Cat Who Went Up the Creek

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  He was braking at the front door, when a booming voice across the street said, “Hey, Qwill! You look good in that helmet! You should wear it all the time!”

  Ernie Kemple was carrying a spinning wheel into the building. Qwilleran said, “I’ll hold the door for you, if you’ll let me park my Silverlight in the office.”

  Inside, dealers were bustling about; Janelle was trying to be everywhere at once; a pleasant woman was introduced as Mrs. Munroe, Ernie’s partner; and the man who built recycled furniture had found a stone balustrade to protect the exhibit platform.

  Qwilleran said, “I’m a little late with this copy for your handout, but the print shop in Pickax will give you one-day service.”

  “I’ll take it down there right away.”

  “Better read it first.”

  “Better yet, I’ll round up the girls, and you can read it to us.”

  The two assistants reported to the office, and Qwilleran read the story of the millionaire pioneer, his daughter Elsa, the marriage he arranged for her, Elsa’s elopement with the son of her father’s worst enemy—and the disastrous conclusion. Janelle dabbed her eyes; Mrs. Munroe gulped a few times; Ernie shook his head sadly no doubt thinking of his own daughter . . . Then he took the copy and left for Pickax.

  Qwilleran used the phone to make arrangements for delivering the historic furniture, then said he would like to browse around for awhile. One booth had a cross-cut saw six feet long, with a handle on each end and murderous two-inch teeth. A similar one had hung on the wall in the log cabin he inherited, but it looked too threatening; he had disposed of it.

  The dealer said, “This saw represents the early history of Moose County. With a Paul Bunyan on each end of it, who knows how many million trees it cut down? I can close my eyes and hear the rhythmic grinding of those sharp teeth through the trunk of a great oak! It was a sign of man’s determination to make a life for himself and his family! . . . Today I hear the whine of a chain saw, and it chills my blood. Another nail in the coffin of Planet Earth!”

  “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” That bird was always butting into every conversation, but it reminded Qwilleran it was time to go home for lunch. He asked the dealer for his card.

  alt="[image]"/>By the time he showered and dressed and walked up the hill to the inn, it was two o’clock. Nick handed him a postcard and said, “We’re moving the furniture tonight. I’m going along to make sure they baby it.”

  The picture on the card was that of Independence Hall, and Qwilleran wondered, What’s she doing in Philadelphia? But after he was seated at a table, where he could read the fine print, he realized that it was the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan.

  Dear Qwill—What a museum! Everything from Georgian silver to locomotives! Miles of aisles! I’m doing it in a wheelchair. Walter sends regards.

  Love, Polly

  “Same to you, Walter old boy,” he said to the postcard.

  In the foyer a signboard announcing coming events reminded him that the MCCC luncheon was scheduled for the next day. He had considered a limerick, as suggested by Mildred, with rhymes like academic, polemic, endemic, systemic—but found them too stuffy.

  He took a window table in the dining room and watched the squirrels flicking their tails in a secret language; no wonder they were called flickertails in some parts of the country. As he waited for his ham and eggs, he formulated his plans:

  He would ask the management to put a bag of peanuts at each place—with his business card, which read “Straight from the Qwill Pen” and, in smaller print, “Every Tuesday and Friday in the Moose County Something.” When introduced at the luncheon, he would explain, soberly, that the goobers ushered in the annual “nutty season” in the “Qwill Pen” column. The kickoff would be a limerick contest, the nuttier the better. He would recite an example: “Our squirrels are as smart as can be / Alumni of MCCC / They went to college / in search of knowledge / and to learn how to run up a tree.” Then he would sit down, amid laughter and thunderous applause—or grim silence, as the case might be.

  He enjoyed the ham and eggs and had three cups of coffee and walked down the hill with satisfaction, unaware of the complications that awaited him.

  When he reached the creek there was singing and childish laughter coming from Cabin One.

  Cabin Two was dark and silent except for a flickering blue light and the senseless noise of a television set that no one is watching.

  There was no music coming from Cabin Three, but Wendy came off the porch to greet him, though not with any enthusiasm. “How’s everything going?” he asked. “Did you get your reservations at the Grand Hotel?”

