The Cat Who Played Post Office

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Then brace yourself,” Qwilleran said. He repeated his suspicion about the so-called accident and his distrust of the East Coast heirs. “Is there anyone in town who comes from that part of the country or has connections there?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” she said, looking pensive and withdrawn.

  He refrained from mentioning his private list of suspects. Hackpole had worked in Newark. The gardener was a Princeton man. Qwilleran’s own former in-laws—an obnoxious crew—pursued some questionable profession in the Garden State.

  To the attorney he said, “In any event I feel strongly that the money should stay in Moose County. It belongs here, and it can do a lot of good. How can we circumvent the present situation? Are there any loopholes? May I write a will myself, assigning my claim to the Klingenschoen Foundation?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Penelope said. “The language of the original will fails to grant you that power . . . . Let me think . . . . This is really an unfortunate development, Mr. Qwilleran. I can only hope you are wrong in your suspicions.”

  “Then be advised,” he said, “that I’m going to write the will anyway. If anything happens to me, you’d better demand an investigation into the cause of my death.”

  “I must say, Mr. Qwilleran, you are very calm and businesslike about a distressing possibility.”

  “I’ve been in hot spots before,” he said, waving her comment aside. “I’ll write a holographic will, so Goodwinter & Goodwinter cannot be faulted for giving me bad advice. And I’ll see that all the bases are covered—the police, the prosecutor’s office, the media . . .”

  “What can I say? . . . Except that I’m quite upset about your allegations.”

  “So be it. Discuss it with your brother, if you see fit, but right or wrong, that’s going to be my course of action.”

  As he hobbled from the office he thought. She’s hung over; she needs a hair of the dog. So he hobbled back into Penelope’s presence. “Your rain check is still good, Miss Goodwinter. I’d like to suggest cocktails and dinner at the Old Stone Mill tonight, if you don’t mind dining with a walking accident statistic.”

  She hesitated briefly before saying, “Thank you, Mr. Qwilleran, but not tonight, I’m afraid.”

  Her telltale physiological condition surprised him more than her refusal of his invitation. Regarding the latter he decided she just didn’t like frozen ravioli.

  At breakfast the next morning Mrs. Cobb had more Goodwinter gossip to report.

  “Sorry to be late,” Qwilleran apologized as he sat down to a plate of real buttermilk pancakes and real Canadian peameal bacon. “I seem to require more sleep since my accident.” He sniffed critically. “I smell lavender.”

  “That’s English wax,” the housekeeper said. “Mrs. Fulgrove is working on the dining room furniture.” She tiptoed to the door of the breakfast room and closed it gently. “She told me the Goodwinters had another fight when he got home from Washington. Miss G was shouting about mosquitoes—and a woman—and a dead body, whatever that means. None of it was very clear to me. Mrs. Fulgrove is hard to understand. She also said something about a cow opening a restaurant in Pickax.”

  “It can’t be any worse than the restaurants we’ve got,” he said. “It might even be better. Any phone calls?”

  “Lori Bamba called. She said her husband will drop off the first batch of letters for you to sign. Mrs. Hanstable phoned to say she’s picking wild blueberries and asked if we wanted any. She sells them to raise money for the hospital.”

  “I hope you placed an order.”

  “I told her two quarts. She’ll drop them off tomorrow when she comes in town to have her hair done.”

  “You women,” he said, “structure your lives around your hair appointments.”

  “Oh, Mr. Q,” she laughed, admonishing him with her eyes. She was acting girlish, he thought, and he soon found out why. “I’ve been invited out to dinner tonight,” she said. “A man I met at the Historical Society.”

  “Good! I’ll grab a hamburger somewhere.”

  “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Qwilleran. I bought four beautiful loin chops and some big Idaho bakers, and I could put them in the oven before I go. I thought maybe you’d like to ask someone over.”

  “Good idea! I’ll invite Junior. I owe him one.”

  In the afternoon Nick Bamba arrived with seventy-five beautifully typed letters. He said proudly, “Lori makes each reply a little different, so it won’t seem like a form letter. She’s good at writing.”

