The Cat Who Went Underground

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Qwilleran telephoned Roger at the office. “Could you shirk your parental duties for one night,” he asked the new father, “and meet me somewhere for dinner?”

  “Right! Sharon owes me one. I baby-sat twice last week while she went out,” said Roger. “Want to meet me in Brrr for a boozeburger?”

  “Sure,” Qwilleran said, “or we could try that new restaurant if you like red-hot food.”

  “I’m willing to give it a try. I have some red-hot news for you.”

  The new restaurant was called the Hot Spot, and it advertised in the Something as “the cool place to go for hot cuisine.” It occupied a former firehall in Brrr, with thirty tables jammed into space that once housed two firetrucks. The original brick walls and stamped metal ceiling had been retained, and there was nothing to absorb sound except the sweating bodies that swarmed into the place for Mexican, Cajun and East Indian dishes.

  “Noisy, isn’t it?” Qwilleran observed as he and Roger stood in line for a table.

  “Noisy is what people like,” Roger said. “It makes them think they’re having a good time.”

  A flustered host seated them at a small table squeezed between two others of the same limited dimensions. On one side were a pair of underclad beachcombers, shouting at each other in order to be heard. On the other side were two shrill-voiced women in resort clothes.

  “This is not the place for exchanging confidences,” Qwilleran said.

  “Let’s just eat and get out,” Roger suggested. “Then we can have pie and coffee at the Black Bear and do some talking.”

  Waiters scurried about, bumping the chairs of the closely packed diners and colliding with each other. Qwilleran felt something splash on the back of his neck and dabbed at it with a napkin; it was red.

  A harried waiter came to take their orders.

  “Enchiladas!” Qwilleran said loudly.

  “How hot d’you want the sauce?”

  “Industrial strength!”

  “Cajun pork chops!” Roger shouted.

  After ordering they stared at each other dumbly, defeated by the high-decibel din. Qwilleran saw—seated across the table—a pale, slender, eager young man whose neatly clipped black beard and trimmed black hair accentuated his white complexion. Roger saw a robust fifty-year-old whose luxuriant salt-and-pepper moustache was known throughout Moose County and in several cities Down Below.

  Although they found it difficult to communicate, nearby voices came through with amazing clarity. A woman’s strident voice said, “My cat is always throwing up hairballs as big as my thumb.”

  Qwilleran frowned. “How’s Sharon?” he shouted to Roger.

  “Itching to go back to work!”

  “How old is Junior?”

  “Six months, two weeks, three days!”

  Qwilleran became aware of a large bare foot, probably size fifteen, rising from the floor alongside him, as the beachcomber at the next table said to his companion, “Look at this toenail. D’you think I’ll lose it? It turned black after I dropped the anchor on it.”

  The shrill voice on the other side was saying, “Her husband’s in the hospital. They cut him from ear to ear and took out a tumor as big as a brussels sprout.”

  At that moment two dinner plates were banged down on the table without warning. Qwilleran sniffed his and said, “This isn’t Mexican food. This is Indian curry.”

  “I ordered pork chops,” said Roger, “but this is some kind of omelette.”

  “Let’s get out of here!” Qwilleran seized both plates and carried them to the entrance, where he handed them to the astonished host. “Warm these up and serve them to somebody else,” he said. “Come on, Roger, let’s go to the Black Bear.”

  The Black Bear Café in the century-old Hotel Booze was famous for its boozeburgers and homemade pies. The atmosphere was dingy and the furniture sleazy, but one could converse. Qwilleran and Roger seated themselves cautiously in two rickety chairs and were greeted by Gary Pratt, the shaggy black-bearded proprietor. He had a stevedore’s shoulders and a sailor’s tan.

  “Looks like you’ve been out on your boat,” Qwilleran remarked.

  “Every Sunday!” said the big man in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

  “Is the Hot Spot cutting into your business?”

  “All my customers went there once, when the place first opened, but they’ve all come back. What’ll you have?”

  “Boozeburger and a beer for me,” said Roger.

