The Cat Who Played Post Office

14

Inpreparation 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 VllI, having a nap. He had always liked 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 or 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 Mrs. 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 county 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." Nastiness and alcohol contorted her handsome features. "He couldn't… get anywhere… without me." Her eyes were not focusing, and when she put her glass down on the table, it missed the edge.

"Sorry," she said as she scrambled about on her knees, picking up ice cubes.

Qwilleran was relentless. "I'm sure you could manage the office efficiently while the senior partner is doing great things in the Capitol." The brilliant, articulate Penelope was pathetically struggling to make sense, "He won't… go down there. He'll bring..

he'll bring her… up here, New partner!" Remarks overheard at the Dimsdale Diner flashed through Qwilleran's mind, "Is she an attorney?" Penelope gulped what remained of her melted ice cubes. "Bring her… into the firm, that's what., but over my.

dead body! I…won't… have it. Won't have it!" "Penelope," he said soothingly, "it will be a good thing for you. Another partner will relieve you of some of the pressure." She uttered a hysterical laugh. "Goodwinter, Goodwinter and Sh — Smfska!" She stumbled over the name. "Goodwinter, Goodwinter and Smfska! We'll be… laughingstock… of the county!" "Have you expressed your feelings to your brother? Perhaps he'll reconsider." She was losing control. "He'll… he'll marry… he'll marry that — that tramp! But I'll… I'll stop it, I can… stop it.

Stop it!" She looked wild-eyed and disheveled. "I feel… awful!" Qwilleran pulled her to her feet, "You need fresh air." He walked her to the solarium and through the French doors and held her sympathetically while she gave vent to tears. "Do you want black coffee, Penelope?" She shook her head. "Shall I take you home?" He drove the BMW to the turreted stone residence on Goodwinter Boulevard, with Penelope crumpled on the seat beside him. He parked under the porte cochere and carried her up the steps to the carriage entrance. A housekeeper came running, and Alexander appeared in a silk dressing gown.

"She's not well," Qwilleran said. "I think she's overly tired." Alexander looked at his sister sternly and without compassion. "Take her upstairs," he told the housekeeper. Turning to Qwilleran he said, "Where did you — ah — find her?" "She came to the house to discuss a legal matter, and she was taken ill. I think she needs a rest — a vacation — before she has a breakdown. Put her in the hospital for a few days. She should have a checkup." "It is unfortunate," Alexander said, "but she goes completely out of her head when she touches alcohol, and she speaks the most utter nonsense. Thank you for returning her — ah — safely. Allow me to drive you home." "No thanks. It's only a short distance, and it's a nice night." As he walked slowly through the moonlit streets he reflected that Mrs. Fulgrove's report about «mosquitoes» and a dead body was roughly related to the facts, and he concluded that Penelope was overreacting to the threat of Ms. Smfska as professional partner and future sister-in-law. True, it would generate merriment in Moose County, especially among the coffee-shop regulars. Anyone familiar with the Goodwinter mystique and Penelope's insufferable snobbery would be amused at the thought of Goodwinter, Goodwinter and Smfska. Among the cackling, bleating, guffawing crowd at the Dismal Diner it would probably become Goodwinter, Goodwinter and Mosquito. Nevertheless, after hospital rest and a vacation, he decided, the junior partner would regain her perspective.

Approaching the K mansion, he glanced at the second floor. The lights were turned on in Mrs. Cobb's suite, indicating that she had returned safely after an evening with that ape! She had always been attracted to tattoos and crew cuts. Her late husband had been a brutish-looking ruffian. There was a light in the back entry, but the rest of the service area was dark, and as Qwilleran unlocked the door he heard a scraping sound in the kitchen. He stood motionless and listened intently, trying to identify it. Scrape… pause… long scrape… pause… two short scrapes. He crossed the stone floor silently in his deck shoes, reached inside the kitchen door, and flicked on the lights.

There in the middle of the floor was the cats' heavy metal commode filled with kitty gravel, and behind it was Koko, preparing to give it another shove with his nose. The cat looked up with startled eyes and ears.

"You bad cat!" Qwilleran said sharply. "You're the one who's been moving things around! You could kill a person! Cut it out!" He returned the commode to the laundry room and went upstairs to think about Penelope and compare her to Melinda. They were both handsome women with the Goodwinter features and intelligence and education. The attorney was the more striking of the two, but she lacked Melinda's equanimity and sense of humor. He was lucky to have a healthy, well-adjusted woman like Melinda who called him «lover» and managed great dinner parties and knew how to pronounce sphygmomanometer.

The next morning he found Mildred Hanstable in the kitchen delivering wild blueberries. She and Mrs. Cobb were having a cup of coffee and getting acquainted.

Qwilleran said, "Mildred, you'll be interested to know that Mrs. Cobb is a palmist." Mildred squealed with delight. "Really? Would you be willing to read palms at the hospital bazaar? We have tarot card readings and raise quite a bit of money that way." The housekeeper seemed flattered. "I'd be glad to, if you think I'm good enough." Diplomatically Qwilleran steered Mildred out of the kitchen and into the library, where he seated her in a comfortable chair and handed her a grubby clutch of yellowed paper.

