The Cat Who Went Underground

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Confused! Cluttered!” Amanda growled. “No organization!”

  “But it’s graphic,” Mildred said.

  “It projects a message,” Qwilleran added.

  “It’s a mess!” Amanda insisted.

  The lakeside town of Brrr, so named because it was the coldest spot in the county during the winter months, presented a plastic snow scene with a papier-mâché igloo and papier-mâché polar bear. Lounging in the synthetic snowdrifts were male and female sunbathers in bikinis. Judging by the whistles, this float was the popular favorite.

  “No taste!” Amanda objected. “But what do you expect of that godforsaken town?”

  Even the dreary little village of Chipmunk managed to enter a float. Known as the moonshine capital of the county during Prohibition, and notorious for the lethal nature of its white lightning, Chipmunk had resurrected a homemade still and displayed it on a flatbed draped in black. The visual punch line was the scattering of bodies on the truck, lifeless or comatose.

  “Now that one shows some wit!” Amanda said, “and if you want a message, that says it all.”

  The judges agreed, and first prize went to the muchmaligned village of Chipmunk.

  Relegated to the end of the two-hour parade were the commercial exhibits with their advertising slogans. A tow truck pulling a wrecked car was sponsored by Buster’s Collision Service, “Where We Meet by Accident.”

  The Pickax Auto Repair and Radiator Shop advertised “A Good Place to Take a Leak.”

  Then a solitary man walked down the middle of Main Street, leading a donkey. There was laughter from the crowd.

  “Can’t see what it says!” Amanda complained.

  Qwilleran read her the lettering on the animal’s saddle blanket. “Get Your Donkey over to the Shipwreck Tavern.”

  Amanda snorted.

  The last flatbed in the parade was sponsored by Trevelyan Plumbing and Heating—an arrangement of oldfashioned bathroom fixtures, with Grandpa Trevelyan sitting in the footed bathtub smoking a corncob pipe. The banner read, “If It Wasn’t for Your Plumber, You’d Have No Place to Go.”

  The parade was over. The watchers swarmed across the parade route. Only then did Qwilleran realize that Clem Cottle had not marched. The man leading the donkey was the regular daytime bartender from the Shipwreck Tavern.

  “Fabulous parade!” Mildred said. “They didn’t throw a single piece of candy! And I love those Scottish pipers! Don’t they have wonderful legs? You’d look good in kilts, Qwill.”

  “They did a good job of pacing the units,” he said. “No long waits and no pileup and no overlapping bands.”

  “Whole thing was too long,” Amanda groused.

  Mildred said, “Mighty Lou made the grandest grand marshal I’ve ever seen. He has all those expensive leather clothes with silver nailheads, you know, and that was his own horse. Wasn’t it a beauty?”

  Qwilleran and Mildred raced the crowds to the Fish Tank and had an early dinner. It was a new restaurant in an old waterfront warehouse on the fishing wharves, and the old timbers creaked with the movement of the lake. They ordered the Fish Tank’s famous clam chowder and broiled whitefish—from a waiter named Harvey who had once been in Mildred’s art class.

  “How’s everything at the Top o’ the Dunes?” Qwilleran asked her.

  “Well, the animal-rescue people picked up Captain Phlogg’s dog right away . . . And Doc and Dottie are buying a boat, which they’ll berth at the marina in Brrr . . . And the Urbanks (don’t repeat this) are splitting up, I happen to know. They got along fine until they retired, but that’s the way it goes. Frankly, I don’t know how Sue could stand him all these years.”

  “How about your next-door neighbor?”

  “Russell? I’ve tried to be neighborly, but she doesn’t respond. She’s a strange one.”

  “I’ve seen her on the beach, feeding the gulls,” Qwilleran said. “She talks to them.”

  “She’s lonely. Why don’t you talk to her, Qwill? You’re always so sympathetic, and she might warm up to an older man.”

  “Sorry, Mildred. I’ve had enough complications with younger women. Even my plumber is getting a little too friendly.”

  “In what way?”

  “She’s started wearing lipstick and washing her hair. I recognize the early warning signals.”

