Braun, Lilian Jackson - The Cat Who 009

“You probably don’t remember the cabin,” he said to the cats. “We spent a few weeks there a couple of years ago, and you liked it. It has two screened porches. You can watch the birds and squirrels and bugs without getting your feet wet.”

The seventy-five-year-old log cabin, with its acres of woodland and half mile of lake frontage, was among the far-flung holdings Qwilleran had inherited from the Klingenschoen estate, and it was being managed by the executors until the terms of the will could be fulfilled. He had only to express his wishes to the attorneys, and the property-management crew would turn on the power, activate the plumbing system, restore phone service, and remove the dust covers from the furniture.

“You don’t need to worry about a thing!” attorney Hasselrich assured him with his boundless optimism. “You’ll find the key under the doormat. Just unlock the door, walk into the cabin, and enjoy a relaxing summer.”

As circumstances evolved, it was not that easy. The summer vacation started with a dead spider and ended with a dead carpenter, and Jim Qwilleran-respected journalist, richest man in the county, and card-carrying good guy-was suspected of murder.

But in his blissful ignorance, he had taken the attorney at his word. Preparing for the trip to the lakeshore, he packed his small car with a few summer clothes, a box of books, a turkey roaster filled with gravel that served as the cats” commode, a computerized coffeemaker, his typewriter, and the Siamese in their travel coop. This was a wicker picnic hamper outfitted with a down-filled cushion, and Yum Yum hopped into it with alacrity. Koko hung back. He had some covert catly reason for not wanting to go.

“Don’t be a wet blanket,” Qwilleran chided. “Jump in and let’s hit the road.” He should have known that Koko’s whims were not to be taken lightly. The cat seemed to have a sixth sense that detected precarious situations.

When they embarked on their jaunt to Mooseville-it was only thirty miles-the occasion had the excitement of a safari. The skies were sunny, the June breeze was soft, and the temperature was warm enough for Qwilleran to wear shorts and sandals. To avoid tourist traffic he drove north on Sandpit Road instead of the main highway, waving a friendly hand to strangers in pickup trucks and tooting a friendly horn at any farmer on a tractor. Within minutes he had shed the tensions of the City of Stone, for although the population of Pickax was only three thousand, it had the commercial bustle of a county seat. With growing elation he planned his summer. He would do plenty of reading, take long walks on the beach, go canoeing whenever the lake was calm. He also had a writing commitment: two features a week for the Moose County newspaper, to be given thumb position on page two. His column, called “Straight from the Qwill Pen,” would be enjoyable to write (the editor was giving him carte blanche) and challenging enough to keep the creative juices percolating.

“Is everybody happy back there?” he called out over his shoulder without, however, hearing any reply from the hamper.

Qwilleran had only one regret about the forthcoming summer: Polly Duncan would not be there to share it with him. Her substitute, a librarian from the English Midlands, had already arrived in Pickax. Young, brash, brisk in her manner, and clipped in her speech, she was far different from Polly, who had a gentle nature and a soft, low musical voice. Polly’s figure was matronly, and there were traces of gray in her unstyled hair, but she was stimulating company. Animated discussions enlivened their dinner dates, and weekends at her country hideaway made him feel twenty years younger.

As Qwilleran brooded about the absence of Polly, a car approached from the north, far exceeding the speed limit. He recognized the driver. It was Roger MacGillivray, a young reporter for the county newspaper. Qwilleran presumed wryly that Roger was rushing to the office to file a breaking story on some momentous news event in Mooseville: Someone had caught a whopping big fish, or someone’s great-grandmother had celebrated her ninety-fifth birthday. Stop the presses!

Roger was a likable young man, and he had a motherin-law who was an interesting woman. She spent summers at a cottage half a mile down the beach from the Klingenschoen cabin. Mildred Hanstable taught home economics and art in the Pickax schools, wrote the food page for the Moose County newspaper, and happened to be a superlative cook. It occurred to Qwilleran that he might expect a few dinner invitations in the forthcoming weeks. Mildred had a husband, but he was “away” and no one ever mentioned him.

Soon the potato farms and sheep ranches and sandpits were left behind, and the road plunged through lush evergreen forests. A commotion in the wicker hamper indicated that the Siamese could smell the lake air, still a mile away.