Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Up The Creek

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 he 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.