The Cat Who Played Post Office

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “The landscape service alone costs more than I earned at the Daily Fluxion,” Qwilleran informed him. “There’s always a green truck in the driveway and a guy in a green jumpsuit riding around on a little green tractor.”

  He poured Scotch for his guest and white grape juice for himself, and they sat in the big wicker chairs in the solarium.

  Roger stared at Qwilleran’s stemmed glass. “What are you drinking?”

  “Catawba grape juice. Koko likes it, so I bought a case of it.”

  “You really pamper that animal.” Roger glanced around apprehensively. “Where is he? I’m not comfortable with cats.”

  Koko, hearing his name, sauntered into the solarium and positioned himself in Roger’s view.

  “He won’t bother you,” Qwilleran said. “He enjoys listening to our conversation, that’s all. He likes the tone of your voice.”

  Koko moved a little closer.

  “Who looks after these rubber plants, Qwill? They look healthier than I do.”

  “The green jumpsuit comes in and sticks a meter in the soil and takes a reading,” Qwilleran said. “The whole horticultural scene is too esoteric for me. I’ve spent all my life in apartments and hotels.”

  “I think your gardener is Kevin Doone, a former student of mine. He goes to Princeton now and does gardening during summer vacation. You’ve got a pretty good-sized lot.”

  “Half a block wide and half a mile long, I estimate. There’s an orchard back there and an old barn that would make a good summer theater.”

  Roger gripped the arms of his chair. “Why is he looking at me like that?”

  “Koko wants to be friends. Say something to him.”

  “Hello, Koko,” Roger said in a weak voice.

  The cat blinked his eyes shut and emitted a squeaky, nonthreatening “ik ik ik.”

  “He’s smiling,” Qwilleran said. “He likes you . . . How’s your mother-in-law, Roger?”

  “She’s fine. She’s gung ho about a new craft project now—designing things with a Moose County theme, for Sharon to sell in her shop. Pot holders and toys and stuff. The idea is to have the Dimsdale women make them by hand—sort of a cottage industry. She wanted to get a grant from the state, but there was too much red tape. Besides that, the people in Dimsdale don’t want to work. Do you know that place?”

  “I’ve seen the remains of the Dimsdale Mine,” Qwilleran said, “and I’ve eaten at the decrepit diner at the intersection, but I thought it was mainly a ghost town.”

  “Officially Dimsdale doesn’t exist, but there’s a bunch of shanties back in the woods—squatters, you know. In fact, I think they’re on Klingenschoen property, your property. You’d never believe it, Qwill, but a hundred years ago Dimsdale was a thriving town with hotels, a sawmill, housing for miners, stores, even a doctor.”

  “You know a lot about local history, Roger.”

  “I ought to! That’s what I teach . . . . Say, he’s a good-looking animal, isn’t he? Very well behaved.”

  “His real name is Kao K’o Kung. He was named after a thirteenth-century Chinese artist.”

  Knowing he was the topic of conversation, Koko casually ambled over to Roger’s chairside.

  “If you’ve never stroked a Siamese,” Qwilleran said, “you don’t know what fur is all about.”

  Cautiously Roger extended a hand and patted the silky fawn-colored back. “Good boy!” he said. “Good boy!”

  The cat looked at Qwilleran, slowly closing one eye, and Qwilleran thought, Score another one for Koko.

  The two men finished their drinks and then drove from the palatial splendor of the K mansion to the stolid ugliness of the Hotel Booze. It was a stone building three stories high, with the plain shoebox architecture typical of hotels in pioneer towns. A sign, almost as big as the hotel itself, advertised booze, rooms, and food.

  “In this hotel,” Roger said, “a miner could get a man-sized dinner and a bed on the floor for a quarter, using his boots for a pillow, or a sack of oats if he was lucky.”

  The dim lighting in the dining room camouflaged the dreary walls and ancient linoleum floor and worn plastic tables. Nevertheless, the room hummed with the talk of customers wearing feed caps and wolfing down burgers and beer.

