“A former housemaid. One of the Mulls. Worked for Amanda before she came here.”
“Oh, that one! I guess she was a one-woman disaster at the studio. Amanda fired her for pilfering.”
“After doing these murals she left town,” Qwilleran said. “I hope she found a way to use her talent.”
“It’s really fantastic! It’s hard to believe it was done by Daisy Mull.”
“Daisy?” Qwilleran echoed in astonishment. “Did you say Daisy Mull?”
A melody ran through his mind, and he wondered if he should mention it. Previously he had hinted to Melinda about Koko’s extrasensory perception, but a piano-playing cat seemed too radical a concept to share even with a broadminded M.D.
“You’ve never met Koko and Yum Yum,” he said. “Let’s go over to the house.”
When he conducted his guest into the amber-toned foyer, she gazed in wonder. “I had no idea the Klingenschoens owned such fabulous things!”
“Penelope knew. Didn’t she ever tell you?”
“Penelope would consider it gossip.”
“The rosewood-and-ormolu console is Louis XV,” Qwilleran mentioned with authority. “The clock is a Burnap. Koko is usually sitting on the staircase to screen arriving visitors, but this is his night off.”
Melinda commented on everything. The sculptured plaster ceilings looked like icing on a wedding cake. The life-size marble figures of Adam and Eve in the solarium had a posture defect caused by a calcium deficiency, she said. The Staffordshire dogs in the breakfast room were good examples of concomitant convergent strabismus.
“Want to see the service area?” Qwilleran asked. “The cats often hang out in the kitchen.”
Yum Yum was lounging on her blue cushion on top of the refrigerator, and Melinda stroked her fur adoringly. “Softer than ermine,” she said.
Koko was conspicuously absent, however.
“He could be upstairs, sleeping in the middle of a ten-thousand-dollar four-poster-bed,” Qwilleran said. “He has fine taste. Let’s go up and see.”
While he hunted for the cat, Melinda inspected the suites furnished in French, Biedermeier, Empire, and Chippendale. Koko was not to be found.
Qwilleran was beginning to show his nervousness. “I don’t know where he can be. Let’s check the library. He likes to sleep on the bookshelves.”
He ran downstairs, followed by Melinda, but there was no sign of the cat in any of his favorite places—not behind the biographies, not between the volumes of Shakespeare, not on top of the atlas.
“Then he’s got to be in the basement.”
The English pub had been imported from London, paneling and all, and it was a gloomy subterranean hideaway. They turned on all the lights and searched the bar, the backbar, and the shadows.
No Koko!
FIVE
Frantically Qwilleran scoured the premises for the missing Koko, with Melinda tagging along and offering encouragement.
“He’ll be in one of four places,” he told her. “A soft surface, or a warm spot, or a high perch, or inside something.”
None of these locations produced anything resembling a cat. Calling his name repeatedly, they peered under sofas and beds, behind armoires and bookcases, and into drawers, cupboards, and closets.
Qwilleran dashed about with increasing alarm, looking in the refrigerator, the oven, the washer, the dryer, then the oven again.
“Slow down, Qwill. You’re stressing.” Melinda put a hand on his arm. “We’ll find him. He’s around here somewhere. You know how cats are.”
“He’s got to be in the house . . . unless . . . you know, the back door can’t be locked. Someone could come in and snatch him. Or he might have eaten something poisonous and crawled away in a corner.”
Melinda, wandering in aimless search, stepped into the back entry and called, “What’s this stairway? Where does it go?”
“What stairway? I never noticed any stairway back there.”
Hidden by the broom closet and closed off by a door that latched poorly, it was the servants’ stairs to the second floor—a narrow flight with rubberized treads. Qwilleran bounded to the top, followed by Melinda, and they emerged in a hallway with a series of doors. Two doors stood ajar. One opened into a walk-in linen closet. The second gave access to another flight of ascending stairs, wide but unfinished and dusty. “The attic!” Qwilleran exclaimed. “It was supposed to be a ballroom. Never finished.” Flipping wall switches, he scrambled to the top, sneezing. Melinda ventured up the stairs cautiously, shielding her mouth and nose with her hand.
