Cat Who Went Up the Creek

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Mr. Qwilleran!” came a woman’s voice, forceful but cordial. “Do you remember me? Janelle—from the Safe Harbor Residence.”

  “Of course I remember you,” he said, concealing his surprise. Two years of college, contact with the workaday world, and a businesslike haircut had given her a managerial briskness that disguised her petite stature.

  The boss said, “Janelle, show him around. I have to make a few phone calls.”

  “Have you seen the recycled furniture?” she asked. “A young man in Sawdust City makes shutters, doors, small windows, railings and mantels into tables, desks, cabinets, chests, and so forth. They’re wonderful in beach houses and fun accents anywhere.”

  The mismatched components of each piece were given a coat of paint to tie everything together. White, terra-cotta and moss green were among the colors the creator had chosen.

  “What do you think?” Janelle asked.

  “Certainly original. Some are quite witty. They’ll appeal to people who don’t take themselves too seriously.”

  From somewhere came an impudent cry, “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”

  “Who said that?” Qwilleran demanded with facetious indignation.

  Giggling slightly, she said it was one of Arnold’s clocks. “He has shops in Lockmaster and Mooseville, but he likes the idea of having a booth in a mall.”

  On display in Arnold’s booth were brass andirons, cranberry glass candlesticks, Oriental scatter rugs with the mellowness of age, a birdcage made of twigs, framed engravings of Niagara Falls and the Hudson River, several pressed-wood kitchen clocks ticking loudly, and a cuckoo clock like the one Gus Limburger had promised to his handyman.

  Across the hall a dealer called for Janelle, and she excused herself to go and help. Qwilleran looked around and was attracted to a locked glass case in which several curiosities were displayed: a pair of bronze monkeys holding stubby candles, a tall brass oil lamp from India, a small pillow covered with a scrap of needlepoint worked with the date, 1847. The item that riveted his attention was a framed oil painting, about twelve by fifteen. It was a beach scene, obviously painted in the twenties, judging from the modest bathing attire.

  “What is this display?” he asked Janelle when she returned.

  “It’s a not-for-sale loan-exhibit. We’re having a sign made. The dealers are invited to show their personal treasures. Each one will have a label identifying the item and the owner. The oil painting is mine.”

  “It has a haunting quality. How do you happen to own it?”

  “It’s a long story! With kind of a spooky ending.”

  “I’d like to hear it if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, I’d love to tell you!” she glanced at the growing activity in the hall.

  “When you’re not busy,” he said quickly, “and when I have my tape recorder.”

  “I could come in early tomorrow—nine thirty . . .”

  “Done deal!” he said, as another dealer cried “Miss Van Roop!”

  Kemple came out of the office. “How do you like what you see?”

  “So far, so good. What’s the platform at the end of the hall?”

  “It was used for auctions when the flea market was here, but they’ve been discontinued. We haven’t decided, yet, what to do with it.”

  “How would you like a loan-exhibit of museum-quality black walnut furniture dated 1900—with a romantic history to boot?”

  “Are you kidding me? Or what?”

  “It belongs to the K Fund and needs a temporary home until the new museum is built. It’s heavily insured, of course.”

  “I know. Anything the K Fund does is done right. What’ll they want from us?”

  “Some kind of barrier around the edge of the platform, so the public has no access to the exhibit items.”

  Kemple said, “Janelle’s boyfriend could build one out of old porch railings. He’s the guy who builds recycled furniture from bits and pieces of old houses. When would you be moving the stuff in? Maybe we should have an armed guard,” he added with a chuckle.

  Qwilleran said, “Would you like to hand out leaflets telling the story behind the furniture. There’s an element of mystery about the three mirrors, all of which are cracked in the same unusual way.”

  “This is getting better all the time. Where do we get those?”

  “I have all the information,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll write the copy, and you can have it run off at the quick-print shop in Pickax.”

  “Wait till my partner hears this!” Kemple said.

  alt="[image]"/>Qwilleran returned home in high spirits. He had pulled strings, thrown his weight around, killed two birds with one stone, and told a couple of harmless fibs. By way of celebration he announced “Crabmeat tonight!” as the Siamese met him at the door.

