Cat Who Went Up the Creek

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “What’s her name?”

  “Wendy’s maiden name was Satterlee.”

  Hannah went home to her meat loaf, and Qwilleran thought, If Joe didn’t go fishing every day, as he claimed, what exactly was he doing? Prospecting for gold illegally? Was Hackett his partner—or competitor? Did Joe conk him on the head, throw him in the creek, and steal his car? The trunk was probably filled with gold rocks. But who drove it away? A third person must have driven it out of the state and switched the license plates.

  It was time to stop inventing a scenario and dress for the MCCC luncheon. He would wear the gray polo shirt and slacks combination that accentuated his pepper-and-salt moustache—along with his summer jacket in the Mackintosh tartan. It always drew admiring glances, and although he exhibited nonchalance, he was not averse to admiring glances. Polly had said he should wear more gray, because it made his eyes look gray. . . . This bit of trivia he always remembered when dressing. (Vanity! Vanity!) Nevertheless, when he arrived at the inn, both Cathy and Lori told him he looked wonderful. The postcard he picked up was “Independence Hall” again. The message read:

  Dear Qwill—All this and Greenfield Village, too! Acres and acres of history! Home soon. Wish you could meet Walter. You’d like him.

  Love, Polly

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Walter was beginning to sound like a member of the family.

  The foyer was filled with men and women heading for the private dining room—exchanging loud greetings, hearty handshakes, even hugs! It was surprising that the prospect of lunch at the Nutcracker could inspire such a festive mood. Especially since they would be getting only chicken potpie. Qwilleran waited until they were all seated around the long tables perpendicular to the speaker’s table. Nell met him with effusive greetings. “You look wonderful, Qwill—but you always do!” She escorted him to the head table, where he was seated between a buxom woman with dyed red hair and an elderly man with a goatee and one gold earring. Their names were not familiar, although they knew his. As a columnist he was accustomed to this one-sided acquaintance.

  Still, their friendliness, flamboyant modes of dress, and occasional shrieks of laughter seemed to him somewhat . . . unscholarly.

  Then Nell tapped a water glass with a spoon and called the meeting to order. “Welcome to the annual tri-county luncheon of the Moustache Cup Collectors Club!”

  Qwilleran gulped. How could he have made such a miscalculation? While keeping up a conversation with the red hair and the goatee, he tried to rework his limerick.

  Nell was saying, “We are privileged to have as our speaker the leading authority on the collectibles so near and dear to our hearts.” (Applause.) “And our distinguished guest-of-honor is the newspaper columnist whose wit and wisdom brighten our lives every Tuesday and Friday.” (More applause—a trifle louder and more enthusiastic, Qwilleran noted with misgiving.) “How much time did he have to compose a moustache cup limerick? Moustache, dash, panache.

  Nell was saying, “But first, let us relax and enjoy the delicious lunch that the chef has prepared especially for us!” (Applause again. Did they know it would be only chicken potpie?)

  Hoping to pick up inspiration for his limerick, Qwilleran did what journalists do: He asked questions and listened to answers.

  Moustaches, he learned, always increased in popularity following a war. The first moustache cup was introduced in England in the 1800s. Men waxed their moustaches and, when drinking hot tea, found the wax melting and running down the chin, or dripping into the beverage. The moustache cup—with a hole through which to sip—should not be confused with the shaving mug, which has three holes.

  The man to Qwilleran’s left claimed to have about fifty moustache cups; he had lost count. The woman to his right had just acquired a lustreware cup with hand-painted yellow roses. Nell said she specialized in cups with inscriptions, such as “Dear Papa, I love you best.”

  They talked about potter’s marks, fakes, and such rare items as a three-legged kettle-shaped cup, and a left-handed sterling silver spoon for sipping soup.

  After the chicken potpie and broccoli salad and before the dessert, the closed doors to the room opened slowly, and Nick Bamba slipped into the room. He found Qwilleran and whispered in his ear before making a quick exit.

  “No!” Qwilleran responded more loudly than he intended.

  He went to where Nell was sitting, whispered in her ear, then hurried from the room.

  Nick was waiting in the hallway. “It was on the air: Body of missing person found in Black Forest—name withheld—cause of death not yet known—”

  “That means they know but they’re not telling. How did you find out he was shot?”

  “Called my contact in the sheriff’s office. He didn’t know if wolves reached the body before the search party did.”

  “I don’t want to know. . . . Was his camera gone?”

  “That wasn’t mentioned. Was it an expensive one?”

  “More likely the exposed film would be more important to the shooter. Sounds to me like another gold prospector, afraid of having his illegal operation photographed. This is a tragic situation for Wendy. What can be done?”

  “We thought her doctor should be given the facts, so she can act in the best interests of her patient. Lori called Dr. Diane.”

  “You did right, Nick. I’m picking up Wendy’s mother at the airport, and I’ll tell her only what the police have released to the media.”

  “Sorry I interrupted your party, Qwill.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you did.”

  Qwilleran took the short cut to Cabin Five, via the back road, and made a strong cup of coffee. The cats sensed his preoccupation and were quiet—but not for long. Koko started jumping on and off the furniture, all the while talking to himself. Someone was coming!

  It was Trent, the porter from the inn, delivering a large silver-wrapped cube topped with a huge silver bow. He said, “They were going to give you this at the luncheon, but you left early.”

  “Is someone giving me a bowling ball?”

  “Or a mummified head,” said Trent with a grin.