The staircase ended in a large storage room illuminated faintly by fading daylight through evenly spaced windows and by eight low-wattage light bulbs dangling from the ceiling.
Qwilleran called the cat’s name, but there was no answer. “If he’s up here, how will we find him among all this junk?”
The space was littered with boxes, trunks, castoff furniture, framed pictures, rolls of carpet, and stacks of old National Geographics.
“He could be asleep, or sick, or worse,” he said.
“Could we lure him out with a treat?” Melinda suggested.
“There’s a can of lobster in the food pantry. Open it and bring it up.”
When she had run downstairs. Qwilleran stood still and listened. The floorboards had stopped creaking. The hum of traffic on Main Street seemed far away. He held his breath. He could hear a familiar sound. What was it? He strained to listen. It was scratching—the whisper of claws gliding over a smooth surface. He followed the sound noiselessly.
There, in a far corner of the attic, stood a large carton, and Koko was on top of it with his hind end elevated and his front assembly stretched forward as he scratched industriously.
“Koko! What are you doing up here?” Qwilleran demanded in the consternation that followed his unnecessary panic. Then a prickling sensation on his upper lip caused him to investigate the scene of the action. A corrugated carton that had once contained a shipment of paper towels was tied with twine and labeled with a tag on which was a name in excellent handwriting: Daisy Mull.
By the time Melinda returned with the lobster, Qwilleran had untied the carton and was tossing out articles of clothing. “This is astonishing!” he shouted over his shoulder. “There’s something important about this box, or Koko wouldn’t have found it.”
Out of the carton came a musty-smelling jacket of fake fur in black and white stripes unknown to any animal species, along with a woolly stocking hat that had once been white and a pair of high red boots with ratty fur trim. There were faded flannel shirts, well-worn jeans, two maid’s uniforms, and a sweatshirt printed with the message: TRY ME. A small item wrapped in a wad of newspaper proved to be an ivory elephant with Amanda’s studio label on the bottom of the teakwood base.
Qwilleran said, “Obviously she went south when she cleared out—to some climate where she wouldn’t need winter clothing. Probably California. Dreamers always head for California, don’t they? And she left her uniforms behind, so she didn’t plan a career as a domestic.”
“But why would she leave the elephant? If she liked it enough to steal it, wouldn’t she like it enough to take it along? You can tell it’s valuable.”
“Smart question,” Qwilleran said as he piled the clothing back into the carton. “You take the elephant; I’ll carry Koko—if I can find him. Where did he go?”
Having finished the can of lobster, the cat was cleaning his mask, whiskers, ears, paws, chest, underside, and tail.
“Either he was trying to tell us something about Daisy Mull,” Qwilleran said, “or he thought of a sneaky way to get an extra meal.”
The three of them returned to the main floor, carefully closing the door to the attic stairs. It immediately popped open.
“That’s typical of old buildings,” Qwilleran complained. “The doors never fit properly. There are too many places for an inquisitive animal to get lost.”
“He wasn’t lost,” Melinda said with a smug s
mile. “It’s simply that you couldn’t find him.”
“For that astute observation you’ll be rewarded with a nightcap. Would you like Scotch, bourbon, white grape juice, a split of champagne? I also have beer, in case Penelope’s maintenance man ever shows up to fix the doors.”
“What are you drinking?”
“Club soda with a twist.”
“I’ll have a split.”
Qwilleran carried the tray of drinks into the library and slipped the ivory elephant into a desk drawer. “Would you enjoy some music? There’s a prehistoric stereo here, and an odd assortment of records that you could use for paving a patio. This house came equipped with seven television sets, and I’d like to trade in six of them for a new music system.”
“Don’t you like TV?”
“I’m a print man. The printed word does more for me than the small screen.”
After some grinding and humming and a loud clunk the record changer produced some romantic zither music, and they sat on the blood red leather sofa that Qwilleran had recently shared with Penelope Goodwinter, but there was no briefcase between them and considerably less space.
