The Cat Who Went Underground (8 page)

After lunch he walked to Huggins Hardware to buy insect spray as Clem had suggested. It was a brilliant summer day, and Main Street was teeming with tourists, always distinguishable from the locals by their clothing, speech, and attitude. The young vacationers were as boisterous and as naked as the law would allow. The middle-aged tourists from the city stared at the natives with amused superiority. Busloads of white-haired day-trippers followed tour guides in and out of the shipwreck museum and gazed obediently at a certain spot in the lake where, they were told, a shipful of gold bullion had sunk a hundred years ago and was still there! Qwilleran made another mental note for his column.

The hardware merchant was taking advantage of the traffic by displaying minnow pails, beach balls, bicycles, and life preservers on the sidewalk.

Qwilleran, in his present elevated mood, had a taste for adventure. “How much for a lightweight ten-speed, Cecil?” he asked.

“Where do you plan to ride, Mr. Q? The traffic is murder on the highway this summer. You’d be better off to get a trail bike and stick to the dirt roads. Much safer!”

“They look like the clunkers I pedaled when I was delivering newspapers.”

“Just take one out and try it, Mr. Q. You won’t be disappointed. Head for the riverbank,” Cecil Huggins advised. “Go out Sandpit Road half a mile and then get off the asphalt onto Dumpy Road till it dead-ends at Hogback. If you cut across the fields to the river, there’s a dandy trail there. Be careful of mudslides. That’s where Buddy Yarrow slipped in.”

The seat and handlebars were adjusted to Qwilleran’s six feet two, and he set out on Cecil’s proposed route. He had to admit that the bike negotiated the uneven terrain in exhilarating fashion. Leaping over ruts and roots and washouts, he felt like an intrepid twelve-year-old, and there were no trucks, no electric signs, no whiffs of carbon monoxide.

Dumpy Road was a benighted colony of substandard housing, but it led to the bank of the Ittibittiwassee, which bubbled into eddying bays and babbled on the pebbles like Tennyson’s brook. To Qwilleran all was enchantment: the splash and gurgle of the rapids; the willows weeping over the water’s edge; the wildflowers, birds, and scurrying animals that he could not identify, never having bothered to learn about nature. He envied the country-smart locals who rescued bear cubs and built their own houses. They were descendents of the pioneers who had settled this north country, chopping down trees to build their log cabins and picking wild herbs to make their own medicines. Qwilleran wondered what they did about spider bites in the old days. Much of his biking was done standing up on the pedals.

Around each bend there was another surprise: a deer having a drink; a solitary fisherman in waders; something sleek, brown and flat-tailed, swimming and diving. There was one discordant note: Ahead he could see a jumble of junk marring the natural beauty of the riverbank – a series of boxlike structures built of chickenwire and scrap lumber. He dismounted and wheeled his bike cautiously closer. They were ramshackle cages. In one of them an animal was sleeping, rolled up in a ball; it looked like a fox. In another enclosure some tiny creatures with striped backs were chasing each other and climbing over a wheel that rotated. An old bathtub sunk in the ground was filled with rainwater, and ducks waddled in and out of their pool.

It was obviously Joanna’s zoo, and Qwilleran hoped she was not there. Her house – no better than a large box with windows, perched on concrete blocks – fronted on the dirt road called Hogback, and it was surrounded by plumbing fixtures. Broken or rusted sinks, toilets, oil tanks, and water heaters were dotted about the yard like tombstones in a plumbing graveyard. To add to the funereal effect there was a row of wooden crosses marking small graves.

He was contemplating these crosses when a van careened down Hogback Road in a cloud of dust. It jerked to a stop, and Joanna jumped out.

“I was biking on the riverbank and saw your interesting zoo,” he explained, unhappy to be caught prowling about her property.

“Didja see my chipmunks?” she asked with more spirit than she usually mustered. “I built ‘em an exercise wheel.”

“What do you feed them?” he asked in a lame attempt to show intelligent interest.

“Sunflower seeds and acorns. You should see ‘em sit up and eat and wash their face. Wanna hold one? They like being stroked.”

“No, thanks,” he said. “Anything that eats acorns probably has very sharp teeth. What happens to them in winter?”

“I give ‘em straw, and they sleep a lot.”

“Those crosses – are they graves?”

