Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Up The Creek

It was a lively Saturday night at the Hotel Booze. Two lumberjacks sang several verses about “the frozen logger who stirred his coffee with his thumb.” Two sailors walked around the room on their hands, and one of them did cartwheels the length of the bar top, while barflies yelped and grabbed their drinks. “How about pourin’ some more eagle-sweat, Whitey?”

At the card table, tempers were flaring. “You cheatin’ hell-pup!” Fists started to swing. Immediately Jake was on the scene, collaring the two rowdies, one in each hand and giving them the bum’s rush out the side door, leading to the alley. He returned brushing the dust off his hands, and Whitey signaled to the trio of sailors, who sang, “Michael, row the boat ashore, hallelujah!” Quietly the evicted pair sneaked back into the saloon, one of them holding a red-stained rag to his nose and acting as a crutch for the other, who was limping.

“Whitey!” someone shouted. “Why ain’t George here? Has he gone to get his teeth fixed?”

“George won’t be comin’ here any more,” said the saloonkeeper. “He got in a fight Thursday night and was sluiced.”

“Sluiced! Holy Mackinaw! Where’ve they got ’im?”

“In Pete’s funeral parlor next door. Can’t bury him till Monday. They’ve got him on ice. Pete built him a pine box, but George didn’t have money for a headstone, so we’re taking up a collection.” Whitey put a tin cup on the bar and rattled the coins in it. One by one the mourners filed past and dropped a few pennies in the cup.

Then a lumberjack yelled, “Let’s go and get ’im! Let’s bring ol’ George back for one last drink together!”

“Yahoo!” Six volunteers bolted out the side door, while Whitey and the barmaids poured and served, and the customers cheered and stamped their boots.

Soon there was kicking at the alley entrance, and Jake opened the double doors to admit the pallbearers with a six-foot pine box. The roomful of rowdies was strangely silent.

The pallbearers shouted, “Move three stools away! . . . Gotta prop ’im up! . . . Lean the box against the bar! . . . Whitey, got a crowbar? . . . Hang onto the box. . . . Keep it upright!”

With the wrenching sound of boards and nails, the lid of the coffin came off, and the audience gasped. There was George—stiff, chalk-faced, still in his bloody clothing.

Two gunshots shattered the breathless quiet! And the lights went out.

The room was in darkness only long enough for the reenactors—including the white-faced George—to line up, facing the audience, who responded with whoops, cheers, applause, whistles and yahoos.

The Rikers had to leave, but Qwilleran and most of the others attending the preview mingled with the players and congratulated them.

Whitey explained, “This is a reenactment of a true incident that took place right here in the Hotel Booze. His name wasn’t George. We don’t know what his name was or which of the headstones in the old loggers’ cemetery is his. My great-grandfather was a stonecutter, and the story has been handed down in our family.”

Qwilleran singled out Stinko for congratulations and questions. “Whose idea was it to have a character with a B.O. problem?”

“It was Roger’s idea,” was the answer, “but I volunteered. It gave me a chance to do a little character acting and play my harmonica. They say the stench in lumber camps was horrendous: Forty men sleeping in one big shanty, drying their snow-soaked socks around a potbellied stove, with no facilities for washing up. Phooey!”

Qwilleran handed out compliments: To Jake for his strong-arm act; to the river-driver for his French accent; to the girls for their provocative maneuvers. He learned that the singing sailors came from the chorus of Pirates of Penzance, and the acrobats were high school gymnasts.

Jake said to him, “Have you heard anything about a movie being made in Moose County—about the logging era?”

“Not a word! Where did you hear it?” As a journalist Qwilleran hated being in the dark—about anything.

“Well, I’m working at my father’s gas station this summer, and a guy with an out-of-state license said he was an advance man, lining up muscle-men as extras in a lumberjack film. He told me to keep it under my hat because another film producer had the same idea, and they wanted to beat the competition.”

“Hollywood epic or independent documentary?”

“He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask, because I wasn’t interested. I have this job with my dad and a commitment to the reenactors, plus I’m gonna be a father in August! First time!”

“Congratulations!”

“Thanks. It’s exciting, all right! And terrifying, in a way.” Jake grinned sheepishly.

Qwilleran said, “The producers won’t have trouble finding their extras. There are more Paul Bunyans per acre in Moose County than in any other place I’ve known!”

“My dad says we’re descended from Vikings. He tells some good stories.”

Qwilleran drove home in good spirits. Good show! Good dinner! And a few leads for the “Qwill Pen” column and Short & Tall Tales.

The Siamese were waiting with loud vocal complaints and irritably jerking tails that seemed to say, You’re late! . . . Where’ve you been? . . . Where’s our stuff?

“You missed a good show tonight,” Qwilleran told them as he prepared their bedtime treat. He himself had a cup of coffee and a black walnut bombshell from the supply Mildred had given him. Polly would disapprove; too many calories. Where was Polly tonight? He wondered.

He had another bombshell.

chapter thirteen

Wednesday dawned bright and full of promise in Cabin Five. Qwilleran had enjoyed the Saturday Night Brawl, and the melodies of sea shanties were running through his mind. His respite in Black Creek had been satisfying, as respites go. He had found leads for his column, met people, solved their problems, and learned something—about squirrels and black walnut trees. Soon Polly would be coming home—maybe. She might decide to detour through Ohio.

As he opened a can of Extra Fancy Crabmeat, he said to the Siamese, “You deserve this! You’ve been a couple of good eggs the last ten days.” They watched him attentively, their tails gently lapping the floor, until . . . with a convulsive movement, Koko whirled about and dashed for the screened porch. His sudden action was enough to make Qwilleran drop the can opener and follow.

What he saw was a yellow canoe gliding upstream with Doyle at the paddle, making purposeful strokes. The photographer was supposed to be in the darkroom at the art center, processing film for the art book! With a shrug Qwilleran finished feeding the cats and had one of Wendy’s sweet rolls for his own breakfast.

While sitting on the porch with his second cup of coffee, he felt a certain sensation in his left temple and realized that Koko was staring at him. If the cat was up to his old trick of thought-transference, why couldn’t he be more specific? Qwilleran had an uneasy feeling that he had forgotten something . . .

Suddenly he catapulted out of his chair and went to the typewriter. He had forgotten to write a short piece about the furniture locked up in the tower; it was supposed to be a handout at the Antique Village on Friday night! Drawing on “The Legend of the Rubbish Heap,” and the condition of the furniture, and his own imagination, he wrote “The Mystery of the Three Cracked Mirrors.”

More than a century before the Age of Computer Millionaires, fortunes were made on the American frontier by hard-working, risk-taking pioneers. One such entrepreneur built a splendid brick mansion in Black Creek, using local black walnut for interior woodwork and furniture. He had two sons, but his daughter Elsa was his pet. For her he arranged a good marriage into an important family and planned a wedding that was the talk of the county.