Free The Cat Who Played Post Office by Lilian Jackson Braun Page A

your fridge? This is a big job. Lots of spackling and patching and scraping, and some of the woodwork's bleeding." He had the wholesome look of a Moose County native, raised on bushels of apples, milk right from the cow, vegetables from the garden, and unlimited fresh air.
     
     
"I assume you're a painter employed by Amanda Goodwinter," Qwilleran said.
     
     
"Yeah, I'm Steve. She's always telling people I'm slow, but I do good work. My grandfather worked on this house when the Old Lady was alive. He showed me how to paint without laps or drips or sags or pimples. Hey, do you really live in this joint? I live in a mobile home on my father-in-law's farm." There were other reasons for Qwilleran' s discontent. Mrs. Cobb had not arrived. There was no sign of anyone to fix the doors. Melinda had left for Paris. And an exasperating melody kept running through his mind: Daisy, Daisy.
     
     
Then a schoolteacher he had met in Mooseville telephoned and said, "Hi, Qwill, this is Roger. How does it feel to be filthy rich?" "Arduous, frustrating, and annoying-so far. But give me another week to get used to it. How's everything at the lake?" "Oh, you know...lots of tourists and happy merchants." "Is business good at your wife's shop?" "Not bad, but she puts in long hours. Say, want to meet me for dinner somewhere tonight? Sharon's working late." "Sure. Why don't you drive down here to the Bastille?" Qwilleran suggested. "I'll give you a conducted tour of the dungeons and pour you a drink. Then we can find a restaurant." "Great! I'd like to see inside that rockpile. We can eat at the Hotel Booze." "That's a new one to me." "Oldest flophouse in the county. They have a twelve-ounce bacon cheeseburger with fries that's the greatest!" Roger MacGillivray, whose Scottish name appealed to Qwilleran, arrived in the early evening. He was a young man with a clipped black beard and vigorous opinions, and he exclaimed about the size of the rooms, the number of windows, the height of the ceilings, and the extent of the property. "It'll cost an arm and a leg to maintain this place," he predicted.
     
     
"Who's going to clean all those windows and dust all those books?" "The landscape service alone costs more than I earned at the Daily Fluxion," Qwilleran informed him. "There's always a green truck in the driveway and a guy in a green jumpsuit riding around on a little green tractor." He poured Scotch for his guest and white grape juice for himself, and they sat in the big wicker chairs in the solarium.
     
     
Roger stared at Qwilleran's stemmed glass. "What are you drinking?" "Catawba grape juice. Koko likes it, so I bought a case of it." "You really pamper that animal." Roger glanced around apprehensively. "Where is he? I'm not comfortable with cats." Koko, hearing his name, sauntered into the solarium and positioned himself in Roger's view.
     
     
"He won't bother you," Qwilleran said. "He enjoys listening to our conversation, that's all. He likes the tone of your voice." Koko moved a little closer. "Who looks after these rubber plants, Qwill? They look healthier than I do." "The green jumpsuit comes in and sticks a meter in the soil and takes a reading," Qwilleran said. "The whole horticultural scene is too esoteric for me. I've spent all my life in apartments and hotels." "I think your gardener is Kevin Doone, a former student of mine. He goes to Princeton now and does gardening during summer vacation. You've got a pretty good-sized lot." "Half a block wide and half a mile long, I estimate. There's an orchard back there and an old barn that would make a good summer theater." Roger gripped the arms of his chair. "Why is he looking at me like that?" "Koko wants to be friends. Say something to him." "Hello, Koko," Roger said in a weak voice.
     
     
The cat blinked his eyes shut and emitted a squeaky, nonthreatening "ik ik ik." "He's smiling," Qwilleran said. "He likes you...
     
     
How's your mother-in-law, Roger?" "She's fine. She's gung ho.