The Cat Who Went Underground (13 page)

When should he start hunting for a substitute? Would anyone want to finish a job started by another builder? Where would he find anyone to equal Clem? And then the burning question: What had happened to Clem Cottle?

The Siamese had finished their three-hour morning nap and had not yet settled down for their four-hour afternoon siesta. It was their Mischief Hour. Yum Yum was batting a pencil she had stolen from the writing table, and Koko was parading around with a sweat sock that Qwilleran used for biking.

“What shall I do, Koko?” he asked. “You have a lot of good ideas. Tell me what to do.”

Koko ignored him pointedly as he staggered about the cabin, dusting the floorboards with the sock dragging between his forelegs.

“Are you telling me the house is dirty?” Qwilleran noted the fluffballs in the corners and the dust on almost everything. “Well, maybe it is.” He ran the dustmop around the edges and flicked a duster half-heartedly over several table-tops.

The sock brought to mind Cecil’s story about Grandpa Huggins and the loaf of bread. They had a sly wit, those early settlers. Grandpa’s General Store had completely disappeared. Not a stick of it left, Cecil had said. It had been on the Brrr Road at Huggins Corners. The county was dotted with ghostly memories of villages and hamlets that had vanished without a trace, and they held a singular fascination for Qwilleran. He retrieved his sock, found its mate, changed into shorts and T-shirt, and set out on his bike to find the site of Grandpa Huggins’s General Store.

Only a trail bike or a vehicle with four-wheel drive could negotiate the sandy furrows of the Old Brrr Road, and there was not enough traffic to keep the weeds from growing in the ruts. Yet, this had once been the only thoroughfare between Mooseville and Brrr, traversed by wagons, carriages, doctors on horseback, and pedestrians who thought nothing of walking ten miles to exchange a catch of fish for a few dozen eggs. Here and there one could see the remains of a collapsed barn or a stone chimney rising from a field of weeds. A crude bridge crossing the Ittibittiwassee River was nothing more than a collection of rattling planks.

Qwilleran passed a clearing with a circle of charred ashes in the center.

Hunters had made camp here, or Scouts had pitched tents. He saw the rear end of a blue truck ahead, parked off the road with the front end in a shallow ditch. A varmint hunter, he surmised, but when he biked abreast of the pickup, he saw the frantic chicken painted on the door.

He threw down his bike and approached the truck warily, fearful of what he might find. The windows were open, and the cab was empty, but the key was in the ignition – not an unusual circumstance in the north country. When he flipped the key, the motor turned over, so the truck was not out of gas. But where was the driver? Qwilleran touched his moustache tentatively. Clem was not “out of town” as his father and fiancee had insisted.

After making this mystifying discovery, Qwilleran lost all interest in Grandpa Huggins’s General Store. He turned the bike around and headed back to the dunes, thinking what a coincidence it was – and how fortunate it was – that Koko had stolen his sock. All that remained now was to determine an appropriate course of action.

As he pedaled up the snaking drive to the cabin, a small yellow car was leaving the clearing. He dropped his bike and walked to the driver’s window. “Looking for me, Maryellen?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said in a small voice.

“Back up,” he said, “and come into the cabin.”

He wheeled the bike to the toolshed and met her at the door to the back porch.

“Let’s sit out here. It’s a little breezy on the lakeside. May I get you a drink?”

“No, thanks,” she said, studying her hands clenched in her lap.

“What’s the problem?” Qwilleran asked, although he could guess.

“I’m worried about Clem.”

“So am I, but yesterday you told me he was out of town.”

“That’s what Mr. Cottle told me to say.”

“What’s his line of reasoning?”

“He says a young man has to have a last fling before he settles down. He says he did it himself when he was Clem’s age. But Mrs. Cottle doesn’t think that’s what happened to Clem, and neither do I. It’s not like him to go away without letting us know – not like him at all! He’s too thoughtful to do that.”

“From my brief acquaintance with him, I’m inclined to agree, but why did you come to me?”

“I didn’t know who else to go to. I don’t want to upset my parents. Dad has a heart condition, and Mom goes to pieces easily. Clem always said you were an important man in the county, so that’s why I came.” She looked at him appealingly.

