The Cat Who Went Up the Creek

chapter fourteen

Qwilleran slept uneasily Wednesday night, burdened with knowledge he could not share. While others hoped and prayed for Doyle’s rescue, he knew that the photographer was dead. And he knew—or thought he knew—that it was no accident. Many times he had heard Koko’s blood curdling cry of distress, and it always meant murder. Yet how could the cat know? Qwilleran found himself stroking his moustache repeatedly and telling himself: It’s only a hunch.

The Siamese had apparently slept well. They were up and about early, making subtle reminders that a new day had dawned. They pounced on his middle; Koko yelled fortissimo in his ear; Yum Yum found it amusing to bite his nose, ever so gently.

The seven o’clock newscast offered no further details about the search for a missing person. He walked up to the inn, hoping that Nick’s connections at the courthouse would net some inside information. As for the day’s mail, it had not yet been picked up at the post office. Qwilleran was in no hurry to see his postcard; Polly’s rambles with Walter were suddenly less troubling than the fate of the photographer. He had a quick breakfast and returned to the creek without waiting for the mail. He was in time to meet a motorcycle messenger delivering a package from John Bushland. The accompanying note read:

Qwill—I stayed in the lab until I got all the rest of Doyle’s stuff printed. Here’s everything. Better you should have it. You’ll know what to do with it. God! I hope they find that guy! I was going to take him and Wendy out on my boat this weekend. About these prints—some are very good (I like the one with the two squirrels) and some are not so good, but that’s to be expected. Also some nice portraits of Wendy and some snapshots taken at a picnic, with you eating a hot dog. I called Barter. He’s canceling.

Bushy

The eight-by-ten prints filled three flat yellow boxes. Qwilleran took them out to the porch. Now he would discover if it had really been a good idea to include Doyle in The Beauty of Moose County.

The first print in the first box was the two squirrels, photographed in profile, sitting on a tree stump face-to-face, like two elder statesmen in conference, their bushy tales arched in perfect symmetry. What were they discussing? The nut situation?

They were in the foreground, with the forest as a backdrop. Doyle had obviously used a telephoto lens.

A rumble in Koko’s throat interrupted these ruminations. It was a feline alarm system that announced anyone approaching the premises, friend or foe. (Qwilleran regarded Koko as a battery-operated electronic detection device disguised as a Siamese—very few on the market—used extensively by the military—might eventually replace dogs.)

In this case, the suspected individual was Hannah Hawley, walking more briskly than usual.

Qwilleran went out to meet her, first replacing the covers on the yellow boxes; he knew Koko’s fondness for glossy photo-prints. “Sorry, old boy,” he said. “These are for viewing, not tasting.”

“Any news?” were her first words.

“Nothing.”

“Wendy’s mom arrives at the airport at five P.M., and I made a reservation for her at the Friendship Inn.” It was a motel on the Pickax medical campus catering to the families of patients.

“Come onto the porch and have a glass of bottled water.”

As soon as Hannah sat down, Yum Yum was in her lap, turning around three times before settling down. Koko jumped to the table and sat guarding the yellow boxes.

“The reason I’m here,” she said as soon as the glasses of water were served, “is to tell you the latest from Cabin Two. Marge came over this morning—she never does that!—and asked if I could spare any milk for Danny. Joe was supposed to take her shopping last night, but something else came up. She seemed hungover—or doped by the medication she claims to be taking. . . . Qwill, when someone sings a flat note, it makes my flesh crawl, and Joe makes my flesh crawl.” She hummed a melody from Gilbert & Sullivan that he recognized: Things are seldom what they seem. / Skim milk masquerades as cream.

“You think Joe’s a phony?” He patted his moustache as Hannah’s flat-note theory began to sound like his own hunch.

“Well, I talked to my relatives in the commercial fishing fleet, and they said the chartered trollers don’t go out this time of year—except maybe weekends—”

“Food for thought,” Qwilleran murmured.

“Well, you’re probably busy . . . and I have a meat loaf in the oven.”

“Yow!” said Koko.

“He knows the words ‘meat loaf.’ I’ll send him a slice.”

“Is there anything I can do for Wendy? Would flowers be in order?”

“Best thing you can do is hope and pray that Doyle is safe. When her mother comes, I’ll feel much relieved.”

“Should I pick her up at the airport and deliver her to the Friendship Inn?”

“That would be very kind of you, Qwill.”

“What’s her name?”

“Wendy’s maiden name was Satterlee.”

Hannah went home to her meat loaf, and Qwilleran thought, If Joe didn’t go fishing every day, as he claimed, what exactly was he doing? Prospecting for gold illegally? Was Hackett his partner—or competitor? Did Joe conk him on the head, throw him in the creek, and steal his car? The trunk was probably filled with gold rocks. But who drove it away? A third person must have driven it out of the state and switched the license plates.

