The Cat Who Went Up the Creek

chapter sixteen

Moving day! Qwilleran surprised the cats by rising early and feeding them a smorgasbord of leftovers from the refrigerator. He, himself, drove to the inn for one more memorable breakfast and then to Olsen’s to buy gas and check the oil and tires. He also showed Jake Olsen an eight-by-ten photo, asking, “Do you recognize the fellow in a baseball cap?”

“Sure! He comes around to gas up his truck and order take-outs from the lunch counter. Haven’t seen him for a couple of days, though. . . . And hey! He’s the guy who was trying to hire extras for a logging movie. It fell through, but he decided to stay and do some deep-sea fishing.”

“Hope you have a good summer, Jake. I’m moving back to Pickax, but I’ll drop in once in a while to have my air pressure checked—for old times’ sake. And good luck with the reenactment!”

Olsen’s was around the corner from the Antique Village, and Qwilleran stopped there to ask questions: Did they consider Scottish Night a success? Did the dealers sell much? Which was more popular—the fruit punch or the Scotch? How did people react to the exhibit of Elsa’s black walnut furniture? (The answers to the first three were: yes . . . no . . . fifty-fifty).

“But they flipped over Elsa’s furniture,” Janelle said, “and some of the women want to start an Elsa club—not just another gossip circle, but a discussion group about women’s problems, the decisions they have to make, today’s attitudes and so forth.”

Qwilleran said it might make copy for the “Qwill Pen” after it got started.

When he returned to Cabin Five, he found that the Siamese had devised their own farewell: All the built-in drawers on nylon rollers were open—all twenty-three of them! Who could say that animals have no sense of humor?

alt="[image]"/>All three residents of the converted apple barn were glad to be home. The Siamese raced up and down the ramp that connected the three balconies.

Qwilleran, after unpacking, went to Toodle’s Market to buy frozen macaroni and cheese for himself and boned turkey for the cats.

After that he moved them to the screened gazebo while he sorted Doyle’s photos into the original categories. There were only two prints damaged by Koko’s saliva and raspy tongue, but they were important shots. How did the cat know? What was he trying to say? Or was it coincidental?

alt="[image]"/>Qwilleran kept an eye on his watch; he was scheduled to meet Polly at five o’clock. The shuttle was never on time, but waiting for it was half the fun; groundlings bantered in Moose County style:

“I hear the skeeter-meter is up ten points.”

“The stores have run out of insect repellent.”

“The tourists are getting it on the black market.”

“Here she comes!” A small speck had appeared in the sky to the south.

“Can you see if she’s still got both wings?”

A shout went up when the wheels touched down, and the meeters-and-greeters walked out on the tarmac. Polly was the last to come down the gangway, using a cane and descending carefully, her bad ankle hidden by a trouser-leg.

While other travelers were embraced as fortunate survivors, Qwilleran and Polly reserved fond greetings until later; the busybodies were always watching.

“Need a wheelchair?” he asked.

“No thanks, dear. The cane is just to command special attention.”

“You’re a sly one! Did you have your ankle X-rayed?”

“Yes. It’s not serious.”

“Where’s my friend Walter?”

“I sent him back to Ohio,” she said in a matter-of-fact way, leading Qwilleran to wonder, Could she have invented him? . . . No, she’s not devious enough or creative enough to play such a trick. . . . but it would have been a clever one!

When her luggage was stowed in the van and they were on the road to her Indian Village condo, she said, “I’ve missed Brutus and Catta so much! I wonder if they’ve missed me?”

“I know they have,” Qwilleran said. “I could tell by their look of disappointment when I unlocked your door and went in to cheer them up.”

“I can hardly wait to see them! . . . How was your stay at the Nutcracker?”

“Interesting. There were two murders, a suicide and a heart attack—all guests from Down Below, staying in the rustic cabins along the creek.”

Warily, as if suspecting a hoax, she said, “Tell me about it.”

