The Cat Who Went Underground

CHAPTER 1.

IF JIM QWILLERAN had read his horoscope in the daily paper on that particular morning, perhaps none of this would have happened. But astrology had never been one of his interests.

As he drank his third cup of coffee in his bachelor apartment over the garage, he glanced at the floor, which was strewn with out-of-town newspapers. He had devoured the national and international news, studied the editorials, scoffed at the viewpoints on the Op-Ed page, and scanned the sports section. As usual he skipped the stock market reports and the comics, and he never thought of looking at the horoscope column.

The advice he failed to read was portentous. The Daily Fluxion said, “This is not an auspicious time to change your life-style. Be content with what you have.” The Morning Rampage said, “You may feel restless and bored, but avoid making impulsive decisions today. You could regret it.”

Comfortably unaware of this counsel from the constellations, Qwilleran sprawled in his overscale lounge chair with a coffee mug in his hand, a cat on his lap, and another on the bookshelf nearby. They were an unlikely threesome. The man was a-heavyset six feet two, fiftyish, sloppily attired, with graying hair and mournful eyes, and his exceptionally luxuriant moustache needed trimming. His companions, on the other hand, were aristocratic Siamese with elegantly sleek lines and well-brushed coats, who expected pampering as their royal prerogative.

Qwilleran’s ragged sweatshirt and cluttered apartment gave no clue to his career credentials or his financial status. He was a veteran journalist with worldwide experience, now retired and living in the small northern town of Pickax, and he had recently inherited millions, or billions, from the Klingenschoen estate; the exact figure had not yet been determined by the battery of accountants employed by the executors.

Qwilleran had never cared for wealth, however, and his needs were simple. He was content to live in an apartment over the Klingenschoen garage, and for breakfast on that particular morning he had been satisfied with coffee and a stale doughnut. His roommates had more discriminating palates. For them he opened a can of Alaska king crab, mixing it with a raw egg yolk and garnishing it with a few crumbles of fine English cheddar.

“Today’s special: Crustacean a la tartare fromagere,” he announced as he placed the plate on the floor. Two twitching noses hovered over the dish before tasting it, like oenophiles sniffing the bouquet of a rare wine.

After breakfast the Siamese huddled as if waiting for something to happen.

Qwilleran finished reading the newspapers, drank two more cups of coffee, and drifted into introspection.

“Okay, you guys,” he said as he finally roused himself from his caffeine reverie. “I’ve made a decision: We’re going up to the lake. We’re going to spend three months at the log cabin.” He made it a policy to discuss matters with the cats. It was more satisfying than talking aloud to himself, and his listeners seemed to enjoy the sound of a human voice making conversational noises in their direction.

Yum Yum, the amiable little female, purred. Koko, the male, uttered a piercing but ambiguous “Yow-w-w!”

“What did you mean by that?” Qwilleran demanded. Receiving only an incomprehensible blue-eyed stare in reply, he smoothed his moustache and went on: “I have three reasons for wanting to get out of town: Pickax is a bore in warm weather; Polly Duncan is away for the summer; and we’re out of ice cubes.”

For two years he had been living in Pickax-not by choice but in accord with the terms of the Klingenschoen will-and the old stone buildings and stone-paved streets seemed dull in June. The nearby resort town of Mooseville, on the other hand, was burgeoning with leaf, flower, bird, sunshine, blue sky, rippling wave, lake breeze, and hordes of carefree vacationers.

The second reason for Qwilleran’s discontent was more vital. Polly Duncan, the head librarian in Pickax, around whom his life was beginning to revolve, was spending the summer in England on an exchange program, and he was feeling restless and unfulfilled. Although he knew little about the outdoors and cared even less for fishing, he conjectured that a log cabin on a lonely sand dune overlooking a vast blue lake might cure his malaise.

There was a third reason, less sublime but more pertinent: the refrigerator in his apartment was out of order. Qwilleran expected appliances to function without a hitch, and he showed irrational impatience when equipment broke down.

Unfortunately the Pickax refrigeration specialist had gone camping in northern Canada, and the only other serviceman in the county was hospitalized with a herniated disc.

