Then it was back to the Nutcracker Inn to pick up Polly’s postcard. On a sideboard in the foyer stood a large silver ice bucket filled with daffodils—a half-bushel of them, he estimated. Guests were viewing them with awe.
“Magnificent massing! . . . Thrilling yellows! . . . Such happy flower faces!” they gushed. “Who is Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran?”
A small tasteful card dedicated the floral display to her memory. Qwilleran scuttled into the office, hoping not to be recognized.
Both Bambas were in the office—one at the computer and one at the coffee urn.
Lori said, “They’re gorgeous, Qwill! Do you approve of the silver ice bucket?”
Nick said, “You went all-out, brother! What’s the occasion? Have a cuppa?”
Qwilleran accepted a mug of coffee—and a chair—and explained, “This is my mother’s birthday. She’s been gone more than thirty years, but I still remember how she recited her birthday poem every year: ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud / That floats on high o’er vales and hills, / When all at once I saw a crowd, / A host, of golden daffodils’!”
“What a lovely idea!” Lori exclaimed. “I’m going to find a birthday poem! Maybe by Emily Dickinson. Do you have one, Qwill?”
“No, but if I did, it would be Kipling: If I can keep my head while all about me are losing theirs.”
Nick said, “Mine would be: Over the hill to the poorhouse.”
“Isn’t he terrible!” Lori said, gazing fondly at her husband.
Qwilleran took his postcard and left, sneaking a look at the picture. They were still at the Henry Ford Museum & Greenfield Village. “They” instead of “she.”
The message read:
Dear Qwill—Walter and I are having our farewell dinner Friday night. I’ll arrive Saturday on the 5 P.M. shuttle if the repair crew doesn’t run out of scotch tape.
Love, Polly
The humor was somewhat giddy—for the Polly he knew. Had Walter introduced her to Fish House punch? It was an early American favorite. George Washington drank it. He huffed into his moustache.
The Siamese were glad to see him—and why not? They had not been served their noon repast of crunchies.
“We’re checking out tomorrow,” he told them as they crunched.
Within minutes Hannah Hawley phoned, as if she had been watching for his van to pull into the lot. She spoke in a hushed and hurried voice. “Qwill! Strange development! Could I come over for a minute?”
“Of course! Take two!”
She had hung up before his quip reached her, and she came along the footpath at a trot. “I left Danny sleeping, and I don’t want him to wake up and find himself alone.” She declined a glass of fruit juice.
Into Qwilleran’s mind flashed the newscast . . . a splash in the creek . . . the unidentified body . . . a young woman. He said, “Calm down, Hannah. Take a deep breath. Start from the beginning.”
“Well . . . about eight o’clock this morning I was just waking up, and did the first thing I always do—I unlock the front door and step out on the screened porch for a few deep breaths. Imagine my surprise when I saw Danny sitting out there, looking at a picture book! I remarked that he was up bright and early, and asked if his mom knew he was here. He said, ‘She’s gone away. She told me to go and see Auntie Hannah if she ever went away. I haven’t had any breakfast.’ He was wearing the blue T-shirt I’d given him, and he showed me something in the pocket.”
She seemed unable to go on, and Qwilleran said, “You’d better have a glass of fruit juice.” He waited until she had taken a few sips before asking her, “What was in the pocket?”
“Some money—and a note. I brought it to show you.”
She handed over a scribbled message on a square of greasy paper that might have come from a box of cookies.
Take care of Danny.
Tell him his mom is sick—
We have no place to go—
I hate my life—
Joe is a bad bad man—
Danny will be better off without me—
Marge
“That poor woman!” Hannah said, clutching her throat to control her emotions. “Homeless! Addicted to alcohol—maybe drugs. Then I heard the newscast, and I knew it was Marge. ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ . . . Do you know who said that?”
“I’m afraid not.” With a shudder he recalled how close he had come to the same condition . . . once upon a time, eons ago.
Now Hannah had given way to sobs, and he brought her a box of tissues.
“I wanted to help her,” Hannah said, “but she kept to herself always. I think she was afraid of Joe.”
Qwilleran wondered, did Marge know he was a gold-digger and not a deep-sea fisherman? Did she know he’d murdered twice to protect his turf?
