are too great to ignore. Both Crystal Wood and Eileen Carlan theorized that the dismantling/remodeling of Moose County could be symptomatic of possible exhaustion/exasperation on Braun's part with writing the series for so very long - an excellent hypothesis that deserves further (and definitely impending) examination.

   Characterization. No one was on-page long enough to be characterized satisfactorily, Polly and Jeffa's daughter (who didn't put in a long appearance but made a potent impression in the small time she was present) excepted. Don Exbridge's and Blythe's portrayals were particular head-scratchers - to quote Eileen Carlan, "although never portrayed as sympathetic characters, [here they're] demonized as outright criminals". Exbridge has always been overambitious, stupid, and unscrupulous, but not evil. And while I can very easily imagine Blythe on the take, murder seems way out of his league.

   I don't need to again address the many missed opportunities to add greater depth to the story or characters ennumerated in the last C-Pad.

   With characterization out of the way, to the crux of the matter, then - should credit be given for a theme that is never acknowledged, that flies in the face of the series's traditional advocacy of judicious historical preservation, and that is rather, well, objectionable? Well, it must be conceded that it was a shred of unity in a book in deep need of some, and it is possibly quite relevatory as to the author's mindset, so half-credit reluctantly extended.

Back to the C-pad index.

Back to the Ronald Frobnitz and Family index.