Cat Who Went Up the Creek

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “That’s the largest and most ambitious, Qwill. The idea is to admit hikers and photographers but prohibit hunting, camping, off-road vehicles and exploitation of natural resources.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “No timbering. No removal of minerals or plant life. But first they have to take inventory of what we have in the Black Forest. They’re sending in botanists, geologists, ornithologists—scientists from every discipline. It’s thought that Moose County is a treasure trove of natural science. It’s already known that the Black Forest has bears, wolves, foxes, bobcats, beaver, raccoons, skunks, and otters, as well as deer—”

  “And squirrels,” Qwilleran added. “How are you going to keep the tourists from digging up rare plants, feeding the deer, setting fire to the woods?”

  “All of that’s in-work. They hire forest rangers to monitor the situation and conduct educational programs.”

  A horn tooted at the back door, and a porter delivered the sandwiches and fries under hot-covers and coffee in Thermos jugs. Then the conversation turned to shoptalk.

  Barter asked, “What are your plans for that hundred-year-old furniture that’s in temporary storage?”

  “No plans. Only hopes,” Qwilleran replied. “It belongs in a museum. Moose County doesn’t have one.”

  “There’s the Goodwinter farmhouse.”

  “Too primitive. What’s in storage has class, provenance, quality and beauty. One of the big houses on Pleasant Street would make a suitable museum.”

  “It would require rezoning. The neighbors would fight it.”

  Qwilleran said, “The K Fund could build an art center. They should be able to build a museum. Think about it.”

  Barter stood up to leave. “Great sandwiches. Peaceful scene. I hate to leave.”

  “I hear you’ve taken in a new partner. Hasselrich, Bennett, Barter and Adams.”

  “Mavis Adams from Rochester, Minnesota. Good mind. Nice woman. Likes cats. In fact, she has an idea for a new kind of animal rescue program.”

  “Bart, your shoelaces are untied,” Qwilleran said.

  In preparation for his mercy expedition to Indian Village Qwilleran packed a few treats—nothing fancy; Polly’s cats were accustomed to a plain diet. His own Siamese watched with concern as their food was being put in a plastic tote bag, along with their necktie.

  “I’m going to see your cousins in Indian Village,” he explained. “Do you have a message for them?” They had none. They were simply waiting for him to leave, so they could have their afternoon nap.

  Arriving at Polly’s condo, Qwilleran let himself in with his own key, and the Siamese came forward promptly, their body language more inquisitive than enthusiastic. He passed muster, but it was obvious they would have preferred Polly. She talked cat-talk. Qwilleran talked about the weather, their health, the cat-sitter. “This treat comes to you with the good wishes of your cousins, vacationing at Black Creek.”

  They approached the plate cautiously, looked up at him questioningly, then gobbled it up.

  Next came the necktie game. “Have you guys been getting any exercise?” He whipped out the frayed necktie, twirled it, dragged it tantalizingly across the floor. “Very interesting,” they seemed to say as they watched from nearby chairs.

  Finally, Qwilleran read to them from the Wilson Quarterly—all about the political situation in Indonesia—and they fell asleep. He tiptoed from the house. He had done it for Polly. What was she doing, he wondered? Probably dressing for dinner with the Ohio antique dealer.

  From his car he phoned the Pickax police chief at home.

  Brodie’s wife answered. “He’s in the shower. We’re going to Tipsy’s. He likes the steak. I like the fish. If we don’t go to Tipsy’s, we go to Linguini’s. . . . Oh, here he is!”

  Andy came on the line with an impatient growl, as if he were still dripping.

  “This is Qwill, Andy. Would it be worth your while to drive to Black Creek for (a) some good Scotch and (b) a clue to a mystery murder?”

  “M’wife and me, we always go out to dinner Saturday night, then watch a video.”

  “What are you watching tonight?”

  “It’s her turn to choose. She wants On Golden Pond. Third time! I’ll be ready for a wee nip! How about eleven o’clock?”

  “You know where I am. Cabin Five.”

  alt="[image]"/>On the way home Qwilleran stopped at the Nutcracker for a piece of black walnut pie and, he hoped, another postcard from Polly.