“You’re not going to like what I have to say, Maryellen, but… I’ve just been biking on the Old Brrr Road, and I saw Clem’s truck.”

Her face and neck flushed a bright red.

“It’s not wrecked,” he went on. “The keys are in the ignition, and it’s not out of gas. It’s just parked off the road, halfway in the ditch. Would he have any reason for using the old road?”

She shook her head slowly. “He’s not a hunter. Only hunters go back in there.”

Her eyes grew wide. “What do you think it means?”

“It means that Clem’s father should stop kidding himself and report the disappearance to the sheriff.”

In Qwilleran’s early days as a newsman, when he covered the police beat for newspapers Down Below, he had a good rapport with the law-enforcement agencies, and he could always discuss cases with fellow journalists at the Press Club. In Moose County he had no such connections. There was Arch Riker, of course, but his old friend only kidded him about his suspicions. And there was Andrew Brodie, but the Pickax police chief dried up when the case was outside his jurisdiction, and the Cottle farm in Black Creek was on the sheriffs turf.

Under the circumstances, Qwilleran’s only contact was Mildred’s son-in-law, who covered the police beat for the Moose County Something. Having quit a teaching job to join the paper, Roger MacGillivray was hardly a seasoned reporter, but he was a willing listener, and he had enthusiasm.

Qwilleran telephoned Roger at the office. “Could you shirk your parental duties for one night,” he asked the new father, “and meet me somewhere for dinner?”

“Right! Sharon owes me one. I baby-sat twice last week while she went out,” said Roger. “Want to meet me in Brrr for a boozeburger?”

“Sure,” Qwilleran said, “or we could try that new restaurant if you like red-hot food.”

“I’m willing to give it a try. I have some red-hot news for you.”

The new restaurant was called the Hot Spot, and it advertised in the Something as “the cool place to go for hot cuisine.” It occupied a former firehall in Brrr, with thirty tables jammed into space that once housed two firetrucks. The original brick walls and stamped metal ceiling had been retained, and there was nothing to absorb sound except the sweating bodies that swarmed into the place for Mexican, Cajun and East Indian dishes.

“Noisy, isn’t it?” Qwilleran observed as he and Roger stood in line for a table.

“Noisy is what people like,” Roger said. “It makes them think they’re having a good time.”

A flustered host seated them at a small table squeezed between two others of the same limited dimensions. On one side were a pair of underclad beachcombers, shouting at each other in order to be heard. On the other side were two shrill-voiced women in resort clothes.

“This is not the place for exchanging confidences,” Qwilleran said.

“Let’s just eat and get out,” Roger suggested. “Then we can have pie and coffee at the Black Bear and do some talking.”

Waiters scurried about, bumping the chairs of the closely packed diners and colliding with each other. Qwilleran felt something splash on the back of his neck and dabbed at it with a napkin; it was red.

A harried waiter came to take their orders.

“Enchiladas!” Qwilleran said loudly.

“How hot d’you want the sauce?”

“Industrial strength!”

“Cajun pork chops!” Roger shouted.

After ordering they stared at each other dumbly, defeated by the high-decibel din. Qwilleran saw – seated across the table – a pale, slender, eager young man whose neatly clipped black beard and trimmed black hair accentuated his white complexion. Roger saw a robust fifty-year-old whose luxuriant salt-and-pepper moustache was known throughout Moose County and in several cities Down Below.

Although they found it difficult to communicate, nearby voices came through with amazing clarity. A woman’s strident voice said, “My cat is always throwing up hairballs as big as my thumb.”

Qwilleran frowned. “How’s Sharon?” he shouted to Roger.

“Itching to go back to work!”

“How old is Junior?”

“Six months, two weeks, three days!”

Qwilleran became aware of a large bare foot, probably size fifteen, rising from the floor alongside him, as the beachcomber at the next table said to his companion, “Look at this toenail. D’you think I’ll lose it? It turned black after I dropped the anchor on it.”

The shrill voice on the other side was saying, “Her husband’s in the hospital.

They cut him from ear to ear and took out a tumor as big as a brussels sprout.”

At that moment two dinner plates were banged down on the table without warning.

Qwilleran sniffed his and said, “This isn’t Mexican food. This is Indian curry.”

“I ordered pork chops,” said Roger, “but this is some kind of omelette.”

