The Cat Who Went Underground

CHAPTER 2.

WHEN QWILLERAN RETURNED from Mildred’s cottage and smelled the noxious fumes in the cabin, he telephoned the Glinko number.

“Glinko network!” a woman’s voice said, with emphasis on her new word.

He described the situation quickly with understandable anxiety.

“Ha ha ha!” laughed Mrs. Glinko. “Don’t light any matches.”

“No advice,” he snapped. “Just send someone in a hurry.” He had opened doors and windows and had shut the cats up in the toolshed.

In a matter of minutes an emergency truck pulled into the clearing, and the driver strode into the cabin, sniffing critically. Immediately he walked out again, looking up at the roof. Qwilleran followed, also looking up at the roof.

“Bird’s nest,” said the man. “It happens all the time. See that piece of straw sticking out of the vent? Some bird built its nest up there, and you’ve got carbon monoxide from the water heater seeping into your house. All you have to do is get up there on a ladder and clean it out.”

Qwilleran did as he was told, reflecting that the Glinko network, no matter how corrupt, was not such a bad service after all. Two crises in one day had been handled punctually and responsibly. He found a stepladder in the toolshed, scrambled up on the roof, and extracted a clump of dried grass and eggshells from the vent, feeling proud of his sudden capability and feeling suddenly in tune with country living. Up there on the roof there was an intoxicating exhilaration. He was reluctant to climb down again, but the long June day was coming to an end, the mosquitoes were moving in, and remonstrative yowls were coming from the toolshed.

Settling on the screened porch with the Siamese, he relaxed at last. The yellow birds were swooping back and forth in front of the screens as if taunting the cats, and Koko and Yum Yum dashed to and fro in fruitless pursuit until they fell over in exhaustion, twitching their tails in frustration. So ended the first hectic day of their summer sojourn in Mooseville. It was only a sample of what was to come.

Qwilleran forgot about the drowning of Roger MacGillivray’s friend until he bought a newspaper the next morning. He was in Mooseville to have breakfast at the Northern Lights Hotel, and he picked up a paper to read at the table.

Headlined on page one was Roger’s account: MOOSEVILLE MAN DROWNS IN RIVER Buddy Yarrow, 29, of Mooseville Township, drowned while fishing in the Ittibittiwassee River Thursday night. His body was found at the mouth of the river Friday morning. Police had searched throughout the night after his disappearance was reported by his wife, Linda, 28.

According to a spokesperson for the sheriff’s department, it appears that Yarrow slipped down the riverbank into the water. There was a mudslide at the location where his tackle box was, found, and the river is deep at that point.

Yarrow was a strong swimmer, his wife told police, leading investigators to believe that he hit his head on a rock when he fell. A massive head injury was noted in the coroner’s report. Police theorize that the strong current following last week’s heavy rain swept the victim, stunned or unconscious, to the mouth of the river, where his body was caught in the willows overhanging the water.

“He always went fishing at that bend in the river,” said Linda Yarrow. “He didn’t have a boat. He liked to cast from the bank.’”

Besides his wife, the former Linda Tobin, Yarrow leaves three children: Bobbie, 5; Terry, 3; and Tammy, 6 months. He was a graduate of Moose County schools and was currently employed in the construction of the East Shore Condominiums.

There were pictures of the victim, obviously snapshots from a family album, showing him as a high school youth on the track team, later as a grinning bridegroom, still later as a fisherman squinting into the sun and holding a prize catch.

On page two of the newspaper, in thumb position, was the column “Straight from the Qwill Pen” about a dog named Switch, assistant to an electrician in Purple Point. Switch assisted his master by selecting tools from the toolbox and carrying them up the ladder in his mouth.

Qwilleran noted two typographical errors in his column and three in the drowning story. And his name was misspelled.