Sniffing and dabbing her eyes, she said, “I’d love to adopt Danny! My grandson in Florida is his age. The Scottens and Hawleys have a good family life. I was trained as a teacher. But . . . he’s a ‘John Doe.’ We don’t know his name, or where he’s from. If the county gets hold of him, he’ll spend his life with different foster families. I don’t know anything about the law, but I’ve seen it happen to other orphans—”
Qwilleran interrupted her torrent of thoughts. “Hannah, the K Fund can handle this. They have a battery of investigators and advisers who’ll work this out in Danny’s best interests.”
“Is that a fact?” she asked. “The county—”
“Forget the county. They’re always glad to work with the K Fund. Put on a cheerful face and go home to Danny, and I’ll make a phone call and start the wheels turning.”
She hesitated. “Maybe I should tell you what I did. As soon as Danny fell asleep, I went next door to collect his clothes and things. There was hardly anything to collect. He doesn’t even have a toothbrush or sleeping pajamas! . . . And listen to this, Qwill! There wasn’t a single sign that Joe had ever been there!”
Except fingerprints, Qwilleran thought.
After Hannah had gone back to Cabin One, and after the Good Samaritans had been alerted, Qwilleran phoned Nick. He said, “Tell your friends at the sheriff’s office to get out the yellow tape. One of your cabins down here at the creek should be searched. I suggest you come down here for a conference.”
While waiting for the manager, he made a quick scan of Doyle’s photos—the ones in the box that Bushy had marked “miscellaneous.” They were typical vacation mementos. The Shipwreck Tavern in Mooseville, commercial fishing wharves, the Hotel Booze in Brrr, flower gardens at the state prison, the historic Nutcracker Inn, Wendy feeding squirrels, the picturesque Old Stone Bridge, and picnickers eating hot dogs. That was the one he had been looking for.
“It’s always at the bottom of the pile,” he told Koko, who was watching the process with a superior air. “So why didn’t you tell me to start at the bottom?”
When Nick arrived, Qwilleran offered him a beer, told him to sit on the porch, and gave him an eight-by-ten photo of a picnic group. “Recognize any of these, Nick?”
“Well, the one with a moustache works for the newspaper . . . and I know Mrs. Hawley . . . and I think the one in a baseball cap is Joe Thompson.”
Qwilleran said, “He may have registered under that name, but I suspect it’s an alias . . . and I suspect he’s gone fugitive after killing Doyle Underhill. The police said that Doyle was shot about four o’clock on Wednesday. Shortly after that Joe’s truck drove in, stayed a short time, and drove off—abandoning the woman and child who shared the cabin. . . . Incidentally, did you hear the newscast about a suicide in Black Creek?”
“I heard something—”
“I think the unidentified body will match the scrawny woman in the picnic photo. She left a suicide note in the pocket of her son’s T-shirt, calling Joe a bad bad man.”
Nick, father of three, said, “Where’s the kid?”
“Mrs. Hawley is looking after him and would like to adopt him.”
Nick stood up to leave. “I think Lori wa
s right, Qwill. The Nutcracker is jinxed!”
Now Qwilleran had to shift gears—from the somber reality of the creekside situation to the festive celebration of Scottish Night. His training in theater had taught him how to “make an adjustment,” and a long ride on his Silverlight helped. The steady rhythm of pedaling, the therapy of deep breathing, and the serenity of secondary roads—all combined to put him in a propitious mood.
The Siamese—who had panicked the first time they saw him in kilt and knee socks—were two cool cats when he confronted them in full regalia. He promised to bring them a taste of haggis.
Traffic was heavy in downtown Black Creek, and MCCC students provided valet parking so that guests in Highland dress could enter the building in style.
They were greeted at the door by Ernie Kemple and his partner, Anne Munroe. The red, blue, gold and green of clan tartans moved among the twenty booths of antiques and collectibles. A bagpiper was piping, and a young woman danced the Highland fling with seeming weightlessness. Guests drank punch and Scotch and nibbled bridies and haggis.
Janelle Van Roop presided over the museum exhibit of Elsa’s black walnut furniture and handed out copies of Qwilleran’s tale of the three cracked mirrors. The painting of her great-grandmother, described in the “Qwill Pen,” could be seen in the locked case.
