The Cat Who Went Up the Creek

chapter three

Before going in to breakfast Sunday morning, Qwilleran visited the small boutique in the office. It sold postcards of the inn, small bags of peanuts for the squirrels, insect repellent, and the official Moose County T-shirt in sizes small to extra-extra large. Across the front of the shirt was splashed a moose head fifteen inches wide. Nature had given the animal a dour expression that was comic or ugly, depending on one’s sense of humor, and Qwilleran wanted to buy one for Arch Riker.

The two men enjoyed playing tricks on each other, much as they had done when they were eight years old. Riker wrote absurd fan letters, anonymously, to the “Qwill Pen” columnist who, in turn, sent unsuitable gifts, anonymously, to the editor and publisher.

As for the famous black walnut staircase, it had already been photographed by Roger MacGillivray, former history teacher now working for the Something. Qwilleran knew him to be an ailurophobe and had locked the Siamese in the bedroom before Roger’s arrival.

“Where are they?” the pale young man asked.

“In the bedroom, handcuffed to the bedpost, and—in case they get loose and break down the bedroom door—they’re muzzled!”

The photographer exposed plenty of film, showing the staircase from all angles. In one of them a bushy-tailed squirrel could be seen peering through the window. “That’s it! That’s the one they’ll use!”

“Can you join me for breakfast, Rog?”

“I’d like to, but I’m the only leg man on duty, and I’ve gotta shoot a couple of paintings at the art center—best-of-show and popular favorite. I don’t know what to expect. They’re self-portraits by kids.”

“I was one of the judges,” said Qwilleran, “and I can tell you right now that the winner won’t reproduce in black-and-white. It’s a girl with pale yellow hair and pale blue eyes, wearing a pale pink dress against a pale lavender background.”

“All I can do is print it up as contrasty as possible—and explain to the picture desk. Maybe they can cover it in the cutline.”

The Siamese were beginning to howl, and Roger made a quick exit.

In the dining room Qwilleran was seated at a table next to a couple involved in animated discussion. They were dressed as if they had just come from church. They were fortyish and spirited enough to make Qwilleran wonder who they were. He opened the Wilson Quarterly he had brought along and pretended to read while listening. The man was husky and had a firm jaw, twinkling eyes, and a tuft of hair falling boyishly over his forehead; the woman had a pleasant voice and expressive hands.

The man asked, “So it’s definite that he’s going to come and speak?”

“Oh, yes! We’re covering all his expenses. The date will be firmed up tomorrow. We’re quite flexible on that score.”

“Who will attend?”

“Only MCCC people.”

“Do you know the gist of his speech?”

“The future of MCCC: opportunities, problems, warnings. It should be the most important event we’ve ever had.”

“It certainly seems so.”

They ordered chicken liver omelets; Qwilleran had eggs Benedict. Both finished at about the same time. They paid by credit card and left the dining room. Qwilleran charged his brunch to 3FF and followed them into the lobby, where the man was looking at a photo exhibit of ancient black walnut trees with enormous trunks.

The hostess said, “Mr. Qwilleran, did you enjoy your brunch?”

The man with the firm jaw and twinkling eyes whirled around. “Mr. Qwilleran! My wife and I are avid readers of yours! I’m Bruce Abernethy.”

“And compliments to you, doctor, on your letter to the editor Friday.”

“Someone has to speak up,” was the modest reply. “This is my wife, Nell. She keeps a ‘Qwill Pen’ scrapbook.”

Merrily she said, “He passed up a Henrietta and a Thomasina to get a one-syllable wife.”

“It wasn’t her name I went for; it was her black walnut pie.”

“Mr. Q, if we promise to serve it at the MCCC luncheon, will you be our guest of honor?”

“It would be my pleasure!” He was quite sincere. He had been looking for an appropriate entrée into the hard-shelled academic clique at the college.

“Wonderful! We’re having a guest speaker, but I’ll have to notify you of the time and place.”

Then the doctor said, “Andrew Brodie told us you were spending a few weeks in Black Creek—and that you might be interested in an experience I had at the age of eleven.”

“Yow-w-w!” came an unearthly sound form the upper floors. Everyone in the lobby looked up.

“I would!!” Qwilleran said with a distracted glance upstairs.

“Yow-w-w!”

“That’s my cat! Excuse me . . .”

“Call me! Wednesday’s my day off!”

Qwilleran ran up the stairs three at a time, and even as he unlocked the door to 3FF, the tumult increased.

“Please!” he scolded Koko. “This is a public establishment! If you don’t moderate your crescendos, they’ll kick us out!”

It was a weak argument, because that was probably what the crafty rogue wanted.

