The Cat Who Played Post Office tcw-6 Read online

  "I just arrived myself," said Qwilleran, breathing hard after his recent exertion. "We're now official residents of Pickax. I flew up from Down Below last night." In Pickax parlance, Down Below referred loosely to the urban sprawl in the southern half of the state.

  "May we welcome you to Moose County," Alexander Goodwinter said pompously, "and I believe I speak for the entire community. By establishing yourself here without delay, you do us a great favor. Your presence will ameliorate public reaction to the Klingenschoen testament, a reaction that was not exactly — ah — favorable. We appreciate your thoughtful cooperation." "My pleasure," Qwilleran said. "Shall we go into the library to talk?" "One moment!" Alexander raised a restraining hand. "The purpose of our visit," he continued in measured tones, "is simply to make your transition as comfortable as possible. Unfortunately I must emplane for Washington, but I leave you in the capable hands of my sister." That arrangement suited Qwilleran very well. He found the junior partner a fascinating enigma. She was gracious, but haughtily so. She had a dazzling smile and provocative dimples, but they were used solely for business purposes. Yet, on one occasion he had found her quite relaxed, and the only clue to her sudden friendliness had been a hint of minty breath freshener. Penelope piqued his curiosity; she was a challenge.

  In making his departure Alexander concluded, "Upon my return you must break bread with us at the club, and perhaps you will allow me to recommend my barber, tailor, and jeweler." He cast a momentary glance at his client's well- worn sweatshirt and untrimmed moustache.

  "What I really need," Qwilleran said, "is a veterinarian — for preventive shots and dental prophylaxis." "Ah… well… yes, of course," said the senior partner. He drove away to the airport, and Qwilleran ushered Penelope into the library, enjoying the scent she was wearing — subtly feminine yet not unprofessional. He noted her silky summer suit, exquisitely tailored. She could pass for a fashion model, he thought. Why was she practicing law in this backwoods town? He looked forward to researching the question in depth.

  In the library the warm colors of Bokhara rugs, leather seating, and thousands of books produced a wraparound coziness. The attorney took a seat on a blood-red leather sofa, and Qwilleran joined her there. Quickly she placed her briefcase on the seat between them.

  "This will be an inspiring place in which to do your writing," she said, glancing at the bookshelves and the busts of Shakespeare and Homer. "Is that actually your typewriter? You might consider treating yourself to a word processor, Mr.

  Qwilleran." Being frugal by nature, he resented advice on how to spend his own money, but his irritation was lessened by Penelope's dimpled smile.

  Then she frowned at the big book with tattered cover. "You could use a new dictionary, too. Yours seems to have had a great deal of use." "That happens to be the cats' scratching pad, " Qwilleran said. "There's nothing better than an unabridged dictionary, third edition, for sharpening the claws." The attorney's aplomb wavered for an instant before she recovered her professional smile and opened her briefcase.

  "The chief reason for this meeting, Mr. Qwilleran, is to discuss financial arrangements. Point One: Although the estate will not be settled for a year or more, we shall do everything in our power to expedite the probate. Meanwhile, our office will handle all expenses for household maintenance, employee wages, utilities, taxes, insurance, and the like. Invoices will come directly to us, obviating any inconvenience to you.

  "Point Two: You have been good enough to sever ties with the Daily Fluxion and take up residence here immediately, and in so doing you have curtailed your income from that source. Accordingly we have arranged with the bank to provide a drawing account of several thousand a month until such time as the estate is settled — after which the monthly cash flow will be considerably greater. We can work out the terms of the drawing account with Mr. Fitch, the trust officer at the bank.

  If you have need of a new car, he will arrange it. Is that agreeable, Mr. Qwilleran?" "It seems fair," he said casually.

  "Point Three: Our office will arrange for landscape and maintenance services, but you will need a live-in housekeeper plus day help, and the choice of such personnel should be your own. Our secretary will be glad to send you applicants for these positions." Qwilleran sat facing the door, and he was surprised to see a cat walk past the library with perpendicular tail and purposeful step. Both animals had been penned in the kitchen, and yet Koko had easily opened a door and was exploring the premises.

