The Cat Who Played Post Office Read online

  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 resumé 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 bergère, 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 all over 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. Qwilleran, wouldn’t you like to replace your little car with something more . . . upscale? Mr. Fitch at the bank will cover the transaction.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the car I have, Miss Goodwinter. There’s no rust on the body, and it’s economical to operate.”

  Qwilleran ended the conversation hurriedly. While Penelope was talking he became aware of unusual noises coming from another part of the house—a miscellany of plopping, pattering, fluttering, swishing, and skittering. He rushed out of the library to track it down.

  Beyond the foyer with its majestic staircase there was a vestibule of generous proportions, floored with squares of creamy white marble. Here was the rosewood hall stand with hooks for top hats and derbies, as well as a rack for walking sticks. Here was a marble-topped table with a silver tray for calling cards. And here was the massive front door with its brass handle and escutcheon, its brass doorbell that jangled when one turned a key on the outside, and its brass mail slot.

  Through this slot were shooting envelopes of every size and shape, dropping in a pile on the floor. Sitting on the cool marble and watching the process with anticipation were Koko and Yum Yum. Now and
then Koko would put forth a paw and scoop a letter from the pile, and Yum Yum would bat it around the slick floor.

  As Qwilleran watched, the cascade of envelopes stopped falling, and through the sidelights he could see the mail carrier stepping into her Jeep and driving away.

  His first impulse was to call the post office and suggest some other arrangement, but then he observed the pleasure that the event afforded the cats. They jumped into the pile like children in a snowbank, rolling over and skidding and scattering the mail. Nothing so wonderful had ever happened in their young lives! Letters slithered across the marble vestibule and into the parquet foyer, where Yum Yum tried to push them under the Oriental rug. Hiding things was her specialty.

  One letter was gripped in Koko’s jaws, and he paraded around with an air of importance. It was a pink envelope.

  “Here, give me that letter!” Qwilleran commanded.

  Koko ran into the dining room with Qwilleran in pursuit. The cat darted in and out of the maze of sixty-four chair legs, with the man chasing and scolding. Eventually Koko tired of the game and dropped the pink envelope at Qwilleran’s feet.

  It was a letter from the postmistress he had met in Mooseville during his vacation. Beautifully typed, it put to shame his own two-fingered efforts, which had not improved despite twenty-five years of filing news stories. The letter read:

  Dear Qwill,

  Congratulations on your good fortune! You and the Siamese will be a wonderful addition to Moose County. We hope you will enjoy living up here.

  Nick and I have some exciting news, too. I’m pregnant at last! He wants me to quit my job because I’m on my feet so much (the doctor says I must be careful), so here’s an idea. Could you use a part-time secretary? It would be fun to be a secretary to a real writer.

  Say hello to Koko and Yum Yum for me.

  Catfully yours,

  Lori Bamba

  It was obvious what had happened. Koko had selected the pink letter from the pile of mail because it carried the scent of someone he knew. Lori had established a rapport with the cats during their visit in Mooseville; they were entranced by her long golden braids tied with blue ribbons.

  In a moment or two Koko appeared with another letter and bounded away when Qwilleran reached for it. Then the chase was on—again.

  “You think this is a game,” Qwilleran shouted after him, “but it could get to be a bore! I’ll start picking up my mail at the post office.”

  This time the letter was from a former landlady Down Below. One memorable winter Qwilleran had rented an apartment above her antique shop, in an old building that smelled of baked potatoes when the furnace was operating. Koko had recognized the scent of his former residence. The handwritten note read:

  Dear Mr. Qwilleran,

  Rosie Riker told me about your inheritance, and I’m very happy for you, although we’ll all miss your column in the Daily Fluxion.

  Don’t drop dead when I tell you I’ve sold my antique shop! My heart wasn’t in the business after my husband died, so Mrs. Riker is taking over. She’s a smart collector, and she’d always wanted to be a dealer.

  My son wants me to move to St. Louis, but he’s married now, and I might be in the way. Anyway, I got a crazy idea yesterday and stayed awake all night thinking about it. Here goes—

  Mrs. Riker says you inherited a big house full of antiques and will need a housekeeper. I can cook pretty well, you remember, and I know how to take care of fine antiques Also—I havemy appraiser’s license now and could do some up-to-date appraisals for you—for insurance purposes. I’m serious! I’d love to do it. Let me know what you think.

  Yours truly,

  Iris Cobb

  P.S. How are the cats?

  Qwilleran’s salivary glands went into action as he remembered Mrs. Cobb’s succulent pot roasts and nippy macaroni-and-cheese. He remembered other details: cheerful personality—dumpy figure—fabulous coconut cake. She believed in ghosts; she read palms in a flirtatious way; she left a few lumps in her mashed potatoes so they’d taste like the real thing.

  He immediately put in a phone call to the urban jungle Down Below. “Mrs. Cobb, your idea sounds great! But Pickax is a very small town. You might find it too quiet after the excitement of Zwinger Street.”

  Her voice was as cheerful as ever. “At my age I could use a little quiet, Mr. Qwilleran.”

