The Cat Who Played Post Office by Lilian Jackson Braun Page A

laugh or the motorcycle. In the kitchen the scene was casual, to say the least, Birch Trevelyan in his field boots and feed cap sprawled in a chair at the kitchen table, a T-shirt stretched across his beefy chest and a leather jacket with cutoff sleeves hanging on a doorknob. Mrs. Cobb, apparently dazzled by this macho glamour, was holding his hand and stroking the palm. Koko was monitoring the situation from the top of the refrigerator, not without alarm. Yum Yum was under the table sniffing the man's boots. And on the table were the remains of the three- layer, cream-filled coconut cake that Mrs. Cobb had baked for Qwilleran's evening meal.
     
     
She jumped to her feet, looking flushed and guilty. "Oh, there you are, Mr. Qwilleran. This is Birch Tree. He's going to solve all our repair problems." "Howdy," said Birch in the coffee-shop style, loud and easy. "Pull up a chair. Have some cake. Baa-a-a!" His mismatched eyes - one brown, one hazel - had an evil glint, but he had a disarming grin showing big square teeth.
     
     
Qwilleran accepted a chair that Birch shoved in his direction and said, "That's some classy animal you've got tethered out there." "Yeah, it's a mean rig. Y'oughta get one. You can hit a hundred-fifty in sixth on the airport road, if it's clear. Ten miles of straight, there. Ittibittiwassee - you get four straight but you rev up to ten grand and it's all over." Tactfully Qwilleran slipped into the topic of primary interest. "There's something wrong with the doors in this house, Birch. They don't latch properly. Even the cat can open them." "Lotta muscle in one of them small packages," Birch said with authority.
     
     
"We've got about twenty doors that won't stay shut. What can be done?" The expert tucked his thumbs in his belt, rocked his chair on two legs, and nodded wisely. "Old house. Building settles. Doorframes get out of whack. Doors shrink. I can fix 'em, but it'll cost ya." For a man who hated to work, he seemed most agreeable. New lock for the back door? "Easy!" Twenty doors refitted? "Piece o' cake!" He said he would start the next morning - early. Qwilleran surmised that Mrs. Cobb had bribed him with a promise of huckleberry pancakes and sausages.
     
     
After Birch had roared away on his motorcycle, the housekeeper said, "Isn't that a wonderful machine?" Qwilleran grunted noncommittally. "How is he going to transport tools with that thing?" "Oh, he told me he has a couple of trucks, and an ORV, and one of those big campers. He likes wheels. He wants to take me for a ride on the motorbike. What do you think?" Qwilleran exhaled audibly into his moustache. "Don't rush into anything with that guy. I think he's an opportunist." "He seems very nice. When I told him that smoke was harmful to antiques, he chucked his cigar without a word. And he loved my coconut cake." "That's obvious. He ate most of it." "Even little Yum Yum liked him. Did you see her sniffing his boots?" "Either he'd been walking around a barnyard or she was looking for a shoelace to untie. It wasn't necessarily a character endorsement.... By the way, have you noticed Koko sitting on the main staircase a lot?" She nodded. "That's his favorite perch, except for the refrigerator." "The strange thing is that he always sits on the third stair. I don't understand why." The housekeeper looked warily at Qwilleran. "I have something strange to report, too, but I'm afraid you'll laugh at me." "Mrs. Cobb, I always take you seriously." "Well, you remember I mentioned ghosts when I came here. I was only kidding, sort of, but now I'm beginning to think this house is haunted - not that I'm afraid, you understand.'" "How did you get that idea?" "Well, sometimes when I come into the kitchen at night I see a white blur out of the comer of my eye, but when I turn to look, it's gone." "I'm always seeing white blurs, Mrs. Cobb. One's called Koko and the other's called Yum Yum." "But things also move around mysteriously - mostly in the kitchen.