“Well, first there was a male guest purporting to be a sales representative who was actually a gold prospector operating illegally in the Black Forest Conservancy. He was murdered presumably for his forty-thousand-dollar car and a trunkful of gold nuggets. . . . Next, there was an accomplished photographer shooting pictures of wildlife in the creek and in the woods. He was murdered presumably because another gold prospector thought his illegal activity was being photographed. . . . The photographer’s young wife had a heart attack and is hospitalized. . . . Do you follow me?”

“I follow you,” Polly said, “but I can’t believe it!”

“Now, another guest, posing as a sport fisherman but thought to be another gold prospector, is suspected of both murders and has taken off with his truck and all personal belongings, abandoning the woman and child who have been traveling with him for reasons open to speculation. She was a sad case, apparently homeless and addicted, and she jumped off the Old Stone Bridge this morning, leaving a suicide note in the pocket of her son’s T-shirt.”

“Oh, Qwill!” she protested, “this sounds more like fiction than real life!”

“The next chapter is in the typewriter,” he replied.

He avoided mentioning Koko’s uncanny role in the drama. Polly had a practical turn of mind that squelched the idea of a cat with supranormal gifts. The fact that Koko had sixty whiskers and her beloved Brutus had only the usual forty-eight must have rankled in her maternal subconscious. Qwilleran had learned not to brag about his pets.

On arrival at her home Polly rushed indoors, and when Qwilleran carried in her luggage, he found her kneeling on the hearth rug and slavering over her two excited pets.

“I’ll phone you after you’ve settled in,” he said, “and we’ll make plans for tomorrow.”

alt="[image]"/>Qwilleran’s Siamese were not excited to see him, having seen him every day for several years. He fed them, thawed macaroni and cheese for himself, and then finished unpacking. When he carried a carton of writing materials to the studio on the first balcony, Koko followed, purring throatily as if he knew it contained those flat yellow boxes. There were also file folders, books, copy paper and soft lead pencils, but as soon as the yellow boxes were stacked on the desk, Koko moved in to huddle on them cozily—keeping them warm, so to speak.

“Don’t get any ideas!” Qwilleran warned, and the cat squeezed his eyes as he did when planning a nefarious misdemeanor. “How about going out to talk to the crows?” Without waiting for an answer, he transported them to the screened gazebo.

Then he sorted the photos, looking for shots worthy of the art book: the great owl in flight, the two squirrels in conference, busy beavers, smart raccoons, a doe and her fawn drinking from the creek, and more. Only two had been damaged by Koko’s slobbering, and Bushy could make new prints.

One was the skunk shot that Doyle had found comic. Here was a creature of the wild having an afternoon nap on a piece of mechanical equipment. It looked like the seat of a tractor. Perhaps the sun had warmed the metal. Perhaps the elevation gave the animal a feeling of security.

Qwilleran amused himself by composing a cutline for the photo: “If you’re a skunk, you’ll never be satisfied with anything else after you’ve had a nap in the seat of a forklift.”

“Forklift!” he said aloud. “What’s a forklift doing in the Black Forest? He looked at the squirrel photo, and then he knew. He grabbed the phone and called the Brodie residence; they would be watching their regular Saturday-night movie on the VCR.

“Andy! When the flick’s finished, drive over to the barn for a nightcap and a new slant on the Nutcracker case.” No more needed to be said. The Brodies lived only five minutes away.

Quickly Qwilleran brought the cats in from the gazebo . . . set out Scotch and chicken liver paté on the snack bar . . . put the moustache cup on the work bar for Brodie’s amusement.

“What’s that ugly thing?” were the chief’s first words.

“A moustache cup. A hundred years old and very valuable. It was a gift.”

Brodie grunted and sat down, pouring himself a Scotch without delay.

The Siamese immediately came forward to sniff his shoes and rub against his legs.

“They’re giving me the business again,” he said. “What are they up to?”

“It’s your animal magnetism, Andy. . . . What film did you watch tonight?”

“Something called Driving Miss Daisy. It was her choice. Last Saturday night we saw a good one about a submarine. What’s this in the bowl? Peanut butter?”