  She nodded absently and looked at her watch. “My mother arranged it.”

  “Did Doyle finish his printing for the Chicago junket?”

  “Not quite. He’s supposed to meet Bushy at the photo lab at five o’clock to coordinate their samples. Meanwhile, as you can guess, he’s gone canoeing. I slept late, and he left me a note.”

  “Did he take his camera?”

  She gave a humorless laugh. “Of course! Just in case something special swims by or flies over. But he promised he wouldn’t go into the woods.”

  “Good!” Qwilleran murmured without conviction. “Don’t leave without giving me your home address; I’ll send you tearsheets of the dump-truck story.”

  Two gunshots shattered the quiet. “What’s that?” Wendy asked sharply.

  “Rabbit hunters. Some local families live on rabbit meat; it’s all they can afford.”

  She kept looking at her watch. “What time do you have?” She asked finally.

  “Three-forty-five.”

  “Doyle’s meeting Bushy at five o’clock, and when he comes in from canoeing, he always likes to shower and change clothing. He said on his note that he’d be home at three o’clock. . . . Now I’m going to start worrying again.”

  “Wendy, you can’t go through life worrying,” he remonstrated. “We live in an age when there are sudden fatalities on the freeway and madmen with guns in the supermarket—” He winced as he heard an ominous howl from Cabin Five. It started as a growl and ended in a shriek that chilled the blood. It was Koko’s death howl, and he was never wrong.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Koko’s letting me know something’s amiss.”

  He ran to the cabin and phoned the inn, tracking Nick down in the basement.

  “Nick, can you drop everything and come down here? Doyle Underhill hasn’t returned from canoeing, and I have reason to believe he’s in trouble. Could you and I take an outboard upstream? . . . Bring your cell phone.”

  Then he phoned Cabin One. “Hannah, are you busy? Doyle hasn’t returned from canoeing, and he’s late for an important appointment. It doesn’t look good. Nick Bamba and I are going up the creek to investigate. Could you go over to reassure Wendy? She’s getting nervous. But don’t let her know that we think it’s serious.”

  Koko was harnessed and ready to go by the time Nick came running down the back road. Qwilleran, with the cat on his shoulder met him at the boat shed. They set out in an aluminum rowboat with Nick handling the motor in the stern and the other two in the prow, peering ahead in the green tunnel of overhanging branches. Koko was quiet. Even ducks and leaping fish and squawking crows had no interest for him.

  “How long has he been gone?” Nick asked.

  “Left early this morning. Wendy was asleep. Left a note saying he wouldn’t go ashore and would be back by three.”

  “How far up does he usually paddle?”

  “Never mentioned it. Far enough to get good wildlife photos. Do you think there’s danger in going ashore, Nick?”

  “You wouldn’t get me into that jungle!”

  “It had a mesmerizing effect on Doyle.”

  “If we find the slightest clue, we call the sheriff,” Nick said. “They’ll need a description of the missing person. What would you say?”

  “Six feet, medium build, late twenties, clean-shaven, short dark hair. For canoeing h
e wears blue jeans, white T-shirt, sometimes a blue denim jacket, always a bright yellow baseball cap.”

  “They couldn’t ask better than that, Qwill. We’ve got a great sheriff’s department—with helicopter, search-and-rescue dog, and mounted posse—all volunteers. They can put as many as twenty riders in the field, men and women.”

  After a while Koko began to wriggle on Qwilleran’s shoulder.

  “Please! No claws!” Qwilleran requested.

  “Yow-w-w!”

  “That means we’re getting warm.”

  Ahead, the waterway narrowed, where uprooted trees had fallen into the stream. Beyond was a flash of yellow, visible through the branches.

  “Canoe!” yelled Qwilleran.

  It had been dragged up onto the bank, which was two feet above creek level. Stashed underneath it were the paddle, a jacket and a knapsack.

  “Call his name,” Nick said.

  Using what he called his Carnegie Hall voice, Qwilleran shouted “Doyle!”

  “Yow-ow-ow!” echoed Koko.

