The Cat Who Went Up the Creek

chapter eleven

Early on Monday morning Qwilleran went to the inn for a quick breakfast, taking his review of Pirates to be faxed. He also told the Bambas about the plans for the black walnut heirlooms at the Antique Village.

Nick said, “I’ll send two guys to Sandpit Road to get them out of hock—right away!”

“Not so fast!” Qwilleran said. “Arrangements have to be made. And when you pick up the stuff, you should be one of the guys. We don’t want the cracked mirrors to be shattered. The way they’re cracked, they’re mysterious; if shattered, they would be just a mess.”

“Will we get a credit line for the exhibit?”

“A tasteful card,” Qwilleran told him, “will say that the pieces were found in a turret at the Nutcracker Inn, where they had been locked up for a hundred years. It will also be mentioned in the leaflet handed out to visitors.”

Lori said, “Qwill, you’d make a wonderful publicity man!”

“Watch your language! To a journalist, them’s fighting words.”

Janelle was waiting in the office of the Antique Village when Qwilleran arrived with his tape recorder. She poured two cups of coffee. The painting itself had been brought from the display case and was propped on the desk. Briefly he tried to analyze its fascination. Although it had been painted long ago and far away, the people on the beach seemed so real that one was teleported into the scene. Sunning, digging in the sand, and reading all without a beer cooler or topless swimmer.

“Okay, how did you happen to acquire this painting?” he asked Janelle.

“Well,” she began, “when I was attending MCCC, a classmate and I went to Chicago on spring break. First time! We gawked at the tall buildings, squealed when we rode the elevated, giggled on escalators, and ate food we’d never heard of before. One day we ventured into a big gallery selling furniture from European castles and paintings as big as billboards. But I saw this little painting among the giants and couldn’t stop staring at it. A man was walking around with his hands behind his back, and I asked about it. He said it came in a large shipment and was smaller than they usually handled, but if I liked it I could have it for ten dollars! I felt weak in the knees!”

“Were you able to learn anything about it?”

“A sticker on the back gives 1921 as the date and the name of a gallery in Amsterdam. It’s signed, but no one can make out the signature.”

It was a beach scene with the ocean in the background and the sand dotted with bathers and some beach chairs made of wicker and hooded for protection against the sun.

Qwilleran said, “I don’t see any sun worshippers, any bikinis, any frisbees or any Jet Skis.”

A small boy with a tin pail and shovel was sitting on the sand, digging, while a woman bent over him with motherly concern. She was wearing a blue dress with short full skirt and puffed sleeves—the focal point of the artwork—also a cloche hat and knee-high stockings.

Janelle said, “I showed it to some elderly women, and they said that was a bathing dress; the cloche was a rubber bathing hat; she was wearing bathing shoes and bathing stockings. That was how she took a dip in the waves. . . . But you haven’t heard the best part! I was living at home, and my mother let me hang my treasure in the living room. One day my grandfather visited us. He was born in the Netherlands, and he said, ‘I know that beach! I was there when the picture was painted! . . . That’s me digging in the sand! The woman in blue was my mother!’ Qwill, it gave me shivers! The woman in blue was my great-grandmother! Is that why the painting had such a powerful attraction for me in the gallery?”

“Hmmm,” he mused, tamping his moustache. “Amazing coincidence!” He lived with Koko; he knew all about amazing coincidence.

“Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” came a poorly timed comment from the main hall.

“Same to you!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Janelle, thanks for a thought-provoking story. It’ll run in my Friday space, and readers can come in to see the painting on Saturday.”

Another voice came from the main hall, “Ms. Van! Ms. Van! They spelled my name wrong on my booth!”

Janelle shrugged. Qwilleran saluted and left.

On the way home he stopped at the inn for mail and found two postcards from Polly. The first had a view of an early maritime village—and bad news:

Dear Qwill—Lost one of my good gold earrings! Looked everywhere! Retraced my steps! Can’t imagine how it happened. Sprained ankle—nothing serious!

Love from Polly

Qwilleran could imagine; she had been drinking navy grog; rum was not her drink. . . . The second card, mailed the next day, came from Sturbridge Village, showing a white colonial house with a horse and carriage at the door.

Dear Qwill—Delightful place! I could spend a week here! So peaceful! Picturesque farmhouses, meadows, split-rail fences. Walter found my earring!

Love from Polly

Qwilleran wondered why she had not mentioned where Walter found the earring. But he had other matters on his mind, such as what to write for the “Qwill Pen” column the next day. He thought he could write a thousand words on “Whiskers in the White House” . . . who, when and why . . . to shave or not to shave . . . the connection between war and facial hair . . . political influences . . .