  First he called the attorney at home. “Bart, I won’t apologize for calling you at home on Sunday, because I know you’re eager for this information. The Antique Village that’s opening this weekend is a class-act under Ernie Kemple’s eagle eye, and they are interested in having our black walnut furniture as a loan-exhibit. We’d better insure it.”

  “What’s its value?”

  “Seventy-five thousand at least. It’s a hundred years old, of rare quality, and rich in legend.”

  “Who can verify that?”

  “Susan Exbridge.”

  Next Qwilleran called the antique dealer at home. “Susan, if Allen Barter calls you about some hundred-year-old black walnut furniture with a red-hot provenance, it’s okay to say it’s worth seventy-five thousand. I’ll explain to you later.”

  “Anything you say, darling,” she purred.

  “Have you heard they’re going to build a historical museum? I’m sure they’ll want you to be on the board of directors.”

  Finally he called Nick Bamba. “I’ve found a new home for the black walnut furniture that we moved to Sandpit Road. It will be a loan-exhibit at the Antique Village. They’ll be ready for it this week. Can you accommodate them when they call? Eventually it will move to the museum being built—but don’t repeat this. It won’t be officially announced until the right location is found.”

  Qwilleran hung up with satisfaction. Starting an unfounded rumor was one of the chief pleasures 400 miles north of everywhere.

  At six o’clock he ambled along the creek to Cabin One, where the Underhills were waiting outside Hannah’s porch.

  “She’s putting her face on,” Wendy said. “She bought a new pantsuit to wear tonight, and she looks splendiferous!”

  Doyle said, “Have you seen our new neighbors in Cabin Four? They claim to be fly-fishermen, and one was fly-casting in the creek this morning, but I think they’re cops, working on the Hackett case.”

  “Here she comes!”

  Hannah did indeed look handsome, a far cry from the dumpy, dowdy character in the opera. Her fans applauded and shouted “Bravo! . . . Congratulations! . . . Will you give me an autograph?”

  She responded with smiles and admirable poise.

  They walked up to the inn with an escort of squirrels, expecting peanuts.

  “They multiply like rabbits,” Doyle said. “What happens when the inn has ten thousand on the premises?”

  “They transport them to Canada,” Qwilleran said, “under cover of darkness.”

  At the inn Cathy Hooper was enjoying her responsibility as interim manager. “Mr. and Mrs. Bamba are in Mooseville,” she said, “taking Lovey and Grandma to church and out to Sunday dinner.”

  Qwilleran’s party was seated at his favorite table in the window, and he ordered a bottle of champagne for his guests and a split of “poor man’s champagne” for himself (an extra-dry ginger ale). He had also arranged for a floral centerpiece with Hannah’s name on the tag. Glasses were raised to Hannah, and compliments flowed like the wine.

  Then Qwilleran said, “I have something to report about the video of ‘Pirates’ that you lent me, Hannah. It has an unusual appeal for my male cat, although he’s never attracted to the T
V screen unless the programming is about tropical birds. I’ve played it twice, and both times he’s become quite excited.”

  “Keep it for a while,” she said. “Although I enjoyed rehearsing and performing, I’m glad it’s over and I can do other things. You don’t need to return it until you leave.”

  Wendy asked, “What other things are you going to do?”

  The reply was hesitant. “Well . . . right now I’m concerned about the boy next door. He’s awfully neglected and I can’t help thinking about my grandson who’s his age. I keep some books and games and puzzles for his visits, and I’m going to ask Marge if he can come over for milk and cookies and Chinese checkers.”

  They placed their orders (roast loin of lamb for the women, lamb shank for the men). Then Qwilleran brought up the subject of the old books in the cabins. “I assume you all have a shelf of popular classics. I suggest an exchange program. I have an Alice in Wonderland. Any takers?”

  Hannah said, “I could read it to my grandkids when they come visiting.”

  Doyle said, “If anyone has a Fanny Hill, I’ll trade two to one.”

  “Would you settle for Lolita in French?” Qwilleran asked.

