The Cat Who Went Up the Creek

chapter fifteen

G. Allen Barter phoned Cabin Five early Friday morning—too early.

“Yes?” Qwilleran replied sleepily.

“Qwill! The WPKX newscast says the body of the missing person has been found in the Black Forest.”

“Right.”

“But according to the grapevine, it’s a homicide case.”

“Right. But don’t spread it around. The police have their reasons for doing what they do.”

“Do you realize,” said the attorney, “that two guests of an inn owned by the K Fund have been murdered in a conservancy owned by the K Fund? And in less than two weeks! What’s going on?”

“I have a fairly good idea: Same ‘perp’ . . . two different motives.”

“Any idea who the perpetrator is?”

Qwilleran patted his moustache smugly. “I have a hunch, but right now I’m concerned about the survivors. Wendy Underhill is hospitalized with a heart condition and can’t be told about her husband’s fate. Her mother, who flew up here from Cleveland yesterday, knows that his body was found but not that he was murdered. Doyle’s father is on his way here. They face problems and difficult decisions—in a strange environment. Let’s help these people. Put your good Samaritans on the case!” That was Qwilleran’s flip cognomen for Barter’s assistants who specialized in social services and investigation.

“I agree,” said Barter. “Who are the principals and where can they be found?”

“Wendy is in Pickax General, and her doctor is Diane Lanspeak. Her mother is Mrs. Satterlee, staying at the Friendship Inn—a strong, sensible businesswoman. Doyle’s father should be met at the airport at five o’clock and taken to the Friendship Inn; I don’t know anything about him, but Mrs. Satterlee could fill you in.”

Barter asked, “What’s your feeling about the art book?”

“I think we should go ahead with it as a kind of memorial to a dedicated photographer.” If he had been less dedicated, Qwilleran thought, he’d be alive today!

Pickax was only a twenty-minute drive from Black Creek, but psychologically it was a day’s journey. Instead of faxing his Friday column, he took his copy to the office of the Moose County Something and threw it on Junior Goodwinter’s desk.

“Back from vacation, Qwill?” asked the managing editor.

“What vacation? I haven’t had a relaxing moment in the last two weeks.”

“How would you like to cover the reenactment tomorrow night?”

“Assign Roger,” Qwilleran said. “He lives on the shore and could use the overtime. And he knows the lumberjack lingo. You should go yourself; it would be educational. Do you know what it means to get your teeth fixed?”

“No. What?”

“Go and see!”

From there he went to Lois’s Luncheonette to treat himself to breakfast. She served superlative eggs-over-lightly with American fries! Lois Inchpot was a buxom, bossy, hard-working woman, whose lunchroom had been a shabby downtown landmark for years and years. Her customers regularly took up a collection when new equipment was needed for the kitchen. And when the dingy walls needed repainting, they volunteered their time and came in on the weekend. To be one of Lois’s “family” was a mark of distinction, and although Qwilleran never soiled his hands, he bought the paint.

When Lois saw him through the kitchen pass-through she yelled, “Where’ve you been? Lost your taste for apple pie?”

“I’ve been out of town, but I thought about your apple pie constantly!”

“For that you get a free cup of coffee. Help yourself.”

It was a sociable place. There was loud conversation between tables and—in lowered voices—the best gossip in town. When the other customers saw their favorite newsman, they shouted:

“How does it feel to be back in civilization after livin’ with all them squirrels?”

“Do any fishin’ in the creek, Mr. Q?”

“Did they find the guy that got lost in the woods?”

Qwilleran looked at his watch. “Let’s tune in the news and find out.”

The WPKX announcer said:

“The motorist arrested by Pickax police officers yesterday afternoon will be arraigned today on charges of driving while impaired, failing to stop for a school bus, and causing damage to city property. The students, being bussed home from Pickax middle school, were wearing seat belts, and there were no personal injuries. Both vehicles sustained damage when the white station wagon sideswiped the bus.”

At a table near Qwilleran a man wearing mechanic’s coveralls said, “That was my next-door neighbor. His wife’s fit to be tied! It was a brand new station wagon—not a week old yet.”

“Shut up! We wanna hear the news!” someone yelled.

The announcer was saying, “. . . who jumped or fell from the Old Stone Bridge was pulled from the Black Creek early this morning by the sheriff’s rescue squad. They responded to a 911 call by a fisherman on the bridge who heard the splash and reported it on his cell phone. The unidentified body was that of a young woman—”

“Heard the splash!” yelled the mechanic. “Why didn’t he jump in and save her?”