  “Did you read your horoscope this morning?”

  “You know I don’t buy that nonsense, Mildred.”

  “Well, for your information, the Morning Rampage said your charisma will make you very popular with the opposite sex, and romance is just around the corner.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “I’d be happier if they’d give practical advice, such as ‘Don’t order fish in a restaurant today; you could choke to death.’ My whitefish is full of bones.”

  “Send it back!” Mildred said. “Don’t eat it! Mine is filleted to perfection.”

  Qwilleran summoned the waiter and voiced his complaint.

  “All fish has bones,” the waiter said.

  “But not all waiters have brains,” Mildred snapped. “Harvey, take that plate out to the kitchen and bring Mr. Qwilleran a decent filet of whitefish—and no excuses!”

  The waiter scuttled away with the plate.

  Qwilleran asked, “How long does your authority over these kids continue? Harvey is at least twenty-five. Is there a statute of limitations?”

  “Anyone who goes through my classes gets me for life,” she stated flatly.

  “There must be advantages and disadvantages in knowing everyone. How long do I have to live in Moose County before I know the entire population?”

  “It’s too late for you, Qwill. You have to be born here, grow up here, and teach school for a couple of decades.”

  There was a flurry of activity at the entrance as the parade’s grand marshal entered and was seated at a table by himself, still glittering with silver nailheads.

  “I wonder why he’s alone,” Qwilleran said.

  “He’s a loner,” said Mildred.

  But the waiter, serving the fresh plate of whitefish, said with a wicked grin, “Because they won’t let his horse in.”

  Mildred reached across the table and rapped his knuckles with the handle of her table knife. “That was uncalled for, Harvey. Don’t expect a tip!” To Qwilleran she added, “Mighty Lou is one of our town characters—colorful and harmless. If you were thinking of writing a column about him, don’t! Let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “I was considering a column on family reunions. Are they closed sessions, or could a reporter barge in?”

  “They’d be thrilled to have someone from the newspaper! They really would!”

  “What do they do at these affairs?”

  “They have a business meeting and elect officers for the coming year, but mostly they just visit and eat and play games.”

  “There was an announcement in the paper that the Wimsey family is having a reunion this Sunday on someone’s farm.”

  “They’re the largest family in the county, next to the Goodwinters,” Mildred said. “Do you know Cecil Huggins at the hardware store? He’s related to the Wimseys by marriage. Just tell Cecil you’d like to cover the reunion. And when you get there, look up Emma Wimsey. She’s real old but still sharp, and she has the most wonderful cat story to tell! When she told me, I got shivers!”

  When the waiter brought the dessert menu he said, “I’m sorry if I made a boo-boo, Mrs. Hanstable. It just slipped out.”

  “Your apology does you credit, Harvey. You’re back in my good graces.” To Qwilleran she said, “Why don’t we go home for dessert? I could build a parfait with homemade orange ice and fresh raspberries.”

  They set out for the Dune Club, but not until Qwilleran had ordered a freshly boiled lobster tail to take home to the cats. On the way, Mildred made a critical appraisal of his posture at the wheel. “Do you have a stiff neck or something, Qwill?”

  “Just some soreness in my shoulders—from biking, I suppo
se. I’m using a different set of muscles, or else I jarred something loose when I bounced over an exposed tree root.”

  “Take off your shirt,” she ordered when they arrived at her yellow cottage. “I have a wonderful Swiss oil that Sharon got for me, and I’ll give you a rub.”

  As she rubbed in all the right places, his thoughts flew across the Atlantic to Polly Duncan. In England the Fourth of July would be only “4 July,” and Polly would have worked all day at the library, stopping for tea and seedcake at four o’clock. Perhaps she went to an early theater performance after work and then had fish-and-chips with a new friend. (What kind of new friend? he wondered.) And now she would be home in her flat, watching the telly and drinking cocoa—and writing him another postcard.

  “Now you can put your shirt on,” Mildred said. “The oil won’t stain. It’s wonderful stuff.”

