Read Online The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare by Lilian Jackson Braun - Free Book Online
Authors: Lilian Jackson Braun
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Detective and Mystery Stories, Journalists, cats, Mystery and detective stories, Siamese Cat, Qwilleran; Jim (Fictitious character), Journalists - United States - Fiction, Qwilleran; Jim (Fictitious character) - Fiction, Cats - Fiction
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questions, solving their problems, and lending them lunch money. “Janitor” was a revered title in Pickax, and if Mr. O’Dell ever decided to run for the office of mayor, he would be elected unanimously. Now, with his silver hair and ruddy complexion and benign expression, he superintended the Klingenschoen estate as naturally as he had supervised the education of Pickax youth.
Qwilleran found the houseman lubricating the hinges on the broom closet door. “Do you know the location of Senior Goodwinter’s farmhouse, Mr. O’Dell? I don’t find North Middle Hummock on the map.”
In a lilting voice the houseman said, “The devil himself couldn’t find the likes o’ that on the map, I’m thinkin’, for it’s a ghost town fifty year since, but yourself can find it, for I’m after tellin’ you how to get there. Go east, now, past the Buckshot Mine, where the wind will be whistlin’ in the mine shaft on a day without wind, and there’ll be moanin’ from the lower depths. When you come to the old plank bridge, let you be wary, for the boards rattle like the divil’s own teeth. Keep watch for a lonely tree on a high hill the hangin’ tree, they’re callin’ it for then you’re comin’ to the church where me and my colleen got ourselves married by the good Father Ryan forty-five year since, God rest her soul. And when you come to a deal o’ rubble, that’s all that’s left o’ North Middle Hummock.
“I feel we’re getting warm,” Qwilleran said.
“Warm, is it? There’s a ways to go yet two miles till you set eyes on Captain Fugtree’s farm with the white fence. Beyond the sheep meadow pay no mind to the sign sayin’ Fugtree Sideroad, for it’s Black Creek Lane, and the Goodwinter house you’ll be seein’ at the end of it. Gray, it is, with a yellow door.
As Qwilleran set out for a North Middle Hummock that didn’t exist and a Black Creek Lane that was called something else, he marveled at the information programmed in the heads of Moose County natives for instant retrieval. If Mr. O’Dell could recite the directions in such detail, Senior Goodwinter, who had driven the tortuous route every day, would know every jog in the road, every pothole, every patch of loose gravel. It was not likely that Senior had wrecked his car accidentally.
Qwilleran heard no whistling or moaning at the Buckshot Mine, but the old plank bridge did indeed rattle ominously. Although the parapets were built of stone, the roadbed was a loose strip of lateral planks. The “hanging tree” was well named an ancient gnarled oak making a grotesque silhouette against the sky. Everything else checked out: the church, the rubble, the white fence, the sheep meadow.
The farmhouse at the end of Black Creek Lane was a rambling structure of weathered gray shingles, set in a yard covered with the gold and red leaves of maples. Clumps of chrysanthemums were still blooming stubbornly around the doorstep.
Qwilleran lifted a brass door knocker shaped like the Greek letter pi and let it drop on the yellow door. He had taken the risk of dropping in without an appointment, country style, and when the door opened he was greeted without surprise by a pleasant young woman in a western shirt.
“I’m Jim Qwilleran,” he said. “I couldn’t attend the funeral, but I’ve brought some flowers for Mrs. Goodwinter.”
“I know you!” she exclaimed. “I used to see your picture in the Daily Fluxion before I moved to Montana. Come right in!” She turned and shouted up the staircase. “Mother! You’ve got company!”
The woman who came down the stairs was no distraught widow with eyes red from weeping and sleeplessness; she was a hearty type in a red warm-up suit, with eyes sparkling and cheeks pink as if she had just come in from jogging.
“Mr. Qwilleran!” she cried with outstretched hand. “How good of you to drop in! We’ve all read your column in the Fluxion, and we’re so glad you’re living up here.”
He
Qwilleran found the houseman lubricating the hinges on the broom closet door. “Do you know the location of Senior Goodwinter’s farmhouse, Mr. O’Dell? I don’t find North Middle Hummock on the map.”
In a lilting voice the houseman said, “The devil himself couldn’t find the likes o’ that on the map, I’m thinkin’, for it’s a ghost town fifty year since, but yourself can find it, for I’m after tellin’ you how to get there. Go east, now, past the Buckshot Mine, where the wind will be whistlin’ in the mine shaft on a day without wind, and there’ll be moanin’ from the lower depths. When you come to the old plank bridge, let you be wary, for the boards rattle like the divil’s own teeth. Keep watch for a lonely tree on a high hill the hangin’ tree, they’re callin’ it for then you’re comin’ to the church where me and my colleen got ourselves married by the good Father Ryan forty-five year since, God rest her soul. And when you come to a deal o’ rubble, that’s all that’s left o’ North Middle Hummock.
“I feel we’re getting warm,” Qwilleran said.
“Warm, is it? There’s a ways to go yet two miles till you set eyes on Captain Fugtree’s farm with the white fence. Beyond the sheep meadow pay no mind to the sign sayin’ Fugtree Sideroad, for it’s Black Creek Lane, and the Goodwinter house you’ll be seein’ at the end of it. Gray, it is, with a yellow door.
As Qwilleran set out for a North Middle Hummock that didn’t exist and a Black Creek Lane that was called something else, he marveled at the information programmed in the heads of Moose County natives for instant retrieval. If Mr. O’Dell could recite the directions in such detail, Senior Goodwinter, who had driven the tortuous route every day, would know every jog in the road, every pothole, every patch of loose gravel. It was not likely that Senior had wrecked his car accidentally.
Qwilleran heard no whistling or moaning at the Buckshot Mine, but the old plank bridge did indeed rattle ominously. Although the parapets were built of stone, the roadbed was a loose strip of lateral planks. The “hanging tree” was well named an ancient gnarled oak making a grotesque silhouette against the sky. Everything else checked out: the church, the rubble, the white fence, the sheep meadow.
The farmhouse at the end of Black Creek Lane was a rambling structure of weathered gray shingles, set in a yard covered with the gold and red leaves of maples. Clumps of chrysanthemums were still blooming stubbornly around the doorstep.
Qwilleran lifted a brass door knocker shaped like the Greek letter pi and let it drop on the yellow door. He had taken the risk of dropping in without an appointment, country style, and when the door opened he was greeted without surprise by a pleasant young woman in a western shirt.
“I’m Jim Qwilleran,” he said. “I couldn’t attend the funeral, but I’ve brought some flowers for Mrs. Goodwinter.”
“I know you!” she exclaimed. “I used to see your picture in the Daily Fluxion before I moved to Montana. Come right in!” She turned and shouted up the staircase. “Mother! You’ve got company!”
The woman who came down the stairs was no distraught widow with eyes red from weeping and sleeplessness; she was a hearty type in a red warm-up suit, with eyes sparkling and cheeks pink as if she had just come in from jogging.
“Mr. Qwilleran!” she cried with outstretched hand. “How good of you to drop in! We’ve all read your column in the Fluxion, and we’re so glad you’re living up here.”
He
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