Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Up The Creek

“Did you find it difficult to think small?” Qwilleran asked.

“Not really. On a one-to-twelve scale, one inch equals one foot. You can paint a whole room with half a cup of paint.”

“And a very small brush, I imagine. . . . Where did you start? What was your first project?”

“An old-fashioned dining room. I bought the table, six chairs, a sideboard, a mantelpiece and a gaslight style of chandelier. I stained the furniture, rubbed it with ash to look old, stenciled the walls to look like wallpaper, upholstered the chair seats, and so forth. For a rug I daubed designs on a nine-by-twelve-inch piece of velvet.”

“How long did this take?”

“You don’t count the hours when you’re having fun, Qwill, or solving a problem or developing an idea. My miniature dining room needed candlesticks, a table centerpiece and pictures to hang on the walls. Using a small miter box to cut moldings with clean corners, I made the frames for thumbnail-size pictures. One was a portrait of a blue jay—actually a postage stamp.”

“What’s the smallest detail that ever confronted you?”

She had to think a while. “Well, in my country kitchen I had a one-inch cat curled up asleep on the hearth, with some food left in his half-inch bowl, and a mouse was sneaking up to steal some of it. The problem was, what to use for the tail of a mouse that’s only a sixth of an inch long.”

“Dare I ask what you decided to use?”

She looked smug. “A bristle from my toothbrush! Of course, it had to be painted mouse-gray.”

As he escorted her back to her cabin, Qwilleran asked, “Do you have a finished project that I could see?”

“I’m afraid I’ve given them all to friends and relatives, but they’ve all been photographed, and I could show you some eight-by-tens. Shall we sit on the porch and have a glass of lemonade?”

Hannah’s miniature rooms were incredible, and the photography was excellent. “Who shot these?” Qwilleran asked.

“John Bushland.”

“I know Bushy. He’s the best in the county.”

“He does it as a courtesy,” she explained. “His family used to be in commercial fishing.”

As Hannah related the baffling story about the disappearance of the Bushland boat and crew, which he had heard before, Qwilleran laid his plans: He would run the interview in his Tuesday column . . . and get Junior Goodwinter to devote the Tuesday picture page to six miniature rooms . . . using Bushy’s photos.

She interrupted his concentration with a question. “Do you like Gilbert and Sullivan? The Mooseland chorus is presenting Pirates of Penzance next weekend, and I’m singing the role of Ruth the nursemaid. If you’re interested, I can get you tickets.”

“Thank you,” he said, “but as a matter of fact, I’m reviewing it for the newspaper.”

On returning to the inn, he found Nick in the office. “Has Koko been disturbing the peace?”

“Nope. All quiet on the third-floor front.”

“Any word from the guy in the end cabin?”

“Nope. I’m going down to scout the scene. Want to come?”

“May I bring Koko? Any little diversion will improve his disposition.”

They drove down the hill and parked behind Cabin Five. Nick used his master key, and the three of them entered speculatively: Koko sniffing everything, Qwilleran appraising the accommodations, Nick scanning the premises for clues to Hackett’s intentions. His luggage was half packed, and gray trousers, white polo shirt and brown oxfords were laid out for the trip. In the bathroom the contents of a toiletries kit were scattered about: toothbrush, dentifrice, denture bath, shaving needs, foot powder, analgesic muscle rub, and so forth.

Nick checked the plumbing, refrigerator, TV and lamps. “As soon as we can get rid of him, Qwill, the housekeeper will make up the room, and you can move in.”

Koko was inordinately curious about the oxfords. Qwilleran thought, It’s the foot powder; the cat was suspicious of anything with a medicinal odor. Then he went into the bathroom and found a green plastic box with a hinged lid—the denture bath. Qwilleran thought, He thinks he’s found a treasure. “It makes him feel important,” he explained.

“Well, nothing more we can do,” Nick said. “Let’s go.”

He was locking the back door when a loud, angry voice came from the next cabin. He said, “That’s Mrs. Truffle laying out the contractor who’s building her house, or her attorney in Milwaukee, or her nephew in Detroit. Judging from the rocks she wears, she’s loaded, and she likes to throw her weight around. . . . It’s time for the nightly news. Shall we turn on the car radio?”

They heard the WPKX announcer say. “The body of an adult male was found in the Black Creek north of the Stone Bridge earlier today—fully clothed but without identification. The victim was described as about forty, six feet tall, weighing about one-seventy, and having dark hair, upper and lower dentures, and a prominent birthmark under the left ear. If this description fits anyone thought to be missing, listeners are urged to notify the sheriff.

“It’s him!” Nick shouted. “I remember the birthmark.”

Qwilleran looked at Koko and remembered the denture bath.

chapter four

As Qwilleran was shaving on Monday morning, he noticed the cats watching the door to the hall. Yum Yum’s tail was waving amiably while Koko’s was bushed, and a growl deep in his chest rose to a snarl in high C.

Qwilleran opened the door a quarter of an inch and closed it quickly. He went to the phone and called the office.

Lori answered cheerfully, “Good morning! Nutcracker Inn.” She was a different person, now that the three broken mirrors were gone. Or so it seemed. He was not prepared to believe it.

Gruffly he said, “We are being held hostage in suite 3FF! Would you call off your rodent control officer?”

“Oh, Qwill! Is Nicodemus up there? I’ll send the porter for him. Perhaps we should confine him to our cottage until you move into your cabin.”

“What’s the situation down by the creek? Did Nick call the sheriff last night?”

“Yes, and he had to go to Pickax to identify the body! He didn’t get home until three this morning! I’m letting him sleep in. The drowned man is our Mr. Hackett, all right, but we can’t rent the cabin until the state police detectives inspect it. That’s all I know, but it sounds suspicious, doesn’t it? Nick can give you the details. I’ll have him call you when he wakes up.”

When Qwilleran went downstairs to breakfast, he vetoed the quiche that the server was promoting and ordered ham and eggs with American fries. There were times when only comfort food would do. He reveled in the familiar old tastes and textures, at the same time reviewing his evening with Hannah Hawley. It had been a pleasant occasion as well as a productive interview. And when he confessed that he had sung the role of the pirate king during his college days, she was not surprised; she could identify a fine voice quality when she heard one.

She said, “Why don’t you join the Mooseland chorus, Qwill? It’s a wonderful feeling—singing together and being in harmony with others. And you’d like Uncle Louie, our director. He makes every rehearsal fun ! He’s from Canada and knows Gilbert and Sullivan backward and forward.”

And then Qwilleran had said, “If I couldn’t be Shakespeare, I’d like to be W. S. Gilbert, composing farcical plots and outrageous lyrics.”

Together they made a list of favorite rhymes: man’s affection and bad complexion . . . matters mathematical and simple and quadratical . . . A lot of news and hypotenuse . . . Felonious little crimes and merry village chimes.