Read The Cat Who Went Underground Online

Authors: Lilian Jackson Braun

Tags: #Qwilleran; Jim (Fictitious character), #Detective and mystery stories, #Journalists, #Mystery & Detective, #Political, #Yum Yum (Fictitious character: Braun), #General, #Cat owners, #cats, #Journalists - United States, #Pets, #Siamese cat, #Yum Yum (Fictitious character : Braun), #Koko (Fictitious character), #Fiction

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BOOK: The Cat Who Went Underground
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“All fish has bones,” the waiter said.

“But not all waiters have brains,” Mildred snapped. “Harvey, take that plate out to the kitchen and bring Mr. Qwilleran a decent filet of whitefish – and no excuses!”

The waiter scuttled away with the plate.

Qwilleran asked, “How long does your authority over these kids continue? Harvey is at least twenty-five. Is there a statute of limitations?”

“Anyone who goes through my classes gets me for life,” she stated flatly.

“There must be advantages and disadvantages in knowing everyone. How long do I have to live in Moose County before I know the entire population?”

“It’s too late for you, Qwill. You have to be born here, grow up here, and teach school for a couple of decades.”

There was a flurry of activity at the entrance as the parade’s grand marshal entered and was seated at a table by himself, still glittering with silver nailheads.

“I wonder why he’s alone,” Qwilleran said.

“He’s a loner,” said Mildred.

But the waiter, serving the fresh plate of whitefish, said with a wicked grin, “Because they won’t let his horse in.”

Mildred reached across the table and rapped his knuckles with the handle of her table knife. “That was uncalled for, Harvey. Don’t expect a tip!” To Qwilleran she added, “Mighty Lou is one of our town characters – colorful and harmless. If you were thinking of writing a column about him, don’t! Let sleeping dogs lie.”

“I was considering a column on family reunions. Are they closed sessions, or could a reporter barge in?”

“They’d be thrilled to have someone from the newspaper! They really would!”

“What do they do at these affairs?”

“They have a business meeting and elect officers for the coming year, but mostly they just visit and eat and play games.”

“There was an announcement in the paper that the Wimsey family is having a reunion this Sunday on someone’s farm.”

“They’re the largest family in the county, next to the Goodwinters,” Mildred said. “Do you know Cecil Huggins at the hardware store? He’s related to the Wimseys by marriage. Just tell Cecil you’d like to cover the reunion. And when you get there, look up Emma Wimsey. She’s real old but still sharp, and she has the most wonderful cat story to tell! When she told me, I got shivers!”

When the waiter brought the dessert menu he said, “I’m sorry if I made a boo-boo, Mrs. Hanstable. It just slipped out.”

“Your apology does you credit, Harvey. You’re back in my good graces.” To Qwilleran she said, “Why don’t we go home for dessert? I could build a parfait with homemade orange ice and fresh raspberries.”

They set out for the Dune Club, but not until Qwilleran had ordered a freshly boiled lobster tail to take home to the cats. On the way, Mildred made a critical appraisal of his posture at the wheel. “Do you have a stiff neck or something, Qwill?”

“Just some soreness in my shoulders – from biking, I suppose. I’m using a different set of muscles, or else I jarred something loose when I bounced over an exposed tree root.”

“Take off your shirt,” she ordered when they arrived at her yellow cottage. “I have a wonderful Swiss oil that Sharon got for me, and I’ll give you a rub.”

As she rubbed in all the right places, his thoughts flew across the Atlantic to Polly Duncan. In England the Fourth of July would be only “4 July,” and Polly would have worked all day at the library, stopping for tea and seedcake at four o’clock. Perhaps she went to an early theater performance after work and then had fish-and-chips with a new friend. (What kind of new friend? he wondered.) And now she would be home in her flat, watching the telly and drinking cocoa – and writing him another postcard.

“Now you can put your shirt on,” Mildred said. “The oil won’t stain. It’s wonderful stuff.”

After the parfait Qwilleran admitted that he felt better, outwardly and inwardly, but he declined to stay longer, saying that he had to feed the cats before they started chewing the table leg. On the way back to the cabin he reflected on Mildred’s charitable nature and her spunk. Singlehanded she had turned the Fourth of July celebration around – from a travesty to a spectacular success. The firm way she handled the whitefish situation; her concern for the lonely girl next door; her initiative in raising money for Buddy Yarrow’s family; everything she did was admirable. And she was a superb cook! He could forgive her silliness about horoscopes and UFOs.

