Cat Who Went Up the Creek

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “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 i
n 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.

  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 th
ey 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.”