The Cat Who Played Post Office tcw-6

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Qwilleran, wouldn't you like to replace your little car with something more… upscale? Mr. Fitch at the bank will cover the transaction." "There's nothing wrong with the car I have, Miss Good- winter. There's no rust on the body, and it's economical to operate." Qwilleran ended the conversation hurriedly. While Penelope was talking he became aware of unusual noises coming from another part of the house — a miscellany of plopping, pattering, fluttering, swishing, and skittering. He rushed out of the library to track it down.

  Beyond the foyer with its majestic staircase there was a vestibule of generous proportions, floored with squares of creamy white marble. Here was the rosewood hall stand with hooks for top hats and derbies, as well as a rack for walking sticks. Here was a marble-topped table with a silver tray for calling cards. And here was the massive front door with its brass handle and escutcheon, its brass doorbell that jangled when one turned a key on the outside, and its brass mail slot.

  Through this slot were shooting envelopes of every size, and shape, dropping in a pile on the floor. Sitting on the cool marble and watching the process with anticipation were Koko and Yum Yum. Now and then Koko would put forth a paw and scoop a letter from the pile, and Yum Yum would bat it around the slick floor.

  As Qwilleran watched, the cascade of envelopes stopped falling, and through the sidelights he could see the mail carrier stepping into her Jeep and driving away.

  His first impulse was to call the post office and suggest some other arrangement, but then he observed the pleasure that the event afforded the cats. They jumped into the pile like children in a snowbank, rolling over and skidding and scattering the mail. Nothing so wonderful had ever happened in their young lives! Letters slithered across the marble vestibule and into the parquet foyer, where Yum Yum tried to push them under the Oriental rug. Hiding things was her specialty.

  One letter was gripped in Koko's jaws, and he paraded around with an air of importance. It was a pink envelope.

  "Here, give me that letter!" Qwilleran commanded.

  Koko ran into the dining room with Qwilleran in pursuit. The cat darted in and out of the maze of sixty-four chair legs, with the man chasing and scolding. Eventually Koko tired of the game and dropped the pink envelope at Qwilleran's feet.

  It was a letter from the postmistress he had met in Mooseville during his vacation. Beautifully typed, it put to shame his own two-fingered efforts, which had not improved despite twenty-five years of filing news stories. The letter read:

  Dear Qwill, Congratulations on your good fortune! You and the Siamese will be a wonderful addition to Moose County.

  We hope you will enjoy living up here.

  Nick and I have some exciting news, too. I'm pregnant at last! He wants me to quit my job because I'm on my feet so much (the doctor says I must be careful), so here's an idea. Could you use a part-time secretary? It would be fun to be a secretary to a real writer.

  Say hello to Koko and Yum Yum for me.

  Catfully yours, Lori Bamba

  It was obvious what had happened. Koko had selected the pink letter from the pile of mail because it carried the scent of someone he knew. Lori had established a rapport with the cats during their visit in Mooseville; they were entranced by her long golden braids tied with blue ribbons.

  In a moment or two Koko appeared with another letter and bounded away when Qwilleran reached for it. Then the chase was on — again.

  "You think this is a game," Qwilleran shouted after him, "but it could get to be a bore! I'll start picking up my mail at the post office." This time the letter was from a former landlady Down Below. One memorable winter Qwilleran had rented an apartment above her antique shop, in an old building that smelled of baked potatoes when the furnace was operating.

  Koko had recognized the scent of his former residence. The hand-written note read:

  Dear Mr. Qwilleran, Rosie Riker told me about your inheritance, and I'm very happy for you, although we'll all miss your column in the Daily Fluxion.

  Don't drop dead when I tell you I've sold my antique shop! My heart wasn't in the business after my husband died, so Mrs. Riker is taking over. She's a smart collector, and she'd always wanted to be a dealer.

  My son wants me to move to St. Louis, but he's married now, and I might be in the way.

  Anyway, I got a crazy idea yesterday and stayed awake all night thinking about it. Here goes -

  Mrs. Riker says you inherited a big house full of antiques: and will need a housekeeper. I can cook pretty well, you remember, and I know how to take care of fine antiques Also — I have my appraiser's license now and could do some up-to-date appraisals for you — for insurance purposes. I'm serious! I'd love to do it. Let me know what you think.

