Qwilleran, wouldn't you like to replace your little car with something more… upscale? Mr. Fitch at the bank will cover the transaction." "There's nothing wrong with the car I have, Miss Good- winter. There's no rust on the body, and it's economical to operate." Qwilleran ended the conversation hurriedly. While Penelope was talking he became aware of unusual noises coming from another part of the house — a miscellany of plopping, pattering, fluttering, swishing, and skittering. He rushed out of the library to track it down.
Beyond the foyer with its majestic staircase there was a vestibule of generous proportions, floored with squares of creamy white marble. Here was the rosewood hall stand with hooks for top hats and derbies, as well as a rack for walking sticks. Here was a marble-topped table with a silver tray for calling cards. And here was the massive front door with its brass handle and escutcheon, its brass doorbell that jangled when one turned a key on the outside, and its brass mail slot.
Through this slot were shooting envelopes of every size, and shape, dropping in a pile on the floor. Sitting on the cool marble and watching the process with anticipation were Koko and Yum Yum. Now and then Koko would put forth a paw and scoop a letter from the pile, and Yum Yum would bat it around the slick floor.
As Qwilleran watched, the cascade of envelopes stopped falling, and through the sidelights he could see the mail carrier stepping into her Jeep and driving away.
His first impulse was to call the post office and suggest some other arrangement, but then he observed the pleasure that the event afforded the cats. They jumped into the pile like children in a snowbank, rolling over and skidding and scattering the mail. Nothing so wonderful had ever happened in their young lives! Letters slithered across the marble vestibule and into the parquet foyer, where Yum Yum tried to push them under the Oriental rug. Hiding things was her specialty.
One letter was gripped in Koko's jaws, and he paraded around with an air of importance. It was a pink envelope.
"Here, give me that letter!" Qwilleran commanded.
Koko ran into the dining room with Qwilleran in pursuit. The cat darted in and out of the maze of sixty-four chair legs, with the man chasing and scolding. Eventually Koko tired of the game and dropped the pink envelope at Qwilleran's feet.
It was a letter from the postmistress he had met in Mooseville during his vacation. Beautifully typed, it put to shame his own two-fingered efforts, which had not improved despite twenty-five years of filing news stories. The letter read:
Dear Qwill, Congratulations on your good fortune! You and the Siamese will be a wonderful addition to Moose County.
We hope you will enjoy living up here.
Nick and I have some exciting news, too. I'm pregnant at last! He wants me to quit my job because I'm on my feet so much (the doctor says I must be careful), so here's an idea. Could you use a part-time secretary? It would be fun to be a secretary to a real writer.
Say hello to Koko and Yum Yum for me.
Catfully yours, Lori Bamba
It was obvious what had happened. Koko had selected the pink letter from the pile of mail because it carried the scent of someone he knew. Lori had established a rapport with the cats during their visit in Mooseville; they were entranced by her long golden braids tied with blue ribbons.
In a moment or two Koko appeared with another letter and bounded away when Qwilleran reached for it. Then the chase was on — again.
"You think this is a game," Qwilleran shouted after him, "but it could get to be a bore! I'll start picking up my mail at the post office." This time the letter was from a former landlady Down Below. One memorable winter Qwilleran had rented an apartment above her antique shop, in an old building that smelled of baked potatoes when the furnace was operating.
Koko had recognized the scent of his former residence. The hand-written note read:
Dear Mr. Qwilleran, Rosie Riker told me about your inheritance, and I'm very happy for you, although we'll all miss your column in the Daily Fluxion.
Don't drop dead when I tell you I've sold my antique shop! My heart wasn't in the business after my husband died, so Mrs. Riker is taking over. She's a smart collector, and she'd always wanted to be a dealer.
My son wants me to move to St. Louis, but he's married now, and I might be in the way.
Anyway, I got a crazy idea yesterday and stayed awake all night thinking about it. Here goes -
Mrs. Riker says you inherited a big house full of antiques: and will need a housekeeper. I can cook pretty well, you remember, and I know how to take care of fine antiques Also — I have my appraiser's license now and could do some up-to-date appraisals for you — for insurance purposes. I'm serious! I'd love to do it. Let me know what you think.
Yours truly, Iris Cobb P.S. How are the cats?
Qwilleran's salivary glands went into action as he remembered Mrs. Cobb's succulent pot roasts and nippy macaroni- and-cheese. He remembered other details: cheerful personality — dumpy figure — fabulous coconut cake. She believed in ghosts; she read palms in a flirtatious way; she left a few lumps in her mashed potatoes so they'd taste like the real thing.
He immediately put in a phone call to the urban jungle Down Below. "Mrs. Cobb, your idea sounds great! But Pickax is a very small town. You might find it too quiet after the excitement of Zwinger Street." Her voice was as cheerful as ever. "At my age I could use a little quiet, Mr. Qwilleran." "Just the same, you ought to look us over before deciding. I'll buy your plane ticket and meet you at the airport. How's the weather down there?" "Sweltering!" Koko had listened to the conversation with a forward tilt to his ears, denoting disapproval. Always protective of Qwilleran's bachelor status, he had resented the landlady's friendly overtures in the past.
"Don't worry, old boy," Qwilleran told him. "It's strictly business. And you'll get some home-cooked food for a change.
Now let's open the rest of the mail." The envelopes scattered about the vestibule included messages of welcome from five churches, three service clubs, and the mayor of Pickax. There were invitations to join the Ittibittiwassee Country Club, the Pickax Historical Society, the Moose County Gourmets, and a bowling league. The administrator of the Pickax Hospital asked Qwilleran to serve on the board of trustees. The superintendent of schools suggested that he teach an adult class in journalism.
Two other letters had been pushed under the rug in the foyer. The Volunteer Firefighters wished to make Qwilleran an honorary member, and the Pickax Singing Society needed a few more male voices.
"There's your chance," he said to the cat. Koko, as he grew older, was developing a more expressive voice with a gamut of clarion yowling, guttural growling, tenor yodeling, and musical yikking.
That afternoon Qwilleran met another Goodwinter. While writing about "beautiful living" for the Daily Fluxion, he had met all kinds of interior designers-the talented, the charming, the cosmopolitan, the fashionable, the witty, and the scheming, but Amanda Goodwinter was a new experience.
When he answered the doorbell — after three impatient rings — he found a scowling gray-haired woman in a baggy summer dress and thick-soled shoes, peering over her glasses to examine the paint job on the front door.
"Who painted this door?" she demanded. "They botched it! Should've stripped it down to the wood. I'm Amanda Goodwinter." She clomped into the vestibule without looking at Qwilleran. "So this is the so-called showplace of Pickax!
Nobody ever invited me here." He ventured to introduce himself. "I know who you are! You don't need to tell me. Penelope says you need help. The foyer's not too bad, but it needs work. What fool put that tapestry on those chairs?" She prowled from room to room, making comments. "Is this the drawing room I've heard about? The draperies have got to go; they're all wrong… The dining room's too dark.