Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Up The Creek

The dealer said:

“Hand-carved in Germany’s Black Forest probably early twentieth century—linden wood—mechanically operated by weights in the old style—eight-day movement. Cuckoo pops out on the hour, but there’s a way to shut him off at night. Some people like to hear it at night; they say it doesn’t disturb—only reassures.”

Qwilleran thought, It would drive me crazy, and the cats would climb up the wall and kill it. It was not for himself, however. He inquired casually, “What are you asking for it?”

“Three hundred, but if I thought it would have a good home, I’d let it go for two-seventy-five.”

“Oh,” Qwilleran said and started to walk away.

“Two-fifty, sir!”

“Hmmm . . . It’s for a gift. Do you have a box? Nothing fancy.”

“I can find one out back; just give me ten minutes. . . . Will it be check or credit card, sir?”

Qwilleran walked among the crowd, chatting with friends.

Nell Abernethy said, “Don’t tell anyone, but the secret of my black walnut pie is maple syrup and a dash of vinegar to cut the sweetness.”

Ernie Kemple lowered his booming voice and confided, “My ex-wife is asking for a reconciliation. . . . No way!”

Burgess Campbell, blind from birth, was there with Alexander, his guide dog. “I come for the fellowship and because Alexander is hooked on haggis. Have you bought anything Qwill?”

“Yes, I picked up a couple of scamadiddles at a reasonable price.” It was a private joke between the two men, and Burgess roared with laughter, causing the dog to nudge him. “Trouble with Alex—he has no sense of humor.”

Qwilleran picked up his clock and drove back to the creek, where he knocked on the back door of Cabin One.

“Qwill, you look wonderful!” Hannah cried when she saw his Highland attire. “Come in! What are you carrying?”

He said, “I’ve found the cuckoo clock that Gus Limburger promised to your nephew. It was stolen from the mansion, you remember.”

“Aubrey will be so happy! Where did you find it?”

“That’s classified information. . . . How’s Danny?”

“He’s asleep. I bought him a toothbrush and showed him how to brush his teeth and say his prayers. Then I sang ‘Danny Boy,’ changing the words a bit. He’s a good boy. He ate his carrots when I told him to. . . . Won’t you come in, Qwill?”

“Thanks, but I have to go home and feed the cats.”

He could hear Koko’s yowling coming from Cabin Five. That cat recognized the sound of Qwilleran’s motor a block away! The yowling stopped when the brown van stopped at the back door. It had been daylight when Qwilleran left; now the interior was dark. He flicked the wall switch. There—scattered all over the floor—were Doyle’s photos!

“Bad cat!” he shouted, clapping his palms together in a loud reprimand. It sent the guilty Koko flying about the room. Yum Yum, perched on the TV, watched the performance in dismay.

“Out! Out!” Qwilleran opened the door to the screened porch, and the two of them rushed out, willingly, to enjoy the mysteries of the night.

He changed into a jumpsuit and crawled about the floor, collecting prints and loading them into the yellow boxes without bothering to sort the categories. That could be done later. Only one photo did he reserve—another shot of the picnickers eating hot dogs.

He hoped the cat had not drooled on any of them. His saliva and raspy tongue had damaged glossy photos in the past.

In daylight it would be easier to look for rough spots.

chapter sixteen

Moving day! Qwilleran surprised the cats by rising early and feeding them a smorgasbord of leftovers from the refrigerator. He, himself, drove to the inn for one more memorable breakfast and then to Olsen’s to buy gas and check the oil and tires. He also showed Jake Olsen an eight-by-ten photo, asking, “Do you recognize the fellow in a baseball cap?”

“Sure! He comes around to gas up his truck and order take-outs from the lunch counter. Haven’t seen him for a couple of days, though. . . . And hey! He’s the guy who was trying to hire extras for a logging movie. It fell through, but he decided to stay and do some deep-sea fishing.”

“Hope you have a good summer, Jake. I’m moving back to Pickax, but I’ll drop in once in a while to have my air pressure checked—for old times’ sake. And good luck with the reenactment!”

Olsen’s was around the corner from the Antique Village, and Qwilleran stopped there to ask questions: Did they consider Scottish Night a success? Did the dealers sell much? Which was more popular—the fruit punch or the Scotch? How did people react to the exhibit of Elsa’s black walnut furniture? (The answers to the first three were: yes . . . no . . . fifty-fifty).

“But they flipped over Elsa’s furniture,” Janelle said, “and some of the women want to start an Elsa club—not just another gossip circle, but a discussion group about women’s problems, the decisions they have to make, today’s attitudes and so forth.”

Qwilleran said it might make copy for the “Qwill Pen” after it got started.

When he returned to Cabin Five, he found that the Siamese had devised their own farewell: All the built-in drawers on nylon rollers were open—all twenty-three of them! Who could say that animals have no sense of humor?

alt="[image]"/>All three residents of the converted apple barn were glad to be home. The Siamese raced up and down the ramp that connected the three balconies.

Qwilleran, after unpacking, went to Toodle’s Market to buy frozen macaroni and cheese for himself and boned turkey for the cats.

After that he moved them to the screened gazebo while he sorted Doyle’s photos into the original categories. There were only two prints damaged by Koko’s saliva and raspy tongue, but they were important shots. How did the cat know? What was he trying to say? Or was it coincidental?

alt="[image]"/>Qwilleran kept an eye on his watch; he was scheduled to meet Polly at five o’clock. The shuttle was never on time, but waiting for it was half the fun; groundlings bantered in Moose County style:

“I hear the skeeter-meter is up ten points.”

“The stores have run out of insect repellent.”

“The tourists are getting it on the black market.”

“Here she comes!” A small speck had appeared in the sky to the south.

“Can you see if she’s still got both wings?”

A shout went up when the wheels touched down, and the meeters-and-greeters walked out on the tarmac. Polly was the last to come down the gangway, using a cane and descending carefully, her bad ankle hidden by a trouser-leg.

While other travelers were embraced as fortunate survivors, Qwilleran and Polly reserved fond greetings until later; the busybodies were always watching.

“Need a wheelchair?” he asked.

“No thanks, dear. The cane is just to command special attention.”

“You’re a sly one! Did you have your ankle X-rayed?”

“Yes. It’s not serious.”

“Where’s my friend Walter?”

“I sent him back to Ohio,” she said in a matter-of-fact way, leading Qwilleran to wonder, Could she have invented him? . . . No, she’s not devious enough or creative enough to play such a trick. . . . but it would have been a clever one!

When her luggage was stowed in the van and they were on the road to her Indian Village condo, she said, “I’ve missed Brutus and Catta so much! I wonder if they’ve missed me?”

“I know they have,” Qwilleran said. “I could tell by their look of disappointment when I unlocked your door and went in to cheer them up.”

“I can hardly wait to see them! . . . How was your stay at the Nutcracker?”

“Interesting. There were two murders, a suicide and a heart attack—all guests from Down Below, staying in the rustic cabins along the creek.”