Read Online The Cat Who Played Brahms by Lilian Jackson Braun - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lilian Jackson Braun
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headed straightway for the tourist bureau. He was not feeling amiable, but first he had to engage in the weather amenities. "You were right about the fog, Roger. How long do you think it will last?"
"It should clear by noon tomorrow."
"Did your wife get home all right?"
"One-thirty this morning. Took her two hours to drive the last twenty miles. She was a basket case when she finally got in. What have you been doing in this fog, Qwill?"
"I've been trolling."
"What! You're hallucinating. The boats didn't go out today."
"The Minnie K went out. We were out for four hours, and that was three hours too many."
Roger reached for a file. "I never heard of the Minnie K. And she's not here on the list of registered trollers. Where did you find her?"
"A guest at the hotel lined up the expedition. His name is Whatley."
"Yeah, I know him. Overweight, short of breath. He's been in here three times, complaining. How much did they charge? I assume you didn't catch any fish."
"No, but I caught something else," Qwilleran said. "It didn't behave like a fish, and when I got it to the surface, the skipper cut my line and took off for shore in a hurry.
He didn't like the look of it, and neither did I. It looked like the body of a man."
Roger gulped and stroked his black beard. "It was probably an old rubber tire or something like that. It would be hard to tell for sure in the fog. The boaters lash tires to the side of the wharf—to act as bumpers, you know. They can break loose in a storm.
We had a big storm Tuesday night. . ."
"Knock it off, Roger. We all know the Chamber of Commerce writes your script. I'd like to report this—this rubber tire to the police? Where do I find the sheriff?"
Roger flushed and looked guilty but not contrite. "Behind the log church. The building with a flag."
"By the way, I got a surprise last night," Qwilleran continued in a more genial humor.
"Your mother-in-law left some turkey and a note at my cabin, but she didn't sign her name. I don't know how to thank her."
"Oh, she's like that—scatter-brained. But she's nice. Laughs a lot. Her name's Mildred Hanstable, and she lives at Top o' the Dunes, east of you. I should warn you about something. She'll insist on telling your fortune and then expect a donation."
"Isn't that illegal?"
"It's for charity. She's helping to raise money for some kind of heart machine at the Pickax Hospital."
"Count me in," Qwilleran said. "I'll need the machine before this restful vacation is over."
When he returned to the cabin, it was still daylight, filtered through fog. Indoors he smelled vinegar, reminding him of the homemade brass polish used by antique dealers. Sure enough, the brass lantern hanging over the bar was newly polished. Tom had been there in spite of the stipulation; he had been told not to come to the cabin until called.
Qwilleran had left his old watch and some loose change on the dresser in the bunkroom, and they were still there. He shrugged.
When he called to his friends, Yum Yum came running from the guest room, but Koko was too busily engaged to respond. He was perched on the moose head, fussing and talking to himself in small musical grunts that originated deep in his snowy chest.
"What are you doing up there?" Qwilleran demanded.
Koko was shifting position on the antlers, standing on his hind legs and reaching up with a front paw as if searching for a toehold. The moose head was mounted on a varnished wooden plaque that was hung 'on the uneven log wall. Koko was trying to thrust his paw into one of the crevices behind the plaque. After some experimental footwork he finally braced himself well enough to reach the aperture. His paw ventured warily into the opening. Something rattled inside. Koko tried harder, stretched longer, still muttering to himself.
Qwilleran walked closer, and when the prize fell out of the crevice and bounced off the antler, he caught it. "What's this? A cassette!"
It was a blank tape that had been used for
"It should clear by noon tomorrow."
"Did your wife get home all right?"
"One-thirty this morning. Took her two hours to drive the last twenty miles. She was a basket case when she finally got in. What have you been doing in this fog, Qwill?"
"I've been trolling."
"What! You're hallucinating. The boats didn't go out today."
"The Minnie K went out. We were out for four hours, and that was three hours too many."
Roger reached for a file. "I never heard of the Minnie K. And she's not here on the list of registered trollers. Where did you find her?"
"A guest at the hotel lined up the expedition. His name is Whatley."
"Yeah, I know him. Overweight, short of breath. He's been in here three times, complaining. How much did they charge? I assume you didn't catch any fish."
"No, but I caught something else," Qwilleran said. "It didn't behave like a fish, and when I got it to the surface, the skipper cut my line and took off for shore in a hurry.
He didn't like the look of it, and neither did I. It looked like the body of a man."
Roger gulped and stroked his black beard. "It was probably an old rubber tire or something like that. It would be hard to tell for sure in the fog. The boaters lash tires to the side of the wharf—to act as bumpers, you know. They can break loose in a storm.
We had a big storm Tuesday night. . ."
"Knock it off, Roger. We all know the Chamber of Commerce writes your script. I'd like to report this—this rubber tire to the police? Where do I find the sheriff?"
Roger flushed and looked guilty but not contrite. "Behind the log church. The building with a flag."
"By the way, I got a surprise last night," Qwilleran continued in a more genial humor.
"Your mother-in-law left some turkey and a note at my cabin, but she didn't sign her name. I don't know how to thank her."
"Oh, she's like that—scatter-brained. But she's nice. Laughs a lot. Her name's Mildred Hanstable, and she lives at Top o' the Dunes, east of you. I should warn you about something. She'll insist on telling your fortune and then expect a donation."
"Isn't that illegal?"
"It's for charity. She's helping to raise money for some kind of heart machine at the Pickax Hospital."
"Count me in," Qwilleran said. "I'll need the machine before this restful vacation is over."
When he returned to the cabin, it was still daylight, filtered through fog. Indoors he smelled vinegar, reminding him of the homemade brass polish used by antique dealers. Sure enough, the brass lantern hanging over the bar was newly polished. Tom had been there in spite of the stipulation; he had been told not to come to the cabin until called.
Qwilleran had left his old watch and some loose change on the dresser in the bunkroom, and they were still there. He shrugged.
When he called to his friends, Yum Yum came running from the guest room, but Koko was too busily engaged to respond. He was perched on the moose head, fussing and talking to himself in small musical grunts that originated deep in his snowy chest.
"What are you doing up there?" Qwilleran demanded.
Koko was shifting position on the antlers, standing on his hind legs and reaching up with a front paw as if searching for a toehold. The moose head was mounted on a varnished wooden plaque that was hung 'on the uneven log wall. Koko was trying to thrust his paw into one of the crevices behind the plaque. After some experimental footwork he finally braced himself well enough to reach the aperture. His paw ventured warily into the opening. Something rattled inside. Koko tried harder, stretched longer, still muttering to himself.
Qwilleran walked closer, and when the prize fell out of the crevice and bounced off the antler, he caught it. "What's this? A cassette!"
It was a blank tape that had been used for
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