“Let’s get out of here!” Qwilleran seized both plates and carried them to the entrance, where he handed them to the astonished host. “Warm these up and serve them to somebody else,” he said. “Come on, Roger, let’s go to the Black Bear.”

The Black Bear Cafe in the century-old Hotel Booze was famous for its boozeburgers and homemade pies. The atmosphere was dingy and the furniture sleazy, but one could converse. Qwilleran and Roger seated themselves cautiously in two rickety chairs and were greeted by Gary Pratt, the shaggy black-bearded proprietor. He had a stevedore’s shoulders and a sailor’s tan.

“Looks like you’ve been out on your boat,” Qwilleran remarked.

“Every Sunday!” said the big man in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

“Is the Hot Spot cutting into your business?”

“All my customers went there once, when the place first opened, but they’ve all come back. What’ll you have?”

“Boozeburger and a beer for me,” said Roger.

“Boozeburger and coffee,” Qwilleran said. “Okay, Roger, let’s have your hot news.”

“Do you know Three Tree Island?”

“Only by name. It’s out in the lake in front of my place, I believe, but not visible from shore.”

“It’s several miles out – just a flat, sandy beach with a hump in the middle and a clump of trees. It belongs to a guy who owns some charter fishing boats, and he has a dock and fishing shack out there. Fishermen tie up to do a little drinking and clean their catch. Kids go sunning on the sand and use the shack for God-knows-what.”

“So what’s the news? He’s decided to build condominiums?”

“The news is – and I got it from the pilot of the sheriffs helicopter – that there’s been a UFO landing on the beach!”

Qwilleran regarded Roger with scornful disbelief. “He’s putting you on.”

“He’s serious. I know the guy well. He spotted a large burned patch on the island – perfectly round.”

“Some kids had a bonfire,” Qwilleran said.

“Too big for that.”

“What does the sheriff say?”

“The pilot hasn’t made an official report. It might affect his credibility in the department.”

“What are you leading up to?”

“I thought we could get a Geiger counter or something and go out there, and I’d write a story for the paper. Bushy has a boat, and he’s game.”

Qwilleran was temporarily speechless. In his early days, however, as a reporter he had followed wilder leads than this one. Roger was young. He should not be discouraged.

“Would you like to come with us?” the younger man asked.

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache thoughtfully. Although he placed no stock in the rumor, he hated to be left out of the investigation. “I wouldn’t mind going along for the ride.”

“As a disinterested third party you could corroborate our findings, and it would add weight to the story.”

“Don’t trap me into endorsing any harebrained adventure tale, m’boy. What’s Bushy’s reaction?”

“He’s ready to go! I just wanted to get some input from you.”

A waitress served the boozeburgers, six inches in diameter, four inches high, and famous throughout the county. The two men munched in silence for a while.

This mountain of food required the utmost concentration and several paper napkins, and it so happened that the Black Bear charged a nickel for a paper napkin, not of the best quality.

“Everything okay?” asked Gary Pratt, prowling around the dining area like the black bear that he resembled.

“Next time I’m bringing my own paper napkins,” said Qwilleran. “What’s the pie today?”

“Chocolate meringue, but it’s going fast. Want to order a couple of pieces?”

“It all depends on how you’re cutting the pie – with an inch-rule or a micrometer. I know your game, Gary. What you lose on the burgers, you make up on the pie and the paper napkins.”

“For a couple of healthy guys like you,” Gary said, “I’d suggest two slices apiece, and I won’t charge for the napkins.”

“It’s a deal!”

Gary shuffled away, cackling his high-pitched laugh.

By the time the four slices of pie were served to the two men, it was Qwilleran’s turn to launch a rumor of his own. He said, “Instead of chasing UFOs, Roger, you should be investigating a rash of criminal activity in Mooseville.”

Roger gulped and set down his fork.

CHAPTER 9.

“HOW’S THE PIE?” asked the proprietor, making his rounds.

“Best I ever tasted, Gary,” said Qwilleran. “Is your grandmother still making your pies?”

“No, the old lady died, but my aunt has her recipes.”

“It’s rich but not cloying, creamy but not viscid.”

“I should raise the price,” Gary said as he walked away to ring up a sale on the antique brass cash register.