Qwilleran tried a different tack. “How would you like a walk down to the creek?” He dangled the harness and leash, causing Yum Yum to disappear and Koko to prowl in anticipation.

“Going for a walk” meant that the man walked and the cat rode on his shoulder, securely harnessed and leashed. They rode the elevator and went out the back door to avoid inquisitive guests in the lobby. When they started downhill to the creek, however, well-meaning sightseers converged on them with the usual naïve comments and gender confusion.

“Is that a cat?”

“It’s so skinny!”

“Hey, look! She has blue eyes!”

“Does he bite?”

“Nice kitty! Nice kitty!”

“Is it a girl or a boy?”

Kao K’o Kung—from his lofty perch—looked down on the rabble in disdain. As for Qwilleran, he had some snippy replies to their questions, but he held his tongue. Squirrels scattered at the sight of the cat, each running up its favorite tree. One of them had her baby tucked under her chin, while its tiny forelegs clutched her neck.

At the water’s edge seven crows strutted nonchalantly. Trout jumped out of the water for skeeters, causing Koko to jerk his head excitedly, this way and that. Then his body stiffened; Qwilleran could feel the tension on his shoulder. Did the cat see an otter swimming, or a raccoon on the opposite shore? No, something was drifting down the creek.

Qwilleran glanced in several directions before dashing toward the first cabin. “Do you have a phone?” he shouted to someone on the screened porch. “I need to call 911!” He was now clutching a struggling cat under one arm.

A woman let him in and pointed indoors. “On the kitchen wall!” She turned off some music.

To the operator he said, “There’s a body floating down stream in the Black Creek. It just passed the Nutcracker Inn, about half a mile south of the Stone Bridge—moving slowly—not much current. Face down—fully clothed—I think it’s a man.”

“Oh, dear!” the woman said when he hung up. “I couldn’t help hearing what you said. Isn’t that awful! Must have fallen out of a boat.” She clutched her throat, and her face flushed. “It’s so upsetting—a drowning . . .”

“Sit down, ma’am. I’ll get you a glass of water,” said Qwilleran, still clutching Koko, looped with a few feet of leash and squirming irritably. “Try to relax, ma’am. Take some slow deep breaths.”

She sipped the water gratefully, nodding her thanks. “My husband drowned . . . four years ago.”

“I know how you must feel. A terrible tragedy! But don’t try to talk yet. Do you mind if I put the cat down on the floor?” She waved an assent; he released the struggling animal while keeping a firm hand on the leash.

“Thank you so much,” she said with a deep sigh. “He was a commercial fisherman . . . a sudden storm . . . left three families of widows and orphans.”

Koko was now prowling in a zigzag, nose to the floor like a bloodhound. While keeping an eye on him Qwilleran said, “I remember the incident. I knew those men. I’d been out on the lake with the commercial fleet—”

“You’re Mr. Q. I recognized you from your picture in the paper. You wrote a beautiful story—”

“Are you a Hawley or a Scotten?”

“Hannah Hawley.”

Koko had found the built-in dinette and was standing on a bench with forelegs on the table, while sniffing left and right.

“Koko!”

The stern reprimand was unheeded. He went on sniffing.

“He smells my glue,” said Mrs. Hawley with some amusement. “He can’t hurt anything.”

“Glue?” The cat had a passion for adhesives and could smell a postage stamp across the room.

“I make miniature furnishings for doll houses.”

“You do?” He stroked his moustache as his mental computer recognized an idea for the “Qwill Pen.” “I’d like to talk to you about your craft. Perhaps you’d have dinner with me at the inn tonight.”

“I’d love to!”

“I’ll call for you at six o’clock,” Qwilleran said as he coaxed Koko away from the glue pot.

He waited for Lori to be alone in her office and then went in to say, “Have you heard the good news?”

“We’re going to be on the front page!” she cried. “I’m thrilled!”

“They wanted the old furniture out of the way, so it was moved to Sandpit Road in the middle of the night as Nick probably told you. And do you know what, Lori? I believe we’ve discovered the source of the bad vibes you were getting! According to the history of the place, those particular items of furniture were connected with the family tragedy.”

“I knew it!” she cried. “There was a negative influence at work, but this morning the pall has been lifted!”

“I feel euphoric myself,” Qwilleran said, to be agreeable. Actually, he attributed it to the eggs Benedict.

“Do you find your suite comfortable, Qwill?”

“I have no complaint, but I’m afraid Koko’s yowling will annoy lodgers on the second floor. He can even be heard in the lobby. A cabin would be more suitable—with its screened porch, windows on four sides, and proximity to the water and wildlife. Will there be a vacancy soon? Otherwise, we may have to return to Pickax.”

“I understand,” she said.