He carried his typewriter to the porch and had inserted a sheet of paper when Yum Yum leaped up and landed like a feather, purring throatily. She was in one of her amorous moods, having followed him around and rubbed his ankles ever since he returned. Now she was going to monitor his typing, listening to the click of the keys, watching the carriage travel slowly across and then jerk back.

Half in kindliness and half in self-defense, he picked her up and walked back and forth, massaging her ears, nuzzling the back of her neck with his chin, whispering sweet words that he would not wish to have quoted. With a sudden grunt she jumped to the floor, walked to the kitchen for a drink of water, then settled down for a nap on the blue cushion. “Cats!” Qwilleran muttered as he returned to his typing. The click of keys resounded across the water, and a passing canoeist yelled a greeting. It was Doyle, going up the creek to disappear in a swamp, or be bitten by a rabid fox, or get clobbered by a bear, or suffer some other fate that his wife feared.

Soon after, Wendy herself came along the footpath, carrying books. She was not walking joyously as usual, but trudging.

He went out to meet her, and she held up two slim volumes. “I found some Trollope for you, Qwill. In the library at the inn. They said it was all right to take them.”

“That was very thoughtful of you. Will you come on the porch for a drink of fruit juice?”

“Nothing to drink, thanks, but I’d like to talk to you.” Her eyes had lost their sparkle. “I just came to apologize for the way Doyle and I argued at dinner last night.”

“Think nothing of it, Wendy. We all get hot under the collar once in a while.”

“What do you think about the danger in the woods?”

He had heard about poisonous snakes in the bogs and deer-ticks dropping off the trees, but—“You mentioned a friend who’s a forest ranger. Is she one of Dr. Abernethy’s daughters, by any chance?”

“Yes, I knew her in college, and it was her raving about Moose County that brought us up here—the natural beauty, the perfect summer weather, the slow pace—”

“But nothing about danger in the woods?”

“It wasn’t an issue. I didn’t know Doyle would be so determined to photograph bear cubs. . . . The trouble is, Qwill, I’m a worrier! I worry about my husband’s safety! You can’t tell a worrier to—just—stop—worrying. . . . We’ve been married only two years. We have plans for a family and a wonderful future! And to complicate matters, I’m supposed to avoid stress. I practice the rules of health and tranquillity, but then . . . something like this comes along, and I worry!”

Qwilleran was nodding and looking sympathetic and wondering what he could say.

“Well, if only you could say something to him! He’d listen to you! He has a lot of respect for you. And you live here . . .”

He was thinking fast; the obvious solution to a problem is not always the best. “I understand your distress, Wendy, and you have my utmost sympathy. I want to help, but there’s a wrong approach and a right approach. I need to think about it . . . and I will think about it . . .”

“I’d be so grateful!” She stood up. “You’re working. I’ll go home.”

He walked with her to the water’s edge. “I’ll be in touch. Thank you for the books.”

The titles were He Knew He Was Right and The Eustace Diamonds. Two of his favorites.

First he made some coffee and then lounged on a porch chair with his feet up. Koko hopped onto the foot of the lounge and sat tall in a businesslike way, his blue eyes brimming with helpfulness, as if he sensed a problem was being solved. The trick, Qwilleran decided, is to involve Doyle in something more interesting than Wendy’s Valley of Death. If nothing else, it would provide more time to study the problem. It could be something to flatter the photographer’s ego, or fulfill his primal urge to take pictures, or the fun of taking an assignment for the picture page of a small-town newspaper.

Qwilleran made three phone calls: to the managing editor, who had gone to the dentist; to the attorney, who was in conference with a client; to Bushland, who was out on assignment. He left urgent messages with all three.

Barter was the first to respond, and he listened to the proposition with keen interest.

“Did you see the opening of Bushy’s exhibit yesterday? Big crowd! And I happen to know there was an editor from a prominent publisher of art books there! We’ve been talking about having the K Fund publish his landscapes, and we’d better act quickly before he signs with another publisher . . . Also, we have a noted photographer of wildlife vacationing here and doing some extensive shooting. We should grab him, and do a large-format hardcover art book titled The Beauty of Moose County as photographed by Bushland and Underhill.”

“Great idea! I’m all for it.”

“My point is that we should get them under contract fast, before this other publisher swoops in.”

“How fast?”

“Frankly, Bart, I think it would be to our advantage if you could fly the two guys to Chicago and back on the shuttle Wednesday.”

“No reason why we couldn’t. I’ll make the appointment and plane reservations, if you’ll alert the photographers.”

“Be happy to do that. Both of them should have samples of their work to show, by the way.”

Qwilleran had never actually seen any of Doyle’s work; all his exposed film would be taken home to Cleveland for developing. Still, it was good enough for a cover on the Smithsonian—that is, if it happened to be true. Young photographers had been known to boast.