He said, “Koko has an uncanny talent for finding objects of significance. I don’t usually mention it because the average person wouldn’t believe it, but I feel I can confide in you.”
“Any time,” Melinda said with an agreeable inflection in her voice.
“It’s good to have a confidante.” His mournful eyes met her inviting green gaze and the world stood still, but the magic moment was interrupted by a simulated catfight in the foyer. Qwilleran huffed into his moustache, and Melinda sipped her champagne and looked at the three walls of bookshelves.
“Nice library,” she said.
“Yes. Good bindings.”
“Mostly classics, I suppose.”
“It appears so.”
“Did the Klingenschoens read these?”
“I doubt it . . . Melinda, did you ever see Daisy Mull? What did she look like?”
“Hmmm . . . tiny . . . reddish hair . . . pouty mouth. Daisy was quite visible in Pickax. She and her girlfriend used to stand outside the music store and giggle when cars tooted their horns. Her clothes were flashy by Pickax standards, but that was a few years ago. Things have changed. Today even the middle-aged women in Pickax have given up lavender sweater sets and basket bags.”
Qwilleran draped an arm over the back of the sofa, musing that a firm, shiny, slippery upholstery left something to be desired. A loungy, down-filled, velvety sofa would be more seductive; at least, that had been his experience in the past.
“Why did you name your cats Koko and Yum Yum?” Melinda asked. “Are you a Savoyard?”
“Not especially, although I like Gilbert and Sullivan, and in college I sang in The Mikado.”
“You’re an interesting man, Qwill. You’ve lived everywhere and done everything.”
He groomed his moustache self-consciously. “It helps if you’ve been around as long as I have. You’ve always dated young squirts from medical school.”
“Not true! I’m always attracted to older men. Eyelids with a middle-aged droop turn me on.”
He leaned closer to add champagne to her glass. There was a sense of pleasurable propinquity, and then the tall case clock started to bong eleven times and Koko walked into the library. Walking with a stiff-legged gait and tail at attention, he looked at the pair on the sofa and uttered an imperious “YOW!”
“Hello, Koko,” Melinda replied. “Are you and I going to be friends?”
Without a reply he turned and left the scene, and a moment later they heard another insistent howl.
“Something’s wrong,” Qwilleran said. “Excuse me.” He followed the cat and found him in the vestibule, staring at the front door.
“Sorry, Koko. Wrong time of day. The mail comes in the afternoon.”
Returning to the library, Qwilleran explained the cats’ obsession with the mail slot. Casually he was maneuvering to resume the intimate mood that had been interrupted, when Koko stalked into the room a second time. Looking sternly at Melinda, he said, “nyik nyik nyik YOW!” And again he marched to the front door.
“Does he want to go out?”
“No, he’s an indoor cat.”
“He has a noble face, hasn’t he?” She glanced at her watch.
“Siamese are a noble breed.”
The third time Koko made his entrance, scolding and glaring at the guest, she said, “He’s trying to tell me something.” She jumped up and trailed after the determined animal, who plodded resolutely toward the front of the house, stopping at intervals and looking back to be sure she was following. In the vestibule he stared pointedly at the door handle.
“Qwill, I believe he’s telling me to go home.”
“This is embarrassing, Melinda.”
“That’s okay. I have the early shift at the clinic tomorrow.”
“My apology! He likes the lights turned out at eleven. Next time we’ll lock him up somewhere.”
“Next time,” she corrected him, “we’ll go to my place—if you don’t mind sitting on the floor. I don’t have any furniture yet. Only a bed,” she added with a sidelong glance.
“How soon is next time?”
“After the medical conference. When I come back from Paris I’m leaving the Mooseville clinic. I’m tired of taking fishhooks out of tourists’ backsides.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“Join my father’s office in Pickax.”
“I’ll be your first patient. Can you check cholesterol, heart, and all that?”
“You’ll be surprised what I can do!” She threw him another of her provocative green-eyed glances.
Qwilleran escorted Melinda to her silver convertible parked discreetly in the garage—not a bad idea, as it turned out.
When she finally drove away, he walked back to the house with a buoyant step and found Koko waiting for him with a smug look of accomplishment.
