Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Up The Creek

“Great idea! I’m all for it.”

“My point is that we should get them under contract fast, before this other publisher swoops in.”

“How fast?”

“Frankly, Bart, I think it would be to our advantage if you could fly the two guys to Chicago and back on the shuttle Wednesday.”

“No reason why we couldn’t. I’ll make the appointment and plane reservations, if you’ll alert the photographers.”

“Be happy to do that. Both of them should have samples of their work to show, by the way.”

Qwilleran had never actually seen any of Doyle’s work; all his exposed film would be taken home to Cleveland for developing. Still, it was good enough for a cover on the Smithsonian —that is, if it happened to be true. Young photographers had been known to boast.

By the time Bushland phoned, the Scheme was working, and it was all legitimate. There was nothing wrong with a little persuasive hyperbole and truth telling before the fact. They were techniques he had used often during his career.

When Bushy finally called, Qwilleran said, “There’s a wildlife photographer here from Down Below, who’s been doing a lot of shooting, and the K Fund wants to publish a large-format, hardcover art book featuring your landscapes and his wildlife, to be titled The Beauty of Moose County. For laughs we might include a full-page, full-color portrait of a thick, toasty, brown pasty.”

“No kidding!” Bushy said. “This is the best thing that’s happened to me since the helicopter rescued you, me and Roger from Three Tree Island!”

“It means moving fast, for various reasons. Our legal rep wants to fly you two guys to Chicago to sign contracts and show samples—on Wednesday. The hitch is that none of the wildlife stuff has been developed. Could he use the darkroom at the art center tomorrow?”

“Sure thing! Tell him to call the manager and say I okayed it.”

There was more. Bushy had met Doyle and his wife at the photo show—nice couple. Doyle had good credentials; no, Bushy couldn’t remember seeing the Smithsonian cover.

After that, Qwilleran returned to the porch to type his treatise on presidential whiskers, suggesting a nationwide poll of voters. Did they want their chief executive officer (a) clean-shaven, (b) with long sideburns, (c) with small neat moustache, (d) or other. Readers considered summer the silly season in the “Qwill Pen” column and gladly encouraged the silliness.

Although Qwilleran kept an eye on the creek for Doyle’s return, there was no sign of the yellow canoe. It would be ironic, he thought, if this were the day that Wendy’s fears were realized. But eventually the sleek craft glided downstream, and soon Doyle was walking back from the boat shed and Koko was announcing him as a trespasser.

Qwilleran went out to meet him. “How was the shoot today?”

“I got some great shots!” the photographer said.

Qwilleran recited his piece: K Fund art book—Bushland and Underhill—day-trip to Chicago to sign contracts—appointment set for Wednesday. “Sorry it’s such short notice,” Qwilleran said.

“No problem.”

“They’ll want to see samples. If you can develop and print tomorrow, the dark room at the art center is available.”

“No problem.”

Later, when Qwilleran dined alone at the inn, he recalled his conversation with Doyle, who had said, “I also caught a skunk in a more-or-less comic situation—and some young foxes. But don’t tell Wendy; she’ll know I went into the woods. I’m afraid she made a scene at dinner last night. She gets upset over little things.”

As Qwilleran chewed his steak reflectively, he compared the two photographers. Bushy, whose talent bordered on genius, was as excited as a little kid over the prospect of signing a contract for an art book. Doyle reacted with a cool “No problem.”

Qwilleran could only hope that the owl and the skunk and the young foxes were as good as the photographer thought.

When he returned to the creek, he had half a sourdough roll in his pocket for the ducks. He was pinching off morsels for the hungry flock when a pleasant voice called to him from the porch of Cabin One. Hannah was inviting him to have a glass of iced tea. Although already coffee-logged, he accepted.

“I can’t tell you what a wonderful time I had last night, Qwill! You’re such a gracious host.” There was a half-finished jigsaw puzzle on the table, and she swept it into a box, explaining, “Danny was here this afternoon. I must tell you, Qwill . . . This morning I went next door and told Marge that I was lonesome for my grandson and I wished Danny could visit me for story-telling and games for a little while each day. She hesitated and then said yes. So this afternoon he came over, and we had a wonderful time. I taught him to sing ‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout; / Here’s my handle and here’s my spout.’ And I saw that boy laugh for the first time. Then I taught him how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ He’s had no upbringing and certainly not much family life. And he has only one tired white T-shirt. I gave him one that my grandson left here—blue, with a pocket, and he’s so thrilled with that pocket! He’s never had a shirt with a pocket.”

“Excuse me for changing the subject, Hannah, but what’s that on your ring finger?”

She blushed and said, “You didn’t meet Uncle Louie, our choral director, did you? We’ve been getting kind of interested in each other—he’s a widower—and today he took me to lunch and gave me this!”

“Well! Best wishes to you both.”

“And he told me to ask you something. He wants to compose a comic opera—sort of a parody of Gilbert and Sullivan—and he wonders if you’d write the libretto.”

Qwilleran stood up to leave. “Only if Koko can play the lead.”

Walking home along the creek and approaching Cabin Three, he noticed that the Underhill car was not there. That meant, probably, that Doyle had taken Wendy out to celebrate. Wrong! She came flying off the screened porch.

“Oh, Qwill! Thank you so much for what you’ve done! Doyle went to the art center to get a head start on the developing. There’s so much to do.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “The art book is only a good idea whose time has come.”

chapter twelve

Whiskers tickling the nose and a soft paw patting the eyelid could do it every time—quickly, quietly, efficiently. Qwilleran awoke with a start on Tuesday morning, as two furry bodies leaped from his bunk and headed for the kitchen. Despite the rude awakening he was in a good mood—still elated after Monday’s successes, still sharing the excitement of two young photographers about to publish their first book. He remembered his own first book, City of Brotherly Crime. It was completely forgotten now, and he was lucky to have salvaged a single copy, thanks to the late Eddington Smith.

It occurred to him momentarily that Doyle’s photos might not compare favorably with Bushy’s superb landscapes. That was a chance they were taking. An owl is an owl is an owl; there is always something noble about an eight-point buck and something comic about a skunk. Such thoughts were interrupted by a call from the attorney.

Barter said, “I’ve lined up the K Fund boys in Chicago, but the appointment will have to be Thursday, not Wednesday.”

“That’s all right. It will give Doyle an extra day to prepare his samples.”

“Will you write a preface to the book, Qwill?”

“By all means. And I’ll volunteer to write the cutlines.” Whatever Doyle’s wildlife shots lacked in originality, a skillful cutline could cover up with words.

He took his typewriter to the screened porch to work on his Tuesday column, and Koko was sitting alongside the machine, observing the operation—until a sudden sound or scent made his head jerk to the south and his whiskers bristle: Trespasser approaching!