  After the parfait Qwilleran admitted that he felt better, outwardly and inwardly, but he declined to stay longer, saying that he had to feed the cats before they started chewing the table leg. On the way back to the cabin he reflected on Mildred’s charitable nature and her spunk. Singlehanded she had turned the Fourth of July celebration around—from a travesty to a spectacular success. The firm way she handled the whitefish situation; her concern for the lonely girl next door; her initiative in raising money for Buddy Yarrow’s family; everything she did was admirable. And she was a superb cook! He could forgive her silliness about horoscopes and UFOs.

  When Qwilleran let himself into the cabin, the rug over the trapdoor was askew as usual. He straightened it automatically and greeted the Siamese, who knew he was carrying something edible, aquatic, and expensive.

  “How was your day?” he asked them. “Any excitement? Any phone calls?”

  Yum Yum rubbed against his ankles, and Koko pranced in figure eights while he diced the lobster meat. After the feast all three of them went to the lakeside porch, where Koko emulated an Egyptian sculpture and Yum Yum languished in her seductive Cleopatra pose. Stealthily Qwilleran went indoors for his camera, but as soon as he returned, Yum Yum crossed her eyes and scratched her ear, and Koko assumed a grotesque position to wash a spot on his belly that appeared to be perfectly clean.

  It was still daylight, and somewhere along the shore the gulls were squawking again. Qwilleran went down the wooden steps and walked toward the clamor. Scores of soaring wings were wheeling over Seagull Point. Moving in slowly, he photographed the performance without disturbing the woman who was feeding them. Then he sat on a boulder until she tossed the last morsel of food.

  “Good show!” he applauded. “Fantastic aerial ballet. I snapped some pictures.”

  “Oh,” said Russell, walking hesitantly toward him.

  “Pull up a rock and sit down.” He indicated a boulder a few feet from his own seat, and Russell sat down dutifully. “Did you go to the parade today?”

  “I don’t like crowds,” she said sadly, addressing the lake.

  “You missed an exceptional spectacle.” He picked up a stone and flung it into the water. “Are you enjoying your vacation?”

  She nodded without enthusiasm.

  “I hope you’ve been to the museum.”

  “It was interesting,” she said.

  Clenching his teeth, he waited for an inspiration . . . The subject of food, he remembered, was a foolproof ice-breaker in difficult social situations. He said, “Have you discovered any good restaurants in town?”

  After a pause she said, “I never go to restaurants.”

  “Do you prefer to cook?”

  “I don’t eat much.”

  That explained her pencil-thin figure and perhaps her low-energy level. He found a few flat stones and skipped them across the surface of the lake. Then he tried a desperate quip. “Read any good books lately?”

  “Nothing special,” she said.

  “There’s a small library in Mooseville, and also a woman who operates a paperback book exchange, in case you run out of reading material.”

  There was no comment from the other rock, and he skipped a few more stones.

  “How do you like the Dunfield cottage?”

  Russell squirmed on the rock. “I don’t know.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “I feel uncomfortable.” She appeared to shrink.

  “If anything worries you,” he said, “feel free to talk it over with your neighbor, Mildred Hanstable. She’s a kind and understanding woman. And if you need help of any kind, call Mildred or me.”

  “You’re a nice man,” said Russell suddenly.

  “Well, thank you!” he said. “But you really don’t know me. I turn down the corners of pages in books. I sometimes split an infinitive. And once I wore brown shoes with a black suit.”

  She almost smiled, but not quite. Waving a hand toward the log cabin, she said, “You’re building something.”

  “I’m building an addition. Walk over and look at it some day. All our neighbors are interested in the process.”

  Russell stood up. “I have to go before it gets dark.”

  Without further civilities she walked toward the east, and Qwilleran ambled into the setting sun, wondering about this reticent young woman who never really looked at him. Obviously no one had told her the history of the Dunfield cottage, and yet she felt uncomfortable there. In a way she was like Koko; she could sense a sinister influence.

  Back at the cabin Qwilleran detected mischief. Yum Yum was darting insanely about the living room while Koko looked on with magisterial calm from the top of the moosehead. Yum Yum seemed to have something small and gray in her mouth.