“Shut up!”

From the loud speaker came the evasive newsbite: “. . . whose body was found yesterday in the Black Forest. No further information has been released by the sheriff’s department.”

“Somethin’ fishy about that,” the mechanic said. “Somethin’ they’re not tellin’!”

At the florist shop he asked a question of the friendly assistant whose name he could never remember; she had long blond hair—and blue eyes filled with perpetual wonder. Cindy? Mindy? Candy? “Are you going to be able to fill my order?”

“They went out on the truck first thing, Mr. Q. We had them shipped from Chicago. They’re beautiful!”

At the converted apple barn that was the official dwelling of the Siamese and himself, he packed his kilt, shoulder plaid, brogues and all the other paraphernalia for Scottish Night. It occurred to him that the vast building had a peculiar hush when there was no cat flesh in residence.

Then it was back to the Nutcracker Inn to pick up Polly’s postcard. On a sideboard in the foyer stood a large silver ice bucket filled with daffodils—a half-bushel of them, he estimated. Guests were viewing them with awe.

“Magnificent massing! . . . Thrilling yellows! . . . Such happy flower faces!” they gushed. “Who is Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran?”

A small tasteful card dedicated the floral display to her memory. Qwilleran scuttled into the office, hoping not to be recognized.

Both Bambas were in the office—one at the computer and one at the coffee urn.

Lori said, “They’re gorgeous, Qwill! Do you approve of the silver ice bucket?”

Nick said, “You went all-out, brother! What’s the occasion? Have a cuppa?”

Qwilleran accepted a mug of coffee—and a chair—and explained, “This is my mother’s birthday. She’s been gone more than thirty years, but I still remember how she recited her birthday poem every year: ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud / That floats on high o’er vales and hills, / When all at once I saw a crowd, / A host, of golden daffodils’!”

“What a lovely idea!” Lori exclaimed. “I’m going to find a birthday poem! Maybe by Emily Dickinson. Do you have one, Qwill?”

“No, but if I did, it would be Kipling: If I can keep my head while all about me are losing theirs.”

Nick said, “Mine would be: Over the hill to the poorhouse.”

“Isn’t he terrible!” Lori said, gazing fondly at her husband.

Qwilleran took his postcard and left, sneaking a look at the picture. They were still at the Henry Ford Museum & Greenfield Village. “They” instead of “she.”

The message read:

Dear Qwill—Walter and I are having our farewell dinner Friday night. I’ll arrive Saturday on the 5

P

.

M

. shuttle if the repair crew doesn’t run out of scotch tape.

Love, Polly

The humor was somewhat giddy—for the Polly he knew. Had Walter introduced her to Fish House punch? It was an early American favorite. George Washington drank it. He huffed into his moustache.

The Siamese were glad to see him—and why not? They had not been served their noon repast of crunchies.

“We’re checking out tomorrow,” he told them as they crunched.

Within minutes Hannah Hawley phoned, as if she had been watching for his van to pull into the lot. She spoke in a hushed and hurried voice. “Qwill! Strange development! Could I come over for a minute?”

“Of course! Take two!”

She had hung up before his quip reached her, and she came along the footpath at a trot. “I left Danny sleeping, and I don’t want him to wake up and find himself alone.” She declined a glass of fruit juice.

Into Qwilleran’s mind flashed the newscast . . . a splash in the creek . . . the unidentified body . . . a young woman. He said, “Calm down, Hannah. Take a deep breath. Start from the beginning.”

“Well . . . about eight o’clock this morning I was just waking up, and did the first thing I always do—I unlock the front door and step out on the screened porch for a few deep breaths. Imagine my surprise when I saw Danny sitting out there, looking at a picture book! I remarked that he was up bright and early, and asked if his mom knew he was here. He said, ‘She’s gone away. She told me to go and see Auntie Hannah if she ever went away. I haven’t had any breakfast.’ He was wearing the blue T-shirt I’d given him, and he showed me something in the pocket.”

She seemed unable to go on, and Qwilleran said, “You’d better have a glass of fruit juice.” He waited until she had taken a few sips before asking her, “What was in the pocket?”

“Some money—and a note. I brought it to show you.”

She handed over a scribbled message on a square of greasy paper that might have come from a box of cookies.

Take care of Danny.