  Wendy asked, “Would anyone like The Picture of Dorian Gray? I think it’s by Ogden Nash.”

  “Oscar Wilde,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll take it. My favorite is Trollope.”

  Jules Verne and Henry James went on the block.

  The books were forgotten when the entrees were served, but after a while Qwilleran inquired about the Bushland photo show in Pickax.

  Doyle said, “That guy has great talent, and he’s real down-to-earth. He invited us for a cruise on his boat.”

  Hannah said, “I know Bushy. He photographed my miniatures. His ancestors were commercial fishermen.”

  Qwilleran asked Doyle, “Are you satisfied with the wildlife shots you’re getting?”

  “Well, I’m limited, shooting from the creek. Most species are inland, but Wendy doesn’t want me to go into the woods.”

  “There are bears and wolves in the woods,” she said. “And swamps. I don’t want him going ashore alone. Anything could happen. He could break a leg, and who would know—”

  “I could take a cell phone.”

  “That would do a lot of good if a black bear came up behind you while you were shooting her cubs. Female bears can be very protective, very savage. You’ve seen that huge mounted bear at the Black Bear Café! . . . What do you think, Qwill?”

  What could he say? “It would seem prudent to have a partner.”

  Hannah said, “Qwill, do you remember the bears that used to come to the dump in Mooseville? They were a big tourist attraction. But they were feeding the bears, and the wildlife people objected. Then the dump was replaced by a modern disposal system. And the bears disappeared.”

  Doyle guessed, “Probably sent to zoos around the country.”

  “I know what happened to them!” Wendy said with her brown eyes flashing. “A friend of mine is a forest ranger. She told me the bears were transported to the Black Forest Conservancy, where they can have a natural diet—and proliferate!!”

  “Wendy always overreacts,” her husband said.

  “He never listens to me! And he knows it stresses me when he takes chances!”

  There was a moment of awkward silence until Qwilleran signaled for the plates to be removed and said, “Shall we look at the dessert menu. I recommend the black walnut pie.”

  Doyle was cool, but Wendy’s face was flushed.

  “Speaking of pie,” Hannah said hastily, “I’ve been reading nursery rhymes to Danny, and he wanted to know how the blackbirds could sing if they’d been baked in a pie.”

  That reminded Qwilleran that Danny had come to see if the cats had found their mittens.

  There was more uncomfortable small talk while they waited for three orders of pie; Wendy had decided against having dessert. And the festive spirit of the occasion never revived.

  They walked back down the hill—Hannah chattering to Doyle, Qwilleran trying to cheer up Wendy—and they forgot to exchange books.

  chapter eleven

  Early on Monday morning Qwilleran went to the inn for a quick breakfast, taking his review of Pirates to be faxed. He also told the Bambas about the plans for the black walnut heirlooms at the Antique Village.

  Nick said, “I’ll send two guys to Sandpit Road to get them out of hock—right away!”

  “Not so fast!” Qwilleran said. “Arrangements have to be made. And when you pick up the stuff, you should be one of the guys. We don’t want the cracked mirrors to be shattered. The way they’re cracked, they’re mysterious; if shattered, they would be just a mess.”

  “Will we get a credit line for the exhibit?”

  “A tasteful card,” Qwilleran told him, “will say that the pieces were found in a turret at the Nutcracker Inn, where they had been locked up for a hundred years. It will also be mentioned in the leaflet handed out to visitors.”

  Lori said, “Qwill, you’d make a wonderful publicity man!”

  “Watch your language! To a journalist, them’s fighting words.”

  Janelle was waiting in the office of the Antique Village when Qwilleran arrived with his tape recorder. She poured two cups of coffee. The painting itself had been brought from the display case and was propped on the desk. Briefly he tried to analyze its fascination. Although it had been painted long ago and far away, the people on the beach seemed so real that one was teleported into the scene. Sunning, digging in the sand, and reading all without a beer cooler or topless swimmer.

  “Okay, how did you happen to acquire this painting?” he asked Janelle.