She shuddered and recoiled. "What's that?" "Daisy's diary. We found it behind her bed. It's totally illegible. I can distinguish a date at the top of each page, that's all. She began writing January first and ended in May." Mildred accepted the diary gingerly. "It looks like a mouse nest, but it's her handwriting, all right. I wonder if I can decipher it." She studied the first page. "Once you get the hang of her letter formation it's not so bad… Let's see. It starts with 'Happy New Year to me, but the spelling's atrocious… Hmmm… She says her mother is drunk. Poor girl never knew what it was to have a decent parent… She mentions Rick. They go out in the woods and throw snowballs at trees. He buys her a burger… How'm I doing, Qwill?" "You're amazing! Don't stop." "Oh-oh! On January second she loses her job at the studio. Calls Amanda a witch. There's something about an elephant, spelled with an f. It's a Christmas present from Rick." "He's the one who stole it," Qwilleran guessed. "Amanda blamed Daisy. Her friends used to hang around the studio." Mildred scanned the pages. "Very depressing… until January fifteenth. She gets a job at the Goodwinter houseuniforms provided. A room of her own. Won't have to live with Della. She celebrates with Rick, Ollie, Tiff and Jim.

"Tiffany is the one who was shot on her father's farm." "Yes, I know. I had her in home ec. Married one of the Trotter boys. Father injured in a tractor accident… Now the diary skips to February. Daisy decides she doesn't like housework. Well, neither do I, to tell the truth… A new boyfriend, Sandy, gives her cologne for a Valentine. Spelled k-l-o-n-e. See what I mean about her spelling?… She doesn't write much in March… April is pretty well messed up… Oh-oh! Lost her job again." "That's when she started working here, according to the employment records," Qwilleran said.

"She's in love with Sandy, spelled L-u-v… No more mention of Rick or Ollie or Jim… Sounds as if she's serious.

Sandy gives her a gold bracelet… Let's see what else… Oh-oh! Here — on April thirteenth — she thinks she's pregnant… Tiff takes her to Dr. Hal… Very happy now… She sketches some wedding dresses… Della is pleased. Knits some things for the baby… Now there are pages tom out… April thirtieth, she cries all night. Sandy wants her to have an abortion. No marriage… He gives her money… Della tells her to have the baby and make him pay… That's all. That's the last entry." "Sad story, but it confirms all our guesses." "Where can I wash my hands, Qwill? This book is foul. And I have to go and get my hair done." After escorting Mildred to her car, he returned to the library to lock up the diary. To his surprise the desk drawer was open. He was sure he had closed it, but now it stood a few inches ajar. The ivory elephant was there-and the gold bracelet-and the postal card. But the envelope of money had vanished.

He made a quick trip to the kitchen, where Mrs. Cobb was preparing mustard sauce for the smoked tongue. "Was anyone here in the last half hour?" "Only Mrs. Hanstable." "I accompanied her to her car, and when I returned, my desk drawer was open, and an important envelope was missing." "I can't imagine, unless… I told you strange things have been going on in this house, Mr. Q." He headed back to the library to make a thorough search of his desktop — just in time to see Koko plodding aimlessly through the foyer, his jaws clamped on the comer of a white envelope that dragged between his legs.

"Drop that!" Qwilleran shouted. "Bad cat! How did you get it?" Koko dropped the envelope, stepped over it with unconcern, and went to sit on the third stair of the staircase. In the library Qwilleran found scratches on the front edge of the drawer. It was a heavy drawer, and Koko had gone to some trouble to open it. Why?

Ever since the accident on Ittibittiwassee Road, Koko had been acting strangely. Prior to that episode he and Qwilleran had been good companions. They treated each other as equals. The man talked to the cat, and the cat listened and blinked and looked wise, then answered with a «yow» that signified tolerant interest or hearty agreement or violent disapproval. They had played games together, and since moving into the K mansion Koko had been particularly attentive.

Suddenly all that had changed. Koko's attitude was one of scornful aloofness, and he committed annoying misdemeanors — like pushing his commode around the kitchen, knocking fine books off the shelf, and — now — stealing money. Something was wrong. A personality change in an animal usually signified illness, yet Koko was the acme of health. His eyes sparkled; his appetite was good; his lithe body was taut with energy; he romped with Yum Yum. Only with Qwilleran was he reserved and remote.

There were no ready answers, and Koko committed no further mischief that day, but late that night Qwilleran was reading in his upstairs sitting room when he heard prolonged wailing, shrill and mournful. Hurrying downstairs as fast as the injured knee would permit, he followed the eerie sound to the back of the house. There, in a shaft of moonlight that beamed into the solarium, was an alarming performance. Koko, his fur unnaturally ruffled, was half crouched, with his head thrown back, and he was howling an unearthly lament that made the blood run cold.

The tall case clock in the foyer bonged twice. Approaching the cat cautiously, Qwilleran spoke to him in a soothing voice and then stroked his ridged fur until he calmed down.

"You're a good cat, Koko, and a good friend," Qwilleran said, "and I'm sorry if I've been preoccupied or cross. You've been trying to get my attention. You're smarter than I am sometimes, and I should read your messages instead of flying off on a wild hunch. Will you forgive me? Can we be friends again? You and Yum Yum are all the family I've got." Koko blinked his eyes and squeaked a faint "ik ik ik." It was two o'clock. Four hours later Qwilleran found out what it was all about.