  Lori handed it to him. “I couldn’t help looking at the beautiful picture, Qwill—all those schooners in full sail! I’d love to see them! She must be having a wonderful time.”

  It came from Mystic Seaport, Connecticut, and the message read:

  Dear Qwill—Sea air! Tall ships! Atmosphere of a colonial seaport! Walter introduced us to navy grog. Delicious! I feel like dancing!

  Love, Polly

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. She sounded a little tipsy. Was this Walter person leading her astray? Her usual drink was a small glass of sherry, and he had never heard her say that she felt like dancing. Abruptly he asked Lori, “Where’s Nick?”

  “Supposed to be changing filters in the basement, but he may be fixing a tile on the roof. You know how he is—all over the place.” She said it with approval.

  Qwilleran tracked him down. “What do you know about navy grog, Nick?”

  “It’s a drink. Pretty potent, they say.”

  “Do you know the ingredients?”

  “Our barman would, but he isn’t on duty yet. We could look it up in his drink manual. . . . Come on.”

  In the vacant bar Nick found the manual, almost two inches thick, and read, “Jamaica rum, white rum, lime juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, guava nectar, crushed mint leaves, and a teaspoon of Falernum.”

  “What’s Falernum?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Never heard of it. Sounds like the West Indies.”

  “It doesn’t sound good,” Qwilleran muttered, as he visualized Polly dancing with sailors after a sip or two. “Thanks, Nick!”

  Driving downhill to the creek, Qwilleran could hear Hannah doing her vocal exercises, tuning up for the second performance. Behind Cabin Three he could hear one of Wendy’s Schubert recordings. Unlocking his own door, he could hear the welcome howls of Koko and Yum Yum. As soon as he walked into the cabin, however, there was sudden silence. They knew where he had been and what he had been doing: fraternizing with the competition!

  “Too bad about you!” he said. And he made a cup of coffee.

  Later, sitting on the porch in the twilight, Qwilleran reviewed his conversation with the attorney and his excursion into the Black Forest. It had been strenuous, and he was beginning to feel a muscular reaction here and there. There was something magical about a dense forest. He could see how Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm had been inspired to write the tales they did! As for himself, now that he was away from the spell of the Black Forest he began to question the presence of the moving van on the scrubby 1124. He wished he had made a note of the license number; Brodie could have put a check on it. The van had gone when he returned from his arduous pedaling. Had it backed out, or had it gone deeper into the woods on one of those half-hidden side trails? And if that were the case, what was its mission? And did that explain why the fallen tree across 1124 had been removed? And had it “fallen” or been placed there?

  When Chief Brodie stomped into the cabin, he said gruffly, “Why don’t you trade in that antiquated van on a good-looking sports utility vehicle?”

  “I like my van. It’s been a good old workhorse.”

  “It’s a clunker,” Andy insisted. “Gippel has a new shipment of SUVs, and will make you a good deal—just one look and he’ll have you drivin’ around in one of them. And it would look better for the writer of the ‘Qwill Pen.’ I’ll bet Polly would like the colors.”

  “Are you on Gippel’s payroll?” Qwilleran asked. “Go sit on the screened porch, and I’ll b
ring the tray.”

  “Have you heard from Polly?” Brodie asked after they were seated at the porch table with drinks and cheese board.

  “I get regular postcards. There’s an antique dealer who seems to have latched on to her. He’s interested in the Duncan heirlooms. Susan Exbridge says they’re worth a mint!”

  “That guy would try to swindle her for sure. She comes across as a nice lady, but she’s tough as nails and he won’t get anywhere. . . . So what’s the clue you mentioned, Qwill?

  “First, have they found out who Hackett really was?”

  “They’ve found out that he wasn’t a sales rep selling building supplies to lumber companies and contractors. Nobody ever heard of him—or the company he said he worked for. He was here for some other purpose, probably drug-related.”

  “But maybe not. Let me show you a pair of shoes he left here. The police overlooked them because they were shoved way under a bunk.” Qwilleran produced the brown oxfords. “What do you think of these?”

  “Good leather. Expensive.” Then he watched with disguised surprise as the inner layers of the left shoe were peeled away, revealing the nuggets of gold in the heel.