“They’re accustomed to a huge barn with three balconies and overhead beams and rafters. It isn’t fair to coop them up like this. They’re all the family I’ve got, and I have to consider their welfare.” His impassioned plea was not solely altruistic. He, too, would prefer a cabin and the idea of taking meals at the inn for two weeks appealed mightily.

Fingering the guest register, she said, “Mr. Hackett is supposed to check out of cabin number five today, but he hasn’t returned his key. His car is gone, and when the housekeeper went down there to check, she found his luggage half packed. He may have gone to church, and someone invited him home to dinner.”

“Ye-e-ess,” Qwilleran said doubtfully, and he patted his moustache. “Who is he? Do you know?”

“A business traveler. The name of his company sounds like building supplies. We have his credit card number and can’t turn him out if he wishes to stay. He really should let us know his plans.”

“Meanwhile,” Qwilleran said, “I’ll state the case to the guys upstairs and entreat their cooperation.”

On the way, he stepped into the library. During the Limburgers’ residence the shelves had been filled with gold-tooled, leather-bound volumes, probably unread. Now there were mellow old books that guests might enjoy reading: Gone with the Wind and Wuthering Heights, and titles of that sort. Qwilleran borrowed a collection of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales to read to the Siamese and keep them quiet.

It worked! They listened in fascination as he read the story of the ugly duckling that grew up to be a beautiful swan. There were plenty of animals in the tale, and Qwilleran had a talent for impersonating the peeping duckling, his quacking mother, clucking hen, meowing cats, cawing ravens, and so forth. It was ironic that the beautiful swans communicated with hair-raising screeches! Exhausted by the excitement of it all, Koko and Yum Yum crept away for their naps.

Just as Qwilleran was congratulating himself, he received a phone call from Lori. “Qwill, is everything all right up there?”

“Everything’s fine! I’ve been reading to the cats, and I believe it calmed them down.”

“That’s strange. We had a phone call from a guest, saying that something terrible was happening in 3FF.”

“Someone must be watching television,” he said.

When the time came for dinner with Mrs. Hawley, Qwilleran walked down the hill with a tape recorder in his pocket. On the way he watched for mother squirrels carrying their babies, but all he saw was father squirrels chasing mother squirrels.

Hannah was waiting for him on the porch, gaily clad in a blouse printed with oversized hibiscus blossoms. She was an expert at makeup and looked quite attractive.

“Where do you spend your winters?” he asked as they started to walk up the hill. He knew the answer.

“In Florida,” she said. “My daughter runs a restaurant on the Gulf Coast, and I give her a hand. But this is where I belong. All my relatives and friends are here. The Scotten and Hawley families.”

“The fishocracy of Moose County,” he said. “Is Doris still selling home-baked goods?”

“Yes, but Magnus is getting ready to retire. She’s my sister-in-law.”

“And Aubrey. Is he still keeping bees?”

“He’s my nephew.”

“I knew him when he was taking care of old Gus Limburger, and I admired his patience with the old curmudgeon.”

“Gus had a cuckoo clock in the entrance hall, and he promised to leave it to Bree, but he never got it. Someone around here must have taken it when Gus died.”

Qwilleran made a mental note to find out what happened to Aubrey’s cuckoo clock. “Since I know your whole family, I’m going to call you Hannah, and you must call me Qwill. I take it, you’re here for the entire summer. Do you know the people in the other cabins?”

“Only Wendy and Doyle Underhill in the middle cabin. Nice young couple. Both teachers. She’s writing a family history. He goes around photographing wildlife.”

“There’s a small boy in the cabin next to you.”

“Yes. Poor Danny. He has no one to play with, and his parents don’t seem to give him any attention. I took a plate of cookies over there and introduced myself. Danny’s mother said she’s recuperating after surgery, and her husband spends his time deep-sea fishing on the charter boats. I think she watches a lot of TV. I asked if my singing bothered her, and she said no.”

After they had been seated in the dining room, and after they had ordered from the menu, Qwilleran placed his tape recorder on the table. “Mind if I tape this interview?”

“Are you really going to write about my hobby?”

“If you give intelligent answers to my dumb questions. For starters, what attracted you to doll houses?”

“Well, my mother let me fix up my own room when I was in high school, and I secretly took a correspondence course in home decorating. I was in my early twenties when I married Jeb, and I went to work on the old Scotten house we got for a wedding present. It was so plain and so gloomy! I painted and wallpapered and slip covered and made curtains, and that’s where we raised our family.”

“What did Jeb think about your efforts?”

“Oh, he was very proud of me!” She bit her lip. “After he drowned, I sold the house and went to Florida to be with my daughter. And that’s where I discovered this doll house store! They sold miniature furnishings and equipment for do-it-yourselfers! That was me! I learned all about paint and glue and handling fabrics and cutting moldings.”