  Qwilleran liked the young engineer from Mooseville. He had a healthy head of black curly hair and eyes like black onyx that shone with enthusiasm, and he always had some choice tidbit of information to impart.

  “Glad you weren’t seriously hurt, Qwill. Lori was praying for you.”

  “Tell her I need all the prayers I can get. How’s she feeling?”

  “Okay, except mornings, but that’s normal.”

  “Would you like a beer?”

  “Got anything stronger? Lori’s on the wagon for the duration, so I do my drinking away from home.”

  “Spoken like a considerate husband,” Qwilleran remarked.

  They sat in the solarium with their drinks and discussed the Trotter case, bicycles, dogs, and the coffee crowd at the Dimsdale Diner.

  “On the way down here,” Nick said, “I stopped at the diner for lunch, and I saw something unusual. Is Alex Goodwinter your attorney?”

  “Actually his sister is handling the estate.”

  “I hear she’s pretty sharp. I wish I could say the same for Alex. He gave a talk to the Mooseville Boosters a while back, and he’s the dullest speaker I ever heard. He makes a good appearance, and a good presentation, but when it’s all over, what has he said? Nothing!”

  “What happened at the diner?” Qwilleran asked casually, although his curiosity was rampant.

  “I was sitting at a window table, eating some by-product of a sawmill called meatloaf, and I saw this Cadillac pull into the parking lot. Usually it’s all pickups and vans, you know.”

  “You mean you could actually see through the dirt on those windows?”

  “Lori says I can see through a brick wall.”

  “So what did you see?”

  “It was Alex driving the Caddie, and he sat there at the wheel with the motor running until one of the owners of the place went out and got in the front seat with him.”

  “Which partner?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Not the cook. The big husky one who rides around on a motorbike. The two of them sat in the car, and it looked like they were arguing. Finally Alex got out his wallet and counted out some bills. I’d like to know what that little deal was all about.”

  Qwilleran’s suspicions were piqued, but he offered a matter-of-fact explanation. “The guy does maintenance work. Alex could have been settling an account.”

  “In cash? Why wouldn’t he write a check?” Nick leaned forward in his chair. “You know, I’ve always thought they were selling something besides food at the diner. Otherwise, how could that dump stay in business?”

  Qwilleran chose to taunt Nick. “Alex is a leading citizen, a pillar of the community, a genuine rockbound Goodwinter. How can you cast aspersions?”

  “Alex is a genuine four-flusher,” said Nick, getting a little heated. “He likes to make people think he’s an important influence in Washington, but I say he’s down there having a good time.”

  “What does Lori think about him?”

  “You know women!” Nick said with disdain. “She thinks he’s a dreamboat—that’s her word for him. I have another word.”

  Nick left, taking fifty more letters for his wife to answer, and Qwilleran visited the hardware store to look at bicycles. When he returned he said to Mrs. Cobb, “Do you know what they’re asking for a ten-speed? More than I paid for my first car!”

  “But you can afford it, Mr. Q.”

  “That’s not the point . . . . You look very nice this afternoon, Mrs. Cobb.
”

  “Thank you. I had my hair done.” She was wearing more makeup than usual. “You’ll never guess who invited me to dinner tonight! It’s that man who objected to the forty-eight star flag.”

  “What? Hackpole?”

  “Herb Hackpole. He’s really very nice. He runs a garage, and he’s going to find out why my van drips oil.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache and reserved comment.

  While waiting for Junior to arrive, he prepared dinner for the Siamese. Yum Yum had forgiven him for smelling like a hospital and had even jumped into his lap and touched his moustache with an inquisitive paw. It was one of her endearing gestures. Accustomed to stealing toothbrushes and paintbrushes, she had never been able to understand bristles attached to a face.

  Koko, on the other hand, was giving Qwilleran the silent treatment. He had stopped hissing and growling but regarded the man with utter contempt. When the plate of boned chicken was placed on the floor, he refused to eat until Qwilleran had left the room. It was an attitude entirely without precedent.

  Junior arrived promptly at six, with the ravenous hunger of a twenty-two-year-old. “Hey, you look good in bandages, Qwill. You ought to wear them all the time.”

