The Cat Who Played Post Office

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Dammit!” Qwilleran said aloud. He should have asked her why she came to see him. Who told her he was interested?

  There’s something going on here that I don’t know about, he thought, and she knows something she’s not telling. That’s the way it is in a small town. It’s all very friendly and open on the surface, but underneath it’s a network of intrigue and secrecy.

  NINE

  Qwilleran and Melinda dined at the Old Stone Mill, a former gristmill converted into a restaurant by dedicated preservationists who cared more about historic landmarks than about the seasoning of the soup. Yet, the atmosphere was inviting and conducive to intimate conversation. He ordered champagne, to celebrate her return, and something innocuous for himself.

  “How was Paris?” he asked.

  “Full of Americans. The next conference will be in Australia. You should go with me, lover.”

  Too expensive, he thought. Then he realized the words no longer belonged in his vocabulary. He was finding it difficult to adjust to his new financial status.

  “I don’t like traveling alone,” Melinda was saying. “I don’t even like living alone.” Her green eyes flickered invitingly.

  “Watch those fluttering eyelashes,” Qwilleran said. “We haven’t even had the soup yet.”

  “Any excitement while I was away?”

  In graphic detail he described the Great Flag Controversy. “I’m curious about Blythe,” he said. “He’s articulate and conducts a meeting exceptionally well. Who is he? What’s his background?”

  “He’s an investment counselor. His mother was a Goodwinter. He was principal of the high school until the scandal a few years ago.”

  “What happened?” As a journalist Qwilleran felt professionally privileged to pry.

  “He was involved with some girl students, but he got off with a slap on the wrist and an invitation to resign. Anyone else would have left town in disgrace, but he’s got the Goodwinter Guts. He ran for mayor and won by a landslide.”

  At Melinda’s urging they ordered ravioli. “It’s the specialty of the house. They buy it frozen, and it’s the only thing on the menu that the cook can’t ruin.”

  “This town really needs a good restaurant.”

  “The Lanspeaks are opening one—haven’t you heard? They travel a lot and appreciate good food, so it should be an oasis in a desert of French fries and ketchup . . . . How’s everything at the Pickax Palace?”

  “Mrs. Cobb finally arrived. And I’ve ordered a suede sofa for my studio. And at last we have a lock on the back door. Birch Tree comes almost every day to do the repairs and play his obscene radio. Today he went fishing, and it was so quiet the cats walked around on tiptoe.”

  “Is Koko still throwing your female guests out of the house at eleven P.M. ?”

  “That’s his bedtime,” Qwilleran explained apologetically. “Not only can that cat tell time, but I believe he can count. He sits on the third stair of the staircase all the time.”

  “Third from top or third from the bottom? If he’s counting from the top, it’s more likely he’s sitting on the eighteenth stair.” The green eyes were impudent.

  Then Qwilleran told her about the three-foot candelabra in the silver vault. “If I decide to give a dinner party, will you consent to be my hostess?”

  “Or anything else, lover,” she said with a green-eyed wink.

  “My editor from the Fluxion is flying up to spend a few days, and I thought I might invite Penelope and Alexander and a few others from Pickax and Mooseville. Mrs. Cobb has offered to cook.”

  “Is she good?”

  “Well, she does the world’s best pot roast and coconut cake and macaroni-and-cheese.”

  “Darling, you can’t serve macaroni-and-cheese with three-foot silver candelabra on the table. You should have something elegant: six courses, starting with escargots . . . a butler serving cocktails in the solarium . . . two footmen to serve in the dining room . . . a string trio going crazy behind the potted palms.”

  “You’re not serious, I hope,” Qwilleran said warily.

  “Of course I’m serious. There’s no time to send out engraved invitations, so you’ll have to telephone everyone, although it’s not good form for a formal dinner.”

  “Who’ll know the difference?”

  “Penelope will know,” Melinda said with a mocking grin. “Penelope still eats ice cream with a fork. Socially she’s a throwback to the Edwardian era. My great-grandmother owned sixteen etiquette books. In those days people didn’t worry about losing weight or getting in touch with their feelings; they wanted to know if they should eat mashed potatoes with a knife.”