It was time to stop inventing a scenario and dress for the MCCC luncheon. He would wear the gray polo shirt and slacks combination that accentuated his pepper-and-salt moustache—along with his summer jacket in the Mackintosh tartan. It always drew admiring glances, and although he exhibited nonchalance, he was not averse to admiring glances. Polly had said he should wear more gray, because it made his eyes look gray. . . . This bit of trivia he always remembered when dressing. (Vanity! Vanity!) Nevertheless, when he arrived at the inn, both Cathy and Lori told him he looked wonderful. The postcard he picked up was “Independence Hall” again. The message read:

Dear Qwill—All this and Greenfield Village, too! Acres and acres of history! Home soon. Wish you could meet Walter. You’d like him.

Love, Polly

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Walter was beginning to sound like a member of the family.

The foyer was filled with men and women heading for the private dining room—exchanging loud greetings, hearty handshakes, even hugs! It was surprising that the prospect of lunch at the Nutcracker could inspire such a festive mood. Especially since they would be getting only chicken potpie. Qwilleran waited until they were all seated around the long tables perpendicular to the speaker’s table. Nell met him with effusive greetings. “You look wonderful, Qwill—but you always do!” She escorted him to the head table, where he was seated between a buxom woman with dyed red hair and an elderly man with a goatee and one gold earring. Their names were not familiar, although they knew his. As a columnist he was accustomed to this one-sided acquaintance.

Still, their friendliness, flamboyant modes of dress, and occasional shrieks of laughter seemed to him somewhat . . . unscholarly.

Then Nell tapped a water glass with a spoon and called the meeting to order. “Welcome to the annual tri-county luncheon of the Moustache Cup Collectors Club!”

Qwilleran gulped. How could he have made such a miscalculation? While keeping up a conversation with the red hair and the goatee, he tried to rework his limerick.

Nell was saying, “We are privileged to have as our speaker the leading authority on the collectibles so near and dear to our hearts.” (Applause.) “And our distinguished guest-of-honor is the newspaper columnist whose wit and wisdom brighten our lives every Tuesday and Friday.” (More applause—a trifle louder and more enthusiastic, Qwilleran noted with misgiving.) “How much time did he have to compose a moustache cup limerick? Moustache, dash, panache.

Nell was saying, “But first, let us relax and enjoy the delicious lunch that the chef has prepared especially for us!” (Applause again. Did they know it would be only chicken potpie?)

Hoping to pick up inspiration for his limerick, Qwilleran did what journalists do: He asked questions and listened to answers.

Moustaches, he learned, always increased in popularity following a war. The first moustache cup was introduced in England in the 1800s. Men waxed their moustaches and, when drinking hot tea, found the wax melting and running down the chin, or dripping into the beverage. The moustache cup—with a hole through which to sip—should not be confused with the shaving mug, which has three holes.

The man to Qwilleran’s left claimed to have about fifty moustache cups; he had lost count. The woman to his right had just acquired a lustreware cup with hand-painted yellow roses. Nell said she specialized in cups with inscriptions, such as “Dear Papa, I love you best.”

They talked about potter’s marks, fakes, and such rare items as a three-legged kettle-shaped cup, and a left-handed sterling silver spoon for sipping soup.

After the chicken potpie and broccoli salad and before the dessert, the closed doors to the room opened slowly, and Nick Bamba slipped into the room. He found Qwilleran and whispered in his ear before making a quick exit.

“No!” Qwilleran responded more loudly than he intended.

He went to where Nell was sitting, whispered in her ear, then hurried from the room.

Nick was waiting in the hallway. “It was on the air: Body of missing person found in Black Forest—name withheld—cause of death not yet known—”

“That means they know but they’re not telling. How did you find out he was shot?”

“Called my contact in the sheriff’s office. He didn’t know if wolves reached the body before the search party did.”

“I don’t want to know. . . . Was his camera gone?”

“That wasn’t mentioned. Was it an expensive one?”

“More likely the exposed film would be more important to the shooter. Sounds to me like another gold prospector, afraid of having his illegal operation photographed. This is a tragic situation for Wendy. What can be done?”

“We thought her doctor should be given the facts, so she can act in the best interests of her patient. Lori called Dr. Diane.”

“You did right, Nick. I’m picking up Wendy’s mother at the airport, and I’ll tell her only what the police have released to the media.”

“Sorry I interrupted your party, Qwill.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you did.”

Qwilleran took the short cut to Cabin Five, via the back road, and made a strong cup of coffee. The cats sensed his preoccupation and were quiet—but not for long. Koko started jumping on and off the furniture, all the while talking to himself. Someone was coming!

It was Trent, the porter from the inn, delivering a large silver-wrapped cube topped with a huge silver bow. He said, “They were going to give you this at the luncheon, but you left early.”

“Is someone giving me a bowling ball?”

“Or a mummified head,” said Trent with a grin.