He had several ideas for future columns, but the subject that eluded him was the infamous Mooseville antique shop called The Captain’s Mess, operated by the bogus Captain Phlogg”. The man was virtually impossible to interview, being inattentive, evasive, and rude. He sold junk and, worse yet, fakes. Yet, The Captain’s Mess was a tourist attraction-so bad it was good. It was worth a story.

On Saturday morning-after a fisherman’s breakfast of steak, eggs, hashed browns, toast and coffee-Qwilleran devised a new interview approach that would at least command Phlogg’s attention. He left the hotel and walked to the ramshackle building off Main Street that was condemned by the county department of building and safety but championed by the Mooseville Chamber of Commerce. He found Captain Phlogg, with the usual stubble of beard and battered naval cap, sitting in a shadowy corner of the shop, smoking an odoriferous pipe and taking swigs from a pint bottle. In the jumble of rusted, mildewed, broken marine artifacts that surrounded the proprietor, only a skilled and patient collector could find anything worth buying. Some of them spent hours sifting through the rubble.

The captain kept an ominous belaying pin by his side, causing Qwilleran to maintain a safe distance as he began, “Good morning, Captain. I’m from the newspaper. I understand you’re not a retired sea captain; you’re a retired carpenter.”

“Whut? Whut?” croaked the captain, evidencing more direct response than he had ever shown before.

“Is it true that you were a carpenter for a shipbuilder at Purple Point-before you made a killing in land speculation?”.

“Dunno whut yer talkin” about,” said the man, vigorously puffing his pipe.

“I believe you live in a house on the dunes that you built with your own hands, using lumber stolen from the shipyard. Is that true?”

“None o’yer business.”

“Aren’t you the one who has a vicious dog that runs loose illegally?”

The old man snarled some shipyard profanity as he struggled to his feet.

Qwilleran started to back away. “Have you ever been taken to court on account of the dog?”

“Git outa here!” Captain Phlogg reached for the belaying pin.

At that moment a group of giggling tourists entered the shop, and Qwilleran made a swift exit, pleased with the initial results. He planned to goad the man with further annoying questions until he got a story. The chamber of commerce might not approve, but it would make an entertaining column, provided the expletives were deleted.

Returning to the log cabin, Qwilleran was met at the door by an excited Koko, while Yum Yum sat in a compact bundle, observing in dismay. Koko was racing back and forth to attract attention, yowling and yikking, and Qwilleran cast a hasty eye around the interior. Living room, dining alcove, kitchen and bar occupied one large open space, and there was nothing abnormal there. In the bathroom and bunkrooms everything appeared to be intact.

“What’s wrong, Koko?” he asked. “Did a stranger come in here?” He worried about Glinko’s duplicate key. There was no way of guessing how many persons might have access to that key. “What are you trying to tell me, old boy?”

For answer the cat leaped to the top of the bar and from there to the kitchen counter. Qwilleran investigated closely and, in doing so, stepped in something wet. On the oiled floorboards a spill usually remained on the surface until mopped up, and here was a sizable puddle! The idea of a catly misdemeanor flashed across Qwilleran’s mind only briefly; the Siamese were much too fastidious to be accused of such a lapse.

Opening the cabinet door beneath the sink, he found the interior flooded and heard a faint splash. He groaned and reached for the telephone once more.

“Ha ha ha! A drip!” exclaimed the cheerful Mrs. Glinko. “Allrighty, we’ll dispatch somebody PDQ.”

In fifteen minutes an old-model van with more rust than paint pulled into the clearing-the same plumber’s van as before-and Joanna swung out of the driver’s seat.

“Got a leak?” she asked in her somber monotone as she plunged her head under the sink. “These pipes are old!”

“The cabin was built seventy-five years ago,” Qwilleran informed her.

“There’s no shutoff under the sink. How do I get down under?”