  It was, as he had feared, a moustache cup and saucer—but not the lustreware with hand-painted yellow roses. The set was earthenware, with a decent-sized mug and a good handle for gripping. What made it rare, he later learned, was the advertising on both mug and saucer, promoting men’s coats, trousers and vests made to order with perfect fit guaranteed. A sketch showing a frock-coated tailor and a top-hatted customer suggested that the set was early twentieth century.

  A note from Nell said, “We were horrified to hear about your friend. We can understand your sudden departure. But I said some nice things about you, and all the members send their condolences. Here is a token of our esteem.”

  He was scribbling a thank-you note when he was distracted by the sound of a car with a faulty fan belt. He recognized it as Hannah’s vehicle, and he was not surprised when she phoned him, saying breathlessly, “Have you heard the news, Qwill?”

  “What news?” he asked.

  She repeated the WPKX bulletin, adding, “It pains me to think how Wendy will react. Thank God her mom is on the way here.” Then, in a confidential tone, she said, “You know, Wendy’s parents didn’t want her to marry Doyle. They thought he was too self-centered.”

  “What can one say? It happens in the best of families.”

  “I called the hospital, and the nurse said Wendy is in stable condition. . . . Well, I guess that’s all I have to say.”

  “That’s not all I have to say, Hannah. You’d better have your fan belt checked. Your motor doesn’t sound good.”

  Koko was jumping on and off the table where the yellow boxes were stacked. He knew what they contained, and he liked nothing better than to lick the emulsion on the surface of a glossy photograph.

  Qwilleran himself had no heart for looking at Doyle’s prints. Eventually he and Bushy would choose the best and proceed with the art book. Koko was sniff
ing the yellow boxes; he could detect a photograph the way a squirrel could detect a nut buried six inches underground. Qwilleran spent a restless hour or two until it was time to leave for the airport.

  The shuttle flight that brought passengers from the large airports to Moose County was called “The Wright Brothers Special” by local wags. Its unofficial slogan was Better Than Nothing.

  Qwilleran was there when the plane fell out of the sky and bounced up to the terminal. Men and women carrying briefcases or shopping bags virtually tumbled down the gangway in their eagerness to be on the ground again. Last to appear was a woman wearing a business suit and a tailored hat and carrying a small piece of smart luggage. She looked more like the chairman of the board, composed and very much in charge and not at all like someone’s mom.

  “Mrs. Satterlee? I’m Jim Qwilleran,” he said. “I’m to drive you to the hospital.”

  “How is Wendy?” she asked quickly.

  “In stable condition and having very good care. May I take your luggage? My car is over there.”

  There was no small talk about the weather or the eccentricities of the shuttle service, but when he turned the key in the ignition of the van, she said, “Now! What do you know about the circumstances preceding Wendy’s attack? She had been phoning me twice a week but may not have been telling me everything. She said they were having a wonderful time.”

  “So it appeared, but at a dinner party one night—after too much wine, perhaps—she and Doyle had a family spat. She didn’t want him to go into the woods to photograph wildlife, saying there were bears, poisonous snakes and rabid foxes. The next day, after he had gone upstream in his canoe, Wendy came to my cabin and apologized for the outburst; she said she was worried sick.”

  “She’s a worrier, no doubt about it,” said her mother, “but she’s supposed to avoid stress because of a congenital heart condition. Doyle is aware of the situation and should not upset her unnecessarily. I gathered, however, that they were leaving Black Creek early and going to another resort for a few days.”

  “That was the plan,” Qwilleran said, “but yesterday he went canoeing for one last time and didn’t return. We filed a Missing Persons report, and the sheriff launched an all-out search. Wendy was rushed to the hospital.”

  “Our cardiologist wants her brought home to Cleveland as soon as she can travel, even if it means chartering a plane.”

  “That’s something for you to discuss with her doctor, Diane Lanspeak. You’ll be staying at an inn on the grounds of the hospital.”

  Then Mrs. Satterlee asked the question that was painful to answer. “Have they found Doyle?”

  He hesitated before saying, “They’ve found the body.”

  “How terrible—for Wendy! And in her condition!” There was a long pause. “What happened to him?”

  Qwilleran hesitated again. “No further details have been released by the sheriff’s department.”

  After that there was not much conversation. He pointed out the hospital—an impressive facility for a small community—and delivered his passenger to the Friendship Inn with its flower garden and benches for meditation. “Here’s my phone number,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything I can do.”

  Later that evening—when he sat on the porch contemplating the peaceful scene—he asked himself questions.

  At what time did Wendy express alarm about the gunfire? (He had attributed it to the ever-present rabbit hunters.)

  At what time did Koko chill the scene with his death-howl? (Shortly before they all went up the creek in search of Doyle’s canoe.)

  There had been another minor incident: Koko looking out the south window of the bunk room—and growling at a noisy vehicle. In an effort at humor, that was lost on the growler, Qwilleran had said to him, “That’s only a bad muffler. You should check your own muffler.”

  At what time did that incident occur? That was Joe’s truck—coming home early and then going out again.

  chapter fifteen

  G. Allen Barter phoned Cabin Five early Friday morning—too early.

  “Yes?” Qwilleran replied sleepily.

  “Qwill! The WPKX newscast says the body of the missing person has been found in the Black Forest.”

  “Right.”

  “But according to the grapevine, it’s a homicide case.”

  “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. “L
et’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.