  “Boozeburger and coffee,” Qwilleran said. “Okay, Roger, let’s have your hot news.”

  “Do you know Three Tree Island?”

  “Only by name. It’s out in the lake in front of my place, I believe, but not visible from shore.”

  “It’s several miles out—just a flat, sandy beach with a hump in the middle and a clump of trees. It belongs to a guy who owns some charter fishing boats, and he has a dock and fishing shack out there. Fishermen tie up to do a little drinking and clean their catch. Kids go sunning on the sand and use the shack for God-knows-what.”

  “So what’s the news? He’s decided to build condominiums?”

  “The news is—and I got it from the pilot of the sheriff’s helicopter—that there’s been a UFO landing on the beach!”

  Qwilleran regarded Roger with scornful disbelief. “He’s putting you on.”

  “He’s serious. I know the guy well. He spotted a large burned patch on the island—perfectly round.”

  “Some kids had a bonfire,” Qwilleran said.

  “Too big for that.”

  “What does the sheriff say?”

  “The pilot hasn’t made an official report. It might affect his credibility in the department.”

  “What are you leading up to?”

  “I thought we could get a Geiger counter or something and go out there, and I’d write a story for the paper. Bushy has a boat, and he’s game.”

  Qwilleran was temporarily speechless. In his early days, however, as a reporter he had followed wilder leads than this one. Roger was young. He should not be discouraged.

  “Would you like to come with us?” the younger man asked.

  Qwilleran smoothed his moustache thoughtfully. Although he placed no stock in the rumor, he hated to be left out of the investigation. “I wouldn’t mind going along for the ride.”

  “As a disinterested third party you could corroborate our findings, and it would add weight to the story.”

  “Don’t trap me into endorsing any harebrained adventure tale, m’boy. What’s Bushy’s reaction?”

  “He’s ready to go! I just wanted to get some input from you.”

  A waitress served the boozeburgers, six inches in diameter, four inches high, and famous throughout the county. The two men munched in silence for a while. This mountain of food required the utmost concentration and several paper napkins, and it so happened that the Black Bear charged a nickel for a paper napkin, not of the best quality.

  “Everything okay?” asked Gary Pratt, prowling around the dining area like the black bear that he resembled.

  “Next time I’m bringing my own paper napkins,” said Qwilleran. “What’s the pie today?”

  “Chocolate meringue, but it’s going fast. Want to order a couple of pieces?”

  “It all depends on how you’re cutting the pie—with an inch-rule or a micrometer. I know your game, Gary. What you lose on the burgers, you make up on the pie and the paper napkins.”

  “For a couple of healthy guys like you,” Gary said, “I’d suggest two slices apiece, and I won’t charge for the napkins.”

  “It’s a deal!”

  Gary shuffled away, cackling his high-pitched laugh.

  By the time the four slices of pie were served to the two men, it was Qwilleran’s turn to launch a rumor of his own. He said, “Instead of chasing UFOs, Roger, you should be investigating a rash of criminal activity in Mooseville.”

  Roger gulped and set down his fork.

  NINE

  “How’s the pie?
” asked the proprietor, making his rounds.

  “Best I ever tasted, Gary,” said Qwilleran. “Is your grandmother still making your pies?”

  “No, the old lady died, but my aunt has her recipes.”

  “It’s rich but not cloying, creamy but not viscid.”

  “I should raise the price,” Gary said as he walked away to ring up a sale on the antique brass cash register.

  Qwilleran said to Roger, “There’s something satisfying about the sound of an old cash register: the thump of the key, the ring of the sale, the scrape of the drawer popping out . . . How come you’re not eating your pie?”

  “You threw me a curve,” said Roger, who had been staring into space. “What kind of criminal activity do you mean? Is something going on that I don’t know about?” Like most natives of the county he considered it his privilege to know everything that was happening, and as a reporter he considered it his duty to know it first.

  “It’s happening right in front of your eyes. If you’re going to be a journalist, you’ve got to start thinking as well as reporting.”

  “Gosh! Give me a clue!”