Altogether, a summer in Mooseville sounded like an excellent idea to Jim Qwilleran.

“You probably don’t remember the cabin,” he said to the cats. “We spent a few weeks there a couple of years ago, and you liked it. It has two screened porches. You can watch the birds and squirrels and bugs without getting your feet wet.”

The seventy-five-year-old log cabin, with its acres of woodland and half mile of lake frontage, was among the far-flung holdings Qwilleran had inherited from the Klingenschoen estate, and it was being managed by the executors until the terms of the will could be fulfilled. He had only to express his wishes to the attorneys, and the property-management crew would turn on the power, activate the plumbing system, restore phone service, and remove the dust covers from the furniture.

“You don’t need to worry about a thing!” attorney Hasselrich assured him with his boundless optimism. “You’ll find the key under the doormat. Just unlock the door, walk into the cabin, and enjoy a relaxing summer.”

As circumstances evolved, it was not that easy. The summer vacation started with a dead spider and ended with a dead carpenter, and Jim Qwilleran-respected journalist, richest man in the county, and card-carrying good guy-was suspected of murder.

But in his blissful ignorance, he had taken the attorney at his word. Preparing for the trip to the lakeshore, he packed his small car with a few summer clothes, a box of books, a turkey roaster filled with gravel that served as the cats” commode, a computerized coffeemaker, his typewriter, and the Siamese in their travel coop. This was a wicker picnic hamper outfitted with a down-filled cushion, and Yum Yum hopped into it with alacrity. Koko hung back. He had some covert catly reason for not wanting to go.

“Don’t be a wet blanket,” Qwilleran chided. “Jump in and let’s hit the road.” He should have known that Koko’s whims were not to be taken lightly. The cat seemed to have a sixth sense that detected precarious situations.

When they embarked on their jaunt to Mooseville-it was only thirty miles-the occasion had the excitement of a safari. The skies were sunny, the June breeze was soft, and the temperature was warm enough for Qwilleran to wear shorts and sandals. To avoid tourist traffic he drove north on Sandpit Road instead of the main highway, waving a friendly hand to strangers in pickup trucks and tooting a friendly horn at any farmer on a tractor. Within minutes he had shed the tensions of the City of Stone, for although the population of Pickax was only three thousand, it had the commercial bustle of a county seat. With growing elation he planned his summer. He would do plenty of reading, take long walks on the beach, go canoeing whenever the lake was calm. He also had a writing commitment: two features a week for the Moose County newspaper, to be given thumb position on page two. His column, called “Straight from the Qwill Pen,” would be enjoyable to write (the editor was giving him carte blanche) and challenging enough to keep the creative juices percolating.

“Is everybody happy back there?” he called out over his shoulder without, however, hearing any reply from the hamper.

Qwilleran had only one regret about the forthcoming summer: Polly Duncan would not be there to share it with him. Her substitute, a librarian from the English Midlands, had already arrived in Pickax. Young, brash, brisk in her manner, and clipped in her speech, she was far different from Polly, who had a gentle nature and a soft, low musical voice. Polly’s figure was matronly, and there were traces of gray in her unstyled hair, but she was stimulating company. Animated discussions enlivened their dinner dates, and weekends at her country hideaway made him feel twenty years younger.

As Qwilleran brooded about the absence of Polly, a car approached from the north, far exceeding the speed limit. He recognized the driver. It was Roger MacGillivray, a young reporter for the county newspaper. Qwilleran presumed wryly that Roger was rushing to the office to file a breaking story on some momentous news event in Mooseville: Someone had caught a whopping big fish, or someone’s great-grandmother had celebrated her ninety-fifth birthday. Stop the presses!

Roger was a likable young man, and he had a motherin-law who was an interesting woman. She spent summers at a cottage half a mile down the beach from the Klingenschoen cabin. Mildred Hanstable taught home economics and art in the Pickax schools, wrote the food page for the Moose County newspaper, and happened to be a superlative cook. It occurred to Qwilleran that he might expect a few dinner invitations in the forthcoming weeks. Mildred had a husband, but he was “away” and no one ever mentioned him.

