Cat Who Went Up the Creek

“Cheers!” the attorney said, lifting his glass, while his host raised his glass of Squunk water with a dash of cranberry juice.

Barter said, “My wife wants to know if you’re having a limerick contest this summer. She won a prize last year.”

“I remember. It was about the town of Brrr. Tell her that public clamor is forcing us to repeat it. Did she ever write a limerick about you, Bart?”

“Yes, and I won’t recite it. . . . Now what do you want to know about conservancies, Qwill?”

“I know that wilderness tracts can be legally protected against development. And I know the K Fund has put three tracts in conservancy. The Piney Woods will be open to hunters in deer season; Great Oaks offers campsites for tents but not recreational vehicles—”

“And all campsites are reserved through Labor Day,” the attorney interrupted. “It has beach access and thirty miles of beach hiking in each direction. The agate-hunters are enthusiastic.”

“But what about the Black Forest, Bart? I biked through it, and nothing’s happening.”

“That’s the largest and most ambitious, Qwill. The idea is to admit hikers and photographers but prohibit hunting, camping, off-road vehicles and exploitation of natural resources.”

“Meaning what?”

“No timbering. No removal of minerals or plant life. But first they have to take inventory of what we have in the Black Forest. They’re sending in botanists, geologists, ornithologists—scientists from every discipline. It’s thought that Moose County is a treasure trove of natural science. It’s already known that the Black Forest has bears, wolves, foxes, bobcats, beaver, raccoons, skunks, and otters, as well as deer—”

“And squirrels,” Qwilleran added. “How are you going to keep the tourists from digging up rare plants, feeding the deer, setting fire to the woods?”

“All of that’s in-work. They hire forest rangers to monitor the situation and conduct educational programs.”

A horn tooted at the back door, and a porter delivered the sandwiches and fries under hot-covers and coffee in Thermos jugs. Then the conversation turned to shoptalk.

Barter asked, “What are your plans for that hundred-year-old furniture that’s in temporary storage?”

“No plans. Only hopes,” Qwilleran replied. “It belongs in a museum. Moose County doesn’t have one.”

“There’s the Goodwinter farmhouse.”

“Too primitive. What’s in storage has class, provenance, quality and beauty. One of the big houses on Pleasant Street would make a suitable museum.”

“It would require rezoning. The neighbors would fight it.”

Qwilleran said, “The K Fund could build an art center. They should be able to build a museum. Think about it.”

Barter stood up to leave. “Great sandwiches. Peaceful scene. I hate to leave.”

“I hear you’ve taken in a new partner. Hasselrich, Bennett, Barter and Adams.”

“Mavis Adams from Rochester, Minnesota. Good mind. Nice woman. Likes cats. In fact, she has an idea for a new kind of animal rescue program.”

“Bart, your shoelaces are untied,” Qwilleran said.

In preparation for his mercy expedition to Indian Village Qwilleran packed a few treats—nothing fancy; Polly’s cats were accustomed to a plain diet. His own Siamese watched with concern as their food was being put in a plastic tote bag, along with their necktie.

“I’m going to see your cousins in Indian Village,” he explained. “Do you have a message for them?” They had none. They were simply waiting for him to leave, so they could have their afternoon nap.

Arriving at Polly’s condo, Qwilleran let himself in with his own key, and the Siamese came forward promptly, their body language more inquisitive than enthusiastic. He passed muster, but it was obvious they would have preferred Polly. She talked cat-talk. Qwilleran talked about the weather, their health, the cat-sitter. “This treat comes to you with the good wishes of your cousins, vacationing at Black Creek.”

They approached the plate cautiously, looked up at him questioningly, then gobbled it up.

Next came the necktie game. “Have you guys been getting any exercise?” He whipped out the frayed necktie, twirled it, dragged it tantalizingly across the floor. “Very interesting,” they seemed to say as they watched from nearby chairs.

Finally, Qwilleran read to them from the Wilson Quarterly—all about the political situation in Indonesia—and they fell asleep. He tiptoed from the house. He had done it for Polly. What was she doing, he wondered? Probably dressing for dinner with the Ohio antique dealer.

From his car he phoned the Pickax police chief at home.

Brodie’s wife answered. “He’s in the shower. We’re going to Tipsy’s. He likes the steak. I like the fish. If we don’t go to Tipsy’s, we go to Linguini’s. . . . Oh, here he is!”

Andy came on the line with an impatient growl, as if he were still dripping.

“This is Qwill, Andy. Would it be worth your while to drive to Black Creek for (a) some good Scotch and (b) a clue to a mystery murder?”

“M’wife and me, we always go out to dinner Saturday night, then watch a video.”