Tell him his mom is sick—

We have no place to go—

I hate my life—

Joe is a bad bad man—

Danny will be better off without me—

Marge

“That poor woman!” Hannah said, clutching her throat to control her emotions. “Homeless! Addicted to alcohol—maybe drugs. Then I heard the newscast, and I knew it was Marge. ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ . . . Do you know who said that?”

“I’m afraid not.” With a shudder he recalled how close he had come to the same condition . . . once upon a time, eons ago.

Now Hannah had given way to sobs, and he brought her a box of tissues.

“I wanted to help her,” Hannah said, “but she kept to herself always. I think she was afraid of Joe.”

Qwilleran wondered, did Marge know he was a gold-digger and not a deep-sea fisherman? Did she know he’d murdered twice to protect his turf?

Sniffing and dabbing her eyes, she said, “I’d love to adopt Danny! My grandson in Florida is his age. The Scottens and Hawleys have a good family life. I was trained as a teacher. But . . . he’s a ‘John Doe.’ We don’t know his name, or where he’s from. If the county gets hold of him, he’ll spend his life with different foster families. I don’t know anything about the law, but I’ve seen it happen to other orphans—”

Qwilleran interrupted her torrent of thoughts. “Hannah, the K Fund can handle this. They have a battery of investigators and advisers who’ll work this out in Danny’s best interests.”

“Is that a fact?” she asked. “The county—”

“Forget the county. They’re always glad to work with the K Fund. Put on a cheerful face and go home to Danny, and I’ll make a phone call and start the wheels turning.”

She hesitated. “Maybe I should tell you what I did. As soon as Danny fell asleep, I went next door to collect his clothes and things. There was hardly anything to collect. He doesn’t even have a toothbrush or sleeping pajamas! . . . And listen to this, Qwill! There wasn’t a single sign that Joe had ever been there!”

Except fingerprints, Qwilleran thought.

After Hannah had gone back to Cabin One, and after the Good Samaritans had been alerted, Qwilleran phoned Nick. He said, “Tell your friends at the sheriff’s office to get out the yellow tape. One of your cabins down here at the creek should be searched. I suggest you come down here for a conference.”

While waiting for the manager, he made a quick scan of Doyle’s photos—the ones in the box that Bushy had marked “miscellaneous.” They were typical vacation mementos. The Shipwreck Tavern in Mooseville, commercial fishing wharves, the Hotel Booze in Brrr, flower gardens at the state prison, the historic Nutcracker Inn, Wendy feeding squirrels, the picturesque Old Stone Bridge, and picnickers eating hot dogs. That was the one he had been looking for.

“It’s always at the bottom of the pile,” he told Koko, who was watching the process with a superior air. “So why didn’t you tell me to start at the bottom?”

When Nick arrived, Qwilleran offered him a beer, told him to sit on the porch, and gave him an eight-by-ten photo of a picnic group. “Recognize any of these, Nick?”

“Well, the one with a moustache works for the newspaper . . . and I know Mrs. Hawley . . . and I think the one in a baseball cap is Joe Thompson.”

Qwilleran said, “He may have registered under that name, but I suspect it’s an alias . . . and I suspect he’s gone fugitive after killing Doyle Underhill. The police said that Doyle was shot about four o’clock on Wednesday. Shortly after that Joe’s truck drove in, stayed a short time, and drove off—abandoning the woman and child who shared the cabin. . . . Incidentally, did you hear the newscast about a suicide in Black Creek?”

“I heard something—”

“I think the unidentified body will match the scrawny woman in the picnic photo. She left a suicide note in the pocket of her son’s T-shirt, calling Joe a bad bad man.”

Nick, father of three, said, “Where’s the kid?”

“Mrs. Hawley is looking after him and would like to adopt him.”

Nick stood up to leave. “I think Lori was right, Qwill. The Nutcracker is jinxed!”

Now Qwilleran had to shift gears—from the somber reality of the creekside situation to the festive celebration of Scottish Night. His training in theater had taught him how to “make an adjustment,” and a long ride on his Silverlight helped. The steady rhythm of pedaling, the therapy of deep breathing, and the serenity of secondary roads—all combined to put him in a propitious mood.

The Siamese—who had panicked the first time they saw him in kilt and knee socks—were two cool cats when he confronted them in full regalia. He promised to bring them a taste of haggis.

Traffic was heavy in downtown Black Creek, and MCCC students provided valet parking so that guests in Highland dress could enter the building in style.