It was, as he had feared, a moustache cup and saucer—but not the lustreware with hand-painted yellow roses. The set was earthenware, with a decent-sized mug and a good handle for gripping. What made it rare, he later learned, was the advertising on both mug and saucer, promoting men’s coats, trousers and vests made to order with perfect fit guaranteed. A sketch showing a frock-coated tailor and a top-hatted customer suggested that the set was early twentieth century.

A note from Nell said, “We were horrified to hear about your friend. We can understand your sudden departure. But I said some nice things about you, and all the members send their condolences. Here is a token of our esteem.”

He was scribbling a thank-you note when he was distracted by the sound of a car with a faulty fan belt. He recognized it as Hannah’s vehicle, and he was not surprised when she phoned him, saying breathlessly, “Have you heard the news, Qwill?”

“What news?” he asked.

She repeated the WPKX bulletin, adding, “It pains me to think how Wendy will react. Thank God her mom is on the way here.” Then, in a confidential tone, she said, “You know, Wendy’s parents didn’t want her to marry Doyle. They thought he was too self-centered.”

“What can one say? It happens in the best of families.”

“I called the hospital, and the nurse said Wendy is in stable condition. . . . Well, I guess that’s all I have to say.”

“That’s not all I have to say, Hannah. You’d better have your fan belt checked. Your motor doesn’t sound good.”

Koko was jumping on and off the table where the yellow boxes were stacked. He knew what they contained, and he liked nothing better than to lick the emulsion on the surface of a glossy photograph.

Qwilleran himself had no heart for looking at Doyle’s prints. Eventually he and Bushy would choose the best and proceed with the art book. Koko was sniffing the yellow boxes; he could detect a photograph the way a squirrel could detect a nut buried six inches underground. Qwilleran spent a restless hour or two until it was time to leave for the airport.

The shuttle flight that brought passengers from the large airports to Moose County was called “The Wright Brothers Special” by local wags. Its unofficial slogan was Better Than Nothing.

Qwilleran was there when the plane fell out of the sky and bounced up to the terminal. Men and women carrying briefcases or shopping bags virtually tumbled down the gangway in their eagerness to be on the ground again. Last to appear was a woman wearing a business suit and a tailored hat and carrying a small piece of smart luggage. She looked more like the chairman of the board, composed and very much in charge and not at all like someone’s mom.

“Mrs. Satterlee? I’m Jim Qwilleran,” he said. “I’m to drive you to the hospital.”

“How is Wendy?” she asked quickly.

“In stable condition and having very good care. May I take your luggage? My car is over there.”

There was no small talk about the weather or the eccentricities of the shuttle service, but when he turned the key in the ignition of the van, she said, “Now! What do you know about the circumstances preceding Wendy’s attack? She had been phoning me twice a week but may not have been telling me everything. She said they were having a wonderful time.”

“So it appeared, but at a dinner party one night—after too much wine, perhaps—she and Doyle had a family spat. She didn’t want him to go into the woods to photograph wildlife, saying there were bears, poisonous snakes and rabid foxes. The next day, after he had gone upstream in his canoe, Wendy came to my cabin and apologized for the outburst; she said she was worried sick.”

“She’s a worrier, no doubt about it,” said her mother, “but she’s supposed to avoid stress because of a congenital heart condition. Doyle is aware of the situation and should not upset her unnecessarily. I gathered, however, that they were leaving Black Creek early and going to another resort for a few days.”

“That was the plan,” Qwilleran said, “but yesterday he went canoeing for one last time and didn’t return. We filed a Missing Persons report, and the sheriff launched an all-out search. Wendy was rushed to the hospital.”

“Our cardiologist wants her brought home to Cleveland as soon as she can travel, even if it means chartering a plane.”

“That’s something for you to discuss with her doctor, Diane Lanspeak. You’ll be staying at an inn on the grounds of the hospital.”

Then Mrs. Satterlee asked the question that was painful to answer. “Have they found Doyle?”

He hesitated before saying, “They’ve found the body.”

“How terrible—for Wendy! And in her condition!” There was a long pause. “What happened to him?”

Qwilleran hesitated again. “No further details have been released by the sheriff’s department.”

After that there was not much conversation. He pointed out the hospital—an impressive facility for a small community—and delivered his passenger to the Friendship Inn with its flower garden and benches for meditation. “Here’s my phone number,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything I can do.”

Later that evening—when he sat on the porch contemplating the peaceful scene—he asked himself questions.

At what time did Wendy express alarm about the gunfire? (He had attributed it to the ever-present rabbit hunters.)

At what time did Koko chill the scene with his death-howl? (Shortly before they all went up the creek in search of Doyle’s canoe.)

There had been another minor incident: Koko looking out the south window of the bunk room—and growling at a noisy vehicle. In an effort at humor, that was lost on the growler, Qwilleran had said to him, “That’s only a bad muffler. You should check your own muffler.”

At what time did that incident occur? That was Joe’s truck—coming home early and then going out again.