Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Up The Creek

“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 bring 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?”