  “I ran into a similar case in Rio fifteen years ago, but you expect that sort of thing in South America; you don’t expect it in Mooseville.” Qwilleran was purposely prolonging the suspense.

  Roger stared at him expectantly, with his fork poised in midair.

  “I seriously suspect,” said Qwilleran, taking time to groom his moustache, “that someone in the Mooseville area has put a curse on carpenters.”

  Roger relaxed. “What’s the joke, Qwill? Give me the punch line.”

  “It’s no joke. Carpenters are dying and disappearing at an ungodly rate. Anyone who believes in UFOs should be able to accept the age-old mystique of the curse—an evil spirit exerting influence in an otherwise healthy community.”

  Roger put down his fork. These statements were coming from a veteran journalist whom he admired and respected. “Where do you get your statistics, Qwill?”

  “It’s common knowledge. We’ve had two accidents, one death from so-called natural causes, and a couple of disappearances. And it’s all happened in the last two months. Joe Trupp appears to have been the first.”

  “Everybody knows the tailgate of a truck fell on him,” Roger said. “It was an open-and-shut case of accidental death. That’s what the coroner ruled.”

  “That’s the beauty of a curse. Everything looks so natural, so normal, so accidental. Then there was the underground builder who was putting up Lyle Compton’s garage. He vanished completely, and all efforts to trace him have failed.”

  “Well, you know those itinerants,” said Roger. “They come and go. Half the time I suspect they’re fugitives, and when the law starts to catch up with them, they take off!”

  “Then how about Buddy Yarrow, drowned in a fishing accident? He was neither an itinerant nor a fugitive. He was a family man and highly respected craftsman. Also an experienced fisherman. Also a strong swimmer.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Roger said with regret. “I knew Buddy well. But the coroner ruled that he slipped on the muddy bank of the river—after that big rain we had—and hit his head on a rock.”

  “And how about Captain Phlogg,” Qwilleran persisted. “He masqueraded as a sea captain, but actually he was a ship’s carpenter.”

  “We all knew he’d drink himself to death sooner or later.”

  “Roger, if you’re not going to eat your chocolate pie, push it over this way.”

  The young man applied himself to the dessert, consuming it but not necessarily enjoying it. “That’s four victims,” he said. “Are there more?”

  “I suspect the fifth is Clem Cottle.”

  “Clem Cottle! What happened to him? Nothing has been reported.”

  Qwilleran finished his second piece of pie before continuing. “I don’t know what happened to him. He’d been building a new wing on the cabin for me and doing a great job. When he left Thursday night he told me he’d be marching in the parade the next day. He also said he’d be on the job Saturday. Now listen to this: He wasn’t in the parade, and he didn’t work Saturday, nor did he attend the Wimsey reunion with his fiancée yesterday. Again this morning he failed to show up, so I called his folks. His father said Clem was out of town, and he had no idea when he’d be back.”

  “There’s nothing unusual about that, is there?”

  “Only that Maryellen was looking worried and Mrs. Cottle was sobbing when she answered the phone.”

  “Do you suppose he got in some kind of trouble?”

  “Wait a minute. Here’s the clincher: This afternoon I went biking on the Old Brrr Road, and I found Clem’s truck, headed into a ditch. There was no sign of a crash; it was simply parked there—abandoned—with the key in the ignition!”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told Maryellen it was time for the family to notify the authorities. So we may not be dealing with a curse in the old sense of the word, but you have to admit that something bizarre is happening in Mooseville. The town has a few peculiar characters. I won’t mention any names. You know them as well as I do. Perhaps better. You’ve lived here all your life.”

  “Jeez!” said Roger in a daze. “You wouldn’t think anything like that could happen in Mooseville.”

  “Think about it,” Qwilleran said. “Keep your eyes open when you cover your beat. Don’t believe everything you hear. Cogitate beyond the obvious . . . And finish your pie. I’ll get the check.”

  After Roger had left for home, Qwilleran thought, That’ll give the kid something to ponder while he’s baby-sitting. It’ll take his mind off UFOs.