He showed her the trap door, and she pulled open the heavy slab with ease and lowered herself into the hole. Koko was extremely interested and had to be shooed away three times. When she emerged with cobwebs on her doming, she did some professional puttering beneath the sink, went down under the floor again to reopen the valve, and presented her bill. Qwilleran paid thirty-five dollars again and signed a voucher for twenty-five. It made him an accomplice in a minor swindle, but he felt more sympathy for Joanna than for Glinko. He rationalized that the ten-dollar discrepancy might be considered a tip.

“What’s under the floor?” he asked her.

“The crawl space. Just sand and pipes and tanks and lots of spiders. It’s dusty.”

“It can’t be very pleasant.”

“I ran into a snake once in a crawl space. My daddy ran into a skunk.” She glanced about the cabin, her bland face showing little reaction until she spotted Koko and Yum Yum sitting on the sofa. “Pretty cats.”

“They’re strictly indoor pets and never go out of the house,” Qwilleran explained firmly. “If you ever have occasion to come in here when I’m not at home, don’t let them run outside! There’s a vicious dog in the neighborhood.”

“I like animals,” she said. “Once I had a porcupine and a woodchuck.”

“What are those yellow birds that fly around here?”

“Wild canaries. You have a lot of chipmunks, too. I have some pet chipmunks-and a fox.”

“Unusual pets,” he commented, wondering if vermin from the wildlife might be tracked into the cabin on her boots.

“I rescued two bear cubs once. Some hunter shot their mother.”

“Are you allowed to keep wild animals in captivity?”

“I don’t tell anybody,” she said with a shrug. “The woodchuck was almost dead when I found him. I fed him with a medicine dropper.”

“Where do you keep them?”

“Behind where I live. The cubs died.”

“Very interesting,” Qwilleran mused. Eventually he might write a column on Joanna the Plumber, but he would avoid mentioning Joanna the Illegal Zookeeper.

“Thanks for the prompt service,” he said in a tone of farewell.

When she had clomped out of the cabin in her heavy boots, he recalled something different about her appearance. The boots, the jeans, the faded plaid shirt and the feed cap were the same as before, but she was wearing lipstick, and her hair looked clean; it was tied back in a ponytail.

He settled down to work on his column for the midweek edition-about Old Sam, the gravedigger, who had been digging graves with a shovel for sixty years. He had plenty of notes on Old Sam as well as a catchy lead, but there was no adequate place to write. For a desk the cabin offered only the dining table, which was round. Papers had a way of sliding off the curved edges and landing on the floor, where the cats played toboggan on them, skidding across the oiled floorboards in high glee. They also liked to sit on his notes and catch their tails in the carriage of his electric typewriter.

“What I need,” Qwilleran said to Yum Yum, who was trying to steal a felt-tip pen, “is a private study.” Even reading was difficult when one had a lapful of cat, and the little female’s possessiveness about his person put an end to comfort and concentration. Nevertheless, he made the best of an awkward situation until the column was finished and it was time to dress for the beach party.

As the festive hour approached, the intense sun of an early evening was slanting across the lake, and Qwilleran wore his dark glasses for the walk down the beach to Mildred’s cottage. He found her looking radiant in a gauzy cherry-colored shift that floated about her ample figure flatteringly and bared her shoulders, which were plump and enticingly smooth.

“Ooooh!” she cried. “With those sunglasses and that moustache, Qwill, you look so sexy!”

He paid her a guarded compliment in return, but smoothed his moustache smugly.

They walked along the shore to the Madleys” contemporary beach house, where a flight of weathered steps led up the side of the dune to a redwood deck. Guests were gathering there, all wearing dark glasses, which gave them a certain anonymity. They were a colorful crew-in beach dresses, sailing stripes, clamdiggers and halters, raw-hued espa-drilles, sandals, Indian prints, Hawaiian shirts, and peasant blouses. Even Lyle Compton, the superintendent of schools, was wearing a daring pair of plaid trousers. There was one simple white dress, and that was on a painfully thin young woman with dark hair clipped close to her head. She was introduced as Russell Simms.

