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

Twice it was the kitchen wastebasket, right in the middle of the floor. Last night that old suitcase was shoved across the doorway. Do you know anything about the people who lived here, Mr. Qwilleran? Were there any unexplained deaths? I don't know whether you really believe in ghosts." "These days I'll believe anything." "It's dangerous. I almost fell over the suitcase in the dark. What's it doing here? It seems to be full of musty clothes." "I'll put it in the broom closet - get it out of your way. And you must promise to turn on lights when you come in here after dark." "I guess I'm used to saving electricity." "Forget about that. The estate owns a big chunk of the electric company. And please don't walk around without your glasses, Mrs. Cobb. How's your eye problem these days?" She held up two crossed fingers. "I still see the eye doctor twice a year." "Is everything else working out all right? Any questions?" "Well, I took some cookies over to the painter in the garage - he's a nice young man - and he showed me the huge daisies allover the walls. Who painted those?" "A girl named Daisy, by a strange coincidence. She used to work here. I hope you're not planning to paint irises all over the kitchen." "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran," she laughed.
     
     
"Have you started to catalogue the collection?" "Yes, and I'm terribly excited. There's a silver vault in the basement with some eight-branch silver candelabra about three feet high. The butler's pantry has china to serve twenty-four, and the linen closet had damask and Madeira banquet cloths like you wouldn't believe! You ought to give a big dinner party, Mr. Qwilleran. I'd be glad to cook for it." "Good idea," he said, "but don't try to do too much. Save some time for youself. You might want to join the Historical Society, and when you're ready to take on appraisal jobs we'll run an ad in the Picayune - even get you some publicity on WPKX." "Oh, that would be wonderful!" "And how would you like to attend a city council meeting? I intend to go, and the attorney suggested you might enjoy it, too." "Wasn't that sweet of her! Yes, I'd love to go," Mrs. Cobb said, her eyes shining. "We had so much trouble with bureaucrats in the city; I'd like to see how a small town operates." "Okay, it's a date. Now I'm going to take a bike ride before dinner." "Mr. Qwilleran," the housekeeper said hesitantly, "It's none of my business, but I'd like to say something if it won't offend you." "Fire away!" "I wish you'd get a new bicycle. That old one is such a rattletrap! It's not safe." "The bike's perfectly safe, Mrs. Cobb. I've cleaned it and oiled it and bought new tires. It has a few squeaks, but it's good enough for my purposes." "But there are so many trucks, and they travel so fast! They could blow you right off die road." "I do most of my biking on country roads, where there's very little traffic. Don't worry." The housekeeper set her mouth primly. "But it doesn't look right for a man in your position to be riding a - riding a piece of junk, if you'll pardon the expression." "And if you'll pardon my saying so, Mrs. Cobb, you're beginning to sound like Penelope Goodwinter. Those eight- branch candelabra have gone to your head." She smiled sheepishly.
     
     
"While I'm gone," he said, "Miss Goodwinter might call to say when she's picking us up for the council meeting. Also, a Mrs. Hanstable might phone. She wants a tour of die house. Tell her that any time tomorrow will be okay. I'm going to start charging twenty bucks for these tours." "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran, you must be kidding." In order to bike on country roads he had to negotiate four blocks of downtown traffic, five blocks of old residential streets, and then six blocks of suburbia abounding in prefabricated ranch houses, children, plastic tricycles, dogs, and barbecue smoke. After that came the lonely serenity of open country - pastureland, old mine sites, patches of woods, and an occasional farmhouse with a bicycle-chasing dog.
     
     
As he