  She declined dessert and finished the bottle of champagne, but Qwilleran ordered French-fried ice cream, a cannonball of pastry reposing in a puddle of chocolate sauce. No matter how he attacked the impenetrable crust, the ball merely rotated in the slippery sauce and threatened to bounce to the floor.

  With each sip of champagne Melinda was becoming more elated about the party. “To impress your editor we ought to serve foods indigenous to this area, starting with terrine of pheasant and jellied watercress consommé. There’s a secret cove on the Ittibittiwassee—accessible only by canoe—where one can find watercress. Do you canoe?”

  “Only in reverse,” Qwilleran said.

  “How about Chinook salmon croquettes for the fish course?” She took another sip of champagne. “The entree could be lamb bûcheronne with tiny Moose County potatoes and mushrooms. It’s too dry to find morels.” Another sip. “Then a salad of homegrown asparagus vinaigrette. How does that sound?”

  “Don’t forget dessert. Preferably not French-fried ice cream.”

  “How about a wild raspberry trifle? We’ll need two or three wines, but I can steal those from Dad’s wine cellar.”

  “I hope butlers and footmen are indigenous to Moose County,” Qwilleran said.

  “That poses a problem,” Melinda admitted, “but . . . we might get actors from the Pickax Thespians. Larry Lanspeak played the title role in Jeeves, and he’d make a perfect butler.”

  “You don’t mean the owner of the department store, do you?”

  “Sure! He’d love it! The Fitch twins are home from Yale, and they could wear their costumes from The Student Prince and play the footmen. We’d have a rehearsal, of course, and they’d play their roles with a straight face . . . . Penelope will have a fit!”

  Qwilleran believed not a word of it, but he was enjoying Melinda’s champagne fantasy. “Where will we get a string trio?”

  She closed her eyes in thought. “Dad talks about three musicians who used to play Strauss waltzes behind the potted palms at the Pickax Hotel before World War Two.”

  “By now they’re all dead, Melinda.”

  “Not necessarily. People live a long time in Moose County.”

  As they left the restaurant he said, “Your scenario has been a lot of fun. I only wish we could swing it.”

  “Of course we can swing it!” she said indignantly. “I have my mother’s recipes, and I’ll work out the details with Mrs. Cobb. All you have to do is pay the bills.”

  They went to Melinda’s condo to look at her great-grandmother’s etiquette books, and Qwilleran arrived home at a late hour, humming a tune from The Student Prince. As he turned the key in the new back-door lock, he could hear Koko scolding severely.

  “You mind your own business,” Qwilleran told him. “Go and fraternize with Yum Yum.”

  Before retiring he made his nightly house check, turning on lights in all the rooms, inspecting windows and French doors, taking a hasty inventory of French bronzes, Chinese porcelains, Venetian glass, and Georgian silver. Everything was in order except in the kitchen, where the step stool was situated unaccountably in the center of the room.

  When Qwilleran reported this manifestation to Mrs. Cobb the next morning, she said, “I told you something spooky was happening. Now you’ll believe me! What’s more, I heard someone fooling around with the piano keys last ni
ght after the lights were out.”

  Qwilleran was scheduled to address a luncheon meeting of the Pickax Boosters Club at noon and then pick up Arch Riker at the airport. But first he telephoned his dinner invitations. Everyone accepted with pleasure, despite the short notice.

  Penelope said, “My brother returns from Washington this evening. We shall be delighted to attend. Black tie?”

  “Optional,” Qwilleran said. “Melinda wants you to know she’s wearing a long dress.”

  “Splendid!”

  When he called Amanda she was exultant. “Nobody’s invited me to cocktails and dinner in a coon’s age! I’ll drag my long dress out of the cedar closet.”

  To Junior Goodwinter he said, “Don’t bring your notebook. You’re invited as a guest, not a reporter. And see if you can borrow a tie somewhere.”

  Before going to his luncheon meeting Qwilleran himself bought a new tie at Scottie’s Men’s Shop, although he thought the price exorbitant.

