Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Up The Creek

The two men enjoyed playing tricks on each other, much as they had done when they were eight years old. Riker wrote absurd fan letters, anonymously, to the “Qwill Pen” columnist who, in turn, sent unsuitable gifts, anonymously, to the editor and publisher.

As for the famous black walnut staircase, it had already been photographed by Roger MacGillivray, former history teacher now working for the Something. Qwilleran knew him to be an ailurophobe and had locked the Siamese in the bedroom before Roger’s arrival.

“Where are they?” the pale young man asked.

“In the bedroom, handcuffed to the bedpost, and—in case they get loose and break down the bedroom door—they’re muzzled!”

The photographer exposed plenty of film, showing the staircase from all angles. In one of them a bushy-tailed squirrel could be seen peering through the window. “That’s it! That’s the one they’ll use!”

“Can you join me for breakfast, Rog?”

“I’d like to, but I’m the only leg man on duty, and I’ve gotta shoot a couple of paintings at the art center—best-of-show and popular favorite. I don’t know what to expect. They’re self-portraits by kids.”

“I was one of the judges,” said Qwilleran, “and I can tell you right now that the winner won’t reproduce in black-and-white. It’s a girl with pale yellow hair and pale blue eyes, wearing a pale pink dress against a pale lavender background.”

“All I can do is print it up as contrasty as possible—and explain to the picture desk. Maybe they can cover it in the cutline.”

The Siamese were beginning to howl, and Roger made a quick exit.

In the dining room Qwilleran was seated at a table next to a couple involved in animated discussion. They were dressed as if they had just come from church. They were fortyish and spirited enough to make Qwilleran wonder who they were. He opened the Wilson Quarterly he had brought along and pretended to read while listening. The man was husky and had a firm jaw, twinkling eyes, and a tuft of hair falling boyishly over his forehead; the woman had a pleasant voice and expressive hands.

The man asked, “So it’s definite that he’s going to come and speak?”

“Oh, yes! We’re covering all his expenses. The date will be firmed up tomorrow. We’re quite flexible on that score.”

“Who will attend?”

“Only MCCC people.”

“Do you know the gist of his speech?”

“The future of MCCC: opportunities, problems, warnings. It should be the most important event we’ve ever had.”

“It certainly seems so.”

They ordered chicken liver omelets; Qwilleran had eggs Benedict. Both finished at about the same time. They paid by credit card and left the dining room. Qwilleran charged his brunch to 3FF and followed them into the lobby, where the man was looking at a photo exhibit of ancient black walnut trees with enormous trunks.

The hostess said, “Mr. Qwilleran, did you enjoy your brunch?”

The man with the firm jaw and twinkling eyes whirled around. “Mr. Qwilleran! My wife and I are avid readers of yours! I’m Bruce Abernethy.”

“And compliments to you, doctor, on your letter to the editor Friday.”

“Someone has to speak up,” was the modest reply. “This is my wife, Nell. She keeps a ‘Qwill Pen’ scrapbook.”

Merrily she said, “He passed up a Henrietta and a Thomasina to get a one-syllable wife.”

“It wasn’t her name I went for; it was her black walnut pie.”

“Mr. Q, if we promise to serve it at the MCCC luncheon, will you be our guest of honor?”

“It would be my pleasure!” He was quite sincere. He had been looking for an appropriate entrée into the hard-shelled academic clique at the college.

“Wonderful! We’re having a guest speaker, but I’ll have to notify you of the time and place.”

Then the doctor said, “Andrew Brodie told us you were spending a few weeks in Black Creek—and that you might be interested in an experience I had at the age of eleven.”

“Yow-w-w!” came an unearthly sound form the upper floors. Everyone in the lobby looked up.

“I would!!” Qwilleran said with a distracted glance upstairs.

“Yow-w-w!”

“That’s my cat! Excuse me . . .”

“Call me! Wednesday’s my day off!”

Qwilleran ran up the stairs three at a time, and even as he unlocked the door to 3FF, the tumult increased.

“Please!” he scolded Koko. “This is a public establishment! If you don’t moderate your crescendos, they’ll kick us out!”

It was a weak argument, because that was probably what the crafty rogue wanted.

Qwilleran tried a different tack. “How would you like a walk down to the creek?” He dangled the harness and leash, causing Yum Yum to disappear and Koko to prowl in anticipation.

“Going for a walk” meant that the man walked and the cat rode on his shoulder, securely harnessed and leashed. They rode the elevator and went out the back door to avoid inquisitive guests in the lobby. When they started downhill to the creek, however, well-meaning sightseers converged on them with the usual naïve comments and gender confusion.

“Is that a cat ?”

“It’s so skinny!”

“Hey, look! She has blue eyes!”

“Does he bite?”

“Nice kitty! Nice kitty!”

“Is it a girl or a boy?”

Kao K’o Kung—from his lofty perch—looked down on the rabble in disdain. As for Qwilleran, he had some snippy replies to their questions, but he held his tongue. Squirrels scattered at the sight of the cat, each running up its favorite tree. One of them had her baby tucked under her chin, while its tiny forelegs clutched her neck.

At the water’s edge seven crows strutted nonchalantly. Trout jumped out of the water for skeeters, causing Koko to jerk his head excitedly, this way and that. Then his body stiffened; Qwilleran could feel the tension on his shoulder. Did the cat see an otter swimming, or a raccoon on the opposite shore? No, something was drifting down the creek.

Qwilleran glanced in several directions before dashing toward the first cabin. “Do you have a phone?” he shouted to someone on the screened porch. “I need to call 911!” He was now clutching a struggling cat under one arm.

A woman let him in and pointed indoors. “On the kitchen wall!” She turned off some music.

To the operator he said, “There’s a body floating down stream in the Black Creek. It just passed the Nutcracker Inn, about half a mile south of the Stone Bridge—moving slowly—not much current. Face down—fully clothed—I think it’s a man.”

“Oh, dear!” the woman said when he hung up. “I couldn’t help hearing what you said. Isn’t that awful! Must have fallen out of a boat.” She clutched her throat, and her face flushed. “It’s so upsetting—a drowning . . .”

“Sit down, ma’am. I’ll get you a glass of water,” said Qwilleran, still clutching Koko, looped with a few feet of leash and squirming irritably. “Try to relax, ma’am. Take some slow deep breaths.”

She sipped the water gratefully, nodding her thanks. “My husband drowned . . . four years ago.”

“I know how you must feel. A terrible tragedy! But don’t try to talk yet. Do you mind if I put the cat down on the floor?” She waved an assent; he released the struggling animal while keeping a firm hand on the leash.

“Thank you so much,” she said with a deep sigh. “He was a commercial fisherman . . . a sudden storm . . . left three families of widows and orphans.”

Koko was now prowling in a zigzag, nose to the floor like a bloodhound. While keeping an eye on him Qwilleran said, “I remember the incident. I knew those men. I’d been out on the lake with the commercial fleet—”