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

about a new craft project now - designing things with a Moose County theme, for Sharon to sell in her shop. Pot holders and toys and stuff. The idea is to have the Dimsdale women make them by hand - sort of a cottage industry. She wanted to get a grant from the state, but there was too much red tape. Besides that, the people in Dimsdale don't want to work. Do you know that place?" "I've seen the remains of the Dimsdale Mine, " Qwilleran said, "and I've eaten at the decrepit diner at the intersection, but I thought it was mainly a ghost town." "Officially Dimsdale doesn't exist, but there's a bunch of shanties back in the woods - squatters, you know. In fact, I think they're on Klingenschoen property, your property. You'd never believe it, Qwill, but a hundred years ago Dimsdale was a thriving town with hotels, a sawmill, housing for miners, stores, even a doctor." "You know a lot about local history, Roger." "I ought to! That's what I teach.... Say, he's a good-looking animal, isn't he? Very well behaved." "His real name is Kao K'o Kung. He was named after a thirteenth-century Chinese artist." Knowing he was the topic of conversation, Koko casually ambled over to Roger's chairside.
     
     
"If you've never stroked a Siamese," Qwilleran said, "you don't know what fur is all about." Cautiously Roger extended a hand and patted the silky fawn-colored back. "Good boy!" he said. "Good boy!" The cat looked at Qwilleran, slowly closing one eye, and Qwilleran thought, Score another one for Koko.
     
     
The two men finished their drinks and then drove from the palatial splendor of the K mansion to the stolid ugliness of the Hotel Booze. It was a stone building three stories high, with the plain shoebox architecture typical of hotels in pioneer towns. A sign, almost as big as the hotel itself, advertised booze, rooms, and food.
     
     
"In this hotel," Roger said, "a miner could get a man-sized dinner and a bed on the floor for a quarter, using his boots for a pillow, or a sack of oats if he was lucky." The dim lighting in the dining room camouflaged the dreary walls and ancient linoleum floor and worn plastic tables.
     
     
Nevertheless, the room hummed with the talk of customers wearing feed caps and wolfing down burgers and beer.
     
     
Qwilleran tried three chairs before finding one with all its legs and rungs. "I'll have the Cholesterol Special," he told the waitress, a homey-looking woman in a faded housedress.
     
     
"Make it two, Thelma," said Roger.
     
     
The sandwich proved to be so enormous that she served it with her thumb on top of the bun to hold it all together.
     
     
"We call her Thumbprint Thelma," Roger whispered. Qwilleran had to admit that the burger was superior and the fries tasted like actual potatoes. "Okay, Roger, how about a history lesson to take my mind off the calories? Tell me about the abandoned mines around here." "There were ten of them in the old days - all major operations. Shafts went a thousand feet deep, and the miners had to climb down on a ladder! After a long day underground, with water dripping all around, it took half an hour to climb back up to the surface." "Like climbing a hundred-story building! They must have been desperate for work." "Most of them came from Europe - left their families behind - and hoped to send money home. But - what with payday binges at the saloon and buying on credit at the company store -they were always in hock." Thelma brought coffee, and Roger - without much difficulty - persuaded Qwilleran to try the wild thimbleberry pie.
     
     
"Picked the berries myself this morning," the waitress said.
     
     
The men savored each forkful in the reverent silence that the pie merited and ordered second cups of coffee.
     
     
Qwilleran said, "I suppose the old saloons had gambling in the back room and girls upstairs." "Right! And a bizarre sense of fun. When a customer drank too much and passed out, his pals carried him outside and nailed his boots to the wooden