  "Point Four: The servants' quarters in the carriage house have been neglected and should be renovated — at the expense of the estate, of course. Would you be willing to work with our interior designer on the renovation?" "Uh… yes… that would be fine," said Qwilleran. He was taking a mental inventory of breakables in the house and expecting to hear a shattering crash at any moment.

  "Do you have any questions, Mr. Qwilleran? Is there anything we can do for you?" "Yes, Miss Goodwinter," he said, wrenching his attention away from the impending catastrophe. "I would like to make my position clear. Point One: I have no desire for a lot of money. I don't want a yacht or private jet. I'm not interested in reading the fine print or watching the bottom line. All I wish is time to do some writing without too much interruption or annoyance." The attorney appeared cautiously incredulous.

  "Point Two, Miss Goodwinter: When the estate is settled, I intend to establish a Klingenschoen Foundation to distribute the surplus income within Moose County. Organizations and individuals would be eligible to apply for grants, scholarships, business development loans — you know the kind of thing." "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran! How incredibly generous!" cried the attorney. "What a brilliant idea! I can hardly express what this will do for the morale and economic health of the county! And it will pacify the groups that had been promised bequests and then been disappointed. May we announce your proposal in the newspaper at once?" "Go ahead. I'll count on your office to work out the details. We might start with an Olympic-size swimming pool for the high school, and I know the marine history buffs want backing for an underwater preserve, and the public library hasn't had a new book since Gone with the Wind." "When Alex returns, your proposal will be the first item on our agenda. I'll telephone him in Washington tonight to break the good news." "That brings me to Point Three," Qwilleran said genially. "May I take you to lunch?" "Thank you, Mr. Qwilleran. I would enjoy it immensely, but unfortunately I have a previous luncheon engagement." The dimpling process had subsided abruptly.

  "How about dinner some evening this week?" "I wish I could accept, but I'll be working late while Alex is out of town. Double work load, you know. Another time, perhaps." As she spoke, a snatch of music came from the drawing room — a few clear notes played on the antique piano.

  "Who is that?" she inquired sharply.

  "One of my feline companions," Qwilleran said with amusement. "That's just the white keys. Wait till he discovers the black ones." The attorney glanced at him askance. The sound had not surprised Qwilleran. He knew that Koko would never jump on the keyboard with a discordant crash. That approach was for ordinary cats. No, Koko would stand on his hind legs on the piano bench and stretch to reach the keys, pressing a few of them experimentally with a slender velvet paw. Having satisfied his curiosity, he would jump down and go on to his next investigation.

  What Koko had played was a descending progression of four notes: G, C, E, G. Qwilleran knew the notes of the scale. As a boy he had practiced piano when he would have preferred batting practice. Now he recognized the tune as the opening phrase of "A Bicycle Built for Two." "That piano rendition leads me to Point Four," he said to the attorney. "The doors in this house are so old that they don't latch securely. I'd like to be able to confine the Siamese to the kitchen on occasion." "No problem at all, Mr. Qwilleran," she said. "We'll send Birch Trevelyan to do the necessary repairs. You will find him an excellent workman, but you must be patient. He would rather go fishing than work." "Another thing, Miss Goodwinter. I know Pickax considers it unfriendly to lock t
he back door, but this house is filled with valuables. Now that tourists are coming up here from Down Below, you never know who will prowl around and get ideas. You people in the country are entirely too trusting. The back door here has a lock but no key." "A new lock should be installed," she said. "Discuss it with Birch Trevelyan. Feel free to ask him about any problem that arises." Later Qwilleran wondered about her real reason for declining to dine. Most young women welcomed his invitations.

  He preened his moustache at the recollection of past successes. Was Penelope maintaining professional distance from a client? His doctor was eager for his invitations; why not his attorney? He also wondered why she flicked her tongue across her lips whenever she mentioned Birch what's-his-name.

  After she left, he found Koko in the dining room, sniffing the rabbits and pheasants carved in deep relief on the doors of the huge sideboard. Yum Yum had crept cautiously from the kitchen and was exploring the solarium with its small forest of rubber plants, cushioned wicker chairs, and panoramic view of birdlife.