  Qwilleran tried three chairs before finding one with all its legs and rungs. “I’ll have the Cholesterol Special,” he told the waitress, a homey-looking woman in a faded housedress.

  “Make it two, Thelma,” said Roger.

  The sandwich proved to be so enormous that she served it with her thumb on top of the bun to hold it all together.

  “We call her Thumbprint Thelma,” Roger whispered.

  Qwilleran had to admit that the burger was superior and the fries tasted like actual potatoes. “Okay, Roger, how about a history lesson to take my mind off the calories? Tell me about the abandoned mines around here.”

  “There were ten of them in the old days—all major operations. Shafts went a thousand feet deep, and the miners had to climb down on a ladder! After a long day underground, with water dripping all around, it took half an hour to climb back up to the surface.”

  “Like climbing a hundred-story building! They must have been desperate for work.”

  “Most of them came from Europe—left their families behind—and hoped to send money home. But—what with payday binges at the saloon and buying on credit at the company store—they were always in hock.”

  Thelma brought coffee, and Roger—without much difficulty—persuaded Qwilleran to try the wild thimbleberry pie.

  “Picked the berries myself this morning,” the waitress said.

  The men savored each forkful in the reverent silence that the pie merited and ordered second cups of coffee.

  Qwilleran said, “I suppose the old saloons had gambling in the back room and girls upstairs.”

  “Right! And a bizarre sense of fun. When a customer drank too much and passed out, his pals carried him outside and nailed his boots to the wooden sidewalk. And there was always an old soak hanging around the saloon who would do anything for a drink. One of these characters used to eat poison ivy. Another would bite the head off a live chipmunk.”

  “This isn’t the best dinner-table conversation I’ve ever heard, Roger.”

  “I’m telling it like it was! The K Saloon was notorious.”

  “Is that what you teach in your history classes?”

  “Well, it grabs their attention. The kids eat it up!”

  Qwilleran was silent for a moment before he asked, “Did you ever have a student by the name of Daisy Mull?”

  “No, she dropped out before I started teaching, but my mother-in-law had her in art class. She said Daisy was the only Mull who would ever amount to anything—if she applied herself. She was kind of goofy.”

  Qwilleran told him about the graffiti—then about his plans for a studio over the garage—and then about his search for a housekeeper.

  “How do you figure you’ll adjust to a live-in housekeeper?” Roger asked him. “I suppose it’s like having a wife, without the fringe benefits.”

  “Speak for yourself, Roger.”

  “Are you getting along okay with G&G?”

  “So far, so good. Penelope is the one handling the estate. I haven’t figured her out yet.”

  “She’s the bright one in the family. What do you think of her brother?”

  “Alexander hasn’t been around much. He’s gone to Washington again.”

  Roger lowered his voice. “There’s a rumor he’s got a woman down there. If he’s serious, it’s big news. Alex has always been a confirmed bachelor.”

  “Is Penelope involved with anyone?”

  “Why? Are you interested?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got all I can handle at the moment.”

  “She never bothers with guys,” Roger said. “Strictly careerist. Too bad. She’s really got it together.”

  Qwilleran picked up the check and paid the cashier on the way out. She was a large woman in a patt
erned muumuu splashed with oversize black-eyed Susans. Qwilleran found himself whistling Daisy, Daisy.

  Instantly the hubbub in the dining room dissolved into silence, and the cashier wagged a finger at Qwilleran. “That’s a no-no.” She pointed to a sign over the cash register: No credit. No checks. No spitting. No whistling.

  “Sorry,” Qwilleran said.

  “It’s bad luck,” Roger explained. “It used to be considered unlucky to whistle in the mines, and the superstition stuck. There’s no whistling in Pickax—by city ordinance.”

  SIX

  He had never been much of a whistler, but as soon as Qwilleran learned that whistling was forbidden in Pickax he felt a compulsion to whistle. As he prepared the cats’ breakfast he whistled an air from The Mikado, causing Koko to twist his ears inside out and run into the back entry hall. Yum Yum went slinking into the laundry room and crouched behind their commode.