When Qwilleran let himself into the cabin, the rug over the trapdoor was askew as usual. He straightened it automatically and greeted the Siamese, who knew he was carrying something edible, aquatic, and expensive.

“How was your day?” he asked them. “Any excitement? Any phone calls?”

Yum Yum rubbed against his ankles, and Koko pranced in figure eights while he diced the lobster meat. After the feast all three of them went to the lakeside porch, where Koko emulated an Egyptian sculpture and Yum Yum languished in her seductive Cleopatra pose. Stealthily Qwilleran went indoors for his camera, but as soon as he returned, Yum Yum crossed her eyes and scratched her ear, and Koko assumed a grotesque position to wash a spot on his belly that appeared to be perfectly clean.

It was still daylight, and somewhere along the shore the gulls were squawking again. Qwilleran went down the wooden steps and walked toward the clamor. Scores of soaring wings were wheeling over Seagull Point. Moving in slowly, he photographed the performance without disturbing the woman who was feeding them.

Then he sat on a boulder until she tossed the last morsel of food.

“Good show!” he applauded. “Fantastic aerial ballet. I snapped some pictures.”

“Oh,” said Russell, walking hesitantly toward him.

“Pull up a rock and sit down.” He indicated a boulder a few feet from his own seat, and Russell sat down dutifully. “Did you go to the parade today?”

“I don’t like crowds,” she said sadly, addressing the lake.

“You missed an exceptional spectacle.” He picked up a stone and flung it into the water. “Are you enjoying your vacation?”

She nodded without enthusiasm.

“I hope you’ve been to the museum.”

“It was interesting,” she said.

Clenching his teeth, he waited for an inspiration…The subject of food, he remembered, was a foolproof ice-breaker in difficult social situations. He said, “Have you discovered any good restaurants in town?”

After a pause she said, “I never go to restaurants.”

“Do you prefer to cook?”

“I don’t eat much.”

That explained her pencil-thin figure and perhaps her low-energy level. He found a few flat stones and skipped them across the surface of the lake. Then he tried a desperate quip. “Read any good books lately?”

“Nothing special,” she said.

“There’s a small library in Mooseville, and also a woman who operates a paperback book exchange, in case you run out of reading material.”

There was no comment from the other rock, and he skipped a few more stones.

“How do you like the Dunfield cottage?”

Russell squirmed on the rock. “I don’t know.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“I feel uncomfortable.” She appeared to shrink.

“If anything worries you,” he said, “feel free to talk it over with your neighbor, Mildred Hanstable. She’s a kind and understanding woman. And if you need help of any kind, call Mildred or me.”

“You’re a nice man,” said Russell suddenly.

“Well, thank you!” he said. “But you really don’t know me. I turn down the corners of pages in books. I sometimes split an infinitive. And once I wore brown shoes with a black suit.”

She almost smiled, but not quite. Waving a hand toward the log cabin, she said, “You’re building something.”

“I’m building an addition. Walk over and look at it some day. All our neighbors are interested in the process.”

Russell stood up. “I have to go before it gets dark.”

Without further civilities she walked toward the east, and Qwilleran ambled into the setting sun, wondering about this reticent young woman who never really looked at him. Obviously no one had told her the history of the Dunfield cottage, and yet she felt uncomfortable there. In a way she was like Koko; she could sense a sinister influence.

Back at the cabin Qwilleran detected mischief. Yum Yum was darting insanely about the living room while Koko looked on with magisterial calm from the top of the moosehead. Yum Yum seemed to have something small and gray in her mouth.

“Drop it!” Qwilleran shouted, and this was her cue to take flight. Around and around the cabin she flew with the thing in her mouth, while Qwilleran pursued with the grace of a Neanderthal, using all his wits to intercept her and being outwitted at every pass. Tired at last, she hopped on the dining table and dropped the dead mouse in his typewriter.

“Thank you!” he said. “Thank you very much!”

 

CHAPTER 6.

 

TO THE DISAPPOINTMENT of holiday weekenders it rained on Saturday – rained hard.

The bare roofboards on the east wing provided little protection from the downpour, which funneled between the boards and descended in sheets to drench the exposed subfloor. Qwilleran hardly expected Clem to work, and yet the carpenter failed to telephone. Previously he had been punctilious about reporting any change of plan, a businesslike practice that Qwilleran appreciated.

