The Cat Who Went Up the Creek

chapter nine

On Saturday, Qwilleran was “up betimes,” as they used to say three centuries ago. What, he wondered, had happened to that word? It was still in the dictionary. If Polly were there, they would have a lively discussion about it. He missed her most on weekends. Later, he would drive over to her place to cheer up the cats, who missed her too.

Meanwhile he had coffee and a thawed breakfast roll on the porch. The cats were nearby, washing up after their own breakfast when, suddenly, they went on ear-alert. Someone was coming along the creek footpath.

It was the small boy from Cabin Two. He approached the screen saying, “Kitty! Kitty! You found your mittens!”

The cats remained stiffly aloof from this alien creature who was larger than a squirrel and smaller than a human.

Qwilleran started to say, “Does your mother—?”

“Danny! Danny!” screamed a shrill voice, and a frail-looking woman came hurrying along the path. “I told you not to bother people!”

“I wanna see the kitties!”

She snatched his wrist and dragged him home while he looked back in disappointment.

In preparation for Barter’s luncheon visit, he had some exploring to do and was pleased that he had brought his trail bike. The dense woods called the Black Forest Conservancy adjoined the Nutcracker Inn to the south and stretched for miles and miles.

He put on the biking gear that always scared the cats—tight-fitting green-and-purple suit, spherical yellow helmet, large black sun goggles—and wheeled his bike to Cabin One, where he rapped on Hannah’s back door.

She greeted him with a small cry of alarm and then laughed.

“Oh, it’s you, Qwill! I thought it was someone from outer space. Come in!”

“Not today, thanks. I have miles to bike before noon. Just stopped to say that your ovation last night was well deserved.”

“I had a lot of friends in the audience.”

“Friends or no friends, you created a believable character, and you have a splendid voice!”

“Thank you,” she said graciously, with the aplomb of one who believes in herself.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow night at dinner. I suggest we all meet here and walk up the hill.”

Qwilleran pedaled east on Gully Road with farmland on his left and the Black Forest on his right, and he thought about Fanny Klingenschoen. While pursuing a lucrative career on the fast track—elsewhere—she had bought up half of Moose County. She acquired woodland and abandoned mining villages as well as property in downtown Pickax. Ecologically, she was doing something right, but she was doing it for her own reason: revenge against the “respectable” families who had scorned her freewheeling ancestors. Now the wilderness holdings had been placed in conservancy by the Klingenschoen Foundation—to prevent development and do some small part in saving the planet.

In the wrong hands, Qwilleran was aware, millions of trees would have been cleared to make way for high-density condominiums, a golf course, and even an auto raceway. The pure air and water of the north country would have been exchanged for population growth and pollution. He had been reading about trees and oxygen and rain.

The K Fund had established three conservancies, each with its own agenda. The largest, called the Black Forest, was dedicated to the preservation of wildlife, and Qwilleran wanted to gain some idea of its character before discussing it with the attorney.

After a mile or so on Gully Road there came a break in the dense wall of evergreens, hardwoods and other growth. A sign—obviously new but made to look old—announced BLACK FOREST CONSERVANCY—WILDLIFE REFUGE.

There was an entryway of sorts, wide enough for a motor vehicle but hardly more than a beaten path into the woods: weeds, ruts, stones, tree roots, and forest debris. It had no name, only a county number on a leaning pole—with a warning: DEAD END. Qwilleran was curious enough, and his trail bike was sturdy enough, to give it a try.

Actually it appeared to dead-end fifty yards ahead at a lofty outcropping of rock, the kind of souvenir deposited by prehistoric glaciers.

Standing on the pedals and gripping the handlebars with determination he headed for the rock, only to find that County 1124 went around it, turning left, then turning right around the east end of the rock, then turning right again into . . .

“What the devil!” Qwilleran yelped as he came face-to-face, or rather face-to-tail, with a large truck! It had a Wisconsin tag. It looked like an interstate moving van.

He walked his bike around it. The name painted on the side of the van was DIAMOND MOVING AND STORAGE. The cab window was open, and the driver was talking on a cell phone.

“Having trouble? Are you lost?” Qwilleran asked helpfully.

The man dropped the phone when he saw the yellow bubble-head with goggle eyes and enough facial hair for an old English sheepdog. “Uhh . . . Takin’ a break. Been drivin’ all night.”