  “Shut up!” Qwilleran shouted again, while muzzling the cat with his hand.

  There was no answer from the woods, only a silence that seemed twice as empty as before. . . . “Call the sheriff, Nick.”

  On the cell phone the innkeeper called the sheriff. One of his guests was missing. We suspect foul play. Was last seen canoeing upstream on Black Creek. The canoe (yellow) was found beached, along with paddle and knapsack, three miles south of Nutcracker Inn. Site could be identified by uprooted trees overhanging the water—also grove of black walnuts on the bank—also eagle’s nest on top of highest pine tree.

  Nick told them he would be back at the inn’s boat shed in ten minutes with the canoeist’s knapsack and jacket to provide a scent for the search dog.

  The two men and the cat were quiet as their boat putt-putted back downstream. They had done all they could do.

  The difference was that Nick believed there was hope; Qwilleran had heard Koko’s death howl.

  At the boat shed he left Nick to work with the deputies, while he hustled Koko back to the cabin.

  First he phoned Cabin One; there was no answer. Hannah might still be with Wendy, but he phoned Cabin Three and drew a blank. Hannah’s car was gone from the parking area, but the Underhills’ SUV was in its usual slot. Could the two women be having dinner together?

  It was five o’clock—when Bushy and Doyle were to meet—and he phoned the art center.

  “Hey, where’s our boy?” Bushy demanded. “I’m all set up here and ready to go!”

  Qwilleran described the circumstances, as far as anyone knew.

  “They’ll find him,” Bushy said with confidence. “Remember the time Junior Goodwinter was missing. They found him—broken leg—but not till the next day.”

  Qwilleran murmured the proper words, but he had heard Koko’s howl, and there was no mistaking it.

  “Excuse me, Bushy. Someone’s coming.” He had heard the car motor with the whirring squeal of a faulty fan belt. Hannah was driving into the parking area.

  He went out to meet her. “Hannah, you should have Olsen’s mechanic look at your fan belt, or you could find yourself in trouble! Where’s Wendy?”

  “In the hospital. I feel so sorry for that girl! Let’s go in, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  They sat on the porch, and he asked, “What happened after I asked you to go and sit with her?”

  “Well, I made a pot of chamomile tea—good for calming the nerves—and took it over there. She was lying on the sofa and she said she didn’t feel well. She said her arms felt numb. I phoned the office, and Lori called 911. The ambulance was there in no time! They took her to Pickax General, and I followed in my car.”

  Qwilleran said, “We heard the siren when we were chugging upstream. We had no idea it was headed for Cabin Three. How did she feel about going to the hospital?”

  “She was composed and organized. Wanted to be sure she had her health insurance cards. Asked me to pack her robe and slippers—and leave a note for Doyle. Told me to phone her mother in Cleveland and charge the call to Cabin Three.”

  Qwilleran nodded. That sounded like Wendy—very thoughtful.

  “What did they say at the hospital?”

  “I hung around in the family waiting room until Dr. Diane came out and said everything was under control. On my way back I stopped at the office to report, and they told me that Doyle’s disappearance is serious. I feel terrible about it! Will it be on the eleven o’clock newscast?”

  “Only that the sheriff has authorized an all-out search for a missing person in a wooded area. But if there’s any hard news, Nick Bamba will get it first. He has connections in the sheriff’s department.”

  When Qwilleran returned to Cabin Five, Yum Yum was asleep on the blue cushion, but Koko was keeping watch on the sofa, guarding the video of Pirates and the Trollope volume that Qwilleran had been reading—a Victorian novel about a scheming young woman who married for money, knowing that her bridegroom had not long to live.

  By eleven o’clock it was dark, and searchlights could be seen bouncing off the clouds.

  chapter fourteen

  Qwilleran slept uneasily Wednesday night, burdened with knowledge he could not share. While others hoped and prayed for Doyle’s rescue, he knew that the photographer was dead. And he knew—or thought he knew—that it was no accident. Many times he had heard Koko’s blood curdling cry of distress, and it always meant murder. Yet how could the cat know? Qwilleran found himself stroking his moustache repeatedly and telling himself: It’s only a hunch.

