sliding down the dune to the beach. The leggy girls were returning from their walk, and Buck fell into step behind them, throwing an OK finger-signal to Qwilleran up on the porch.
Koko was still sitting under the chair, very quiet, folded into a compact bundle.
There was something about the visitor that fascinated him. Qwilleran also appreciated this new acquaintance who spoke his language and enjoyed the challenge of detection. They would have a few investigative adventures together.
The day was unusually calm. Voices could be heard from the fishing boats: "Anybody wanna beer? . . . Nah, it's time to go in." There was something portentous about the closeness of the atmosphere. One by one the boats slipped away toward Mooseville. There was a distant rumble on the horizon, Koko started throwing himself at the legs of tables and chairs, while Yum Yum emitted an occasional shriek. By nightfall the storm was overhead. The rain pelted the roof and windows, claps of thunder shook the cabin, and jagged bolts of lightning slashed the night sky and illuminated the lake.
-8-
When the sirens went screaming down the highway, Qwilleran was having his morning coffee and one of Aunt Fanny's cinnamon buns from the freezer, thawed and heated to pudding consistency in the microwave. Several acres of woods separated the cabin from the main road, but he could identify the sound of two police cars and an ambulance speeding eastward. Another accident! Traffic was getting heavier as the vacation season approached. Vans, recreation vehicles, and boat trailers were turning a country road into a dangerous thoroughfare.
That morning Qwilleran had lost another round in his feud with the fireplace. Why, he asked himself, can a single cigarette butt start a forest fire when I can't set fire to a newspaper with eleven matches? When he finally managed to ignite the sports section, smoke billowed from the fireplace and flakes of charred newsprint floated about the room before settling on the white linen sofas, the oiled wood floors, and the Indian rugs.
After breakfast he began to clean house. He started by dusting the bookshelves and was still there two hours later, having discovered books on Indians, raccoons, mining history, and common weeds. The dissertation on poison ivy included a sketch of the sinister vine. At once Qwilleran left the cabin with book in hand to scout the woods beyond the septic tank—that particular area that monopolized the cats' attention.
All of nature was reacting ebulliently to the violence of the recent storm. Everything was cleaner, greener, taller, and more alive. Two little brown rabbits were gnawing pine cones. Small creatures rustled through the ground cover of pine needles and last year's oak leaves. There was no poison ivy, however. Back to the dusting, Qwilleran thought.
Then another opportunity for procrastination presented itself. He had never entered the toolshed except to select a canoe paddle. It was a cedar hut with a door, no window and no electric light. Immediately inside the entrance were the paddles, long-handled garden tools, and a ladder. The far end of the shed was in darkness, and Qwilleran went back to the cabin for a flashlight. As he expected, his activities were being monitored by two Siamese in the east window.
In the inner gloom of the shed the flashlight beam picked out paint cans, coils of rope, a garden hose, axes, and—against the far wall—a dingy cot with a limp pillow.
On the wall above hung faded magazine pages with a two-year-old dateline and the unmistakable razzle-dazzle of Las Vegas. Mosquitoes were bounding off Qwilleran's neck and ears, and a loud buzzing suggested something worse. Qwilleran made a quick exit.
He had resumed his desultory housecleaning when he heard a rumbling in Koko's throat.
The cat rushed to the windows overlooking the lake. Moments later a lone walker on the beach started to climb the dune. Mildred Hanstable's head was bowed, and she was dabbing
Koko was still sitting under the chair, very quiet, folded into a compact bundle.
There was something about the visitor that fascinated him. Qwilleran also appreciated this new acquaintance who spoke his language and enjoyed the challenge of detection. They would have a few investigative adventures together.
The day was unusually calm. Voices could be heard from the fishing boats: "Anybody wanna beer? . . . Nah, it's time to go in." There was something portentous about the closeness of the atmosphere. One by one the boats slipped away toward Mooseville. There was a distant rumble on the horizon, Koko started throwing himself at the legs of tables and chairs, while Yum Yum emitted an occasional shriek. By nightfall the storm was overhead. The rain pelted the roof and windows, claps of thunder shook the cabin, and jagged bolts of lightning slashed the night sky and illuminated the lake.
-8-
When the sirens went screaming down the highway, Qwilleran was having his morning coffee and one of Aunt Fanny's cinnamon buns from the freezer, thawed and heated to pudding consistency in the microwave. Several acres of woods separated the cabin from the main road, but he could identify the sound of two police cars and an ambulance speeding eastward. Another accident! Traffic was getting heavier as the vacation season approached. Vans, recreation vehicles, and boat trailers were turning a country road into a dangerous thoroughfare.
That morning Qwilleran had lost another round in his feud with the fireplace. Why, he asked himself, can a single cigarette butt start a forest fire when I can't set fire to a newspaper with eleven matches? When he finally managed to ignite the sports section, smoke billowed from the fireplace and flakes of charred newsprint floated about the room before settling on the white linen sofas, the oiled wood floors, and the Indian rugs.
After breakfast he began to clean house. He started by dusting the bookshelves and was still there two hours later, having discovered books on Indians, raccoons, mining history, and common weeds. The dissertation on poison ivy included a sketch of the sinister vine. At once Qwilleran left the cabin with book in hand to scout the woods beyond the septic tank—that particular area that monopolized the cats' attention.
All of nature was reacting ebulliently to the violence of the recent storm. Everything was cleaner, greener, taller, and more alive. Two little brown rabbits were gnawing pine cones. Small creatures rustled through the ground cover of pine needles and last year's oak leaves. There was no poison ivy, however. Back to the dusting, Qwilleran thought.
Then another opportunity for procrastination presented itself. He had never entered the toolshed except to select a canoe paddle. It was a cedar hut with a door, no window and no electric light. Immediately inside the entrance were the paddles, long-handled garden tools, and a ladder. The far end of the shed was in darkness, and Qwilleran went back to the cabin for a flashlight. As he expected, his activities were being monitored by two Siamese in the east window.
In the inner gloom of the shed the flashlight beam picked out paint cans, coils of rope, a garden hose, axes, and—against the far wall—a dingy cot with a limp pillow.
On the wall above hung faded magazine pages with a two-year-old dateline and the unmistakable razzle-dazzle of Las Vegas. Mosquitoes were bounding off Qwilleran's neck and ears, and a loud buzzing suggested something worse. Qwilleran made a quick exit.
He had resumed his desultory housecleaning when he heard a rumbling in Koko's throat.
The cat rushed to the windows overlooking the lake. Moments later a lone walker on the beach started to climb the dune. Mildred Hanstable's head was bowed, and she was dabbing
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