Cat Who Went Up the Creek

Coverage of the third-grade portrait exhibit was extensive. As Qwilleran had predicted, the pale-tinted best of-show reproduced poorly, but the copy desk had handled it well. The cutline read: “Color my hair yellow. Color my eyes blue. Color my dress pink. Or visit the art center before June 30 and see for yourself why Lisa La-Porte’s pastel won best of show.”

As for the popular vote, it went to a youngster named Robb Campbell. His self-portrait had scarecrow hair, jug ears, and a wide grin with one front tooth missing.

Qwilleran waited until five o’clock, when legmen on the news beat would be reporting to their departments. Then he phoned the photo lab and congratulated Roger on the excellence of his staircase photo and the size of his byline.

“Yeah . . . well . . . the squirrel deserves most of the credit.”

“I hear there was some excitement on the police beat. Any further news?”

“Uh . . . Can’t talk now, Qwill. Got prints coming through.”

“See you later.” To Qwilleran, Roger’s “uh . . .” meant that he had the story-behind-the-story. He would call Roger at home, after dinner with Barb Ogilvie.

At six o’clock he waited for his guest to drive into the parking lot and then went out to meet her.

“You’re so gallant!” she said. “You’re a vanishing breed!”

“I’d rather be an endangered species,” he said. “It doesn’t sound terminal. . . . You’re looking spiffy, Barb.” She was wearing bright red, and he wondered how it would look with the pale coral walls and tablecloths.

Heads turned as they were ushered to a table. Some would be wondering, Where’s Polly?

She said, “This is the first time I’ve seen the inn. Fran did a good job. I’d love to see the carved staircase that was in today’s paper.”

“It’s in a private suite—and not on view. . . . What are you drinking tonight?”

She asked for a margarita—not a popular cocktail in Moose County.

He said, “It seems to me that you had a sizable rock on your ring finger, the last time I saw you.”

“That’s ancient history!”

“Too bad. Everyone thought you and Barry Morghan were a perfect couple.”

“I was perfect for him, but he wasn’t perfect for me!”

“Would any man be perfect for you?” Her attachments were known to be short-lived.

“You would!” she replied flippantly, rolling her eyes.

“Strike that last question,” he said. “Shall we consult the menu?”

She ordered pork loin with quince and cinnamon glaze and then played it safe by talking business. “The coverage of our exhibit was great! And attendance was excellent. We thought friends and relatives would vote for their own third-grader, but they surprised us. They loved that caricature with a tooth missing. The artist was Robb Campbell, and when I met him, I was shocked! He was neatly combed and had flat ears and all his teeth!”

“An opportunist,” Qwilleran said. “He’ll go far—but not necessarily in the right direction.”

“I asked him why he played such a trick, and he said, ‘That’s how I feel inside.’ How do you like that, Qwill?”

“I’m not sure I know. Kids have changed a lot since I was eight.”

“Well, anyway, the good news is that people who have never been to the art center came to see this kid show. Maybe they’ll come again, attend a lecture, take a class.”

Qwilleran recommended a glass of pink zinfandel with her entrée and then asked, “How’s everything in the world of wool? Are you still knitting? Is your mother still spinning? Is your father still shearing sheep? Is Duncan still herding the flock?”

“Oh, let me tell you what my knitting club is doing! We’re knitting knee-high socks for the pirates in Pirates of Penzance to wear with black breeches—wide stripes of red, black and white! We think they’ll catch on with the tourists, too. They can be worn with shorts, you know. . . . Would you like a pair, Qwill?”

“I think not. They’d scare the cats.” He could visualize the streets of Mooseville, swarming with tourists in moose head T-shirts, baggy shorts and pirate socks—and smelling of anti-skeeter spray.

Dinner with Barb Ogilvie was always lively, but toward the end Qwilleran was eager to go upstairs and phone Roger at home.

The photographer was quick to pick up the phone. “Hey, Qwill! Glad you called. Sorry I couldn’t talk downtown, but you know how it is.”

“I understand perfectly. Let me tell you why I called. I have a vested interest in the case. The victim was in the process of vacating a cabin I’m supposed to rent, but now the police have it sealed. Do I move back to Pickax? Or what? Any crumb of information that will help me make a decision . . .”

“I know what you mean. Wait’ll I close the door.” A door slammed. “First off, it’s definitely a homicide, but they’re calling it an accident so the suspect won’t go fugitive.”

“Cause of death?”

“Blow to the head.”

“Well, thanks. It isn’t much, but it helps.”