  “Just the same, you ought to look us over before deciding. I’ll buy your plane ticket and meet you at the airport. How’s the weather down there?”

  “Sweltering!”

  Koko had listened to the conversation with a foreward tilt to his ears, denoting disapproval. Always protective of Qwilleran’s bachelor status, he had resented the landlady’s friendly overtures in the past.

  “Don’t worry, old boy,” Qwilleran told him. “It’s strictly business. And you’ll get some home-cooked food for a change. Now let’s open the rest of the mail.”

  The envelopes scattered about the vestibule included messages of welcome from five churches, three service clubs, and the mayor of Pickax. There were invitations to join the Ittibittiwassee Country Club, the Pickax Historical Society, the Moose County Gourmets, and a bowling league. The administrator of the Pickax Hospital asked Qwilleran to serve on the board of trustees. The superintendent of schools suggested that he teach an adult class in journalism.

  Two other letters had been pushed under the rug in the foyer. The Volunteer Firefighters wished to make Qwilleran an honorary member, and the Pickax Singing Society needed a few more male voices.

  “There’s your chance,” he said to the cat. Koko, as he grew older, was developing a more expressive voice with a gamut of clarion yowling, guttural growling, tenor yodeling, and musical yikking.

  That afternoon Qwilleran met another Goodwinter. While writing about “beautiful living” for the Daily Fluxion, he had met all kinds of interior designers—the talented, the charming, the cosmopolitan, the fashionable, the witty, and the scheming, but Amanda Goodwinter was a new experience.

  When he answered the doorbell—after three impatient rings—he found a scowling gray-haired woman in a baggy summer dress and thick-soled shoes, peering over her glasses to examine the paint job on the front door.

  “Who painted this door?” she demanded. “They botched it! Should’ve stripped it down to the wood. I’m Amanda Goodwinter.” She clomped into the vestibule without looking at Qwilleran. “So this is the so-called showplace of Pickax! Nobody ever invited me here.”

  He ventured to introduce himself.

  “I know who you are! You don’t need to tell me. Penelope says you need help. The foyer’s not too bad, but it needs work. What fool put that tapestry on those chairs?” She prowled from room to room, making comments. “Is this the drawing room I’ve heard about? The draperies have got to go; they’re all wrong . . . . The dining room’s too dark. Looks like the inside of a tomb.”

  Qwilleran interrupted politely. “The attorney suggested that you might redecorate the rooms over the garage.”

  “What!” she screeched. “You expect me to do servants’ quarters?”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I want to use one of the garage apartments myself—as a writing studio—and I’d like it done in good contemporary.”

  The designer was pacing back and forth in the foyer like a caged lioness. “There’s no such thing as good contemporary! I don’t do contemporary. I loathe the damn stuff.”

  Qwilleran cleared his throat diplomatically. “Are there any other designers in town who are competent to work with contemporary?”

  “I’m perfectly competent, mister, to work in any style,” she snapped.

  “I don’t want to upset you . . .”

  “I’m not upset!”

  “If you feel uncomfortable with contemporary, I know designers Down Below who will undertake the entire commission, including the mansion itself after the garage apartments are finished.”

  “Show me the garage,” she said with a scowl. �
�Where is it? How do we get out there?”

  He showed her to the rear of the house. As she passed the library she gave a grunt of begrudging approval. She sniffed at the yellow and green breakfast room and called it gaudy. Poking her head into the kitchen, she stared without comment at the top of the refrigerator, where the Siamese were striking sculptural poses on their blue cushion.

  In the garage they climbed the stairs to the loft, and Qwilleran pointed out the drab apartment he wanted converted to a studio.

  “Hasn’t been touched for twenty years,” she grumbled. “Plaster’s all shot. Needs a lot of work.”

  “If you think this one needs a lot of work,” he said, “wait until you see the other suite.”

  Amanda gave one look at the daisy extravaganza and groaned. “Don’t tell me! Let me guess! It was the Mull girl who did this. What a mess! She came to work here after I let her go.”

  “Did she work for you?”

  “I paid her wages, dammit, but she didn’t work! Her art teacher wanted me to take her on. Big mistake. Cute girl, but not a brain in her head. Her scruffy friends were always hanging around the studio, too. Then she got sticky fingers, so I gave her the sack. Those Mulls! Not a one of them ever amounted to anything . . . . Look at this abomination! It’ll take three coats to cover it, maybe four.”

  Koko’s tune rang through Qwilleran’s mind. Daisy, Daisy. “Hold everything,” he said. “Forget this apartment for the time being and concentrate on my studio.”

  “You’ll have to come downtown to pick out colors and look at samples,” she said irritably.

  “Let’s make it easy. Just rip out the rugs and furniture and cart the whole shebang to the dump. Then carpet the floor in dark brown, like my shoes.”

  “Hmmm, you’re a casual cuss,” the designer said.

  “And paint the walls the color of my pants.”

  “Mojave beige?”

  “Whatever you call it. And let’s have some of those adjustable blinds with thin slats. After that we’ll talk about furniture.”