Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Played Post Office

the table for dessert." There were murmurs of approval as he went to the kitchen and returned with the flustered housekeeper, and there was applause when he pulled up a chair and seated Mrs. Cobb between himself and Penelope. The attorney merely stiffened her spine.

When coffee and liqueurs were served in the drawing room, Qwilleran's somnolent tablemates began to revive. A few gathered in a chatty group around the life-size portrait of a young woman with a wasp waist and bustle, circa 1880. "She was a dance-hall girl before he married her." Amanda said. "Look at that bawdy twinkle in her eye." "Let's hear some stories, Roger," Junior urged. "Tell us about the K Saloon." "Tell the one about Harry," Sharon suggested. Roger had snapped out of his malaise. "Do you think I should?" "Why not?" "Go ahead!" "Well, it was like this-and it's true… One of the regular customers at the K Saloon was a miner named Harry, and eventually he drank himself to death. He was laid out at the furniture store, which was also the undertaking parlor, and his buddies decided he should have one last night at his favorite watering hole. So they smuggled him out of the store and put him on a sledge — it was the dead of winter — and off they went to the K Saloon. They propped Harry up at the bar, and all the patrons paid their respects and drowned their grief. Finally, at three in the morning, Harry's friends put him on the sled again and whipped up the horses. They were singing and feeling no pain, so they didn't notice the corpse sliding off the tail of the icy sledge. When they got back to the furniture store-no Harry! They spent the rest of the night looking for him, but the snow was drifting and they didn't find Harry until spring." There were gasps and groans and giggles, and Qwilleran said, "They were a bunch of necrophiliacs — that is, if the story is really true. I suspect it's apocryphal." Penelope gave a small cough and said in a firm voice, "This has been a delightful evening, and I regret we must say good night." Alexander said, "I emplane for Washington at an early hour tomorrow." Amanda nudged Riker and said in a stage whisper, "They can't run the country without him." The Mooseville group also departed. Riker drove Amanda home. Mrs. Cobb went upstairs to collapse. Qwilleran and Melinda had a drink in the kitchen with the butler, the footmen, and the string trio, praising them for their performances.

Then, when everyone had left, host and hostess kicked off their shoes in the library and indulged in postprandial gossip.

Melinda said, "Did you notice Penelope's reaction when you brought the cook to the table? She considered it the major faux pas of the twentieth century." "She didn't take a drink all evening. I think she wanted champagne, but her brother vetoed it." "Alex doesn't like her to drink; she talks too freely. How did you like her perfume, lover? It's something she asked me to bring from Paris." "Potent, to say the least," Qwilleran said. "She was sitting on my right, you know, and I lost my sense of smell. By the time the fish was served, I couldn't taste anything. Junior was sitting next to her, and he looked glassy eyed, as if he'd been smoking something. Amanda almost passed out, and Roger couldn't remember the names of the ten defunct mines.

It was the perfume, I'm sure. The cats kept sneezing." "I had to smuggle it in," Melinda confessed. "They don't allow it to be sold in this country." "If you ask me, it's some kind of nerve gas. What's it called?" "Fantaisie Feline. Very expensive… Am I seeing things, or is that a pickax in the comer?" "The Pickax Boosters presented it to me. I might mount it over the fireplace, or use it as a paperweight, or swing it at stray dogs when I'm biking." At that moment Koko stalked into the library, giving Qwilleran his gimlet stare.

"By the way," Qwilleran said, "do you know anything about the Three Pines Mine?" Melinda looked amused. "The shaft house is a notorious lovers' lair, darling. Why? Are you interested? At your age?"

The morning after the party Qwilleran drove Riker to the airport under threatening skies. "We're going to get the rain the farmers have been praying for and the tourist industry has been praying against." "I hope my plane takes off before it closes in," Riker said. "Not that I'm in a hurry to get back to the Fluxion. I wouldn't mind living up here. Why don't you buy the Picayune? I'll come up here and run it for you." "You don't mean it!" "I do! It would be a staggering challenge." "We'd have to fire Benjamin Franklin and spend ten million on new mechanical equipment… What did you think of Melinda?" "Remarkable young woman. Does she wear green contacts? Are those her own eyelashes?" "Everything is absolutely real," Qwilleran assured him. "I've checked it out." "You know, Qwill, the gold diggers will be after you now. You'd be better off to marry a girl like Melinda and settle down. Her family is well-off; she has a profession; and she thinks you're tops." "You're generous with your advice this morning." Qwilleran never liked to be told what to do.

"Okay, here's another shot. Why don't you quit hunting for the missing housemaid? You could get a bullet in the head — like the girl on the tractor." Watching Riker's plane gain altitude, Qwilleran recalled that his friend had always tried to discourage his investigations — and had never succeeded. This time his own discretion was telling him, however, to wait for more developments before presenting the case to Chief Brodie. All he had to offer at this moment was circumstantial evidence, speculation, a sensitive moustache, and a smart cat.

Before returning home be bought a pink cashmere sweater at Lanspeak's and had it gift-wrapped. At Diamond Jim's he selected a gold necklace and dropped it off at the clinic, where a shingle at the entrance showed signs of fresh paint: DR. HALIFAX GOODWINTER, M.D. DR. MELINDA GOODWINTER, M.D.

As he approached the K mansion he was first aware of a police car, then a traffic jam, then a crowd of onlookers in the street. A bell was tolling a single solemn note as a funeral procession lined up and Tiffany's casket was carried from one of the churches on the Circle.

And then it started to rain. It rained violently, almost in anger.

Qwilleran went to his desk to write a note of condolence to Steve Trotter, with an offer of an annual scholarship in Tiffany's name. As he wrote, the telephone started to jangle with thank-you calls from the dinner guests. Junior had never eaten such good food. Sharon wanted the recipes. Mildred praised everything but thought that Alexander Goodwinter was a stuffed shirt. Amanda was hung over.

"Golly, that was a good party," the designer croaked into the phone. "I've got a hangover that would kill a horse. Did I say anything I shouldn't last night?" "You were a model of propriety, Amanda," said Qwilleran.

"Cripes! That's the last thing I ever wanted to be. I leave that to my cousins." "I've just driven Arch to the airport. He enjoyed your company immensely." "He's my type! Get him up here again — soon!" When Melinda phoned to thank him for the necklace, she complained that his line had been continually busy.

"All our dinner guests have been calling," he said. "Everyone except Penelope." "Penny won't phone. She'll write a very proper thank-you note on engraved stationery, sealed with wax. Did Arch get away before the rains came?" "He did, and he gave me some parting advice: (a) get married and (b) forget about the Daisy Mull mystery. I plan to take at least one of his suggestions." At lunchtime he presented his gift to Mrs. Cobb.

"Oh, Mr. Qwilleran! Pink is my favorite, and I've never had anything cashmere. You shouldn't have done it. Did they all like the food last night?" "Your dinner will make history," he assured her, "and when you see Mrs. Fulgrove, tell her that everyone admired her handwriting." "When she was writing the place cards," Mrs. Cobb said, "she told me something. I don't know whether I should repeat it." "Go ahead." Qwilleran's remark was offhand, but his moustache was bristling with curiosity.