The hostess said to Qwilleran, “You’re both newcomers. Russell has just arrived up here, too.”

“Are you from Down Below?” he asked.

Russell nodded and gazed at the lake through her sunglasses.

“Russell is renting the Dunfield house,” Dottie Madley mentioned as she moved away to greet another arrival.

“Beautiful view,” Qwilleran remarked.

Russell ventured a timid yes and continued to look at the water.

“And constantly changing,” he went on. “It can be calm today and wildly stormy tomorrow, with raging surf. Is this your first visit to Moose County?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you plan to stay for the summer?”

“I think so.” Her dark glasses never met his dark glasses.

“Russell … that’s an unusual name for a woman.”

“Family name,” she murmured as if apologizing.

“What do you plan to do during the summer?”

“I like to … read … and walk on the beach.”

“‘There’s a remarkably good museum in town, if you’re interested in shipwrecks, and a remarkably bad antique shop. How did you happen to choose the Dunfield cottage?”

“It was advertised.”

“In the Daily Fluxion! I used to write for that lively and controversial newspaper.”

“No. In the Morning Rampage.”

Qwilleran’s attempts at conversation were foundering, and he was grateful when Dottie introduced another couple and steered Russell away to meet the newly divorced attorney.

Everyone at the party recognized Qwilleran-or, at least, his moustache. When he was living Down Below and writing for the Fluxion, his photograph with mournful eyes and drooping moustache appeared at the top of his column regularly. When he suddenly arrived in Pickax as the heir to the Klingenschoen fortune, he was an instant celebrity. When he established the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund to distribute his wealth for the benefit of the community, he became a local hero.

On the Madleys” redwood deck he circulated freely, clinking ice cubes in a glass of ginger ale, teasing Dottie, flattering the chemist’s wife, asking Bushy about the fishing, listening sympathetically as a widower described how a helicopter had scattered his wife’s ashes over Three Tree Island.

Leo Urbank, the chemist, flaunted his academic degrees, professional connections, and club affiliations like a verbal resume and asked. Qwilleran if he played golf. Upon receiving a negative reply he wandered away.

Bushy, the photographer, invited Qwilleran to go fishing some evening. He was younger than the other men, although losing his hair. Qwilleran had always enjoyed the company of news photographers, and Bushy seemed to fit the pattern: outgoing, likable, self-assured.

The superintendent of schools said to Qwilleran, “‘Have you heard from Polly Duncan since she escaped from Moose County?”

Qwilleran knew Lyle Compton well-a tall, thin, saturnine man with a perverse sense of humor and blunt speech. “I received a postcard, Lyle,” he replied. “She was met at the airport by the local bigwigs, and they gave her a bunch of flowers.”

“That’s more than we did for the unfortunate woman who came here. I think Polly’s getting the better part of the deal. Since she’s so gung ho on Shakespeare, she may decide to stay in England.”

Qwilleran’s moustache bristled at the suggestion, although he knew that Compton was baiting him. “No chance,” he said. “When Polly airs her theory that Shakespeare was really a woman, she’ll be deported … By the way, do you know anything about that young man who was drowned?”

As superintendent of schools Compton knew everyone in the county, and was always willing to share his information, though taking care to point out that he was not a gossip, just a born educator. “Buddy Yarrow? Yes, he was well-liked at school. Had to struggle to keep his grades up, though. Married the Tobin girl, and they had too many kids too fast. He had a tough time supporting them.”

Mildred overheard them. “I’m applying to the Klingenschoen Fund for financial aid for the Yarrows,” she said. “I hope you’ll put in a good word, Qwill.”

Dottie Madley said, “Buddy built our steps down to the beach, and he was very considerate-didn’t leave any sawdust or nails lying around. Glinko sent him to us.”

“Did someone mention Glinko?” asked Urbank. “We had some plumbing done this week, and Glinko sent us a lady plumber!”