All the prominent Scots were there: MacWhannell, Abernethy, Ogilvie, Campbell, MacMurchie and more. “Where’s Polly Duncan?” was the question that Qwilleran heard on every side.
He was talking with Ernie Kemple when a clock in one of the booths announced the hour.
“Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”
“Excuse me,” Qwilleran said, “I’m being paged.”
He tracked it down to a booth specializing in clocks. It was exactly like the one stolen from the Limburger mansion—or so he thought. It was a masterpiece of carving: a rustic hut nestled in a bower of leaves, with a swinging pendulum and three long weights ending in pinecones. He wanted to demand, “Where did you get it?” Instead, he asked, “Do you know its provenance?”
The dealer said:
“Hand-carved in Germany’s Black Forest probably early twentieth century—linden wood—mechanically operated by weights in the old style—eight-day movement. Cuckoo pops out on the hour, but there’s a way to shut him off at night. Some people like to hear it at night; they say it doesn’t disturb—only reassures.”
Qwilleran thought, It would drive me crazy, and the cats would climb up the wall and kill it. It was not for himself, however. He inquired casually, “What are you asking for it?”
“Three hundred, but if I thought it would have a good home, I’d let it go for two-seventy-five.”
“Oh,” Qwilleran said and started to walk away.
“Two-fifty, sir!”
“Hmmm . . . It’s for a gift. Do you have a box? Nothing fancy.”
“I can find one out back; just give me ten minutes. . . . Will it be check or credit card, sir?”
Qwilleran walked among the crowd, chatting with friends.
Nell Abernethy said, “Don’t tell anyone, but the secret of my black walnut pie is maple syrup and a dash of vinegar to cut the sweetness.”
Ernie Kemple lowered his booming voice and confided, “My ex-wife is asking for a reconciliation. . . . No way!”
Burgess Campbell, blind from birth, was there with Alexander, his guide dog. “I come for the fellowship and because Alexander is hooked on haggis. Have you bought anything Qwill?”
“Yes, I picked up a couple of scamadiddles at a reasonable price.” It was a private joke between the two men, and Burgess roared with laughter, causing the dog to nudge him. “Trouble with Alex—he has no sense of humor.”
Qwilleran picked up his clock and drove back to the creek, where he knocked on the back door of Cabin One.
“Qwill, you look wonderful!” Hannah cried when she saw his Highland attire. “Come in! What are you carrying?”
He said, “I’ve found the cuckoo clock that Gus Limburger promised to your nephew. It was stolen from the mansion, you remember.”
“Aubrey will be so happy! Where did you find it?”
“That’s classified information. . . . How’s Danny?”
“He’s asleep. I bought him a toothbrush and showed him how to brush his teeth and say his prayers. Then I sang ‘Danny Boy,’ changing the words a bit. He’s a good boy. He ate his carrots when I told him to. . . . Won’t you come in, Qwill?”
“Thanks, but I have to go home and feed the cats.”
He could hear Koko’s yowling coming from Cabin Five. That cat recognized the sound of Qwilleran’s motor a block away! The yowling stopped when the brown van stopped at the back door. It had been daylight when Qwilleran left; now the interior was dark. He flicked the wall switch. There—scattered all over the floor—were Doyle’s photos!
“Bad cat!” he shouted, clapping his palms together in a loud reprimand. It sent the guilty Koko flying about the room. Yum Yum, perched on the TV, watched the performance in dismay.
“Out! Out!” Qwilleran opened the door to the screened porch, and the two of them rushed out, willingly, to enjoy the mysteries of the night.
He changed into a jumpsuit and crawled about the floor, collecting prints and loading them into the yellow boxes without bothering to sort the categories. That could be done later. Only one photo did he reserve—another shot of the picnickers eating hot dogs.
He hoped the cat had not drooled on any of them. His saliva and raspy tongue had damaged glossy photos in the past.
In daylight it would be easier to look for rough spots.
chapter sixteen
Moving day! Qwilleran surprised the cats by rising early and feeding them a smorgasbord of leftovers from the refrigerator. He, himself, drove to the inn for one more memorable breakfast and then to Olsen’s to buy gas and check the oil and tires. He also showed Jake Olsen an eight-by-ten photo, asking, “Do you recognize the fellow in a baseball cap?”