“You’re not as smart as you think you are,” Qwilleran said to him, preening his moustache with satisfaction.
Early the next morning he walked downtown to Amanda’s studio to order a sofa. The crotchety designer was out on a house call, but a friendly young assistant produced some catalogues of contemporary furniture. Within five minutes Qwilleran had ordered a slouchy sofa in rust-colored suede, a brown lounge chair and ottoman, and some reading lamps—for his new studio.
“You have good taste,” the assistant said, “and I’ve never seen a client make such speedy decisions. I’d love to see your carriage house when it’s finished.”
“And what is your name?” he asked.
“Francesca Brodie. My father knows you—by reputation, that is. He’s the police chief. Aren’t you sort of a detective?”
“I like to solve puzzles, that’s all,” Qwilleran said. “Did you ever know a Daisy Mull who worked here?”
“No, I’ve only been here four months.”
For the next two days Qwilleran spent most of his time answering the letters that came shooting through the mail slot in great number, much to the delight of the Siamese. Koko personally delivered an envelope addressed in red ink, and he was not surprised that it came from a building in which they had recently lived. The letter was written by another tenant, a young woman who used to speak French to Koko and who was subject to problems with weight and problems with men. She wrote:
Dear Qwill,
Arch Riker gave me your address. Congratulations on striking oil! We miss you.
Want to hear my good news? I’m dating a chef now, and he’s not married—or so he says. The bad news is that I’ve gained ten pounds. I’m still hacking copy at the ad agency, but I’d kill to get into the restaurant business. If you’d like to open a restaurant in Pickax, let me know. Have chef; will travel. Say bonjour to Koko.
Hixie Rice
Other letters arrived faster than Qwilleran could poke out answers on his old typewriter. The telephone rang constantly. And th
ere were other interruptions, as when a young man in white coveralls suddenly appeared at the door of the library, carrying a six-pack of diet cola.
“Hi!” he said. “Mind if I put this in your fridge? This is a big job. Lots of spackling and patching and scraping, and some of the woodwork’s bleeding.”
He had the wholesome look of a Moose County native, raised on bushels of apples, milk right from the cow, vegetables from the garden, and unlimited fresh air.
“I assume you’re a painter employed by Amanda Goodwinter,” Qwilleran said.
“Yeah, I’m Steve. She’s always telling people I’m slow, but I do do good work. My grandfather worked on this house when the Old Lady was alive. He showed me how to paint without laps or drips or sags or pimples. Hey, do you really live in this joint? I live in a mobile home on my father-in-law’s farm.”
There were other reasons for Qwilleran’s discontent. Mrs. Cobb had not arrived. There was no sign of anyone to fix the doors. Melinda had left for Paris. And an exasperating melody kept running through his mind: Daisy, Daisy.
Then a schoolteacher he had met in Mooseville telephoned and said, “Hi, Qwill, this is Roger. How does it feel to be filthy rich?”
“Arduous, frustrating, and annoying—so far. But give me another week to get used to it. How’s everything at the lake?”
“Oh, you know . . . lots of tourists and happy merchants.”
“Is business good at your wife’s shop?”
“Not bad, but she puts in long hours. Say, want to meet me for dinner somewhere tonight? Sharon’s working late.”
“Sure. Why don’t you drive down here to the Bastille?” Qwilleran suggested. “I’ll give you a conducted tour of the dungeons and pour you a drink. Then we can find a restaurant.”
“Great! I’d like to see inside that rockpile. We can eat at the Hotel Booze.”
“That’s a new one on me.”
“Oldest flophouse in the county. They have a twelve-ounce bacon cheeseburger with fries that’s the greatest!”
Roger MacGillivray, whose Scottish name appealed to Qwilleran, arrived in the early evening. He was a young man with a clipped black beard and vigorous opinions, and he exclaimed about the size of the rooms, the number of windows, the height of the ceilings, and the extent of the property. “It’ll cost an arm and a leg to maintain this place,” he predicted. “Who’s going to clean all those windows and dust all those books?”
The Cat Who Played Post Office Page 6