“I suppose she fixes everything with a hairpin,” said Doc.

Qwilleran concealed a scowl. He had long ago curbed his tendency to make jocular remarks about hairpins and bras.

“Doc!” said Mildred in her sternest classroom voice. “That is an outmoded sexist slur. Go to the powder room and wash your mouth out with soap.”

“I’ll stop quipping about hairpins,” Doc-retorted, “when you gals stop calling the John the powder room.”

“Objection!” said John Bushland. “Derogatory reference to a minority!”

It was then that Qwilleran made a remark that exploded like a bomb. It was just a casual statement of his summer intentions, but the reaction astonished him.

“Don’t do it!” said the host.

“You’ll be sorry,” his wife warned, and she wasn’t smiling.

“Only mistake I ever made in my life,” said the attorney. “We-tried it last summer, and it broke up our marriage.”

“When we did it, my wife almost had a nervous breakdown,” said the chemist.

Bushy added seriously, “For the first time in my life I felt like killing someonel”

Qwilleran had simply mentioned that he would like to build an addition to the log cabin. Everyone at the party, he now learned, had encountered infuriating or insurmountable obstacles while building an addition or remodeling a kitchen or adding a porch or putting on a new roof.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked in mild bewilderment.

“All the good contractors are busy with big jobs in the summer,” explained Doc Madley. “Right now they’re building the condos on the shore, a big motel in Mooseville, senior housing in North Kennebeck, a new wing on the Pickax Hospital, and a couple of schools. For a small job like yours you have to hire an underground builder.

“If you can find one,” Urbank added.

“Pardon my ignorance,” Qwilleran said, “but what is an underground builder?”

“You have to dig to find one,” said Compton by way of definition.

“What about Glinko? I thought his service was the bright and beautiful answer to all problems great and small.”

“Glinko can send you someone for an emergency or a day’s work, but he doesn’t handle building projects.”

“Do these underground builders advertise in the phone book?”

“Advertise!” Bushy exclaimed. “They don’t even have telephones. Some of them camp out in tents.”

“Then how do you track them down?”

“Hang around the bars,” someone said.

“Hang around the lumberyard,” someone else said. “If you see a guy buying two-by-fours and nails and plywood and being refused credit, grab him! That’s your man.”

“Don’t give him a nickel in advance,” Compton warned. “Pay him for the hours worked.”

“And hope to God he comes back the next day,” said Urbank. “We spent one whole summer waiting for a man to finish our job, and then we found out he was in jail in some other county.”

“Ours lived in a trailer camp,” said Dottie, “and Doc went out there every morning at six o’clock to haul him out of bed.”

“If you’re interested in bargains,” Doc said, “the underground builder is a good bet. He may never finish the job, but he comes cheap.”

“And you’ll have to watch him every minute, or he’ll put the door where the window should be,” Bushy warned.

“Hmmm,” said Qwilleran, unable to muster any other verbal reaction after the astonishing tirade.

“On the whole,” said Compton, “they know their craft, but they’re damned casual about it. They don’t bother with blueprints. You tell them what you want, draw a picture in the sand with a stick, and wave your hands.”

“Of course, if the worst comes to the worst,” said Doc, “there’s always Mighty Lou.”

Everyone laughed, and the discussion died a merciful death as the hostess invited them to the buffet.

The guests pocketed their sunglasses, went indoors, and served themselves cold chicken, potato salad, and carrot straws. Some found small tables. Others balanced plates on their knees. Compton stood up with his plate on the fireplace mantel.

The attorney, sitting next to Qwilleran, said under his breath, “Have you tried talking to that new girl? I’m brilliant in the courtroom, but I couldn’t get a blasted word out of that woman!”

Mildred said in her classroom voice, “Did anyone see the visitors last night?”

“What time?” Bushy asked.

“About two in the morning.”

“That’s when they usually come around,” Sue Urbank remarked.