  “Drop it!” Qwilleran shouted, and this was her cue to take flight. Around and around the cabin she flew with the thing in her mouth, while Qwilleran pursued with the grace of a Neanderthal, using all his wits to intercept her and being outwitted at every pass. Tired at last, she hopped on the dining table and dropped the dead mouse in his typewriter.

  “Thank you!” he said. “Thank you very much!”

  SIX

  To the disappointment of holiday weekenders it rained on Saturday—rained hard. The bare roofboards on the east wing provided little protection from the downpour, which funneled between the boards and descended in sheets to drench the exposed subfloor. Qwilleran hardly expected Clem to work, and yet the carpenter failed to telephone. Previously he had been punctilious about reporting any change of plan, a businesslike practice that Qwilleran appreciated.

  “That young man has a good head on his shoulders,” he said to the Siamese. “He’s bound to be a success. In a few years from now—if he quits the chicken business and sticks with contracting—he’ll be giving XYZ Enterprises some competition.”

  Koko merely maneuvered his tail in reply. Tap tap tap. Much of the morning he spent in the window overlooking the building site. Nothing was happening, but he was waiting. Tap tap tap. The cat had always shown an interest in human occupations. He watched Joanna do plumbing repairs, and in Pickax he had supervised Pete Parrott’s paperhanging and Mr. O’Dell’s window washing and carpet cleaning, as well as Qwilleran’s pecking on the typewriter. Koko regarded each operation studiously, like an alert apprentice learning the trade. Now it appeared that he wanted to be a carpenter.

  Qwilleran’s first order of business on Saturday was to dial the phone number that he knew so well. “This is Qwilleran at the K cabin on the east shore.”

  “Ha ha ha! Don’t need to tell me,” laughed Mrs. Glinko. “Whatcha done now?”

  He wanted to say, Dammit, do you think I sit around all day thinking of things to destroy? But she was so relentlessly cheerful and so conscientiously accommodating that he could not be angry with her. He explained, “It’s like this, Mrs. Glinko. I’m afraid mice are getting into this seventy-five-year-old cabin. Is there anyone who could advise me how to stop the invasion?” One mouse hardly constituted an invasion, but he thought it wise to dramatize the urgency of the situation.

  “Allrighty. I’ll dispatch Young Jake,�
�� she said. “He’ll know what to do. He goes to college. Ha ha ha!”

  Young Jake arrived promptly—another of the big blonds indigenous to Moose County, driving another of the ubiquitous blue pickups. “We’re having a little trouble here?” he asked with the kindly manner of an old country doctor.

  Qwilleran explained the episode of the previous evening. “That’s the first mouse I’ve seen, but it might be only the reconnaissance detail.”

  “Has your cat been showing interest in any particular part of the cabin?”

  “She’s spent a lot of time watching the stove and refrigerator in the last couple of days. I thought she was dropping broad hints about the meal service.”

  “We’ll have a look,” said Jake. “How do I get into the crawl space?” When shown the trapdoor he handed Qwilleran a flashlight. “I’ll scout around down below, and you shine the light in the corners of the rooms and behind the appliances where pipes or cables come into the house. If I see a pinpoint of light, I’ll close the crack with a sealant. Those little rascals can squeeze through even a hairline crack.”

  Jake dropped through the trapdoor with practiced ease and proceeded to shout orders. “Move east. That’s right . . . Hold it! . . . All tight here. Move on . . . Hold it! . . . False alarm. Move on. Cables coming up. Not too fast! Hold it! . . . Ah! This is it! Hold steady!”

  When the job was done, the expert emerged from the hole, draped with cobwebs. “The mice had an open invitation where the power lines come into the house,” he said. “Excuse me. I’ll step outside to brush myself off.”

  “You seem to know what you’re doing,” Qwilleran said when he returned and presented his bill.

  “The job’s guaranteed. If you have a problem, I’ll come back. No extra charge.”

  “Fair enough. Is this your specialty?”

  “No, I’m a general practitioner, but I’ve had plenty of cases like this at the beach cottages. I work during summer vacation.”