The Cat Who Went Up the Creek

chapter four

As Qwilleran was shaving on Monday morning, he noticed the cats watching the door to the hall. Yum Yum’s tail was waving amiably while Koko’s was bushed, and a growl deep in his chest rose to a snarl in high C.

Qwilleran opened the door a quarter of an inch and closed it quickly. He went to the phone and called the office.

Lori answered cheerfully, “Good morning! Nutcracker Inn.” She was a different person, now that the three broken mirrors were gone. Or so it seemed. He was not prepared to believe it.

Gruffly he said, “We are being held hostage in suite 3FF! Would you call off your rodent control officer?”

“Oh, Qwill! Is Nicodemus up there? I’ll send the porter for him. Perhaps we should confine him to our cottage until you move into your cabin.”

“What’s the situation down by the creek? Did Nick call the sheriff last night?”

“Yes, and he had to go to Pickax to identify the body! He didn’t get home until three this morning! I’m letting him sleep in. The drowned man is our Mr. Hackett, all right, but we can’t rent the cabin until the state police detectives inspect it. That’s all I know, but it sounds suspicious, doesn’t it? Nick can give you the details. I’ll have him call you when he wakes up.”

When Qwilleran went downstairs to breakfast, he vetoed the quiche that the server was promoting and ordered ham and eggs with American fries. There were times when only comfort food would do. He reveled in the familiar old tastes and textures, at the same time reviewing his evening with Hannah Hawley. It had been a pleasant occasion as well as a productive interview. And when he confessed that he had sung the role of the pirate king during his college days, she was not surprised; she could identify a fine voice quality when she heard one.

She said, “Why don’t you join the Mooseland chorus, Qwill? It’s a wonderful feeling—singing together and being in harmony with others. And you’d like Uncle Louie, our director. He makes every rehearsal fun! He’s from Canada and knows Gilbert and Sullivan backward and forward.”

And then Qwilleran had said, “If I couldn’t be Shakespeare, I’d like to be W. S. Gilbert, composing farcical plots and outrageous lyrics.”

Together they made a list of favorite rhymes: man’s affection and bad complexion . . . matters mathematical and simple and quadratical . . . A lot of news and hypotenuse . . . Felonious little crimes and merry village chimes.

Hannah had trained as a music teacher. “But then, Jeb came along,” she said with a sigh. “If he were living now, he’d be so proud to have me written up in the ‘Qwill Pen’ column!”

After breakfast, fortified by three cups of coffee, Qwilleran went upstairs and gave the Siamese a morsel of ham he had sneaked out of the dining room. Then he wrote a thousand words about the doll house miniatures that he could not honestly appreciate, although he admired the skill, patience, and creativity that went into them. He also phoned Junior Goodwinter, to save a three-column horizontal hole for a photo on page two. It was an old-fashioned bedroom with fireplace, four-poster bed, and rugs braided of knitting yarn. The wash stand was equipped with one-inch towels and a tiny bowl-and-pitcher set and even tinier soap dish. The cake of soap was an aspirin tablet.

While waiting for Nick’s phone call, Qwilleran played the video of Pirates that Hannah had lent him—to refresh his memory about plot, characters and dialogue. The Siamese went to the turret to watch squirrels; there were no birds or animals on the TV screen.

Qwilleran turned it off and hurried downstairs to hear the latest.

“Well, the sheriff’s office wanted me to rush to the morgue and identify the body. I also took the guest register, but who knows if the information is true. I remembered that Hackett had worn a big digital wristwatch; that’s all I could contribute. I know the fellows in the sheriff’s department very well and wanted to ask a few questions, but the state detectives were there. You press guys are the only ones that can ask questions and get away with it.”

“That doesn’t say we get answers.”

“Maybe the paper will have an update. It’s delivered here at two-thirty. I suppose you noticed the police cars coming and going to the cabin, Qwill. They’ve got it taped off.”

“Probably brushing for fingerprints. They’ll pick up some of Koko’s nose prints.”

Nick asked, “How are the cats?”

“Calmed down since yesterday—until Nicodemus paid a social call this morning.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll stay in our cottage until you move to the cabin.”

Qwilleran had some time to kill before dining with Barb Ogilvie, and he walked aimlessly about the grounds.

Once he stopped to watch a squirrel frantically digging a hole. It was so deep that his foreleg disappeared in the excavation as each teaspoonful of soil was brought to the surface. Then he buried some small treasure, scooping the earth back into the hole, tamping it with a paw, and camouflaging the site with fallen leaves.

Qwilleran’s built-in “Qwill Pen” alarm system signaled a topic for Friday’s column: Squirrels! Everyone loves them or hates them!

It would be possible to do man-on-the-street interviews without even leaving the inn! It was the kind of column that would virtually write itself! The reader response would pour into the newspaper office, making Arch Riker happy!

Perfect!

Meanwhile there was action in the lobby of the inn. The personable young MCCC student who was Lori’s part-time apprentice was arranging an exhibit in the glass display case that kept guests entertained while waiting for tables in the dining room.

The previous exhibit had been a collection of photos showing the Limburger mansion, inside and out, before it was renovated by the Klingenschoen Fund. Outside, there were broken bricks, boarded up windows, overgrown weeds—and squirrels. Inside, there were dark walls, ponderous items of furniture shipped from Germany, a cuckoo clock, and cartons of rubbish. The photos were augmented by a few items of German porcelain and woodcarving, salvaged from the clutter when everything else was unloaded.

Now the enthusiastic apprentice, whose name was Cathy, was arranging a collection of vintage nutcrackers. A computer-printed sign said BLACK WALNUTS ARE A HARD NUT TO CRACK.