  They ate their pork chops at the massive kitchen table. “According to Mrs. Cobb,” Qwilleran pointed out, “this is probably a sixteenth-century table from a Spanish monastery.”

  “She’s a swell cook,” Junior said. “You’re lucky.”

  “She made a fresh peach pie for our dessert . . . . Have another roll, Junior. They’re sourdough . . . . She went to dinner tonight with a guy from the Historical Society. I hope he’s a decent sort. She’s gullible, and I feel responsible, since I brought her up here from Down Below. Do you know Herb Hackpole?”

  Junior finished chewing a large mouthful. “Everybody knows that guy.”

  “Mrs. Cobb finds him quite likable.”

  “Oh sure. He can be likable if he wants something. Mostly he’s a troublemaker, always calling the paper with some piddling complaint, and we can’t get kids to deliver papers on his block because of his dogs . . . . Pass the butter, Qwill.”

  “Has he always lived here?”

  “Born and raised here, Dad says. In school everybody hated his guts. He was your standard small-town bully, you know. The whole town cheered when he went east to work. Too bad he came back . . . . Is there another beer?”

  “Sure, and we’ve got a couple more ears of corn in the pot.”

  Over coffee and peach pie the young editor said, “I’m supposed to ask you a favor. Do you know the secretary at G&G? She’s my aunt.”

  “I noticed a family resemblance,” Qwilleran said.

  “She thinks Penny is headed for trouble—working long hours and worried about something and drinking, which she doesn’t usually do. My aunt thought maybe you could talk her into taking a vacation—a health spa in Mexico, or something like that.”

  “Me? I’m only a client. She won’t even go to lunch with me.”

  “But Penny admires you a lot, no kidding. She used to clip your columns when you were writing for the Fluxion. She always—” He was interrupted abruptly by the insistent sound of his beeper. He jumped up and ran to the door. “Sorry. There’s a fire. Great meal!”

  He barreled away in his red Jaguar as the siren at City Hall summoned the volunteer firefighters.

  It had been a busy day for Qwilleran, and it was not yet over. Penelope Goodwinter phoned to ask if she could pay a visit and bring a bottle.

  FOURTEEN

  In preparation for Penelope’s visit Qwilleran carried an ice bucket and other bar essentials to the library. That was when he noticed several books on the floor—part of a twelve volume set. The morocco covers were splayed and the India paper pages crumpled. His eyes traveled upward to the shelf and found Koko squeezed into the space between volumes II and VIII, having a nap. He had always like to sleep on bookshelves.

  “Bad cat!” Qwilleran shouted as he examined the mistreated books.

  Waking suddenly, Koko yawned, stretched, and jumped to the floor, and stalked out of the room without comment.

  Qwilleran replaced the books carefully, and at the same time he wondered if anyone in that house had ever read the handsomely bound twelve-volume poem titled Doomsday.

  Doomsday! Qwilleran thought. Is that a prediction or some kind of catly curse?

  He expected the tan BMW to pull into the circular drive as usual. Instead, the headlights searched out the rear of the house, and Penelope knocked at the back door with a playful rat-tat-tat that was out of keeping with her accustomed reserve.

  “I hope you don’t mind my coming to the service entrance,” she caroled, waving a bottle of fine old Scotch. “After all, this is a terribly informal call.”

  She was relaxed almost to the point of gaiety, and she looked casual and comfortable in white ducks, sandals, and a navy blue jersey. As Melinda had mentioned, a little nip did wonders for Penelope’s personality. Yet, her face was haggard and her eyes looked tired. One earring was missing, and she wore no perfume.

  “The ice cubes await us in the library,” Qwilleran said with a flourish. “I find it the friendliest room in the house.”

  The brown tones of bookbindings and leather upholstery absorbed the lamplight, producing a seductive glow. Penelope slid into the slippery leather sofa and crossed her knees with the grace of a long-legged woman. Qwilleran chose a lounge chair and propped his injured leg on an ottoman.

  “Are you on the mend?” she asked in a solicitous tone that sounded genuine.