“That young man has a good head on his shoulders,” he said to the Siamese. “He’s bound to be a success. In a few years from now – if he quits the chicken business and sticks with contracting – he’ll be giving XYZ Enterprises some competition.”

Koko merely maneuvered his tail in reply. Tap tap tap. Much of the morning he spent in the window overlooking the building site. Nothing was happening, but he was waiting. Tap tap tap. The cat had always shown an interest in human occupations. He watched Joanna do plumbing repairs, and in Pickax he had supervised Pete Parrott’s paperhanging and Mr. O’Dell’s window washing and carpet cleaning, as well as Qwilleran’s pecking on the typewriter. Koko regarded each operation studiously, like an alert apprentice learning the trade. Now it appeared that he wanted to be a carpenter.

Qwilleran’s first order of business on Saturday was to dial the phone number that he knew so well. “This is Qwilleran at the K cabin on the east shore.”

“Ha ha ha! Don’t need to tell me,” laughed Mrs. Glinko. “Whatcha done now?”

He wanted to say, Dammit, do you think I sit around all day thinking of things to destroy? But she was so relentlessly cheerful and so conscientiously accommodating that he could not be angry with her. He explained, “It’s like this, Mrs. Glinko. I’m afraid mice are getting into this seventy-five-year-old cabin. Is there anyone who could advise me how to stop the invasion?” One mouse hardly constituted an invasion, but he thought it wise to dramatize the urgency of the situation.

“Allrighty. I’ll dispatch Young Jake,” she said. “He’ll know what to do. He goes to college. Ha ha ha!”

Young Jake arrived promptly – another of the big blonds indigenous to Moose County, driving another of the ubiquitous blue pickups. “We’re having a little trouble here?” he asked with the kindly manner of an old country doctor.

Qwilleran explained the episode of the previous evening. “That’s the first mouse I’ve seen, but it might be only the reconnaissance detail.”

“Has your cat been showing interest in any particular part of the cabin?”

“She’s spent a lot of time watching the stove and refrigerator in the last couple of days. I thought she was dropping broad hints about the meal service.”

“We’ll have a look,” said Jake. “How do I get into the crawl space?” When shown the trapdoor he handed Qwilleran a flashlight. “I’ll scout around down below, and you shine the light in the corners of the rooms and behind the appliances where pipes or cables come into the house. If I see a pinpoint of light, I’ll close the crack with a sealant. Those little rascals can squeeze through even a hairline crack”.

Jake dropped through the trapdoor with practiced ease and proceeded to shout orders. “Move east. That’s right… Hold it!… All tight here. Move on… Hold it!… False alarm. Move on. Cables coming up. Not too fast! Hold it!… Ah! This is it! Hold steady!”

When the job was done, the expert emerged from the hole, draped with cobwebs.

“The mice had an open invitation where the power lines come into the house,” he said. “Excuse me. I’ll step outside to brush myself off.”

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Qwilleran said when he returned and presented his bill.

“The job’s guaranteed. If you have a problem, I’ll come back. No extra charge.”

“Fair enough. Is this your specialty?”

“No, I’m a general practitioner, but I’ve had plenty of cases like this at the beach cottages. I work during summer vacation.”

“If you’re Young Jake, I presume there’s an Old Jake,” Qwilleran said.

“My father. Maybe you know him. Dr. Armbruster, surgeon at the Pickax hospital. I’m in pre-med myself. I’m going into surgery.”

Another idea for the “Qwill Pen,” Qwilleran thought as the GP drove away. He released the Siamese from the guestroom where they had been confined while the trapdoor was open. “Thank you for your quiet and courteous cooperation,” he said. “You’ve earned a treat. Cereal!” Yum Yum bounded to the kitchen, and Koko pranced on his hind legs.

When the rain stopped around noon, Qwilleran half expected to see the Frantic Chicken pulling into the clearing; Clem never wasted an hour, never missed an opportunity to earn a dollar for his forthcoming marriage to Maryellen. She was a fine young woman, and she was getting a good man.

There was no action on Saturday afternoon, however, and no phone call. Now everything would have to wait until Monday.

On Sunday the sun was shining, the temperature was pleasant, and Qwilleran dressed with the anticipation of a cub reporter assigned to a good story; in more than twenty-five years of newspapering he had never lost that element of challenge and expectation, though it were only a family reunion. There are no dull stories, he told himself – only dull reporters.

He sang in the shower, he soaped lavishly, and then the water suddenly ran cold.

BOOK: The Cat Who Went Underground
2.61Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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