“Let me tell you what happened to me,” the photographer said. “I took my boat out last night for some twilight fishing, and I was baiting my hook when I felt something shining over my head. I knew what it was, of course, so I reached for my camera-I never go anywhere without it-but when I looked up again, the thing was gone!”

“What was it?” Qwilleran asked.

“Another UFO,” Bushy replied in a matter-of-fact way.

Qwilleran searched the other faces, but no one seemed surprised.

“Ever get a picture of one?” the photographer was asked.

“Never had any luck. They scoot off so fast.”

“Have any abductions been reported?” Qwilleran inquired with the smirk of a skeptic.

“Not yet,” answered Doc, “but I’m sure Mildred will be the first.”

Calmly she retorted, “Doc, I hope all your patients sue you!”

Sue Urbank said, “It’s a funny thing. I didn’t see a single visitor last summer, but this year they’re out there almost every night.” “We can expect abnormal weather-with all that activity over the lake,” Dottie predicted.

Qwilleran continued to stare at them with disbelief.

Mildred observed his reaction and said, “Shall I phone you, Qwill, some night around two o’clock when they come around?”

“That’s kind of you,” he said, “but I need all the beauty sleep I can get.”

During the small talk Russell Simms was silent, staring at her plate and chewing slowly. Once Qwilleran glanced suddenly in her direction and caught her studying him from the corner of her eye. He preened his moustache.

Urbank said, “Did everyone read their horoscope this morning? Mine said I’d make a wise investment, so I went out and bought a new set of clubs.”

“Mine said I should cooperate with my mate,” said the attorney. .”Unfortunately I don’t have one at the moment. Any volunteers?”

Bushy said, “Today’s Fluxion told me to go out and have a good time. The Rampage told me to stay home and get some work done.”

“I don’t read horoscopes,” Compton announced.

“That’s true,” said his wife. “I have to read them to him while he’s shaving.”

“Lyle, I always knew you were a hypocrite,” said Doc.

“A hypocritical superintendent is more to be trusted than a painless dentist,”

said Compton. “Never trust a dentist who doesn’t hurt.”

“Qwill, what’s your sign?” asked Mildred.

“I don’t think I have a sign,” he said. “When the signs were handed out, I was overlooked.”

Three persons asked his birthdate and decided he was a Gemini on the cusp of Taurus. Mildred said it would be an interesting year for Gemini. “You can expect the unexpected,” she added.

When coffee was served and guests returned to the deck, Compton wandered down to the beach to smoke a cigar. Qwilleran followed him and said, “Doc is a great kidder.”

“He’s good at shooting the breeze,” Compton said, “but if you want your teeth fixed, you might better go to an auto mechanic.”

“How did you react to all that chatter about UFOs and horoscopes?”

“Don’t expect any rational conversation from this beach crowd,” said the superintendent. “They’re all intelligent folks, but they get a little giddy when they come up here. Must be something in the atmosphere.”

“I assume Captain Phlogg never comes to any of these parties.”

“No, he’s an antisocial fellow. He has a big dog that wanders around the dunes like the hound of the Baskervilles, and I’ve got my shotgun loaded. If I ever catch him doing his business on my beach, he’s going to get it! Right between the eyes!”

Qwilleran said, “I opened a can of worms when I mentioned building an addition.”

“You don’t really intend to do it, do you?”

“I’m badly in need of more space. The cabin is okay for weekends or a brief vacation, but it’s inadequate for the whole summer. Did you ever hire an underground builder?”

“About two months ago,” said Compton. “He poured a slab for a two-car garage and roughed it in, and then he never came back. I’ve done everything but hire a private detective. He was one of the itinerants who come up here during the resort season, you know, and the only way I could get hold of him was to leave a message at the Shipwreck Tavern. They haven’t seen him for five weeks, and we’re sitting there with a half-built garage. Can’t get anyone else to finish the damn thing.”