“How far have you come?”

“Milwaukee . . . Where’s a place to eat?”

“At the gas station in Black Creek. But you can’t turn around, and you’ll never back out with this rig.”

“I done it before.”

“Well . . . good luck!”

Qwilleran hopped on his bike and punished the pedals some more, meanwhile thinking he had insulted a professional teamster. He remembered working at a metropolitan newspaper and being fascinated by the flatbed trucks that delivered the giant rolls of newsprint. To back up to the pressroom’s loading dock, the driver had to double-jackknife backward—from a busy street to a narrow alley to a narrower dock.

He continued to follow 1124 on its eccentric course around more outcroppings of rock, clumps of trees, evil-looking bogs, and one ancient tree with a trunk at least five feet in diameter. At one point a tree had fallen across the road, and he had to lift his bike over it.

He saw no wildlife larger than a squirrel but heard crackling in the underbrush and rustling in branches overhead. And he could hear the sounds of distant civilization: an emergency siren, shots from a rabbit-hunter’s gun, a chain saw turning a tree into firewood, a hammer turning cedar boards into a deck.

At intervals, trails led into the depths of the forest, disappearing into a mysterious darkness suitable for fairy tales about wolves and wicked witches.

When 1124 dead-ended at the creek, Qwilleran had had enough, and he returned to the reality of Gully Road. The moving van had gone, and—he remembered later—there was no fallen tree crossing 1124.

Before the attorney arrived, there was time to shower, give the Siamese their noontime entitlement, and open a bottle of red wine, to breathe. Barter always looked lawyerly, even in jeans, polo shirt, baseball cap and sneakers. He walked into the cabin with authority and appraised the ingenious space-savers and built-ins. “Snug!” was his verdict.

Pompously Qwilleran said, “Think not of it as a small dwelling; think of it as a large boat.”

“Where are the cats?”

“Out on deck. If you’ll join them and pour yourself a glass of wine, I’ll phone the inn to start our sandwiches.”

Koko ignored the visitor, but Yum Yum could smell a shoelace at fifty paces and approached stealthily.

“Cheers!” the attorney said, lifting his glass, while his host raised his glass of Squunk water with a dash of cranberry juice.

Barter said, “My wife wants to know if you’re having a limerick contest this summer. She won a prize last year.”

“I remember. It was about the town of Brrr. Tell her that public clamor is forcing us to repeat it. Did she ever write a limerick about you, Bart?”

“Yes, and I won’t recite it. . . . Now what do you want to know about conservancies, Qwill?”

“I know that wilderness tracts can be legally protected against development. And I know the K Fund has put three tracts in conservancy. The Piney Woods will be open to hunters in deer season; Great Oaks offers campsites for tents but not recreational vehicles—”

“And all campsites are reserved through Labor Day,” the attorney interrupted. “It has beach access and thirty miles of beach hiking in each direction. The agate-hunters are enthusiastic.”

“But what about the Black Forest, Bart? I biked through it, and nothing’s happening.”

“That’s the largest and most ambitious, Qwill. The idea is to admit hikers and photographers but prohibit hunting, camping, off-road vehicles and exploitation of natural resources.”

“Meaning what?”

“No timbering. No removal of minerals or plant life. But first they have to take inventory of what we have in the Black Forest. They’re sending in botanists, geologists, ornithologists—scientists from every discipline. It’s thought that Moose County is a treasure trove of natural science. It’s already known that the Black Forest has bears, wolves, foxes, bobcats, beaver, raccoons, skunks, and otters, as well as deer—”

“And squirrels,” Qwilleran added. “How are you going to keep the tourists from digging up rare plants, feeding the deer, setting fire to the woods?”

“All of that’s in-work. They hire forest rangers to monitor the situation and conduct educational programs.”

A horn tooted at the back door, and a porter delivered the sandwiches and fries under hot-covers and coffee in Thermos jugs. Then the conversation turned to shoptalk.

Barter asked, “What are your plans for that hundred-year-old furniture that’s in temporary storage?”

“No plans. Only hopes,” Qwilleran replied. “It belongs in a museum. Moose County doesn’t have one.”

“There’s the Goodwinter farmhouse.”

