Cat Who Went Up the Creek

Qwilleran reassembled the shoe and hid the pair in his luggage, the only cat-proof enclosure in the cabin—except for the refrigerator. The brown oxfords would have to be turned over to the police as evidence. Should he tell them about the secret heel? Or let them find it themselves?

There were several questions to be asked, and he discussed his puzzlement in his personal journal:

Thursday, June 10

—I don’t know the market value of gold, but the mysterious Mister Hackett had a heelful—and who knows what larger rocks were stashed in the trunk of his forty-thousand-dollar car? . . . Was he a gold prospector posing as a manufacturer’s rep—or a roofing salesman whose hobby was gold-digging? . . . Did someone know about his activity? Or was it an incidental encounter? Did he have a partner—or a competitor—who would consider the booty worth killing for? . . . Where did the clobbering take place? Near the creek, no doubt.

Does that mean Hackett was operating in the Black Forest Conservancy? Is that illegal? Is that why he used an alias and falsified his entry on the inn’s guest register? . . . Tune in tomorrow.

chapter eight

It was their first night in the cabin by the creek.

Qwilleran placed the cats’ blue cushion on one bunk. They settled down contentedly, while he retired to the other bunk. Sometime during the night, the arrangement changed; in the morning Qwilleran was sharing his pillow with Yum Yum, and Koko was snuggled into the crook of his knee. So began . . . A Day in the Life of the Richest Man in the Northeast Central United States.

First, he fed the cats and policed their commode.

Next, he phoned the florist in Pickax and ordered an opening-night bouquet to be delivered to Hannah Hawley’s cabin. “Something dramatic—with a few leaves—but none of that wispy stuff that florists love,” he specified. In accord with theatre custom, the card was to read “Break a leg tonight!” He wished no signature. “Let her figure it out!”

Then he walked up the hill for breakfast at the inn, taking his Friday column to be faxed.

Nick Bamba said, “I’ll put it on the machine right away, Qwill.”

“Not so fast! The deadline is noon. If it arrives early, some itchy-fingered editor with a blue pencil will get the urge to change a few words. It’s better for the copy to arrive when they’re beginning to worry about the thousand-word hole on page two. . . . How’s Lori, Nick?”

“Jumping for joy, now that Mrs. Truffle has moved out.”

It flashed through Qwilleran’s mind that Mrs. Truffle had cast the dark shadow over the inn—not the ill-fated Elsa Limburger. He asked, “Who are the quiet people in Cabin Two?”

“The Thompsons. She’s recuperating from an illness. He goes out deep-sea fishing on the charter boats every day. They get big lake trout and have it cleaned, frozen and shipped to one’s home address. At least, he says that’s the way it works. . . . Here’s another postcard, Qwill.”

It was a view of the Governor’s Palace at Colonial Williamsburg. Qwilleran dropped it in his pocket with a show of apathy. “What’s today’s breakfast special, Nick?”

“Frittata with Italian sauce. Very good!”

“As an old friend, would you tell me it was good if it wasn’t?” Qwilleran asked to tease him.

“If you don’t like it, send it back to the kitchen, and you can have corn flakes on the house!”

In the dining room Qwilleran cast a quick glance at Polly’s postcard:

Dear Qwill—The antique dealer took us to lunch today. Charming man. Called home. Cats not eating well. Could you drop in and cheer them up?

Love, Polly

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Polly’s male cat had only recently learned to tolerate him, and Black Creek was halfway across the county from Indian Village, where Brutus and Catta lived, but . . .

The server came to take his order, and he asked about the breakfast special.

She shuffled her feet and looked dubious. “Well . . . my last customer thought the sausage was too spicy, and the one before that said the frittata was dry, but that was only their opinion.”

Qwilleran had ham and eggs and left her the usual twenty percent plus something extra for honesty.

Back in Cabin Five, he phoned the official historian for Moose County. Homer Tibbitt, a nonagenarian, lived with his wife, a young eighty-eight, in a retirement village, the Ittibittiwassee Estates.

Rhoda answered the phone and said, “Speak of the devil! . . . We were just talking about you at breakfast. Homer’s having his after-breakfast nap right now—”

“Who’s that? Who’s that?” came a high-pitched voice in the background.

“The media,” she said as she handed Homer the cordless phone.

Affably the two men exchanged derogatory remarks.

“You old rascal! How come you take a nap in the middle of the morning?”

“You sneaky pup! Calling my wife when you think I’m asleep!”

“How do you like this weather?”

“What do I know about weather? She won’t let me go out.”

“I hear your knee replacement was a big success, Homer.”

“So good I’m thinking of having my funny bone replaced, if you’re the donor.”