Soon the potato farms and sheep ranches and sandpits were left behind, and the road plunged through lush evergreen forests. A commotion in the wicker hamper indicated that the Siamese could smell the lake air, still a mile away.

Qwilleran himself noticed something different in the atmosphere-an invigorating buoyancy. It was the Mooseville magic! Every summer it attracted droves of tourists from polluted, crime-ridden urban centers in the southern part of the state, which the locals called Down Below.

“It won’t be long now,” he told his passengers.

The lake burst into view, a body of water so vast that its blue met the blue of the sky at some invisible point. At the ” side of the road a chamber of commerce sign welcomed visitors to “Mooseville, 400 miles north of everywhere!” Here the highway ran along the shoreline, ascending gradually to, the top of Mooseville’s famous sand dunes. Qwilleran frowned when he encountered unusual conditions: mud on the pavement, dump trucks coming out of the woods, the whine of chain saws, the grinding din of a backhoe. He regretted the symptoms of lakefront development, while realizing it was inevitable. Next came the rustic arch marking the entrance to the Top o” the Dunes Club, a private community of summer people, Mildred Hanstable included.

Half a mile farther along he turned into a dirt road marked with the letter K on a cedar post. The wicker hamper started to bounce with anticipation. The Siamese knew! It had been two years ago, yet they remembered the scent; they sensed the environment. The private drive meandered through the woods, past wild cherry trees in blossom, through a stand of white birches, up and down over gentle dunes created by lake action eons ago and now heavily wooded with giant oaks and towering, top-heavy pines.

The drive ended in a clearing, and there was the picturesque old cabin, its logs and chinking dark with age, virtually dwarfed by the massive fieldstone chimney.

“Here we are!” Qwilleran announced, opening the top of the hamper. “You stay here while I take a look around.”

While the Siamese hopped about inside the car and stood on hind legs to peer out the windows, he walked to the edge of the dune and surveyed the placid lake.

Gentle waves lapped the sandy beach at the bottom of the dune with seductive splashes. The breeze was a mere caress. Flocks of tiny yellow birds were flitting in the cherry trees. And here, in this quiet paradise, he was to spend the entire summer!

As Hasselrich had promised, the key was under the mat on the screened porch, and Qwilleran unlocked the door eagerly. The moment he opened it, a blast of frigid air slapped him in the face the musty breath of a cabin that had been closed for the winter. He shivered involuntarily and retreated to the porch and the warmth of a summer day. Something had gone wrong! Hasselrich had failed him!

Tentatively he reached a hand around the door jamb and found a wall switch; the hall light responded, so he knew the cabin had power. And someone had been there to remove the sheets shrouding the living room furniture. Qwilleran retreated hastily to the warm porch to think about this unexpected setback.

From his previous visit he vaguely remembered a heating device installed unobtrusively on one wall of the living room. Grabbing a jacket from the car and wishing he had not worn shorts and sandals, he once more braved the dank chill.

Hurriedly he switched on lights and opened the interior shutters that darkened the place. The wall-heater lurked in a dim corner-a flat metal box with louvers and knobs, and a metal label that had the effrontery to read Komfort-Heet.

Qwilleran huffed angrily into his moustache. The thermostat was set for seventy degrees, but the thermometer registered fifty, and to him it felt like a damp thirty. He dialed the thermostat to its highest limit, but there was no rush of heat, not even a reassuring click. He gave the heater a kick, a primitive technique that worked with old steam radiators, but had no effect on the Komfort-Heet.

Qwilleran had spent his life in apartments and hotels, where one had only to notify the manager and a dripping faucet would be fixed or a loose doorknob tightened. About space heaters he was totally ignorant. Of one thing he was certain, however: He could not expose the Siamese to this bone-chilling cold.

They were indoor cats, accustomed to central heat in winter and sunny windowsills in summer.

There was a fireplace, of course, and there were logs in the wood basket, but he could find no matches. Automatically he felt in his jacket pocket, although he had given up pipe-smoking a year before. He checked the other utilities and found that the plumbing functioned and the telephone produced a dial tone. He gave the space heater another kick and reviled its obstinacy.