“Too primitive. What’s in storage has class, provenance, quality and beauty. One of the big houses on Pleasant Street would make a suitable museum.”

“It would require rezoning. The neighbors would fight it.”

Qwilleran said, “The K Fund could build an art center. They should be able to build a museum. Think about it.”

Barter stood up to leave. “Great sandwiches. Peaceful scene. I hate to leave.”

“I hear you’ve taken in a new partner. Hasselrich, Bennett, Barter and Adams.”

“Mavis Adams from Rochester, Minnesota. Good mind. Nice woman. Likes cats. In fact, she has an idea for a new kind of animal rescue program.”

“Bart, your shoelaces are untied,” Qwilleran said.

In preparation for his mercy expedition to Indian Village Qwilleran packed a few treats—nothing fancy; Polly’s cats were accustomed to a plain diet. His own Siamese watched with concern as their food was being put in a plastic tote bag, along with their necktie.

“I’m going to see your cousins in Indian Village,” he explained. “Do you have a message for them?” They had none. They were simply waiting for him to leave, so they could have their afternoon nap.

Arriving at Polly’s condo, Qwilleran let himself in with his own key, and the Siamese came forward promptly, their body language more inquisitive than enthusiastic. He passed muster, but it was obvious they would have preferred Polly. She talked cat-talk. Qwilleran talked about the weather, their health, the cat-sitter. “This treat comes to you with the good wishes of your cousins, vacationing at Black Creek.”

They approached the plate cautiously, looked up at him questioningly, then gobbled it up.

Next came the necktie game. “Have you guys been getting any exercise?” He whipped out the frayed necktie, twirled it, dragged it tantalizingly across the floor. “Very interesting,” they seemed to say as they watched from nearby chairs.

Finally, Qwilleran read to them from the Wilson Quarterly—all about the political situation in Indonesia—and they fell asleep. He tiptoed from the house. He had done it for Polly. What was she doing, he wondered? Probably dressing for dinner with the Ohio antique dealer.

From his car he phoned the Pickax police chief at home.

Brodie’s wife answered. “He’s in the shower. We’re going to Tipsy’s. He likes the steak. I like the fish. If we don’t go to Tipsy’s, we go to Linguini’s. . . . Oh, here he is!”

Andy came on the line with an impatient growl, as if he were still dripping.

“This is Qwill, Andy. Would it be worth your while to drive to Black Creek for (a) some good Scotch and (b) a clue to a mystery murder?”

“M’wife and me, we always go out to dinner Saturday night, then watch a video.”

“What are you watching tonight?”

“It’s her turn to choose. She wants On Golden Pond. Third time! I’ll be ready for a wee nip! How about eleven o’clock?”

“You know where I am. Cabin Five.”

alt="[image]"/>On the way home Qwilleran stopped at the Nutcracker for a piece of black walnut pie and, he hoped, another postcard from Polly.

Lori handed it to him. “I couldn’t help looking at the beautiful picture, Qwill—all those schooners in full sail! I’d love to see them! She must be having a wonderful time.”

It came from Mystic Seaport, Connecticut, and the message read:

Dear Qwill—Sea air! Tall ships! Atmosphere of a colonial seaport! Walter introduced us to navy grog. Delicious! I feel like dancing!

Love, Polly

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. She sounded a little tipsy. Was this Walter person leading her astray? Her usual drink was a small glass of sherry, and he had never heard her say that she felt like dancing. Abruptly he asked Lori, “Where’s Nick?”

“Supposed to be changing filters in the basement, but he may be fixing a tile on the roof. You know how he is—all over the place.” She said it with approval.

Qwilleran tracked him down. “What do you know about navy grog, Nick?”

“It’s a drink. Pretty potent, they say.”

“Do you know the ingredients?”

“Our barman would, but he isn’t on duty yet. We could look it up in his drink manual. . . . Come on.”

In the vacant bar Nick found the manual, almost two inches thick, and read, “Jamaica rum, white rum, lime juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, guava nectar, crushed mint leaves, and a teaspoon of Falernum.”

“What’s Falernum?” Qwilleran asked.

“Never heard of it. Sounds like the West Indies.”

“It doesn’t sound good,” Qwilleran muttered, as he visualized Polly dancing with sailors after a sip or two. “Thanks, Nick!”