“That’s where I buried the bear cubs. The woodchuck, too. And some chipmunks.”

Appraising the yardful of retired fixtures, he asked, “What made you decide to be a plumber, Joanna?”

“My daddy showed me how to do all that kind of stuff, so I took a test and got my license.” She saw Qwilleran looking at her house. “Someday I’m gonna get somebody to build me a real house, when I get enough money. Wanna beer?”

“No, thanks. I borrowed this bike, and if I don’t return it soon, the sheriff will come gunning for me. What’s the quickest way back to Mooseville?”

She pointed down Hogback Road, and he rode off through the dirt ruts at top speed, gripping the handlebars, concentrating on his balance, certain that she was watching, hoping he would not take an embarrassing header.

The following days were eventful for both Qwilleran and the Siamese. Clem Cottle and his younger brother staked out the new east wing and went to work with shovels, digging like madmen, then building wooden forms. The next morning the cement mixer truck rumbled into the clearing, and the two young men ran back and forth trundling wheelbarrows filled with wet concrete. Yum Yum hid under the sofa, and even brave Koko retired discreetly under a bunk in the guestroom, slinking out to peek once in a while.

Qwilleran went for another ride on his new bike, this time taking a back road to an abandoned nineteenth-century cemetery that he had visited two years before.

To his surprise the vandalized tombstones had been restored, the weeds were under control, and there was hardly a beer can to be seen. A new sign announced: PIONEER CEMETERY. NO PICNICS. He suspected the preservation program had been instigated by the tireless Mildred Hanstable, and he telephoned her when he returned home.

“Hi, Qwill!” she said in her exuberant style. “I saw you out riding on one of those funny-looking bikes.”

“I am now a demon on wheels,” he replied. “The terror of the countryside. I visited the old cemetery. Who’s been cleaning it up?”

“The student history clubs. They’re restoring all the abandoned cemeteries and cataloguing the family graveyards around the county. The early settlers used to bury their dead on their own land, you know, and the sites are protected by law, but first they have to know where they are.”

Another idea for the “Qwill Pen,” he thought. “I understand you’re one of the judges for the parade. How about dinner afterward? At the Fish Tank.”

“I’d love it!” she said. “Their navy grog is fabulous, and I always need a stiff drink after a Moose County parade. How did you like the cereal?”

“It’s delicious,” he said, speaking for the others. “Great wonders come out of your kitchen, Mildred. And another great wonder: I’ve found a carpenter without resorting to the underground.”

“Who?”

“Clem Cottle from Black Creek.”

“You’re lucky!” Mildred said. “Clem is a good carpenter and a fine young man. He’s marrying Maryellen Wimsey, and she used to be in my art classes. She’s a lovely girl.”

During the next few days Maryellen drove into the clearing daily at noon in a small yellow car, bringing a hot lunch and staying long enough to pick up stray nails and stack the scraps of wood in tidy heaps.

Clem reported for work every morning at six-thirty – sometimes with his younger brother, but more often alone. He laid the foundation blocks, installed the basic drainage, put in the joists and subfloor, and started the framing.

There were other visitors besides Maryellen. Dune-dwellers who had never cared to walk on the beach suddenly began to take exercise. Attracted by the sounds of industry or compelled by curiosity or driven by envy, they strolled casually past the cabin, waved to Qwilleran on the porch, and climbed the new wooden steps to check the carpenter’s progress. Mildred Hanstable and Sue Urbank were the first visitors, applauding Qwilleran’s good fortune in finding a decent builder. Mildred brought him another tub of cereal.

Leo Urbank robbed valuable time from his golf game to inspect the new structure, predicting that it would never be completed. “Take it from me,” he warned. “They’re hot at the beginning, but they drop out halfway through.”

The Comptons were unexpected callers. Lisa Compton was a jogger who regularly pounded the shoreline in a green warm-up suit, but her husband considered the beach solely as a place to smoke a cigar. Yet, there he was, plodding through the sand and climbing the steps. “When the guy finishes your place,” he said, “maybe he could come over and work on our garage.”

“I’ll line him up for you,” Qwilleran said. “I suppose you know Clem Cottle.”

“Oh, sure,” said the superintendent. “We had thirteen Cottles going through the school system at one time. Clem was the brightest. Too bad he didn’t go to college for more than two years. But they were all conscientious – all good stock. I wish I could say the same for all the old families. There’s a lot of inbreeding in a tight community like this.”