  “Hmff! Not much of a haul.” Brodie observed.

  Qwilleran said, “I say this is only a gimmick—something to show friends. I say he was after the big stuff, and they were packed in his car when it was stolen—along with a pickax and diving equipment and a wet suit. Diving for gold is a current craze in other parts of the country, I’ve read. And, I’m sure you know, the locals have always talked about several veins of gold under the Black Creek. No doubt he was on the bank of the creek when someone hit him on the head and threw him in the water!”

  “This would make a good movie—better than the one I saw tonight for the third time.”

  “No doubt he’s been driving his car onto 1124, then down one of the side trails to the creek. Someone knew about it—probably a partner, who knew he was about to leave. Perhaps the partner had come up with Hackett from Down Below.”

  “Glad to know the skunk was not one of us,” Andy said, still reluctant to take the story seriously.

  “The question is, why did Hackett falsify everything on the inn’s guest register? Because he had found out, somehow, that ‘exploitation of minerals’ in the Black Forest Conservancy is now outlawed. He was trying to make one more haul before the forest rangers started policing the gold fields. . . . Let me refresh your drink, Andy. . . . Try this Roquefort. It’s the real thing.”

  The chief left with the shoes wrapped in newspaper and instructions to tell state detectives they had overlooked them during the forensic search. “Tell them the innkeeper turned them over to you—and you suspected something fishy about the left shoe. Leave me out of it! . . . Then they can piece together their own scenario. Personally, I think mine was pretty good!”

  chapter ten

  Although Qwilleran missed his nightly telephone chats with Polly, he missed her most on weekends. Only two Sundays ago they had breakfasted on black walnut pancakes, driven to the lakeshore for a long walk on the strand, dined memorably at the Boulder House Inn—all the while enjoying long discussions about nothing much.

  He remembered her telling how she memorized sonnets to recite aloud while doing boring tasks around the house. She knew twenty by heart: Shakespeare (“When to the sessions of sweet silent thought”) and Wordsworth (“Earth has not anything to show more fair”). She favored sonnets because they were only fourteen lines, and the rhyme scheme made them easy to memorize. Also, she found the rhythm of iambic pentameter comforting. “If Wordsworth were alive today,” she said, “I’d invite him to lunch.”

  And he remembered her surprise to learn that only four American presidents have found the moustache appropriate: Theodore Roosevelt, Grover Cleveland, Chester K. Arthur, and William Howard Taft. (Arthur had sideburns that all but overshadowed his moustache.) Four presidents had full beards, including lip whiskers: Ulysses S. Grant, Rutherford B. Hayes, James A. Garfield, and Benjamin Harrison. Since 1913 presidents have been clean-shaven.

  Now Polly was . . . where? . . . drinking navy grog with a strange man—although not too strange; they were on first-name terms.

  Sunday without Polly was bad enough; Sunday without The New York Times was unthinkable. He phoned the drugstore in Pickax with instructions to save a copy. Meanwhile he put the Siamese through their paces with the battered necktie, groomed them until their fur glistened, and read aloud from a book he found on the shelf above the sofa: Uncle Wiggly’s Story Book. It was copyrighted in 1921 and had the original pen-and-ink sketches and luscious color plates.

  He read them the story about a rich cat who rode around in a chauffeured convertible. They listened raptly to the well-bred mewing and purring of the cat, the squeaking of her mousey servants, the yipping of the dogs who chased her up a tree when her car lost a wheel, and the gentlemanly tones of the elderly rabbit in top hat and gloves who came to her rescue.

  Then Qwilleran drove to Pickax for his newspaper. On the way back he recognized the pickup ahead of him. He flashed his headlights, passed it and turned off on the shoulder. The truck pulled up behind, and the two drivers jumped out and shook hands. It was Ernie Kemple, retired insurance agent and active volunteer.

  “Ernie! I hear you’re riding high!”

  “Qwill, you don’t know what I’ve been through!” His booming voice had regained its verve. “D’you have time for a cuppa at the Dismal Diner?”