Driving downhill to the creek, Qwilleran could hear Hannah doing her vocal exercises, tuning up for the second performance. Behind Cabin Three he could hear one of Wendy’s Schubert recordings. Unlocking his own door, he could hear the welcome howls of Koko and Yum Yum. As soon as he walked into the cabin, however, there was sudden silence. They knew where he had been and what he had been doing: fraternizing with the competition!

“Too bad about you!” he said. And he made a cup of coffee.

Later, sitting on the porch in the twilight, Qwilleran reviewed his conversation with the attorney and his excursion into the Black Forest. It had been strenuous, and he was beginning to feel a muscular reaction here and there. There was something magical about a dense forest. He could see how Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm had been inspired to write the tales they did! As for himself, now that he was away from the spell of the Black Forest he began to question the presence of the moving van on the scrubby 1124. He wished he had made a note of the license number; Brodie could have put a check on it. The van had gone when he returned from his arduous pedaling. Had it backed out, or had it gone deeper into the woods on one of those half-hidden side trails? And if that were the case, what was its mission? And did that explain why the fallen tree across 1124 had been removed? And had it “fallen” or been placed there?

When Chief Brodie stomped into the cabin, he said gruffly, “Why don’t you trade in that antiquated van on a good-looking sports utility vehicle?”

“I like my van. It’s been a good old workhorse.”

“It’s a clunker,” Andy insisted. “Gippel has a new shipment of SUVs, and will make you a good deal—just one look and he’ll have you drivin’ around in one of them. And it would look better for the writer of the ‘Qwill Pen.’ I’ll bet Polly would like the colors.”

“Are you on Gippel’s payroll?” Qwilleran asked. “Go sit on the screened porch, and I’ll bring the tray.”

“Have you heard from Polly?” Brodie asked after they were seated at the porch table with drinks and cheese board.

“I get regular postcards. There’s an antique dealer who seems to have latched on to her. He’s interested in the Duncan heirlooms. Susan Exbridge says they’re worth a mint!”

“That guy would try to swindle her for sure. She comes across as a nice lady, but she’s tough as nails and he won’t get anywhere. . . . So what’s the clue you mentioned, Qwill?

“First, have they found out who Hackett really was?”

“They’ve found out that he wasn’t a sales rep selling building supplies to lumber companies and contractors. Nobody ever heard of him—or the company he said he worked for. He was here for some other purpose, probably drug-related.”

“But maybe not. Let me show you a pair of shoes he left here. The police overlooked them because they were shoved way under a bunk.” Qwilleran produced the brown oxfords. “What do you think of these?”

“Good leather. Expensive.” Then he watched with disguised surprise as the inner layers of the left shoe were peeled away, revealing the nuggets of gold in the heel.

“Hmff! Not much of a haul.” Brodie observed.

Qwilleran said, “I say this is only a gimmick—something to show friends. I say he was after the big stuff, and they were packed in his car when it was stolen—along with a pickax and diving equipment and a wet suit. Diving for gold is a current craze in other parts of the country, I’ve read. And, I’m sure you know, the locals have always talked about several veins of gold under the Black Creek. No doubt he was on the bank of the creek when someone hit him on the head and threw him in the water!”

“This would make a good movie—better than the one I saw tonight for the third time.”

“No doubt he’s been driving his car onto 1124, then down one of the side trails to the creek. Someone knew about it—probably a partner, who knew he was about to leave. Perhaps the partner had come up with Hackett from Down Below.”

“Glad to know the skunk was not one of us,” Andy said, still reluctant to take the story seriously.

“The question is, why did Hackett falsify everything on the inn’s guest register? Because he had found out, somehow, that ‘exploitation of minerals’ in the Black Forest Conservancy is now outlawed. He was trying to make one more haul before the forest rangers started policing the gold fields. . . . Let me refresh your drink, Andy. . . . Try this Roquefort. It’s the real thing.”

The chief left with the shoes wrapped in newspaper and instructions to tell state detectives they had overlooked them during the forensic search. “Tell them the innkeeper turned them over to you—and you suspected something fishy about the left shoe. Leave me out of it! . . . Then they can piece together their own scenario. Personally, I think mine was pretty good!”