I’d jump out of bed and grab her paw. She’d pull it away and stick another paw under the door. Oh, we had such fun, and we never got caught!”
“How long did this secret game continue?” Qwilleran asked. “I mean, for how many years?”
“All the time I was growing up. Let me see … Punkin died before I went away to teachers college. Normal school, they called it then. Schoolteaching was the most respectable work a respectable young lady could do in those days. My grandfather had the first sawmill in Sawdust City, and we were supposed to be very respectable.” Her eyes twinkled.
The volunteer said, “Emma, dear, tell Mr. Qwilleran about the fire at the college.”
“Yes, the fire. I lived in a dormitory and studied hard and forgot all about Punkin’s game. Then one night I suddenly woke up because I heard scratching under the door! For a minute I thought I was back home and Punkin wanted to play. But Punkin was dead! Then I smelled smoke. I ran down the hall shouting, “Fire! Fire!” and pounding on everybody’s door.” She stopped to recall it in her mind’s eye.
“Did you all escape safely?”
“Yes, and the firemen came and put the fire out.”
“Did you tell anyone how you happened to wake up?”
“Oh, no! They would have laughed at me. But another time I heard the scratching again.”
“When was that?”
“After I married Horace. We lived on a farm and had five children, four of them boys …” Her concentration wavered as nostalgia swept over her face. She was smiling to herself.
Ms. Hasselrich said gently, “Tell Mr. Qwilleran about the windstorm, dear.”
“It was a tornado!”
“Yes, dear. Tell what happened.”
“Well, one night while I was carrying my fourth child, I woke up and thought I heard scratching under the door, the way Punkin used to do. I sat up and listened, and the wind was howling something fierce! I woke up Horace, and he jumped out of bed and said, “Get the children down in the cellar!” It was a real tornado, and it blew the roof off our farmhouse. But we were all safe in the cellar.” There was a long pause, and her eyes glazed.
Qwilleran asked, “Was that the last time you heard scratching under the door?”
He waited patiently until she collected her thoughts.
“No,” she said. “There was one more time, after Horace died and the children were all gone. I sold the farm and bought a little house in the town-Black Creek, it was. I lived alone, you see, and one night that scratching noise woke me up again. I listened hard, and I could hear someone moving around in the kitchen. So I got out of bed and tiptoed to the door, and I could see a flashlight! I don’t remember if I was scared or not. I don’t think I was.”
“What did you do?”
“I closed the bedroom door very softly and called the police on my bedroom phone. My sons made me have a bedroom phone. I’d never had one before.”
“Who was it in the kitchen?”
“A burglar. They caught him. That was the last time I ever heard the scratching.” Emma turned to the volunteer. “Wasn’t that the last time?”
“Yes, dear,” said Ms. Hasselrich, “that was the last time you heard the scratching.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wimsey,” said Qwilleran. “That’s a remarkable story. How do you explain it?”
“It was the Lord’s work,” said the little woman, her eyes shining. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
Emma Wimsey’s story haunted him as he drove back to the cabin. As a journalist he was conditioned to scoff at supernatural tales, but as the daily companion of a Siamese who could sense danger and sometimes transmit such information, he had second thoughts. There was something in this north country-a kind of primeval force-that unsettled one’s educated beliefs.
When he reached the cabin, he unlocked the door and called out, “Where’s the gang? I’ve brought fried chicken right from the farm!”
Yum Yum came running.
“Where’s your sidekick?” he asked her with a glance at the moosehead. “Where are you, Koko? Fried chicken!”
He expected to hear yikking and yowling, or at least a thump as Koko jumped down from a high place, but there was no audible response.
“Cereal!” That was their new buzzword.
Still there was no reply. Suddenly concerned, Qwilleran checked the bunkrooms, searched under bunks, opened closets and kitchen cabinets, opened the shower door-all with mounting anxiety.
As a chilling thought crossed his mind, he felt tension in his throat and a flush spreading over his face. Joanna had been there to fix the water heater, and she had let Koko get out.
He tested the hot-water faucet. Yes, she had been there.
“Oh, God!” he groaned as he rushed from the cabin.
CHAPTER 7.
KOKO WAS LOST!
Qwilleran ran from the cabin, calling his name. He looked up in the trees. He searched the toolshed. He combed the woods. He plunged down the steps to the beach, calling … calling…
Then in panic he ran back to the cabin and grabbed the phone book. Hands trembling, he looked up Joanna Trupp on Hogback Road. She was not listed. He might have guessed as much. He dialed the Glinko number, thinking they could radio her.
The Glinko telephone rang once … twice … but before they could answer, Qwilleran heard a distant yowl. He slammed down the receiver and rushed outdoors again.
“Koko!” he bellowed and then listened. There was no answer. Again he searched the grounds, fearing that the cat might be injured-mauled by a dog or wild animal-lying helplessly in the brush, too weak to cry out. How could he be found in these acres of woods?
Again he called Koko’s name and listened to the answering silence. Had he imagined Koko’s yowl, just as Emma Wim-sey had imagined the scratching?
Defeated, he returned to the cabin, aware that his heart was pumping fast. He sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands … Did he hear a faint yowl? It seemed to come from the fireplace! He tried to look up the chimney, but the damper was jammed. He looked in the woodbox. On a wild hunch he ran to the toolshed and brought the ladder, climbed up on the roof and looked down the chimney. There was no cap on the flue, no screening. A small animal could fall down and be trapped! If Koko had run out of the house and then found himself locked out, he might climb a tree, drop onto the roof and try to enter the house by way of the chimney. It would be good thinking-up to a point. How would Koko know the damper was closed-and jammed?
Qwilleran slid down the ladder, ripping his hands and tearing his trousers. He ran into the cabin, stuck his head in the fireplace and shouted up the chimney.
There was a distant answer, but this time it came from the opposite end of the cabin.
Qwilleran made a dash for the guestroom. “Koko!”
Once more he heard the ghostly reply. It was driving him mad, and Yum Yum was racing about the cabin and shrieking hysterically.
“Shut up!” he yelled at her.
Calm down, he told himself. Think carefully. Listen unemotionally. He’s got to be here-somewhere. “Koko!”
This time the answer came from the rear of the cabin. He rushed to the mudroom, kicked the rug aside and hoisted the heavy trap door.
“YOW!” said Koko as he jumped out of the hole and shook the cobwebs from his fur.
Qwilleran let the door drop with a crash. “How long have you been down there?”
he demanded.
“Yow!” said Koko, batting the cobwebs from his whiskers. He walked calmly to his water bowl in a corner of the kitchen and took a long drink.
Qwilleran washed and bandaged his hands. “Don’t ever do that to me again!” he said sternly. Now it was clear what had happened: Joanna had gone down under the cabin to deal with the defective water heater; Koko followed without her knowledge and was probably exploring some remote corner when she closed the trap door, locking him in the crawl space. Then she replaced the rug and left the premises. Koko had been down there for how long? An hour? Two hours? Three hours? It would teach him a lesson!