At that moment he heard an impatient yowl from the car.

Spitting out a suitable expletive, he looked up a number in the slim phone book that listed Mooseville subscribers.

“Good morning!” chirruped a woman’s pleasant voice.

“Mildred, this is Qwill,” he said abruptly. “I’m at the cabin. I just drove up with the cats to spend the summer.”

“That’s ducky!” she said. “You can come to the beach party tomorrow night.”

“Forget parties,” he snapped. “There’s something wrong with the blasted heater!

The cabin’s like a subterranean cave! What do I do? Is there someone I can call?”

“Perhaps the pilot light’s out,” she said helpfully. “Did you look to see if the pilot light’s out?”

“I don’t even know where it is or what it looks like.”

“There should be a little access door on the front-“

Qwilleran sneezed. “Just tell me who repairs these things, Mildred. I’m on the verge of double pneumonia.”

“Are you on Glinko’s list?” she asked.

He was losing patience. “Glinko! Who’s Glinko?”

“Didn’t anybody tell you about Glinko? You can call him any hour of the day or night, and he’ll send a plumber, electrician, or any kind of repairman you need.

It’s a wonderful convenience for-“

“Okay, what’s his number?” he cut in, shivering and stamping his feet.

“Not so fast, Qwill. First you have to go to his shop, sign up, pay a fee, and give him a key to your cabin.”

“I don’t like the idea of handing out keys indiscriminately,” he said with irritation.

“People around here are perfectly honest,” she said with a note of gentle reproach. “You’ve lived Down Below too long. You suspect everyone.”

Thanking her briefly, Qwilleran dashed out to the car and dropped the cats into their travel coop again. “Sorry. You’re going for another ride,” he announced.

They headed for downtown Mooseville, three miles to the west, where the Huggins Hardware Store made duplicate keys.

The proprietor said, “Spending the summer up here, Mr. Q?”

“Only if I can get the chill out of the cabin, Cecil. Where can I find a repairman for a wall-heater?”

“Glinko’s got “em all tied up,” said the storekeeper. “See Glinko.”

Mildred had said that Glinko’s place of business was right behind the post office, and Qwilleran found only one building in that location: a garage-a greasy, shabby garage with a large door standing open. There was a car inside, with its hood raised. Under the hood a pair of spindly legs in old ragged trousers could be seen waving aimlessly, while the torso was buried among the valves, spark plugs, and cylinders. There was no visible head.

“Excuse me,” Qwilleran said to the waving feet. “Where-can I find Glinko?”

The torso reared up, and the head came into view-a face almost obscured by a wild set of whiskers, a rat’s nest of hair under a greasy beret, and a pair of bright, merry eyes. The gnomelike character slid across the fender and landed nimbly on the concrete floor. “Standin” right here,” he said with a toothless grin. “Who be you?”

“My name is Qwilleran, and I’m staying at the Klingenschoen cabin near Top o” the Dunes.”

The gnome nodded wisely. “That be the place with a K on a post.”

“Correct,” said Qwilleran. “I have a heating problem. I need a repairman.”

“See the wife,” said the little man, nodding toward the house in the rear. “She be the one does all that.”

Qwilleran grunted his thanks and found his way to the house, picking his way through tall weeds, chunks of concrete, and auto parts. Three other cars were parked in the weedy lot, waiting for Glinko’s attention, and they were all in the $40,000 class.

The house was no less dilapidated than the garage. The front steps had caved in, and Qwilleran climbed cautiously through the remaining boards and rapped on the torn screened door. The woman who waddled over to greet him, ample flesh bouncing and tentlike dress billowing, was all smiles and affability.

He introduced himself and said, “I understand you operate a service network.”

“Network!” she hooted, her plump cheeks trembling with merriment. “That’s a good one! Wait’ll I tell Glinko. Ha ha ha! Come in and join the club. You wanna beer?”

“Thank you, but I have two friends waiting for me in the car,” he declined.

She ushered him into a dingy living room where there was nothing to suggest a business operation. “Two hun’erd to join,” she stated. “Fifty a year dues, or a hun’erd if you wanna be on the fast track.”