  The Dimsdale Diner deserved its nickname. It was a converted boxcar at a country crossroads, dilapidated inside and out. The coffee was awful. But the weedy parking lot was always full of pickups and vans as farmers and businessmen dropped in for smokes, snacks, laughs, and shared information. There was a large table at one end where they hung out.

  Qwilleran and Kemple sat at the counter and had coffee served in a styrofoam cup and a doughnut served on a paper napkin.

  The voices at the big table were lusty:

  “Skeeters don’t bother me none. It’s those blasted ticks!”

  “You can say that again! I spend hours pickin’ ’em out of my dogs’ hair!”

  “Who picks ’em outta your hair?”

  “I take a turpentine shampoo. Only way to go.”

  “The trick is to get the danged bloodsuckers outa your flesh afore they dig in.”

  “Yeah, and don’t leave the head in, or you’re in bad trouble!”

  Kemple said to Qwilleran, “Mind if we take our coffee out to the car? I’ve got a weak stomach.”

  In the privacy of the parking lot he told his story. “You remember Vivian took our daughter out west after she was jilted and cracked up. My in-laws have a ranch out there, and we thought she might meet a decent guy. Vivian made several trips out there to check her progress and kept staying longer and longer. I should’ve smelled a rat! My wife had met another man! . . . Well . . . why fight it? I gave her a divorce and also the million-dollar collection of rare dolls. I’d spent five years researching them in England, Germany, and France.”

  “But you plunged into the idea of an antique mall,” Qwilleran recalled, “and that was good.”

  “Yep. I found the perfect building in Pickax, made an offer to buy, and signed up dealers for the mall. Then the owner decided to keep the building and steal my idea.”

  “I remember. It was a shock to all of us.”

  “I was really down, Qwill. It’s a wonder I didn’t hit the bottle.”

  Qwilleran nodded sympathetically. “I’ve been there myself. What pulled you through?”

  “You won’t believe this—and I usually don’t tell it—but my father spoke to me! He departed this life twenty years ago, but I remembered something he used to say. If somebody stole my baseball mitt or if I wasn’t picked for the first team, he’d say, ‘Rise above it, boy. Rise above it.’ He was only a potato farmer, but he knew a lot about life, and I’d take his advice. I’d imagine myself in a hot-air balloon, high in the sky, looking down
on the scene of my disappointment, which looked pretty insignificant from that altitude. Now I realize that distancing yourself from a problem aids your perspective.”

  “I’d heard that you were in Florida last winter.”

  “Yes, the Gulf Coast is very popular with folks around here, and I had the good luck to meet a nice Scottish woman from Black Creek, who owned the flea market. We talked about the new look in Black Creek—and how a first-class antique mall would be more suitable than a flea market. Result: We’re in partnership. She works with the dealers; I handle the business end. Grand opening is Saturday. First ad runs Friday. And the Scottish community is giving a preview. . . . Would you like to see how it’s shaping up? Dealers are still moving in. You can meet our floor manager, who’ll have charge of the daily operation. She says she knows you. Janelle Van Roop.”

  “Our paths crossed briefly last summer,” Qwilleran said, “pleasant young woman.” Actually, he was wondering how this sweet, shy, soft-spoken personality, hidden under a mop of very long hair, could manage anything more dynamic than an old ladies’ home. He had met her at a residence for the widows of commercial fishermen.

  “I’d like to see the facility,” he said to Kemple.

  He followed the pickup truck to a side street in Black Creek, where a large barnlike building gleamed under a coat of white paint. Painted across the front were the words ANTIQUE VILLAGE. The large double doors were open, and rocking chairs, tables and hutch cabinets were being carried in.

  “It’s been cleaned up a lot,” Kemple said. “We just painted everything white. If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to make them.”

  The two long walls were lined with three-sided booths having wall space for wall furniture and hanging objects. Down the center of the hall were larger spaces divided by latticework, designed for freestanding furniture. Kemple said in a low rumble that passed for a whisper, “They pay less per square foot, and it encourages furniture displays. We want to get that kind of reputation—not just a barnful of knickknacks. Some of the large pieces coming in include an Art Deco dining table, an old square piano made into a desk, an eight-foot hutch cupboard, and a carved church pew.”