Cat Who Went Up the Creek

First he made some coffee and then lounged on a porch chair with his feet up. Koko hopped onto the foot of the lounge and sat tall in a businesslike way, his blue eyes brimming with helpfulness, as if he sensed a problem was being solved. The trick, Qwilleran decided, is to involve Doyle in something more interesting than Wendy’s Valley of Death. If nothing else, it would provide more time to study the problem. It could be something to flatter the photographer’s ego, or fulfill his primal urge to take pictures, or the fun of taking an assignment for the picture page of a small-town newspaper.

Qwilleran made three phone calls: to the managing editor, who had gone to the dentist; to the attorney, who was in conference with a client; to Bushland, who was out on assignment. He left urgent messages with all three.

Barter was the first to respond, and he listened to the proposition with keen interest.

“Did you see the opening of Bushy’s exhibit yesterday? Big crowd! And I happen to know there was an editor from a prominent publisher of art books there! We’ve been talking about having the K Fund publish his landscapes, and we’d better act quickly before he signs with another publisher . . . Also, we have a noted photographer of wildlife vacationing here and doing some extensive shooting. We should grab him, and do a large-format hardcover art book titled The Beauty of Moose County as photographed by Bushland and Underhill.”

“Great idea! I’m all for it.”

“My point is that we should get them under contract fast, before this other publisher swoops in.”

“How fast?”

“Frankly, Bart, I think it would be to our advantage if you could fly the two guys to Chicago and back on the shuttle Wednesday.”

“No reason why we couldn’t. I’ll make the appointment and plane reservations, if you’ll alert the photographers.”

“Be happy to do that. Both of them should have samples of their work to show, by the way.”

Qwilleran had never actually seen any of Doyle’s work; all his exposed film would be taken home to Cleveland for developing. Still, it was good enough for a cover on the Smithsonian—that is, if it happened to be true. Young photographers had been known to boast.

By the time Bushland phoned, the Scheme was working, and it was all legitimate. There was nothing wrong with a little persuasive hyperbole and truth telling before the fact. They were techniques he had used often during his career.

When Bushy finally called, Qwilleran said, “There’s a wildlife photographer here from Down Below, who’s been doing a lot of shooting, and the K Fund wants to publish a large-format, hardcover art book featuring your landscapes and his wildlife, to be titled The Beauty of Moose County. For laughs we might include a full-page, full-color portrait of a thick, toasty, brown pasty.”

“No kidding!” Bushy said. “This is the best thing that’s happened to me since the helicopter rescued you, me and Roger from Three Tree Island!”

“It means moving fast, for various reasons. Our legal rep wants to fly you two guys to Chicago to sign contracts and show samples—on Wednesday. The hitch is that none of the wildlife stuff has been developed. Could he use the darkroom at the art center tomorrow?”

“Sure thing! Tell him to call the manager and say I okayed it.”

There was more. Bushy had met Doyle and his wife at the photo show—nice couple. Doyle had good credentials; no, Bushy couldn’t remember seeing the Smithsonian cover.

After that, Qwilleran returned to the porch to type his treatise on presidential whiskers, suggesting a nationwide poll of voters. Did they want their chief executive officer (a) clean-shaven, (b) with long sideburns, (c) with small neat moustache, (d) or other. Readers considered summer the silly season in the “Qwill Pen” column and gladly encouraged the silliness.

Although Qwilleran kept an eye on the creek for Doyle’s return, there was no sign of the yellow canoe. It would be ironic, he thought, if this were the day that Wendy’s fears were realized. But eventually the sleek craft glided downstream, and soon Doyle was walking back from the boat shed and Koko was announcing him as a trespasser.

Qwilleran went out to meet him. “How was the shoot today?”

“I got some great shots!” the photographer said.

Qwilleran recited his piece: K Fund art book—Bushland and Underhill—day-trip to Chicago to sign contracts—appointment set for Wednesday. “Sorry it’s such short notice,” Qwilleran said.

“No problem.”

“They’ll want to see samples. If you can develop and print tomorrow, the dark room at the art center is available.”

“No problem.”

Later, when Qwilleran dined alone at the inn, he recalled his conversation with Doyle, who had said, “I also caught a skunk in a more-or-less comic situation—and some young foxes. But don’t tell Wendy; she’ll know I went into the woods. I’m afraid she made a scene at dinner last night. She gets upset over little things.”