Cat Who Went Up the Creek

“Would you like to attend a rehearsal of the Reenactors Club? They’re doing a reenactment of an 1860 event, and they’ve hired me as a history consultant. It’s been a challenge. A performance will be given every Saturday night in July as a tourist attraction.”

“Does the show have a name?” Qwilleran asked.

“ ‘Saturday Night Brawl at the Hotel Booze.’ ”

“Does the sheriff know about it? He may close it down after the first performance.”

“It’s a clean show—historic, educational.”

“What time is the rehearsal?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Why not come and have dinner with me at the Nutcracker, Rog? I want to hear more about this.”

Now came the job of moving to Cabin Five. As soon as Qwilleran produced the first item of luggage, Yum Yum disappeared under the bed. A flashlight showed her huddled under the exact center of the king-sized bed. Cats have an innate spatial sense. Yum Yum knew she was safe. Even the magic word (“Treat!”) had no effect. She stayed where she was, and Koko polished off her portion. Her eyes glowed like electric lights when she faced the flashlight.

Then Trent, the porter, arrived to take everything down on the elevator. “All set to go, Mr. Qwilleran?”

“All except one cat.”

“No problem! That bed’s on casters. Just roll it out from the back wall.”

The bed rolled forward, and Yum Yum moved with it; she was still in the exact center.

“What’s your next clever suggestion, Trent?” Qwilleran asked.

“Tear gas. Stun gun.”

“How about a broom? You make a few swipes under the bed, and I’ll catch her when she runs out.”

It was a good idea that didn’t work. She shot out from the foot of the bed like a cannonball into the turret room and up the spiral staircase.

Trent, hot on her trail, yelled “Gotcha!” and made a grab, just before she launched into space with all four legs spread like a flying squirrel. But Qwilleran knew her flight pattern and caught her like a receiver catching a pass on the ten-yard line. She went limp and was dropped into the cat carrier.

“That little devil!” Qwilleran said. “She likes to make us look like fools. . . . Thanks, Trent. I’ll call you again when I need an expert cat-catcher.”

Qwilleran unloaded the van at the back door of Cabin Five. Koko, who had been there before, walked in with catly insouciance. Qwilleran showed them the location of their commode and water bowl and served a token treat.

A knock on the porch door sent both cats into hiding.

“Welcome to Creektown,” said Wendy, carrying a jug of iced tea.

“Where are the wonderful kitties?” asked Hannah, who had a plate of cookies.

They sat on the screened porch, and Qwilleran inquired about Doyle.

“When he isn’t biking he takes a canoe up the creek and shoots pictures of wildlife.”

“And what do you do, Wendy?”

“I play stereo recordings of classics and work on the family history I’m writing. My great-grandmother left a trunkful of correspondence going back to the Civil War: hardships, love affairs, disasters, war heroes, and one who disgraced the family by being a bounty-jumper—on both sides! Before the telephone, people wrote long letters in fine handwriting, usually very formal and sometimes poetic, as if they expected their words to be saved for publication. They would say, ‘Once more, dear, dear cousin, I take pen in hand and wing my thoughts to you across the miles.’ It’s an eye-opening adventure for me!”

“I wish someone would write a history of the Scotten and Hawley families,” Hannah said, looking hopefully at Qwilleran.

Don’t volunteer, he told himself, although he would like nothing better. The great body of water off the coast of Moose County, where the fisheries made their livelihood, was a vast source of drama. Someday he would write a book . . .

“Yow!” came a loud comment from indoors, and the visitors took it as a cue to take their jug and plate and go home.

Cabin Five was compact but well planned, mixing a rustic efficient ambiance with space-saving modern builtins and plenty of storage space. The bunk room, for example, had two built-in bunks on opposite walls, a closet with no door but plenty of hooks and hangers, open shelves in every spare corner, and a bank of drawers operating on nylon rollers. Easy-gliding drawers were also a feature of the tiny kitchen, dinette, and entertainment center. Table and benches for dining were built-in, as was the upholstered seating in the living room. Altogether, it was snug but comfortable and efficient, like the cabin of a boat. The Siamese seemed to prefer it to 3FF.

As Qwilleran was finding appropriate places for his belongings, he became aware of scurrying sounds under one of the bunks, as if a cat were playing with a mouse.

“Koko! What are you doing?” he demanded, as he beamed a flashlight under a bunk.

The cat was fussing with a pair of shoes, apparently the same pair that had attracted him on his previous tour of inspection. Dislodging them with a broom, Qwilleran found them to be the same brown oxfords, fairly new. “Sorry. Not my size,” he said as he sat down to think.