Cat Who Went Up the Creek

Koko had found the built-in dinette and was standing on a bench with forelegs on the table, while sniffing left and right.

“Koko!”

The stern reprimand was unheeded. He went on sniffing.

“He smells my glue,” said Mrs. Hawley with some amusement. “He can’t hurt anything.”

“Glue?” The cat had a passion for adhesives and could smell a postage stamp across the room.

“I make miniature furnishings for doll houses.”

“You do?” He stroked his moustache as his mental computer recognized an idea for the “Qwill Pen.” “I’d like to talk to you about your craft. Perhaps you’d have dinner with me at the inn tonight.”

“I’d love to!”

“I’ll call for you at six o’clock,” Qwilleran said as he coaxed Koko away from the glue pot.

He waited for Lori to be alone in her office and then went in to say, “Have you heard the good news?”

“We’re going to be on the front page!” she cried. “I’m thrilled!”

“They wanted the old furniture out of the way, so it was moved to Sandpit Road in the middle of the night as Nick probably told you. And do you know what, Lori? I believe we’ve discovered the source of the bad vibes you were getting! According to the history of the place, those particular items of furniture were connected with the family tragedy.”

“I knew it!” she cried. “There was a negative influence at work, but this morning the pall has been lifted!”

“I feel euphoric myself,” Qwilleran said, to be agreeable. Actually, he attributed it to the eggs Benedict.

“Do you find your suite comfortable, Qwill?”

“I have no complaint, but I’m afraid Koko’s yowling will annoy lodgers on the second floor. He can even be heard in the lobby. A cabin would be more suitable—with its screened porch, windows on four sides, and proximity to the water and wildlife. Will there be a vacancy soon? Otherwise, we may have to return to Pickax.”

“I understand,” she said.

“They’re accustomed to a huge barn with three balconies and overhead beams and rafters. It isn’t fair to coop them up like this. They’re all the family I’ve got, and I have to consider their welfare.” His impassioned plea was not solely altruistic. He, too, would prefer a cabin and the idea of taking meals at the inn for two weeks appealed mightily.

Fingering the guest register, she said, “Mr. Hackett is supposed to check out of cabin number five today, but he hasn’t returned his key. His car is gone, and when the housekeeper went down there to check, she found his luggage half packed. He may have gone to church, and someone invited him home to dinner.”

“Ye-e-ess,” Qwilleran said doubtfully, and he patted his moustache. “Who is he? Do you know?”

“A business traveler. The name of his company sounds like building supplies. We have his credit card number and can’t turn him out if he wishes to stay. He really should let us know his plans.”

“Meanwhile,” Qwilleran said, “I’ll state the case to the guys upstairs and entreat their cooperation.”

On the way, he stepped into the library. During the Limburgers’ residence the shelves had been filled with gold-tooled, leather-bound volumes, probably unread. Now there were mellow old books that guests might enjoy reading: Gone with the Wind and Wuthering Heights, and titles of that sort. Qwilleran borrowed a collection of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales to read to the Siamese and keep them quiet.

It worked! They listened in fascination as he read the story of the ugly duckling that grew up to be a beautiful swan. There were plenty of animals in the tale, and Qwilleran had a talent for impersonating the peeping duckling, his quacking mother, clucking hen, meowing cats, cawing ravens, and so forth. It was ironic that the beautiful swans communicated with hair-raising screeches! Exhausted by the excitement of it all, Koko and Yum Yum crept away for their naps.

Just as Qwilleran was congratulating himself, he received a phone call from Lori. “Qwill, is everything all right up there?”

“Everything’s fine! I’ve been reading to the cats, and I believe it calmed them down.”

“That’s strange. We had a phone call from a guest, saying that something terrible was happening in 3FF.”

“Someone must be watching television,” he said.

When the time came for dinner with Mrs. Hawley, Qwilleran walked down the hill with a tape recorder in his pocket. On the way he watched for mother squirrels carrying their babies, but all he saw was father squirrels chasing mother squirrels.

Hannah was waiting for him on the porch, gaily clad in a blouse printed with oversized hibiscus blossoms. She was an expert at makeup and looked quite attractive.

“Where do you spend your winters?” he asked as they started to walk up the hill. He knew the answer.

“In Florida,” she said. “My daughter runs a restaurant on the Gulf Coast, and I give her a hand. But this is where I belong. All my relatives and friends are here. The Scotten and Hawley families.”

“The fishocracy of Moose County,” he said. “Is Doris still selling home-baked goods?”