  “Well,” she began, “when I was attending MCCC, a classmate and I went to Chicago on spring break. First time! We gawked at the tall buildings, squealed when we rode the elevated, giggled on escalators, and ate food we’d never heard of before. One day we ventured into a big gallery selling furniture from European castles and paintings as big as billboards. But I saw this little painting among the giants and couldn’t stop staring at it. A man was walking around with his hands behind his back, and I asked about it. He said it came in a large shipment and was smaller than they usually handled, but if I liked it I could have it for ten dollars! I felt weak in the knees!”

  “Were you able to learn anything about it?”

  “A sticker on the back gives 1921 as the date and the name of a gallery in Amsterdam. It’s signed, but no one can make out the signature.”

  It was a beach scene with the ocean in the background and the sand dotted with bathers and some beach chairs made of wicker and hooded for protection against the sun.

  Qwilleran said, “I don’t see any sun worshippers, any bikinis, any frisbees or any Jet Skis.”

  A small boy with a tin pail and shovel was sitting on the sand, digging, while a woman bent over him with motherly concern. She was wearing a blue dress with short full skirt and puffed sleeves—the focal point of the artwork—also a cloche hat and knee-high stockings.

  Janelle said, “I showed it to some elderly women, and they said that was a bathing dress; the cloche was a rubber bathing hat; she was wearing bathing shoes and bathing stockings. That was how she took a dip in the waves. . . . But you haven’t heard the best part! I was living at home, and my mother let me hang my treasure in the living room. One day my grandfather visited us. He was born in the Netherlands, and he said, ‘I know that beach! I was there when the picture was painted! . . . That’s me digging in the sand! The woman in blue was my mother!’ Qwill, it gave me shivers! The woman in blue was my great-grandmother! Is that why the painting had such a powerful attraction for me in the gallery?”

  “Hmmm,” he mused, tamping his moustache. “Amazing coincidence!” He lived with Koko; he knew all about amazing coincidence.

  “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” came a poorly timed comment from the main hall.

  “Same to you!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Janelle, thanks for a thought-provoking
story. It’ll run in my Friday space, and readers can come in to see the painting on Saturday.”

  Another voice came from the main hall, “Ms. Van! Ms. Van! They spelled my name wrong on my booth!”

  Janelle shrugged. Qwilleran saluted and left.

  On the way home he stopped at the inn for mail and found two postcards from Polly. The first had a view of an early maritime village—and bad news:

  Dear Qwill—Lost one of my good gold earrings! Looked everywhere! Retraced my steps! Can’t imagine how it happened. Sprained ankle—nothing serious!

  Love from Polly

  Qwilleran could imagine; she had been drinking navy grog; rum was not her drink. . . . The second card, mailed the next day, came from Sturbridge Village, showing a white colonial house with a horse and carriage at the door.

  Dear Qwill—Delightful place! I could spend a week here! So peaceful! Picturesque farmhouses, meadows, split-rail fences. Walter found my earring!

  Love from Polly

  Qwilleran wondered why she had not mentioned where Walter found the earring. But he had other matters on his mind, such as what to write for the “Qwill Pen” column the next day. He thought he could write a thousand words on “Whiskers in the White House” . . . who, when and why . . . to shave or not to shave . . . the connection between war and facial hair . . . political influences . . .

  He carried his typewriter to the porch and had inserted a sheet of paper when Yum Yum leaped up and landed like a feather, purring throatily. She was in one of her amorous moods, having followed him around and rubbed his ankles ever since he returned. Now she was going to monitor his typing, listening to the click of the keys, watching the carriage travel slowly across and then jerk back.

  Half in kindliness and half in self-defense, he picked her up and walked back and forth, massaging her ears, nuzzling the back of her neck with his chin, whispering sweet words that he would not wish to have quoted. With a sudden grunt she jumped to the floor, walked to the kitchen for a drink of water, then settled down for a nap on the blue cushion. “Cats!” Qwilleran muttered as he returned to his typing. The click of keys resounded across the water, and a passing canoeist yelled a greeting. It was Doyle, going up the creek to disappear in a swamp, or be bitten by a rabid fox, or get clobbered by a bear, or suffer some other fate that his wife feared.