Qwilleran thought the fee exorbitant, but he gave his name and the address of the cabin and opted for priority service. “Right now I need a wall-heater repaired in a hurry. How quickly can you dispatch a repairman?”

“Dispatch!” she cried with glee. “That’s a good one! Gotta use that! … Lemme see … In a hurry for a plumber, eh?” She gazed upward as if reading file cards on the water-stained ceiling. “Ralph, he went off to Pickax for a load o” pipe.

. ., Jerry, he come down with hay fever so bad he can’t see to drive…

Little Joe’s workin” out your way, puttin” in a new toilet for the Urbanks. I’ll radio out there.”

“Do you bill me for the work?” Qwilleran asked.

“Nope. You pay Little Joe when the work’s done. But you gotta gimme a key.”

He handed over the new key with reluctance. “I’ll write you a check for three hundred. Is that right?”

Mrs. Glinko shook her head and grinned. “Gotta have cash.”

“In that case I’ll have to go over to the bank. Do you want to write down my name and address? It’s spelled Q-w-i-1-1-e-r-a-n.”

“Got it!” she said, tapping her temple. “I’ll dispatch Little Joe after dinner.

Dispatch! Ha ha ha!”

“Not until after dinner?” he protested.

“We eat dinner. You folks eat lunch. Ha ha ha!”

After picking up some cash at the bank for Mrs. Glinko, Qwilleran drove to a parking lot overlooking the municipal marina. There he released the cats from the hamper. “No point in going home yet,” he told them. “We’ll give the guy time to fix the heater. Let’s hope the Glinko system works.”

He bought a hot dog and coffee at the refreshment stand and consumed it behind the wheel, offering the Siamese a few crumbs which they delicately declined.

Together they watched the craft rocking at the piers: charter fishing boats, small yachts, and tall-masted sailboats. There was plenty of money rolling into Mooseville, he concluded. Soon the natives would get rich and start spending winters in the South. He wondered where the Glinkos would idle away the winter.

Palm Springs? Cancel Bay?

At two o’clock he drove slowly to the cabin, skeptical about Mrs. Glinko’s reliability and efficiency. To his relief he found a van parked in the clearing-a rusty, unmarked vehicle with doors flung wide and plumbing gear inside.

The cabin doors were also open, front and back, and warm June air wafted through the building. Little Joe had been smart enough to ventilate the place. Good thinking on his part, Qwilleran had to acknowledge. Why didn’t I do that?

The access door on the front of the heater was open, and in front of it a body lay sprawled on the floor. Qwilleran first noticed the muddy field boots, then the threadbare jeans. By tr)e time his eyes reached the faded red plaid shirt, he knew this, was no repairman.

“Hello,” he said uncertainly. “Are you the plumber?”

The body rolled over, and a husky young woman with mousy hair stuffed into a feed cap sat up and said soberly, “There was a dead spider in the pilot light.

Whole thing’s dirty inside. I’m cleanin” it out. Gotta broom? I made a mess on the floor.” This was said without expression in her large, flat face and dull gray eyes.

“You surprised me,” Qwilleran said. “I was expecting some fellow named Joe.”

“I’m Joanna,” she said. “My daddy was Joe, so we were Big Joe and Little Joe.”

She lowered her eyes as she spoke.

“Was he a plumber, too?”

“He was more of a carpenter, but he did all kinds of things.”

Noticing the past tense, Qwilleran sensed a family tragedy. “What happened, Joanna?” he asked in a sympathetic tone that was part genuine interest and part professional curiosity. He was thinking that a female plumber would make a good subject for the “Qwill Pen.”

“My daddy was killed in an accident.” She was still sitting on the floor with her eyes cast down.

“I’m sorry to hear that-very sorry. Was it a traffic accident?” She shook her head sadly and said in her somber voice, “A tailgate fell on him-the gate on a dump truck.”

“Terrible!” Qwilleran exclaimed. “When did it happen?”

” Coupla months ago.”

“You have my sympathy. How old was he?” Joanna appeared to be about twenty-five.