By the time Bushland phoned, the Scheme was working, and it was all legitimate. There was nothing wrong with a little persuasive hyperbole and truth telling before the fact. They were techniques he had used often during his career.

When Bushy finally called, Qwilleran said, “There’s a wildlife photographer here from Down Below, who’s been doing a lot of shooting, and the K Fund wants to publish a large-format, hardcover art book featuring your landscapes and his wildlife, to be titled The Beauty of Moose County. For laughs we might include a full-page, full-color portrait of a thick, toasty, brown pasty.”

“No kidding!” Bushy said. “This is the best thing that’s happened to me since the helicopter rescued you, me and Roger from Three Tree Island!”

“It means moving fast, for various reasons. Our legal rep wants to fly you two guys to Chicago to sign contracts and show samples—on Wednesday. The hitch is that none of the wildlife stuff has been developed. Could he use the darkroom at the art center tomorrow?”

“Sure thing! Tell him to call the manager and say I okayed it.”

There was more. Bushy had met Doyle and his wife at the photo show—nice couple. Doyle had good credentials; no, Bushy couldn’t remember seeing the Smithsonian cover.

After that, Qwilleran returned to the porch to type his treatise on presidential whiskers, suggesting a nationwide poll of voters. Did they want their chief executive officer (a) clean-shaven, (b) with long sideburns, (c) with small neat moustache, (d) or other. Readers considered summer the silly season in the “Qwill Pen” column and gladly encouraged the silliness.

Although Qwilleran kept an eye on the creek for Doyle’s return, there was no sign of the yellow canoe. It would be ironic, he thought, if this were the day that Wendy’s fears were realized. But eventually the sleek craft glided downstream, and soon Doyle was walking back from the boat shed and Koko was announcing him as a trespasser.

Qwilleran went out to meet him. “How was the shoot today?”

“I got some great shots!” the photographer said.

Qwilleran recited his piece: K Fund art book—Bushland and Underhill—day-trip to Chicago to sign contracts—appointment set for Wednesday. “Sorry it’s such short notice,” Qwilleran said.

“No problem.”

“They’ll want to see samples. If you can develop and print tomorrow, the dark room at the art center is available.”

“No problem.”

Later, when Qwilleran dined alone at the inn, he recalled his conversation with Doyle, who had said, “I also caught a skunk in a more-or-less comic situation—and some young foxes. But don’t tell Wendy; she’ll know I went into the woods. I’m afraid she made a scene at dinner last night. She gets upset over little things.”

As Qwilleran chewed his steak reflectively, he compared the two photographers. Bushy, whose talent bordered on genius, was as excited as a little kid over the prospect of signing a contract for an art book. Doyle reacted with a cool “No problem.”

Qwilleran could only hope that the owl and the skunk and the young foxes were as good as the photographer thought.

When he returned to the creek, he had half a sourdough roll in his pocket for the ducks. He was pinching off morsels for the hungry flock when a pleasant voice called to him from the porch of Cabin One. Hannah was inviting him to have a glass of iced tea. Although already coffee-logged, he accepted.

“I can’t tell you what a wonderful time I had last night, Qwill! You’re such a gracious host.” There was a half-finished jigsaw puzzle on the table, and she swept it into a box, explaining, “Danny was here this afternoon. I must tell you, Qwill . . . This morning I went next door and told Marge that I was lonesome for my grandson and I wished Danny could visit me for story-telling and games for a little while each day. She hesitated and then said yes. So this afternoon he came over, and we had a wonderful time. I taught him to sing ‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout; / Here’s my handle and here’s my spout.’ And I saw that boy laugh for the first time. Then I taught him how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ He’s had no upbringing and certainly not much family life. And he has only one tired white T-shirt. I gave him one that my grandson left here—blue, with a pocket, and he’s so thrilled with that pocket! He’s never had a shirt with a pocket.”

“Excuse me for changing the subject, Hannah, but what’s that on your ring finger?”

She blushed and said, “You didn’t meet Uncle Louie, our choral director, did you? We’ve been getting kind of interested in each other—he’s a widower—and today he took me to lunch and gave me this!”

“Well! Best wishes to you both.”

“And he told me to ask you something. He wants to compose a comic opera—sort of a parody of Gilbert and Sullivan—and he wonders if you’d write the libretto.”

Qwilleran stood up to leave. “Only if Koko can play the lead.”

Walking home along the creek and approaching Cabin Three, he noticed that the Underhill car was not there. That meant, probably, that Doyle had taken Wendy out to celebrate. Wrong! She came flying off the screened porch.

“Oh, Qwill! Thank you so much for what you’ve done! Doyle went to the art center to get a head start on the developing. There’s so much to do.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “The art book is only a good idea whose time has come.”