“It’s chicken liver spread from Toodle’s deli counter. You’ll like it. Spread some on a cracker.”

At that moment there was a shattering crash. The moustache cup had disappeared from the end of the work bar, and the culprits were peering over the edge of the bar and pondering the disaster on the quarry tile floor.

Brodie laughed until he choked. “That cat’s smarter than I thought he was!”

Qwilleran said, “Wait till you see Koko’s choice of the two most interesting photos in Underhill’s collection.”

Brodie looked at the squirrels. “Those are tree stumps in the background! Looks as if a whole grove has been cut down! Where was this taken?”

“In the Black Forest Conservancy, where timbering is illegal. Those stumps represent a million dollars’ worth of black walnut.”

“How do you know?”

“I borrowed a book from Doc Abernethy. . . . Andy, we have tree pirates in the Conservancy!”

“I’ve heard of tree rustlers—”

“Same thing.” Qwilleran looked at Koko and remembered the cat’s fascination with Hannah’s video. A rollicking band of pirates we!

Qwilleran went on. “The suspect, I believe, is an experienced woodsman. He was up here a few weeks ago and talked to Jake Olsen about hiring young huskies for a logging movie. Actually, he was probably mapping the territory and locating the best black walnuts. He would bring his own crew. A furniture-moving van was seen in the vicinity. We can guess that it brought up the chain saws and forklift . . . and the lumberjacks . . . and maybe camouflage tents. Then it hauled ten-foot logs Down Below. To expedite the robbery, they might dump them in a holding warehouse in a nearby county and return for another load. For what it’s worth, the van had a Wisconsin tag and DIAMOND COMPANY logo.”

Qwilleran glanced at Koko and thought about the Trollope novel they had been reading. He said, “Shortly after Underhill was shot, the suspect drove his truck up to Cabin Two and cleared out his gear, and Koko looked out the window and growled. That cat knows when people are up to no good.”

Brodie grunted, then stared at the cat, who responded amiably. In the beginning the chief had scoffed at Koko’s intuitive reactions and discoveries—until a detective Down Below assured him the cat was “psychic.”

Now he poured another Scotch and listened to the rest of the story: how Koko had identified the first victim as a gold prospector . . . how he had known it was the man’s body coming downstream and not just a six-foot log . . . how his howls had succeeded in getting them evicted from 3FF. As if he sensed that all the action was going to be down by the creek.

“Why not?” Brodie asked. “They say cats can predict earthquakes. . . . Is it okay if I give these two photos to the SBI? Off the record, they know who the suspect is. Now it’s a manhunt. I’ll pass along your information—but leave you out of it.”

“Leave both of us out of it.”

Qwilleran walked with his guest to his car.

“Nice night,” Brodie said.

“Yes, I’ll walk around the barn before I go indoors. Three times around is a quarter of a mile, according to the pedometer.”

“Almost forgot, Qwill. My wife wanted to tell you about a thought she had. Everybody knows that Fanny Klingenschoen never gave anything away. Do you think the K Fund’s generosity has Fanny turning over in her grave?”

Qwilleran chuckled. “I only know that a wise man once said three hundred years ago that money is like muck; it doesn’t do any good unless you spread it around.”

Before going inside to give the Siamese their bedtime snack, Qwilleran walked around the barn two times. He wondered, How much of Koko’s involvement in the case has been the extrasensory perception of a cat with sixty whiskers, and how much has been coincidence? As for the cat’s oblique way of communicating (operatic “pirates” suggesting tree pirates) . . . that had to be a mix of happenstance and a vivid imagination.

When he went indoors, he first had to sweep up the shards of the moustache cup. Hunting for dustpan and brush in the broom closet, he called out, “Which one of you rascals pleads guilty to the destruction of a valuable artifact?”

“Yargle!” came the reply—from a cat yowling and swallowing at the same time. Both cats were on the snack bar. Koko was swallowing his last tongueful of chicken liver paté and Yum Yum was looking ruefully at the empty bowl.