“Forty-three.” She turned back to the heater as if wanting to end the painful conversation. She lighted the pilot, closed the door and scrambled to her feet.

“Where’s the broom?”

Qwilleran watched her sweep, noting that she was very thorough. Joanna was a strong, healthy-looking young person, but she never smiled.

“Be right back,” she said as she carried a small toolkit to her van. When she returned, she mumbled, “That’ll be thirty-five.”

Assuming that she, like Mrs. Glinka, preferred cash, he gave her some bills from his money clip and accepted a, receipt marked “Paid-Jo Trupp.” He thought the charge was high, but he was grateful to have the heater operating.

Next she handed him a yellow slip of paper. “You gotta sign this,” she said without looking at him. “It’s for Mrs. Glinko.”

It was a voucher indicating that he had paid Jo Trupp for the heater job-that he had paid her twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five? He hesitated over the discrepancy for only a moment before realizing he was dealing with corruption in low places.

He would not embarrass the poor girl for ten dollars. Undoubtedly she had to pay Glinko a kickback and liked to skim a little off the top.

Once the plumber’s van had disappeared down the long undulating driveway and the indoor climate was within reason, Qwilleran was able to appreciate the cabin: the whitewashed log walls, the open ceiling crisscrossed with log trusses, the oiled wood floors scattered with Indian rugs, two white sofas angled around a fieldstone fireplace, and the incomparable view from the bank of north windows.

A mile out on the lake, sailboats were racing. A hundred miles across the water there was Canada.

He carried the wicker hamper indoors and opened the lid slowly. Immediately two dark brown masks with wide, blue eyes and perky ears rose from the interior and swiveled like periscopes. When assured that all was clear, they hopped out: lithe bodies with pale fawn fur accented by slender brown legs, whiplike brown tails, and those inquisitive brown masks. Qwilleran apologized to them for their protracted confinement and the unconscionable delay, but they ignored him and went directly to the fireplace to sniff the spot where a white bearskin rug had warmed the hearth two summers before; bloodied beyond repair at that time, it had since been replaced by an Indian rug. Next, Koko stared up with interest at the moosehead mounted above the mantel, and Yum Yum flattened herself to crawl under the sofa where she had formerly hidden her playthings. Then, within minutes they were both overhead, leaping across the beams, landing on the mantel, swooping down to the sofas, and skidding across the polished floor on handwoven rugs.

Qwilleran brought his luggage indoors and quickly telephoned Mildred Hanstable.

“Mildred, I apologize for my bad manners this morning. I’m afraid I was rather curt when I talked with you.”

“That’s all right, Qwill. I know you were upset. Did it w0rk out all right?” “Amazingly well! Thanks for the tip. Glinko took care of the matter in no time at all. But I’ve got to talk to you about that extraordinary couple and their unorthodox way of doing business.”

Mildred laughed. “It works, so don’t disturb it. Why don’t you come over here for dinner tonight? I’ll throw together a casserole and a salad and take a pie out of the freezer.”

Qwilleran accepted promptly and made a special trip into Mooseville for a bottle of Mildred’s favorite brand of Scotch and a bottle of white grape juice for himself. He also laid in a supply of delicacies for the Siamese.

When he returned from town, Koko was in the back hall, busily occupied with a new discovery. The hallway functioned as a mudroom, with a mud-colored rug for wiping feet, hooks for hanging jackets, a cleaning closet, and other utilitarian features. Koko had tunneled under the rug and was squirming and making throaty sounds.

Qwilleran threw back the rug. Underneath it there was a trap door about two feet square, with a recessed metal ring for lifting. The cat eagerly sniffed its perimeter.

Qwilleran had visions of underground plumbing and wiring mysteries, and his curiosity equaled Koko’s. “Get out of the way, old boy, and let’s have a look,” he said. He found a flashlight in the closet and swung back the heavy slab of oak. “It’s sand! Nothing but sand!” Koko was teetering on the brink, ready to leap into the hole. “No!” Qwilleran thundered, and the cat winced, retreated, and sauntered away to lick his breast fur nonchalantly.