They were greeted at the door by Ernie Kemple and his partner, Anne Munroe. The red, blue, gold and green of clan tartans moved among the twenty booths of antiques and collectibles. A bagpiper was piping, and a young woman danced the Highland fling with seeming weightlessness. Guests drank punch and Scotch and nibbled bridies and haggis.

Janelle Van Roop presided over the museum exhibit of Elsa’s black walnut furniture and handed out copies of Qwilleran’s tale of the three cracked mirrors. The painting of her great-grandmother, described in the “Qwill Pen,” could be seen in the locked case.

All the prominent Scots were there: MacWhannell, Abernethy, Ogilvie, Campbell, MacMurchie and more. “Where’s Polly Duncan?” was the question that Qwilleran heard on every side.

He was talking with Ernie Kemple when a clock in one of the booths announced the hour.

“Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”

“Excuse me,” Qwilleran said, “I’m being paged.”

He tracked it down to a booth specializing in clocks. It was exactly like the one stolen from the Limburger mansion—or so he thought. It was a masterpiece of carving: a rustic hut nestled in a bower of leaves, with a swinging pendulum and three long weights ending in pinecones. He wanted to demand, “Where did you get it?” Instead, he asked, “Do you know its provenance?”

The dealer said:

“Hand-carved in Germany’s Black Forest probably early twentieth century—linden wood—mechanically operated by weights in the old style—eight-day movement. Cuckoo pops out on the hour, but there’s a way to shut him off at night. Some people like to hear it at night; they say it doesn’t disturb—only reassures.”

Qwilleran thought, It would drive me crazy, and the cats would climb up the wall and kill it. It was not for himself, however. He inquired casually, “What are you asking for it?”

“Three hundred, but if I thought it would have a good home, I’d let it go for two-seventy-five.”

“Oh,” Qwilleran said and started to walk away.

“Two-fifty, sir!”

“Hmmm . . . It’s for a gift. Do you have a box? Nothing fancy.”

“I can find one out back; just give me ten minutes. . . . Will it be check or credit card, sir?”

Qwilleran walked among the crowd, chatting with friends.

Nell Abernethy said, “Don’t tell anyone, but the secret of my black walnut pie is maple syrup and a dash of vinegar to cut the sweetness.”

Ernie Kemple lowered his booming voice and confided, “My ex-wife is asking for a reconciliation. . . . No way!”

Burgess Campbell, blind from birth, was there with Alexander, his guide dog. “I come for the fellowship and because Alexander is hooked on haggis. Have you bought anything Qwill?”

“Yes, I picked up a couple of scamadiddles at a reasonable price.” It was a private joke between the two men, and Burgess roared with laughter, causing the dog to nudge him. “Trouble with Alex—he has no sense of humor.”

Qwilleran picked up his clock and drove back to the creek, where he knocked on the back door of Cabin One.

“Qwill, you look wonderful!” Hannah cried when she saw his Highland attire. “Come in! What are you carrying?”

He said, “I’ve found the cuckoo clock that Gus Limburger promised to your nephew. It was stolen from the mansion, you remember.”

“Aubrey will be so happy! Where did you find it?”

“That’s classified information. . . . How’s Danny?”

“He’s asleep. I bought him a toothbrush and showed him how to brush his teeth and say his prayers. Then I sang ‘Danny Boy,’ changing the words a bit. He’s a good boy. He ate his carrots when I told him to. . . . Won’t you come in, Qwill?”

“Thanks, but I have to go home and feed the cats.”

He could hear Koko’s yowling coming from Cabin Five. That cat recognized the sound of Qwilleran’s motor a block away! The yowling stopped when the brown van stopped at the back door. It had been daylight when Qwilleran left; now the interior was dark. He flicked the wall switch. There—scattered all over the floor—were Doyle’s photos!

“Bad cat!” he shouted, clapping his palms together in a loud reprimand. It sent the guilty Koko flying about the room. Yum Yum, perched on the TV, watched the performance in dismay.

“Out! Out!” Qwilleran opened the door to the screened porch, and the two of them rushed out, willingly, to enjoy the mysteries of the night.

He changed into a jumpsuit and crawled about the floor, collecting prints and loading them into the yellow boxes without bothering to sort the categories. That could be done later. Only one photo did he reserve—another shot of the picnickers eating hot dogs.

He hoped the cat had not drooled on any of them. His saliva and raspy tongue had damaged glossy photos in the past.

In daylight it would be easier to look for rough spots.