“Nice job, Cathy,” said Qwilleran. “If you don’t make it as president of an international hotel chain, you can always get a job as a window-trimmer.”

“You say such nice things, Mr. Q!”

“Where did you get the artifacts?”

“Dr. Abernethy is lending them.”

“Can the case be locked?” Qwilleran was thinking of the cuckoo clock that had been spirited out of the building before the renovation, although it had been promised to Aubrey Scotten. He was a young man who gave much and asked for little. He should have received the clock promised him.

When the bundle of Monday papers arrived in the lobby, everyone grabbed. There on the front page was the black walnut staircase, with a squirrel peering in the window. She probably had a nest between the turret and the mansard roof. It was photographer’s luck that she happened to be there at the right moment.

In the News Bite column, the unidentified body found in Black Creek was still unidentified, although the victim was not a local resident, it had been determined. In other words, he was an outsider, using an alias.

Coverage of the third-grade portrait exhibit was extensive. As Qwilleran had predicted, the pale-tinted best of-show reproduced poorly, but the copy desk had handled it well. The cutline read: “Color my hair yellow. Color my eyes blue. Color my dress pink. Or visit the art center before June 30 and see for yourself why Lisa La-Porte’s pastel won best of show.”

As for the popular vote, it went to a youngster named Robb Campbell. His self-portrait had scarecrow hair, jug ears, and a wide grin with one front tooth missing.

Qwilleran waited until five o’clock, when legmen on the news beat would be reporting to their departments. Then he phoned the photo lab and congratulated Roger on the excellence of his staircase photo and the size of his byline.

“Yeah . . . well . . . the squirrel deserves most of the credit.”

“I hear there was some excitement on the police beat. Any further news?”

“Uh . . . Can’t talk now, Qwill. Got prints coming through.”

“See you later.” To Qwilleran, Roger’s “uh . . .” meant that he had the story-behind-the-story. He would call Roger at home, after dinner with Barb Ogilvie.

At six o’clock he waited for his guest to drive into the parking lot and then went out to meet her.

“You’re so gallant!” she said. “You’re a vanishing breed!”

“I’d rather be an endangered species,” he said. “It doesn’t sound terminal. . . . You’re looking spiffy, Barb.” She was wearing bright red, and he wondered how it would look with the pale coral walls and tablecloths.

Heads turned as they were ushered to a table. Some would be wondering, Where’s Polly?

She said, “This is the first time I’ve seen the inn. Fran did a good job. I’d love to see the carved staircase that was in today’s paper.”

“It’s in a private suite—and not on view. . . . What are you drinking tonight?”

She asked for a margarita—not a popular cocktail in Moose County.

He said, “It seems to me that you had a sizable rock on your ring finger, the last time I saw you.”

“That’s ancient history!”

“Too bad. Everyone thought you and Barry Morghan were a perfect couple.”

“I was perfect for him, but he wasn’t perfect for me!”

“Would any man be perfect for you?” Her attachments were known to be short-lived.

“You would!” she replied flippantly, rolling her eyes.

“Strike that last question,” he said. “Shall we consult the menu?”

She ordered pork loin with quince and cinnamon glaze and then played it safe by talking business. “The coverage of our exhibit was great! And attendance was excellent. We thought friends and relatives would vote for their own third-grader, but they surprised us. They loved that caricature with a tooth missing. The artist was Robb Campbell, and when I met him, I was shocked! He was neatly combed and had flat ears and all his teeth!”

“An opportunist,” Qwilleran said. “He’ll go far—but not necessarily in the right direction.”

“I asked him why he played such a trick, and he said, ‘That’s how I feel inside.’ How do you like that, Qwill?”

“I’m not sure I know. Kids have changed a lot since I was eight.”

“Well, anyway, the good news is that people who have never been to the art center came to see this kid show. Maybe they’ll come again, attend a lecture, take a class.”

Qwilleran recommended a glass of pink zinfandel with her entrée and then asked, “How’s everything in the world of wool? Are you still knitting? Is your mother still spinning? Is your father still shearing sheep? Is Duncan still herding the flock?”

“Oh, let me tell you what my knitting club is doing! We’re knitting knee-high socks for the pirates in Pirates of Penzance to wear with black breeches—wide stripes of red, black and white! We think they’ll catch on with the tourists, too. They can be worn with shorts, you know. . . . Would you like a pair, Qwill?”

“I think not. They’d scare the cats.” He could visualize the streets of Mooseville, swarming with tourists in moose head T-shirts, baggy shorts and pirate socks—and smelling of anti-skeeter spray.

Dinner with Barb Ogilvie was always lively, but toward the end Qwilleran was eager to go upstairs and phone Roger at home.

The photographer was quick to pick up the phone. “Hey, Qwill! Glad you called. Sorry I couldn’t talk downtown, but you know how it is.”

“I understand perfectly. Let me tell you why I called. I have a vested interest in the case. The victim was in the process of vacating a cabin I’m supposed to rent, but now the police have it sealed. Do I move back to Pickax? Or what? Any crumb of information that will help me make a decision . . .”

“I know what you mean. Wait’ll I close the door.” A door slammed. “First off, it’s definitely a homicide, but they’re calling it an accident so the suspect won’t go fugitive.”

“Cause of death?”

“Blow to the head.”

“Well, thanks. It isn’t much, but it helps.”

So, Qwilleran asked himself, had someone wanted Hackett’s forty-thousand-dollar car badly enough to kill for it? Or was there another motive? That being the case, where did the attack take place? And what was Hackett doing there early on a Sunday morning? And how did he end up in the creek, upstream from the Nutcracker?

The creek came down through a dense forest owned by the Klingenschoen Foundation and known as the Black Forest Conservancy. Qwilleran stroked his moustache. He was getting a familiar sensation on his upper lip.