Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Up The Creek

“Right. But don’t spread it around. The police have their reasons for doing what they do.”

“Do you realize,” said the attorney, “that two guests of an inn owned by the K Fund have been murdered in a conservancy owned by the K Fund? And in less than two weeks! What’s going on?”

“I have a fairly good idea: Same ‘perp’ . . . two different motives.”

“Any idea who the perpetrator is?”

Qwilleran patted his moustache smugly. “I have a hunch, but right now I’m concerned about the survivors. Wendy Underhill is hospitalized with a heart condition and can’t be told about her husband’s fate. Her mother, who flew up here from Cleveland yesterday, knows that his body was found but not that he was murdered. Doyle’s father is on his way here. They face problems and difficult decisions—in a strange environment. Let’s help these people. Put your good Samaritans on the case!” That was Qwilleran’s flip cognomen for Barter’s assistants who specialized in social services and investigation.

“I agree,” said Barter. “Who are the principals and where can they be found?”

“Wendy is in Pickax General, and her doctor is Diane Lanspeak. Her mother is Mrs. Satterlee, staying at the Friendship Inn—a strong, sensible businesswoman. Doyle’s father should be met at the airport at five o’clock and taken to the Friendship Inn; I don’t know anything about him, but Mrs. Satterlee could fill you in.”

Barter asked, “What’s your feeling about the art book?”

“I think we should go ahead with it as a kind of memorial to a dedicated photographer.” If he had been less dedicated, Qwilleran thought, he’d be alive today!

Pickax was only a twenty-minute drive from Black Creek, but psychologically it was a day’s journey. Instead of faxing his Friday column, he took his copy to the office of the Moose County Something and threw it on Junior Goodwinter’s desk.

“Back from vacation, Qwill?” asked the managing editor.

“What vacation? I haven’t had a relaxing moment in the last two weeks.”

“How would you like to cover the reenactment tomorrow night?”

“Assign Roger,” Qwilleran said. “He lives on the shore and could use the overtime. And he knows the lumberjack lingo. You should go yourself; it would be educational. Do you know what it means to get your teeth fixed?”

“No. What?”

“Go and see!”

From there he went to Lois’s Luncheonette to treat himself to breakfast. She served superlative eggs-over-lightly with American fries! Lois Inchpot was a buxom, bossy, hard-working woman, whose lunchroom had been a shabby downtown landmark for years and years. Her customers regularly took up a collection when new equipment was needed for the kitchen. And when the dingy walls needed repainting, they volunteered their time and came in on the weekend. To be one of Lois’s “family” was a mark of distinction, and although Qwilleran never soiled his hands, he bought the paint.

When Lois saw him through the kitchen pass-through she yelled, “Where’ve you been? Lost your taste for apple pie?”

“I’ve been out of town, but I thought about your apple pie constantly!”

“For that you get a free cup of coffee. Help yourself.”

It was a sociable place. There was loud conversation between tables and—in lowered voices—the best gossip in town. When the other customers saw their favorite newsman, they shouted:

“How does it feel to be back in civilization after livin’ with all them squirrels?”

“Do any fishin’ in the creek, Mr. Q?”

“Did they find the guy that got lost in the woods?”

Qwilleran looked at his watch. “Let’s tune in the news and find out.”

The WPKX announcer said:

“The motorist arrested by Pickax police officers yesterday afternoon will be arraigned today on charges of driving while impaired, failing to stop for a school bus, and causing damage to city property. The students, being bussed home from Pickax middle school, were wearing seat belts, and there were no personal injuries. Both vehicles sustained damage when the white station wagon sideswiped the bus.”

At a table near Qwilleran a man wearing mechanic’s coveralls said, “That was my next-door neighbor. His wife’s fit to be tied! It was a brand new station wagon—not a week old yet.”

“Shut up! We wanna hear the news!” someone yelled.

The announcer was saying, “. . . who jumped or fell from the Old Stone Bridge was pulled from the Black Creek early this morning by the sheriff’s rescue squad. They responded to a 911 call by a fisherman on the bridge who heard the splash and reported it on his cell phone. The unidentified body was that of a young woman—”

“Heard the splash!” yelled the mechanic. “Why didn’t he jump in and save her?”

“Shut up!”

From the loud speaker came the evasive newsbite: “. . . whose body was found yesterday in the Black Forest. No further information has been released by the sheriff’s department.”

“Somethin’ fishy about that,” the mechanic said. “Somethin’ they’re not tellin’!”

At the florist shop he asked a question of the friendly assistant whose name he could never remember; she had long blond hair—and blue eyes filled with perpetual wonder. Cindy? Mindy? Candy? “Are you going to be able to fill my order?”

“They went out on the truck first thing, Mr. Q. We had them shipped from Chicago. They’re beautiful!”

At the converted apple barn that was the official dwelling of the Siamese and himself, he packed his kilt, shoulder plaid, brogues and all the other paraphernalia for Scottish Night. It occurred to him that the vast building had a peculiar hush when there was no cat flesh in residence.

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.