  The cats’ commode was an oval roasting pan containing a layer of kitty gravel—an unorthodox but substantial piece of equipment that worked well. Their water dish was an Imari porcelain bowl that Qwilleran had found in the butler’s pantry. Their food he arranged on a porcelain dinner plate with a wide blue and gold border—appropriate because the border matched the ineffable blue of Yum Yum’s eyes, and because the gold-embellished crest bore a K.

  Qwilleran put a plate of canned red salmon on the floor in the laundry room and called the cats. Yum Yum reported immediately, but there was no response from Koko.

  “Drat him! He’s gone up to the attic again,” Qwilleran muttered. It was true. The door to the attic stairs stood ajar, and Koko was on the third floor, sharpening his claws on a roll of carpet.

  Qwilleran made a lunge for him, but the cat eluded his grasp and bounded to the top of an Art Nouveau chifforobe, where he assumed a challenging posture. Then it was an insane chase around the dusty storeroom—Koko streaking over a General Grant bed, under a bowlegged Chinese table, around a barricade of steamer trunks, with Qwilleran breathing heavily in stubborn pursuit.

  Koko finally allowed himself to be caught, while crouching defiantly on a cheap cardboard suitcase patterned to resemble tweed. Qwilleran’s moustache sent him a signal: another item of significance! He grabbed an unprotesting cat in one hand and the suitcase in the other and descended to the kitchen, where Yum Yum was washing up after finishing the whole can of salmon.

  Attached to the broken handle of the luggage there was a tag written in the perfect penmanship he had seen before: Daisy Mull. The contents had the same musty odor he remembered from opening her carton of winter clothing. This time the collection included sandals, T-shirts, cutoffs, a faded sundress, underpants dotted with red hearts, and the briefest of swimsuits.

  Qwilleran could explain why the girl had abandoned her cold-weather gear, but why had she left her summer wearables as well? Perhaps she had lined up a situation that would provide an entirely new wardrobe—either a job or a generous patron. Perhaps a tourist from some other part of the country had come up here and staked her to a getaway—for better or worse. Qwilleran wished the poor girl well.

  There were other items in the suitcase: a paper bag containing tasteless junk jewelry as well as one fourteen-karat gold bracelet, heavy enough to make one wonder. Had she stolen it? And if so, why had she left it behind? Another paper bag was stuffed with messy cosmetics and a toothbrush; she had left in a hurry!

  There was one more surprise in the suitcase. In a shopping bag with the Lanspeak’s Department Store logo Qwilleran found a pathetic assortment of baby clothes.

  He sat down in a kitchen chair to think about it. Had she left town hurriedly to have an abortion? After starting a sentimental collection of bootees and tiny sweaters with rosebuds crocheted into the design, why had she decided to end her pregnancy? And what had happened to her? Why had she not returned? Did her family know her fate? Did they know her present whereabouts? Did she even have a family? If so, did they live in that shantytown near the old Dimsdale Mine site? Unanswered questions tormented Qwilleran, and he knew he would never stop probing this one until he had an answer.

  His ruminations were interrupted by the sound of a vehicle in the service drive. Dropping the gold bracelet into his pocket, he stuffed the rest of Daisy’s belongings back into the sad excuse for a suitcase—broken handle, torn lining, scuffed corners. Then he went outdoors to greet Mrs. Cobb. Her van was filled to the roof with boxes of books, which he began to carry into the house.

  She was happy to the point of tears. “I’m so thrilled, I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Get yourself settled comfortably,” he said. “Then make a list of what you need for the refrigerator and pantry. The cats are looking forward to your Swedish meatballs and deviled crab.”

  “What do you like to eat, Mr. Qwilleran?”

  “I eat everything—except parsnips and turnips. I’ll take you out to lunch this noon, and then I have an appointment at my attorney’s office.”

  The meeting that Penelope had scheduled included Mr. Fitch from the bank and Mr. Cooper, accountant for the estate. The banker was well tanned; Mr. Cooper was ghastly pale in spite of the sunshine that was parching Moose County. Mr. Fitch graciously congratulated Qwilleran on his proposal to start an eleemosynary foundation. He also inquired if Qwilleran golfed.