By the time Qwilleran set out for Mildred’s cottage, his companions had been fed and were lounging on the screened porch overlooking the lake. They sat in a patch of sunshine, utterly c’ontented with their lot, and why not? They had consumed a can of red salmon (minus the dark skin) and two smoked oysters. Now they relaxed in leisurely poses that prompted Qwilleran to tiptoe for his camera, but as soon as they saw him peer through the viewfinder, Yum Yum started scratching her ear with an idiot squint in her celestial blue eyes, while Koko rolled over and attended to the base of his tail with one leg pointing toward the firmament.

They were chased off the porch and locked in the cabin before Qwilleran set out on the half-mile walk to Mildred’s place. A desolate stretch of beach bordered his own property, lapped by languid waves. Next, an outcropping of rock projected into the water, popularly known as Seagull Point, although one rarely saw a gull unless the lake washed up a dead fish. Beyond Seagull Point a string of a dozen cottages perched on the dune-a jumble of styles: rustic, contemporary, quaint, or simply ugly, like the boatlike structure said to be owned by a retired sea captain.

The last in the row was Mildred’s yellow cottage. Beyond that, the dune was being cleared in preparation for new construction. Foundations were in evidence, and framing had been started.

A flight of twenty wooden steps led up the side of the dune to Mildred’s terrace with its yellow umbrella table, and as Qwilleran reached the top she met him there, her well-upholstered figure concealed by a loose-fitting yellow beach dress.

“What’s going on there?” Qwilleran called out, waving toward the construction site.

“Condominiums,” she said ruefully. “I hate to see it happen, but they’ve offered us clubhouse and pool privileges, so it’s not all bad. The lake is too cold for swimming, so … why not?”

Handing the bottles to his hostess, he volunteered to tend bar, and Mildred ushered him into the house and pointed out the glassware and ice cubes. Their voices sounded muffled, because the walls were hung with handmade quilts.

Traditional and wildly contemporary designs had the initials M.H. stitched into the corners.

“These represent an unbelievable amount of work,’” Qwilleran said, recognizing an idea for the “Qwill Pen.”

“I only applique the tops,” she said. “My craftworkers do the quilting.” Besides teaching school, writing for the local newspaper, and raising money for the hospital, she conducted a not-for-profit project for low-income handworkers.

Qwilleran regarded her with admiration. “You have boundless energy, Mildred. You never stop!”

“So why can’t I lose weight?” she said, sidestepping the compliment modestly.

“Ypu’re a handsome woman. Don’t worry about pounds.”

“I like to cook, and I like to eat,” she explained, “and my daughter says I don’t get enough real exercise. Can you picture me jogging?”

“How is Sharon enjoying motherhood?” Qwilleran asked.

“Well, to tell the truth, she’s restless staying home with the baby. She wants to go back to teaching. Roger thinks she should wait another year. What do you think, Qwill?’”

“You’re asking a childless bachelor, a failed husband, with no known relatives and no opinion! … By the way, I saw Roger on my way up from Pickax. He was hightailing it back to the office to file his copy for the weekend edition, no doubt.”

Mildred passed a sizzling platter of stuffed mushrooms and rumaki. “I liked your column on the taxidermist, Qwill.”

“Thanks. It was an interesting subject, and I learned that mounted animal heads should never be hung over a fireplace; it dries them out. The moosehead at the cabin may have to go to the hospital for a facelift. Also, I’d like to do something with the whitewashed walls. They’d look better if they were natural.”

“That would make the interior darker,” Mildred warned. “Of course, you could install skylights.” “Don’t they leak?” “Not if you hire a good carpenter.”

“Where do I find a good carpenter? Call Glinko, I suppose. Has anyone figured out his racket, Mildred? He has a monopoly, and I suspect price-fixing, restraint of trade, and tax evasion. They don’t accept checks, and they don’t seem to keep written records.”

“It’s all in Mrs. Glinko’s head,” said Mildred. “That woman is a living computer.”

“The IRS frowns on living computers.” “But you have to admit it’s a wonderful convenience for summer people like us.”

“I keep wondering what else they supply besides plumbers and carpenters.”