  There were no feed caps at the Boosters luncheon. All the influential men of the community gathered in a private room at the Old Stone Mill for frozen ravioli a la microwave. Among those he recognized were Mayor Blythe, Dr. Halifax Goodwinter, Chief Brodie, and the dour Mr. Cooper. Since President Goodwinter was still in Washington and Vice-President Lanspeak had trans-Pacific jet lag, Nigel Fitch introduced the guest speaker with flowery accolades.

  “Gentlemen,” Qwilleran began, “it was my previous understanding that Down Below referred to a geographic location. Now I realize it’s something else. While we enjoy perfect temperature in Moose County, it’s hot as hell Down Below.” There was hearty applause from the Boosters.

  “Fine weather,” he went on, “is not the only reason I’m happy to be here. Since arriving I have not once been mugged, or asphyxiated by carbon monoxide, or knocked down by a truck.” (More applause.) “On the debit side, I have had to give up whistling.” (Laughter from all except Cooper.)

  “Having worked all my life, I feel the need to engage in some worthwhile enterprise in this area. I have considered opening an exercise studio next door to Otto’s Tasty Eats.” (Chuckles) “Or I might acquire the mosquito-repellant franchise for Mooseville.” (Loud laughter.) “Or start a driver’s training school.” (Roars of laughter.)

  He then went on to explain the aims of the Klingenschoen Foundation, and as he bowed to the final applause Mayor Blythe presented him with a genuine pickax in good working order.

  After adjournment the hardware merchant introduced himself. “I understand you’re starting to lock your back door, Mr. Qwilleran. Not a bad idea, the way things are going. I special-ordered your lock from Down Below. Beautiful mechanism! Top of the line!”

  Then the police chief led Qwilleran aside. “You were talking to me about that girl who disappeared five years ago. You said she was last seen on July seventh.”

  “That’s the last day she worked, according to our employment records.”

  “There was something about that date that rang a bell,” Brodie said. “I was a sheriff’s deputy then. There was a big cave-in at one of the mines on the night of July seventh. We had it roped off, I remember, until they could put up a fence. Kept a deputy there twenty-four hours a day. Just thought I’d mention it.”

  A smooth-looking sandy-haired man introduced himself as Sam Gafner, a real estate broker. Qwilleran knew he was a salesman before he opened his mouth. “Interested in a business opportunity, Mr. Q? I happen to know this restaurant is going on the block very soon. Beautiful piece of property; all it needs is some good food management.”

  With applause and compliments elevating his mood, Qwilleran drove to the airport to meet Arch Riker.

  The editor stepped off the plane and looked around in dismay. “Is this the airport? Is that the terminal? I thought we’d made an emergency landing on a softball field and the shack with a wind sock was the dugout.”

  Qwilleran grabbed his hand. “Good to see you, Arch. How was the flight?”

  “Like flying with the Wright brothers.”

  Qwilleran steered him to the Klingenschoen limousine. “I hope you brought your dinner jacket, Arch.”

  With Riker’s luggage stowed in the trunk, the sleek black vehicle purred down the long stretch of Airport Road.

  “Ten miles of straight road without a curve, hill, crossroad, or habitation,” Qwilleran boasted. “Nothing to worry about except deer, elk, raccoons, skunks, and the state police. There’s a lot of wild game around here. Everybody goes hunting, pronounced ‘huntn.’ Everybody has a huntn rifle and huntn dogs . . . . Where you see warning signs, those are abandoned mines.”

  “Spooky-looking places,” Riker said. “I’ll bet the kids use the old shaft houses for their wild parties. How do you like living in the wilderness?”

  Qwilleran thought, Wait till he sees the butler and the string trio. “Fine! I like it fine! And the cats are going crazy, chasing around the big rooms. Koko can fly up twenty-one stairs in two leaps.”

  “Has he learned any new tricks?”

  “Arch, that crazy animal has started playing post office. When the mail comes, he sorts it out and brings me the letters he considers important.”

  “Nobody else would believe that, but I do.”

  “It’s a fact. He seems to detect certain scents. He’s brought me letters from persons he knows, households that have cats, and places where he used to live.”

  “I hear Mrs. Cobb is working for you,” Riker said, verging on a touchy subject.