  Yours truly, Iris Cobb P.S. How are the cats?

  Qwilleran's salivary glands went into action as he remembered Mrs. Cobb's succulent pot roasts and nippy macaroni- and-cheese. He remembered other details: cheerful personality — dumpy figure — fabulous coconut cake. She believed in ghosts; she read palms in a flirtatious way; she left a few lumps in her mashed potatoes so they'd taste like the real thing.

  He immediately put in a phone call to the urban jungle Down Below. "Mrs. Cobb, your idea sounds great! But Pickax is a very small town. You might find it too quiet after the excitement of Zwinger Street." Her voice was as cheerful as ever. "At my age I could use a little quiet, Mr. Qwilleran." "Just the same, you ought to look us over before deciding. I'll buy your plane ticket and meet you at the airport. How's the weather down there?" "Sweltering!" Koko had listened to the conversation with a forward tilt to his ears, denoting disapproval. Always protective of Qwilleran's bachelor status, he had resented the landlady's friendly overtures in the past.

  "Don't worry, old boy," Qwilleran told him. "It's strictly business. And you'll get some home-cooked food for a change.

  Now let's open the rest of the mail." The envelopes scattered about the vestibule included messages of welcome from five churches, three service clubs, and the mayor of Pickax. There were invitations to join the Ittibittiwassee Country Club, the Pickax Historical Society, the Moose County Gourmets, and a bowling league. The administrator of the Pickax Hospital asked Qwilleran to serve on the board of trustees. The superintendent of schools suggested that he teach an adult class in journalism.

  Two other letters had been pushed under the rug in the foyer. The Volunteer Firefighters wished to make Qwilleran an honorary member, and the Pickax Singing Society needed a few more male voices.

  "There's your chance," he said to the cat. Koko, as he grew older, was developing a more expressive voice with a gamut of clarion yowling, guttural growling, tenor yodeling, and musical yikking.

  That afternoon Qwilleran met another Goodwinter. While writing about "beautiful living" for the Daily Fluxion, he had met all kinds of interior designers-the talented, the charming, the cosmopolitan, the fashionable, the witty, and the scheming, but Amanda Goodwinter was a new experience.

  When he answered the doorbell — after three impatient rings — he found a scowling gray-haired woman in a baggy summer dress and thick-soled shoes, peering over her glasses to examine the paint job on the front door.

  "Who painted this door?" she demanded. "They botched it! Should've stripped it down to the wood. I'm Amanda Goodwinter." She clomped into the vestibule without looking at Qwilleran. "So this is the so-called showplace of Pickax!

  Nobody ever invited me here." He ventured to introduce himself. "I know who you are! You don't need to tell me. Penelope says you need help. The foyer's not too bad, but it needs work. What fool put that tapestry on those chairs?" She prowled from room to room, making comments. "Is this the drawing room I've heard about? The draperies have got to go; they're all wrong… The dining room's too dark.

  "Looks like the inside of a tomb." Qwilleran interrupted politely. "The attorney suggested that you might redecorate the rooms over the garage." "What!" she screeched. "You expect me to do servants' quarters?" "As a matter of fact," he said, "I want to
use one of the garage apartments myself — as a writing studio — and I'd like it done in good contemporary." The designer was pacing back and forth in the foyer like a caged lioness. "There's no such thing as good contemporary! I don't do contemporary. I loathe the damn stuff." Qwilleran cleared his throat diplomatically. "Are there any other designers in town who are competent to work with contemporary?" "I'm perfectly competent, mister, to work in any style," she snapped.

  "I don't want to upset you…" "I'm not upset!" "If you feel uncomfortable with contemporary, I know designers Down Below who will undertake the entire commission, including the mansion itself after the garage apartments are finished." "Show me the garage," she said with a scowl. "Where is it? How do we get out there?" He showed her to the rear of the house. As she passed the library she gave a grunt of begrudging approval. She sniffed at the yellow and green breakfast room and called it gaudy. Poking her head into the kitchen, she stared without comment at the top of the refrigerator, where the Siamese were striking sculptural poses on their blue cushion.