  Qwilleran himself went to inspect the fieldstone building that had once stabled horses and housed carriages. Now there were stalls for four automobiles. Besides his own small car and the Klingenschoen limousine there was a rusty bicycle with two flat tires, and there was a collection of garden implements completely foreign to an apartment dweller from the Concrete Belt.

  Climbing the stairs to the loft, he found two apartments. In the days when servants were plentiful, these rooms would have been occupied by two couples-perhaps butler and cook, housekeeper and chauffeur. In the first apartment the drab walls and shabby furniture made a sorry contrast with the grandeur of the main house… But the second apartment!

  The second apartment burst upon the senses like an explosion. The walls and ceiling were covered with graffiti in every color available in a spray can. Giant flowers that looked like daisies were sprayed on every surface, intertwined with hearts, initials, and references to "LUV." There was so much personality expressed in this tawdry room that Qwilleran half expected to meet the former occupant coming out of the shower. What would she look like? "Dizzy blonde" was the phrase that came instantly to mind, but he dismissed it as archaic. No doubt she dyed her hair green and wore hard-edge makeup. On second thought, it was difficult to imagine green hair in Pickax, and certainly not on a housemaid at the K mansion.

  How could anyone live in such a cocoon of wild pattern? Still, there was artistry in its execution. The motifs were organized as thoughtfully as a paisley shawl or Oriental rug.

  Qwilleran knew that the previous owner had employed only a houseman, so… who was this unknown artist? How long ago had she painted these supergraphic daisies?

  He touched his moustache; it always bristled when he made a discovery of significance. And now he was recalling the tune Koko had played on the piano. He hummed the four notes, and the lyric ran through his mind. Daisy, Daisy! An amazing coincidence, he thought. Or was it a coincidence?

  3

  The three new residents of the K mansion were systematically adjusting to their drastically altered environment.

  Qwilleran found a bedroom suite to his liking-eighteenth- century English with Chippendale highboys and lowboys and a canopied bed — and he was learning to heat water for instant coffee in the vast, well-equipped kitchen. Yum Yum claimed the solarium as her territory. Koko, the investigator, after inspecting the luxurious precincts upstairs and downstairs, finally selected the staircase as his special domain. From this vantage point he could watch the front door, keep a constant check on the foyer, monitor traffic, guard the approach to the second floor, and listen for promising sounds in the kitchen.

  He was sitting on the stairs in a comfortable bundle when applicants for the housekeeping position began to arrive.

  Qwilleran, during his career in journalism, had interviewed prime ministers, delivery boys, Hollywood starlets, vagrants, elderly widows, rock stars, convicted rapists, and — he had forgotten what else. He had never interviewed, however, a prospective employee.

  "You've got to help me screen them," he said to Koko. "She should be fond of cats, cook fairly well, know how to care for antiques, and be agreeable. But not too agreeable." Koko squeezed his eyes shut in approval and assent. The first applicant was a white-haired woman with an impressive resume and excellent references, but she could no longer lift anything, walk up stairs, or stand on her feet for any length of time.

  The second interviewee took one look at the staircase and screamed, "Is that a cat? I can't stand cats!" "So far we're batting zero," Qwilleran said to his monitor on the stairs, and then the third applicant arrived.

  She was a rosy-cheeked, clear-eyed young woman in jeans and T-shirt, obviously strong and healthy in every way.

  Her plodding gait indicated she was more accustomed to walking over a plowed field than an Oriental rug. Qwilleran could picture her milking a herd of cows, feeding a kitchenful of farmhands at harvesttime, and frolicking in the hayloft.

  The interview took place in the reception area of the foyer, where French chairs were grouped around the ornate console table under a carved gilt mirror. The young woman sat quietly on the edge of a Louis XV rococo bergere, but her eyes were in constant motion, taking in every detail of the foyer and its furnishings.

  She gave her name as Tiffany. "This is a pretty house," she said.

  "Do you have a surname?" Qwilleran inquired.

  "A last name?" he added when she hesitated.

  "Trotter." "And what experience have you had as a housekeeper?" "I've done everything." Her eyes roamed up the staircase, around the amber-colored tooled leather walls of the foyer, and up and down the eight-foot tall case clock.

  Qwilleran surmised that she was either a spy for the assessor's office or the advance woman for a ring of thieves from Down Below, disguised as a farmer's daughter. If anything dire happened in the near future, Tiffany Trotter would be the first suspect. The name was undoubtedly an alias.