  He moved over to the bar where Gary was filling drink orders.

  “Squunk water and a twist?” asked the barkeeper. Mineral water from a flowing well at Squunk Corners was Qwilleran’s regular drink at the Black Bear. Gary trucked demijohns to the well and filled them without charge, then retailed the precious stuff in his bar at an incalculable markup.

  Qwilleran said to him, “Considering what you make on Squunk water and paper napkins, you could afford to buy new chairs—or at least glue the old ones.”

  “The place would lose all its character. The boaters especially like the shabby atmosphere.”

  “Do you ever sail out to Three Tree Island, Gary?”

  “Nah! What’s there? Nothing but a stinkin’ fish shack. The beach is okay for sunning, but I get all the sun I need on deck. And the water’s too cold for swimming. That’s the only thing wrong with this lake. Don’t fall overboard, or you’re an instant ice cube.”

  “Do you ever see any UFOs over the lake?”

  “Oh, sure. All the time. They like us. I don’t know why.”

  A few stools down the bar a man in a silk designer shirt and alligator Loafers joined the conversation. “I’ve seen seventeen this year.” Among the come-as-you-are crowd he was highly conspicuous.

  Gary said, “Mighty Lou is the official scorekeeper for extraterrestrial activity. Do you know Mighty Lou?”

  Qwilleran turned and nodded at the man who had ridden in the parade as grand marshal. The man ignored the introduction but said, “I write them down in a book.”

  Gary moved away to serve a customer, and Qwilleran went to the men’s room. When they resumed their conversation, Qwilleran said to the barkeeper, “Do you happen to know a good carpenter who would take on a small job? I’ve been building an addition to my cabin, but the guy let me down.”

  “They’re hard to find in summer. They sign on with the big firms.”

  “I’d even consider an underground builder.”

  “Funny you should mention it,” said Gary. “Iggy’s back in town. He came in last night.”

  “Iggy?” Qwilleran repeated. “Can you recommend him?”

  “He’s a good craftsman, I guess, but he’s lazy. You have to keep on his tail.”

  “Does he have a job lined up?”

  “I doubt it. He just got in on his broomstick last night.”


  “Is he that bad?”

  “Nah, I’m kidding. Want me to send him out to your place? He’ll probably come in the bar later tonight. Write down your address.”

  Qwilleran wrote the information on a bar check. “Ask him to come early tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll try, but I doubt whether ‘early’ is in his vocabulary.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him?” Qwilleran asked.

  “For one thing, he’s the skinniest guy I ever saw—with a nicotine habit that won’t stop. But he’s strong as an ox! Can’t understand it. He hardly ever eats.”

  “But he drinks?”

  “He does his share of boozing, but the thing of it is, he’s just lazy. And wait till you see his truck! I swear the only thing that holds the body onto the chassis is the brake pedal.” Gary got a signal from a customer down the bar and moved away.

  Mighty Lou settled his tab and threw a large bill on the bar for a tip. Then he approached Qwilleran with a chesty air of importance. “You need a builder?” he asked. “I can handle a few small jobs between contracts. Here’s my card.” He handed over a business card with engraved lettering on good stock: MIGHTY LOU, CONTRACTOR. There was a telephone number but no address.

  “Thank you,” said Qwilleran, putting the card in his wallet. “I may get in touch.” He looked questioningly at Gary as the big man left the restaurant.

  The barkeeper shrugged in a gesture of sympathy. “Harmless,” he said. “Another Squunk?”

  “No, thanks. I’m driving.” As Qwilleran left the restaurant, he was hailed by diners at one of the tables. Lyle and Lisa Compton were lingering over coffee.

  “Sit down and have a cup,” said the superintendent.

  Qwilleran lowered himself carefully into one of the wobbly chairs. “You’re just the people I wanted to see! What was the name of the fellow who was building your garage?”

  “Mert,” said Compton. “He never told me his last name, and I was afraid to ask. These underground characters are very suspicious. They value their privacy.”