“Did you find it difficult to think small?” Qwilleran asked.

“Not really. On a one-to-twelve scale, one inch equals one foot. You can paint a whole room with half a cup of paint.”

“And a very small brush, I imagine. . . . Where did you start? What was your first project?”

“An old-fashioned dining room. I bought the table, six chairs, a sideboard, a mantelpiece and a gaslight style of chandelier. I stained the furniture, rubbed it with ash to look old, stenciled the walls to look like wallpaper, upholstered the chair seats, and so forth. For a rug I daubed designs on a nine-by-twelve-inch piece of velvet.”

“How long did this take?”

“You don’t count the hours when you’re having fun, Qwill, or solving a problem or developing an idea. My miniature dining room needed candlesticks, a table centerpiece and pictures to hang on the walls. Using a small miter box to cut moldings with clean corners, I made the frames for thumbnail-size pictures. One was a portrait of a blue jay—actually a postage stamp.”

“What’s the smallest detail that ever confronted you?”

She had to think a while. “Well, in my country kitchen I had a one-inch cat curled up asleep on the hearth, with some food left in his half-inch bowl, and a mouse was sneaking up to steal some of it. The problem was, what to use for the tail of a mouse that’s only a sixth of an inch long.”

“Dare I ask what you decided to use?”

She looked smug. “A bristle from my toothbrush! Of course, it had to be painted mouse-gray.”

As he escorted her back to her cabin, Qwilleran asked, “Do you have a finished project that I could see?”

“I’m afraid I’ve given them all to friends and relatives, but they’ve all been photographed, and I could show you some eight-by-tens. Shall we sit on the porch and have a glass of lemonade?”

Hannah’s miniature rooms were incredible, and the photography was excellent. “Who shot these?” Qwilleran asked.

“John Bushland.”

“I know Bushy. He’s the best in the county.”

“He does it as a courtesy,” she explained. “His family used to be in commercial fishing.”

As Hannah related the baffling story about the disappearance of the Bushland boat and crew, which he had heard before, Qwilleran laid his plans: He would run the interview in his Tuesday column . . . and get Junior Goodwinter to devote the Tuesday picture page to six miniature rooms . . . using Bushy’s photos.

She interrupted his concentration with a question. “Do you like Gilbert and Sullivan? The Mooseland chorus is presenting Pirates of Penzance next weekend, and I’m singing the role of Ruth the nursemaid. If you’re interested, I can get you tickets.”

“Thank you,” he said, “but as a matter of fact, I’m reviewing it for the newspaper.”

On returning to the inn, he found Nick in the office. “Has Koko been disturbing the peace?”

“Nope. All quiet on the third-floor front.”

“Any word from the guy in the end cabin?”

“Nope. I’m going down to scout the scene. Want to come?”

“May I bring Koko? Any little diversion will improve his disposition.”

They drove down the hill and parked behind Cabin Five. Nick used his master key, and the three of them entered speculatively: Koko sniffing everything, Qwilleran appraising the accommodations, Nick scanning the premises for clues to Hackett’s intentions. His luggage was half packed, and gray trousers, white polo shirt and brown oxfords were laid out for the trip. In the bathroom the contents of a toiletries kit were scattered about: toothbrush, dentifrice, denture bath, shaving needs, foot powder, analgesic muscle rub, and so forth.

Nick checked the plumbing, refrigerator, TV and lamps. “As soon as we can get rid of him, Qwill, the housekeeper will make up the room, and you can move in.”

Koko was inordinately curious about the oxfords. Qwilleran thought, It’s the foot powder; the cat was suspicious of anything with a medicinal odor. Then he went into the bathroom and found a green plastic box with a hinged lid—the denture bath. Qwilleran thought, He thinks he’s found a treasure. “It makes him feel important,” he explained.

“Well, nothing more we can do,” Nick said. “Let’s go.”

He was locking the back door when a loud, angry voice came from the next cabin. He said, “That’s Mrs. Truffle laying out the contractor who’s building her house, or her attorney in Milwaukee, or her nephew in Detroit. Judging from the rocks she wears, she’s loaded, and she likes to throw her weight around. . . . It’s time for the nightly news. Shall we turn on the car radio?”

They heard the WPKX announcer say. “The body of an adult male was found in the Black Creek north of the Stone Bridge earlier today—fully clothed but without identification. The victim was described as about forty, six feet tall, weighing about one-seventy, and having dark hair, upper and lower dentures, and a prominent birthmark under the left ear. If this description fits anyone thought to be missing, listeners are urged to notify the sheriff.

“It’s him!” Nick shouted. “I remember the birthmark.”

Qwilleran looked at Koko and remembered the denture bath.