  The Siamese had apparently slept well. They were up and about early, making subtle reminders that a new day had dawned. They pounced on his middle; Koko yelled fortissimo in his ear; Yum Yum found it amusing to bite his nose, ever so gently.

  The seven o’clock newscast offered no further details about the search for a missing person. He walked up to the inn, hoping that Nick’s connections at the courthouse would net some inside information. As for the day’s mail, it had not yet been picked up at the post office. Qwilleran was in no hurry to see his postcard; Polly’s rambles with Walter were suddenly less troubling than the fate of the photographer. He had a quick breakfast and returned to the creek without waiting for the mail. He was in time to meet a motorcycle messenger delivering a package from John Bushland. The accompanying note read:

  Qwill—I stayed in the lab until I got all the rest of Doyle’s stuff printed. Here’s everything. Better you should have it. You’ll know what to do with it. God! I hope they find that guy! I was going to take him and Wendy out on my boat this weekend. About these prints—some are very good (I like the one with the two squirrels) and some are not so good, but that’s to be expected. Also some nice portraits of Wendy and some snapshots taken at a picnic, with you eating a hot dog. I called Barter. He’s canceling.

  Bushy

  The eight-by-ten prints filled three flat yellow boxes. Qwilleran took them out to the porch. Now he would discover if it had really been a good idea to include Doyle in The Beauty of Moose County.

  The first print in the first box was the two squirrels, photographed in profile, sitting on a tree stump face-to-face, like two elder statesmen in conference, their bushy tales arched in perfect symmetry. What were they discussing? The nut situation?

  They were in the foreground, with the forest as a backdrop. Doyle had obviously used a telephoto lens.

  A rumble in Koko’s throat interrupted these ruminations. It was a feline alarm system that announced anyone approaching the premises, friend or foe. (Qwilleran regarded Koko as a battery-operated electronic detection device disguised as a Siamese—very few on the market—used extensively by the military—might eventually replace dogs.)

  In this case, the suspected individual was Hannah Hawley, walking more briskly than usual.

  Qwilleran went out to meet her, first replacing the covers on the yellow boxes; he knew Koko’s fondness for glossy photo-prints. “Sorry,
old boy,” he said. “These are for viewing, not tasting.”

  “Any news?” were her first words.

  “Nothing.”

  “Wendy’s mom arrives at the airport at five P.M., and I made a reservation for her at the Friendship Inn.” It was a motel on the Pickax medical campus catering to the families of patients.

  “Come onto the porch and have a glass of bottled water.”

  As soon as Hannah sat down, Yum Yum was in her lap, turning around three times before settling down. Koko jumped to the table and sat guarding the yellow boxes.

  “The reason I’m here,” she said as soon as the glasses of water were served, “is to tell you the latest from Cabin Two. Marge came over this morning—she never does that!—and asked if I could spare any milk for Danny. Joe was supposed to take her shopping last night, but something else came up. She seemed hungover—or doped by the medication she claims to be taking. . . . Qwill, when someone sings a flat note, it makes my flesh crawl, and Joe makes my flesh crawl.” She hummed a melody from Gilbert & Sullivan that he recognized: Things are seldom what they seem. / Skim milk masquerades as cream.

  “You think Joe’s a phony?” He patted his moustache as Hannah’s flat-note theory began to sound like his own hunch.

  “Well, I talked to my relatives in the commercial fishing fleet, and they said the chartered trollers don’t go out this time of year—except maybe weekends—”

  “Food for thought,” Qwilleran murmured.

  “Well, you’re probably busy . . . and I have a meat loaf in the oven.”

  “Yow!” said Koko.

  “He knows the words ‘meat loaf.’ I’ll send him a slice.”

  “Is there anything I can do for Wendy? Would flowers be in order?”

  “Best thing you can do is hope and pray that Doyle is safe. When her mother comes, I’ll feel much relieved.”

  “Should I pick her up at the airport and deliver her to the Friendship Inn?”

  “That would be very kind of you, Qwill.”