Braun, Lilian Jackson - The Cat Who 009

“There are plenty of things you never heard of, Arch, until you came to Moose County. It’s like living on another planet… Speaking of planets, do you hear any talk about UFOs?”

“Occasionally from the wire services, but that’s old stuff.”

“I mean-have you heard reports of recent activity over the lake?”

“No,” said the editor with amused interest. “Are there rumors?”

“The summer people discuss visitors from outer space the way you talk about the Chicago Cubs. Why don’t you assign Roger to do a story?”

“Why don’t you do the story yourself? It’s your lead.”

“I’m a nonbeliever. You and I know it’s some kind of meteorological phenomenon, but Roger swears it’s interplanetary, and Mildred acts as if she’s on first-name terms with the crews.”

The salad was crisp, the garlic bread was crusty, and the spaghetti was al dente. “It’s the best thing they do,” Qwilleran said. “All the locals come on Mondays. They let the tourists have the gray pork chops and gray baked potatoes and gray broccoli on the other nights.”

A young couple at a nearby table waved to Qwilleran, and when Riker said he had to go back to the office, Qwilleran went over to speak with Nick and Lori Bamba.

“Who’s babysitting tonight?” he asked.

“My motherin-law,” said Lori. “Thank God for mothers-in-law. I’ve given up trying to get you to do it, Qwill.”

“Pull up a chair,” Nick invited. “Have dessert with us.”

Lori was Qwilleran’s part-time secretary. Working out of her house, she answered his mail with one hand and held the formula bottle with the other. “Your mail has doubled since you started writing the “Qwill Pen,” ” she said. “I can hardly keep up with it.”

“Start typing with two hands,” he suggested.

“How are the cats?”

“They’re fine. We’ve moved up to the cabin for the summer, and I want to build an addition. Know where I can find a good builder?”

Lori and Nick exchanged significant glances. “Clem Cot-tie?” Nick suggested.

“Perfect! Clem needs the work.”

“And he’s not so busy on the farm since the fire … Qwill, we’re talking about Doug Cottle’s son,” said Nick. “They’re the ones had the big chicken coop fire.”

Lori said, “Clem’s getting married, and he could use some extra money.”

“Is this guy any good?” Qwilleran asked.

“Very good, very reliable,” Nick said. “When would you want him to start? I’ll phone him right away. We’re in the same softball league.”

“For starters I’d like him to build a flight of steps down to the beach.”

“Sure, he can do that with one hand!”

Nick excused himself and went to the phone, and Lori said to Qwilleran, “I wish Nick could find another job that would use his skills and experience-and still allow us to live here-and still pay a decent salary. Being an engineer at the state prison isn’t the most elevating occupation. He sees so much that’s sordid and just plain wrong.”

“But he has a built-in verve that keeps him riding on top. He’s always up.”

“That’s his public posture,” Lori said. “I see him at home … Here he comes.”

“Clem’s interested,” Nick said. “He wants to talk to you.”

The voice on the phone had the chesty resonance of a man who has spent his life on a farm-and on a softball field. “Hello, Mr. Qwilleran. I hear you want a carpenter.”

“Yes,, I have several jobs in mind, but the most urgent is a set of steps down to the beach before my cabin slides down into the lake. Do you know the kind I mean?”

“Sure, I helped Buddy Yarrow build those a couple of years ago for some people at the Dune Club. I know what lumber to order without any waste.”

“When could you start?”

“How about tomorrow?”

“I couldn’t ask better than that. Do you know where to find me?”

“It’s the drive with a K on a post. I’ve passed it a million times.”

“See you tomorrow then.” Qwilleran tamped his moustache with satisfaction and returned to the Bambas” table. “I’m indebted to you kids,” he said, and picked up their dinner check.

When Qwilleran returned home, the Siamese greeted him with a look of hungry eagerness, and he scouted for a small treat that they might enjoy. Mildred’s tub of homemade cereal was still unopened. “This may look like catfood,” he explained, “but it’s breakfast cereal for humans.” (They normally objected to anything produced especially for cats.) They gobbled it up. Then he sprawled on the sofa with a news magazine, while Yum Yum snuggled on his lap and Koko perched on the sofaback, both waiting to hear him read aloud about the trade deficit and the latest hostile takeover.

At midnight it was time to lock the doors and close the ulterior shutters.

Daybreak came early in June, and unless the louvered shutters were closed, the pink light of sunrise illuminated the cabin and gave the cats the erroneous idea that it was time for breakfast.