The Cat Who Played Post Office by Lilian Jackson Braun Read Free Book Online

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.
     
     
"Looks like the inside of a tomb." Qwilleran interrupted politely. "The attorney suggested that you might redecorate the rooms over the garage." "What!" she screeched. "You expect me to do servants' quarters?" "As a matter of fact," he said, "I want to use one of the garage apartments myself - as a writing studio - and I'd like it done in good contemporary." The designer was pacing back and forth in the foyer like a caged lioness. "There's no such thing as good contemporary! I don't do contemporary. I loathe the damn stuff." Qwilleran cleared his throat diplomatically. "Are there any other designers in town who are competent to work with contemporary?" "I'm perfectly competent, mister, to work in any