Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Underground

Qwilleran forgot about the drowning of Roger MacGillivray’s friend until he bought a newspaper the next morning. He was in Mooseville to have breakfast at the Northern Lights Hotel, and he picked up a paper to read at the table.

Headlined on page one was Roger’s account: MOOSEVILLE MAN DROWNS IN RIVER Buddy Yarrow, 29, of Mooseville Township, drowned while fishing in the Ittibittiwassee River Thursday night. His body was found at the mouth of the river Friday morning. Police had searched throughout the night after his disappearance was reported by his wife, Linda, 28.

According to a spokesperson for the sheriff’s department, it appears that Yarrow slipped down the riverbank into the water. There was a mudslide at the location where his tackle box was, found, and the river is deep at that point.

Yarrow was a strong swimmer, his wife told police, leading investigators to believe that he hit his head on a rock when he fell. A massive head injury was noted in the coroner’s report. Police theorize that the strong current following last week’s heavy rain swept the victim, stunned or unconscious, to the mouth of the river, where his body was caught in the willows overhanging the water.

“He always went fishing at that bend in the river,” said Linda Yarrow. “He didn’t have a boat. He liked to cast from the bank.’”

Besides his wife, the former Linda Tobin, Yarrow leaves three children: Bobbie, 5; Terry, 3; and Tammy, 6 months. He was a graduate of Moose County schools and was currently employed in the construction of the East Shore Condominiums.

There were pictures of the victim, obviously snapshots from a family album, showing him as a high school youth on the track team, later as a grinning bridegroom, still later as a fisherman squinting into the sun and holding a prize catch.

On page two of the newspaper, in thumb position, was the column “Straight from the Qwill Pen” about a dog named Switch, assistant to an electrician in Purple Point. Switch assisted his master by selecting tools from the toolbox and carrying them up the ladder in his mouth.

Qwilleran noted two typographical errors in his column and three in the drowning story. And his name was misspelled.

He had several ideas for future columns, but the subject that eluded him was the infamous Mooseville antique shop called The Captain’s Mess, operated by the bogus Captain Phlogg”. The man was virtually impossible to interview, being inattentive, evasive, and rude. He sold junk and, worse yet, fakes. Yet, The Captain’s Mess was a tourist attraction-so bad it was good. It was worth a story.

On Saturday morning-after a fisherman’s breakfast of steak, eggs, hashed browns, toast and coffee-Qwilleran devised a new interview approach that would at least command Phlogg’s attention. He left the hotel and walked to the ramshackle building off Main Street that was condemned by the county department of building and safety but championed by the Mooseville Chamber of Commerce. He found Captain Phlogg, with the usual stubble of beard and battered naval cap, sitting in a shadowy corner of the shop, smoking an odoriferous pipe and taking swigs from a pint bottle. In the jumble of rusted, mildewed, broken marine artifacts that surrounded the proprietor, only a skilled and patient collector could find anything worth buying. Some of them spent hours sifting through the rubble.

The captain kept an ominous belaying pin by his side, causing Qwilleran to maintain a safe distance as he began, “Good morning, Captain. I’m from the newspaper. I understand you’re not a retired sea captain; you’re a retired carpenter.”

“Whut? Whut?” croaked the captain, evidencing more direct response than he had ever shown before.

“Is it true that you were a carpenter for a shipbuilder at Purple Point-before you made a killing in land speculation?”.

“Dunno whut yer talkin” about,” said the man, vigorously puffing his pipe.

“I believe you live in a house on the dunes that you built with your own hands, using lumber stolen from the shipyard. Is that true?”

“None o’yer business.”

“Aren’t you the one who has a vicious dog that runs loose illegally?”

The old man snarled some shipyard profanity as he struggled to his feet.

Qwilleran started to back away. “Have you ever been taken to court on account of the dog?”

“Git outa here!” Captain Phlogg reached for the belaying pin.

At that moment a group of giggling tourists entered the shop, and Qwilleran made a swift exit, pleased with the initial results. He planned to goad the man with further annoying questions until he got a story. The chamber of commerce might not approve, but it would make an entertaining column, provided the expletives were deleted.

Returning to the log cabin, Qwilleran was met at the door by an excited Koko, while Yum Yum sat in a compact bundle, observing in dismay. Koko was racing back and forth to attract attention, yowling and yikking, and Qwilleran cast a hasty eye around the interior. Living room, dining alcove, kitchen and bar occupied one large open space, and there was nothing abnormal there. In the bathroom and bunkrooms everything appeared to be intact.

“What’s wrong, Koko?” he asked. “Did a stranger come in here?” He worried about Glinko’s duplicate key. There was no way of guessing how many persons might have access to that key. “What are you trying to tell me, old boy?”

For answer the cat leaped to the top of the bar and from there to the kitchen counter. Qwilleran investigated closely and, in doing so, stepped in something wet. On the oiled floorboards a spill usually remained on the surface until mopped up, and here was a sizable puddle! The idea of a catly misdemeanor flashed across Qwilleran’s mind only briefly; the Siamese were much too fastidious to be accused of such a lapse.

Opening the cabinet door beneath the sink, he found the interior flooded and heard a faint splash. He groaned and reached for the telephone once more.

“Ha ha ha! A drip!” exclaimed the cheerful Mrs. Glinko. “Allrighty, we’ll dispatch somebody PDQ.”

In fifteen minutes an old-model van with more rust than paint pulled into the clearing-the same plumber’s van as before-and Joanna swung out of the driver’s seat.

“Got a leak?” she asked in her somber monotone as she plunged her head under the sink. “These pipes are old!”

“The cabin was built seventy-five years ago,” Qwilleran informed her.

“There’s no shutoff under the sink. How do I get down under?”

He showed her the trap door, and she pulled open the heavy slab with ease and lowered herself into the hole. Koko was extremely interested and had to be shooed away three times. When she emerged with cobwebs on her doming, she did some professional puttering beneath the sink, went down under the floor again to reopen the valve, and presented her bill. Qwilleran paid thirty-five dollars again and signed a voucher for twenty-five. It made him an accomplice in a minor swindle, but he felt more sympathy for Joanna than for Glinko. He rationalized that the ten-dollar discrepancy might be considered a tip.

“What’s under the floor?” he asked her.

“The crawl space. Just sand and pipes and tanks and lots of spiders. It’s dusty.”

“It can’t be very pleasant.”

“I ran into a snake once in a crawl space. My daddy ran into a skunk.” She glanced about the cabin, her bland face showing little reaction until she spotted Koko and Yum Yum sitting on the sofa. “Pretty cats.”

“They’re strictly indoor pets and never go out of the house,” Qwilleran explained firmly. “If you ever have occasion to come in here when I’m not at home, don’t let them run outside! There’s a vicious dog in the neighborhood.”