One evening John and Vicki Bushland sauntered down the beach to take pictures of the sunset, and Qwilleran invited them to view the spectacle from the screened porch, minus mosquitoes. “Where’s your studio?” he asked them.

“In Lockmaster. It’s been there for eighty years.”

“I’m not familiar with that town.”

“It’s sixty miles southwest of here – a county seat like Pickax, only bigger,” Bushy said.

“What kind of work do you do?”

“The usual: portraits, weddings, club groups. When my grandfather started the business he photographed a lot of funerals. At the cemetery they’d open the coffin and prop it up on end, with the mourners gathered around the corpse. You can still see those gruesome group pictures in family albums. He was a great guy, my grandfather. He took two kinds of pictures – what he called vertical-up-and-down and horizontal-sideways.”

Qwilleran asked, “Do you shoot animals?”

“A few. Some people want their kids taken with the family pooch.”

“How about cats?”

“Lockmaster isn’t big on cats,” said the photographer. “” Mostly dogs and horses.”

“But cats make wonderful models,” said Vicki. “They never strike a pose that isn’t photogenic.”

Qwilleran huffed lightly into his moustache. “I dispute that. Every time I think I’m getting a good snapshot, my cats yawn or turn into pretzels, and nothing is less picturesque than a cat’s gullet or his backside.”

Knowing they were being discussed, the Siamese sauntered onto the porch and posed as a couple – Yum Yum sprawled in a languid posture with chin on paw and ears tilted forward; Koko sitting tall with tail curved gracefully around haunches.

“See what I mean?” cried Vicki.

“Look at those highlights!” said Bushy as he raised the camera to his eye, but before he could snap the picture, both cats dissolved in a blur of fur and were gone. Challenged, he said, “I’d like to get those two characters in my studio and work with them. Could you bring them down to Lockmaster?”

“I don’t see why not,” Qwilleran said. “They’re good travelers.”

“You could bring them down some evening when the studio’s closed, and I could spend time with them. Just give me a ring.” He gave Qwilleran his business card.

“I’d like to enter them in a calendar competition.”

Not all the visitors were dune-dwellers during those exciting days of construction activity. One afternoon Joanna’s van pulled into the clearing.

“Whatcha doin’ over there?” she asked.

“Building an addition to the cabin,” Qwilleran said.

She stared at it wordlessly for a while. “No more leaks?” she said finally.

“So far, so good.”

“Did you find my lipstick?”

“I beg your pardon?” Qwilleran said.

“My lipstick. I thought maybe it rolled out of my pocket when I was here.”

“I haven’t seen it,” he said, noting that her face had the original washed-out appearance.

“It could be under the house.”

“Feel free to have a look, but don’t let Koko go down there.”

Joanna went indoors, and the trap door slammed twice. She returned, looking disappointed. “I’ll hafta buy another.”

After she had left, Qwilleran wondered why she had waited so long to ask about her missing lipstick. Was it simply an excuse to pay a social call? He felt sorry for the girl – so plain, and with so few advantages. But he was not going to take her to lunch! He had lunched his doctor and his interior designer, but Joanna was getting a ten-dollar tip for every plumbing job; she could buy her own lunch.

By July third the roof trusses had been erected, and the roof boards were in place. Clem had been working fast. “Trying to get it under cover before it rains,” he explained when he collected his tools on Thursday night.

“Are you taking a long holiday weekend?” Qwilleran asked him.

“Can’t afford to. I’ll be here bright and early Saturday, but tomorrow I’ll be in the parade. The boss at the Shipwreck came up with a good idea, and I said I’d do it.”

“Are you riding on a float?”

“Nothing like that,” said the young man with a wide grin. “I’m just gonna walk down the middle of the street. Then after the parade there’s a softball game – Roosters against the state prison team. If you like ballgames, you oughta come and see us play.”

Qwilleran liked the young carpenter, and he gave him a parting salute as the Frantic Chicken drove away. It was prophetic. That was the last time he ever saw Clem Cottle.

CHAPTER 5.

THE FOURTH OF JULY dawned with the sunshine of a flag-waving holiday, and Qwilleran was in good spirits, despite some soreness following his last bike ride. The east wing with its roof boards in place was beginning to look like a habitation.