Read Online The Cat Who Played Brahms by Lilian Jackson Braun - Free Book Online
Authors: Lilian Jackson Braun
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it was too expensive."
"The prices at the main dock are highway robbery, but I found a boat (gasp) that'll take us for fifteen bucks."
Qwilleran's thrifty nature sensed an opportunity, and the combination of the medication and the unnatural atmosphere gave him a feeling of reckless excitement. When the couple left the dining room he followed them. "Excuse me, sir, did I hear you say something about a troller that's less expensive?"
"Sure did! Fifteen bucks for six hours, Split three ways (gasp) that's five bucks apiece. Not bad. Two young fellahs (gasp) own the boat. You interested?"
"Is fishing any good in this weather?"
"These young fellas say it doesn't make any difference, By the way," he wheezed, "my name's Whatley—from Cleveland—wholesale hardware." He then introduced his wife, whose manner was frosty, and he volunteered to drive, since he knew the way to the dock. "The boat ties up outside of town. That's why (gasp) it's cheaper, You have to shop around to get a good buy."
The trip to the dock was another slow agonizing crawl through earthbound clouds, At one point the three giant electric letters of the FCC glowed weakly through the mist.
Farther on, the Cannery Mall announced itself strongly although the building was invisible. Then there were miles of nothing. Each mile seemed like five. Whatley drove on grimly. No one talked, Qwilleran strained his eyes, peering at the road ahead, expecting to meet a pair of yellow foglights head-on or the sudden taillights of a stalled logging truck.
"How will you know when you get there?" he asked.
"Can’t miss it. There's a wreck of a boat (gasp) where we turn off."
When the wreck eventually loomed up out of the mist, Whatley turned down a swampy lane bordering a canal filled with more wrecks.
"I'm sorry I came," Mrs. Whatley announced in her first statement of the day.
Where the lane ended, a rickety wharf extended into the lake, and the three landlubbers groped their way across its rotting planks. The water lapped against the pilings in a liquid whisper, and a hull could be heard creaking against the wharf.
Previously Qwilleran had seen the gleaming white fishing fleet at the municipal pier.
Boats with names like Lady Aurora, Queen of the Lake, and Northern Princess displayed posters boasting of their ship-to-shore radios, fishing sonars, depth-finders, and automatic pilots. So he was not prepared for the Minnie K. It was an old gray tub, rough with scabs of peeling paint. Incrustations on the deck and railings brought to mind the visits of seagulls and the intimate parts of dead fish. The two members of the crew, who were present in a vague sort of way, were as shabby as their craft. One boy was about seventeen, Qwilleran guessed, and the other was somewhat younger. Neither had an alertness that would inspire confidence.
There were no greetings or introductions. The boys viewed the passengers with suspicion and, after collecting their money, got the boat hastily under weigh, barking at each other in meaningless syllables.
Qwilleran asked the younger boy how far out they were planning to cruise and received a grunt in reply.
Mrs. Whatley said: "This is disgusting. No wonder they call these things stink-boats."
"Whaddaya want for five bucks?" her husband said. "The Queen Elizabeth?"
The passengers found canvas chairs, ragged and stained, and the Minnie K moved slowly through the water, creating hardly a ripple. Mr. Whatley dozed from time to time, and his wife opened a paperback book and turned off her hearing aid. For about an hour the boat chugged through the total whiteness in apathy, its fishy emanations blending with exhaust fumes. Then the engine changed its tune to an even lower pitch, and the boys lazily produced the fishing gear: rods with enormous reels, copper lines, and brass spoons.
"What do I do with this thing?" Qwilleran asked. "Where's the bait?"
"The spoon's all you need," Whatley said. "Drop the line over the rail (gasp) and keep
"The prices at the main dock are highway robbery, but I found a boat (gasp) that'll take us for fifteen bucks."
Qwilleran's thrifty nature sensed an opportunity, and the combination of the medication and the unnatural atmosphere gave him a feeling of reckless excitement. When the couple left the dining room he followed them. "Excuse me, sir, did I hear you say something about a troller that's less expensive?"
"Sure did! Fifteen bucks for six hours, Split three ways (gasp) that's five bucks apiece. Not bad. Two young fellahs (gasp) own the boat. You interested?"
"Is fishing any good in this weather?"
"These young fellas say it doesn't make any difference, By the way," he wheezed, "my name's Whatley—from Cleveland—wholesale hardware." He then introduced his wife, whose manner was frosty, and he volunteered to drive, since he knew the way to the dock. "The boat ties up outside of town. That's why (gasp) it's cheaper, You have to shop around to get a good buy."
The trip to the dock was another slow agonizing crawl through earthbound clouds, At one point the three giant electric letters of the FCC glowed weakly through the mist.
Farther on, the Cannery Mall announced itself strongly although the building was invisible. Then there were miles of nothing. Each mile seemed like five. Whatley drove on grimly. No one talked, Qwilleran strained his eyes, peering at the road ahead, expecting to meet a pair of yellow foglights head-on or the sudden taillights of a stalled logging truck.
"How will you know when you get there?" he asked.
"Can’t miss it. There's a wreck of a boat (gasp) where we turn off."
When the wreck eventually loomed up out of the mist, Whatley turned down a swampy lane bordering a canal filled with more wrecks.
"I'm sorry I came," Mrs. Whatley announced in her first statement of the day.
Where the lane ended, a rickety wharf extended into the lake, and the three landlubbers groped their way across its rotting planks. The water lapped against the pilings in a liquid whisper, and a hull could be heard creaking against the wharf.
Previously Qwilleran had seen the gleaming white fishing fleet at the municipal pier.
Boats with names like Lady Aurora, Queen of the Lake, and Northern Princess displayed posters boasting of their ship-to-shore radios, fishing sonars, depth-finders, and automatic pilots. So he was not prepared for the Minnie K. It was an old gray tub, rough with scabs of peeling paint. Incrustations on the deck and railings brought to mind the visits of seagulls and the intimate parts of dead fish. The two members of the crew, who were present in a vague sort of way, were as shabby as their craft. One boy was about seventeen, Qwilleran guessed, and the other was somewhat younger. Neither had an alertness that would inspire confidence.
There were no greetings or introductions. The boys viewed the passengers with suspicion and, after collecting their money, got the boat hastily under weigh, barking at each other in meaningless syllables.
Qwilleran asked the younger boy how far out they were planning to cruise and received a grunt in reply.
Mrs. Whatley said: "This is disgusting. No wonder they call these things stink-boats."
"Whaddaya want for five bucks?" her husband said. "The Queen Elizabeth?"
The passengers found canvas chairs, ragged and stained, and the Minnie K moved slowly through the water, creating hardly a ripple. Mr. Whatley dozed from time to time, and his wife opened a paperback book and turned off her hearing aid. For about an hour the boat chugged through the total whiteness in apathy, its fishy emanations blending with exhaust fumes. Then the engine changed its tune to an even lower pitch, and the boys lazily produced the fishing gear: rods with enormous reels, copper lines, and brass spoons.
"What do I do with this thing?" Qwilleran asked. "Where's the bait?"
"The spoon's all you need," Whatley said. "Drop the line over the rail (gasp) and keep
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