  In the garage they climbed the stairs to the loft, and Qwilleran pointed out the drab apartment he wanted converted to a studio.

  "Hasn't been touched for twenty years," she grumbled. "Plaster's all shot. Needs a lot of work." "If you think this one needs a lot of work," he said, "wait until you see the other suite." Amanda gave one look at the daisy extravaganza groaned. "Don't tell me! Let me guess! It was the Mull girl who did this. What a mess! She came to work here after I let her go." "Did she work for you?" "I paid her wages, dammit, but she didn't work! Her art teacher wanted me to take her on. Big mistake. Cute girl, but not a brain in her head. Her scruffy friends were always hanging around the studio, too. Then she got sticky fingers, so I gave her the sack. Those Mulls! Not a one of them ever amounted to anything… Look at this abomination! It'll take three coats to cover it, maybe four." Koko's tune rang through Qwilleran's mind. Daisy, Daisy. "Hold everything," he said. "Forget this apartment for the time being and concentrate on my studio." "You'll have to come downtown to pick out colors and look at samples," she said irritably.

  "Let's make it easy. Just rip out the rugs and furniture and cart the whole shebang to the dump. Then carpet the floor in dark brown, like my shoes." "Hmmm, you're a casual cuss," the designer said. "And paint the walls the color of my pants." "Mojave beige?" "Whatever you call it. And let's have some of those adjustable blinds with thin slats. After that we'll talk about furniture." After the designer had stomped down the stairs, mumbling to herself, Qwilleran had another look at the intricate daisy design and regretted the artist had left town. During his career as a crime reporter he had won the confidence of many characters outside the law — or on the borderline — and this girl, with her talent and her questionable reputation, interested him.

  Daisy, Daisy. Fingering his moustache in perplexity, he wondered why and how Koko had touched those particular keys on the piano. True, the cat was fascinated by push buttons, switches, and typewriter keys, but this was the first piano Koko had ever seen, and he had played a recognizable tune.

  Returning to the house, Qwilleran found something else to ponder, Koko" guarding the house from his post on the grand staircase, was sitting on the third stair, Out of a flight of twenty-one stairs, he always chose the third.

  4

  No jets landed at the Pickax airport. There was no VIP lounge in the terrninal — not even a cigarette machine for nervous passengers. Moose County travelers were grateful to have shelter and a few chairs.

  While waiting for Mrs. Cobb's plane, Qwilleran recalled that much of his education about antiques had come from the Cobbs' establishment when he was covering the "junk beat" for the Daily Fluxion. What he remembered of the lady herself was a composite of bustling exuberance, plump knees, and two pairs of eyeglasses dangling from ribbons around her neck.

  When she stepped off the plane in her travel-weary pink pantsuit, he found her thinner and somewhat subdued, and her glasses had new frames studded with rhinestones.

  "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran, how good to see you!" she cried. "What lovely weather you have here! It's suffocating in the city, Isn't this a quaint airport!" "Everything's quaint in Pickax, Mrs. Cobb, Do you have luggage?" "Only this carryon. It's all I need for an overnight." "You're welcome to stay longer, you know." "Oh, thank you, Mr. Qwilleran, but I have to go back tomorrow to close the deal with Mrs. Riker. She's going to live in your old apartment over the shop." "She is going to live there?" Qwilleran repeated, "What about her husband? What about their house in the suburbs?" "Didn't you know? She's getting a divorce." "I had lunch with Arch a few days ago, and he didn't say a word about it… but I remember he looked troubled, I wonder what happened." "I'll let him tell you the story," Mrs. Cobb said, and she pursed her lips with finality.

  On a relentlessly straight highway they drove across the lonely landscape of Moose County — through evergreen forests and rockbound wasteland, past abandoned mines and unnatural hillocks that had once been slag heaps.

  "Very rocky," Mrs. Cobb observed.

  "Pickax is built almost entirely of stone," said Qwilleran.

