Braun, Lilian Jackson - The Cat Who 009

“Got it!” she said, tapping her temple. “I’ll dispatch Little Joe after dinner.

Dispatch! Ha ha ha!”

“Not until after dinner?” he protested.

“We eat dinner. You folks eat lunch. Ha ha ha!”

After picking up some cash at the bank for Mrs. Glinko, Qwilleran drove to a parking lot overlooking the municipal marina. There he released the cats from the hamper. “No point in going home yet,” he told them. “We’ll give the guy time to fix the heater. Let’s hope the Glinko system works.”

He bought a hot dog and coffee at the refreshment stand and consumed it behind the wheel, offering the Siamese a few crumbs which they delicately declined.

Together they watched the craft rocking at the piers: charter fishing boats, small yachts, and tall-masted sailboats. There was plenty of money rolling into Mooseville, he concluded. Soon the natives would get rich and start spending winters in the South. He wondered where the Glinkos would idle away the winter.

Palm Springs? Cancel Bay?

At two o’clock he drove slowly to the cabin, skeptical about Mrs. Glinko’s reliability and efficiency. To his relief he found a van parked in the clearing-a rusty, unmarked vehicle with doors flung wide and plumbing gear inside.

The cabin doors were also open, front and back, and warm June air wafted through the building. Little Joe had been smart enough to ventilate the place. Good thinking on his part, Qwilleran had to acknowledge. Why didn’t I do that?

The access door on the front of the heater was open, and in front of it a body lay sprawled on the floor. Qwilleran first noticed the muddy field boots, then the threadbare jeans. By tr)e time his eyes reached the faded red plaid shirt, he knew this, was no repairman.

“Hello,” he said uncertainly. “Are you the plumber?”

The body rolled over, and a husky young woman with mousy hair stuffed into a feed cap sat up and said soberly, “There was a dead spider in the pilot light.

Whole thing’s dirty inside. I’m cleanin” it out. Gotta broom? I made a mess on the floor.” This was said without expression in her large, flat face and dull gray eyes.

“You surprised me,” Qwilleran said. “I was expecting some fellow named Joe.”

“I’m Joanna,” she said. “My daddy was Joe, so we were Big Joe and Little Joe.”

She lowered her eyes as she spoke.

“Was he a plumber, too?”

“He was more of a carpenter, but he did all kinds of things.”

Noticing the past tense, Qwilleran sensed a family tragedy. “What happened, Joanna?” he asked in a sympathetic tone that was part genuine interest and part professional curiosity. He was thinking that a female plumber would make a good subject for the “Qwill Pen.”

“My daddy was killed in an accident.” She was still sitting on the floor with her eyes cast down.

“I’m sorry to hear that-very sorry. Was it a traffic accident?” She shook her head sadly and said in her somber voice, “A tailgate fell on him-the gate on a dump truck.”

“Terrible!” Qwilleran exclaimed. “When did it happen?”

” Coupla months ago.”

“You have my sympathy. How old was he?” Joanna appeared to be about twenty-five.

“Forty-three.” She turned back to the heater as if wanting to end the painful conversation. She lighted the pilot, closed the door and scrambled to her feet.

“Where’s the broom?”

Qwilleran watched her sweep, noting that she was very thorough. Joanna was a strong, healthy-looking young person, but she never smiled.

“Be right back,” she said as she carried a small toolkit to her van. When she returned, she mumbled, “That’ll be thirty-five.”

Assuming that she, like Mrs. Glinka, preferred cash, he gave her some bills from his money clip and accepted a, receipt marked “Paid-Jo Trupp.” He thought the charge was high, but he was grateful to have the heater operating.

Next she handed him a yellow slip of paper. “You gotta sign this,” she said without looking at him. “It’s for Mrs. Glinko.”

It was a voucher indicating that he had paid Jo Trupp for the heater job-that he had paid her twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five? He hesitated over the discrepancy for only a moment before realizing he was dealing with corruption in low places.

He would not embarrass the poor girl for ten dollars. Undoubtedly she had to pay Glinko a kickback and liked to skim a little off the top.

Once the plumber’s van had disappeared down the long undulating driveway and the indoor climate was within reason, Qwilleran was able to appreciate the cabin: the whitewashed log walls, the open ceiling crisscrossed with log trusses, the oiled wood floors scattered with Indian rugs, two white sofas angled around a fieldstone fireplace, and the incomparable view from the bank of north windows.

A mile out on the lake, sailboats were racing. A hundred miles across the water there was Canada.