“Now you’re being cynical, Qwill. What was wrong with your space heater?”

“A dead spider in the pilot light-or so the plumber said; I’m not sure I believe it. Glinko sent me a woman plumber!” Mildred nodded. “Little Joe.” “She isn’t so little. Do you know her?” “Of course I know her!” Mildred had taught school in the county for more than twenty years, and she knew an entire generation of students as well as their parents. “Her name is Joanna Trupp. Her father was killed in a freak accident this spring.”

Qwilleran said, “There’s a high percentage of fatal accidents in this county.

Either people live to be ninety-five, or they die young-in hunting mishaps, drownings, car crashes, tractor rollovers …”

Mildred beckoned him to the dinner table.

“Is Little Joe a competent plumber?” he went on. “I thought of writing a column about her unusual occupation.”

“I don’t know what it takes to be a competent plumber,” Mildred said, “but in school she was always good at working with her hands. Why she decided to get a plumber’s license, I haven’t the faintest idea. Why would any woman want to fix toilets and drains, and stick her head under the kitchen sink, and crawl under houses? I don’t even like to clean the bathroom!”

The casserole was a sauced combination of turkey, homemade noodles, and artichoke hearts, and it put Qwilleran in an excellent frame of mind. The Caesar salad compounded his pleasure. The raspberry pie left him almost numb with contentment.

As Mildred served coffee on the terrace she said, “There’s a party on the dunes tomorrow night. Why don’t you come as my date and meet some of the summer people? Doc and Dottie Madley are hosting. He’s a dentist from Pickax, you know.

They come up weekends.”

“Who will be there?”

“Probably the Comptons; you’ve met them, of course .\ . The Urbanks are retired; he’s a chemist and a golf nut and a bore … John and Vicki Bushland have a photo studio in the next county. He’s an avid fisherman. Everyone calls him “Bushy’, which is funny because he doesn’t have much hair… The attorney from Down Below is newly divorced. I don’t know whether he’ll be coming up this summer … There’s a young woman renting the Dunfield cottage …”

“How about the retired sea captain?”

“Captain Phlogg never mixes, I’m glad to say. He’s a stinker in more ways than one.”

“I’d like to write a column on that guy, but he’s a disagreeable old codger.

I’ve been in his antique shop a couple of times, and it’s a farce!”

“He’s a fraud,” Mildred said in a confidential tone. “He’s never been to sea! He was just a ship’s carpenter at the old shipyard near Purple Point.”

“What is he doing in a social enclave like the Dunes Club?”

“Want to hear the story that’s circulating? Phlogg bought lakefront property when it was considered worthless. He scrounged lumber from the shipyard and built the house with his own hands, and now lake frontage is up to two thousand dollars a foot! A word of warning, Qwill-don’t ever let your cats out. He has a dog that has a reputation as a cat-killer. The Comptons took him to court when their cat was mauled.”

There was a muffled ring from the telephone, and Mildred excused herself. Just inside the sliding doors she could be heard saying, “Hi, Roger! I hear you’re babysitting tonight… No, what is it? … Who? … Oh, that’s terrible! How did it happen? … What will his family do? They have three kids! … Well, thanks for letting me know, Roger, but that’s really bad news. Maybe we can raise some money for them.”

She returned to the terrace with a strained expression. “That was Roger,” she said. “There’s been a drowning-a young man he went to school with.”

“How did it happen?” Qwilleran asked.

“He went fishing and didn’t come home. They found his body at the mouth of the river. It’ll be in the paper tomorrow.”

“Boat accident?”

“No, he was casting from the bank of the river. I feel awful about it. After being out of work all winter, he’d just been hired for the construction gang at the condo development.”

Mildred offered more coffee, but Qwilleran declined, saying he wanted to be home before the mosquitoes attacked. The true reason was that he felt a peculiar sensation on his upper lip-a twitch in his moustache that, in some inexplicable way, had always presaged trouble.

He covered the half mile along the beach more briskly than before. For the last few hundred yards he felt compelled to run. Even as he climbed up the dune to the cabin he could hear Koko yowling violently, and when he unlocked the door he smelled gas!