“This is not very encouraging,” Qwilleran said.

“You have to live through it to believe it.”

“Someone mentioned Mighty Lou …”

“Forget him! You may have seem him swaggering around town-a weight lifter who thinks he’s a builder. He has a fortune in tools, but he doesn’t know which end of the nail to hit.”

“How does he make a living?”

“He doesn’t need to make a living. His family used to own all the sandpits in the county.’”

There was a spectacular sunset-a ball of fire sinking into the lake and turning it blood red. Then the mosquitoes swooped in, and the guests went indoors to play cards. Qwilleran suggested to Mildred that they leave.

“Let’s go home and make a sundae,” she said. “I’m still hungry. Do you realize there were thirteen of us at that party? That’s unlucky.”

“We’ll all get food poisoning from the potato salad,” Qwilleran predicted cheerfully. “Did you get a chance to talk to the young woman in the white dress?

Her first name is Russell. She acts like a sleepwalker.”

“I don’t know what she’s all about,” Mildred said. “Did you see her eyes when she took off her sunglasses? Weird!”

“Maybe she landed from one of your extraterrestrial aircraft.”

“You don’t believe in the visitors,” Mildred reproached him. “But just wait till you see one!” When they got to Mildred’s” she served homemade French vanilla ice cream with strawberries and a sprinkling of something crunchy. “What do you think of the topping?”

“It looks like dry catfood,” he said, “but it’s good!”

“It’s my homemade cereal-wonderful in the morning with milk and sliced bananas.

What do you eat for breakfast, Qwill?”

“I haven’t eaten cereal since I was twelve years old.”

“Then I’m going to give you some to take home.” Mildred was always mothering her friends with homemade food. “Now tell me about the addition you want to build.”

“Nothing very large-just a room for sleeping and writing, and a lavatory, and an apartment for the cats. Could you make a rough diagram? Something I could show the builder?”

“That will be easy,” she said. “I’ll make elevations, too. You’ll never be able to match the log walls, but you can use board-and-batten and stain it to harmonize with the logs.”

She made sketches, and they discussed details, and he stayed longer than he had intended. When he finally left for home, Mildred gave him a plastic tub of cereal and lent him a flashlight for the beach. “Watch out for the rocks at Seagull Point,” she warned as she sprayed him with mosquito repellent. “And watch out for visitors!” she added mischievously.

Walking back to the cabin, he was confident he could line up a reputable builder without resorting to workmen on the fringe. He had contacts in Pickax; the Klingenschoen money was at his disposal; and he had done many favors for individuals and organizations. He could foresee no problem.

Arriving at the cabin, he scrambled up the side of the dune, walked around the building and let himself in the back door. “I’m home!” he called out. “Where’s the welcoming committee? … Damn!” He tripped over a crumpled rug that was supposed to cover the trap door.

Switching on lights, he searched for the Siamese. As soon as he saw Yum Yum sitting on the sofa in her worried pose, he knew something was amiss, and then he noticed the shower of confetti on the hearth rug. An entire page of the newspaper had been torn to bits! Completely destroyed was the story on page one about the drowning of Buddy Yarrow, and that included Qwilleran’s own column on the reverse side-the story about Switch, the electrician’s dog.

“Where the devil are you?” Qwilleran shouted. There was a slight movement overhead, and his gaze moved slowly up the face of the stone fireplace to the high mantel-a huge timber hewn from a twenty-foot pine log. Koko was not on the mantel or on the crossbeams. He was on the moosehead, sitting tall between the antlers and radiating satisfaction in every whisker.

“Don’t sit there looking smart!” Qwilleran barked at him. “Whatever you’re trying to tell me, your mode of communication is not appreciated. Furthermore, you rolled up that rug in the hall and I tripped over it! I could have broken my neck!”

Koko squeezed his eyes and looked angelic.

“You devil!” Qwilleran said as he collected the bits of paper, wondering why Koko had done what he did.