Лилиан Браун: The Cat Who Went Underground

“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.

He carried the wicker hamper indoors and opened the lid slowly. Immediately two dark brown masks with wide, blue eyes and perky ears rose from the interior and swiveled like periscopes. When assured that all was clear, they hopped out: lithe bodies with pale fawn fur accented by slender brown legs, whiplike brown tails, and those inquisitive brown masks. Qwilleran apologized to them for their protracted confinement and the unconscionable delay, but they ignored him and went directly to the fireplace to sniff the spot where a white bearskin rug had warmed the hearth two summers before; bloodied beyond repair at that time, it had since been replaced by an Indian rug. Next, Koko stared up with interest at the moosehead mounted above the mantel, and Yum Yum flattened herself to crawl under the sofa where she had formerly hidden her playthings. Then, within minutes they were both overhead, leaping across the beams, landing on the mantel, swooping down to the sofas, and skidding across the polished floor on handwoven rugs.

Qwilleran brought his luggage indoors and quickly telephoned Mildred Hanstable.

“Mildred, I apologize for my bad manners this morning. I’m afraid I was rather curt when I talked with you.”

“That’s all right, Qwill. I know you were upset. Did it w0rk out all right?” “Amazingly well! Thanks for the tip. Glinko took care of the matter in no time at all. But I’ve got to talk to you about that extraordinary couple and their unorthodox way of doing business.”

Mildred laughed. “It works, so don’t disturb it. Why don’t you come over here for dinner tonight? I’ll throw together a casserole and a salad and take a pie out of the freezer.”

Qwilleran accepted promptly and made a special trip into Mooseville for a bottle of Mildred’s favorite brand of Scotch and a bottle of white grape juice for himself. He also laid in a supply of delicacies for the Siamese.

When he returned from town, Koko was in the back hall, busily occupied with a new discovery. The hallway functioned as a mudroom, with a mud-colored rug for wiping feet, hooks for hanging jackets, a cleaning closet, and other utilitarian features. Koko had tunneled under the rug and was squirming and making throaty sounds.

Qwilleran threw back the rug. Underneath it there was a trap door about two feet square, with a recessed metal ring for lifting. The cat eagerly sniffed its perimeter.

Qwilleran had visions of underground plumbing and wiring mysteries, and his curiosity equaled Koko’s. “Get out of the way, old boy, and let’s have a look,” he said. He found a flashlight in the closet and swung back the heavy slab of oak. “It’s sand! Nothing but sand!” Koko was teetering on the brink, ready to leap into the hole. “No!” Qwilleran thundered, and the cat winced, retreated, and sauntered away to lick his breast fur nonchalantly.

By the time Qwilleran set out for Mildred’s cottage, his companions had been fed and were lounging on the screened porch overlooking the lake. They sat in a patch of sunshine, utterly c’ontented with their lot, and why not? They had consumed a can of red salmon (minus the dark skin) and two smoked oysters. Now they relaxed in leisurely poses that prompted Qwilleran to tiptoe for his camera, but as soon as they saw him peer through the viewfinder, Yum Yum started scratching her ear with an idiot squint in her celestial blue eyes, while Koko rolled over and attended to the base of his tail with one leg pointing toward the firmament.

They were chased off the porch and locked in the cabin before Qwilleran set out on the half-mile walk to Mildred’s place. A desolate stretch of beach bordered his own property, lapped by languid waves. Next, an outcropping of rock projected into the water, popularly known as Seagull Point, although one rarely saw a gull unless the lake washed up a dead fish. Beyond Seagull Point a string of a dozen cottages perched on the dune-a jumble of styles: rustic, contemporary, quaint, or simply ugly, like the boatlike structure said to be owned by a retired sea captain.

The last in the row was Mildred’s yellow cottage. Beyond that, the dune was being cleared in preparation for new construction. Foundations were in evidence, and framing had been started.

A flight of twenty wooden steps led up the side of the dune to Mildred’s terrace with its yellow umbrella table, and as Qwilleran reached the top she met him there, her well-upholstered figure concealed by a loose-fitting yellow beach dress.

“What’s going on there?” Qwilleran called out, waving toward the construction site.

“Condominiums,” she said ruefully. “I hate to see it happen, but they’ve offered us clubhouse and pool privileges, so it’s not all bad. The lake is too cold for swimming, so … why not?”

Handing the bottles to his hostess, he volunteered to tend bar, and Mildred ushered him into the house and pointed out the glassware and ice cubes. Their voices sounded muffled, because the walls were hung with handmade quilts.

Traditional and wildly contemporary designs had the initials M.H. stitched into the corners.

“These represent an unbelievable amount of work,’” Qwilleran said, recognizing an idea for the “Qwill Pen.”

“I only applique the tops,” she said. “My craftworkers do the quilting.” Besides teaching school, writing for the local newspaper, and raising money for the hospital, she conducted a not-for-profit project for low-income handworkers.

Qwilleran regarded her with admiration. “You have boundless energy, Mildred. You never stop!”

“So why can’t I lose weight?” she said, sidestepping the compliment modestly.

“Ypu’re a handsome woman. Don’t worry about pounds.”

“I like to cook, and I like to eat,” she explained, “and my daughter says I don’t get enough real exercise. Can you picture me jogging?”

“How is Sharon enjoying motherhood?” Qwilleran asked.

“Well, to tell the truth, she’s restless staying home with the baby. She wants to go back to teaching. Roger thinks she should wait another year. What do you think, Qwill?’”

“You’re asking a childless bachelor, a failed husband, with no known relatives and no opinion! … By the way, I saw Roger on my way up from Pickax. He was hightailing it back to the office to file his copy for the weekend edition, no doubt.”