Braun, Lilian Jackson - The Cat Who 009

“Oh, sure. He’s very good with cats.”

“He doesn’t resemble your average cat-sitter.”

“No, but he’s a good guy-brushes them, talks to them, and everything. The cats like him.” Nick took a sip of his drink, expressed satisfaction, and then said, “You came up with a couple of shockers this week, Qwill. First you’re marooned on a desert island, and then you find a dead body under your house! Are there any suspects?”

“All I know is what I hear on the radio. The police don’t confide in me.”

“But you must have some noodles of your own.” Nick knew that Qwilleran’s suspicions had paid off in the past.

“I don’t know. I’m up a tree. Someone must have had a key to get in and bury the body. I subscribe to the Glinko service, and all their service personnel have access to my key-and God knows who else can borrow it. What do you know about the Glinko operation, Nick? Is it all legal and aboveboard?”

“As far as I know.”

“They’re raking in the dough-dues from summer people and commissions from their workers. What do they do with all their money? They live like paupers.”

“They’ve got a lot of expenses,” Nick said, “what with three kids in college, one of them in Harvard.”

Qwilleran tried not to appear stunned. “Harvard, did you say? Harvard University?”

“Those eastern schools don’t come cheap.”

Qwilleran put the bourbon bottle and ice bucket on the coffee table. “Help yourself, Nick.”

“Are you going to stay in Mooseville?” the young man asked.

“If the weather doesn’t get any worse.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the weather.”

“What’s on your mind? Out with it!”

Nick hesitated before saying, “I think you’d be wise to pack up the cats and beat it back to Pickax. We have some riffraff around here, and I’ve heard some nasty rumblings.

Don’t forget, I work at the state prison, and there’s no better place to hear rumblings.”

Qwilleran stroked his moustache. Cecil had warned him; a small boulder had been aimed at him on Dumpy Road; and there had been several crank calls on the phone.

“What is this riffraff you mention?’”

“They hate the summer people, because they think they have money. The chamber of commerce keeps the lid on them in tourist season, but the town has emptied out since the storm, and the troublemakers are more visible. They gang together, get a few drinks, and cut loose. I’m warning you, Qwill. Go back to Pickax tonight!”

“I have yet to run away from a situation, my boy, and I’ve lived through some hairy ones.”

“You’re isolated here. There’s only one driveway and no escape route. They can vandalize the cabin-start a fire-do something to the cats.”

At the mention of the Siamese-Koko perched on the moosehead, Yum Yum looking fragile and precious on the sofa-Qwilleran grew pensive. He was so deep in thought that he jumped when the telephone rang. “Hello?” he said warily.

“Hey, Qwill, this is Gary at the Black Bear,” said the barkeeper.

Qwilleran responded with some surprise. Gary had never phoned him before.

“How’s everything in Mooseville?”

“Apart from the rain, the mosquitoes, and the tornado, everything’s fine.”

“Sorry to hear about Iggy. He wasn’t a bad guy. Dumb, but not bad.”

“Yes, it’s unfortunate,” said Qwilleran with less than his usual verve.

“Are you moving back to Pickax?”

“I haven’t made any plans.”

“I would if I were you,” said Gary, his voice muffled as if he were cupping his hand around the mouthpiece. “A bunch of rowdies are gathering around here, and they’ve got something cooking. Take my advice and get out! … Gotta hang up now.”

Qwilleran replaced the receiver slowly, and Nick observed his mood. “Trouble?”

he asked.

“Another warning-from Gary Pratt.”

“See? What did I tell you? If you don’t leave,” Nick said vehemently, “I’m staying here tonight. I’ve got a police radio, and I’m going to block the drive with my RV and sit up with my shotgun.” Without waiting for an objection he dashed out to the clearing and moved his camper. When he returned, he had a portable spotlight, a shotgun, and a rifle. “I’ve alerted the sheriff,” he said.

They ate chili and drank coffee, and Qwilleran recounted his adventure on Three Tree Island, his tribulations with the underground builder, and Koko’s discovery of the body. The sky darkened early at the end of that gloomy day, and he turned on some lamps.

“No lights!” Nick ordered. “And we’ll close the inside shutters.”

The Siamese sensed the mood of watchful waiting; they too watched and waited. As they all sat there in the dark Qwilleran asked, “What do you know about the buried treasure on this property?”

“I’ve heard that rumor all my life. Some think the old man buried jewelry or gold. Some say it was stock certificates that would be worthless now.”

“Has anyone tried to dig it up?”

“Where would they dig? You’ve got about forty acres of woodland here and half a mile of beach.”

“Wouldn’t the crawl space be a logical place to bury the stuff?”

“Hey, man! You’ve got something there,” said Nick. “Gotta shovel?”