Braun, Lilian Jackson - The Cat Who 009

“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.

CHAPTER 3..

IF QWILLERAN HAD read his horoscope Monday morning, he could have saved a few phone calls. Most vacationers consulted their stars in the Morning Rampage, which was flown to Mooseville daily from Down Below. On Monday morning the Rampage had this to say to Gemini readers: “Listen to the advice of associates.

Don’t insist on doing things your own way.’”

Qwilleran never read the horoscopes, however. First he telephoned XYZ Enterprises in Pickax, and Don Exbridge said, “I wish we could accommodate you, Qwill, but we’re having labor trouble, and it’ll be a miracle if we can meet our contract deadlines. We’re in danger of losing a whole lot of money.” Then he called Moose Country Construction, second largest contractor in the area, and was assured they would be glad to do the work for him-next summer. Finally, the owner of Kennebeck Building Industries declared it would be a privilege and a pleasure to build an addition to the Klingenschoen log cabin-after Labor Day.

Qwilleran wanted the new wing in July, not September, and his disappointment was aggravated by two other developments. First, a cluster of insect bites had suddenly appeared on his left buttock, and they were driving him crazy despite applications of an expensive preparation recommended by the Mooseville druggist.

And that was not all: The kitchen sink was leaking again!

Irately he made another emergency call to Glinko and then stormed out of the house in frustration and annoyance, hoping the lonely half-mile stretch of sand between the cabin and the dune cottages would restore his perspective.

As he walked he began to realize that he had lived contentedly with very little money during his entire adult life; now that unlimited funds were available, he was reacting like a spoiled child. He sat down on a log tossed up on the beach by a recent storm, sitting carefully to avoid the cluster of bites. The lake rippled gently, and the water lapped the shore with soothing splashes.

Sandpipers rah up and down the beach. Gulls were squawking.