  "How long have you been doing housekeeping?" He guessed her age at not more than twenty.

  "All my life. I kept house for my dad before he got married again." "Are you working now?" "Part-time. I'm a cow-sitter, and I help my dad with the haying." "A cow-sitter?" Qwilleran was reluctant to appear naive. "Do you have many clients?" She shrugged. "Off and on. Some people keep a family cow, and when they go on vacation I go twice a day to milk her and feed her and clean out. I'm taking care of the Lanspeaks' Jersey now. They went to Hawaii." For the first time during the interview Tiffany showed enthusiasm, looking Qwilleran full in the face with her eyes sparkling. "I like Jerseys.

  This one has lots of personality. Her name is Stephanie." The family she mentioned owned the local department store. "Why would the Lanspeaks want to keep a cow?" Qwilleran asked. "Fresh milk tastes better," she replied promptly and with conviction. "And they like homemade butter and homemade cheese." Tiffany left her telephone number and drove away in a pickup truck.

  Next came a Mrs. Fulgrove, a scrawny woman who virtually vibrated with energy or nervousness. Without waiting for questions she said, "I ain't aimin' to be a live-in housekeeper 'cause 'twouldn't be right, you bein' a single man and me a widow, but seein' as how they said you ain't a drinkin' man, I'd be willin' to clean and iron three days a week, which I worked here when the Old Lady was alive and I had to do the work of two seein' as how the reg'lar girl wouldn't lift a finger if I didn't snitch on her to the Old Lady, which the young ones today drink and smoke and dance and all that, and I'm glad I was born when folks had some self-respect, so I always work six days a week and go to church three times on Sunday." Qwilleran said, "Your industry and dedication are to your credit, Mrs. Fulgrove. What did you say was the name of the regular girl who was so lazy?" "She was one of them Mull girls, which the Mulls was never respectable, not that I want to gossip, bein' a charitable woman if I do say it myself, and the Old Lady was fixin' to fire her, but she up and left of her own will, leavin' her rooms in an awful mess with the devil's
own pictures painted allover the walls and dirt most everywhere, which the Old Lady was mad as a hornet, but 'twas good riddance, not that I'm sayin' she was wild, like others do, but she gallivanted around and stayed up late and wouldn't work, which I had to clean out her rooms after she run away." After the woman had given a telephone number — a neighbor's, not her own — she left the house with a determined step, looking neither this way nor that. Immediately Qwilleran felt a strong desire to revisit the apartment with the devilish pictures. He knew there was an island of Mull off the coast of Scotland, and if the young woman happened to be Scottish, she couldn't be totally reprehensible.

  In the garage loft he studied the initials scattered among the daisies and hearts on walls and ceilings: BD, ML, DM, TY, RR, AL, WP, DT, SG, JK, PM, and more. If these were the men in her life, she had been a busy girl. On the other hand, they might be the fabric of fantasy. RR might be a movie star, or a president.

  Back at his desk in the library he looked up Mull in the fourteen-page telephone directory, but the name was not listed.

  Forty-two Goodwinters but no Mulls. He telephoned Penelope.

  "Miss Goodwinter, you're right about the servants' quarters. How do I get in touch with your interior designer?" "Her name is Amanda Goodwinter, and our secretary will ask her to call you for an appointment," the attorney said.

  "Did you see the announcement of the Klingenschoen Foundation in yesterday's Picayune?" "Yes, and it was very well stated. Have you had any reaction?" "Everyone is delighted, Mr. Qwilleran! They call it the best news since the K Saloon closed in the 1920s. When my brother returns, we shall explore the ramifications. Meanwhile, have you interviewed any prospective housekeepers?" "I have, and will you tell your secretary not to send us anymore octogenarians or ailurophobes or cow-sitters? By the way, do you know who painted the graffiti in the servants' quarters?" "Oh, that atrocity!" Penelope exclaimed. "It was one of those girls from Dimsdale. She was housemaid for a short time." "'What happened to her? Did she get a job painting subway trains?" "I hear she left town after defacing her apartment," the attorney said briskly. "Speaking of transportation, Mr.