  "Is it really? Tell me about your house. Is it sumptuous?" "It's a big chunk of fieldstone three stories high, I call it Alcatraz Provincial," he began. "All the rooms are huge, The foyer would make a good roller rink if we took up the Oriental rugs… Every bedroom has a canopied bed and its own sitting room, dressing room, and bath… There's an English pub in the basement, and the top floor was supposed to be a ballroom, but it was never finished… The kitchen is so big you have to walk a mile to prepare a meal, It includes a butler's pantry, a food storage room, a laundry, a half bath, and a walk-in broom closet. The whole service area, as well as the solarium, is floored in square tiles of red quarry stone." "Any ghosts?" Mrs. Cobb asked with some of the old twinkle in her eyes, "Every old house should have a ghost.

  Maybe you remember the one we had on Zwinger Street. She never materialized, but she moved things around in the middle of the night. She was very prankish." "I remember her very well," Qwilleran said. "She put salt shakers in your bedroom slippers." He also remembered that her ghostly pranks were an ongoing practical joke that C. C. Cobb had played on his gullible wife.

  "How's Koko?" she asked.

  "He's fine. He's taking piano lessons." "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran," she laughed. "I never know whether to believe what you say." They approached Pickax via Goodwinter Boulevard, lined with the stately stone houses that wealthy mining pioneers had built in the heyday of the city. Then came Main Street, the circular park, and the majestic K mansion.

  Mrs. Cobb gave a little scream." Is this it? Oh! Oh! I want the job!" "You don't know how much it pays," Qwilleran said. "Neither do I." "I don't care. I want the job." When they entered the foyer, the amber walls were glowing and the brass-and-crystal chandelier was sparkling.

  The furnishings looked almost self-consciously pedigreed.

  "Why, it's like a museum!" "It's a little rich for my taste," Qwilleran admitted, "but everything is the real thing, and I have respect for it." "I could do a real museum catalogue for you. That rosewood-and-ormolu console is Louis XV, and I'll bet it's a signed piece. The clock is a Burnap — brass works, moonphase, late eighteenth." "Are you ready for the dining room?" Qwilleran switched on the twenty-four electric candles mounted on two staghorn chandeliers. It was a dark room, richly paneled, and the furniture was massive.

  "Linenfold paneling!" Mrs. Cobb gasped. "Austrian chandeliers! The furniture is German, of course." "That's the original furniture," Qwilleran said, "before the Klingenschoens became serious collectors and switched to French and English." When they crossed the foyer to the drawing room, she stared in awed silence. Chandeliers festooned with crystal were ablaze in the afternoon sun. Mellowed with age, the red walls made a handsome background for oil paintings in extravagant frames: French landscapes, Italian saints, English noblemen, and one full-length, life-size portrait of an 1880 beauty with bustle and parasol. On the far wall a collec
tion of Chinese porcelains filled the shelves in two lofty arched niches.

  "I think I'm going to faint," Mrs. Cobb said.

  "You should rest for a while," Qwilleran suggested. "There are four suites upstairs, each done in a different period.

  I'll bring your overnight bag up to the French suite in a few minutes." While she climbed the stairs in a daze, he dashed off a note to his friend Down Below.

  Dear Arch, Mrs. Cobb just broke the bad news. I don't need to tell you how terrible I feel about it. Why don't you take a week off and fly up here? It'll be a change of scene, and we can talk.

  Qwill

  He was addressing the envelope when he heard cries of alarm upstairs. "What are they doing? What are they doing?" Mrs. Cobb carne rushing down the stairs, babbling incoherently, and he ran to meet her.

  "That truck in the back drive!" she cried. "I looked out the window. They're stealing things from the garage. Stop them!

  Stop them!" "Don't get excited, Mrs. Cobb," Qwilleran said. "This isn't Zwinger Street. Those are porters from the design studio, cleaning out the junk before we redecorate." "It's not junk! Stop them!" They both hurried to the garage, where a truck was being loaded with rolled rugs, an old mattress, and odds and ends of furniture.

  "That's a Hunzinger!" Mrs. Cobb shouted, pointing to an odd-looking folding chair. "And that's a real Shaker rocker!" She rushed about — from an early trestle table to a Connecticut dower chest to a Pennsylvania German schrank.