“Sure! He comes around to gas up his truck and order take-outs from the lunch counter. Haven’t seen him for a couple of days, though. . . . And hey! He’s the guy who was trying to hire extras for a logging movie. It fell through, but he decided to stay and do some deep-sea fishing.”
“Hope you have a good summer, Jake. I’m moving back to Pickax, but I’ll drop in once in a while to have my air pressure checked—for old times’ sake. And good luck with the reenactment!”
Olsen’s was around the corner from the Antique Village, and Qwilleran stopped there to ask questions: Did they consider Scottish Night a success? Did the dealers sell much? Which was more popular—the fruit punch or the Scotch? How did people react to the exhibit of Elsa’s black walnut furniture? (The answers to the first three were: yes . . . no . . . fifty-fifty).
“But they flipped over Elsa’s furniture,” Janelle said, “and some of the women want to start an Elsa club—not just another gossip circle, but a discussion group about women’s problems, the decisions they have to make, today’s attitudes and so forth.”
Qwilleran said it might make copy for the “Qwill Pen” after it got started.
When he returned to Cabin Five, he found that the Siamese had devised their own farewell: All the built-in drawers on nylon rollers were open—all twenty-three of them! Who could say that animals have no sense of humor?
alt="[image]"/>All three residents of the converted apple barn were glad to be home. The Siamese raced up and down the ramp that connected the three balconies.
Qwilleran, after unpacking, went to Toodle’s Market to buy frozen macaroni and cheese for himself and boned turkey for the cats.
After that he moved them to the screened gazebo while he sorted Doyle’s photos into the original categories. There were only two prints damaged by Koko’s saliva and raspy tongue, but they were important shots. How did the cat know? What was he trying to say? Or was it coincidental?
alt="[image]"/>Qwilleran kept an eye on his watch; he was scheduled to meet Polly at f
ive o’clock. The shuttle was never on time, but waiting for it was half the fun; groundlings bantered in Moose County style:
“I hear the skeeter-meter is up ten points.”
“The stores have run out of insect repellent.”
“The tourists are getting it on the black market.”
“Here she comes!” A small speck had appeared in the sky to the south.
“Can you see if she’s still got both wings?”
A shout went up when the wheels touched down, and the meeters-and-greeters walked out on the tarmac. Polly was the last to come down the gangway, using a cane and descending carefully, her bad ankle hidden by a trouser-leg.
While other travelers were embraced as fortunate survivors, Qwilleran and Polly reserved fond greetings until later; the busybodies were always watching.
“Need a wheelchair?” he asked.
“No thanks, dear. The cane is just to command special attention.”
“You’re a sly one! Did you have your ankle X-rayed?”
“Yes. It’s not serious.”
“Where’s my friend Walter?”
“I sent him back to Ohio,” she said in a matter-of-fact way, leading Qwilleran to wonder, Could she have invented him? . . . No, she’s not devious enough or creative enough to play such a trick. . . . but it would have been a clever one!
When her luggage was stowed in the van and they were on the road to her Indian Village condo, she said, “I’ve missed Brutus and Catta so much! I wonder if they’ve missed me?”
“I know they have,” Qwilleran said. “I could tell by their look of disappointment when I unlocked your door and went in to cheer them up.”
“I can hardly wait to see them! . . . How was your stay at the Nutcracker?”
“Interesting. There were two murders, a suicide and a heart attack—all guests from Down Below, staying in the rustic cabins along the creek.”
Warily, as if suspecting a hoax, she said, “Tell me about it.”
“Well, first there was a male guest purporting to be a sales representative who was actually a gold prospector operating illegally in the Black Forest Conservancy. He was murdered presumably for his forty-thousand-dollar car and a trunkful of gold nuggets. . . . Next, there was an accomplished photographer shooting pictures of wildlife in the creek and in the woods. He was murdered presumably because another gold prospector thought his illegal activity was being photographed. . . . The photographer’s young wife had a heart attack and is hospitalized. . . . Do you follow me?”
Cat Who Went Up the Creek Page 16