  “Twenty-three of my stitches are beginning to itch,” he said, “so that’s a healthy sign. I’m glad you decided to take a break. You’ve been working much too hard.”

  “I admit my eyes are weary.”

  “You need a couple of wet tea bags,” he said. “My mother always recommended wet tea bags for tired eyes.”

  “Is the remedy effective?”

  “Now is an appropriate time to find out.” He hoisted himself out of the chair and returned with two soggy tea bags on a Wedgwood saucer. “Rest your head on the back of the sofa.”

  She slid into a loungy position and said, “Oooh!” as he pressed the tea bags on her closed eyelids.

  “How long since you’ve had a vacation, Penelope? I’m tired of calling you Miss Goodwinter. From now on it’s Penelope whether you like it or not.”

  “I like it,” she murmured.

  “You should take a sybaritic week or two at one of those expensive health resorts,” he suggested.

  “A cruise would be more to my liking. Do you like cruise ships, Mr. Qwilleran?”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever sailed strictly for pleasure . . . . And it’s Qwill, Penelope. Please!”

  “Now that you’re a man of leisure, you might try it—the Greek Islands, the Norwegian Fjords—” She was waving an empty glass in his direction, and Qwilleran poured a refill. Her first drink had disappeared fast.

  “Before I start goofing off and taking cruises, I hope to produce a literary masterpiece of two,” he said.

  “You have a wonderful writing style. I always enjoyed your column in the Fluxion. You were so clever when you were writing on a subject you knew nothing about.”

  “Trick of the trade,” he said modestly.

  “It was once my ambition to be a writer, but you have real talent, Qwill. I could never aspire to what you seem to do with the greatest of ease.”

  Qwilleran knew he was a good writer, but he liked enormously to be told so, especially by an attractive woman. While one half of his mind basked in her effusive compliments, the other half was wondering why she had come. Had she argued with her brother again and escaped his surveillance? Why did he supervise her social conduct so assiduously? How could a stuffed shirt like Alexander exert so much influence over this intelligent woman?

  Penelope was being unusually agreeable. She inquired about the health of the Siamese, Amanda’s progress with the redecorating, and M
rs. Cobb’s cataloguing of the collection.

  “Her most recent discovery,” Qwilleran said, “is a pair of majolica vases that had been relegated to the attic—circa 1870 and now worth thousands. They’re just outside the door here—on top of another valuable item that she found in the garage—a Pennsylvania German wardrobe. She calls it a schrank. Seven feet high, and Koko can sail to the top of it in a single effortless leap.”

  Qwilleran wondered whether she was listening. He had spent enough time at cocktail parties to know the rhythm of social drinking, and Penelope was exceeding the speed limit. She was also sliding farther down on the slippery sofa.

  In a kindly voice he said, “Be careful! The drinks can hit you hard when you’re tired. You’ve been spending too many long hours at the office. Is it really worth it?”

  “A junior partner,” she said hesitantly, “has to keep her grind to the nosestone.” She giggled. “Nose . . . to the . . . grindstone.”

  Qwilleran slipped into an investigative role he had played many times—helpful and sympathetic, but somewhat devious. “It must be gratifying, Penelope, to know that your brother is accomplishing so much for the country when he spends his valuable time in Washington. It’s a worthwhile sacrifice that he’s making. I understand that he made a speech recently to the Mooseville Boosters, and they’re still talking about it.”

  Penelope discarded the tea bags and struggled to her feet, in order to pour a more generous drink of Scotch for herself. “Did he tell them about his social—his social—conquests down there?” Her voice had a bitter edge, and her tongue tangled with certain words. “It’s not—not all—business, you know.”

  “No doubt he’ll run for office one of these days,” Qwilleran went on, “and then his social contacts will be useful.”

  Penelope stared at him through a fog and spoke slowly and carefully. “Alex couldn’t . . . get elected . . . mayor of . . . Dimsdale.”

  “You don’t mean that, Penelope. With his name and background and suave manner and striking appearance he’d be a knockout in politics. He’d make a hit with the media. That’s what counts these days.”