  “We’ll talk about that when we get home and settle down with a drink,” Qwilleran said. “How’s everything at the Flux?”

  “I’m just serving time until I can collect my pension.”

  “Wait till you see the Pickax Picayune! You need a magnifying glass to read the headlines. They cover all the ice cream socials and chicken dinners.”

  “What do you do for news?”

  “Fortunately the state edition of the Flux is distributed up here, and that keeps us in touch with reality—wars, disasters, assassinations, riots, mass murders, all the worthwhile news. WPKX keeps us informed of car accidents, hunting mishaps, and barn fires.” He turned on the radio. “We’ve just missed the six o’clock news, I’m afraid.”

  The announcer was saying, “ . . . when she fell from a tractor on a farm owned by her father, Terence Kilcally, forty-eight. The tractor then entered a ditch and overturned. Sheriff deputies told WPKX that the tractor continued to travel until it entered a ditch and rolled over . . . . Present temperature in Pickax, a pleasant seventy-five degrees.”

  “Pickax doesn’t need air-conditioning,” Qwilleran said as he pointed out the important houses on Goodwinter Boulevard. “These stone buildings stay cool all summer. They have walls two feet thick.”

  And then they reached the K mansion. Riker, jaded after twenty-odd years of editing sensational news, was nonetheless stunned by its grandeur. “Nobody lives like this, Qwill! Least of all you! It’s a little Versailles! It’s the Buckingham Palace of the north woods!”

  “Quit writing headlines, Arch, and tell me what you want to drink.”

  “I’m back on martinis, but I’ll mix my own. Since you’ve been on the wagon you’ve lost your touch.”

  Qwilleran poured white grape juice for himself and a thimbleful for Koko.

  “He remembers me,” said Riker as the cat rubbed against his ankles.

  “He knows you have cats at home. How’s old Punky? How’s old Mibs?”

  “Let’s go and sit down,” Riker said with sudden weariness. They took their drinks to the solarium. “Well, it’s like this,” he said in a tremulous voice. “We had them put to sleep. It was a rough decision to make, but Rosie didn’t want them, and the house was up for sale, and I moved to a hotel. Nobody wants to adopt old animals, so . . . I asked the vet to put them away. They were beautiful longhairs, and he didn’t want to do it, but . . . I had no choice.”

  Both men were silent as Koko and Yum Yum sauntered into the room, nestle
d together on a cushioned wicker chair, and started licking each other.

  “Where’s Mrs. Cobb?” Riker asked finally.

  “She went to a meeting of the Historical Society. I was surprised to hear she’d sold her antique shop.”

  “You were surprised? How do you think I felt? Rosie got a little inheritance, and next thing I knew, she bought out the Cobb business and announced she was going to live over the store—on Zwinger Street! That crummy neighborhood!”

  “What happened to Rosie, Arch? I knew she went back to school after the kids left home.”

  “She took a few college courses and got in with a young crowd—got some new ideas, I guess. Young people have always liked Rosie; she’s full of life. But there’s something sad about mature people who suddenly try to return to their youth—especially a middle-aged woman with a young lover.”

  Qwilleran combed his moustache with his knuckles. “What about middle-aged men with young partners?”

  Riker thought about it. “That’s different, somehow.”

  Qwilleran suggested the Old Stone Mill for dinner. “Don’t expect great food, but the atmosphere’s pleasant, and we can have a little privacy.”

  They sat at a window table overlooking the great mill wheel, which still turned and creaked without benefit of a millstream. It was powered electrically, with taped sound effects giving the impression of rushing water.

  Riker relaxed. “Bucolic tranquillity! Makes one wonder why we live in cities. Don’t you miss the criminal activity Down Below? You always enjoyed a good murder.”

  Qwilleran lowered his voice. “To tell the truth, Arch, there’s a situation here that’s got me wondering. A girl disappeared from the K mansion five years ago, and I’ve been getting the old familiar vibrations.”

  He told Riker about the murals, the four notes played on the antique piano, and Koko’s discovery of Daisy’s luggage in the attic. “The real tip-off was a postal card supposed to be from Daisy but not in her handwriting. I found out the girl was pregnant and the guy wouldn’t marry her.”