  “I’m afraid I’m a Moose County anomaly,” was the answer. “Non-golfing, non-fishing, nonhunting.”

  “We’ll have to do something about that,” said the banker cordially. “I’d like to sponsor you for the country club.”

  The first order of business concerned the opening of a drawing account at the bank. Then Penelope suggested to Qwilleran that he start sifting through any documents he might find in the house. “It would be wise,” she said, “to acquaint yourself with insurance coverage, taxes, household inventories, and the like before turning them over to our office.”

  He squirmed uncomfortably. He despised that kind of paperwork.

  “Is everything progressing smoothly?” she asked, smiling and dimpling.

  “The housekeeper arrived this morning,” he said, “and she agrees we should have some day help.”

  “I recommend Mrs. Fulgrove. She works for us a few days a week and is very thorough. Has Birch Trevelyan made contact with you?”

  “Never showed up. All the doors need attention, and we definitely need a lock on the back door.”

  “That Birch is a lazy dog,” said the banker. “You have to catch him at one of the coffee shops and twist his arm.”

  Penelope threw Mr. Fitch a reproving glance. “I’ll handle it, Nigel, I think I can put a little diplomatic pressure on the man . . . . Do you have any questions, Mr. Qwilleran?”

  “When does the city council meet? Sitting in on a meeting is a good way to get acquainted with a new community. Mrs. Cobb might like to go, too.”

  “In that case,” Penelope said quickly, “I’ll take the lady as my guest. It wouldn’t be appropriate for you to escort her.”

  “Oh, come on, Penny,” said the banker with a half laugh, and she threw him one of her sharp glances.

  Turning to the silent accountant, she asked, “Do you have anything to add, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Good records,” he said. “It’s important to have good records. Do you keep good records, Mr. Qwilleran?”

  Qwilleran had visions of more paperwork. “Records of what?”

  “Personal income, expenditures, deductions. Be sure to keep receipts, vouchers, bank statements, and such.”

  Qwilleran nodded. The accountant had given him an idea. After the meeting he drew the man aside. “Do you have the records of domestic help at the Klingenschoen house, Mr. Cooper? I’d like to know the dates of employment for one Daisy Mull.”

  “It’s all in the computer,” the accountant said. “I’ll have my secretary phone you with the information.”

  In the ensuing days Qwilleran enjoyed the housekeeper’s home cooking, answered letters, and bought new tires for the bicyc
le in the garage. He also telephoned the young managing editor of the Picayune. “When are you going to introduce me to coffee shop society, Junior? You promised.”

  “Any time. Where do you want to go? The best place is the Dimsdale Diner.”

  “I had lunch there once. I call it the Dismal Diner.”

  “You’re not kidding either. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at ten. Wear a feed cap,” the editor advised, “and you’d better practice drinking coffee with a spoon in the cup.”

  Although Junior Goodwinter looked like a high school sophomore and always wore running shoes and a Pickax varsity letter, he had graduated from journalism school before going to work for his father’s newspaper. They drove to the diner in his red Jaguar, the editor in a baseball cap and Qwilleran in a bright orange hunting cap.

  “Junior, this county has the world’s worst drivers,” he said. “They straddle the centerline; they make turns from the wrong lane; they don’t even know what turn signals are for. How do they get away with it?”

  “We’re more casual up here,” Junior explained. “You people Down Below are all conformists, but we don’t like anybody telling us what to do.”

  They parked in the dusty lot at the diner, among a fleet of vans and pickup trucks and one flashy motorcycle.

  The Dismal Diner was an old railroad freight car that had been equipped with permanently dirty windows. The tables and chairs might have been cast-offs from the Hotel Booze when it redecorated in 1911. For the coffee hour, customers pushed tables together to seat clubby groups of eight or ten—all men wearing feed caps. They helped themselves to coffee and doughnuts on the counter and paid their money to a silent, emaciated man in a cook’s apron. Cigarette smoke blurred the atmosphere. The babble of voices and raucous laughter was deafening.

  Qwilleran and Junior, sitting at a side table, caught fragments of conversation: